June 21, 2003
I don't normally like to bring my problems to the web site -- well except for the problem that I don't have a boyfriend and the other problem that I don't have a job or any money. But other than those two problems I don't like to talk about my problems. This past week cannot go undocumented, though.
I was pretty much hitting rock bottom faith-wise, so I decided to get some spiritual rejuvenation by attending mass. It turned out to be an hour-and-a-half Baptism service for seven babies. An hour and a half. None of the babies cried, but I felt like I was going to. Since I was in the middle of the row, there was no escape.
Later that week I was looking for a day job. I discovered that even Shoe Pavilion didn't want to hire me and had a long discussion with a carriage driver about my chances of becoming one even though I'm allergic to horses.
Since I can't find a paying job, I turned to volunteer work. I had a meeting with the director of a nearby senior center who wants me to teach a writing class there. Somehow she got me to agree to take a bunch of seniors, by bus, to a neighborhood that is 45 minutes away. As I was leaving the meeting, several of the ladies asked me to join the bingo game already in progress. The seniors play bingo for things that they need and can't afford on their limited budgets, like used shoes and canned peaches.
I humiliated myself by not only winning, but going up to the caller to show my card and having to be told to go sit down because I am not 55. I was going to give my prize to one of the women at my table, but no one knew that. Now I look like the kind of person who would wrestle a can of cling peaches from an octogenarian and yell, "If you can't afford to lose, then you shouldn't gamble" while I kick their walker out from under them. As if to seal my reputation, one of the other volunteers hit on me in front of everyone. I guess while I am there trying to take food and clothing from the elderly, I may as well be picking up guys, too.
June 13, 2003
Today I started taking a designer drug. It is called complete and utter denial.
It's free, readily available and I don't have to go through a dealer to get it (although friends who say things like "You're going to be so rich and famous" or "You'll find a great man really soon" could definitely be viewed as suppliers).
I prescribed it for myself when I realized that I'm a single woman with no boyfriend who doesn't have a job, lives in an apartment without a view and dates guys who say weird, inappropriate things.
In my drugged state, I know that ex-boyfriends will show up (dramatically, on my doorstep) to see if they can have one more chance, even though it was me who left them. I also have to make sure that there is no conflict of interest between reading my work on the radio and the syndicated newspaper column I have. Oh, and Christmas Tree feels as badly as I do that he wants to have sex with lots of women.
No one knows the long-term effects of denial, though studies have shown you may end up as a 45-year-old actor who is still waiting for his big break or the kind of person who buys lottery tickets.
I put my rent on a credit card today, but it's cool. Really. I'll pay it off soon when I hit big with my writing. Or my handsome, wealthy husband can pay it off. I'm sure he's just around the corner.
I'm only going to take denial until my writing takes off or I find a great guy or both. And anyway, I can quit whenever I want.
June 7, 2003
A few years ago on a street corner in the ritziest part of Santa Monica, California, I saw a mother stroke her 8-year-old son's perfect, sun-streaked blond hair and say, "Grown-up ladies pay lots of money to have hair like yours." I half expected her to turn to me and say, "And they pay even more to have tits like yours."
As a 36C, my breasts have been deemed "just right" by everyone from plastic surgeons to truckloads of Mexican gardeners. I don't know how anyone came up with an actual number, but it is the size most often requested by actresses seeking to increase their box offices.
As soon as I put up pictures of myself on this site, men who were safely hidden behind the anonymity of their computer screens felt free to tell me what nice breasts I have. I never really noticed what a big deal big boobs were until then.
It's a lot like white privilege. I can't see all the benefits I get by being Caucasian, because I've never been anything else. Who knows how many speeding tickets my push-up bras have gotten me out of? How many jobs I've snared with the help of a tight sweater? I just assumed that men preferred flat chests. After all, most of the actresses and all of the models have tiny breasts and slim figures more suited to little boys than grown women.
Part of my confusion may come from my history of dating leg men. Part of it may be that while it seems perfectly acceptable to tell someone they have a nice ass, most men will not comment outright on a woman's breasts. There is something sacred about them, probably a distant memory of their life-nurturing force, unless of course you were bottle-fed.
While women like Grace Kelly and Michelle Pfeiffer will go down in history as being classic Hollywood beauties, it's Pamela Anderson who is more popular worldwide, a much better symbol for a country with a swaggering Texan as Commander-in-Chief and highways full of SUVs.
The French say that breasts only need to be big enough to fill a champagne glass. They think that American men are momma's boys because of the way big busts are revered in the U.S. I don't know if it's that simple, but most men do act like infants when confronted with a nice set of ta-tas. Unlike Europe, where untethered breasts are just a trip to the beach away, Americans keep their boobs shrouded in bikini tops and mystery, which only enhances their naughtiness factor.
With the help of crude morning radio disc jockeys and horny computer geeks, I've come to embrace my breasts and see them for what they are -- a symbol of my feminine power. I don't have a job or a nice car or any investments, but I can turn even the most powerful man into a nervous 14-year-old boy by reaching for a salt shaker.
Nothing is more obviously female than having voluptuous breasts and that's why men are in awe of them. Even if that little boy from Santa Monica with the perfect blond hair grows up to be a drag queen, he wouldn't have curves like mine.
Not without paying a lot of money for them, anyway.<<< home >>>