Tag Archives: boobs

Riding the Hog – Final Chapter

Disclaimer: If you haven’t read the previous two blogs on my Riding the Hog adventure, it may serve you well…so you have the whole story.

Morning came all too early. About 5:30 I was awake and refused to get up. As usual, I snoozed and dozed like a cat until I MUST GET OUT OF BED.

7:30AM – here I come!
Our departure time was 8:30AM.

I leap into the shower and throw on my jeans and shirt.

Grab a cuppa cuppa coffee – fully leaded, none of that creamer shit.

Do my hair and put my eyebrows on.
Some women won’t leave the house without mascara. I don’t leave without my eyebrows.
Seriously.
I have very little in the eyebrow category.
Which actually works to my favor.
Some days I can have ANGRY EYES and other days suspicious eyes.
Depends on which way the pencil goes.

I make one last pass over myself in the mirror.
Blot the make up one last time as it’s already warm out.
Lipstick on.
Got sunglasses.
Adjust my boobs.
Take two giant swigs from my flask.
Yep. I came prepared.
Vodka – 8:20AM
Perfect.
Pee.
Wait, one more swig……

I race upstairs, lace up my heeled boots and we’re out the door.
Walk outside and cue the theme music.

Note: Some times my theme music is the Imperial March from Stars Wars. You know when Darth Vader https://youtu.be/-bzWSJG93P8 shows up in the scene. (It also sounds suspiciously like CBS Evening News theme music from 1990, odd.) Other times, it’s Tinkerbell fairy music and then every once in a while it’s something else.

This morning, I had George Thorogood music….Bad to the Bone will do just fine. https://youtu.be/_7VsoxT_FUY
LOVE HIM!

Hell yeah!

I swear that Harley was glowing under a spotlight.
It was shiny.
And glittery.
And dark purple.
And beautiful.
And B I G.

Good thing I wore the boots with the heels.

Is it too late to get my flask?

Okay, so first things first.
How do I get on this beast?

No worry, hop on, let’s get some pictures! Image

After a handful of photos, I hop off. Grab a helmet and get ready to go.
My Biker jumps on.
I’m left with the dumbfounding question: Ummmm yeah, how do you want me to get on here exactly?

One foot here on the pad.
Stand up.
Throw your leg over.
Sit down.
Tah-dah.

When you get off, get off on the left, so you don’t melt your boot into the exhaust pipe.

Noted: left, left, left, left, left, left, left.

Dear God, please don’t let me make an ass out of myself.

I do as instructed and get seated.

Luckily, I don’t have time to worry about my next concern.

Remember when I mentioned I’m not a touchy feely kind of person….in the previous blog?

Yeah, well. I had been worrying all week about where to hold on.

You have no doubt seen the girls wrapped like a pretzel around their biker.
Yeah, not so much me.

I don’t see any real hand holds.

But I had no time to think about it! We were off like a shot up the steep driveway. It was like being shot out of a cannon but different.

So as we take off, I grab my Biker’s vest. Low and behold, the sides are laced up!
I’m easily able to literally grab the back portion of his vest.

Whoo Hoo! No awkward where to put my hands moments!

Whew. Okay.
Still too late to get my flask?
Well, it wouldn’t have mattered, I didn’t have anywhere to put it besides the saddlebags on the bike or my bra.
I kept some money and my phone in the bra.
It’s the perfect little pocket.
However, not big enough for a flask.

We’re zipping down the highway and it’s amazing.
Fields.
Trees.
Houses.
Everything racing past.

The wind was loud in my ears and I thought:

THIS
IS
FABULOUS!

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Bump.
In.
The.
Road.
Reaction: My knees immediately clamped down on my Biker’s hips. I was trying to crack that man like a walnut.

If I was busy looking at the scenery and not watching where we were going, when we down shifted….because it surprised me….guess what?

CLAMP
DOWN
THE
KNEES.

My Biker would reassuringly pat my leg. We’re okay! We’re not going to die. You’re fine.

Bless his heart, I swear, he was lucky if he didn’t come out with bruises.

I’m loving the ride. We would turn corners and I would lean as he would lean.
It was like flying….but much closer to the ground.
It was being free.
And exhilarating.
It made me laugh.
I LOVED IT.

Of course, as we’re zipping along, I noticed, every once in a while, something wet would hit my cheek.

I chalked it up to morning dew.

Rain sprinkles maybe?

But it kept happening.

Okay, what’s the deal with my wet cheek?
This is really odd.
At a stop light I reach up and touch my nose.

OMG – my nose was running!

Okay, hazard #1 of being on the bike!
Get out the hankie! Or your shirt….whichever you have handy.

