Boobs, Blisters, Black Toenails

The glorious female form is not particularly well designed for, to use the technical term, jiggling. Running involves a great deal of jiggling. As of yet, no one has found a way to detach their boobs and leave them at home during a run, BUT there have been advances in boob cages; another technical term here; sports bras.  Ladies if you have anything bigger than a B - invest in a good boob cage!  I could bore you with my "Bloody Boobage" story of Niagara Falls International 1/2 marathon 2014, but the girls scarred for life and still a little bitter. 

I'm also going to spare you the pictures of broken toe, black toes nails and bloody sneakers but I can assure you a career as a foot model is not in my future :(

(If you need a boob cage check out the Enel Bra I love it)

Dear Victoria's Secret Angel, you let me down...

One of my younger sisters is graduating from her dental hygeine program today, so this past weekend her and my mudder came to visit, which of course meant shopping. Little sis needed a dress, and as much as I HATE shopping off we went. We hit every store in the Niagara region, and finally found the right one. Then she announced she need to get a bra to wear under the dress.

"Bra Shopping” is one of the worst phrases you can utter in my direction. Substitute, “purse,” or “shoes,” or even “sex toys,” and I'll go with, but the word bra sends shivers up my spine. When I'm trying on a bra, every bra nightmare I've ever had comes sling-shotting back at my self-esteem as if loaded and launched from a 44DDD. The cups overflowing, the wires digging into my sides, the strap marks in my shoulders, the rolls of flubber hanging around my middle, the flourescent lights, the lady with her measureing tape, and the calling out of my not so small size across the store. I shudder now!

Mudder and sister busied themselves looking for little air pocket filled, chicken cultett inserted cutsie bras while I wandered the midevil boulder holder collection for the "larger" busted like myself. Finally my arms were loaded and I stomped into the dressing room, expecting the worst, and got it. Kiddo mudder and sister found the 'perfect' lacey strapless push up, and had the pleasure of waiting outside my changerom closet door, listening to the curses muttered by my trucker mouth.

One sales lady, six trips and 25 bras later I came home with one slightly less then ugly bra in a size I thought was a swear word. Dear Victoria’s Secret Angel where were you when I needed you!

October is breast cancer awareness month, so ladies take the girls out of their cages and give them a squeeze! Or follow this link for more info on Breast Self Exams

Everything is STUPID...

Stupid kettle. Why the hell do you choose today to not boil! Stupid coffee canister that emptied itself and didn’t remind me to buy more. Stupid kettle. Stupid coffee perculator. Stupid stupid caffeine I need so badly.

Stupid smoke alarm. Every time I open the oven it goes off. I spend that much time standing under it waving a dish cloth that whatever was cooking in the first place burns! Stupid loud fire alarm. Stupid beep, beep, beep, Dawn-is-cooking-again alarm, jeebus I'm only boiling water!

Stupid thirty-something brain. If you don’t behave and start absorbing all this material I’m reading for my exams the way you used to, I swear I will stab you with a Q-tip! Stupid, stupid week and a half of finals.

Stupid underwire bras. Stupid heavy boobs don’t stand at attention like those of the perky 20 something year olds I go to school with. Wires going everywhere, digging into my sides. Need extra bounce control, extra support and then the stupid things, they’re hitting me in the chin. Stupid contraption. Stupid boobs.

Stupid dog. Won’t eat her own food, stands at by the table looking up at you with those giant pug eyeballs and the please, please look on her face. The second you lay down your snack to answer the phone, she jumps up on the couch and slobbers all over it. Stupid drooled on chocolate covered peanut butter pretzels, I want to eat you anyways.

Stupid long weekend. Had to fall smack in the middle of week and a half stupid exam schedule, had to fall right into Birthday week, so I can’t properly enjoy you and no one is around to go to Kiddo’s birthday party. Stupid brats, who don’t know how to RSVP.

Stupid post. Don’t even got a real ending cause I need to go fan the smoke alarm, stab my brain with a Q-tip, re-read my pathophys notes for the sixteenth time, remove my bra, grab another handful of chocolate peanut butter pretzels and finish boiling that pot of water to make instant coffee.

Bra Shopping

Without really thinking that mother's day is tomorrow, I decided to brave the mall. I hate shopping for myself because it is always a disaster...

Bra shopping sucks more than regular shopping. It doesn’t matter what the tag says or how many times you've been measured: until you try it on, you have NO IDEA of whether or not it will hold the girls.

So after striking out at at my first stop, I find myself at Sears pacing the bra section, sorting through drawer after drawer of bras, longing to make my selections from the wall of cute perky bras, for women whose boobs aren’t the size of mountains, hating that I’m about be forced into some horribly lit changing room to get re-measured and to try on these contraptions.

Matters cease to amaze me, I found a total of 4 bras, all only slightly less ugly than the bras my grandmother used to wear, in the “correct size”. One, promises "bounce control”. The picture on the tag for this bra is a woman I could easily break in two over my knee. Her need for “bounce control” is like my 10 year old daughters: pretty much non existent. Seriously, the girl was even skinnier than the usual ones and had very little smooshed into her bra that is clearly a size too small. Bounce control,HA! As if that model had any bounce to start with.

So off I go to the chamber of horrors, under the charming glow of the florescent lights, I try on the bras. One of the four fit, SCORE!

I’ve pretty much killed whatever patience I have, and am in desperate need of my "Happy Juice" (coffee) so I pick up the one bra that fits and head back to the underwear section in hopes that miraculously I missed one pretty bra in the same size.

I found one! With matching undies to boot, thinking it was too good to be true, I buy it without bothering to try it on.

I pay an insane amount of cash for my finds and get quickly get my butt out of the crowded mall, grumbling the whole way home about the construction on the roads, the rain, the lack of plans for the evening, what to get for supper, the lack of selection, and the amount of money I just spent on three items.

So here I sit, looking at one ugly bra that fits, and a really cute bra with matching undies that holds approximately 1/2 of one boob and the giant bag they came in, knowing full well that the cute one has to be returned and I don't want to do it.

I wonder where porn stars get their bras?