Friday, July 31, 2009

"Thank God he was here..."

I've said it before and I'll say it again, I'm extremely proud of my son. Sometimes he does a good deed without realizing that his actions are just that: A deed well done.

This evening, after a week away from home and no contact with his friend K, Mancub decided to pay his friend a visit once we returned from our tour of dog watching doody. About an hour after his departure, the phone rang. It was K's mom. With a sense of panic in her voice she inquired if Mancub had returned home. My heart thumped a bit. She informed me that while Mancub was visiting, K suffered a seizure.

According to her account, the boys were playing a video game on the lower level of the house. Mancub realized his pal wasn't just behaving strangely when he flopped off the chair. He also realized K had knocked himself on the door when he started seizing. He ran up the stairs calling out for help.

K's mom told me they were so grateful for Mancub's unexpected visit because had it not been for him they might not have discovered K's trauma until it was too late. "Thank God he was here!"

She asked that Mancub call her and to share what he witnessed so they know more precisely what to tell his doctor. I'm touched by her concern for my son's well being after what he witnessed.

After hanging up, I walked to the corner and made my way toward K's house. I was concerned that my own son would be shaken and upset after what he saw his friend endure. Fortunately, he was composed. He told me he was aware that K had suffered previous seizures, but took medication to lessen their presence.

He recounted the events to me and I fought back tears. It's my firm belief that Mancub was fated to pay a visit to his good buddy. I say this because he doesn't typically go to his friend's home. He waits for K to visit us. However, he wasn't sure which phone number to call to let K know we were back home. So, he slipped on his flip flops and off he went.

I told him what K's mom said about being grateful he was there at the time it happened. With that, Mancub smirked.

Yep, no doubt in my mind that today's visit wasn't an accident. It was a divine intervention that involved my terrific kid.

Thank you God.

More to Love -- less is more, douchebags

I just watched the Fox program More to Love. It's about a chubby dude who seeks the love of pleasantly plump women who he finds absolutely delectable. HE claims that his weight has always held him back in dating, but according to his former high school girlfriend, he was buff and hot. Whatever. He's seeking hot momma's like me, beeeotch.

Although the premise isn't awful (awful being relative in terms to reality/dating TV), after all, everybody deserves to find love. I must take issue with a detail that I believe is utterly unnecessary. On The Bachelor and The Bachelorette I believe they reveal the age and profession of the love seekers. There's no discussion about how much bachelorette from Poughkeepsie weighs. My major concern with MORE TO LOVE is that they state the height and weight of the women vying for Luke Lots to Love's love.

Love comes in all shapes and sizes. Get the frak over it, you "must be skinny to be hot" haters. I needed to get that out because I've been reading a little on other blogs making such claims.

What the effing hell!? It's clear the women and the man are hefty. Some bigger than others. We get it. These babes have a lot to offer. Why must it be emphasized just how much more is present?

As a larger woman, I find this irritating to no end. I have no idea if my big ass and jiggly cellulite infested thighs deter men from dating me. There's absolutely no way I'd wear my weight on my chest like Hester Prin and her scarlet letter. That is for certain. What's the point? Clearly anyone can tell I'm not petite by the size of my badonkadonk and breasticles. Is knowing the telling weight on the scale really going to make or break a man's interest in me?

Does anyone know the justification for posting the weight of the contestants? They aren't trying to lose weight while wooing the Fat Guy in the Little Suit. Actually, the object of affection is cute. I like a big, cuddly guy ... 'cuz I know I won't break him in two when it comes to looooooovin'


More to Love promo courtesy of

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

Me and my blue box

I'm not at home.

For those thieves who might know where I live, don't bother. There's nothing of real value there. Plus, consider yourselves warned if you're immediately attacked by two felines. I can't be held responsible for their actions upon violating the security of my domicile. Silver, as some of you may remember, has a deafening yelp and howl. Perpetrators will beg for mercy. Mo-mo stops, drops and rolls in front of her assailants thereby causing a nasty spill which renders them helpless.

Fear the felines.

I've not felt inspired to write lately. I suspect going from my house to my sister's house is taking a toll on me. Perhaps I need to be in my comfort zone. If you read my previous post you fully grasp how my brain operates when I'm not in familiar territory. That was mighty scary.

I'm going to let my mind ramble and discuss the mundane. You're giddy with anticipation, aren't you?

One of the perks of being employed in optics is complementary eyewear. I suppose I shouldn't be telling you this. It might be a trade secret. It's a benefit like health insurance and holiday pay. Anyway, I've been holding on to my certificate for a couple of months. One mustn't rush things when picking out eyeglasses one would otherwise never be able to afford. When one is getting something for free -- free being a relative term considering that I perform work that helps the corporation make a profit-- you go for the gusto!

Demographics plays a huge role in the styles each location carries. With that being said, nothing we provide for our patients has caught my eye. It's all too familiar. With another location being 30 minutes away, it's worth the drive to pick up something stellar! Unique! Pricey!

My former boss and friend works where higher end items are stocked. He's responsible for convincing me that I could wear blinged out red frames. Ever since I got those he's been trusted to help many of my other co-workers with their complementary purchases.

Yesterday he called to give me hell for not being in touch lately. In the course of the conversation he told me about a cool new frame that recently arrived at the store. Tiffany & Co. Ooh la la! Consider me there!

With Monical's Pizza Pepperollies in tow (he loves those delectable rolls of doughy goodness), I made my way up I-57. My date with destiny.

The frames that he originally picked out for me were a bit too fashionably brazen. While I thought they were crazy-funky-cool, I wouldn't wear them often. They were white and aqua with a splattering of sparkle. Truly gorgeous, but not quite everyday (or even every other day that starts with 't') wear.

In a matter of minutes I found the gem that would reside upon my face.

Upon first glance you're probably thinking they are just drab, tortoise frames, huh? They almost rate with Army issue birth control glasses, eh?


