Support can be Beautiful

BRASSIERE WARNING

(FOR ALL MY MALE FRIENDS WHO WOULD RATHER NOT THINK ABOUT MY UNDERCARRIAGE, YOU MAY WANT TO JUST TUNE IN TOMORROW FOR THE UN-UNDERWEAR ADVENTURES OF JUNE.)

Frankie is right. I promised I would tell you about measuring my own self with an apron, and I am a woman of my word.

For many, many years, in fact the first 27 years of my life, I was terribly skinny. My grandmother thought I had a worm. People used to say, "You're so small, if a big gust of wind came, it'd carry you away" which resulted in a phobia of wind that is a whole other blog entry.

Suffice it to say, I was not large in any way.

Then one day in my 27th year, I was having dinner at the home of this gay couple I knew. I point this out only to explain that they actually had a bathroom scale, being self-respecting, body-conscious gay men and all. Me? The only scale I got on was this big loading scale outside the museum where I worked. I always weighed 113, 117, maybe, so who cared.

Well, I got on Jeff and whatever-on-earth's-Jeff's-partner's-name-is, and I can't believe I forgot, and I weighed (dun dun dunnnnnnnnnn!) 134.

After this surprise, I also discovered that I really could no longer go braless. And I discovered the Victoria's Secret pushup bra. Hello!

Oh, weighing 134 was exciting. Suddenly I had a girlish figure! And I was not subtle about it, with those pushups. I would have just worn pasties to work if I could have gotten away with it, I was so thrilled to be ...curvy, as they say.

Ten years and pounds later. I am home, freelancing, wearing my pajamas. It's a hot day, and I think, "What is resting on my ribcage?" I was startled, just as I was startled years before on that scale, to discover what was resting was, well, my bosoms.

All of this is to tell you that circumstances have changed for me in that area, and I guess I have made it evident that I apparently pay no attention to myself until something dire happens and I say, "Hey! I weigh a real amount" or "Hey! I need to lift and separate!"

Well, what is bugging me lately is, "Hey! My brassieres are uncomfortable ALL THE TIME." I suddenly feel like I am wearing a corset, or that a boa constrictor is curling around my midsection. So I think I may be wearing the wrong size undergarment. Nothing gets past me. I'm a regular Sherlock Holmes, over here.

So imagine my delight when I saw on my Google homepage, under the "How to" section, "How to measure your bra size."

"This is it!" I thought. "I can measure myself and figure out what size I really need, and perhaps I can breathe out again!"

The directions tell you to get a tape measure and measure in two different places, then you do this adding and subtracting and all sorts of terrifying things that I am bad at.

Well, we have no tape measure. Why would we ever need one? We do not sew. We are not entering Miss America. It has just ever come up. Now, if I were BUYING things, I could zip on over to the evil WalMart and get me a tape measure. What are they, a dollar? But nooo.

So I pace around the house, frantically. There must be SOMEthing I can drape around myself, then measure that. Why is there nothing drapey in this house!? What about the hose? Would the neighbors talk? Why don't I own any ribbons? Or scarves, decorative scarves?

Finally I alighted on my apron, the strings hanging innocently on my kitchen door. Ripping it off the knob, I headed into the bedroom with its full-length mirror, and draped it around me, digging my thumbnail into the string to mark my place, so I can then get a ruler and measure. Okay. Now I just have to find our ruler, and measure how long that piece of apron string went.

WHERE is the ruler!? I KNOW we have a long, what are those called? YARDSTICK! I know we have a yardstick! Shirtless, digging my nail into an apron string, I tear up the house one-handed, looking in every closet and cupboard. How do you lose a YARDstick? It is THREE FEET LONG.

I finally find a 12-inch ruler in the desk. At this point I have made a permanent dent in that apron string. I do my measuring, and apparently I am a 32FFF.

You see? You don't need to spend money on a useless tape measure! This not spending is fun! Really!