Okay, that’s our secret. I’ll know for next time.

Our music was perfect. AC/DC. LOVE THEM!
One song after the other, I’m on the back, singing along.
Thunderstruck.
Highway to Hell.
TNT
Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap https://youtu.be/whQQpwwvSh4
Excellent choice for the early morning ride.
In heaven.

We arrive to the meeting point of the ride and get into the ride line.

We pay our donations, wander around, people watch, greet old friends, look at tattoos, see the outfits, applaud the veterans.

You see, this was a fundraiser for Wounded Heros.
Last year they had 600 people participating.
By the time the group had gathered, dedication announced, prayers said and the local police gave us the instructions for the ride, there must have been close to 800 riders.

What’s really cool….when I gave my donation….they gave me a patch!

Image 1

When I get my Vespa, I’m totally putting this on my vest!

For nearly 800 riders, there were 7 police, also on motorcycles, who came from across the state to escort our group. That speaks volumes about these people. This group could have easily taken a team of 7….but is simply wasn’t even in anyone’s thoughts.

Our cops rocked. They were fantastic. Funny, upbeat and excited to be there. They had a sense of humor. Their job was to block the intersections as we came through. They would also be first available to help anyone who may have an accident. They were beyond words – WONDERFUL.
Simply amazing.
Everyone for a common cause.

Riding for veterans.
Enjoying a great morning ride.
Ooooooo-ga-ling awesome bikes.
Ooooooo-ga-ling awesome women.
Ooooooo-ga-ling awesome tats.
Ooooooo-ga-ling awesome men.
Snarking out on the ridiculous outfits. (of course)

Before we got into the ceremonies, we jumped into line for the Port-o-Potties. I’m thinking, I would rather jump behind a tree, but I don’t see anyone making for the bushes, so I figured best bet is to follow the Bikers. Don’t want to upset some unwritten law.

When I get into the john. All I can think is…..

1. Dear God, who actually puts the seat down in these things? Don’t touch more stuff!
2. Dear God, please when I lift seat, DO NOT let something come flying up from the muck.

Note: This is a fear of mine. Some sort of Hiney Monster is going to get me.

3. When did they start installing urinals into these things?
4. Is that gap in the door frame supposed to be there for ventilation?
5. Thank you for the hand sanitizer…..and the mirror.

Really?

Still would have been happier with a tree.

I’ve already had a great ride – longer than the main fundraiser ride – to get here this morning.

Now we are in line and preparing to hit the road.

Fear not. I’ve wiped my nose, so we’re good.
I’ve added sunscreen as I am starting to get crispy.

Image 4

Image 3

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Finally, it’s our lane’s turn to go.

WOW!

People stopped along the road to wave at us.
There were kids waving.
Adults waving.
People saluting to the gang of motorcycles driving past.
Standing out holding the American flag.
Cars honking their horns.

I’ve never, ever, experienced anything like this before.

They were excited to see us.
We were excited to see them.
My Biker would “rev” his engine.

We passed by a fire house.
They were on our right.
They had extended their ladder, with the American flag hanging off the end.
A firefighter was all the way at the top, waving and waving.
And they were blowing their horn as we passed.

Had I known….I would have been ready to take a photo.

It.
Was.
Amazing.

Truly amazing.

Our destination was a biker bar, “Bentley’s.”
All I knew about Bentley’s is there was a pig I needed to ride.

We are escorted through the campground and arrive at giant parking lot.
Our bike is one of hundreds upon hundreds here for the event.
Heaven forbid I get separated and can’t find my way back to THE bike!

Not 40 feet off the bike and we encounter a wonderful godsend.
Buckets of Bud.
Yes, Please.

Wander inside the gates.
Wow.
Biker Heaven.

Everyone and I do mean everyone….is looking everyone else up and down.
Did you want me to spin for you?
Blow a kiss?
Sit in your lap?
Smack your ass?
Smack my ass?
Okay, just tell me the protocols.

Something you don’t encounter every day in Boston.

So Mrs. Biker made sure I made it to the gift shop – to get my Bentley’s shirt. While it may not show off my cleavage as well, nothing a pair of scissors cant fix, it has glittery sparkly shit, so I’m thrilled. I also think I should have bought the boy shorts. They had numerous shorts all in black, with various announcements across the ass.

The one I liked the most:

“Quit imagining me naked!”

I am thinking I should have bought those. Although, wearing those, wouldn’t leave much to the imagination. Hence the, “Imagine me naked” concept.

Out the door that went.

I should have bought those shorts.
Yes, this is a regret.

You know what happens with regrets?

