almost the beginning

It seems like school has been about to begin for a month now. I’m not anxious for it to start, the way a number of my acquaintances seem to be, but dag, I’m about ready for it to Happen. Anytime I find myself waiting for an event, living with it just over the horizon, it makes me feel that my focus on Today, on living somewhat in the moment as I deem valuable, is hampered. And it seems that I’ve spent much of August in Wait mode, and that doesn’t sit well with me.

Anyway, next Wednesday is K-day for Megan, aka BigSis. We attended orientation on Thursday and found out which of the three kindergarten teachers she has and who else is in her class. And how many. Everyone else in the entire city school system found out via letter some weeks ago, but I suspect that this particular elementary school, having lived through many, many Concerned Parents, and many more Entitled Parents (And Students), took the path of choosing to limit pushback by simply not making the announcement on teacher assignations until just about the last possible moment.

In any event, her class has 24 students, which does not thrill me to the core, but then again neither did the notion of shelling out for private school and schlepping her miles away every day, so I guess this is the tradeoff part, right? More happily, her teacher is a woman who’s been teaching kindergarten for many, many years, and by all accounts does more than a passable job at it.

I’m relieved for that, because she had a chance of ending up in a classroom with a very sweet, kind, but new kindergarten teacher, and I confess having harbored a slight concern that such a soul might not have known quite what to do with the girl. I have faith in Ms. M, that this will be far from the first student she’s had who reads chapter books and adds in her head. And I decided some time ago that the right avenue is to step back and do all I can to studiously avoid being the Parent Who Hovers. It’s all going to shake out, and this is kindergarten, for heaven’s sake.

So I say now. Check with me in October when they’re assiduously reviewing the letters M through Q.

rain, rain, won’t you stay

Six long years in the Arizona desert gave me an unquenchable thirst for precipitation which continues to this day. And today brought a whole solid day of rain, something we haven’t had around here since we got some residual effects off of a hurricane a summer or two ago. So I was right at giddy most of the day.

bad photo of good fun

Got the girls out in their slickers and boots and we raced “boats” down the curbside river in front of our house. In time we were joined by three other moms and 7 more kids and an array of makeshift watercraft borrowed from the handy curbside recycling bins. Great fun. My crew got thoroughly and I do mean thoroughly soaked and, ultimately, cold, but coming in and drying off and snuggling with hot tea and stories was great fun in its own right.

the bread

And then since it was chillish I got to thinking about putting something in the oven and got to looking around the kitchen at what needed eatin and saw Blueberries (we picked 12 pounds yesterday, which probably should have been a post on its own) and Zucchini (because it is August, after all). And remembered there was a ziploc of overtime bananas in the freezer, and did this.

I am not much of a baker, being more of the pinch-and-dash-and-taste-and-oops-correct type of kitchen person, all antithetical to baking, but this was some right tasty bread. I think I’ve finally learned that cutting fat (much) never works with quick bread, unless you’re looking for a loaf-like object that you can bounce off the floor, such is its rubberiness. Which also explains the presence of melted butter, which I added when I couldn’t coax any more oil from the empty jar.

Due to a misread of labels I ended up using all whole-grain flour, which I realized shortly after it went in the oven, but after the hour of waitful agonizing I was delighted to discover neither taste nor texture seemed adversely affected, so I’ve written the recipe as prepared. All that whole-grain goodness should cancel out the melted butter, right? Though you can certainly substitute regular flour for any portion.

Banana-Zucchini Bread with Blueberries

2 cups mashed bananas
3 eggs
1.5 c sugar
1/2 c canola-type oil
2 T butter melted in a pyrex cup in microwave
1/4 c applesauce
2 tsp vanilla
2 c grated zucchini (yellow squash if that’s what’s abundant)
1 c blueberries, if you have them (rough measure)
2 c whole-wheat pastry flour
1.5 c whole-wheat flour (white whole wheat if you prefer)
2 tsp salt
1 Tbs baking powder
1 tsp cinnamon
1 tsp nutmeg (fresh grated if you’re lucky to have it)
1/3 c nuts, if you like ‘em; pecans were yummy in mine
Preheat oven to 350*F.

In mixer bowl, combine eggs, sugar, oil, butter, applesauce and vanilla. Blend well.
Mix in banana.

In a separate bowl, combine flour, baking powder, cinnamon, nutmeg and salt.

Slowly add flour mixture to the liquids until mixed but not overly. Fold in zucchini, blueberries and nuts if desired.

