The Other C Word

I had my bi-annual check-in appointment this afternoon with my Jeopardy champion oncologist, who once showed me a pic of him hanging with Flavor MotherHumping Flav. So cool! This is my three year anniversary of when I finished my radiation treatment for breast cancer, even more cool.

We talked, he medically felt me up and we caught up on my next stand up show and life, he even gave me some pointers for the Jeopardy Contestant Eligibility Quiz next week. It was uneventful and pleasant.

On the way home I started thinking about how my life would change again if a tumor was discovered. I’ve had thyroid cancer and breast cancer, my mother had lymphoma and the lung cancer which killed her in 2014, My father died of pancreatic cancer in 2012. We were a family of three, and had five cancers among us, four of them within two years of each other. Was it environmental? Did we live on the Love Canal of Anne Arundel County? Was it hereditary? I did massive genetic testing a couple of years ago and they found nothing. Well, I did have genes of course, but no BRACa or other mutations. I thought my double helix might be so effed up that it would resemble the symbol for the Artist Formerly Known as Prince. So, WTF happened?

But even though I always have that little voice in the back of my brain saying “Three Strikes You’re Out, Someday…) I don’t let myself dwell on it. I am happy, I am lucky, I will not take that for granted.

I have some very cool friends who are currently in treatment for cancer and I am inspired by their courage and tenacity. I send them good juju during every morning’s meditation. I mourn for my parents to this day in large heaving sobs sometimes and in small ways othertimes. Today at the hospital I pulled through a parking spot to the adjacent one to face out and I felt my father clapping, we used to call him Frank “Pull Through” Chase. I feel them with me when I am volunteering with patients undergoing breast surgeries, and especially when I spoke at the National Cancer Survivor Day Celebration last year at the hospital .

I hope my parents are well if they are still around in some form somewhere, and I hope I will see them there someday if they are. I don’t spend my time visiting their graves because they are not hanging out there, they are everywhere to me.

Two words I’d use to describe my parents during their illness were brave and grateful. Both never complained, and though no one is ever happy to be told they have a terminal diagnosis, both were appreciative the days they had over the years, and especially my mom, took full advantage of every day until the end.

So, in honor of my three year anniversary, I will be brave and grateful. I will continue to push myself to go beyond my comfort zone and stretch my boundaries. I will remember perspective and gratitude and what will matter five years from now, and what won’t. I will be grateful for the time, the people I love, the opportunities afforded to me, and a fresh set of old eyes taking in the beauty of my life, both the mundane and the occasionally spectacular.

As far as my immediate plans, I feel like I should take my tits out for a night on the town, but I’m going to stay home and binge on Jeopardy instead. Answer: Who is going to finally pass a preliminary Jeopardy quiz.  Amy “Potent Potables” Chase, that’s who!

Jesus Wants You to Stop Ringing My Doorbell

image

Dear Religious Missionaries Wandering Around my Neighborhood,

Thanks for showing up uninvited on my doorstep in the middle of a Thursday afternoon.

You don’t need to share the good news of Jesus with me. I am up to my ass in great news today, none of it really has to do with Jesus, but I’ll give him some credit if it will get your asses off of my porch.

I don’t know what flavor of religion you are, but I don’t want to learn about a church that makes you go out in hundred degree heat wearing bad suits (apparently designed by Poly and her other sister Ester) to knock on doors and gather hearts and souls.  I myself am an aspiring Buddhist who prefers the solitude of my own existence and 100% cotton threads.  The only one that I would like to drop in to discuss religion is Buddha himself, and that is highly unlikely.  Even if the Dalai Lama showed up on my doorstep, I’d probably give him a little bit of shit about not calling first before he jetted over from Tibet.

Buddha

My actual real-life friends know to call first before coming over and they know better than trying to convert my religious beliefs.  When they do come over, they usually bring a bottle of wine.  Maybe if you showed up on my doorstep wearing something comfortable with a bottle of Zinfandel and the intention of doing a singalong to the soundtrack of “The Book of Mormon” we could make an afternoon of it.  But, I bet you’ve never seen the musical and if you did, you’d hate it!