With just a turn to the left or right you see ...................

Hundreds of sparkling crystals.



Dayummmm is that a brooch attached the sides?

This may very well be the only time I'll possess the highly coveted Tiffany & Co. little blue box. And I suppose that's all right. At least it's something I got for myself ... and I didn't get it at Jared ... feh!

Friday, July 24, 2009

Six degrees of ....

Nothing speaks to me at this time better than "Sorcerer" from Streets of Fire. Oh, you don't know that little number? It's a good one. Diane Lane's character sings it. Marilyn Martin was the actual voice while Stevie "Elmer Fudd in a Juicer" Nicks sang back up vocals. Stevie wrote the song, by the way. Marilyn's name might be more familiar coupled with Phil Collins on the song "Separate Lives" from the film White Nights starring Mikhail Baryshnikov and Gregory Hines. The soundtrack for Streets of Fire is worth picking up. Seriously! The movie is totally campy, but sometimes superb soundtracks come from the bowels of craptastic flicks. It's overflowing with vocal fakers. The fabled Sorels dance and mouth "I Can Dream About You" while uber caucasian Dan Hartman really did the work.

Hmmmm Diane Lane lip syncs in Streets of Fire as Ellen Aim. Michael Pare' co-stars as the gun toting bad ass out to be her rescuer when she's abducted by a leather sporting Willem Dafoe. Now that I think of it, Michael Pare' lip syncs in Eddie and the Cruisers. John Cafferty and the Beaver Brown Band provide the sound. The sound that is very much like Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band. Hmmm I think there's a Six Degrees of ??? here. Could I be on to something? I'm half way there.

Help a sister out!

This post has taken on a life of its own. The direction is absolutely not where I was heading, but here we are. I'm tired and house/dog sitting for my sister who has taken her family to Disney World. This is what I had hoped to be my stay-cation, but alas, that is not materializing. I'm a little scorned and sore over not getting much time off from work. Someone else was taking a real vacation. I'm working seven days in a row. Beware on day seven. Hell hath no fury like that of a worn out Riss. I'm caring for two homes, 2 cats, 2 dogs, working f'ing retarded hours and I'm expected to maintain my sanity and keep smiling?

Heh. We'll see how it all turns out.

OK, you have a task at hand. Let's take this six degrees of separation to the end. I know you can do it!!

Thursday, July 23, 2009

Breaking bad

I have survived a full day without Plurk. I managed to limit my posts on Facebook. Although, I couldn't resist a quiz to find out what my mind is most like. For the record, after 4 questions I learned my mind is like the ocean. The grooviest thing is that the dude who first took the quiz (Chip Carter of Tampa Bay-Fox) said my comment was a Sean Daly comment! His result was THE SUN and he said he figured it would be a black hole. "How about Black Hole Sun?" was my remark. And there ya go.

Very little is required to get me excited, clearly.

One of the nice things, thus far, to come out of departing from Plurk is that I've been communicating via email with more than 140 characters -- Plurk and Twitter limit you to 140 characters per comment.

I'm also receiving some words of encouragement and praise. Being someone who loves attention but gets embarrassed when it's given, this is ideal! The thoughts shared are between me and the correspondent. A lot can be learned when third party eyes aren't reading. Dig it!

One day I might actually learn to embrace the phone for conversational purposes.


Exciting news on the bra front! After reading one of my blog entries about not finding a decent or properly fitting brassier, Facebook and Stuck in the '80s friend, Michelle, linked me to an article from the Washington Post. A professional bra fitting boutique was featured. It's really interesting and I think most women (over 80%) need to realize they are most likely not wearing the right bra. The Full Cup, as a result of the article, has been inundated with calls and emails begging for reservations for bra fittings. They warn that it may take some time to return emails, but to rest assured they will do their best to reply.

Being a woman of desperation in the breast harness arena, I wrote to them. I shared my painstaking, horrendous quest for a properly fitting bra. I shared that stores like Victoria's Secret and fine department stores don't give a rat's ass about women who tote around breasts larger than 38 DD. I joked that if they had a scholarship program so I might travel to Alexandria, VA where they are located, I'd like to sign up. I didn't expect to hear back from them.

A week later an email was in my in-box from The Full Cup. It wasn't a form letter. It was personalized and charming. Included in my original email was a request for a local enterprise that has a similar 'reservation only' bra fitting. She obliged with a link to myintimacy where there are 4 locations in the Chicago area. I had hoped for something closer to me, but I knew better to get those hopes too high.

So, what that means is the girls and I will have to plan a day to take a road trip to one of those locations. Finding a bra that is ideal for me is possibly more important and monumental than finding a man who suits me. It's an uplifting notion, to say the very least.

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

Never can say good bye

I have issues with control. Self-control. I battle with control over my food intake; taking care of my body; limiting myself. If no one is around to see it or comment, I tend to over indulge chips or Oreos. So, my answer is to not have them around.

I tend to behave similarly with my online socializing.

Years ago before Twitter, Plurk, Facebook and Myspace there was the chat room. More specifically AOL. America Online. The contacts and chats through AOL helped me through a very lonely divorce. Knowing someone on the other side of the monitor appeared to care and sympathize was just what I thought I needed. It wasn't, of course. That's not to say I didn't meet some genuine people as a result of my chat addiction. Unfortunately, the whackadoodles outweighed the sincere friends.

I managed to break the habit due to some good old fashioned drama and humiliation. I went cold turkey. I canceled my account and that was all she wrote.

In 2005 my son and I packed up everything we could bring on a plane and we moved from Georgia, which had been our residence since '97, and returned to Kankakee, Illinois. I had high hopes that my life would just fall into place. We'd be surrounded by those we love and my loneliness would come to an end.

While family helps, it's not the answer. I learned that my kin had all continued to move forward with their lives. Though they missed us, our lack of presence hadn't hindered them. My ego is not so huge to think I have that intense of an impact. But the little girl that remains in the back of my mind was hoping for a big, pink parade for my return.