Divide into loaf pans – I used one 9×5 and three minis. Bake 50min for small, 1hr for large, testing with toothpick as my oven is notoriously off though I can’t ever recall which direction. (And if you’re looking, er, fruitlessly for the blueberries in the photo, the answer is I have several people in my house who don’t care for fruit in bread, so this particular loaf was made without.)

see a vision of students today

I’m not a big YouTuber, heck, I don’t have time. But this video? Eye-opening. Thought-provoking. All those kinda adjectives.

My kids, and from what I know of my readership, yours if you have them, are mostly a few years away from this. Which only makes me shake my head, wondering what will be different when they’re in college? Just about everything, right? Except, perhaps, the way they’re taught… unless something like this ignites a broad movement for change.

Worth a look. Really. (It does start off a little slow).

summer pasta standby

I haven’t written about food in a while, despite the fact that the acquisition, growth, harvest, preparation, consumption and enjoyment thereof consumes a fair, or even unfair, portion of my days. So it’s time, once again.

I make this dish enough that it came a while back to be known as titled above, and now to be abbreviated in my records as, simply, “SPS.”

Parenthetical: sheesh, yes, I do keep a log of what I make for dinner, though I assure you I’m nowhere near as anal as such a thing might lead you to believe. There’s a true method to this apparent madness, which is that I’ve discovered it’s brilliantly helpful when I’m at a loss for ideas on dinner, as I so often am: I just page on back through the months and almost invariably something will pop out at me that otherwise wouldn’t have come to mind.

But back to today. Since SPS has saved me on occasions too numerous to tally, I thought I’d share. You can either come to my house some night soon and take the odds-on chance I’ll be serving it, or attend one of the many gatherings where it makes a (popular I blushingly add) appearance, or give it a whirl on your own using this, er, “recipe,” term loosely applied. It’s entirely fail-proof and eminently forgiving.

Summer Pasta Standby

Boil 12 oz or so of amusingly shaped pasta in salted water
Add 1 to 2 cups of any or all of the following:

• chopped tomato
• green beans, snapped in bite-size lengths, cooked in boiling water for 5 minutes (DO NOT COVER or my Aunt Diane will roll over)
• zucchini or yellow squash in bite-size chunks, steamed until the texture you like
• spinach, chopped coarse and wilted, or not

and a handful of either or both:

• chopped olives – Kalamata is my choice; husband votes for standard green
• pine nuts, toasted if you’ve time and inclination

toss it all lightly, and top with:

• three generous glugs of olive oil, no less and more if you wish
• 1/2 c or so of fresh basil leaves, chopped fairly fine
• parmesan cheese, the kind you grate yourself and not the green cylindrical variety

For complementary protein and an instant one-dish meal, add a can of black or other beans. Bon appetit!

better

Thanks to all who sent me warm fuzzies via one mode or another. And to those who advised a cessation of self-flagellation as well. I can’t promise to comply — it’s a habit with some history, after all — but it’s always good to be reminded of its general unhelpfulness.

Some of my favorite words came from a friend of mine whom I’ve come to suspect should probably be writing his own blog. Here they are, too good not to share:

I was camping with the boys. 40 degrees and pissing rain for three days. Cold, wet, muddy, you get the picture. A rather prissy, all show and no go poseur, who was forced to go with us, sidles up to me whilst I stand under the tarp during another rain attack and says “Tell the truth. You can’t be having a good time.” To his skepticism I replied, “Oh yes, I’m having a ball.” To counter his look of disbelief I added, “Am I cold? Absolutely. Wet and miserable? Absolutely. But I am ALIVE. I feel it, I am not numb. And there is going to be no finer shower than the one I have when I get home cause it’s such a contrast to how I feel right now.”

I loved that, really loved it. Partially because I know him and I can just hear him saying it to Mr. Priss — and also because I know just what he meant. And to embrace life as it’s coming at you, cold wet driving rain in the face and all, is something I think is worth striving for.

And then he added this:

Enjoy your blues, wallow in them, just for a little while. Just know that your bite of life is far sweeter than most, because you make it that way.

Which made me feel just generally overwhelmed with warm and fuzzy. Good advice, and sweet words to boot.

And then a few other things improved life too:

I called back to the dayschool of choice and was a little nudgey and pestery and mentioned that LittleBit is potty-trained (though believe you me, no particular credit accrues to me for that feat). So the director, recalling on her own that LittleBit is also reasonably advanced in her verbal skills (ditto) came up with the idea of bumping her into the next class up; all but one of the kids will be 3 or more months older than she, which doesn’t bother me though maybe it should. And she can go two days. And as an added bonus? She’s getting a great teacher. So now my fall is looking like it will have some form and space for sanity, which is a major load off.

