support, please

A few hundred years ago, there came an amazing invention. It was designed with support and comfort in mind and it revolutionized a gender. Suddenly women found themselves able to lift themselves like never before. The concept of high and proud took on new meaning and the phenomenon of the brassiere was born.

Over time it developed into the fantastic construction of stitches, wires, and hooks we now know today. It exploded into an entire multi-billion dollar industry for women of all shapes and sizes, all styles and fetishes. It took what is a basic need for every woman and made it interesting and fun and sultry.

You can get bras in virtually any cut or material, from size A to G (yes they have a size G), in solid, flowered, lacy, leopard print, cut out, demi-cup, full cup, air push up, water push up, chicken cutlet insert push up, smoothing, t-shirt and minimizing. And I have only scratched the surface of what is available to the delicate, xx gender. So why, o why, I beseech the masses, do so many women scoff at the usage of this fantastic and necessary unmentionable? (*hint*, this is one I truly do not have an answer for).

As an ample-bosomed woman, I can pretty much never go without this item, nor have I ever been able to, on a regular basis and certainly not without some other sort of safeguard in place like a strategically tightened strap or a shelf bra. This is not for fear of sagging, but really more in awareness that my girls are ahead of me every step of the way, and need some comfort and protection. However, I am of the opinion that none of us should go without. Not if you are small and perky, not if you are sadly pancaked, not if you are large, full and voluptuous. No, no, aaaand no.

See what the ladies don't seem to realize is that even if they are small and perky and their mini-jugs are not flopping and crashing into one another, they are still often heading in different directions, each with her own agenda. One says Statue of Liberty, the other the Empire State building. Uptown vs. downtown, and the little pencil erasers are there to let each passerby know which wants to go where.
See the thing with boobs is, they can't be left unprotected, covered only by a thin piece of fabric. Because when there's a nipple standing up, demanding attention, you can't help but look, no matter who you are. It's like a magnet screaming NIIIIIPPPPLLLEEEEE!! Avert your eyes! Try and look away, I dare you!

But you can't. Because see, even if they are tiny, they are still sorta saggin. And if they're not perky, which lets be honest, the lion's share are not, it's even more unavoidable, bordering on tragic. I see it all day and I cringe each time. I think to myself.....is this woman poor? No, she is carrying a real Gucci bag, wearing Louboutains and a well-tailored silk shirt. Silk, incidentally, is like a flashlight on the problem area, exposing not only the nipple, but the outline of the areola as well - a horrifyingly inappropriate sight.

Even the most construction-worker-y men I know, while they will admire this faux-pas for it's almost-skin exposure, will digress that it makes the wearer look like a twinkie dressed as an eclair. Trash in fancy wrapping. I wonder.....do these women not own mirrors or friends who don't let friends sag and flop in public? Do they not have mothers or better yet fathers, who see them in photos and say "dear god, girl cover those udders up!" I can only surmise that they lack all of those essential elements to a happy and non-humiliating life, or some caring soul would let them know of the embarrassment to which they expose themselves.

Another and less talked about issue here is that the woman who likes to let her girls run free, will most likely do this for the bulk of her adult life, destined to become that woman. The one in her mid-forties, who regularly dons the light-colored tank top, drawing attention to the race toward her knees, perpetually being run by her deflated fun bags. She still thinks she's hot.

I can only pray that at some point, the fashion gods will rain down hellfire and brimstone on the shunner of the great, womanly supporter. Eventually, they must all fall into line. I think even Gloria Steinham will be with me here. Lock 'n' load, ladies.

bailin palin

Sarah Palin is just dumb.

I could stop there, because that pretty much encompasses it, but I won't. When I first offered up an opinion, albeit at the request of people who wondered what I would be thinking about this huntin', fishin', down home gal, I was gentle. Nice even.

That's because she hadn't really had any challenges yet and she hadn't really started to talk about anything of substance. Then came the foreign policy experience because of a "maritime border" with Russia - despite never having had a passport in her life. Then there was the Katie Couric interview, which pretty much cemented her status as a liability for John McCain, and then there was the huffing and the fussing because she didn't get to make a concession speech, - after she tanked his campain - too.
She thrust herself into the limelight and tap-danced a quick number on the national stage, thinking that 2012 would be her oyster if she did it. Saying to herself in the mirror at night, "Wow, they love me. They reeeaaallly love me!" But you know who 'they' are in that case?

I'll tell you. They are the fucking morons who think that George Bush was a good idea. They are the ones who have no concept of what is going on in the rest of the world and have decided that anyone who speaks a different language or clings to a different god is somehow an evil-doer. They are the bible-thumping-second-grade-education-having-gas-guzzler-driving-gun-toting-no-traveling weirdos that seem to populate parts of this country where I shudder to even pass though.