What I needed was contact with people who didn't know my past. I longed to be accepted and receive compassion from a source that didn't carry my genetics.

The Internet.

So, in the course of four years I have befriended people from all over the globe. The blogs of the St. Petersburg Times in Florida served as a flood gate of 'friending.' But without realizing it, I was becoming addicted. I would learn that rather than being a welcome presence, I apparently was annoying in my numerous comments. Heartbreaking to say the very least. That is never something I would strive to be: unwelcome.

Through a connection on those blogs, I learned of a Twitter-like social networking site called Plurk. I've never tweeted so I am not fully clear on the difference between the two. I know Plurk isn't a festering cesspool of celebrity gathering. The people on Plurk are regular people like me. A person plurks a comment and other people can leave remarks. It was always amusing to see where a simple phrase would go. The threads would often detour from the original subject. Humor often ensued. Closeness and camaraderie developed. This is a strange concept to people who've never participated in such an activity. Baring your soul to virtual strangers??? That's wacky! Believe it or not, those "strangers" have been the source of major support.

That unconditional support is what makes my recent decision so difficult. Plurk had become another means for me to hide out. It served as the Band-Aid I so desperately needed. But with me, what happens when I just cover up emotional wounds, wants or needs is that I become dependent. In time, that Band-aid becomes more of a hindrance. It begins to smother the wound and before you know it it's a foreign object leeching into your bloodstream. I was turning to the people on Plurk rather than reaching out to flesh and bone. While I know they are real people, I was becoming dependent on written words. What's bad about it is that I have little else going on in my life. Again. Everybody else is moving forward and I'm stuck in this computer chair hoping someone will be around to talk to me ... feed my fragile ego. I'd sit in wait for new information to be posted. Time ticking away in my domain while they were going on with life.

Life is too short to sit around and wait. and wait. and wait.

I tell my son that the best way to overcome your fears is to face them head on. Stare them in the face and never concede. Don't let fear conquer your spirit.

Some role model I am. I can't face my fears of rejection, abandonment, intimacy (not sex, mind you). It's a hefty load, but I keep people at arm's length. The Internet is an ideal place for someone like me who has those aforementioned issues.

So, I bid my friends on Plurk farewell with my email address attached. I'll continue to read their blogs. I've removed those St. Pete blogs from my homepage on yahoo. That should help me in my quest to comment with moderation. As for Facebook? Well, it's my connection to old fleshy friends and family. Plus, it serves as a groovy means of promoting what I write here.

Social networking has its place. I think it's a wonderful tool. But if you have emotional defects like me, it can do more harm than good in the long run. I hope and pray those people with whom I became closest will continue to be in touch. It will take effort on my part to reach out and maintain the friendships. I suck at that and I know that is another aspect of my personality (and fear) that I must confront and overcome.

Monday, July 20, 2009

Regurgitated emotions

I'm taking the easy way out again. Sort of. I'm not quite tired enough to go to sleep. Rather than toss and turn or watch Food Network which will ignite my hunger pangs, I read some older posts. There were a couple that I'm ashamed to have written and posted. I've yet to find my stride or niche in the blogosphere. Maybe that is my avenue: Randomosity.

I clicked and read. I rolled my eyes often. Savannah Blue Eyes took up way too much space. For a guy who dumped me for an ex-stripper (and a string of other skanks followed) he didn't deserve so much thought. But alas, it is what it was. For the record, I've not heard from him in months. I pray I don't either. I realize in writing that that I'm tempting fate. It seems he hears the proclamation in the cosmos and feels the need to call me or email me with news of his horniness. He'll use the lame excuse of needing advice about raising daughters or eyeglasses. Yeah, that's f'ing romantic. Ass. I digress.

I'm going to bestow a not so oldy on ya. I hope you don't mind. I was rather fond of this post because it's an emotional guide post. It might be a bit too revealing, but it's honest.

Here it is:

Infatuation Junky?

"The essence of love begins when infatuation ends." ~ Unknown

As elementary school children, we develop likes for boys or girls. When it's unrequited these likes are referred to as crushes. Or, when the other person is unaware of your affections it's a crush or secret crush. Unfortunately, as we age, the premise doesn't change. Oh, we might have more courage in expressing ourselves, but the bottom line it's downright frightening to embark upon the unknown and risk having your heart torn to shreds.

"The love that lasts longest is the love that is never returned." ~Somerset Maugham

When I was married, I'd get crushes on his friends, male acquaintances, or co-workers. The expectation was that the lines of decency would never be crossed. After all, what might the point be? I surmise that their flirtation and attention filled a void. Had I accepted or invited their advances, it would create a seriously disturbing situation. I admit that in the back of my mind I felt my (ex) husband would resent me for fouling up his friendship more than it would concern him that our marital vows had been mutilated.

It's nearing the end of 2008 and I'm single. Still. The document of divorce was stamped in December '99. Is something amiss? There's no doubt that I am free to pursue whomever might strike my fancy. Sure, there are limits. Married men and men who are otherwise engaged are respectfully out of my grasp. Should I develop a crush on such a man, I consider them harmless and they are painlessly unrequited. I can easily deal with that.

"Flirting is the gentle art of making a man feel pleased with himself." ~ Helen Rowland

Currently, I do not have any serious infatuations. Oh sure, I participate in the sportive suggestion that Gerard Butler or John Cusack is my boyfriend. That's not the sort of fondness with which I concern myself.

The Internet provides us the ability make introductions with someone on the other side of the globe. For whatever reason, I manage to find those guys. The unattainable. It's highly unlikely that anything will mature out of that exchange. Right? The interim of flirting and friendship satiates my ego. Is that so bad?

