alcohol, fire, shrubbery, food

After working ALL DAY, JR and I went to a party at Jenna's last night, and it was great! There was non-denominational holiday shrubbery, LOTS of alcohol, cheese and crackers and olives, terrific music, and an honest-to-goodness fire. That's what every Sunday night should be like. Except for the Monday morning feeling that goes along with it. I can't believe I didn't get my camera out, not once. (Kicking self.) Hopefully Brett got lots of good shots that I can point you to.

I don't remember the last time I had yummy hot cider. But as cold as it's been lately, I'm going to make that a more regular occurrence.

And as a side note - Friday was PJ day at the 'plex. I have a few photos and a post coming, I swear.

danger toys

You've gotta read The 10 most dangerous play things of all time in Radar Magazine. here are some of my favorite snippets:

over 150 children fell prey to Sky Dancer's helicopter-blade arms and erratic "Oh-Jesus-it's-chasing-me!" flying patterns.
(#5. Sky Dancers)

The 1964 Creepy Crawler Thingmaker from Mattel ... came with a series of molds, tubes of "plastigoop," and an open-faced frier, which could heat up to a nerve-searing 310 degrees.
(#7. Creepy Crawlers)

"the barrel shape of the toy seemed to invite children to put it in their mouths." Something you could apparently say in 1979 without too much snickering.
(#9. Battlestar Galactica Missile Launcher)

Eager youngsters who gunned the throttle found that it often stayed gunned, stuck in a petrifying state of perma-acceleration. Presumably, the child on the motorcycle was then taken on a hellish, intestine-twisting scream ride. At one point, he or she would face choices unthinkable except in an Evel Knievel meets Knightrider crossover episode: Do I jump? Or do I ride it out and see if I can clear the gully? Is it sentient? Can it be reasoned with?
(#10. Fisher-Price Power Wheels Motorcycle)

llama stare-down

And now, for no reason other than Shannon being the only one with the BALLS to comment on the extra optical inch, you get the stink-eye from the llama.

llama stare-down, originally uploaded by ashleyv.

Also, I will stop talking about my breasts, as it apparently makes some of you uncomfortable. Or at least I'll try to. But if something else really funny happens, I can't make any promises. They're just breasteses, people!

our first tree!!!

white tree, chartreuse & silver trimming, originally uploaded by ashleyv.

I never would've thought I'd get a white tree, but it looks so beautiful! And I get to combine my two favorite colors (chartreuse & silver) in the trimmings.

an extra optical inch

I never click on ads. Ever. But tonight I saw one that so intrigued me that I had to click it. It said "Now you can shave everywhere with the Philips Bodygroom" and the only image in the ad was a razor next to two shiny ornaments. I get the joke, I have to click.

It takes me to shaveeverywhere.com; and OHMIGOD, I laughed for fifteen minutes straight. I strongly encourage checking it out. Especially the features "Music Video" and "optical inch."

My favorite line?

"My love life was slow like an antiquated dial-up modem
and now it's gone broadband with my silky shaven *bleep*"

Way to go, Norelco!

sudo-what?

Here's a funny comic:


At least I thought it was funny, but something in the back of my head was nagging at me like I wasn't really in on the joke, and I thought,

"Wait, maybe I don't get it. I think I do, but I could be wrong. (pause) No.... I definitely get it. (pause) But what if I try and tell it at a party, and I'm wrong???"

So I asked JR.

Here's why it's actually funny, and why I would never get it in a million years:

JR (via IM):
its about administration
on linux
Many Unixes, and Linux, use "sudo".
allows a permitted user to execute a command as the superuser.

Ahhh... I see. Huh.

Here's my reasoning as to why I thought it was funny:

Me (via IM):
due to the insane popularity/obsession with Sudoku, all you have to do is preface something with Sudo- and people will like or do whatever you say.

Now let's all have a hearty laugh at my mild computer-admin-related retardation. ha ha ha.

I still think my reasoning makes it funnier.

overheard: convincing argument

While I was in the dressing room, I heard the woman in the next dressing room trying on bras as well. The saleslady brought one in, and the woman wasn't sure about it. The saleslady has an "aha! moment:"

Saleslady: "It's the bra Oprah recommends!"
Shopper: "OK."