Maybe you weren’t Mormons but were Jehovah’s Witnesses?  In that case, we’d discuss famous members of your church who died way too young, like Michael Hutchence (auto-erotic asphyxiation) and Michael Jackson (drug overdose).  Not great spokesmen for moderation and modesty at all.

Tina Fey

I have to give you credit for continuing to repeatedly ring my doorbell after my trio of dogs barked so loudly and so crazily that I almost pooped my own pants, and I know them. Your faith must be strong. My dogs don’t want you to stop by unannounced either, unless you are delivering a pizza or their Chewy.Com order.

You interrupted my solo afternoon of catching up on Jeopardy reruns and eating cheese popcorn in my underwear, which to me is a religious experience.  Having to belly crawl across the living room floor lest you know I was here made me realize how badly I need to vacuum, so thanks for that.  I know you heard the TV, but I’m hoping that you thought my dogs were the Jeopardy fans, and were impressed by their brilliance.

When you say your prayers tonight, be sure to give thanks to the fact that I didn’t open the door and you didn’t have to look at me in my granny panties and bra, although if you’re in a church that makes you take a vow of abstinence it would’ve been quite easy to remain celibate for quite a long with the memory of my flabtastic bod in your mind. Let me just tell you, that fat body has sinned enough for the three of us!  Had I opened the door, my oldest dog would’ve dry humped to you across the street, he forgets he’s neutered and took no vow of celibacy.

Good luck with your conversion of heathens, this neighborhood is chock full of us, I’m one of the few that is not armed so please knock carefully 🙂

Pander much, Mr. Trump?

It happened again yesterday.  Donald Trump attempted to pander to a group he had previously insulted in the most obvious, simplistic and condescending way possible.  This is what he tweeted:

 

Donald Trump taco bowl tweet

I wasn’t aware that all Hispanics celebrate Cinco de Mayo, I was under the assumption that it was Mexico’s version of Independence Day, a celebration of the victory of the Mexican army over those damned French in 1862 at the Battle of Puebla.  Donald, Mexicans are Hispanics but no all Hispanics are Mexican.

Is this clumsy attempt at mending fences with those he’s criticized a new trend?  I’m sure whatever “intern” Trump blames for his factually inaccurate/nasty/arrogant tweets could use this method again and again as a lead up to the election.  Here’s the recipe:

  1. Post item on holiday affiliated with the offended group, or do your best to find some tie in to that group before Election Day.
  2. Include picture of Trump with something/someone he sees as symbolic or affiliated with the group he’s alienated.
  3. Add a shout out for a Trump property/product/possession.
  4. Declare Trump’s love for offendees.
  5. Be sure to include factual inaccuracies about the group itself that would be widely known to most people with a middle school education.

I can only imagine what group will be next on the pandering parade, maybe these?

image

Happy #Mother’s Day

For those of you currently without at bun in your oven,

the best remedy from the pain when you are bleeding from your wherever is a Trump Gold Bullion Chocolate Bar.

But don’t eat too many as you’ll end up fat pig and no man will love you, just ask Rosie O’Donnell.

I love Women!

image

Happy #Ramadan!

The best way to break your fast is with a tasty pork chop from Trump Cafe.

Remember, its sundown somewhere!

Less Muslims allowed in the US, more pork for all of us!

I love Muslims!

image

Happy #Juneteenth!

My favorite snack to celebrate the end of slavery is a box of Oreos aboard Trump Force One.

 The very best of black and white coming together for

all the right reasons, though naturally it is the white center that holds it together.

I can’t eat just one, the struggle is real.

I love African Americans!

image

Happy #Memorial Day

Celebrating the sacrifice of those who died protecting this county, which believe me, I’m going to make great again,

with a hot dog from Trump Cafe.