And then the afternoon Girly Ride I’d put together, which in the a.m. had shown depressing signs of falling apart, ended up being four fun fabulous women, and we flew down the Parkway in a smooth paceline in the gorgeous late afternoon blue sky. And rode on to the neighborhood spot and had Blue Moons and lively conversation and laughter all round.

Who me, blue? Nah. Not today.

bleah

Truth is, I am on a big ole downer today.

It started with feeling a wee bit out of sorts this morning and has crescendoed to a full-blown blues, complete with tearful moments and the crushing need for a mid-afternoon lie-down. I don’t quite know if it’s letdown from returning home after a couple of lovely days shared with my closest friend, who most inconveniently moved away a few years ago, or from the crushing reality of summer as I’ve known it being nigh on over (I didn’t really get 10 days, dammit), or from my struggle with addictive tendencies in my life, or from reading
Three Cups of Tea, about someone who’s actually doing something tangible and remarkable with their life, or from finding out this morning that since I procrastinated so long about LittleBit’s dayschooling for the fall, all spots in the neighborhood MDOs are full, or from just plain ole pms, not something I’m usually strongly afflicted with but it could be and I should probably check the calendar.

In any event, I’m resisting self-medication through chocolate but any minute now I may find myself huddled over a large glass of milk, dunking graham crackers therein, which is a sure sign that I am spiraling into a major funk.

I’ll be back. Stay with me.

shopaphobic

I know that what I am about to say will make some portion of my readership feel quite alienated from me. But in the interest of honesty, I feel I have to say it anyway: I hate to shop. Oh, the grocery store doesn’t bother me. I’m fine there among the produce and the dairy items and the packaged goods, even if standing cross-eyed in front of 18 different varieties of Wheat Thins and Triscuits in their bright yellow boxes makes me hear Joe Jackson singing “If choice is freedom, I’m so free it’s driving me insane” in my head the entire rest of the day.

No, it’s particularly clothes shopping that makes me wish I’d chosen to stay home and poke cellophane-wrapped cocktail toothpicks under my fingernails instead. Especially shopping for something that has to fit my waist and my ass simultaneously, like pants, or shorts. I can feel the brain-fog start to roll in, advancing from right behind the bridge of my nose, about five minutes into the game.

Having lived all summer on one pair of shorts and two cute print skirts, and thinking that a store with a large selection would be a good thing even though I know full well department stores bring me quickly to a panicky state, I girded my poorly clad loins and set off to Belk, which is I think roughly equivalent to Macy’s or Dillards or whatever you have there by you at the standard sizeable mall. I was in search of the following: 1. A pair of white casual capri-length pants. 2. A pair of longish shorts, preferably a solid, neutral color, and/or 3. A casual and shortish skirt in a light neutral color.

Of course, since I don’t shop, I’m unaware that the second-to-last week in August is apparently the time when all the summer stuff is on dead discount. Which is fine, I’m all about a bargain, except it means that the pickings are, well, picked over. Forget the idea of a size range in any given item. So I assemble a major armload of pieces roughly matching the above 3 categories and head to the dressing rooms.

Now. I am a reasonably slimmish person. But I hit the scales at a solid 135. I am by no means teeny. Nor tiny. So imagine my surprise when I try on a pair of Liz Claiborne slacks, size Swimming Pool 6. Huh? I try another Liz style, in a 4. Huge again. What in god’s name does someone who’s actually SMALL wear? A negative size? Well, the answer is they don’t wear any Liz Claiborne, that’s for damn sure.

Let’s try the Bill Blass white shorts, again in a size 6. Hello; I can’t get one thigh in these babies. I check my reflection. No, I haven’t gained twenty pounds in the last 8 seconds. What IS it with the sizing of clothes, anyway??

On it went, with me wandering back out onto the floor not once but twice to try to find other things, or the same things in other sizes, wondering if the clothing designers and manufacturers are actually sadistic, or if they’ve just abandoned the notion of standardized sizing as too much of a convenience for the customer?

Another thing that plagues me about attiring my bottom half is a tendency for all items to gap in the back at the waist, such that you could shove a medium-sized stuffed animal or a large ripe tomato or two down there if you were so inclined. And I know two persons who would be so inclined were I to wear them at home. Maybe three. And given that I don’t care to expose the entire northwesterly expanse of my undies to the world, I certainly wouldn’t be wearing them OUTside the house.