So she's a tough broad in the outdoorsy sense. She's from fucking Alaska, people. I'm pretty sure there ain't a lot else to do up there, and they've probably only had electricity in her town for a couple decades, so at some point, it was all a result of needing to survive. I am no longer impressed.

The last straw though, was quitting her noble job as governor, so she could "focus on making change". I'm sorry, but wasn't it her that said the only way to affect change in the government is to be IN government? Yeah, I'm pretty sure that was her. But now that people call her names and have exposed her for the attractive little dumbass she is, she doesn't want to play anymore and is declaring "freedom from politics as usual". Good gravy.

I think ultimately it is indeed the best thing for the people of her state, because she can't abandon them to traipse off and declare anything else, anymore. Now, the good people of Alaska can turn back to the simple, if not slightly obscure lives and talk about back in the day when this crazy bird got some big ideas that were too much for her tiny mind and lack of experience.

Perhaps she can do some international policy negotiation by shouting her ideas across to the Russkies from the peninsula. That Putin could use a good talking to, dontcha know!

mysteries

* Why big fat guys can never seem to buy pants that go all the way to their shoes

* Why people stop at the top or bottom of busy stairways

* Why women who wear exceedingly slutty clothes and loads of makeup get upset that no nice boys like them

* Why some people jump to anger first, instead of understanding

* Why people go into the gym and just lie on the mats and then leave, without touching a single weight or machine

* Why people wear t-shirts that say things like "Sex Kitten" or "FBI: Female Body Inspector"

* Why people smoke directly outside of doorways

* Why women set our gender back by being competent in only one area and completely useless in all others

* Why anyone would ever wear a toupee

* Why obese people get mad at people who eat well and take care of themselves

* Why parents scream at their children in public places

* Why people move to a country (any country) and then refuse to learn the language of said country

* Politics

* Why religion has such a stranglehold on the entire world

* As a subset of the above, why "good, god-fearing" people choose to war over whose god is better


This could (and probably will) go on and on. These are the things I wonder - to which there never seems to be a satisfying or quantifiable answer. Take a stab at it, if you feel you can shed light.

house stories

First, let me just declare my love of limeade. It has absolutely less than nothing to do with the subject matter at hand, but o, o, o how I love thee, limeade. A refreshing summer beverage that is perfect for when you come home from the gym and need a little extra acid in your stomach to make you feel alive.

I once drank so much limeade for such an extended period of time, that I started to get acid reflux. Too much of a delicious thing, maybe. Kind of like the time I broke out in hives in Mexico, because I all I ate was shrimp ceviche and lobster and crab for 6 days. It was worth it both times.

Anywho, on the side of the building where I now reside - until I begin the co-habitation period of my romance - is a sign that says Burlesque. When I moved in, I thought that the jazz club downstairs was actually a burlesque joint, and I was waiting to see what "types" came jaunting in and out.

I then thought, hey - those burlesque folks like the buxom lady, I hear. I entertained the idear of getting some black lingerie with fringes and rhinestones and making some extra money for vacation. But alas, the burlesque club and it's sordid entourage have long since left these parts. However, turns out that this was a historic location, for interesting reasons.

I suppose the tiny, almost makeshift kitchen should have been the first tip off to the previous goings on here. Or perhaps the bidet and the pink jacuzzi bathtub with the loud and ornate gold fixtures, all surrounded by lavender tiles and the shell from The Birth of Venus, would have been a clue. But no, I just thought that the tenants or owners before us had some eccentric taste. Turns out, not so much.

See, the landlord - with whom I have no affiliation - is apparently most infamous for running the aforementioned club and along with it, a brothel in my very building and apartment. At the time, it was apparently quite seedy and popular and in my research, I have uncovered that this, purportedly, is where the lap dance was invented. Yes, the art of disease ridden, paid, grinding one-person-clothed-contact was founded right downstairs, while the art of disease ridden, paid, grinding, no-one-with-clothes contact was practiced just a shy floor above.

Giuliani took care of that.

And then came Wyclef, who it turns out was not responsible for the decor, and then came my housemates and now there's me. Come to find out though, the landlord is completely nuts. Not surprising, given her history with the building. But the folks in this neighborhood, well they don't stand for that kind of shenanigan no more, which is why when she advertised on Craigslist that she is opening an "anything goes, gay sex club" the tenants got a little uneasy.

She could of course, never open such an establishment here, but just the idea that this is still her modus operendi is worrysome. And here I sit now, wondering how I have such a penchant for bizarre locations. But I suppose, in the ever-evolving landscape and peoplescape of Manhattan, I should just consider this par for the course.

So now, since there are only rich people with maids around here and there are no laundromats, I am going to go and launder my trou and unmentionables in the lovely pink and gold bathtub and try to cleanse my mind of the thought of what possibly happened in there, before I showed up with rubber gloves and a large bottle of bleach.