My Pal Chickie

My pal Chickie is a walking encyclopedia of relevant knowledge. Need a car? She knows where to get a good used deal. Does your child have a conundrum at school? Chickie has managed a similar issue, knows the school authorities, as well as three other mothers who have dealt with it, and she can suggest an article. Chickie doesn't advertise, though. You must discover her talents on your own. And here's a query that I posed for The Knowledge Chick: if one's daughter begins to wear a bra sometime in the next decade, what is the proper protocol? What to say? Where to go? What to do? Not only did Chickie's advice assuage my fear of budding breasts, or breast buds, as it were, but she directed me to the proper retail outlet.

I have discovered OneHanesPlace. All this time I have been writing, you, Dear Reader, as well as the ant crawling across my screen, may have thought that I was a buxom, large-breasted, womanly type of woman, whaddevvah that means. Well, no. (For extrapolation on the matter of post-mastectomy bras, stay tuned, I'm on the job.) I'm a B. Thirty four B. That's a lie. I'm in between, really. An A is too small. Yes, it is! Do I want big breasts? No. Do I wish my tuchas (ass padding) was proportional to my breast size? Yes. Do I care that much? Not nearly as much as if I suddenly grew a moustache, but a little more than if Condoleeza Rice grew a moustache. I don't think anyone else in the executive branch could grow a moustache right now, due to either a testosterone omission in their rabies series, or the intense concentration required. Nothing against Condoleeza personally, but I think she'd do well with some facial hair.

Back to OneHanesPlace, where I imagine all of the panties and bras go to gossip -"See you over at One Hanes, Thong!," - they have every single type of brassiere ever created anywhere including "Near-B"! So I don't have to look down at my small breast lolling meekly inside a B-cup, as if waiting to be joined by a partner, and I don't have to strangle my entire chest by squeezing into an A. And everything's returnable. Not the breasts - the bras.

There's a measuring guide on the site. Does every other female in the world have a measuring tape in her sewing box? My sewing box is a lame sight. It's a fake, really. I don't sew, except buttons that fell off. Someone gave me the box as a work gift and I threw in some tangled spools of thread and a pack of needles. I've used it, but it's more of an emergency management service as family members attempt to leave the house and discover holes in unseemly (terrible pun, really) places.

Obviously, I have no measuring tape at all. I look at those grids for sizing and I'm using a plastic ruler trying to figure out how many inches my bust is. The dog is peering up at me like he knows he should be embarrassed. I call out to Thing One and Thing Two "do you guys know where a tape measure is?"
Thing One says "No, but we have a yard stick."
"Um, no thanks," I holler down. I pretend not to hear him when he asks what I need it for.

Regarding the mothering of a budding girl: I am confident that Rugelah, aka Thing Two, and I, will find a mini-bra, or pseudo-bra, or, perhaps, a bra bra for her, when the time is appropriate, just as Chickie and Chicklet did a few years ago. Meanwhile, I do not have to shop for bras in the company of women who actually need them, although I did note that over at One Hanes they have many handy bra types for women who are carrying a lotta tit, a bit o' tit or some type of mix. They have post-mastectomy bras, too, so a bra for every gal who wants one. Now there's a pause, an oh my, as it's hard to end on a mastectomy note. But ladies in all cleavage and non-cleavage categories are on my mind, so there.

Not Deleting

I've been writing on here and deleting on here because I'm unsure of myself and actually one day it was inadvertent. What happens to one's ego when a sibling dies is apparently well-known: reality is skewed and it takes a while to adjust itself to a new place. Here I am rounding over to almost a year without my brother and so many words to say but they are a fraction of what one feels. It's as if I can't think of the right word, but then, of course, there is none.

Adding to the lack of detail in my picture is the phenomena of Not Getting The Job. I think maybe now I am experiencing that again, but one doesn't know until a few days have passed. Will I be working at a progressive school with lofty ideals, or at a school for disabled children with a grittier curriculum? I'm not sure how much it matters.

My dear friend Mary just married an absolutely right-there, way smart and truly funny man. I wasn't sure how a wedding would do for me at this particular moment. But Mary is no ordinary person, and when I met her other close friends - all of whom I had heard about for years - I liked each one immediately. A bunch of strong personalities, and all indifferent to the superficial crap that women compete over in subtle ways. Two of us gave Mary a foot rub - Stacy on the right, and me on the left. Mary hadn't realized that there are certain details one takes care of before a large function - like where people sit - so we happily worked on that for her, too.

