Tag: jeans

BOO WHO?

Hard to believe another Halloween is upon us. All the spooks and goblins will be out celebrating while children are out begging for goodies.

Of course most parents throw away all the goodies they are unsure of now. No more just grabbing that Milky Way mini bar and popping it in your mouth. We must check for needle marks or suspicious appearances to the wrapper.

Ah the good old days when candy was just candy with no hinderance to eating it on Halloween.

But of course, that was the good old days.

So these good old days I’m referring to, when were they and what was the difference between them and nowadays?

I suppose most would say everything.

One thing that has changed is that parents always have and still do like to walk their kids around. I always suspected it was to grab that odd candy bar, but it was mostly to keep us safe.

That hasn’t changed except now it’s not about grabbing that candy bar to eat. It’s about grabbing it to see if it is indeed edible. Many neighborhoods have parties and many friends get together at someone’s home for a private celebration. Hey, chocolate is chocolate no matter how it’s given.

So what is the big difference between Halloween in the past and today? Not so scary. Let’s be honest here, the news is scarier than any ghost or goblin now.

I’d say for many it’s the fact dressing up is no big deal anymore.

Halloween has always been an expression of how much fun it is to leave ourselves for a short time and be someone or something else. Check out for an evening.

Being a witch, ghost or anything spooky was always a decision not made easily. It meant a great deal to have the opportunity one night a year to become whomever or whatever you chose.

We didn’t take this change lightly. It was discussed, considered and a decision often made after talking to friends and ensuring no duplication.

The creativity of one’s costume was important. It showed your individuality. Your talent at becoming someone else and leaving your skin for a night. Young girls often loved the ability and freedom to wear makeup, boys to express their inner devils or Draculas. The chance to copy an idol or the freedom to change your persona.

To put it simply, freedom to look, act or dress outrageous was something just not done in everyday life.

Schools had rules about what clothing we wore. We had pretty strict dress codes back then.

Skirts, no pants, jeans were out of the question.  No one would dare. Even though we began to see them worn in movies, they were reserved for outdoor play. And if one’s parents were very modern perhaps to the mall.

In high school pants, skorts or culottes weren’t even permitted and if a girl was caught wearing these she was sent home. It worked great when you felt like cutting school. You were sent to your counselor and out you went for the day.

The idea you could dress as anything you wanted in whatever you wanted one day a year was exciting.

A far cry from today when many kids dress like Halloween every day. I’ve seen students walking out of school with hair colors I never saw in the Crayola box. Even the one with 64 options we all loved.

Here in California girls wear less clothes to school that a stripper when she’s performing, and show more skin than an Oil of Olay ad. Sporting more jewelry than Tiffanys and on parts of their bodies for which jewels were never intended.

It’s a wonder some kids today actually need to come up with costumes.

In a world of anything goes where everything is the norm, what is the excitement of stepping outside the box?

Who cares if you can be anyone you want one night a year when you are in a costume all day every day?

Okay so you’re thinking I sound old fashioned and stuffy about this and no, of course not all kids dress over the top. So yes, I do sound old and grandmaish. And yes I totally believe it’s healthy for kids to always express themselves.

I just feel when kids dress up every day it kind of makes the effort less special. Robbing them of the excitement of exercising their imagination as an out of the ordinary occurrence.

Let’s face it. If you eat hot fudge sundaes every day what’s the big deal about a trip to the ice cream parlor?

Perhaps I’m overthinking this and maybe kids who dress like Halloween every day might wear a business suit or cover their bodies completely for one night. Well perhaps, I’m not certain.

I guess because Halloween was such a big deal to us, I’d like to see every child be able to fully embrace the fun, food and chance to hear “Wow, I love your costume, Dude!”

But I concur that every kid deserves to make their own rules, have their own fun in their own way and make it work for them.

I fully understand what we found exciting and interesting bears no resemblance to life in today’s world.

So if it works for today’s kids, that’s all that matters.

My memories of Halloween are special. I’m certain theirs will be also. No matter how they dress.

Hell, anytime someone is passing out free candy it’s the best holiday ever. I imagine that’s something that hasn’t changed. After all, isn’t that a big part of Halloween fun?

A good Boo could never beat a great Snickers bar. Still can’t, so maybe nothing has really changed at all.

I’m dressing up as a teenager this year without a single ache or pain. I hope I can pull that one off. It may be too much of a stretch.

Happy Halloween, everyone!

Fun and Frivolity With the Mammo Fairy

It’s no secret where men are concerned, breasts are a favorite part of a woman’s body.

Yes, we know that if you are stupid the best way to deflect from the fact your brain is the size of a pea is to expose breasts that are the size of two mountains.