And thanks to all the veterans who served so I didn’t have to due to 4 draft deferments during college

and a bone spur in my foot, I couldn’t have amassed my great fortune if I put my life on hold like you did so selflessly.

You are all great heroes, even the POWs though they were captured.

I love Veterans!

 

Trump-Golf

Happy #Special Olympics Summer Games

Celebrating my handicap, 3.7, with a round of golf at Trump Turnberry Golf Course.

We should all embrace our challenges.

I love the Disabled!

jesus trump

Happy #Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary

Celebrating with a vigil in the lobby of Trump Tower.

Still don’t understand the whole virgin birth thing  but huge kudos to her for pulling it off.

I look forward to being assumpted at the end of my long and hugely successful life.

I love Catholics!

 

 

Camel Toes and Sweaty Bros

Dear People I Encounter at My Gym:

Hi, it’s me.  The middle-aged women with the beet red face and the camel toe, testing the laws of physics by wearing Lycra and looking like she’s just been dropped on another planet.  I am here to work out.  I have to work out. I am trying to fall in love with working out.  That part isn’t working out yet, but I hope to get there.

funny-gym-rules

I’m sure you all have your own motivations for why you are here at the gym.  Maybe you want to lose weight, or get bigger muscles, or shower somewhere that has better water pressure than home, or look up ladies shorts when they are lying supine on the weight bench, you big pervert.  Whatever your impetus, here we both are.  My goal is to get in, get it done, and get out.  I will do my best not get in your way and disrupt your flow, I would appreciate the same, even if my flow is just urine.

The lack of etiquette and human decency found these days at the gym is both appalling and intriguing, from a sociological standpoint.  I’m not pointing at you in general, but thought I would cite some examples to see if they might strike a chord within you, my sweaty brethren.

Let’s start in the locker room.  My philosophy on the locker room is a similar variant to my exercise philosophy.  I like to put my shit in my locker, workout, get my shit out of my locker, shower, get dressed, fix my hair and face, and leave.  Nowhere in that scenario do I feel the need, and I might just be the minority here, to walk around naked for large chunks of time.  In fact, due to the tiny washcloth size of the free towels, most of my time is spent trying to recapture a boob that has gone rogue or make sure that the part of me that must be exposed since the tiny towel doesn’t fit is neither my vagina or ass.  I figure my right hip is the safest part if something has to show.  I make a conscious effort to remain covered up.  I know that the human body is a freaking miracle, no matter the size or shape.  But I can look at mine whenever I want, and don’t need to compare or contrast it to others.  Humanity does not need to see me bent over with my leg propped up on the bench, blowdrying my cooch with the communal blowdryer, which I inadvertently witnessed a 70ish lady doing last week. I was truly frightened she was going to plug in her curling iron next and give her pubic rug some bounce.

psycho-shower-300x287

Now, let’s talk about you, naked moaning grannie.  You kick it up a notch with your tits to the wind attitude and weird noises.  Look, I’m glad you have body pride or simply don’t give a shit anymore.  I get it.  You are comfortable in your own skin and happy to stride around the locker room with your bits and baubles bouncing, and then to slowly bend over buck naked for an eight count to take off your shower flip-flops.  I’ve seen more of your no no zone than I ever have my own, and if that is where I am headed anatomically, I need to do a crotch glamour shot asap to capture my vagina in its fading glory.  You drop trou, putter in your locker, and moan about every 45 seconds.  At first I thought you must be having some sort of arthritic pain, or possibly the onset of a cardiac event, after observing you for a couple of weeks, I think you might be having a long overdue orgasm.  I’d like to figure out which scenario is correct so I may either call 911 or give you a cigarette and towel.  I’ve spoken to guys who have told me the old dudes in the men’s locker room are no better, with their droopy balls swinging directly at eye level when my friends are sitting next to them, putting on their socks.  It’s all fun and games until dem nutz take out someone’s eye.  So….. can we all agree that we will do our best when naked to not shock and awe those around us?