Damn it. I need to go back…just to get those shorts!

So I bought this and that. Next thing I knew…..it was time.

Time to get on the pig.

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I’m thinking, next time, that pig needs a feather boa.

I had full intentions of getting on the pig. But mind you, it’s not something you aim for upon arrival. I probably would have ridden that pig backwards if we were there longer. However, time was of the essence and I had to climb on board.

Funny thing, when you approach the table where the pig resides, people clear a path.

Need a hand getting getting up on the bar table? No problem! Plenty of hands to assist.
Don’t mind me.
Excuse my butt.
But yes, that’s part of it.
Butt and boobs.
Whatcha got?
Top off?
Nope, not drunk!
I know it’s still light out – it’s summer.
Not a tiny tittie on this chicky to be seen!
Let’s ride this pig!

There were whoops and hollers. – hey, someone has to go first.

What a wonderful way to spend a summer day in Maine!

Bikes.
Bikers.
Babes.
Beer.
Boobs.

If someone could have taken my photo —- as we cruised down the highway, they’d see me with my arms out to my sides…..enjoying the wind caressing me like a dove’s feather.

Needless to say, I can’t wait to go again.
Is Biker Ornament a profession?
I could do this!
I’d need more leather.
Watch out!

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Riding the Hog – Part Two

Disclaimer:
If you haven’t already read my Riding the Hog – Part One, please do so.

ducksWhile my previous blog about checking off my bucket list….being in a parade…. didn’t require two postings, this event certainly does.  It could require three. I am undecided, so we’ll see what we get. Of course, like a good mother duck, I want everyone to stay together and know where we’re going…so please read the first chapter.

Thank you.

The night before my undoubtably titillating Harley ride.. .I had to pack for an overnight.  I suck at packing.  I mean really, what does one wear for a Harley ride?

– Assless chaps was completely out of the question, so don’t even think it.

– Bikini? Ah no.

– Leather dominatrix outfit? Where the hell am I going to get that? (Well, trust me, I know where to find it just didn’t have the time to get it. Shocking. I know.)

– Shorts? The weather forecast literally said, “hot as Hell.” I have no desire to burn my delicate skin on a leather seat.

– Pink sparkly tutu with confetti gun? Probably not.

– Jeans. I’ll wear jeans.

Then comes the next difficulty. Shoes. Not wearing stilettos, nor hiking boots, not wearing sandals or sneakers.

I’m also short.
How big is this Harley?
Where do you put your feet on a bike?
What if I’m like a cat who climbs a tree but can’t figure out how to get down? I can get on the bike, but can’t get off….because my feet don’t reach?
Seriously, I can’t even be a penguin sanctuary volunteer at the local aquarium because I’m literally not tall enough. Fuck, what size are those penguins?

You can see, this is an issue.

I decide on boots.

Boots. With heels? Without heels?

Knee high boots?

Calf boots?

Ankle boots?

Well hell. When in doubt, take two pairs. With heels and without heels.

Shirt? Easy enough. Since I didn’t have time to find a leather corset, I settled for a black button up tank top. Shows pushed up cleavage….perfect.

Check. Got them in the suitcase.

But wait, cue the monkeys.

Wait for it.

There are always monkeys.

.

.

.

.

.

.
My Biker tells me …. (Note: everyone remains nameless in my blog to protect the innocent or they’re provided with a fake name….safer that way.) advises we will be doing one of two things upon my arrival:

1. Going for a boat ride
2. Taking the bikes down to the biker bar for dinner & dancing.

Well now, either option is exciting.  Whoo Hoo!

Here’s the monkey shit:
I only planned for one Harley riding, biker chic, outfit. Great, there’s always a monkey involved. Damn that monkey.

What if it’s cold?
What if it’s hot?
Is the bar inside or out?
What if we don’t?
What if it’s buggy.
What if it’s the boat?
What if it’s too sunny?
Too windy?

Well hell.

I throw in enough clothes that I could’ve outfitted a family of 6. Mind you, they’d have to be a family of little people

I had a selection of jeans, shirts, boots, jackets, tank tops, panties and bras. You needed it, I had it.

Oh what’s that you say? Where’s my bathing suit? I didn’t pack it.
I know!
Trust me.
I know!
I know, like I know, like I know.
I KNOW.

bass-fishing-lake-livingston-022210-01
I had no plan to get into the lake. There’s fish. Much different than ocean fish. These are confined fish. They may nip me. They may bump into me. The every so slight adjustment of water current due to their tail swish may get me.

Nope. Not happening.

