Sunday, November 06, 2005

porno boobs

Yeah, so I got my business web page published for the first time today. I figured I'd blog about it where I blog about such things. You know how you open up the page and recently posted blogs show up in a scrolling list, right? Well, one popped up and it said something about pregnancy. So I opened it up - not that I am pregnant, but that I'd almost like to be.

Nope, not so much with the pregnancy. But you can click on cup size and see a bunch of people advertising access to their boobs. And some who thought that cup size somehow meant, well think Brit and call it a fanny.

My stomach was already hosed over my supper at Chevy's: The smoked chipotle enchiladas tasted good, but apparently were not a good plan. My stomach isn't really liking sitting here on my ass. Imagine the reaction when confronted with that.

I have a hard time wrapping my mind around women who push their party parts together and take pictures. Why would you want strange people looking at that? I just find it very confusing.

Sunday, October 30, 2005

breast reduction by anorexia isn't working out

there ought to be more to report. Really there should. But the breast reduction is not forthcoming. The back up plan - breast reduction by anorexia - got derailed by the blueberry pie I made at my husband's request. The back up back up plan - breast reduction by exercising like a Madonna wanna-be - got derailed by the fact that I have a job that is NOT running on the treadmill for two hours a day and crafting devious plans to inflict yet another fad on the impressionable youths of America. Red bracelet anyone?

I've been reconsidering my bra situation. Rightie refuses to stay put in the front-closing bras I have. The serviceable bras I have just aren't giving me any discernible shape above and beyond frumpy. The single minimizing bra I am currently in possession of itches like it were spun out of poison ivy. Three strikes, you are out at the bra store, again.

Am debating one of those standard minimizers. The ugly, nylon sort that my mother used to pick out for me. Am horrified that it even crossed my mind. Yet something must be done to get these puppies under control. I could go back to the VS bras, but let's face it: they can't handle an event more strenuous than a chair swivel. Though it might be fun to kill my Roommate with the shock of seeing one of the sister's leap from her restraint - at least I'd be rid of her - I'd hate to have to fill out the ensuing police reports.

So tonight, they are barely contained in a shelf-bra camisole and stuffed under an army green warm fuzzy sweater, because we've skipped fall around here and ran headlong from summer straight into winter.

Wednesday, October 12, 2005

rightie, meet kitchen scale

I have yet to come up with an accurate weight for my breasts. I pulled out the scale, much to my husband's amusement, and attempted the weigh-in from several angles. First, I put the scales on the dresser and propped the breast up on the scale. This resulted in a reading of 1.75 pounds for righty and slightly less for lefty, but the weight changed based on how much I raised or lowered myself in relationship to the scale. Next, I tried to hold the scale under them, but then you have the question of how much you are pushing up, vs the weight of the breast pushing down. Finally, I lay on my side in bed and placed the breast on it's side. That gave a reading of 1.5 lbs, but the bed wouldn't have been perfectly level, so in short, they weigh between 1.5 and 2 lbs apiece. If they weigh two pounds, then I'll be happy to give up 1.2 of those pounds. If they weigh 1.5 pounds, then the remaining .3 of a pound of breast will be insufficient to maintain an adequate breast-to-belly ratio.

Tuesday, October 11, 2005

the boob to belly ratio

I’ve been thinking about the concept of being reduced to just about nothing. One of my friends, who was awaiting the report from my Dr.’s appointment yesterday, was about as disappointed in the results as I was. My sister wonders if having mini-boobs would be such a catastrophe. And it almost wouldn’t be, right up and until one considers the boob-to-belly ratio (a concept first verbalized in this form by the aforementioned friend.)

The boob-to-belly ratio goes like this. One’s breasts should always project further in front of one’s nose than does one’s belly. Honoring this incontrovertible law is paramount. With overly ample breasts to work with, one can practically ignore the state of one’s belly. With NOTHING to work with, then the requirements for attending to one’s physique go up by leaps and bounds. ‘Tis all about proportion, you see. Being cut down to an A cup would bind me to the gym for at least an hour a day and would automatically preclude me from ever eating ice cream, brie or pot pie again.