Spin class

How about a fitness class?  Walking into a class for the first time for me is akin to being the new kid at school and having to play dodgeball.  I am the new kid, this is the first time in class.  I have no history here.  I’m going to go where I can see the instructor to try to figure out what the fuck I’m supposed to be doing.  I don’t know where you normally put your mat, or which spin bike is  yours.  I do know that we are not in third grade nor are there assigned seats.  If I accidentally blow your buzz by occupying the space where you usually are just tell me so, nicely, and I’ll be happy to move.  But you have to use your words, passive aggressively inching your mat closer, grunting at me, shaking your head and farting in my general direction do not convey your point. I’ll just think you might have personal space issues, Tourette’s Syndrome or Irritable Bowel Syndrome.  I would love to chit-chat with you just enough to make sure if I do stroke out from the exertion, you’ll like me enough to notify the authorities. I don’t want to talk during the class, ever.

Tony Little

Cardio machines?  Love them.  I’m never happier than going 3.0pmph at a zero incline.  What?  I need to go faster and with more resistance?  Damn.  I refuse to be like the big galoot who has the grace of an uncoordinated rhino, every footstep sounding like he’s going to land on the other side of the conveyor belt.  I try to run in intervals so I can breathe, which I have found is key in running efficiently .  Often times, I have to remove my ear buds to listen to my own breathing, as I’m afraid I’m panting so loud that I’m distracting my fellow runners in placers.

whirled_funny_scrapped_art__gym_farts_by_pengydashbeat-d6fycj9

I run on the treadmill vs. the road, because I don’t want to find a body, as most morning joggers eventually do.  I have suffered a treadmill mishap, when  I looked down to hit shuffle on Spotify on my phone, lost my step, hit the belt and was launched into the row of treadmills behind me.  Not my shiniest hour.  I always wonder why people are so testy in the cardio area, then it hit me.  They are running, rowing, biking or climbing for an hour at a time, but not going anywhere fun or getting any higher in the air.  These are the same people on the treadmill who circled the parking lot for ten minutes to get a spot in the first row in front of the gym vs. the third row so they could come in, hop on a treadmill, and walk nowhere for three miles.

Please if you are going to talk on your cell phone while treadmiling, do so at conversational levels.  I should not be able to hear about your slutty husband-stealing going-commando whore-of-a-neighbor over Snopp Dogg on level ten in my earbuds.

Brian as gym douche

Weight room?  Are we ready to bro out?  I’m talking to you, Neanderthal with the t-shirt ripped from the pits to the waist, wearing a skull cup in 90 degree weather, compression shorts over long pants and carrying a gallon jug of water.  Are you seriously going to drink all that during your workout, or do you stand ready to irrigate the Serengeti.  The only exercise I see you doing is toting your ridiculous water bottle around and checking out your abs in the mirror.  Narcissus has nothing on you, bro.  When you do actually attempt to lift something, you make such a show of it that you seem to want a round of applause.  The shrieking grunty sounds you make?  Sounding like a baby pterodactyl in a blender and it is not impressive.  Why do you slam the weights down.? You were able to lift it above your head.  Did that zap all of your strength so now you must lose control of its downward trajectory when it gets lower than your waist? And… I might just be talking out of turn here, but your Hannibal Lecteresque oxygen mask seems unnecessary unless you are planning to climb Everest in which case I’d switch out your buddy who is supposed to be spotting you but is actually oogling the MILF for a sherpa and a yak.

Liam

Let me act as your mom here.  Put your equipment away when you are done with it.  Don’t be an idiot and use gym equipment for the wrong reasons, i.e. don’t curl in the squat rack.  Share with others, don’t rest between sets so long that you could get your Associates degree.  Dress appropriately, jeans and boat shoes are for drunken frat parties, not the gym.  Don’t crowd others personal space while waiting for them to finish on a piece of equipment. And…… In the name of all that is holy, wipe down the equipment when you have finished.  Adult film stars have been exposed to less bodily fluid during a gang bang scene than I am subjected to when using a weight machine after you. One more hygienic request, No Axe body spray, just deodorant please and for God’s sake, no cropdusting!

