On Being Large Breasted

It's not always fun having big tits. In fact, a lot of the time it's a pain in the ass. Aside from the ego boost of having men drool over your cleavage, looking great in V-neck tops, and being a great asset in sex, I can't really think of too many advantages. First of all, they're heavy. They put a strain on your back. Finding a bra can be quite a task. And wearing the wrong one can be hell ... the straps dig in to your shoulders, the sides pinch your body, the underwire digs in to your ribs ... ugh. I love getting home at the end of the day, taking off my bra, and lounging around like a feminist. Strangely enough, what I thought would be the biggest asset in having big tits turned out to be a liability. I thought breast-feeding my daughter would be a walk in the park. It was anything but. I went through hell trying to position her correctly. I guess the fact that I was very big at the time, overall, had something to do with it. But in the end, after many tears and much frustration, I had to give up and bottle-feed her instead.

And there is a hell of a lot of discrimination for us large-breasted women. I have encountered social discrimination: I remember one time, I was hanging out with a friend of mine and some friends of hers I had never met before. It was summer, and I was wearing a tube top and jeans. Later on, she told me that one of the guys there had asked her, "Aren't you embarrassed to be seen with her?" (???) Thanks, pal. That was nice. Made me feel terrific. Like, what ... embarrassed to be seen with me because my big tits automatically make it a given I'm a hooker or something? And discrimination on the job ... holy fuck, let me tell you. I have encountered so many jealous, insecure women you would not believe. I temped for many years, and I was dismissed from at least a couple of assignments specifically because my tits looked too luscious in low-cut tops. I was told it was for "not dressing appropriately." But, come on ... I could wear a potato sack and my tits would be obvious! Our intellects are deemed non-existent or unimportant as soon as our cleavage is spotted. My tits have given me chuckles, too, though. Many times I've undressed after going to a movie and popcorn has fallen out of my bra.

So, for all you flat-chested, surfboard-type women out there, don't think we stacked women have it so easy. Have some compassion for your more well-endowed sisters.

"I Said 'Black ... No Sugar!!!' "

It's funny how something so seemingly inconsequential can become such a pain in the ass. On my way to work every day, I used to stop at this donut place at the subway station to grab myself a black coffee. I LOVE coffee. I could not live without it. I go through approximately 2 "real" coffees (meaning, with caffeine) and about 3 decaffeinated coffees per day. Anyway, it became my habit to stop by on my way up the escalator to catch the bus to fortify my travel with some caffeine. My order was always the same: "Black, no sugar." Then one day this new woman started working there. Every time I went in and ordered ... the SAME thing, every day ... she would fuck it up. Or ask me endless questions. One morning it went like this: "Next!" "Black, no sugar, please." "With cream?" "No ... Black, no sugar." "With sugar?" "NO ... BLACK! NO SUGAR!" I swear to God. How fucking simple can a coffee order get? You take the pot, you tip it towards the cup, and you pour the fucking stuff in! When she brought it back to the counter, I checked, and sure enough, she had added cream. "I said Black, no sugar ... you added cream." "You said regular." "NO I DIDN'T ... I said Black No Sugar." A man was standing beside me and I saw him smile, raise his eyebrows and shake his head. Anyway, I would go through something like this with her every morning. It was evident that English wasn't her first language, but come on ... I'd figure her grasp of English had to be at least rudimentary to get the job, and how difficult is "Black No Sugar" to understand? It got to the point that when I stopped for coffee, I would tense up as I waited, hoping I wouldn't get her. There was another girl working there. Then one morning I decided, Okay, I'll relax and trust that she's finally got it. I gave her my order. I didn't check. When I got up to the bus and opened the lid to take a sip, I saw she had fucking added cream! "That stupid fucking bitch!" I fumed. Since then I have not ordered coffee from there. But on the way home from work yesterday, I got a nice surprise.

A Cinnabon Express stand just opened up at Sheppard station. Guess where I'm going to get my coffee from now on?

Love

Love may be a many-splendored thing, but it is also the source of much pain. I know it has been for me. I am, for want of a better classification, "overweight". I have been so since I was about 10 years old. I am well acquainted with the feeling of being an outsider, a wallflower, big, ugly, and socially unacceptable. Strangely enough, I never became totally gargantuan until after I was in a long-term relationship and became pregnant. That's when I got to my highest weight. Before that, I saw myself as, and believe I was, big but not grotesque. There were men in my life, but all of them were short-term or one-night stands. They were such hypocrites. They were perfectly okay with having sex with my big body, but not being seen with it on a regular basis. Nevertheless, I kept getting involved with them. It was better than nothing. Finally, at the ripe old age of 22, I met my first and only long-term relationship. He became my husband. He was different right from the start. He wasn't ashamed to be seen with me, and he treated me well. So why did I not feel particularly enthused about him? Why wasn't he as intoxicating or as alluring to me as those assholes who only used me for their own sexual pleasure? Why did they always seem more desirable?

I can't tell you. I can't even tell myself.

My Second Baby

For the first time in my life, at 40 fucking years old, I can actually say that I am a car owner. A 2000 VW Bug, Black. It's got a power sunroof that I know I will become addicted to playing with. It is a beautiful thing.

This means, once I pass my road test, which is set for early October, that I can officially say goodbye to the TTC. God, will that be the day. I have ridden the bus so much in my life it's not funny. And to some really godforsaken places. (Like where I work right now.) I can remember being stuck at a bus stop for an hour or more in the middle of a snowstorm or in the most freezing weather you can imagine. It's amazing I haven't lost any fingers and toes to frostbite. Just last week we had a torrential downpour here and it took me about 3 hours to get home because all these assholes had tried to drive through the water and stalled, blocking traffic everywhere.

It'll be weird going to work every morning in a car. Like all the other peons I see from the bus window every morning. Now I'll just be another peon in a VW.

But a happy peon. :-)

Me

Sometimes I wonder if I'm truly anti-social. It's a girl's last day at work here and they're having a lunch for her in the cafeteria. I have no intention of going. I hate these kinds of get-togethers.

I didn't used to be this way. In fact, I was quite a party-hardy teenager. I did the usual beer chugging, pot smoking, acid dropping thing in my day. I had a good time. Ever since I started working though, I don't want anything to do with anyone. They're so phony. I can't stand these gossipy women who stand around talking about whatever all day. They smile and at first they're so sweet and charming and then you find out they've said something nasty about you and you feel like you've just had a knife heaved into your back. Of course that kind of thing happened in high school too. You thought somebody was your best and dearest friend and then you found out she said something about your hair and she was your worst enemy. Maybe it's just that women are so competitive with each other. They look at each other and size each other up and try to figure out if they're better off than so-and-so.

Anyway, sometimes I feel like I just can't be me. If I were to say what I really thought, people would raise their eyebrows and then start whispering to each other once I walked away. So I have to admit I can be phony too, as most of the time I act in conformity with others so my life is more hassle-free. Kind of.

That's why I decided to start this blog. Actually I was inspired by a great bunch of girls at fatty mcblog. I saw what they were doing and admired it immensely. So what the hell, I thought. I didn't even know this was free. And you could make your own. Cool!

If you're the party hardy type, have a great weekend. Have a beer for me.