Monthly Archives: March 2010

Peeing In Public: A New Twist On Golden Showers?

I just heard a news story about a 27-year-old serial urinator in Jersey City who was targeting women to pee on.  He would walk up behind them, drop his drawers and proceed to take a leak on the back of their legs.  The story made me think first about Golden Showers and then public urination.  So I’ve reflected on all the times I’ve seen people pee, smelled pee in the streets and peed in public myself.  NOT peed myself in public.

If you’ve ever been to New York City, especially in the subway, you have indeed smelled a waft of powerful pee-pee at one time or another.  If you’ve ever strolled through the narrow streets of Paris dodging dog sh**, you’ll surely catch a whiff of a potent bouquet of yellow tinkle.  Whether it’s in a public restroom or on a deserted street , pee is ever-present.

When I lived in France we used to hang out by the Seine River and drink Champagne.  One night Chantal, Vivaldo and I were hanging out on a bench sipping some Bubbly.  After several trips to the café toilette, climbing up and down the steps got old, so with Chantal’s urging we decided to “go” where we were.  We waited for a group of people to pass by, pulled down our pants, hung onto the back of the bench and peed.  This was my first time.  You always remember your first time – oh wait – that’s another blog.

When I was hanging out in Belgium with JoAnne, Guy & Éric, taking a whiz on the wall was an everyday pleasure for the men-folk.  When Kenny and I drank too many nips, I found a spot in the woods to mark my territory.  Aren’t we all about marking our territory anyway?

One night my friend Lori and I were out dancing and drinking at FM Station on 23.  I hit the ladies before I left but I guess Lori forgot.  We were driving back to her house and all of sudden she said she had to pee so bad and couldn’t hold it.  We were on a tree-lined, almost empty street, so I told her to pull over and go.  She stopped the car and I thought that she was going to run over to the side of the road and pee in the bushes.  Boy, was I wrong!  She swung open the door and whizzed on the yellow line in the middle of the street.  I laughed so hard I think I peed too.

When I was thrown in Monmouth County jail for striking with 227 other teachers, I didn’t pee for 24 hours plus.  I waited until I got home and took an epic one and the longest shower of my life.  I felt so dirty.

Once my husband and I were going to Newark Airport to fly out to Miami for a college graduation.  This was the first time I was going to fly since 9-11 and I was a nervous wreck.  My doctor gave me Valium for the plane ride but I needed a little courage to get on the plane.  We were at my dad’s, 10 minutes from the airport, and I drank quite a bit of wine.  I tinkled at least 3 times before I left Bloomfield yet couldn’t make it to the terminal.  John pulled over on a dark, Newark side street with limited people milling around.  I opened the door and peed between the car and a truck hoping no one would notice.  Sorry Mayor Booker.  It seemed to take forever with the impending danger of being “found out”.  Maybe stage fright again?

There are porn pee-ers, private pee-ers and public pee-ers – we all pee, yet some are shyer than others.  So when did piddling on unsuspecting people become societal behavior?  Hey, in private, with 2 consenting adults… whatever floats your boat.  BUT who would have ever imagined that someone would actually violate another person with his urine straight from the source?

I didn’t, but then again, we have a socialist in the White House, so I guess anything can happen.


A Raving Lunatic’s Rants of The Day

We’ve all had days when we are raving lunatics – some more than others.  I am at the top of that list being a hormonal, road-raging, cranky bitch.  When something sets me off, my whole day seems to go awry.

Yesterday, though tired, I woke up in a relatively good mood.  It was Monday.  I hate Mondays but I sucked it up, got out of bed and showered while my girl kitty sat on the toilet seat, happy to be locked in a room without the Alpha Male boy cat attacking her.

Dressed and ready to leave I opened my wallet to find that my ATM card was noticeably absent.  My husband borrowed it on Saturday and despite my constant urging all weekend to put it back in my purse, he did not.  In addition to packing my lunch and feeding the cats, I had to wake him up out of a NyQuil induced slumber because I needed it and his wallet was M.I.A..