Well over an hour and one massive eye-headache later (surely from squinting at myself in that crappy dressing-room lighting) I walked out of the store with exactly one pair of not-so-well-fitting brown capris, bought mostly because I wasn’t willing to leave entirely empty-handed, which would have meant admitting that I’d completely wasted far too much of an August afternoon. Of which I have only a limited number left.

Give me the cocktail toothpicks any day.

change is a-comin’

My life is about to take a dramatic turn, and I’m afraid it’s not one that has me filled with joy. It’s coming, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I’ve been trying to ignore it, but the time is at hand and ignoring it isn’t going to make it go away.

You see, I’ve become very attached over the last three months to this thing, more recent in our lives, known as the Academic Summer Schedule. Oh, sure, he’s working. Three days a week. From home. And I? I, my friends, have been very. VERY. spoiled. Since mid-May. Which is plenty long enough to have ever so fully embraced this easy life and the freedoms it affords me, living as I do with the God of Co-Parenting, He Who Fully Supports My Quest For Sanity.

And now, in ten short days, the dorms will open their doors, the traffic nightmare of Student Return will flood the streets (not my streets, blessedly), and my man will go back to work in the real sense, as in on campus five days a week, as in catching the bus early and coming home later than I like, as in working late into the evening more nights than either of us likes.

Which means no more leisurely earlyish runs while he navigates breakfasts and wardrobes and morning drama (even if he leaves the hairdos to me). And quite definitely no snoozing on occasion until the angle of the sunlight says, Yo lady, it is LATE, and you are LAZY, go help that husband of yours. (I did say spoiled, didn’t I? I did. And I am, oh, I am.) No morning or mid-afternoon miles on my bike, and in fact, as daylight does its nasty tricks, few miles at all because dark will be falling as he hops off the bus.

And I will have to fight the grumpies, because it’s no secret around here that I need to get my sweat on pretty regularly to maintain more than a thin veneer of kind and gentle to my personality. And I know already I’ll be needing every bit of K&G I can muster to cope with the new dawning of a school schedule that requires BigSis to be in her seat about the time she’s used to rolling out of bed. Yeah, that, and the roughly million other things I’ve gotten used to having help with that will once more fall square onto my spoiled shoulders.

And so I promise to be grateful for the next ten days, and not to take too much advantage. Because his life is about to take a dramatic turn for the less-fun as well, and I need to remember that. Because even when he’s out jockeying that full-time employment horse, he’s what makes it all work around here. He’s the glue and the balance that holds this towering, teetering houseful of X chromosomes together, and the rock on which it sits.

I’m grateful, yes I am. But hoo-eee, it’s going to be a hard sudden landing, there on the rocks of reality. Ten days.

family speak

My grandfather was a man who overflowed with words, both the ordinary sort that old Sam Webster would endorse and his own as well, a bubbling fount of exuberant expression.

He buttressed the English language with so many of his own creations that his eldest daughter eventually sat down and drafted a Family Lexicon, a typed pamphlet that was itself enough of an inside joke that it required later appendage with an official and collaborative Glossary, for those outside the immediate sibling circle.

Some of this linguistic play is not just fun but functional. Take the “eggie.” Defined by the Lexicon as “Christmas all year ’round,” an eggie is anything at all that you give to someone at an unexpected or undetermined time. Presents are what you receive for your birthday and standard holidays; eggies are what come at other times. And an eggie can be anything from the first backyard raspberries of the season, to a book of poetry left at your door by a friend, to a rather spendy something special — though often the best eggies are either free, cheap, or reused in some way. It’s truly the thought. Both my girls are solidly on the eggie wagon, and I have faith that this one will live on. What’s not to love about an eggie, after all?

Other bits of the family patois will have to stand the test of time, though I’m doing what I can to ensure my next generation owns the knowledge that if you have a “botts” you are ill, from a tender tummy to pee-neumonia and all between. That “gaum” is anything sticky, like bandaid residue or dried popsicle juice; if you gaum something up, you make a mess of it, in a literal or figurative sense. A “grinse” rubs in a bad way, like asphalt on skin or a pesky dresser drawer. A peepka is, at G rating, a valve on a tire tube; boy babies sport them as well. A monie (say: moanie) is a small hiding or sitting spot, special to a small person. And a small person is a frammis.

There are dozens of these, all my grandfather’s genius and quirk, in my working vocabulary, down from probably hundreds in the generation above. I hope my girls end up with at least a handful, maintaining some fluency in this ancestral argot, and to that end I’m inordinately pleased when I hear my husband spout one off like he was born to it.