Will Ferrell

The weight room is the natural habitat of the sugar daddies and their sugar babies and the cougars and their cubs.  It is the fitness version of unnatural selection.  If I had a dollar for every girl in full make up, hair down, looking cute while taking selfies on stability balls I could send two kids to college.  Here’s a tip, honey.  Going to the gym is not exercise, working out in the gym is.

Selfie

My favorite place in the gym is the pool.  I enjoy feeling weightless, and since I hate sweating, the pool is where it’s at for me.  If you enjoy the pool too, excellent.  May I please ask that you shower and don’t put on body lotion before diving in?  If I wanted to swim through an oil spill, I’d follow the Exxon Valdez around.

swimming-pool

Also, be warned, all you salty incontinent grannies.  I’m going to start calling you out on warm spots during Aqua Zumba.  I feel like I am in some fucked up version of a golden bath vs. a golden shower thanks to the Golden Girls of Water Aerobics.

Water aerobics ladies

So, good talk!  I look forward to seeing you, but not your nipples or nuts, next time I’m at the gym.  Let’s get buff, let’s get healthy, and let’s get moving!

Gifts Moms Want

As we count down to that most holiest of holidays, Mother’s Day,  when we honor those from whence we came, I know there is still some concern about finding Mom that perfect gift to show how much she means to us.  A gift that we, her loin fruit, can offer to demonstrate how much we love and adore her, how she inspires and motivates us, and how sorry we are for all we have done to make her rue the day she ever brought us into this world.  Though she might have mentioned that she brought us into this world and she’s not afraid to take us out, we continue to mutually exist and thrive.

Now that I’m a mom of a teenager and have mom friends with whom to discuss mom topics such as what moms want for Mother’s Day, I think I can help those still in need of the perfect gift.  Here goes:

Breakfast in Bed

1.  Breakfast in bed – This only works if you have another grown-up or older child to supervise, otherwise Mom emerges into a kitchen that looks like Hiroshima after the big one dropped, and there is no spatula equipped to remove pancake batter and an over-sugared three-year old off the kitchen ceiling.  The very first part of this gift might just be the corker, let Mom sleep in.  Do not bend, fold, or mutilate her to wake her up.  Sleeping in for Moms is usually a treat, so let her go crazy and snooze for an extra hour or two.  While Mom is in LaLa Land, make her something yummy.  Pancakes are always a hit, especially with cool shapes or her name, or hearts.  Use your imagination.  French toast, mais oui!  Eggs?  As long as they are cooked passed the point of salmonella, have at it.  Toast with jelly, fruit salad, all  kid-friendly to prepare.  I’d stay away from Eggs Benedict unless you have a mini Gordon Ramsey who can make a Hollandaise sauce that will stand the test of time, but if you do, tell him to watch his dirty little mouth in the kitchen!  Pour Mom some orange juice, and don’t be afraid to ask a grown up to add a little bubbly to make it a mimosa, OR maybe Mom would like a bloody Mary?  Don’t judge Mom by her day drinking on her special day!

salon

2.  A spa experience – Moms do so much for others, let her have a day which is all about her.  Start with a manicure to get the toddler snot out from under her nails, a pedicure so when she is kicking your ass her toes look cute, a deep tissue massage by a brawny Swede named Sven, or a facial to lift some of the worry lines caused by sweating what your dumb ass is up to now, you get the idea.