"Computer dating is fine, if you're a computer."~Rita Mae Brown

In the past several years, I've had countless long distance crushes. Obtaining a relationship status, for the most part, was merely discussed, but left to flounder and eventually fade. By the same turn, many have evolved into friendships because the object of my affection found a woman nearby who aptly suited his needs. The emails and/or phone calls would subside and we'd ease into acquainted pen-pals. The sexual undertones of the correspondence and conversation would be replaced with tales of children, pets, jobs and mortgages.

Here's the crux of such an entanglement. My penchant for long distant infatuations: Does it really say more about me than mere whimsy. I've often questioned my ability to commit. I'm not saying that I don't put my all into a relationship. I do. When I'm in it, I sincerely and wholeheartedly give myself to him/us/it. Yet, I've never had one remarkable, long-term relationship other than my marriage. I am a serial dater/serial crusher. I think it says a lot less about them (the men). It's about me. This begs the question: Am I sporting a serious emotional defect? It seems that I'm drawn to impossible relationships like a moth to the flame. And you know what happens when a nocturnal lepidopteran insect flys into the fire? Sizzle. Unlike the scorched moth, I blister a little, heal and get back in the game.

"No matter how lovesick a woman is, she shouldn't take the first pill that comes along." ~ Dr. Joyce Brothers

Yes, yes. I know. Love will come to me when the stars are in alignment and all that jazz. I ought not think about it so much and love will find me. I'm not inclined to continuously lower the bar. Playing limbo was indeed tempting back when I had greater flexibility. And hoo-boy! Let me tell you, that bar often dropped mighty low; yet, I foolishly stayed in the game.

Here's the bottom line: With each attempt and failure, I haven't been deterred from being hopeful. I have momentary declarations where I start singing a la Dionne Warwick. Discouraged? Sure. Human girl here. Even if I am one with the emotional defect, I figure there's someone out there who'll match me.

"The best thing you can do is find a person who loves you for what you are. Good mood, bad mood, ugly, pretty, handsome, what have you. The right person's still going to think the sun shines out of your ass. That's the kind of person worth staying with."~J.K. Simmons

Sunday, July 19, 2009

Rissagain begin again

"I gotta pick myself up. Dust myself off. Start all over again!"

That seems to be my mantra for life. It doesn't matter what I encounter, I always manage to do exactly what the words depict.

Unfortunately, I wish it didn't happen every time I embark on an endeavor to get healthy; lose weight; look good. There have been at least three times on this blog that I've made a declaration to change my craptacular lifestyle for the better. Each time, I've not only slipped, but I've taken a head first plunge into the junky abyss.

This time may not be any different than previous attempts. However, here we go again!

Yesterday I put on my walking shoes and set out for the trail. The temperatures were ideal. Although the sun was shining, the big cotton puffy clouds kept it from directly scorching my face. On my iPod was a funky cardio mix put out by Seventeen current tracks remastered to keep the the feet moving and heart rate up. I lasted 14 tracks before I needed to make my way for home. I needed to expel excess fluids, if you know what I mean.

Today Tony Horton of Beachbody fame kicked my butt. With modifications for my level (and boob size), I made it through the entire dvd comprised of cardio intervals. If you're curious, go check it out.

In the time that I composed this post I went from energized to feeling like a giant rubberband. Go me! God help me.

Friday, July 17, 2009

Replay, rewind, reuse, recycle

Basically I am lacking in creativity. I'm also acutely aware that many of my readers (OK, the 5 of you that regularly visit) might have missed out on some of my proudest posts. I apologize to those of you who've read these previously. Who knows, maybe my shared thoughts about breasts and shopping for over the shoulder boulder holders have been painfully pushed to the deepest recesses of your minds. And now I am forcing you to have instant recall! (and recoil.)

One of the reasons the subtitle to this blog involves "pursuit of the perfect bra" is due to my inability to find an ideal fit for my basooms. It's not rocket science, or is it? I don't think it's my fault that I am not able to find a brassier that fits comfortably and properly. Manufacturers are sadistic bastards. That's what!

What made me think of these revealing tales was a test that I took on Facebook. Yes, those are not only major time sucks but they are completely and utterly (udderly) inaccurate. I took a quiz to find out which body part I am first attracted to. Apparently I am a boob man/girl. Puh-leez! I have knockers that give the slang term real meaning. I ought to have them registered as deadly weapons. In fact, in winter I am certain I could slash a man's throat through a cable knit sweater. So, please allow me this indulgence and moment of sloth.


Two bumps. Fried eggs, sunny side up. Nothing truly notable. Tube tops flattened them. I was in sixth grade and it happened. I sprouted boobs. I wore an ill fitting bra purchased from K-Mart under my Holly Hobby button down shirt. There I was in all my string bean splendour; straight leg jeans leading down to big feet. My feet haven't really grown since sixth grade. Imagine Olive Oyle with a shag haircut and really dreadful glasses. That was me.

I was one of the first girls to grow boobs. It's not like I wished them upon myself. Genetics made it happen. My mother was busty. My sisters were always packin' a minimum of C-cups.

I was perusing some older photographs and was delighted to see that I did, indeed, have normal sized breasts at some point in my life. Well, normal for the women in my family, that is. Comfortable bras have always eluded me.
As I got older, gained weight, gave birth, breast fed .... my boobs have grown with me like the trees of the Amazon. Sadly, my breasts don't reach to the heavenly skies grasping at sunlight. You can probably guess that my boobalas choose to take the path of least resistance; the path of gravitational pull. Ladies, you know that infamous pencil test? You know the one that says you're breasts are still perky if you place a pencil under your breast and it falls. Well, I can put an entire pencil case under Thelma and Louise and it stays in place.
Let me track back for a second to explain Thelma and Louise. I was discussing how odd I found it that men name their penis. Whereas, women don't typically give their body parts names as if they are an entirely separate entity. The guy, with whom I was discussing this matter, inquired what name I would give my breasts. Without hesitation I blurted out Thelma and Louise. And so it goes....