I was in a bit of a muddle: all new people, a few days before the anniversary of my brother's death. But I adjusted my lenses and I watched the event and all of the surrounding mini-events, planned and unplanned. Now that I have processed it, I can clearly imagine who my own very close friends are, who would be here for me should I decide to marry. (Oops - I did that years ago.) How absurd, as these people were, and are, here for me as I experience the most horrendous time of my life. My parents, of all people. I call them every day to check on them. Ha! Chrystal and Becca. My first cousin, Barbara. My 2 California friends, both of whom have come to be with us. And my neighbor friends, one right next door. Ball & Chain, even.

This is not a close-the-door and a window opens deal. A door closes and never opens again. Quite a few people lean against it with me, watch while I bang on it for someone to open up, and hang out while I say nothing much of interest, and offer little back. There is not much food at my table. I'm starting to accept my brother's death a little bit. So I wrote about it and I'm not deleting.

Job Hunting: No Sweat?

Please hire me. I am an experienced teacher hoping to teach at a progressive, independent school where I can be open about my own values. No - boring. Please hire me. I am an anxiety ball and if you do give me a job, it will really make me feel better. Job seeker losing brain cells by the minute - and reading Temple Grandin's Animals in Translation not helping. Please save me from reading the drone about animals. Not persuasive? Hire me - I'm sweaty! I get sweaty every night - peri-menopausal, dontcha know. Could you please hire me, because maybe sometime I'll sweat at work, too?

I have a portfolio and I just realized there is virtually nothing in the "Inclusion" section. And when I say virtually, I mean a picture of an Asian kid, a white kid, and a black kid hugging - someone strike me now - and an "Inclusion statement" I wrote in graduate school. I am an inclusion teacher, so why the hell did I ever make that section? Should I make a list of the disabilities my students have had? Oh- but when I teach autistic children, I will not encourage them to write hundreds of pages of useful information and call it a novel because autistic people often do not have any kind of idiosyncratic voice with which to write creatively. They have other strengths that are outrageous - like empathizing with animals - but creative writing isn't a biggie. Please hire me. I know a lot about animals and "I like kids" (I hate that expression, as if they're a different breed), and kids and animals are both cute. Except for pugs. And except for those bald dogs. And except for those babies who are born with their big-kid faces - ack! That's scary.

Please hire me because the kids in my class always think I'm funny and weird so then they go home happy and everyone thinks I did something. I'll do recess duty? I'll be quiet and obedient. No, can't even pretend. Aha! I will be well-dressed, albeit sweaty, and good-looking. That just comes with the package. I won't fart in front of the kids. Or burp either. I promise not to teach them any bad words, or talk with them about how girls are better than boys. Can I pretend to be Italian? Please hire me. I know all of the Bugs Bunny cartoons, I hate the new crappy animation and I love the new excellent animation, and I'm likeable, especially to people who like me. And sweaty.

Calling David Lynch

Hard to manage the fact that ex-shrink emailed me, among other "colleagues and friends" to encourage me to spend even more money at his office, but now on "body work." I love it when men write me about body work. I am not a goddamn car. It makes me feel like I'm getting an ivy-league, or new-age catcall. Body work! Holy shit. I'd like to give him some body work, and at women's college we referred to that as "castration with a dull spoon." I'd definitely hire out for that job.

I might be more charitable had it been an error. But no. When I wrote to say, er, doctor, take me off your list, and by the way, you arse, I am not your friend, Dr. Creepo's response was similarly icky. No apology. No pretense that he spammed in error.

Shrinks do not contact ex-patients for business. Yikes. Yuck. Shrinks do not contact ex-patients. Shrinks do not contact patients unless they need to change an appointment or there is a crisis, and they are checking in. Call me old-fashioned, but for crissake, Dr. Fuckup, don't call me.

After taking in the implications of my stern, formerly traditional headshrinker becoming a dirty old man, I contacted our on-again, off-again marriage counselor, who is absolutely brilliant, and who I do trust. Nary a boundary crossed, ever; not a defensive statement ever made. Let's call him Dude. This guy could mediate between two rabid dogs, or even Ball & Chain & me. He completely confirmed that Creepo had been Creepy. I was wondering about my ethical obligations, and we discussed that as well.

I am getting that dread feeling in my gut so this may just be part one. I never liked that David Lynch guy who did Twin Peaks, and I don't like world-famous doctors who violate ethical standards and show me their whole goddamn email list in the process.

Oy vesmir, oy gevalt.