Ever see anyone actually walk on water? Yeah, well the first time a bass or something bumps me, I’m levitating up and out of that lake and walking across that water like Jesus reclaimed the Earth….immediately.

screaming.banshee

All along screaming like a banshee on a blind date….to a peanut factory.

I pack up the car and have my little roller suitcase, which was surprisingly light …considering…and another tote with beauty products. Hey. I’m a girlie girl. This is how I roll. Love me, love all my crap.

Luckily the work day was an early release for me.
Thank sweet Jesus,  the day flew by faster than a raven looking for a half eaten McDonald’s burger.  I had no patience, I wanted to go….go….go….go!

I punch into Waze my destination address, The Terminator starts to direct me. (Usually I go with Elvis, but the way Arnold says “roundabout” makes me laugh, so I’m sticking with him for a bit.) I turn up the volume on my cruisin’ play list and hit the road.  Two hours until I reach my destination.

Traffic was a beast.  There was even a 5K run with a bunch of colorful runners on the road I had the pleasure of navigating through.  Which reminds me, people who run never look happy.  Why?  If it’s miserable, don’t do it. That’s my theory.

However, I digress.  Let’s return to the story at hand.

Leave it to me, I got lost.

Twice.

Even with The Terminator.

The Terminator, who is my Waze Guide, sent me to the “east” road when I needed the “west.”

Then my Biker called to help me find my way. First question he asks, “where are you?”

Seriously?  My bread crumbs ran out a long time ago.

At this point I was in Maine, somewhere between a pine tree and a fuck if I know bush.

I say I just passed the fire department. Of course, who the hell knows what fire department – it was some town’s. My friend advises me to continue down the road and turn right and go to the end – go all the way down to the dirt road, keep going and they’ll be on the right.

I hang up and realize, well…of course, I’m at an intersection.

It’s a dead end T-type intersection — of course. Which way?

It’s a 50 / 50 shot and you know me.  Let’s all say it together now, “I went the wrong way.”

Duh. Of course.

HEY!

News Flash: I lived in a town with only 40 miles of road! LAND LOCKED! …for 18 years. I couldn’t get lost. It’s no wonder I’m having issues with this now.

I make a u-turn and head the other direction. Find the road. Find the dirt road. Find the house.

My Biker is standing in the driveway waiting for me.

First thing: Do I want a drink?

Really, you’re asking me? I was almost eaten by the cannibalistic witch from the Hanzel & Gretel story on my way here as I tried to figure out which way was up! Hell yes, I want a drink. Two…one for each hand.

Second thing: Did you bring your suit? We’re going on the boat.

Well of course not.

woman-in-1910-bathing-suit-underwood-archives

Yes,  I should have brought my bikini….we’re hanging out on the boat.  No really, I honestly didn’t bring a bikini.  

I didn’t even bring a tankini.  
Nor did I pack a one piece.  
No thong.
No g-string.
No tanga.
No full bottom betty.
No skirted bottom.
Not even swim shorts!
Nope, no diving suit for that matter.
Not even a 1910’s full body suit.  
And my birthday suit is out of the question – it’s being dry cleaned and I’m not drunk.

I’m okay with that.  It’s early evening and it’s going to get cooler as time marches on. It’ll be fine.

SAVED!
We jump into the pontoon and I make some fast friends.
Beer in hand.
No complaints.
Wow, this is so relaxing.

Arrive to the far end of the lake and everyone piles out. Heading to a friend’s house for sandwiches.
Okay, where are we going?
Up to the campground.
In a pick up truck.
12 of us.
Okay maybe 6 of us.
Before I know it, the small person (ME) was voted to sit in a lap in the front seat.

Who?
Me?
What?
You want me where?

Thank you sweet Jesus …. it was my Biker’s lap.

Here’s an anomaly about me.

I’m not a touchy, feely kind of person.

Hugs? Oy. I’d rather go to the dentist.

Now I’m having to hoist myself into the cab of a pick up and climb into a lap.
Okay, it’s part of the adventure.
I’m small.
Sign me up. I’ll do it.

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Excuse me.
Pardon me.
Seriously?
Hold that.
Grab this.
Watch the head.
NO! MY HEAD….thank you.

A short jaunt later, we pile out and enjoy some adult beverages.
Pet the pets….two adorable dogs.
Order sandwiches.
Then…it’s time to pick up said sandwiches.

And guess what?
They’re going in a golf cart!
Not any type of golf cart, this is a 4WD, off road, golf cart.
WHAT?
Oh, I have to go do this.
YAHOO!

Of course, I pick the back seat.
Facing backwards.

And we’re off like a greyhound chasing a rabbit.

Over hills.
Through the dale.
Around the corner.
Passing through the field.
To the sandwich shop we go.