Being Episcopalian is Free

I am in the Bible Belt, let's face it.

Here, people are forever asking us, "What church do you go to?" Um. None. First of all, Marvin Gardenstein is Jewish, and if you think there are any whatever-Jewish-churches-are-called around here, you are sadly mistaken. And I was raised by Godless hippies, so I have never been a churchgoer.

Technically, though, that is not true. My parents, the Godless hippies (my mother is now very active in her church. I feel I must clarify this before she shoots off an angry reply in the Comments section, providing she can figure out how to send a comment), wanted me to live in an integrated neighborhood, which was fine until eventually I was the only white kid in my public school and all the other kids (rightfully) resented the hell out of my middle-class, white self and started beating me up every day.

Enter the Lutheran private school in my neighborhood. I went there from third through sixth grades, attended church each Wednesday morning and any time the children's choir was requested to appear. Which by the way included funerals. I was 10 and attending like two funerals a week or something.

So I was a churchgoer for four years, and to this day nothing comforts me more than a church rec room. I have all sorts of happy memories of waiting there for Christmas or Easter pageants to begin, the smells of the heater and coffee and winter coats.

At any rate, at the top of our horrid hill on our street is a beautiful Episcopal church, built in 1834 (above is a photo of it which includes horrifying snow). I always like coming to it because it is so pretty and because it means I am done climbing that hill. I thought about going to it one Sunday, but felt weird about it.

Then last week, not one but two members asked me to come this Sunday. And do you know we had the best time? Everyone was so nice to us, and the sermon was so interesting! He talked about The Wizard of Oz, Mark Twain and Mother Teresa. I'm telling you, this minster was fascinating.

And why did no one tell us there was food? Afterwards, you go into the recreation room -- my favorite place -- and have coffee and delicious snacks. Had anyone told me snacks were involved, I'd have visited much sooner. We were surrounded by the nicest people at that snacky social.

Someone even offered Marvin a biscuit with country ham. I got far away from him at that point, certain he was going to be struck down. Yes, Jewish husband standing in an Episcopal church, please have some HAM now. See you in the afterlife.

So, I think I will go back. Alone. Safer that way.

To recap the weekend: Friday night, free homecoming parade. Saturday, free German festival. Sunday, church (although I did put two dollars in the basket; it was all I had. How much are you supposed to put in there?) and later Sunday, a free pumpkin patch visit, which is a whole 'nother blog entry. Now, I know this was not dinner at 21 and dancing at -- whatever counts as a fancy place to dance. It was not a weekend in the Hamptons. But still, free, fun, and including country ham. What more do you need?

Marvin Gardens + Michael Jackson = TLA

Okay, here is the link to one of Marvin's 14 sites (who loves himself long time? And thinks we all want to hear every detail about his life?), wherein he tells the "I worked for Michael Jackson" story.

Some of you said you wanted to hear it. And speaking of assuming people want to hear all about one's life, tomorrow I will tell how I tried to determine my bra size using an apron. By now I have built it up so much (so to speak) that when I finally tell it, it will fall flat (again, so to speak). Maybe I'll write it from my wireless! BA! Ha ha ha haaaaaaaaa....

http://axecollectorblog.blogspot.com/

Achtung, Baby Puppy

After last night's free and oh-so-fun orange-shirted homecoming parade, how could today have gotten any better? Oh, perhaps with a free German festival in South Carolina.

You must understand, I am from Michigan. Every single person in Michigan is 100% German. They kick you out if you are not. There are glockenspiels, there is lederhosen, everyone is extremely on time, and I will leave the Nazis out of this.

To put it in a nutshell, Michigan? German German German. Oh, and everything is a haus, not a house. One of my friends got her bridal gown at The Wedding Haus. No, I am not kidding.

To go to South Carolina to see a German festival, I had some pretty high standards, here. I was expecting Eva Braun and Goethe and Heidi Klum to be there, popping out of cuckoo clocks. So you can imagine my surprise when there was barbecue and shaved ice stands. And some of those towels that have knitting on the top, so you can button them to the fridge.