Not being a morning person, he stumbled out of bed barely audible searching for his pants where his wallet was sleeping as well.  I went back downstairs and waited for him to bring it down.  Minutes later – nothing.  I opened my wallet and there it was.  He snuck it into my pocketbook without a word.  I flew out the door, already running late and opened my car.  It was stuck but I finally managed to pull it open and get in.  I’ve got to get that fixed.  Anyway….

I furiously started my Beemer and glanced at the dashboard.  “Oh my God!  He used my car on Saturday and left me with NO GAS!”  Even though I asked him on Saturday if he left me any gas (he said YES by the way), I was still running on fumes.  I had to stop on the Parkway because I didn’t have enough to make it to work which further delayed my progress.  I swore over and over, screaming at the top of my lungs in my car to no one.

Flying up the GSP at 85 mph I was thwarted by a line of left lane dicks that rivaled waiting in line at midnight for a new Harry Potter book.  So not only was I cursing my husband I also raged at the LLDs in front of me.  I weaved and darted in and out, using my turn signals of course and finally made it to work on time, but too late for me.

I made my coffee, ate breakfast and had a reasonably pleasant day.  Home Instruction was cancelled so I headed home to Costco and Target to pick up a few things.  By the time I got home the neighborhood kids were playing basketball in the cul-de-sac and I was ready for a nice glass of Pinot Noir and a little relaxation before I started dinner.

All of a sudden I heard a big bang, like something hit my house.  I ran to the front door to investigate and saw my neighbor’s kid retrieving a basketball on my property.  I screamed at him and asked him if he hit my house (knowing full well that he had).  He lied to my face and I went into a cursing rant using every expletive that had come out of my mouth earlier that day.  My last words were, “If there’s a mark on my house there’s going to be a problem.  We’re gonna have a problem.”

I stormed back in the front door (the cats were hiding by now) swearing like a bad-mannered sailor and made a beeline for the wine.  It gets better….  I couldn’t find the corkscrew.  Any corkscrew – and we have about 6 of them.  I searched all the drawers and cabinets, behind the bar, on the counter and no luck.  Where did John put the damn opener?  My tirade went into overdrive as I texted him and called about the whereabouts of the thing-a-ma-jig.

When the phone rang I continued to pontificate about my woes in the latter part of my day and I still couldn’t find the damn thing.  Finally I located an old one, opened my wine and began to decompress.

My husband called me later to ask if I was ok.  That was nice since he was the one who started by downward mood spiral and ended it by hiding a very important piece of equipment – at least important chez moi.

Twenties Versus Forties: A Top 20

After having one of those days where I just should have stayed in bed, I pondered my life both then and now and decided to make a side-by-side comparison of what I wanted from life or did in my twenties and what I want from life or do now that I’m almost 43.

Things change and priorities shift as you get older.  When you have kids they change even more.  As a responsible adult sometimes fun gets put on the back-burner and a once clear-head become non-existent.  I miss that clear-head.

When I was 20 I was living it up in Paris on my parents’ dime, footloose and fancy free.  My only concern was where the next best soirée would be held and who was going to be on the guest list of my next party.  At 43 I worry about paying my bills, money in general, the health and well-being of my family, my health, taking care of my cats, going to work and the list continues.

So let’s take this point by point so we examine the age gap and maybe now understand what our parents went through with us as cranky teenagers and crankier twenty somethings.