As we drive through the field….they advise me it’s a topless area.
Yes.
Ok.
Well, why didn’t you tell me?
Let me fix that.
One moment….as I prepare to take my top off.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Fear not my furry friends – my shirt stayed on.

I mean really.
In that wind, my boobs are so small you would miss them in the breeze. They’d be introverted in a heart beat and nobody wants to see that chaos. Going from oranges to tic tacs — never ideal.

Should we have been pulled over by the cops, however, I’d have whipped the shirt off.

Just saying. Don’t want us to get a ticket.

After dinner, we jumped back into the truck and headed back to the lake.
The sun is starting to set.
Stars are coming out.
We kick back.
Listen to music.
Drink beer.
Watch for shooting stars.
Watch for satellites – my new favorite search and seek.
Looked at the Milky Way —- in the S K Y. Thank you.
Picked up more friends.
Sang karaoke.
Danced.
And enjoyed the night.

Back to the shore about midnight and time to sleep…..it’s a big, big, big day ahead!

Stay tuned for The Final Chapter.

Riding a Hog – Part One.

Everyone needs a list of fun things they’d like to accomplish in life. The Bucket List.

Some may have:

Competing in American Ninja Warrior.
Joining a roller derby team.
Visiting far away places.
Going to a NASCAR race.
Winning America’s Got Talent.
Owning a Porche.
Learning to cook.
Eating a deep fried grasshopper.
Going to a UFC fight.
Meeting your favorite actor / actress / singer.

(*Note, only 4 of these are on my list..seriously.)

It’s anything that makes your heart sing. And sing loudly. At least in my book, that’s how it works.

Wingsuite

Some things that are definitely NOT on my Bucket List:

* Bungee jumping

* Soaring through the sky in a squirrel suit

* Jumping out of a perfectly good airplane. (Although, please note I’m only like 92% NOT HAPPENING on this one.)

I must say, the right person may be able to convince me to go with them in tandem. And there is fine print for this to actually occur. This has a high probability of never happening.

Muir divingHave you ever seen the episode of Impractical Jokers when for punishment, Muir has to jump out of plane? Yeah, that would be me. I would be wearing Depends – for certain. And require a Vodka iv drip, however they probably frown on that therapy.

However, if the guy I was strapped to for the tandem, was a fucking hot stud. Let’s discuss it.

Anyway, we keep rolling forward…

Years ago, my friend Ted — who is a helicopter pilot — bought a Harley. I always said, “I will ride with Ted.” (To be clear, please note, I said, “ride with Ted”…not “ride Ted.” Thank you.) I know there could be some confusion there.

I love Ted. He is one of a very small select group of helicopter pilots that I fly with. Why? I’m not thrilled with flying. One of the other pilots I flew with all the time……besides Ted…….everyone would ask of this other pilot, “Why do you only fly with him?” That was such an easy question for me.

It was so obvious.

He had crash experience.
Duh.
And walked away.
Duh.

Back to the story….

Ted now lives in Arizona and I’m on the east coast. That ride is going to be a challenge to cash in on. This is a definite kink in the concept. I’ve realized this, so I’ve been keeping my ears open for a new biker. It can’t just be anyone, it has to be someone I trust and KNOW. Good lord, I’m not walking into a biker bar asking for a ride….

First, I am pretty certain I’d be offered a multitude of various rides.
Second, biker bars, last I checked aren’t listed in the phone book.
Unless you know someone, you’re not getting in.
….well, that may depend….if you’re asking for a ride…..

Just saying.

SO….let’s continue.

In your mind, imagine a fun local bar.
A live band.
A group of tourism industry folks hanging out.
Drinking.

There we are…

This past April, I was talking with a friend of mine, who said something along the lines of what sounded like he had a Harley.
What?
A what?
You think this band is gnarly?
You have a cat named Marley?
FUCK!
WHAT?

What.
Did.
You.
Just.
Say?

He says again what sounded suspiciously like…..he has a Harley.
I’m sorry, I scream over the band and pints of beer, did you say you have a Harley?

Hopeful anticipation of twitterpation, would be a word for me at this point.

Why, yes. Yes. He has a Harley.
To clarify, I scream: A bike?! The motorcycle?
Yes, it’s a something, something, something Harley.
(Forgive me for not remembering these details.)
Why?

Okay, let’s get serious.
This
Is
On my Bucket List.

I think at this point, I may have literally walked over the top of the table.
No, this wouldn’t be the first time I walked across the top of a table.
Shocking, I know.
It’s the shortest way from Point A to Point B – why fuck around?

And I sat next to him so I could clearly understand what we were talking about.