Now, some would argue this is an excellent thing, that such items should already be excluded from my diet… But if one can’t eat foods that one actually derives pleasure for, why bother? I mean, life probably shouldn’t be lived as a hedonist with no boundaries, but perhaps a little hedonism is healthy?

Anyway, it is the boob-to-belly ratio that holds me back, my friends. I have too many other priorities and goals that require time and attention. I can’t honor those priorities and do what it would take to have the body to go along with those A cups.

Monday, October 10, 2005

Disappointment Rules the Day

I got to the Dr.’s early. I filled out the long forms to identify my allergies, current medications etc. At least these forms were all centered on the page and legible. The lady behind the desk didn’t look like what I was expecting for a receptionist at a Plastic Surgeon’s office. I was expecting blond, perky and fake boobs. What I got was middle aged, with bad hair. So I sat myself down and looked at the people coming and going from the office. Clearly not the standard Beverly Hills set. Well, so I’m in the DC area, so perhaps Beverly Hills doesn’t apply. Fine. Clearly not the Diplomatic Wives set.

The Doctor is in scrubs. I’m expecting suit and tie and used car salesman spiel. I guess not everything in real life mimics reality TV. Dude doesn’t even look like he’s had anything done to himself. The nurse (who’s chin has been swallowed by her neck) calls me back and leaves half of a paper hospital gown for me to put on. I am to remove all of everything to the waist. So much for having put on my best bra.

The room is quite chilly, but I do as instructed. The nurse returns with scrub doctor in tow, and the examination begins with a measuring tape. He measures how far down my breasts hang. 26.5 cm on the left and 28 cm on the right. Then out comes the digital camera. I pose from the front and from the side while he snaps away. Really, it’s too early in the morning for all of this nakedness and humiliation. But the insurance company must have photos to prove that they ought to pay for this surgery. So I stand their half naked with a strange man taking pictures of me. What a way to start Monday.

Granted, if the outcome were a little more cheerful, I’d be a lot happier about the whole naked in the morning thing.

So the nurse goes out to retrieve a 400 g silicone implant. The doctor wants me to have a good understanding of what 400 grams feels like. He instructs me to use my right hand to hold my left breast and to stick out my left hand, in which he drops 400 g of silicone.

Oy. That’s a puppy. If it were cocaine, I could get rich on the sale. Immediate sobriety. 400g is the average insurance requirement for reduction, if the insurance company is going to pay for it. From the comparative weights, it feels like my boobs don’t weigh any more than 400g as it stands. He’s got to suck out all of that for the insurance to pay for it? This is not looking good.

They leave, and I get dressed for the second part of the consultation, the one where he shows me photos of the work, describes the incisions, and shows me how the standard boob reduction is done. I’m even more convinced in looking at these illustrations that a standard boob job is NOT what I want. Even the diagrams look violent and invasive. I’m okay with keeping the general shape of my breasts, I just want the size reduced. To avoid pain and gore, I’ll go without the pretty standard breast shape with nipples that point to the sky but have no sensation left.

Now, I sit with the insurance lady. With out insurance, this sucker will cost upwards of $7,000. She tells me they will submit the pre-registration to the insurance and she’ll call me and tell me what they say as soon as she hears back. I go to work.

Walking from the car to the office, I’m considering this whole weight/volume thing. Because fat, comparatively, doesn’t weigh that much. It just has a large volume, so the volume of fat that is required to make up a certain weight is significant.

Once at work, I start doing some calculations. For instance, one gram is equal to .00220462262 pounds. 400 grams is equal to .881849048 pounds. I check with the calculator on the insurance’s web site. At a body area factor of 1.7 (which, given my weight and height, is where I am) they would have to remove 550 g from each breast in order to meet the insurance cutoff. 550 g is the equivalent of 1.21 pounds. Granted, I’ve always thought the puppies must weigh a good 4 pounds a piece. Now, I’m not so sure that there is 1.21 to remove from each breast. To bring the weight requirement down to 335 grams each, I’d have to weigh 100 pounds. That’s a far cry from where the Dr.’s scale said I was a week ago.