I laughed out loud. Apparently all you have to do these days to force something on someone is say "Oprah recommends it," or "Oprah uses it," or "It's on Oprah's Whatever List" ("Oprah's Book, Diet, DVD, Music, Recipe, Game, Exercise, Clothing, Makeup, Undergarment, and/or Sexual Position List.")

Now, I'm not dissin' the Oprah, I like the Oprah. But I didn't even know Oprah had a Bra List! (I also didn't know of the mesmerizing power of associating her name with a product. She's like Hypnotoad. And not in a bad, fat-joke way; I think she's beautiful and she's gotten in great shape. She's just all-knowing and all-powerful, and people exposed to her tend to bend to her will, in a drooly, mindless kind of way. You know — like with Hypnotoad!)

The whole point here is: Next time you're trying to get someone to do something they don't want to do, tell them, "Oprah likes it!" That should work. (And I think we all know what I'm talking about here...)

bra shopping for the large woman

Preface: This is a long post. A very long post. But I promise you — it's worth it, despite some of the unpleasant mental imagery it may leave some of you. Then again, if you just set down your December issue of "Tig Ol' Bitties"¹, enjoy.

In the course of prepping for the holiday party, I discovered that I was in need of something of an intimate nature; namely, a better bra. For a couple of years, (since my last bra fitting,) I've been wearing a 42DD. (!!!) But even that size hasn't fit or supported me well.

I've attributed the ill fit to the fact that I'm getting even bigger. Recent conversations have only served to confirm that thought. This is a despairing thought, because Victoria's Secret doesn't go even up to 42DD (at least not in stores — you have to order stuff that big online — "Victoria's Secret would rather not have women of your heft in our stores... You scare off all the pretty Double Zeroes!") Against the laws of physics, I do have a 36C bustiere that fits around, but my breasts look like big ol' muffin tops coming out of the cups. That simply will not do.

So in search of serious support, I visit the "body-shaping/foundation garments" section of Macy's. Nothing there goes above a 38DD, but what the hell, I try. It's painful. There is grunting. There may have been the sound of seam thread breaking, I do not know. All I know is that I can't pull the damn thing above my waist. I try again, different style. This one I get on, with much huffing and puffing and yanking and cursing. But I am apparently long-waisted for that size, as it has a crotchy thing and doesn't come up quite far enough. As a result, I get the same muffin effect as I got at home.

I'm becoming quite pessimistic at this point. This is why I hate shopping. Everything's too small, and it only ends up making me feel worse. JR and I walk down to Victoria's Secret, with blind hope that this time they'll have my size. "Oh, we don't, but you can order online!" says the chipper salesgirl. That only embarrasses me further. I am too fat to shop in person at Victoria's Secret. In my head I am screaming at her and her insignificant 38DD bustieres.

We continue to Nordstrom's, hoping for a better selection. JR is bored and feeling bad for me, and I'm embarrassed that he has to hear my actual sizes and see how nothing comes that big. He's bored, I'm pissed off; it's a great combination. I dejectedly enter the lingerie department at Nordstrom's and whisper the size of bustiere that I'm looking for. She tells me they don't have that size. (No shit?) But she looks me up and down and asks if I'd like a bra fitting, because she's pretty sure I'm not a 42DD. "Ha," I say. "You're wrong, you'll see. I actually am that big... But why not? I'll take a fitting." (I need to know what monstrous width I've grown to anyways, so I can start ordering my 56XXs on youcantpossiblyneedabrathatbig.com, from the comforting darkness and anonymity of my own home.)

So I go in for a fitting, bracing for the gigantor number. Triumphantly, she says, "See, with a tight fit, you're actually a 36." COME AGAIN? I have to check out the cloth tape because I don't believe her. "Then what's my cup size?" I ask warily. She's not sure — she'll go get some bras she thinks will fit and we'll just try them on until we find the right cup size.

I'm left standing there in my jeans and a bra in a dressing room marveling at the number; 36. Thirty-six. Treinta y seis. It's a beautiful number. She comes back with 8 or 10 bras, and we start trying them on. (Note to the men out there: there are few things more humbling then having to repeatedly take off your bra and put another one on, exposing your bare breasts to a salesgirl. Leaning over to get those suckers in the right place, getting your nipples straight, it's humiliating.) We try on a 36DDD, (triple D? WTF?) and it's way too tight for my comfort. I prefer the 38. She swears it's supposed to be that tight, that I'm just not used to it since I've been wearing bras way too big around for so long. Plus, I'm a Quad. "What's a Quad?" I ask, my brain having turned to mush. "Four D's. DDDD," she explains patiently. "And you were looking for a strapless bra? I'll go get some more for you to try on."