At one point I had lost 30 lbs, but saw little shrinkage in the breasticular area. As the girls grew, the selection of bras decreased. I was regaled in viewing the delicate, lacy gems in Victoria's Secrets. I'd check the sizes available and walk away feeling like Henrietta Hippo. I hungered to wear pretty things even under the ugliest of holiday sweaters. The Internet had to have the answers I longed for.

The first website I found was . They are a pricey online store based out of Britain. The sizes were virtually unlimited. I was in shameless lacy heaven. One particular brassier caught my eye. It came in a variety of color combinations: Taupe on taupe (boring), purple on black, black on pink, green on black. Delicious! The description read that instead of underwires, this had a polymer support system. Polymer? Immediately my brain dashed to thoughts of NASA. If this thing could support the space shuttle, surely it could support my weighty issue. I first had to find the correct size. I furiously searched around for my tape measure. The instructions for proper measurement tells me I need to put on a bra that fits well. Now, if I had a bra that fit well, would I really need to measure? Me thinks not, but I digress. I follow the simple math instructions for determining the right cup size. It's also noted that bras vary in size depending on brand/manufacturer. UGH! First it was math problems. Now I have to read a chart system that could only be deciphered with the help of a protractor and/or MIT grad. Since I had neither, I took a shot in the dark.

I ordered two: 1 in the boring taupe and the other in black and purple. As a double treat I ordered the matching tummy support thongs. Don't ask me how on Earth a thong can possibly support ones tummy while the fanny pack is bajigglin' around out back. All I had to do was wait...and wait...and finally call the customer service line to find out where my pretty things were. The lovely British woman on the other end assured me they would arrive in no less than 3 days.

::insert Jeopardy theme song:::

My order finally arrived and I shredded the packaging. I whipped off my tshirt, tore off my old, elastic bare bra and held the highly anticipated polymer equipped over the shoulder bolder holder in my happy hands. I unclasped it, wrapped it around my waist, hooks to the front and hooked the 3 heavy duty hook & eyes. I turned it around and scooped my flesh into the supportive; yet gloriously feminine cups. It fit. But what in the world was IN the cups? I'm not talking about Thelma and/or Louise. There was what felt like a shoe horn. A polymer shoe horn was the primary support system of that model. My right hand reached up, under and *knock knock*. I wondered how this polymer armour could possibly be better than a thing wire under the breast material. Sure, the wires eventually work their way up and out at the most inopportune times ... typically rearing it's ugly head when you're talking to a male co-worker, but at least it doesn't knock three times.

I wore the bras because I had spent a small fortune on them. I have to say it created an interesting reaction while on a date and we were getting snuggly and he put his arm under mine to hug me. I demonstrated how I couldn't feel anything on the sides due to the spaceage polymer. Naturally, I had to show off the hollow resonance I could make with my knuckles. It momentarily killed the mood, but things got back on track.

As time went by, my girls got too big for even the beauties. I tried several other styles and sizes and always, ironically, fell flat on proper fit. The bigger I got, the uglier the bras were ... are. Long gone were the days of multiple color and lace selections. No longer could I choose a demi or decolletage revealing, front hook styles. I required the wide, double padded, reinforced, non-slip, non-stretch straps. Long gone were the 2 or 3 hook styles. I now had the grandma 5 hook deals. Sayonara to the smooth fitting, t-shirt butes. Hello multi-seamed nightmares.

Wearing a demi style bra makes it looks like two cats are rasslin' under a blanket when I walk. If the cup size isn't just right, the wires jut outward and it looks like I have an alien obtrusion. If the cup is too small and tight it creates a most delightful quadra-boob situation. Now, that's mighty flattering, isn't it? I know one day my breasticular units will be subject of a Glamour Don't. It's not my fault. It's difficult to be fitted for a bra when your only choices require a second mortgage and a miracle, and a little help from NASA.


Boobs, tatas, funbags ~ Thelma and Louise

Some things I know to be true. This is one of them: Women check out other women. In this photo, I believe Sophia Loren is checking out the bedangling breasticles of Jane Mansfield or some other heart break of a story platinum blonde from Hollywood gone by.

We can't help it. I have a heapin' helping of the mamms and I still look at the protuberances on other women. I don't envy their size. However, I might give a discreet eye roll to those I can detect are enhanced. Or, I might wearily wish my girls could remain 'way up firm and high.' Ten months of breast feeding Man-cub took a toll on Thelma and Louise.

Because I don't have glorious gams I tend to gaze upon women who do have legs worth celebrating. My legs are long. To quote Steve Urkel, "she has legs that go alllll the way to the floor." Seriously, I do have long legs. Sadly, genetics cursed me with hefty thighs, knobby, fat knees and calves that would better suit a ham hock. Shorts are demonic fashions. Thank the gods of mercantile for capris or I'd be at a loss. Sadly, this situation leaves me at a loss when it comes time for going for a dip. I can only hope that those accompanying me look worse than I do in swimwear (or drunk enough not to care). I'd sooner go for a skinny dip in the dark than wear a swimsuit in broad daylight. My buoys would deter anyone from looking at the atrocity that is my legs.

When summertime approaches I long for the days of old. Take the swimwear styles of vintage era and combine it with the high tech, super fabrics of today. I'd be a bathing beauty if that were the case. With my weight loss endeavor I am hoping I can find a bathing suit top that will give the boobalas ample coverage and support while I don the surf shorts I've seen hip girls wearing on the beach and at the water parks. I don't proclaim to be hip, but I do declare that I'm not a granny panty wearing old broad willing to sit in the shade.

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

Ding dong the witch is gone!!!!!!

I'm really not 100% comfortable writing about this, but I'm throwing my good sense to the wayside to bask in a mini celebration. Go on and gather up some confetti. In lieu of hole punched colorful paper you can grab dust bunnies, bean bag filler or kitty litter. The point is to join me in gleeful expression.

Blondezilla has left the building!