I know that my family is not unique in this, though it’s certainly on the prolific end (and I’ve never heard of any other Lexicons in existence). What words live in your family? Have they carried through the generations? Do you teach them to your children?

score big points with the bride

I went riding today with a couple friends, one of whom is the fittest fifty-some guy you’ll ever meet; the other a cute, single woman newer to my biking circle, equally — can I say frighteningly — fit. Before we got rolling I was describing an absent riding buddy to Cute Single, allowing as how he might be one of the hottest human beings on two wheels, not to mention the funniest and nicest, “but married, of course, to the world’s most adorable woman” when Fifty-Some piped up. “No, he’s not.”

I looked at him, a little in shock, because Fifty-Some almost never says anything in public; it’s not in his quiet, shy nature. And this was sort of a girly conversation to boot, after all. And then he said, “I am.”

And you know what? He’s been married to her for 35 years.

(Can we have it in unison? One, two, three: “Awwwwww!”)

I can’t wait to tell her.

It was an awesome, amazing ride, 45 miles of virtually vehicle-free rolling terrain, perfect weather, solid pace, not too much dawdling but not too much exhaustion either. And great company, yes indeed.

a day like May

I swan, how in heaven’s name did we get a day like today smack in the middle of August in the mid-South?? I think it maybe hit 82 degrees. And there was a breeze, oh yes, a glorious breeze. No haze, no heat, no humidity. I swear. I went for a run this morning, and later trailered the girls downtown in the Chariot to meet friends, felt strong even on the hill heading home, and got to hang out, most imprudently, in the middle of the afternoon with the Most Prudent Man in the World, and then pegged out this line. It was an I’m-so-lucky-to-be-me kind of day.

Our brains should have links like our blogs, so I could click on this one, have it pop right up there in the middle of some truly crummy day, ba-BING.

mosquito magnet

Planning an outdoor gathering this summer? Concerned about mosquitoes annoying your invitees? Here’s the simple solution: Invite me to join your soiree. The rest of your guests will, I assure you, go entirely unmolested, marveling aloud at how few of those pesky skeeters are in attendance.

le luge

As an added bonus I am a decent conversationalist and will, when plied with enough lubricants, say in the form of a tequila ice luge, perform other entertainments in addition to the general flailing, slapping, and amusing contortions I’ll be engaged in to keep the whining bastards at bay.

I know there are studies out there positing various theories of attraction, but the simple fact is that if you put me and a dozen other people in a room filled to capacity with mosquitoes, I would bear the brunt of the misery, and no one can really tell me why.

I’m not a big fan of anointing myself with substances that I’ve personally seen to melt plastic, so I’m always on the hunt for something slightly less, well, toxic than full-blown DEET.

Every variety of the “natural” stuff, I’ve learned through many trials and nibbles, is absolutely worthless for me. But I am a hopeful, and desperate, soul and so I recently purchased Cutter’s “family-friendly” product with Permethrin, made of an extract of flowers I believe. Perhaps by small adorable elves that sing rounds as they work.

I tested it last night. There’s a remotish neighborhood park within walking distance where the big kids go and, it would appear, fire off pellet guns under cover of darkness. Megan loves to go there and collect the tiny plastic pellets, which come in an array of neon colors. It’s an after-dinner excursion that she can earn for herself by being generally cooperative and not doing anything that puts us in the mood to say No, missy, not tonight.

I was on solo duty, and I know full well that the park, in a bit of a vale and surrounded by woods on three sides, is heavily infested. But it was a billion and four, humidity high, so I couldn’t bring myself to don my usual appendage-covering Buzz-Off combat gear. Instead I doused myself, short of bathing but not much, with the latest and greatest.

Megs was ecstatic about finding, in short order, 17 of the little plastic pellets. I was less than ecstatic about being found by an equivalent number of mosquitoes in the same time frame.

So much for the family-friendly. I was assuredly less than friendly about my desire to skedaddle from the combat zone, and Megan was less than friendly about wanting, reasonably enough, to stay more than 10 minutes. So we were a pretty grumpy family, trudging home with our respective round, brightly colored collections.

oh, Mr. Sandman…

I’d have to say that one of the most purely annoying things about my beloved is his ability to fall blissfully into slumber anywhere, anytime, with the greatest of ease. He would suffer only marginally if forced to sleep, say, standing on his head. At the edge of a floodlit demolition site.