  1. 20:  I wanted a hot guy with a hot car.  Hondas need not apply.
    40:  I want my hot guy with his hot car.
  2. 20:  I drove a fast 1978 Camaro LT, 350 4-barrel with louvers, air shocks, fat tires and a spoiler.  I had a lead-foot.
    40:  I drive a fast BMW convertible  with fat tires and I still have a lead-foot.
  3. 20:  I worked at TSV Video (when I was in the US), watched movies all day, drank wine, flirted with the customers, watched and recommended porno, loved my boss Stan and used to arrange Gumby-like toys in sexual positions on his desk every night.  I rarely had to deal with any bullsh**.  My biggest responsibility was making change and setting the alarm.
    40:  I work as a teacher, enlighten impressionable minds all day, drown in paperwork, drink water or Crystal Light, recommend places to visit in Paris and I’m not commenting on the boss.  I constantly have to deal with bullsh**  from EVERYONE.  My BIG responsibility is other people’s children.
  4. 20:  I had a dog.  My parents took care of her and I played with her.
    40:  I have 2 cats and I take care of them:  butt wiping, baths, litter box scooping, trips to the vet, cuddling partner, Mommy, playmate.
  5. 20:  I pounded shots.  Many shots.  Body shots.
    40:  I sip good wine.  A lot of wine.  All kinds of wine.
  6. 20:  I tried to figured out new ways to get away from my parents.
    40:  I wish I still had both my mom and dad and now love spending time with my Daddy.
  7. 20:  I had a Mandee Charge Card and no debt.
    40:  I have too many credit cards to count and debt up the wazoo.
  8. 20:  I weighed 120 pounds and ate anything I wanted.
    40:  I’m always on a diet!
  9. 20:  I would stay out all night and party.
    40:  I will stay out all night and party but try to get home by 4 so I don’t piss off the husband.
  10. 20:  I wanted to be a translator for the U.N. or a big-wig in the international business world.
    40:  I want to keep my teaching job and hope my pension will still be there.
  11. 20:  I slathered on baby oil so I could get that deep, dark tan.
    40:  I slather on sun block and skin repairing cream to try to undo the sun damage of yesteryear.
  12. 20:  I had big, whorey hair.
    40:  I have big, whorey hair.
  13. 20:  Fifty dollars was a lot to spend on shoes.
    40:  Now I try not to spend over $500.
  14. 20:  I had no kids.
    40:  I still have no kids (by choice).
  15. 20:  I never wanted to go home.
    40:  I can’t wait to get home.
  16. 20:  I lived in France and loved it.
    40:  I want to live in France and I still love it.
  17. 20:  I had a boyfriend who wanted me to look like a Barbie doll.
    40:  I have a husband who wants me to look like a Barbie doll.
  18. 20:  Dressing like a whore was always an option.
    40:  Dressing like a whore is a weekend only option.
  19. 20:  I went to the gym almost every day.
    40:  I stare at all the gym equipment in my house and dust it off once and a while.
  20. 20:  I stared at myself in the mirror and thought about how hot I looked.
    40:  I stare at myself in the mirror and notice fine lines and aging and think about when I can get my first facelift.

Some things have changed and some things have stayed the same.  I believe age is only a number (even though it keeps creeping around like a bad case of crabs) but with age come wisdom and knowledge.  I’ve heard before that youth is wasted on the young.  I believe it now.  If we only knew then what we know now, we could have ruled the world.

I don’t know about you but I’m not done yet and I still plan on ruling the world.

Morbid Curiosity or Just Morbid?

On the way home from work yesterday I was listening to the Jersey Guys.  They were asking people to call in if they would watch the video of the trainer from Sea World who was fatally wounded by the killer whale Tilly.

I knew my answer right away but was shocked to hear some of the callers.  I would not under any circumstances watch that video, not for any moral reason or karmic retribution, but for myself.

Once you’ve seen death you no longer have a morbid curiosity about it any longer.  That’s true for me anyway.  I watched my mother die before my eyes in the hospital.  It’s a memory I cannot evict from my brain as much as I would like to do so.  I watched a man fall off a ladder across the street from our house in Nutley.  He had a heart attack on the top of the ladder and fell dead to the ground.  By the time I grabbed my phone to call 911, the police and ambulance were already there.  I had nightmares for over a year about this poor man who I didn’t even know.  I’ve seen people in fatal car accidents smashed to bits.  I once saw a body on the Garden State Parkway covered by a sheet.  He was only wearing one sneaker and as I looked alongside my car, there the other one lay.

Death is not something I’m comfortable with.  In the Faces of Death craze in the 1980’s, I couldn’t bear to watch a minute of those VHS tapes.  When I watch a movie, I cannot stomach the thought of people dying.  Animals in the movies are a whole other issue.  Just with the impending danger of an animal dying, I have to shut off the TV immediately as I get weepy and cry.  And even though I know it’s not real, I can’t help get upset.  I think Bambi scarred me for life.