I am no fool and we're all fully aware that you must be careful of what you wish for. This isn't something we, as a collective whole, did. SHE patterned her own destiny. Granted, none of us really knows the story of her demise/departure. Sincerely none of us seems to give two hoots and a damn of the why. She sauntered off without a good bye. She packed up her belongings and hit the road. Are we heartbroken? Absolutely not. Well, I guess I shouldn't speak for anyone else. I never kept my loathing for her a secret. We were amiable for the sole purpose of maintaining civility in the work place. That was often a difficult task.

She was someone who, as long as her ego was stroked and she wasn't questioned, all was fine. However, that genial manner could turn on a dime. Berating associates in front of patrons seemed to be a favorite pass time. Bad form, Blondezilla. Bad form.

I won't bore you with details of her heinous behavior. It's over. Her reign of tyranny has been guillotined.

If I had been given the chance I would have shared with her these parting words: Don't let the door hit'cha where the good Lord split'cha!

Now, we do the dance of joy!!

Monday, July 13, 2009

Monday malaise

I have a long week ahead of me. For you regular Nine to Fivers you'll think I'm a big whiny baby. To someone in the retail bizz, you'll understand why working five days in a row with varied shifts presents itself as bothersome and arduous.

For instance, I work 11:30 to 9:00 (PM) today and turn around and toss myself into the kettle again at 9:00 AM. No breather beyond sleeping. The light at the tunnel is that I'm off on Saturday and that gives me a sense of normalcy.

So, for today's post I am giving you a meme. At least it's something and hopefully it'll evoke some thought. Consider it my gift to aid your brain in waking up.

Because I like to give credit where credit is due, I found this via Google search on the blog Curious as a Cat. I have a feeling I may resort to this from time to time.

1) What is the best thing you have ever won as a prize? I recently won a 3 month membership to Gold's Gym when I bought raffle tickets at our local Relay For Life event. While that is a great value, I was mostly overjoyed to win a copy of DENVER CEREAL from Claudia Christian Hall (the author). Nearly every Sunday she gives us Unconscious Mutterings on her blog. I have to tell you it's something I anxiously look forward to each week. She uses an unbiased method of choosing a weekly winner from the comments. That's how I was fortunate enough to be awarded her book. I loved it! The story continues on her blog. Totally groovy! Because I feel like I know Claudia, it made the prize even more personal and special -- especially since she wrote an inscription that made me cry.

2) What is one thing that repeatedly makes you angriest? This is really a tough one. Feigned ignorance and stupidity truly gets under my skin. From politicians to the workplace I see it. Deliberate, deceitful activity that only compounds itself when the perpetrator is incapable of keeping the lies in order. I'd laugh if it wasn't something I witness with regularity.

3) What song always makes you laugh, no matter how often you hear it? Hmmm a song that makes me laugh. Weird Al would be an obvious choice. I do find him riotously amusing, but I don't always giggle or chuckle when I hear "Eat it" or "White and Nerdy." The song that inevitably brings about a snicker is from The Wedding Singer. Adam Sandler's character Robbie can't get out of the funk of being dumped at the altar. When he's asked to share a recent composition he wails (some content may not be safe for work or children.)

4) Show and Tell. What comes to mind first when you see this picture? Or, tell a story if it reminds you of one. (click the image for a larger view.)

Photo courtesy

Sunday, July 12, 2009

Time for a second installment of ....

If I could punch a movie in the face ... Yes, I am a volatile person. I have potential to be, that is. I keep the violence contained in my head and don't let it travel to my fists, but rest assured if I ever unleash all this pent up fire beneath it will be a hailstorm of fury that'll make Chuck Norris seem like a whimpering pussy.

It has been said that when I'm passionate about something I give it full on support. Likewise, when I despise something, I am equally passionate in my disgust and distaste for the subject matter. That includes people. So, watch out!

In the last installment, I revealed the winners of the punch in the pie hole. For review you can go here to see the winners along with my reasoning (quite honestly I don't think I have to justify anything. I just hate the movies.).

While I compile this next list, I am torturing myself as St. Elmo's Fire churns out it's shittastic dialogue on AMC. It basically has tossed kerosene on the fire.

So, without further ado, I will reveal the movies that have earned this dubious honor. These movies can't even be categorized as guilty pleasures in the House of Riss.

Indecent Proposal: Seriously, Bob! What were you thinking? Have your other amazing efforts as actor, director and producer not brought in enough cash that you had to sell your soul to the likes of Demi Moore and Woody Harrelson ... and a hippopotamus? Did you just want an excuse to feel up the once nursing Mrs. Willis so you agreed to make this celluloid dreck? There is not one redeeming quality to this movie! I remember going to the theater to see it with my good friend Kathy. We laughed. A lot. She said out loud, "Oh Bob! What have you done!?" Bob, of course, is Robert Redford. Oh, Sundance, what did you do to have been party to such a train wreck? Were you being black mailed? I know I'm not alone in loathing this movie.

Little Nicky: I like Adam Sandler. His movie soundtracks are reason enough for me to justify watching his works. I enjoy most of his movies. He's clearly stuck in the '80s and that gives him street cred in my book. With that being said, I cannot bear to listen let alone watch him as he plays the son of Satan. Sandler's voice in this film is so irritating that I want to take Q-tips and push them deep into my brain via ear canal. My son and nephews laugh hysterically as Sandler does his schtick. They are lucky I love them so much or I might be inclined to disown them. In fact, their like of the movie is the reason I feel compelled to mention my hatred for it. It gets enough airplay on television that it's clear someone else loves it. Or, Sandler made a pact with the devil.

The Big Lebowski: Maybe I just don't get it. Everyone who has seen this movie seems to love it. And when I say love I mean they quote it; they live it; they breathe it; they adore it. I fought to watch the whole thing. Maybe mass quantities of alcohol is needed to be consumed. Perhaps imbibing in the ganja would be required in order for a straight laced gal like myself to get into it. I realize that by admitting this my application to the cool kids club will be rejected, but I'm willing to risk it. I'm not cool and I can admit it with my head held high (all the while having an atomic wedgey inflicted upon me). You can blame my frequent bouts with vapidity for why I didn't get into Lebowski. Color me a dolt and a dunderhead.