Admittedly, I find it so annoying because I myself am quite a terrific underachiever when it comes to the whole sleeping gig. Always have been, and the advent of motherhood has only intensified certain aspects of this failing of mine. Since my adrenaline level redlines every time LittleBit turns over in her crib, I wear earplugs with a dB rating sufficient for use near jet aircraft. This not only improves, marginally, my odds for logging consecutive hours in slumberville, but is oh so sexy.

After I manage to conquer the initial stage — falling asleep — there is then the Wee-Hours-Waking hurdle. Occasionally it’s the glass of water I drink before bed that causes this, but more often there’s no particularly good reason for it. I’m simply wide awake, with the clock chirpily displaying single digits.

First line of offense: Curl up to husband, nose between his shoulder blades, inhaling the sleeping smell of him and breathing along with his rhythm. This is only marginally effective, but snuggly and fun. Second line: Flip pillow over, turn to my side of the bed, and practice a blank mind. Occasionally effective, but somewhat less fun. Third line, after time has ticked steadily by and grumpiness set in: Take my pillow and head to the couch.

For some reason, this almost always works, and I really kind of like the change of venue — but as Kate suggests, there’s something a little guilty about actually enjoying the couch. (Although it’s true I slept there, remorse-free, for many nights in the latter half of both tours of pregnancy: sidelying, wedged against the firm back, head on the arm. For some reason this was far more comfortable than our very spendy mattress.) The saving grace is that I can usually fall asleep there, stir slightly at some later point, make it back upstairs without ever quite achieving full consciousness, and wake in my own bed next to my own husband. Who, in his coma-like state, is often never the wiser.

Then, lastly, if I make it through all of that, and if no one has a bad dream, and if Princess Pee-Pee stays asleep, there’s the 4:50-It’s-Way-Too-Freakin’-Early-To-Get-Up waking. Why?? And only to fall back asleep moments before LittleBit cheerfully announces she’s ready to start her day? It’s all so annoying. Can I be blamed for poking the Slumbering One with my toenails until he stirs? Can I really?

Anyone have any great fall-asleep tricks? I’m all ears. Earplugs. Whatever.

how to generate hits

Well. I learned an interesting lesson yesterday. If you write about breasts, they will come. They won’t come for long, but they will most assuredly click on the tag of “breasts.” Even if the next tag is “social commentary” and not, oh, “naked photos” or “Paris Hilton.”

Who knew.

I won’t be tagging this one that way. They’re not looking for me, and I’m not looking for them. But what a spike.

’splain this please

I miss the tits of my twenties, I do indeed, and if the Blue Fairy were to come along tonight and tell me I could have my Real Boobs back, I’d surely jump at the chance. Given the ravages of time, gravity, and many many months of hungry little mouths, I’m solidly, sometimes despondently, aware that there are a host of styles out there, including le birthday suit, that are no longer as flattering on me as once they might have been. So don’t get me wrong, because though it’s not my thing, on some level I grasp why women choose to undergo what I believe is now one of the commonest cosmetic procedures. Cha-ching, cha-ching, Dr. Aesthetic.

But would someone explain this to me?

Ask virtually any woman who’s had a breast augmentation and she’ll tell you she “did it for herself.” Again, I’m not going to invest time deconstructing the issues around that concept here today, primarily because I just don’t have the energy and also because I accept, on some level, that it’s a fact of life in our culture: women are (over)valued for physical attractiveness. I don’t say it’s right, nor do I remotely believe it is. But it’s so.

What I’m curious about is why, if you did it for yourself, do you choose to wear clothing that over-exposes what you’ve done for yourself to the entire rest of the world? Isn’t there a serious disconnect between the landscape of the way you feel about yourself and dressing in a way that says “LOOK AT THESE NOW!!”?

Because let me say, some of the cleavages I see on recently remodeled women? Are nothing short of embarrassing. (Though I reserve my most acute embarrassment for the women who are over a Certain Age, their scantily covered firm pneumatic appendages adorned with sunspots, for instance {shudder}). It’s not as if there’s any misconception that what’s so blatantly on view is factory-original equipment; as a (male) friend of mine once commented, “Oh, yeah, those’re real all right – real expensive.” And you know, that’s one of the kinder comments I’ve heard.

It seems to me pretty clear that the women who dress in a manner to rivet attention on their purchase are exposing themselves — literally, to be sure, but figuratively as well; to ridicule, derision, pity… a whole host of negatives. (From both genders. Trust me.) For what? A few stares? I just. don’t. get it.