So maybe it’s me.  I have a problem with death.   I have no curiosity about it morbid or otherwise.  Something so tragic saddens me and makes me look away.  It does not seduce me to watch.  I’ve lost so many people who were important to me and now there are more of us in the ground than on the ground.

So I ask you.  Would you watch that video?  Why or why not?  Is it a morbid curiosity or just morbid?  Do you just want to look death in the eye when he’s not after you?  Is it safer to watch someone you don’t know die?  Not for me.  Tell me what you think.

Whose Last Tango Was It?

I don’t know if any of you have seen Bernardo Bertolucci’s Last Tango in Paris starring Marlon Brando and Maria Schneider, but it is definitely an Art House must see.  For years I heard about the erotic nature of this film and by 1973 standards (and 2010’s too) it is definitely a tad sick, twisted yet titillating and racy.  From the butter scene to snipping fingernails this expat took an unhealthy relationship to a new standard.

When I think about sex-only relationships so many things come to mind.  I’ve heard so many stories and have had a few too many of my own to judge anyone else without looking like a hypocrite – so I don’t judge – I won’t judge.  It does make you think, however, if you’ve lived through one, how veritably stupid you were at the time.  What was I thinking?

So without judging, you want to warn others about the signs of an unhealthy relationship because you’ve lived through it.  So I’ve compiled a list of warning signs to alert any man or woman and perhaps persuade them into running far away from the man or woman who is their drug.  Their total addiction.

Here are some bad situations that should spur your rapid departure:

  1. CONTROL FREAKS.  Partners that try to keep you under their thumb, without trust, are no good.  Unless, of course you have given them a reason to distrust you.  I’d slap a choke collar on you with a short leash too.
  2. SEXUAL DEVIANTS.  Anyone that forces you to do something you’re uncomfortable doing, is a slime.  If you both like it, I guess it’s not really deviant.
  3. MIND CONTROL GURUS.  If your partner tries to play the Manson card, run.  He or she will do anything to break you down and make you surrender to his faux-charm.
  4. BOOTY CALLS.  It’s 3 am and you’re soundly sleeping.  The phone rings and he wants you to come over.  You go, you stay and then he kicks you out.
  5. HABITUAL LIARS have to have good memories and they usually don’t so they eventually get caught.
  6. ADDICTS.  It doesn’t matter the substance:  sex, drugs, women, men, alcohol…  An addictive personality is addicted to everything.
  7. S AND M.  A little activity – not a prob.  A dungeon in their basement….. ah no.
  8. PORN JUNKIES.  A box of porn DVDs in the attic, a few free computer sites… ok.  Paid porno and an unhealthy obsession with Vivid…. no.
  9. UNFAITHFULLY MARRIED.  Stay away from the married one.  You may think it’s a good idea at first, but too many people are getting hurt.
  10. DAISY CHAIN TRAIN RIDERS.  Pass on group sex addicts – it will never end well.

After see Last Tango I realized that similar destructive behavior had creeped into my life long ago and today I can’t believe I actually survived.  Seeing a therapist was the least of my problems and breaking the addiction to “him” was going to be a great, almost insurmountable task – but I triumphed.

It took a long time to “wise up” and frankly I’m embarrassed of some things in my past – but I beat it.  Breaking my “addiction” on so many levels and just saying good-bye to that particular psycho was the emancipation I so desperately needed.  Still breathing and ready for a healthier atmosphere, it was MY last dance.

So if I can help another person liberate him or herself from a human addiction, it would make it all worth it and I would hope that it would be your last tango too.

Eructation, Flatulence And Other Funny Noises?

As I’ve said before, if you are a teacher you need a sense of humor.  The minute someone farts, burps or makes some other weird noise, you lose all control of the classroom for a few minutes.  The giggling and laughing overtake the room.  The sarcastic comments from the kids flood the class with a host of accusations about who farted, burped or otherwise.  When my stiletto makes a squeak on the floor I too find it necessary to say, “That was my shoe, not me”.