There might come a day when I'm bat-shit out of my head and I get drunk and stoned enough to watch and revel in the supposed greatness of Jeff Bridges and John Goodman. Until then, I don't give a shit about THE DUDE.

Wednesday, July 8, 2009

Keep on hitting! I can take it!

Twenty three thousand. hmmm

23,000 sigh


That's still not as spectacular as I thought it would look. Hold on.

23,000 Blog Hits!

Image by Cool Text: Logo and Button Generator - Create Your Own

That fits the bill much better. Thank you for pushing my blog up and over 23,000 hits. Maybe one day those hits will be reads and comments. Perhaps I'll be a blog sensation that will make you ask, "Who's Jen Lancaster? What ever became of Perez Hilton?"

Hey, it's a lofty dream, but without aspirations for greater things we're just spinning our wheels and digging holes.

Bridging the gap

That's Mo-mo. She is magnetically drawn to the dining table. Sigh. She's also showing off her flexibility. Meow.

Tuesday, July 7, 2009

What time is it?

Call me a little old fashioned, but if my phone rings later than 10:00 PM, it better be an emergency. Someone better be broken and or bleeding and requiring my specific brand of assistance (I have no idea what that may be) if they have the nerve to dial my number after 10 o'clock.

I will admit that on rare occasions I will take a call from a friend in a different time zone. I'm guilty of picking up the receiver if a man is calling. Not for a booty call, but to talk without concern for the time. Stupid and desperate? Yes. Asshat Running Man pulled that stunt one too many times and I set him straight about proper calling times when attempting to pursue a relationship. I get ballsy from time to time.

To be honest, my phone doesn't ring often and if it does it's a bill collector calling for the slime ball, asshat family who gives out my number to avoid paying their debts -- I presume they had this number over 4 years ago. Ironically, T-Mobile calls here to alert them of their lapse in mobile service payments and to inform them that their service has been interrupted. I tell these collectors that I am not the person they are trying to contact. They tell me the number will be removed from the call list, but in a couple months it all starts again.

Sidebar rant over.

So, since the phone doesn't often ring, it's enormously disruptive when the bird like chirping erupts and jolts me from my slip into pleasant slumber. This occurred last night.

I had decided to turn in early. Mancub had already awakened me once when he saw that I was sleeping on my stomach. This apparently made him curious enough to ask me why I was in that position to sleep and without a pillow under my head. He kindly offered to get me more pillows. I guess he thought it wasn't intentional that my bed pillows were setting on the floor next to the bed. For whatever reason (aging) my hip was irritated and I found that sleeping pose most comfortable ... for awhile. I thanked him for his concern and he departed.

Around 10:40 PM, the bleating of my bedroom phone jerks me awake just as I was drifting into dreamland. In what seemed one motion, I hopped from the bed to the phone on the dresser to look at the caller ID. It was my son's friend. His grandmother's phone number. The very number we were told he was grounded from using. Two rings and it ceased. I assumed Mancub picked it up. I debated whether or not to pick it up myself and inform the party on the other line that they woke me and it is not acceptable to dial our home after 10 PM. Rather than embarrass myself or Mancub, I waited a few minutes.

I called down to the boy. Questioning the call and it's poor timing, he said his friend was just calling to see if he could come by and hang out the following day. Mancub apologized and said he told his friend it was too late to be calling and that he should call during the day.

Hooray! Our discussions over proper phone use have stuck with him. He's fully aware that I don't appreciate late night calls.

Mancub isn't interested nor does he have use for social media like Facebook or instant messenger. He thinks texting is tedious and calling is far easier. This is a time where I'm grateful that he is slightly behind on socializing. I know that sounds dreadful, but in today's teen interaction, I think real communication is being pushed to the wayside. They speak in the same manner they text. It's annoying.

So, while I applaud the boys' choice to communicate it's necessary to set ground rules with Mancub's friend. My best guess is that he's allowed to run amuck and doesn't get a lot of positive attention. Mancub likes having a friend to hang out with and I'm truly happy the friendship exists. I've had to enforce and reinforce the rules of our house to Mancub's friend. I'll call him 'K'. It's a new experience for both of us; having someone else in our domicile ... eating the Fritos Scoops and drinking my Diet Coke and using several glasses when switching beverages. The boy drinks a lot! I reminded him that while I don't mind that he drinks all the water he can consume, I would prefer he not drink my DC nor use numerous drinking vessels in the course of his visit. I reminded him that he's a guest in our house and must abide by the rules and behave as a guest. More over, he was advised that it's mannerly to ask to have a snack or drink rather than rummage through the cupboards or refrigerator for something to eat. Other people's food seems to take on a greater allure, for some reason.

Seriously, oof!

Because it became apparent that K and Mancub would be spending time together this summer, I inquired about the boy to one of the teacher's at Mancub's school prior to the end fo the school year. She couldn't divulge a lot, but nodded positively when I asked if he and Mancub have a similar diagnosis only K's was more severe. K isn't a bad kid. He just lacks basic social graces. His home life has been tumultuous for his young age.

While I find this addition to our daily routine sometimes irritating, I am wholeheartedly grateful that my son has a friend with whom he can play video games, watch television and, as my mom would say, "get the stink blown off..." That means go outside and play.

They seem to be kindred spirits. Neither boy is up to speed on socialization; yet, they get along splendidly. They are direct and candid without appearing to insult the other. Mancub is fully aware of the habits that get under my skin, but has learned to just look at me and smile rather than fight a losing battle. I mainly refer to the improper use of my name. K calls me various 'M' names, but never gets to Marissa. Mancub has even tried to get him to call me "Mancub's Mom" but to no avail, I am destined to be Melinda, Melissa, Marcie .... My son and I just smile, shake our heads and I reply to K as if he got my name correct. If that's the only price we pay for Mancub having a buddy then I'll pay it.