Where were my GERMANS? My PEOPLE in the HAUS?

There was not even an oompah band to be seen.

The only good news is that there were puppies there, who were up for adoption. Oh, they were sweet. They were mixed breed puppies from a rescue place. And you know what I was thinking? I was thinking that (a) I am home all day, PERFECT for puppy raising. I was also thinking that (b) I have been so blue. What better way to brighten my spirits than with a puppy snickerdoodle lover pie?

And yes, I would call it puppy snickerdoodle lover pie ALL THE TIME. Which could be why Marvin Gardens did not see my logic about getting a puppy. That, and we have three cats and we are not allowed dogs at this rental house. But other than that...

Oh, and next time I write, could someone remind me of how I tried to determine my bra size using an apron? It needs to be told.

I Love a Parade

It was homecoming tonight for the high school, so naturally there was a big parade.

(You have never seen so many people dressed in orange shirts in your life. It's like we were all afraid of hunters. And when I say "we," I mean everyone other than myself.)

Believe it or not, traffic was crazy getting to the parade route (I actually found it hard to believe there could be that many people on the street and that many people on floats, but it WAS homecoming, so maybe people actually came from other towns), so we walked up the hill, that HORRIFIC HILL, to the parade.
Even the mailbox feels sorry for me.

Once we adjusted to the altitude, we found a spot and watched the festivities.

Every time I see bagpipers, who I love, I can't help but think of "We have a piper down!" from the movie So I Married an Ax Murderer.

I was sad that they did not have the actual homecoming king and queen in the parade, but apparently they announce who they are at the actual football game. In my high school, they told you like a week ahead of time so the queen could prance around proudly and the rest of us could say it was a setup, and she didn't deserve it, and other awful high school things. Anyway, this is the king and queen of the nursing home, which I thought was so cute I actually cried. They were so excited! Waving at everybody, smiling. I loved them.


Now, this is what I glean is a wonderful organization that helps kids at risk or some such thing. I was starting to cry again because all the kids were holding up signs that said things like, "I am the next President of the United States" or "I am the next Supreme Court Justice" and such. I thought it was so esteem-building. But then I realized the poor Supreme Court Justice kid had his sign upside down, which killed me. Because I am a horrible person.


Finally, the parade was over, and after I said, "What happened to the homecoming queen? We don't get to see the homecoming queen?" 486 times, we headed home the back way, so we wouldn't get run over by the actual traffic that was actually present, for once. Luckily for me, the back way involves that block where all the cats let me pet them, and I held a tiny baby kitten, so it worked for me.

Go, whatever the name of our football team is! Woooooo!

Sparklefraffle in my Wrist

I couldn't type you all day, because I have a hideous pain in my left wrist. I mentioned this to Marvin Gardens, who suggested that I was doing something crude in my spare time. I will not torment you with the details. Let's just say that perhaps he should look into graduating seventh grade soon.

What I like about Marvin is his sensitivity. Perhaps he could volunteer in an ER, and people could tell him their woes. Or one of those all-night phone lines where you call with medical emergencies. I'm sure he'd be popular.

Marvin and his empathetic self aside, I wonder if I have carpal tunnel or something?

I do spend a lot of time on the computer. And I have been doing a lot of intense, fast editing, as I got a new freelance job proofreading transcripts. So I have to listen to the tapes and read along. I try to quickly make corrections without stopping the tape, as I am being paid by the page. So the faster I go, the richer I get. And apparently the sorer, too.

My other excitement for today (if one can consider wrist pain and being insulted by one's own spouse "excitement") was that I got to go to WalMart, which I kind of consider an evil store. Take this city, for example. Most of the people here used to work in the textile mills. Now no one has jobs, so they are poor, so to save money they go to WalMart, which TOOK THEIR JOBS AWAY.

