Ooh That Smell

It was 2006 and I had just lost my love, Boris.  He was a 17 year old black and white tuxedo cat.  The love of my life.  A total mama's boy.  His sister, Natasha (naturally) had passed away 2 years earlier.  Boris held on even though he was the sickly one.  But after having him boarded at our vets office while we were on vacation, he wasn't the same.  He was old, and not well and having his Mama away from him for a week was more than he could take and we lost him a week later.

Sick Boris

I wanted to wait awhile before getting any new kitties.  I just wasn't ready to do it again.  Losing my boy was very hard.  But my vet was kind of relentless.  He had 3 kittens, littermates, that he was taking care of and he wanted them to go to a good home.  Mine.  But I couldn't. It was July and we were planning on being kitty free until at least the next year.  The more time that went by the more we hated walking into an empty house.  No kitty greeting.  No kitty on my lap in the evenings.  No kitty love at all.  It sucked!   So six weeks after losing Boris, my vet called again still having all three kittens and wondered if we might be ready.  We were and decided to take all three.

Armed with one large cat carrier we headed to our vets main office which is about an hour from where we live.  When we got there, we were able to go into one of the exam rooms and play with them a little and see if we really wanted all three.  We did.  They were now four months old and had all their shots already.  So off we went, heading home with our new family.

After about 20 minutes on the road a very strong and very vile smell started to permeate the car.  The kitties were crying their little hearts out, confused about what was happening to them.  And the smell, the smell!!!   It was horrible.  All we could figure was that one, two or all of them had pooped in the carrier.  We still had about 40 minutes of our drive to go and seriously, I can't stress this enough, the smell was horrendous!   I was sticking my head out the window while I was driving just trying to get some fresh air.  Nothing worked.  The plan was to pull over, go in the back seat with the carrier, open the door and pull out the padding in the bottom and just discard it. Hopefully getting rid of the poop in the process.  What I saw when I got back there and opened the carrier were three sad little kittens covered in poop.  Removing the pad wasn't going to do a damn thing help the situation.

Think, think... what can we do?   Getting them home and cleaned them up was going to be difficult.  My house does not have a washtub and we'd have to clean them up in the bathtub.  Ew.  Plus I don't think I could have handled the stench for much longer.  Then I remembered that our vet's other office, the one we normally go to, was on our way home.  Maybe, just maybe, someone was there and they could help us.  So we headed there at lightning speed.  And when we arrived we were happy to see that our vets wife was in fact there.

But the bad news was, she was leaving to attend a wedding and no one else was there.  What now?   She called the veterinary assistant who lived only a few blocks away to see if she could come and help us out.  And thankfully she was available and came right away.  When she came in that door, she took complete charge.  She put the carrier in the big washtub they have in the back and one by one she took out a kitty and hosed them down and cleaned them up, holding them all by the scruff of the neck so they wouldn't squirm too much.  As each was cleaned, she handed them off to us and we towel dried them then put them in one of the cages.   Then she completely washed out our carrier.  She saved us!

Wet kitties

With profuse thanks, we gathered up our new family and got ready to head home when our savior mentions that she had wanted one of the kittens and was disappointed to learn that we had taken all three.  The decision was pretty easy.  If she wanted one, she should have one.  She came out of her way to help us, did all the work and asked for nothing in return (although in hindsight, maybe she was asking for one of the kittens but it didn't seem like it at the time).  She wanted the one we had named Rudy, with the white spots.  The other two are mostly gray.   So we gave her Rudy and headed home with Murphy and Jett.

Murphy and Jett have been nothing but pure joy.   They fit into our household perfectly and seamlessly.  But we were psyched up for three and couldn't get our minds off getting one more.  Our wonderful vet said he would be on the lookout for another one for us and hopefully this time we would get an orange one (he remembered that I had originally wanted an orange kitty).   

A few months later, we got the call.  He had more kittens and one was orange.  They actually were from the same mommy kitty of Murphy and Jett, so he would be their step brother!  He asked me if I still wanted him and I told him if I came there to see him, I'd be taking him home.  He knew.  And I went.  And I came home with six week old Bowie.  And life has never been the same!   Bowie took over this house from the minute he set his paws in it!   And he's still in charge, 5 years later =)

Little Bowie

I Cry

I cry when I'm sad
I cry when I'm happy
I cry when I miss you
I cry when I fail
I cry when I succeed
I cry when I feel lost
I cry when I feel loved
I cry when I feel rejected
I cry when I'm broke
I cry when I'm lucky
I cry when I mourn
I cry when I'm joyous
I cry when I don't know what to do
I cry when I don't know who to turn to
I cry when I'm lonely
I cry when I'm overwhelmed
I cry when I'm tired
I cry when life is good
I cry more when life is bad
I cry a fucking lot.

