Tag: Real Housewives

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.  

I Need an Exit Plan Here!!

hotdoglady

Can I Get an Expiration Date on all this Fun and Frivolity?

This was an unusual Mother’s Day. Where most are spent with children and grandchildren brunching, lunching or supping, this one was spent Zooming or Facetiming by far too many families.

Okay, I’ll say it, it sucks, but yes I’m grateful for the technology that allows us to see our families albeit from a distance.

This Brave New World that we all now inhabit courtesy of the Chinese Communist Party has not come cheap. So much for the economic benefits of manufacturing in China.

It has cost us all dearly and I for one need to know there is an end to this madness.

I have heard too many times lately that although the quarantine may end for those under sixty, the older folks, and sadly I must count myself among that group, although I have absolutely no idea how I got this old, will not be able to run amuck so quickly.

One of my friends confessed between sobs she was so lonesome for her children and grandchildren she admitted this is “getting to her.” An understatement of gargantuan proportions.

I feel her pain and I’m sure most of the rest of the world does as well.

While there are many whose children will allow visitation rights in this climate, many won’t. My children would feel better if they could shackle my leg to the couch, but I have behaved and stayed indoors except for the occasional walk around the neighborhood. My daughter, bless her heart, texts after my walk to see if I made it home okay. I imagine my children fear that a giant corona virus is lurking outside just to attack older people that can’t outrun it.

And yes, it’s a warm and fuzzy feeling to know my children are concerned about my welfare and very protective yet it does beg the question, “When the hell can I get out of here?”

That seems to be the dilemma for most of my friends. There isn’t a light at the end of this tunnel.

It’s far easier to except the inevitable when the inevitable has an expiration date. At this point in time no one can say with any certainty when this plague will be gone. Is it a month or a year or never?

Tough to get happy thinking we may never be able to step into the light unencumbered by the threat of sickness or death once again.

Yes, I know as my son has pointed out to make me feel better, that the greatest minds in the world are focused on only one thing, killing this viral sucker, and that does help.

After all, we do live in a world of impressive innovation.

There are cures for diseases, electric cars, reservations for recreational space travel, which by the way is looking real good right now, Alexa (or as I like to refer to her, Big Brother’s little sister), Downton Abbey, Cherry Garcia ice cream, magnetic false eyelashes, umbrellas that close upside down, air fryers, Amazon, and the Real Housewives of anywhere and everywhere, although they don’t resemble anyone I’ve ever known, in any house anywhere.

Yes, while great minds are at work 24/7 I’ve noticed some things conspicuously missing as I pondered why I’m having trouble finding certain pieces of my jigsaw puzzles.

Did you know for instance there are no television shows where old stars can go to remain semi relevant. And no, Dancing with the Stars doesn’t count. No Love Boats to watch as the characters we grew up with parade around the Lido Deck and order cocktails from Isaac.

I’ve also seriously questioned my intelligence while viewing reruns of That Girl on METV wondering how the hell Marlo Thomas afforded an apartment in New York and couture clothes working as a part-time actress?

As I watch the old shows I ask myself, “Was I dumb enough to buy into this horse shit?” As if Ann Marie and Donald weren’t sleeping together, yeah right!

And don’t even start me on Jeannie and Larry Hagman. Like any red-blooded American male wouldn’t wish for one thing first, last and always when he has a half-naked blond living on his coffee table.

Donna Reed with her perfect make up, wearing high heels, silk shirtwaist and pearls in the morning to make oatmeal. Really, seriously? No wonder I was so screwed up. My mother didn’t get out of bed until at least nine and when I returned home from school was still in her nightgown. Pearls and oatmeal were never a thing in our house. It was pretty much Tony the Tiger or my Dad’s special eggs, which were actually eggs scrambled in the pan that were breakfast fare most mornings.

As I’ve said before, I have way too much time on my hands now that I can’t play Maj Jong.

Thinking this much is over rated and so was the new Netflix series, Hollywood, but it served as a nice distraction for a few hours.

I saw on the news that a drive-in movie just opened somewhere in Texas. I was so excited thinking of being outside on a summer night and watching the drink cups, ice cream bars, popcorn and hot dogs singing and dancing across the screen, “Let’s all go to the lobby to get ourselves a treat!” Now that was entertainment.

Some old stuff is looking pretty good right now, although I can’t say I am with no haircut and roots as long as a politician’s arrest record.

Bob’s Big Boy in Burbank has reintroduced carhops. Great, now we don’t even have to get a bit of exercise by walking into the restaurant. Calories on a tray hand delivered to your car. Is that innovation or a step back into lazy land?

Don’t get me wrong; I enjoy some down time like everyone else. There are puzzles to do, shows to watch, new recipes to try and some crafty things I can now find time for, but I need an end date on all this fun and frivolity. I’m burning out on relaxation.

No matter how many times we turn off the news we are all still aware, especially on a holiday, that these are scary times and somewhere in the back of our minds that fear lingers like the aroma of cheap drugstore perfume.

I have a new and profound respect for animals at the zoo. No wonder they look pissed off. I guess those monkey bars can get old pretty fast. I know mine are. So until we can once more overpay for a ticket to a mediocre movie and ten dollar tubs of popcorn I wish you all happy days filled with fun and interesting diversions.

Stay safe everyone.