Basically, the answer is no. Because I’m pretty sure I don’t have 1.21 pounds of each breast to donate to the cause. And I sure as hell can’t afford the $7,000 it would cost to have it done on my own.

Perhaps instead, drastic weight loss? The anorexic breast reduction, that’s the one for me. At least it’s cheap.

Thursday, October 06, 2005

an unbalanced view of the world

Rightie is bigger than lefty. Bras are a perennial problem, as I absolutely refuse to do what it would take to have a bra that fits Rightie – namely buy a F-cup.

My issue with bras goes back to being a teenager and being forced to shop for bras with my mother. We would frequent the Hechts at the Wheaton Mall. If you parked in the right parking lot, you walked straight into the lingerie section, leaving you with no opportunity to warm up to the whole bra thing with, perhaps, purses.

My mother was (at that time) partial to Bali bras. Oversized breasts run in the family, of course. She was known as the big breasts on campus as an undergrad, so you’d think she would have had more sensitivity about the whole thing, right? Wrong. I’d be standing longingly in front of the Warner section, with the tidy c-cup bras taunting me, and she’d be standing at the back, where they keep the ugly minimize bras. Except she wouldn’t just stand there, she’d want to yell across the racks and racks of under-wires. “I think I have a few here that will work, let’s go back to the dressing room.”

And there the real humiliation would start, because she’d want to be there to check the fit. No privacy. No way of pretending that these behemoth mammaries aren’t quite as bad as they are, because she’s standing there, tsking. I haven’t quite recovered, and I still stand in front of the tidy C’s at Vickies and wish.

So, when I was at the Arundel Mills Mall a couple of months ago, I took all of the bras I could get in two hands into the dressing room and resigned myself to my fate. I walked out with two front-closing bras. They look like butt-cheeks, but never mind that. They are moderately sexy, they provide moderate nipple coverage, they allow for stuff that plunges – not that I leave the house in too much that plunges, but I liked the shape they gave, so I bought two.

Getting dressed this morning, I put on the black one and put a slightly clingy brown shirt over it. Bent over to put my shoes on and rightie fell out. I can’t exactly spend all day tucking the rebellious sisters back into their harness. So I put on a normal, ugly, serviceable bra and called it a day.

Monday. Four days. If the Dr. can schedule me for Tuesday, I’m in. Suck out whatever you can, mister. I’m in.

Saturday, October 01, 2005

RenFest: medieval cleavage

Eastern Maryland is taken over once a year by the renaissance Festival. On weekends in September and October, Crownsville Road is filled with vehicles headed to a made-up renaissance village. In theory, it is a day of family fun. In practice, it is the perfect excuse for the freaks and geeks to get dressed up and parade around. And I mean freaks and geeks in the nicest possible way. Really, I do. And I'm all for those of us who are more woman than are deemed fit for the pages of vogue getting our sexy-as-hell out and swaning about with it. I'm a little less for codpeices and men in velvet tights, but that's another story. Today, it is all about the cleavage on display.

Corsets are everywhere. Nipples are tucked discretely into the whalebones, while the top half of the breast spills forth. Glitter is spread amply on the swaying globes and rose buds are tucked between them. Breasts are on display everywhere. I imagine that the owners of these breasts are normally demure professionals who button their bounty up in dark suits and high-necked sweaters... not this weekend. This weekend, I can readily trace the map of their veins over the surface of their shimmering breasts.

It isn't just corsets. There are pirates, and serving wenches and goth girls and... well, everyone's shown up, and all of their breasts are out and on display. It isn't just the pretty, C cup breasts either. There are breasts out there that put mine to shame. While I have a mere 3 or 4 inches of cleavage to get out and play with, there are women who have a good 10 inches of shadow between breasts. AND ALL TEN INCHES IS OUT THERE TO BE SEEN. Lord, I'd feel almost deprived in the boob department if I hung around at the RenFest for long enough. The husband and I walk around with our hands together, sending imperceptible indications where to look next.

Clearly, I should have worn my corset. I feel almost... Inadequate.