You Are Beautiful

Last week was my niece J's graduation from 8th grade.  If you didn't go to Catholic school you probably didn't have one of these.  It's all pretty goofy and pointless but it makes the kids feel important as they are about to head to high school.  Over the past few months, J and I have grown a lot closer since she chose me to be her Confirmation sponsor.  She is so much like me, in both good and bad ways, it's kind of freakish.  She looks exactly how I looked at 14 years old.  She's sensitive and has anxiety like I do.  She's smart and she likes to write.  She digs vampires.  She loves animals and has a huge heart.   Where we differ is how athletic she is.  She plays soccer, basketball, softball.  I never did any of those things.

She's a great kid, all around.  But for some reason, she never, in 9 years at that school (she also went to kindergarten there) made a friend.  She's a bit shy but for some reason the kids at her school never accepted her and with only about 11 girls in her whole class, once friendships were established that was that.  Those friendships were established in kindergarten.  She has, at times, eaten lunch in the office because she has no one to sit with.  When she does venture the cafeteria, she is ignored.  She was never included in any way.  The stupid ass school did nothing about this disgusting treatment.  Of course what you expect from a Catholic school.  They sweep everything under the rug. 

A few weeks ago it was her birthday.  And at her school, on a students birthday the kids decorate the birthday kids locker and desk.   J went to school that morning and was greeted with nothing.  No decorations anywhere.  The only kid in her class who did not receive this special treatment for her birthday.  And she was devastated.  Being a 14 year old girl already sucks, but being one with such friend problems is even worse.  I didn't have this kind of problem when I was in school.  It did take me awhile to find my way, be who I was and not worry about what anyone else thought, but I got there around the age J is now.  I think she may have gotten there too.

She's come to the end of her time at that school and cannot wait to get out.  A new school, potential new friends, and some of the bitches are going to a different school.  A new beginning for her.  The school had the graduation ceremony and a reception following.  She didn't want to go, she owed these kids nothing.  But her mom and dad didn't want her to miss out on it so she was made to go.  With only 23 students graduating, the parents were to bring their child up to the church altar to be presented as a graduate.  One parent could speak and then the graduate got to speak.   I watched as one by one, the girls that turned this beautiful girl into a sad and lonely child went up to the altar and said similar things, "My time at this school has strengthened my relationship with God and has made me the person I am today."  Sitting there in the back of the church with my dad, which is another tale for another day, my mind wandered ... "made you the person you are today?  And what would that be?  A mean spirited little bitch?"  I had brief glimmers of feeling bad for thinking that way while in church, but my love for J is more powerful than thinking a curse word in church.

And then it was time for J to go up.  My brother and sister in law went up to the altar with her and presented her.  And then J took the mic.  What came out of her was stunning and beautiful and in essence a big fat fuck you to every one of those girls.  She started out with one of my all time favorite quotes by Dr. Seuss, “Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind.”  From there she went on to say how her time at that school has taught her what a true friend is, and a true friend is not someone who cares how you look or what you wear, but is someone you can tell all you secrets to and they will never judge you.  With tears rolling down my face, it was all I could do to restrain myself from jumping up and down and screaming from the back of the church, "you tell them J!!!"  


I made sure to tell her how proud I was of her.   How much I loved what she said and how no matter what, her auntie will always be there for her.  She's beautiful, inside and out.  And while I'm not a fan of this particular singer, I leave you with this song today because it conveys the emotions I feel and my love for J.

The Birth of Lalia

I'm finding myself in a strange position.  It's a path I've been on for several years.  A path of self discovery.  A path it took me too long to start on.  Now at half past 45 years old, I'm finding out more and more things about myself and it's interesting, kind of exciting, sort of fun and a little scary.

I've been writing with the vague idea that I'm kind of good at it, for about 14 years.  Until I started a food blog in 2007, I mainly wrote about the soap opera All My Children, which I also have a website for.  Three blogs.  I must be nuts!  The AMC stuff was mostly a snarky recap of the weeks shows.  It was fun, but time consuming and I ended up scaling way back on doing that until I stopped completely and turned my website into a blog.  Now I'll snark it up every once in awhile but I've mostly been focusing my writing here.  And I love it.  I'm proud of it.  It's all me and mostly no holds barred.  A girl has to keep some secrets all to herself.