Ironic. It's 10,000 spoons when all you need is a knife.

But WalMart is close to the assisted living place where I read to Miss Lilly, and besides, there isn't any other store in town, honestly. At any rate, we were completely out of dish cloths, and I want you to know that frugal June tried very hard to do without. I cut up kitchen towels, I cut up old t-shirts. But finally I gave in and spent the $2.98 for eight washcloths. Which -- okay, evil WalMart -- I admit was a deal. So I sold my soul to get it.

Also, finally, I think it is official that I am going to go to Michigan and buy my VW Bug back from my mother. Perhaps you wonder, "Are there no cars for sale in all of North Carolina?" and the answer is no. It is illegal to sell cars here. Everyone has to sneak into South Carolina for auto purchases.

No, no. However, Marvin looked into it, and because we have only been here two months, they want to charge us like 30% interest, as we are a flight risk. Which irritates me. A flight risk. Who are we, Bonnie and Clyde?

I know this is spending money, but living without a car is so. ding-dang. depressing. Someone here today said, "You'll feel better once we get some wheels under ya!" I love people here.

Anyway, my mother is paying for the flight, because I am 42 and my mother pays for my flights, and then we can pay her whatever we can afford per month for the car. Plus also too, I get my Sirius radio back.

Howard Stern is going to seem so clean-cut after living with Marvin.

Things I am Obsessed With as of Late

1. There is the most beautiful blog I have ever seen, called Posie Gets Cozy. Now, one of you out there has it on YOUR blog, you know, over on the side where you list other blogs you like? What the Sam Hill is that called? Recommendations? Links? "Hey, look yonder"? Seriously. There is some blog world name for those blogs we put on the sides of our blogs. Could I have just said the word "blogs" any more?

At any rate, the woman who creates this site makes me sick, sick, I tell you, with jealousy. EVERY SINGLE VISUAL on there is absolutely my taste, 100%. How I wish I had visual skills like this woman. And a good camera. Because I assume that camera must be good.

Oh! That blog is lovely. I have blog envy.

2. I have had not one, but two dreams that I was seeing the Sex and the City movie. Now, that is sad. I am dreaming about a movie. But I am so upcited for it, as my cousin used to say. When she wasn't 30, married and a homeowner and was more, like, two.

My sister-in-law made the fatal error of sending me Season One of SATC for my birthday one year. I had of course heard of the show but I didn't have HBO, and besides, that Mr. Big thing irritated me. Too obvious.

So I watched the whole first season in, like, a day, and it turns out "Mr. Big" is called that because he is fancy and important to Sarah Jessica Parker's character. So what did I know?

I was a regular at my video store after that, and I eventually rented every single episode, only watching the finale actually in real time. Then I made my mother buy me the box set for Christmas. Do you know I have watched that box set in its entirety twice, then I went back and watched the shows that had the director's extra comments on them?

Oh, do I love that show. And I love Carrie Bradshaw. I always wanted to live in New York and be a writer who weighed 102 pounds. And she has my hair, but somehow pulls it off without looking insane.

The movie comes out in May. I will be spending then. So you can imagine I will be first in line to see that thing, even though there is no movie theater in this town.

3. The Cazalet chronicles. Have you read these books? There are four of them. They are the story of a wealthy family in London, starting right after World War I and going through World War II. You cannot put them down. They are the kind of books you lie in bed and think about, and then you get up and read till 4 a.m. until you have a headache.

The first one is called The Light Years. The author is Elizabeth Jane Howard. Plan on getting nothing accomplished for the next month.

I have already read all four books, but I am reading them again. What with my rereading and rewatching shows, it is a wonder I ever try anything new at all.

4. Country ham. How have I gone my whole life not having this? You can't swing a dead cat around here without someone selling country ham, and if I had my druthers, I'd read my Cazalet books all day, eating country ham and waiting for that Sex and the City movie to start.

I'll bet that Posie Gets Cozy woman would never do such un-lovely things.