Here’s the deal: I want to go for a ride on a Harley.
Answer: He has a Harley and I can go for a ride.
Cost: Wear a leather corset.
When: July.

How do we make this deal?

Shit, where the hell am I going to get a leather corset, is running through my mind.

DEAL.
Spit & shake.
I’ll worry about the corset later.

Of course, the ladies with us, who were witnesses to this entire conversation were in hysterics. I must promise to take photos and keep them in the loop. We all work in tourism but live in separate areas of the world – literally. This is a perfect example of how our three days traveling through New England went.

Needless to say, now that I was confirmed on my ride, I was very excited.

How excited? Well. I may have left a wet mark.

Just saying.

Yes. That, excited.

The weeks roll along.

I am unable to easily find a leather corset – so that’s on my list now. (If you know a good supplier, tell me.) Who knew I’d need one! So I settled for something that would show boobs. Mind you, I have oranges, not melons. Not really tangerines. Oranges. I work with what god gave me. Thank you for the man who made push up bras. Yep, that’s about all I’ve got, right there.

I guess, the bonus for being a small titted woman, is I really won’t have much sag.
They certainly aren’t flopping off the sides of my chest any time soon.

So, in my book, that is a bonus for all small boobies in the world.

NOTE: I know you were hoping I’d post a photo of said boobies here….nope.

Two weeks prior to the event, I confirm we’re still a go.
Yep.

I’ll be riding with a husband and wife, both who have Harley bikes, in a fundraiser ride up in Maine.
I’ll be staying at their house – makes it easy.
Confirmed.
Confirmed.
Confirmed.
Let’s do this!

This past Friday I departed work early so I can head to Maine….let the adventures begin.

We have lift off!

Stay tuned for Part Two!

It’s a Bloody Hickie!

Okay that came up at a dinner with good friends a few weeks ago.

“….a bloody hickie!”

Hold the dogsled…a what?

These friends live thousands of miles away from me.

When I heard they were coming to town and asked if dinner was possible, I nearly burst into tears I was so happy.

True.

They are kind.

They are genuine.

They are real.

It does my heart good to know when these people are coming…a big sigh of relief washes over me. No matter what chaos my little row boat is facing. No matter if I’m riding an ostrich of insanity. If I’m having a week of walking the fire of idiotic nonsense. It’s going to be okay, good people are on the way.

I can be me. No judging.

Arriving to dinner in rubber boots, jeans, fleece jacket and messed up hair – this crowd would have said, “hell yeah!”

It’s comfortable.

Like going to the beach on a Sunday. It calms me. The sound of the ocean. Floating on the water. Watching the waves. Looking for fish. Aaahhh.

But most importantly….back to the bloody hickie.

Why do people do what they do to themselves?

I drive down the highway and there are billboards….upgrade your breasts. Lift your butt! Tuck that tummy. They offer photos to show proof.

The problem?

The original boobs looked just fine to me.

The original butt. I don’t know which one I am supposed to like – they both look nice. One is thiner than the other. Isn’t that what we want?

No.

This is Miami.

Well, hell. Give me a break.

I’ll give you the tummy ads. They need those.

Why don’t they put the men up there with 40 pound man boobs? Hello? Plastic surgeons! You are missing an entire market!

You don’t see a snap of a man’s ass up on the billboard…with the tag, “Lift it high, lift it proud!”

Have penis sag? Not a problem. There’s a solution for that, let us show you how.

Something isn’t right.

Our bodies. Costumes we wear on earth. (can’t wait to see my angel outfit….or at the rate I’m going I could be collecting some horns.)

Okay so over the last few weeks I’ve had two zits on my collar bone.

Yep. Front and center. Right there. About 2 inches apart.

I have made up a story about them. They’re from a piercing gone bad.

“Yes, I’d like to have my collar bone pierced please….Mr. Tattoo Man.”

Maybe not all piercing professionals are tattooed, however the one that did my……well, he was well tattooed.  In Vegas.

Since I’ve been staring at these two bumps for what seems like eternity, I’m now actually considering a collar bone piercing.

I mentioned it to my other half the other night and he nearly spit up his wine.

But then I ponder the eternal question…………………………………………..WHY?

Why have my collar bone pierced?

Okay 7 ear piercing? Fine. Nipple piercings? Possibly.

Tongue? Too painful, but okay for oral excitement…if you can get through the piercing….good on you. No. Wait. Good on me!

Have you seen this guy? Okay, watch the link. FANTASTIC.  And oddly sensual.

The oddly colored hair doesn’t interest me. Everyone does it. No challenge. Nothing bold about it. Meh. Like a hairball on the carpet.