But it's me with a different name.  I'm me but not me.  I had to become someone else in order to be myself.  I kind of hate that.  It's hard enough just being me but  I did this because I didn't want anyone in my family mainly, to be hurt by the things I write about, or embarrassed by what I say.  It's not about caring about what others think.  Trust me, if you saw me in person you would know I don't give a shit about what people think.  You can't look like this and have that concern.  I'm not embarrassed by anything I have said here.  But I know several who would be mortified.

I continue to grow, evolve and discover things about myself.  Sometimes I do that through writing, sometimes it just happens.  For instance, I discovered about four years ago that I'm an extremely sexual being.  Is it weird to say I didn't know that before?  I guess that's not entirely true, but my desires waxed and waned.  Now it's constant.  Constant is better.  I don't tire of exploring this side of myself at all.  How did I discover it?  It's kind of crazy, but I decided to go off the birth control pill.  The minute those hormones were out of my system, my own went crazy.  And I have been enjoying the ride ever since.

It's more than that though, way more.  I'm finding out that I want things I never knew I wanted.  That even though I wasn't looking for something, it found me and I have no control over how my feelings react.  That even though I thought I was happy and content, that I now feel like I'm missing something.  There's a part of me unfinished.  But I guess that's true of everyone.  We're all a work in progress.  Maybe one day I can be all me, out in the open and let the chips fall where they may.   For now I'll just keep on keeping on and hope I keep making new discoveries about this crazy chick.

Embracing the Third D - Epilogue

The call came.  JC Penney had my new bra.  The G.  The big freakin G!  Still daunted, still overwhelmed that my tits are actually a size G, I sheepishly went to the catalog department to pick it up. 

I was convinced that this was all a big mistake.  Big being the operative word here.   It had to be.  My name is not Busty McGee, so how on earth could I really have a G cup.  WTF is a G cup?   Who even knew the G cup existed?  It doesn't seem possible to me.  Granted, I know I've got the goods.  But a G?  I clearly can't get over it, so I chose denial.  It's a mistake.  Booby Bonnie was just a little too titillated when she was sizing me.  That had to be it.  Bored with sizing the usual 36 C's, she saw in me her crowning moment.  She was going to achieve boobaledge glory at my expense.  So she blurted out the first letter that came to her mind.  G. She gave me the Grand Teton's.  And when I received this bra, I was going to be swimming it.  It was going to be so huge, I convinced myself, that I would go back to Booby Bonnie tell her she was wrong!   I am not a G and I'll go back to my Triple D thank you very much! 

My bra was in a plain white wrapper, like I was buying something dirty.  And I felt dirty.  "G, G, G" I kept hearing in my head as I quickly walked out of the store and to my car.  "G, G, G."  It haunted me.  I came home, opened the package and looked at the monstrosity that lie inside.  It's black, and it's lacy, but it is ginormous.   I laughed when I saw it.  "No way is this going to fit," I thought out loud.  No way.  My tits are going to be dwarfed.  I'll feel tiny for the first time since I was picked on mercilessly by the boys in school for having no breasts whatsoever.  I was a late bloomer.  I didn't get my hooters until I was out of school, just my luck.  Dateless and Titless is what my nickname should have been in high school. 

Shaking my head and telling myself I'll try it on just to prove Booby Bonnie wrong, I put it on.  Damn her!  The bitch was right.  I'm a fucking G cup!  The damn thing fits like a glove.  I shimmied right into it and they looked proud, perky and a little smug.  I'm a G.  I'm a G and I'm slowly getting to a place where I feel less horror about it and more pride.  I'm a G dammit!

Embracing the Third D - Part II

As my luck has been odd lately, I ended up winning a free bra from JC Penney.  I apparently signed up for this contest when I was there with mom before Mother's Day and we had gotten sized.  I don't remember doing this, but a free bra is a free bra.

When we get there, the girl who sized us last time was not there and girl who was decided she wanted to size me again to be sure before I picked a bra out.  That's any bra in the store.  Sweet.  I planned on picking one that was really expensive.  I looked around a little and found a zebra striped bra that had my name all over it.  Unfortunately it didn't have my size all over it. So I continued looking.  I knew I wanted black because well, most of my bras are black.  I have the one obligatory white bra for when I wear something light colored, which is almost never.  But I have it.