I started writing about this topic when my period 10 class was amidst presentations.  The room was quiet, someone walked up to present and yes, someone farted.  Though the offender was never confirmed we all had our ideas.  Although I am against farting in class, you have to feel for a kid who accidentally slips one out.  Who would want to admit that in school?  Your friends don’t care but among a host of mixed company you will be socially destroyed.

My friend (who shall be nameless) used to fart in the car, lock the windows and put the heat on full blast.  This wasn’t fitting behavior for 17 & 18-year-old young women – but when alone we did act pretty gross.  The same friend passed gas in my face during a Twister grudge match in her living room.  I did not falter but my nose did.  Despite her flatulence, she is still my friend today.

We grow up (at least I did) thinking farting was the funniest thing ever.  Our fathers farted and made jokes about.  My Poppy was an equal offender.  And almost every guy I dated (for a significant period of time – including my spouse) was a Lothario of Farts who thought they seduced women with their perfume.  At a really young age I may have found it funny but at this point in my life I’m just grossed out.

I mean, I couldn’t say the word “fart” in mixed company until I started teaching.  I always said “passed gas” because it was more elegant – I’m not sure how that can be elegant but maybe I’m looking for the words proper or correct.  I was baptized into my first year teaching by a student and his farts.  I had a class of 10th or 11th grade boys with one poor girl thrown in.  I couldn’t take the gas so I made the guilty student go outside, shake it out a bit and come back in EVERY SINGLE time.  And he did.  The best was when someone walked into it after he left the hallway.  I couldn’t help but crack up by the look on the poor kid’s face who walked into that horror show of an odor.  Yes, I found it funny as well.

Kids will be kids – but I can’t say that without saying – old people with be old people.  Today I was walking around Target when I ducked into the magazine aisle to find a lo-cal recipe for tonight’s dinner.  As soon as I grabbed a magazine an old lady loudly farted and looked around to see if anyone had heard her indiscretion.  I avoided eye contact and quickly threw the magazine back in the rack and got out of there quickly.  Ew.  I was thoroughly grossed out then I remembered that I knew people who did that too.  They would offend and walk away and leave it lingering for all to walk through.  I don’t think I ever did that.  Maybe once in an emergency but never on purpose.

Everyone passes gas, burps, poops and pees but we all pretend that we don’t.  Some middle school boys may have a rude awakening in the future when they discover that girls actually do all these things too.  We blame it on the cat or dog or someone else.  Whoever smelt it dealt it.  Whoever denied it supplied it.  Are there any new ones?

Girls, boys, men women, dogs, cats.  Why are these noises so funny?  Is it innate, learned, spontaneous or just plain old bad manners?

Oscar’s New Clothes

I never watch the Oscars because in general, I’m not a fan of Hollywood.  I do however, love looking at the Oscar fashions après-spectacle.  I could care less about what “the guys” are wearing.  I want to see the girls’ fashion sense or lack thereof.

Here are my nominees for BEST DRESSED:

  • Blessed with head to toe fashion sense, Cameron Diaz looked spectacular in her sparkling gold Oscar de la Renta.
  • Demi Moore’s Atelier Versace was a classy compliment to her skin tone. Beautifully designed and not overdone she radiated elegance on the red carpet.
  • Kate Winslet was sleek and classic in silver Yves St. Laurent.
  • Helen Mirren in Badgley Mischka was understated yet sparkling.
  • Sandra Bullock’s Marchesa was indeed a beautiful gown but I found it a tad old for her.

And the WORST DRESSED awards go to:

  • I don’t know what Givenchy was thinking with this design.  The bottom ruffles look like she tore them off a purple ostrich’s ass.  She in no way looks like a flower.
  • Charlize Theron’s boob plates were a distracting look-at-me faux-pas. Coupled with the same color train it gave a new meaning to “tits and ass”.
  • Diane Kruger’s Chanel was a nightmare to say the least.  Coffin-like material on the top and bottom that’s cut off in the middle by wads of arranged toilet paper.
  • Another Chanel semi-nightmare was Sarah Jessica Parker.  The gown could have been pretty per se but the fit made Sarah Jessica’s gorgeous body look misshapen in all the wrong places.
  • Vera Farmiga wore a bright ruffly Marchesa.  Can you say, “What was she thinking?” or perhaps we’d all like to know what her stylist was thinking.
  • I just couldn’t get into Virginia Madsen’s Kevan Hall – it was definitely black and blue all over.