I have to sit down. After going back and forth between dumbfounded horror and absurd giggling at the monumental achievement of my breasts, I call JR, who's sitting outside. "Not only am I NOT a 42DD, I'm a 36! And a 36DDDD! A 36 Quad," I tell him, brimming with pride at my use of this as-yet-unheard-of terminology. I hang up as she comes back, because it's stupid and childish that I just called my boyfriend to tell him my bra size.

She hands me some more bras, some of them strapless. "Let's try the 38F." "Okay!" I say goofily, whatever F means². "What happened to E?" I think. Sure enough, the 38F (with straps) is actually a great fit. So at least I now have a regular everyday bra that fits. Hooray!

I start trying on the strapless bras. At this point, what else can surprise me? Surprise! The strapless 38F is TOO SMALL. I need the 38G³. But they don't have that size. She calls the Nordstrom's downtown, and they have one 38G strapless bra in stock, and they'll set it aside for me. We try the regular bra on with the dress, but some of it shows; she tells me that we can fix that with Hollywood tape. "Of course! Hollywood tape," I think. All the girls use this double-sided tape to be sure their dresses don't slip and show their bra, or worse, some nipple! (Except Paris Hilton, maybe?) So I can either go with the regular bra in 38F and tape myself up, or go downtown and get the strapless 38G.

I buy the bra and some Hollywood tape and get on my way. On our way out, I tell JR I'm a 38F or a 38G, and he says, "I know. We all know. I shouldn't tell you this, but she came out and told everyone, so all the salesgirls could help look for your size." JR is sullen because he's bored to tears, and I don't blame him. I'm exhausted but elated — I don't have to start shopping for bras at the aforementioned nightmare website. I still probably can't shop at Victoria's Secret, but I have a better chance with a 38 than a 42. Maybe now I can shop for bras at stripper stores...

When we get ready for the party, there is much jerry-rigging with the bustiere (sans-cups), the regular bra, and the invisible tape. It felt like an elaborate system of levers and pulleys and duct tape and other MacGyver-y stuff was tenuously balanced to establish that kind of support, but man did I fit that dress! There is a French colloquialism I learned from openbrackets; Avoir du monde au balcon. Literally: to have crowded balcony. To have very large breasts. I like that saying.

The only problem of the evening was that the bustiere was so worn that two of the ribs had gone thru their bottom seams. Several times during the evening I'd exclaim, "Aghh! Whalebone⁴ to the back!" because the rib had poked so far out at the bottom that it was gouging into my skin.

Anyways: Thanks to Jenna for the photo! Here we are, enjoying the party (and the magnificent cantilever system):

ashley & jr near the dancing cars, originally uploaded by pinkestblack.

[1] Slang for "Big Ol' Titties"; apparently switching 2 letters renders it inoffensive, for use in proper company.
[2] F = DDD, or triple D. So apparently E hasn't been overlooked; E = DD, or double D.
[3] G = DDDD, or quadruple D.
[4] The ribs in bustieres and corsets aren't really made of whalebones any more, they're made of metal. But now that I think about it, the whalebone might have hurt less...

"you're a great big girl"

Reality check: Psychiatrists are supposed to help, right??? With a combination of pills and thoughtful discussion, they're supposed to make you better. When you share that you are feeling particularly bad about yourself, they're not supposed to respond thusly:

"Ashley, you're a great big girl!" ...Dead silent pause... "If you look at what's been considered attractive throughout history, it's big women. When I was growing up in South Africa, all the black men LOVED big women...."

At that point, my eyes were stinging and my face was stinging, and I got that whip-it feeling in my head where everything's all "wah wah wah" except over that I was hearing "you're a great big girl!" over and over.

NOTE: he did not mean you're a terrific big girl, or a fantastic big girl. He meant you are a very large female.

Sigh. You know the phrase "We're gonna need a bigger boat"? Well, "We're gonna need some bigger pills." (Eddie Izzard head shake. Eddie Izzard nod. Eddie Izzard shake. Eddie Izzard nod.)