Zombie Boy? Well now he’s something. (Hint: see the link above)

It started with boobs. Fake books. Woman needed (and still want) bigger boobs. Ok, I’d go one size larger. But what happens if you want to return them?

Fake eyelashes? Eye lash extensions? Odd. There’s a Group On currently…if interested. Do men get eye lash extensions?

Hair extensions. Which, if you’re going to wear them, I don’t want to see the little strips of tape. Get a lesson on how to wear your hair! MEN – warn your woman if her tape things are showing. (Yes, that is the technical term thank you. After all, your woman is a reflection of you!) And what do you do when you’re getting ready to roll around with the hottie? You have to have a disclaimer: “Excuse me but my hair isn’t real?” Otherwise, he may pull out a chunk and we’re into a horror story in 20 seconds flat! But how do you even bring that up in a conversation? I know someone and I asked her that question.

Yep. That’s basically it. Hey….something I need to tell you.

Really? At my age? In that position? I have other things I need to worry about. News flash……the hair on my head isn’t one of them.

Of course, I have been tempted many times to try extensions.

If I had to confess about them to my romance cover novel superstar….I’d say something like….”Unlike those you see in the Pirates of the Caribbean movies, I may not have a glass eye, peg leg or octopus whiskers….but my hair is fake.”

Ear lobe disks. That’ all I’m saying.

If I could get something done to my physical self…..I’d ask for height. Run Forest Run!
As a shorter person with top shelf grocery aisle issues, I’d be fine with 4 more inches.

Four inches can do a lot more than you think.

Just saying.

Bigger Boobs Please

nature-heart17

Happy Valentine’s Day Everyone!

The “Kinder Gentler Side” and I went to dinner tonight at a local fish market.  Now before you get the wrong idea, it was one of those restaurants where you can buy your fresh fish at the front counter and then if you so choose….you can opt to dine in the restaurant in the back.  It was quite nice.  The best part….

They don’t rush you out to get the next couple seated so they can make their next $300.

In January, we celebrated our 9 year anniversary and went to Joe’s Stone Crabs – a hugely popular restaurant up on South Beach.  We had heard wonderful things about it so we decided to go for our special night out.  The food was nice.  The down fall?  From the moment you sit down they’re pushing you out the door.

No good.

If I am going to spend nearly $300 on a meal, I want to enjoy the meal.  This isn’t a Happy Meal.  We won’t go back.  It wasn’t enjoyable.  To be rushed from the moment your ass hits the seat to the time your dessert port comes – they should be embarrassed.  They may turn 600 tables a night but you know what?  If I’m paying that price for a meal, I expect it to take longer the 45 minutes.  I expect the wait staff not to push me through like candies on a Lucille Ball conveyor belt episode.   To me, it was a scam.

Tonight, we went to Fish Fish in Aventura.  It was great from the moment we walked in to the moment we left.  2.5 hours.  Our appetizer didn’t run crashing into our salad, which didn’t slide screaming into our entree.  It was fantastic.  It was a leisurely and enjoyable evening.  I was delighted.

Of course, tonight was also Valentine’s so you can imagine….the spectacle.  I saw it all.

Lots of jeans.

Young ladies in short dresses.

Middle aged ladies in short dresses.

Older ladies in short dresses.  Go Nana.

But you know what?  THIS is Miami.  If you’re a woman and you have a pair of legs, chances are, you’re wearing a dress.  Double chances are you’re wearing a dress that is a little ridiculous for you.

Miami is all about butts, boobs and fake…fake….fake….fake.

Fake what?

Lips.

Butts.

Boobs.

Hair.

Nails.

Cheeks.

Eyelashes.

Yes.  You read it….eyelashes.

You name it…..it’s probably fake.  There’s so much silicone on the escalator at that mall that it actually jiggles as moves towards Earth.  The damdest thing I’ve ever seen.  Woman are fighting the jiggle only to replace it with silicone jiggle – cause it’s so much more effective and “healthier.”

Well…. and you don’t have to do anything to maintain it of course.

Damn, I could have had a V8!

Or by this time a 48GG.

I digress, which is so often my problem.

Tonight, I saw all shapes and sizes.  Lady, please.  Don’t wear grey stretch pants.  Not now.  Not ever.  No.  The oversized black, v-neck tee shirt with flashy cowgirl type belt – DOES NOT HELP YOU.

Same goes for you sister, with the oh so small nylon white tank top.  If it’s cutting off the circulation to the upper extremities – and your neck and face is a permanent purple color….that is a danger signal…..not a mating signal.  It’s not attractive to anyone.  Not to mention having to look at your four rolls of fat.  