3.  Jewelry – As easy as it is to just go to Kay Jewelers and pick up something Jane Seymour recommends  from the Open Heart Collection, resist the urge.  First of all, no woman wants the exact same piece of jewelry that everyone else has. Secondly, open hearts are nice, but a better bedazzled symbol of motherhood would be a glittery pair of saggy boobs, or golden stretch marks.  Take the time to make a piece of jewelry yourself, she will always treasure it.  Just don’t make a brooch!

mom pic

4.  Art – Moms love when you create something just for them.  Paint a picture of her as you see her, as long as it’s not naked coming out of the shower when you burst in the door to announce the breaking news that you just farted.  Make her look as beautiful as you see her, bonus points if she looks young and thin!  Kid-made pottery is always nice, one can never have too many #1 Mom coffee cups or flower vases, but a tiny bong or spittoon is probably not the best idea. Write a poem about her, extolling her attributes by rhyming words like “nice” and “advice”, but never “hits” and “tits”.

5.  Plants – As a rule, I think its best not to give mothers anything else which depends on them to survive, they have enough to worry about, thank you very much, but if you must, maybe a nice cactus?

It's poop

6.  New exciting experiences to expand her horizons – Let’s face it, moms can get lost in the day-to-day routines.  How about offering her an adventure?  Fencing lessons are a blast, let her discover her inner swashbuckler while releasing pent-up aggression.  Bungee jumping and sky diving are win-wins for mom and the kids, she will remember the terror she felt before she jumped and maybe that will help her put her fear of you living in her basement when you are in your 30’s in perspective.  Would she like to drive a Ferrari and fantasize about owning the Prius driving other moms in the school pickup lane?  Trapeze lessons can be fun, but a nightmare for moms with a weak pelvic floor.

7.  Solo quiet experiences – How can I put this nicely?  Sometimes moms just want to find a little fucking zen, thank you very much, and be alone with their thoughts.  Something solely for us where we are only responsible for our own enjoyment. There is a new franchise in the area where I live that offers sensory deprivation floating tanks.  You float in the dark for an hour, weightless in the water, alone with your thoughts.  Sounds heavenly.  Where do I sign up?  Guided meditation classes are also great, an out-of-body experience for an hour feels like a two-week vacation when you don’t have a toddler attached to your pelvis.

Bad Edible Arrangements

9.  Edibles – Edible Arrangements are pretty much just overpriced fruit on a stick.  Have dad order some special brownies from Colorado or Washington.  They are Mommy’s happy brownies, she will hide them and enjoy them quietly when needed.

cow-with-name-badge_3

10. Contributions and Honors – Contribute to her favorite charity in her name, adopt a cow in her honor or name a star after her.  Moms like to help others, cows need names and everyone likes to leave a legacy.

10.  Girls Night Out With Her Girlfriends – Work together with families of  your mom’s friends to arrange for the mom group to have a night out on the town.  Rent a limo so they can enjoy some adult beverages, and arrange a fun group activity.  Winetasting?  That sounds classy?  Paintball?  Who needs kids to enjoy that? Dancing?  Cougars gonna prowl on the dance floor.   Comedy show?  The dirtier, the better.        Demotivational-Posters-Emo-3

12.  Coupon book – This is something for teenagers to consider.  Remember when you gave Mom that adorable handwritten book with tear out coupons for free hugs and kisses?  Make one for your mom with coupons such as: I will not suddenly announce I am vegan on Christmas when Mom spent all day making a standing rib roast/On Hannukah when Mom made a brisket,   I will shut the fuck up when I have already annoyed my mother to the point of silence, I will talk to my mom about how my day is for one full minute without rolling my eyes or looking at a tech screen, I will ride in Mom’s car and not act like she is going to drop me at Gitmo, I will thoroughly clean my room and not just stow crap in the closet and under the bed, or I will limit my use of “like” solely to illustrate when something is similar to something else and not as a noun, adjective, adverb or modifier.

She Shed

13.  Give a She Shed – Heard of a man cave?  Same premise, but this is an oasis for mom to have some privacy and peace.   Like Vegas for moms what happens there, stays there.  It can be a place to meditate, luxuriate, create, basically anything that ends in “ate”, yep, even that – stop judging.  No one is allowed in the She Shed but Mom.

So go forth and celebrate your momma, give her an extra hug for me.  I’ll be missing mine this Mother’s Day, but will look for the star I named after her in the sky and see her there shining down on me.