Honorable mention:

  • Queen Latifah
  • Penelope Cruz in Donna Karan
  • Amanda Seyfried – maybe in a different color
  • Tina Fey (finally)
  • Sigourney Weaver

So although I’m not star-struck for those on the red carpet, I am totally intrigued (or not) by their sense of style or complete void of good sense.

Social Butterflies

Those of you who knew me when I was very young, know that I was extremely shy.  I was turning into a backwards social-phobic like my dad, and my mother decided that she had to do something about it so she signed me up for baton twirling.

At the age of 7 I started twirling as a Masonette in Bloomfield. NJ.  My twirling teacher had another school called the Elkettes in Nutley and they were our rival.  As time passed the Bloomfield girls and the Nutley girls merged as the Elkettes when Angie closed our school.  Baton Twirling was big in the 70s and 80s.

Before I reached 9, my teacher approached us and told my mom that I had natural talent and wanted me to take “private lessons”.  I did and headed down the path of traveling to weekly competitions, a lot of practice, pageants and modeling.  I moved up fast and after blinking once or twice, I was in Advanced.  My parents’ house is still riddled with my trophies in every cabinet and corner.

Although still shy on occasion, I came out of my shell and never went back in.  I was becoming my mother.  Multiply me by 50 and you’ll get Phyllis.  The biggest social butterfly I’ve ever known.  She talked to EVERYBODY.  I talk to almost everybody.

So I guess I learned from the best.  I LOVE going out.  The feeling I get when I’m around people is a total rush – a total high.  Once I’m out, I can stay out all night with an energy that rivals the youngest partier.

I love to surround myself with all types of people:  young, old, smart, not so smart, nerdy, cool, rich, poor, blue-collar, white-collar, men, women, Italians, non-Italians, people who love Opera, people who love Bluegrass, fat, skinny, average, blonde, dark, white, black, Asian, European, hispanic, people who “got it going on” and people who can’t seem to get their acts together.  Good guys, bad guys, all guys, famous people, infamous people, just people.  I mean it.

Tous ces gens make me who I am.  So faced with the choice of going out or staying home, I will usually choose O U T in a heartbeat.  I can’t help myself.  Wherever I go I always seem to bump into someone I know.  Don’t get me wrong, I love spending time at home in the environment I created, but going out… Ahhhhhhhhhhh….  It’s the best.

L’Enfer C’est Les Autres

Huis Clos is one of my favorite plays.  When I lived in Paris I took a theater class which forced me to read great French literature from all time periods.  The 16th, 17th, 18th, 19th and 20th centuries were all thoroughly covered.  I went to the theater to see a different play at least once a week and saw les grands oeuvres at La Comédie Française and host of other theaters across Paris.

Huis Clos, or No Exit, is an existentialist one-act play with only 4 characters:  Joseph Garcin (the callous, cowardly deserter), Inès Serrano (the cruel lesbian postal clerk), Estelle Rigault (the lustful, deceitful murderess) and the Valet (essentially the Gatekeeper).  The central idea of existentialism is that existence precedes essence.  According to Jean-Paul Sartre, Man defines himself – it’s his choice (through his acts) who he becomes.  Sartre says “Man first of all exists, encounters himself, surges up in the world – and defines himself afterwards.”

Soren Kierkegaard and Friedrich Nietzsche were two of the first philosophers who were considered fundamental to this movement, yet never used the actual word.  Kafka, Dostoevsky, Camus and Simone De Beauvoir along with Sartre – all existentialists in varying forms.

“L’enfer c’est les autres” is by far my favorite Sartrean quote.  In English it means “Hell is other people”.  The older I get, the more I can relate to it.  Does it mean that people make your life hell?  Does it mean that Hell is what YOU make it?  Through you acts and character during your lifetime.  Does it mean that other people are YOUR mirrors who expose all your flaws and sins and keep you aware of what you have done?