Off to the dressing room I go with Booby Bonnie, the most gung ho bra sizer ever.  And after I lift my top and show her what I've got, she starts pulling up and yanking down and tightening and adjusting every aspect of the harness I'm wearing.  Well look at that, Booby Bonnie knows her shit because my girls are actually looking high and perky!   But then she slaps me with the bad news.  After a few measurements and a few adjustments she informs me that I'm not a DDD, but I'm a G.  Yes, a G.  You heard me.  A fucking G!!!!!

I am all at once impressed and mortified.  A G?  Who the fuck is a G?  Mom isn't even a G and she had huge tits.  Wait, that means I have huger tits than mom?  How is this possible?   A fucking G!  What does G even mean... Ginormous?  Gigantor?  Gargantuan?  Sheesh I'm not a porn star.  I'm not a model for Big Tits magazine.  I'm just me, all natural, going about my every day life, having made peace with a DDD.  I don't think I can make peace with a G.  It's too daunting.  It's overwhelming.  And now all I can imagine is my tits arriving 5 minutes before the rest of me wherever I go.  I'm going to have nightmares that my whole being is one giant tit.  G.  I feel so dirty....  Hmm, maybe it's not as bad as I think after all.

Embracing the Third D

It's not my favorite thing to do.  In fact it's one of my least favorite things to do.  Going to the mall.  I hate mall shopping.  I hate being attacked by perfume snipers.  I hate the crowds.  I hate rude people, er, people in general.  I hate the whole experience and do my best to never ever go to malls.  But, it's Mother's Day weekend and being without funds to buy my mom a suitable gift, I gave her the gift of my time and told her we could do whatever she wanted.  Much to my dismay, she chose going to the mall.  I had small glimmers of hope that she would opt to go to a movie (Kill the Irishmen is still in theaters after all and I have gift cards) or maybe to Gallucci's in Cleveland, the greatest Italian store in all the land.  Nope.  She wanted to go to the mall.

Resigned to my fate, off to the mall we went.  Previously, I had asked mom to watch her sale circulars for when a bra fitter would be at one of the department stores.  They aren't always there and usually if one is going to be around, they will advertise it.  I've been wanting to get accurately sized because I noticed my bras are anything but accurate.  I have several bras of varying sizes and they range from so tight I'm spilling out, to far too big and you can fit another boob in there with me.  And wouldn't you know, when we walked into JC Penney there was a sign that said a bra fitter was in the store today.  Off we went to get fitted.  As soon as we got into the dressing room, a promo came over the loud speaker "Get fitted for bras with Mom this Mother's Day!"  Nice, our Mother's Day activity has now been announced to all the shoppers in JC Penney.

It started out nice enough.  Our fitter was a sweet young gal who genuinely wanted to help.  But once in the dressing room, to say she was overwhelmed by her task would probably be an understatement.   Those who know me know my tits pretty much have their own address.  Mom's are even bigger.  I think they may even have their own gravitational pull.  And as I suspected, the size I had been buying was wrong.  But I didn't realize how wrong I really was.  I've suddenly been thrust from a large but manageable DD to a huge and daunting DDD.  The fitter, noticing my horror at this information quickly tried to cover her tracks by saying sizing is not an exact science and that she's not trying to make anyone feel bad about themselves.  I kind of felt like shit then, like I made her think it was her fault that my tits are so huge.  I told her not to worry and that if anyone is to blame for my ginormous chest, it's mom, to which mom just shrugged. Seriously what could she do?  She didn't have a tit to stand on, it is her fault.  Her and her damn genes.

Our fitter went out to the store floor to find us two new bras in our new more accurate sizes.  I told her to make sure she doesn't give my mom or myself torpedo tits.  Seriously there is nothing worse than torpedo tits.  What she came back with, to my skewed vision of what I now would be wearing, looked like this:

And when I put it on, it felt like that too.  A big giant utilitarian monstrosity.  No pretty demi bra with lace and possibly zebra stripes.  Nope, this is stark white, with four hooks, reinforced straps, and covers me from cleavage to belly button practically.  It's horrible.  I can't decide if I want to cry or scream or just curse my tits into submission.  And then I remembered something that made me feel a little better.  The boys sure do dig 'em.  So there ya go.  A triple D is for me, but I'll find something better than the bra that ate JC Penney thank you very much.