“What’s that you said? Sorry, I couldn’t hear you.” I think men learn that phrase in junior high.

It’s obvious that if boobs didn’t matter plastic surgeons wouldn’t be inserting fake ones into women every day. If you don’t believe me, just check out the real housewives on Bravo. They don’t even make any attempt to cover or wear clothes over those implants on camera. Thus, the whole “deflect from how stupid you are” makes perfect sense here.

No one is really paying attention to what you say when they are busy wondering how you walk upright without falling forward.

So why am I bringing up boobs? Is there a reason for this subject matter? Especially since most women my age are now tripping over theirs.

I figured that starting off with a focus on breasts would at least give me a shot at some male readers. Truthfully, my real agenda is to bitch about mammograms. Okay, got it. Guess the men have left the building.

Since it’s probably just us girls now, we so know how much fun it is to make that appointment at the radiologist every year.

I look forward to it as much as I look forward to zipping my jeans after a weekend of binging on pizza.

Yet we are bound to check out those babies once a year to ensure they still contain only the harmless lumps and bumps.

Men have no idea of how a mammogram feels to a woman. This isn’t the same thing as smiling pretty for the camera.

And although Playboy centerfolds always looked so happy to be photographed naked, I assure you when their breasts were being slung around like a sack of potatoes and put into a vise, no one was smiling or talking about their turn ons or turn offs.

It’s as if boobs are no longer attached to your body. As soon as you enter the room where the breast masher stands ready to create pain and angst, your chest becomes separate from other body parts.

The technician grabs, lifts, adjusts and places them in a vise like they’d walked in there by themselves.

Bravely you try to figure out how standing on your toes will make you tall enough to even reach the machine. Meanwhile the tech is lifting them higher than even NASA could accomplish. At that moment waterboarding sounds like fun.

But the happy really starts when the vise begins to close tightly and the crushing commences. Like watching a trash compacter creating a six-inch box from a truckload of garbage.

As if you are walking along and suddenly the Empire State Building falls on top of you. OUCH! Do you mind? Do you mind?

Then as if you had taken contortionist classes, you’re asked to move your body in ways never intended for a human being. Your back is in agony, your spine is about to crack and your boob is yelling, “let me the hell out of here.” All the while you stand stoically against this machine that is determined to get that pic come hell or high water. You dare not complain as it might make the process even longer. No one wants that!

Then the moment you’ve waited for. That hold-your-breath time you silently pray you’ll quickly feel the machine release and you can exhale again. Truthfully, you haven’t been able to breathe since you walked into the room, so to say you’re a bit lightheaded wouldn’t be an exaggeration.

A great deal of prayer occurs in a mammogram room. Probably more than in many churches and synagogues on weekends.

Oh Lord, let this picture come out clear so no redo. Oh Lord let me not move. Oh Lord, let them not find anything in there that shouldn’t be.

Oh Lord, let this be over.

Then that moment when the technician leaves and you stand there praying you can soon follow. Also praying you don’t freeze to death in that room. Penguins could live in there.

Yet you know that until they say you can go and don’t ask for more pics or a follow-up test, you’re not home free.

After it’s all over there is still that waiting period when every time the phone rings you hope it’s not your Gyno’s office. You never want to hear they need to do more tests just to be sure. Damn! Some of these doctors are real sticklers for perfection.

The whole process, depending on how long you wait in the waiting room is usually less than half an hour.

Why does it seem like you’ve been there for days?

I’m sure it’s the amount of compounded stress.

There is such a feeling of relief when you get dressed and leave. Like dodging a bullet that went so close to your head you heard it whiz by.

The different perception of breasts from men to women is obvious.

Until someone places a man’s penis into a vise and applies a thousand pounds of pressure (well it does feel like that so don’t judge me) this will never change.

Men admire, lust over and extoll a women’s breasts as some type of prize to be coveted and enjoyed. Their own little puffy playground ride. Kind of like a grown-up version of silly putty.

Women see them as something to worry about and pray over once a year. Something they depend on their super bra to hold up and defy gravity. What prevents them from wearing buttoned up blouses with that gap between buttons you can’t close.

Yep, there are differences here of gigantic proportion. And I’m not talking about my former breast size.

So if a man wonders why a woman is cranky, distracted and on a short fuse one day a year, here’s why.

She’s about to have a highly sensitive part of her anatomy tortured and tested to determine her fate. Necessary? Absolutely. Fun and games? Not so much.

So guys, next time you stare at a woman’s breasts try looking above her neck. There is a person attached to those toys and they aren’t always in the mood to play with GI Joe.