Imagine being stuck in Hell for an eternity with 3 people who make you insane.  Three companions (for lack of a better word) who pick at you and remind you who you are or were.  You are locked into a sadomasochistic circle forever.  Behind closed doors you cannot sleep.  You cannot sit comfortably.  You cannot have any peace.

But isn’t that what Hell is supposed to be?

What’s your Hell?

Behind The Boobage

Today I was watching the news and was surprised to learn that there is yet another way to fix your boobs.  It’s called the “Internal Bra”.  You wear it on the inside of your breasts and it’s supposed prevent your mammaries from sagging at an accelerated rate.

What will they think of next?  I always had small boobs – a 34 B – until I got fat.  That’s where mine came from.  Even after losing the weight, I still have a nice set.  I’m puzzled that society has led women along this unreachable path of perfection.  Look at the ads.  Look at Hollywood.  It’s almost impossible to keep up with the Annistons – and Joan Rivers – well she scares me.

Getting back to the boobs, I decided to research the history of implants and was shocked by my findings.  In 1890 the first surgical breast augmentation was performed with paraffin injections.  Tell me if I’m wrong, but I thought paraffin was a flammable wax substance used in manicures.  Damn!  If I had paraffin in my breasts I would be careful about standing too close to the stove or fireplace.

When paraffin didn’t work the doctors inserted glass and ivory balls.  These balls caused so many infections that they became obsolete.  Can you imagine having glass balls in your boobs?  I couldn’t.  Could you even lay on your stomach?  Mammograms would be a no-no.

In 1920 the plastic surgeons tried fat implants.  They stole fat from your ass and stomach and stuck it up top.  In the 1940’s they decided that since women’s bodies absorbed that fat, that this was no longer a viable method.

In 1950’s America, polyvinyl sponges were implanted.  I’ve seen sponges but never thought about inserting one into my breast.  These sponges shrunk (shrinkage) and became the link between breast surgery and breast cancer.

In the 1960’s Silicone came into play through injections directly into the breast.  Because of chronic inflammation, infection and lumps, this quickly fell out of favor but was reintroduced in the form of an implant in 1961 and by 1982 they were taken off the market due to ruptures, leakage and health issues cause by the leaking Silicone.

In 1992 Saline implants entered the scene.  I guess it’s like wearing a water bra on the inside.  In 1995 Soybean Oil Implants were introduced outside of the US which became toxic in the body and also had the potential to go rancid just like any other oil in your kitchen.

In 2001 the Brava Breast Enhancement and Shaping System was introduced.  This was a bra-like device surrounded with silicone that cryovacs your boobs and causes them to grow a cup size after wearing the bra for at least 10 hours a day.  Needless to say, this did not work.

In 2006 a gummy bear like Silicone was re-introduced into the US market.  Why try Silicone again?  They’re just asking for trouble.

Then comes the Laser Bra for enhancements and reductions.  This surgery is like wearing a built-in push-up bra.  A CO2 laser is used to create a smaller, perkier breast.

Recently Breform placed beneath the skin (aka The Internal Bra) seems to be all the rage.

So I want to get this straight.  I want reiterate what women do to stop the “sagging” process.  We’ve injected flammable wax, ass fat and Silicone.  We’ve inserted glass, ivory, sponge, Silicone, rancid oil, salt water and now polyester.  We’ve shrink-wrapped, lasered, lifted and removed tissue.  The doctors have cut skin and repositioned nipples all in the quest for eternal beauty.

Now I’m not saying that I would never have it done because I’m quite vain and seeing my mom without breasts and her not giving a shit because she was who she was and she always said that boobs didn’t make the woman… and she was right.  I wish I could be that strong.

In the meantime I’ll keep wearing my push up, cleavage forming grapefruit holders until I might someday weaken and become a plastic surgery statistic.  I’ll also fight off injecting Botulism and other toxins into my face and body until once day I might succumb to society’s pressure and the quest for the Fountain of Youth.