Big Floppy Tits and Lady Bits

Let’s face it, if you believe in the story of Adam and Eve, then God clearly was having a laugh when he assigned body parts. I won’t get all biblical with cause and effect, apple picked and a lifetime of monthly menstrual pain for the ladies of child bearing years, but you get my drift.  Men have a penis and testicles, the old frank and beans/Rand Paul and the Teabaggers,/Larry, Moe and Curly, pretty low maintenance, but always up for looking for a good time and a warm orifice. It starts with nocturnal emissions, progresses to pop up boners in algebra class, and then at some point their dick does some weird alien thing and pops up to their head and sucks their brains out. From that point on, all decisions are based on the penis advisory board, chaired by the penis and staffed by the penis.

Women? We have to deal with so much more. Vaginas, clitorises and labia, oh my! Instead of having a nice dream and stiff sheets to trumpet our arrival into puberty, we get our periods and then all hell breaks loose. Those in my generation might have had a similar experience to mine, when the Kotex lady came to us in 4th grade, grabbed all the girls and stuck us in the media center while the boys got to go to recess. This geriatric pant-suited spokes model for the glories of womanhood spent 45 minutes talking about how we were about to flower, the uniqueness of being a woman, and some other assorted crap. When she was done, I was more confused than before and if an actual daffodil had popped out of my vagina to announce the “arrival of spring to my womanhood”, I would have been a lot less surprised than what happened in reality. If the 13 year old version of me was ashamed to buy a bra and have the handsy fitter in the Hecht’s waiting room touch my boobs, I had no idea how mortified I would be to have to hide a huge box of maxi pads, each pad so large that you could land a jet on them, behind a pickle barrel at the WAWA. My mom made me go in and buy them and of course, there were four boys I knew in the store buying things they wanted vs. needed since they were not bleeding from an orifice. Those lucky non-uterus owning bastards.

When I had my starter breasts, I came out of the gate strong. I went from concave to a C cup overnight. I was horrified to go to sleep at night, afraid the titty fairy would come add another cup size. I adjusted my posture to resemble a giant comma, dressed like an eighty year old Greek widow and prayed no one would notice my new hooters. The girls noticed, they wanted to touch them at sleepovers and called me a whore loudly behind my back in the gym showers, though I was a pure Snow Freaking White. Boys my age mistook my nipples for my eyeballs so I guess in their hormone addled minds they were making eye contact, and spent an inordinate amount of time yelling at my boobs like the clowns head at the Jack in the Box drive though, except they wanted hand jobs vs. cheeseburgers.

I have had a tumultuous relationship with my boobs. They both got me into a lot of trouble, and got me out of a lot of trouble. We had some great years together when were young and perky and there were times they were the breast version of the UN, sharing goodwill internationally.  But as the decades went by, they became down and out. I wanted to make my little buddies happy again, so I proposed a road trip. I would have a very wonderful plastic surgeon swing down to Tijuana where they were currently holed up keeping my knee caps warm and drive them back up to Toronto where they started. I would go from a double J cup to a C cup. All my female friends thought this was a great idea! I’d be so much more comfortable, clothes would fit better, bra straps would no long create crevices in my shoulders, and I could do jumping jacks without residual black eyes. The male friends acted as though I was committing murder. They are so beautiful, you are being selfish, I can take refuge under them in a heavy storm, and you don’t need to see your huge feet, c’mon, don’t be ridiculous! So, in I went to get reduced! I loved my new set, so streamlined and firm. It was all I could do to not dare passersby on the street to bounce quarters off them. A week after my surgery, my surgeon called to tell me that two tumors had been found in the tissues they removed, and I had breast cancer. What? This was at a time when my mother was battling both lung cancer and lymphoma, and I had recently lost my dear old dad to pancreatic cancer. So, now my beautiful shiny new boobs were ticking time bombs hell bent on killing me. What a kick in the tits. Thankfully, after more biopsies and tests it was determined that there were no residual tumors and after some radiation and ongoing nasty meds I appear to be none the worse for wear. My worst boob related problem these days is one nipple that is always up for a good time while the other rests, making my cleavage resemble the winking Natty Boh dude on some days, but hey, that’s alright with me.