Now, all will be aces as long as my phone doesn't ring again after 10:00 PM.

Friday, July 3, 2009

The Declaration of Independence

At the risk of sounding cliche', I am proud to be an American. While I have never lived elsewhere and my travels have only taken me just outside of California and Arizona where I crossed the Mexican border to shop, I know this is the best place on Earth for me.

This year has been monumental in that we've elected a black man as our president. We're facing financial crisis. Jobs are being lost at a ridiculous rate. Panic has stricken in the hearts of many. Across the globe there is unrest and war. Other governments are looking to us, the United States of America, for aid ... or firing upon us for the efforts made to give their citizens help. Sometimes we're damned if we do; damned if we don't.

Times have changed mightily since the Declaration of Independence was signed by our founding fathers. OH, sure! There's still war being waged. The weapons of war have the capabilities to inflict greater damage upon the people of this delicate planet. What is a greater weapon (and perhaps more frightening) is the minds of the leaders of the world. Without their potentially warped manner of thinking, those nuclear missiles are rendered useless.

Tomorrow we picnic and spend time with family and friends. We'll set off fireworks. Ice cream makers will be dragged from the dusty corners of the garage. Red, white and blue attire will be donned. Our national flag will flounce in the wind to symbolize our patriotism. Sunburns will fester by nightfall. Alcohol will be consumed in (hopefully) in a responsible manner.

Remembered are the brave soldiers who are fighting to keep our borders safe. While we're sleeping comfortably someones sons and daughters are awake to keep watch on the seas and night skies.

I implore you to remember and represent why America is so great. The world is watching.

God Bless America. Happy Independence Day, friends.

"You have to love a nation that celebrates its independence every July 4, not with a parade of guns, tanks, and soldiers who file by the White House in a show of strength and muscle, but with family picnics where kids throw Frisbees, the potato salad gets iffy, and the flies die from happiness. You may think you have overeaten, but it is patriotism." -- Erma Bombeck

photo borrowed from

Thursday, July 2, 2009

Songs: an aural time machine

I was just on Facebook and read a note posted by Angie Bailey aka Eclectic Catladyland. She listed fifteen songs that have been influential or conjures up a specific memory in her life. There are numerous songs that come on the radio or pop up on my iPod and I am immediately transported. It's like stepping into a time machine.

So, without further ado, I give you myTEN in no particular order. Like Angie, I am listing off the top of my head as they come to me. In addition, I provide explanation. I must warn you that many songs are otherwise shittastic. Forgiveness isn't necessary.

1. True ~ Spandau Ballet: I had a huge crush on a guy my first and second semester at Kankakee Community College. Whenever I saw him outside of school, TRUE seemed to be playing on the radio. I never did connect with him. He was the kind of guy who was awesome to look at but rather vapid.

2. Brand New Key ~ Melanie: I was a just a little kid and actually thought the song was about roller skates and bicycles. I can picture myself putting on the roller skates that attached to your shoes. In view, my friend Renee and I making our way over the bumpy sidewalks of our Riverview neighborhood singing this song and laughing.

3. American Pie ~ Don McLean: Making the sign of the cross while they sang the words, "father, son and the holy ghost." I had no idea at the time they were paying homage to Buddy Holly, the Big Bopper and Richie Valenz. The song was long and I knew every word. I had no clue what a levy was nor why it was dry.

4. I'll Be There ~ Jackson 5: I've already covered this twice on my blog. Huge influence.

5. I'd Like To Teach the World to Sing ~ New Seekers: My sister or brother bought me a multi-language album that featured this song. Coke-A-Cola used a version of it for advertising. I always thought I was cool because I sang it without the Coke verse. OK, maybe not cool but I knew more lyrics than the 30 second commercial spot offered.

6. Tubular Bells ~ Mike Oldfield: F'ing song scared the bejeebus out of me! I knew it was from the Exorcist. My sister Maureen had seen the movie and I heard her telling my mom about the movie. Having been raised on ghost stories and sightings in our own house, I doubt I slept for about 2 years of my life while that song was on WLS and WCFL AM radio.

7. The Lord's Prayer ~ Sister Janet Mead: Ironically, this song would be played right after TUBULAR BELLS on the aforementioned stations. Talk about a dose of freakiness right before bed. My sister Mary had to have the radio on. We shared a room. I hardly slept. Although, this did give me comfort and I learned the prayer. Well, I learned it as long as I was singing it.

8. I'm So Excited ~ The Pointer Sisters: I made out for the first time ever to this song. My friend Suzette and I were with three guys we met at Olivet Nazarene University (College back in the '80s). We were roadloading (boozing it up behind a barn in the country since it was verboten for the guys -- totally stupid and I apologize for being a dumbass.). The boy with whom I'd liplock was originally riding shotgun. I was sitting behind the driver, Suzette in the middle and another dude to her right. For whatever reason, musical seats occurred. My position never changed, but Make-out boy would find his way next to me. The song came on and suddenly we were alone and voila! Make out city to one of the lamest songs ever conceived.

9. Southern Cross ~ Crosby, Stills and Nash: In high school, I was in the Celebration Singers ... a show choir. Think GLEE (the new FOX television show). We'd traveled to Wisconsin for a competition and the hosting school performed this song a capella. The standing room only gymnasium observers were on the edges of their seats. The performance was amazing. I'll never forget it nor the emotions it evoked that night.

10. Rock Lobster ~ B-52s: Again, high school. Hello Dolly!The combined efforts of Westview and Eastridge High Schools music departments (cross town rival high schools). Make up and hair were done. Elaborate up do's executed. Thrashing on the floor making like lobsters. Not good. This is when I learned the joys of a little party band out of Athens, Ga.