Michelin pictire of Michelin Mann by carlfbagge

I thought the makers of the Michelin Man advertising campaign only created the one that came with a penis.  Didn’t realize they also created one with a vagina.

Which leads me to say, men….if you don’t look good with a shaved head – don’t do it on purpose.  There are some guys who can pull it off and they look good.  Others figure, why fight the battle of loosing their hair so they decide to shave off whatever hair they have left.

The problem is… if you don’t look good, you appear like penis looking for it’s body.

Just saying.

(See, I digressed again.)

There are a lot of fake things here in Miami.  I’m sure there are lots of fake things in LA, NYC, Fargo…(ok, maybe not)….and other high profile cities world wide.  Juneau, Alaska – not so much.  Sometimes it’s a bit overwhelming.

Take for example, the other day I was at the Bobby Brown make up counter getting new colors and this young girl goes walking by who was gorgeous.  I admire gorgeous woman just as much as any man does.  I admire gorgeous men just as much so don’t get the wrong idea.

She was Amazon tall, helped by her 5 inch heels.  Long blonde hair.  Beautiful.

Then she turned around

Collagen-Lip-Injection-Freaks-1

WTF?  She needed to use one of those old fashioned phones that had an ear piece and a seperate mouth piece cause those things you call lips have their own zip codes.

It looked like she was wearing a pair of those wax lips you got as a kid.  Apparently her lips doubled as a bird perch while she was out in public.  They were enormous!  Who thinks this is attractive?  They were done up in a frosty pink.   It was ridiculous and she was barely 24.

Of course, my self esteem, all 5’2 of it,  just shot through the roof.  Thank you.

Boobs.  If I were to get something fake.  I’d get bigger boobs.

True.

I’d like to upgrade to grapefruits.

The couple that came into the restaurant last night and sat down at the table next to us – she had a boob job.  She walked past us and I gave Eric the “OMG WTF….look at this” look.  I couldn’t help looking.  Even after they sat down, I couldn’t help looking.

Her chest was so out of proportion to the rest of her body that he had to hold her up under the arm pit.  Mind you, I’m not even talking about a petite girl either.  She was a “big boned” girl to start with.

She wasn’t grapefruits.

She wasn’t watermelons.

She wasn’t even human head size.

She was mamoth.

Little green dress, low cut.  Which I get.  Show those behemoths off.

Trust me, I like to flaunt my oranges as often as I can…I get it!Every good artist knows if you’re going to show off your artwork, you need a good frame.

This girl….thought she was all that and she wasn’t even the olive in her martini. Her bra didn’t even fit right.  The band was so tight that it cut her boobs in half.  So it looked like she had FOUR boobs.  To top this off, there was the neck line of her dress….another line on her boobs.

There was so much silicone and boob bondage going on that she appeared to be a pregnant cat with swollen tits.  Stop it!

Just.

Stop.

It.

All I could think about is the man with her:  Tell me…you honestly think THIS is attractive?  Really?  Honestly?  She has to rest them on the table.

Girl.  Did you look at yourself before you left the house?  Did you get dressed in the dark?  OMG what the hell?

Did you seriously think this was HOT?  What magazine said buy yourself boobs that belong on an elephant and then stuff them into a bra made for a mouse….men like that.

Really?  I’m thinking every issue of Cosmo would advise against that.  If they did, it was in an article referring to bondage and they meant using red silk and satin ropes and ribbon.  Not for dressing up on a night out on the town.

I would much rather see the soft curves of a slightly exposed boob and the bounce and jiggle as a woman walks.  Not some mashed up mess inside the dress with sloppy spillage over the neckline.  It’s so unflattering.  Does 25 gallons of silicone even bounce?

I don’t care if you have treated yourself to a 46GG and think you are the most exotic thing since Marilyn Monroe.  You appear to be a cartoon. They’re disproportionate to the rest of you.  Did you consider that before you bought those missiles?

WAIT maybe that is what they are!  She’s actually a secret weapon of destruction.  25 gallons of liquid nitrogen.  Better yet, maybe they’re bullet proof and she’s a body guard.  Like Wonder Woman but different.

Nope, I bet she’s a fisherwoman and they’re her floatation devices.

She’s obviously not a stomach sleeper.

What would one do with those when you turn 75 and decide you don’t want to carry 20 pounds worth of silicone any longer?  By then your skin has sagged. So what?  You put groceries in there when you go to the store?  Secret hiding place for valuables?  What?

Wait!  I got it.  That’s where you will sneak in snacks to the movie theatre!

It was just absurd.

Don’t even get me stared on eyelash extensions….

Seriously.