It seems to me that in the last decade or so, vaginas have needed much more attention than they used to. Case in point, the latest trend, vaginal steaming, another wacky offering from the goop filled mind of Gwyneth Paltrow who suggested it after she tried it. Basically, a vagina-possessing person sits in a special chair butt naked, there is a steaming cauldron of happy potion of herbs beneath them to improve the circulation and curb appeal of their vagina. You make yourself a virtual vaginal hot pocket.  What? Apparently when Marilyn Monroe posed over the subway grate and her skirt blew skyward, she wasn’t going for a publicity shot, she was freshening her yoni with some good old city subway steam.  And when I used the expression, “That really steams my vagina” to express anger over something sexual, I wasn’t so far off the mark. I read about this as I was headed to NYC with some friends and thought I’d try it out there. The manager of the dim sum restaurant in Chinatown was not amused and insisted I put some pants on and stop squatting over the chicken feet in the chafing dish. Also along the Korean dry cleaner services for your no no zone, you can ask Mr. Kim to bleach your asshole these days. Not sure why this is necessary. In my day when you went venturing down a dark alley, you didn’t expect to be greeted at the door by a perky blonde hostess. If you are bleaching your asshole or steaming your vagina, you might just had too much time and money and not enough smarts.

If vaginal steaming removed the wrinkles in your labia, it would make a lot more sense. Everyone wants to adopt a Shar-pei but no one wants to have their nethers resemble one. Labia are like mud flaps on a chamber of horrors ride. Never look directly at your labia, it cannot be unseen. Don’t make eye contact with your labia, look at in through a pinhole in a shoebox like the sun during an eclipse. You don’t want to go blind, do you???  The universe has made it difficult to examine yourself for a reason, ladies.  If something takes contortionist skills and a tiny mirror to see, perhaps it should remain a mystery.  I trust my gynecologist to let me know if anything is off kilter and has shifted like a polar icecap.  He’s the vagina expert, I just have one and try to keep it under control without having to enact martial law.

Now we have to worry if our vagina is tight enough? Sure, we had a 10 lb. kid shoot out of it, and some visitors over the years and maybe it needs some attention. Kegels? I try to do some every day, especially at traffic lights, but Jesus, it seems so silly and the faces I make scare my fellow motorists.  God forbid I squeeze so hard that I step off the gas and rear end the dump truck in front of me.  I don’t want to have a floppy cooch be cited as the cause of the accident.   I heard you can get a nice surgeon to tighten you up, I need someone to torque me like a pro shop restringing Venus Williams’ tennis racket. Then, I could do jumping jacks again, laugh, cough, and stop bullets with my magic cooch.

Don’t even get me started on pubic hair designs. Back in my day growing up, all the naked ladies in the “Joy of Sex” book at the house where I babysat had bushes like 1970’s Black Panthers’ afros.  There was no such thing as a pubic hair topiary. These days, apparently you need a landing strip or your boyfriend’s initials or the symbol for Pi. I am in favor of perhaps an arrow pointing to your clitoris for those that might need guidance, or the symbol for the Artist Formerly Known as Prince as a conversation starter for those new to the neighborhood. Waxing your business is painful and humiliating, but I have had some great getting to know you conversations with aestheticians as they are repeatedly smearing hot wax on my cooch until I break and give them the nuclear codes.

Meanwhile, as men age, they manscape as they see fit and the worst possibility for them, outside of testicular or prostate cancer – not laughing matters, is losing the ability to get and or maintain an erection. Oh, boo hoo. Take your little blue pill, pop a hardie, and if it doesn’t go down in four hours, take it to the ER for some TLC. I’d come with you but I’m too busy waxing, steaming, bleaching and Kegeling…..