I must, I must, I must increase my bust!

I was going to write a short post thanking all the guys that participated in Penis Week, but I’d rather do a video. So I’m thinking I might enlist the services of my best friend and make it a little extra special. (And that is not a girl-on-girl reference.) It’s in the heterosexual works.

**********

I’ve always said that I’m glad my kid is a girl. I just didn’t think I could raise a boy. If I’m being completely honest, I didn’t think I could raise anything other than a penis or my hand...but here I am, doing it.

I took her shopping for fall clothes recently and was delighted to find that she and I have more in common than our freakishly long toes. We shop alike: Grab, try on, put back or keep, and get the fuck out. Fast, efficient, and leaving extra time for lunch.

There was only one exception: underwear.

My four year old decided she wanted a bra. Not a training bra, mind you, a REAL bra...with cups and adjustable straps. It took me about 15 minutes to get her away from those racks, sans bra and inappropriate panties, and hustle her, whining and pleading to the check out counter.

I told my mother about it when we got home.

“She wants a bra. Not a training bra with rainbows and butterflies all over it...a real one, with a matching set of bikini panties.”

"Are they made for her size?"

"Yes, the cups (air quotes) are flat, but"

She laughed. “Then why didn’t you get her one?”

“She’s four. Bras and bikini panties? Seriously?”

“Eh”, she said shrugging.

“I could be setting her up to be a....a....”

“A what? It’s no worse than the shit you used to wear.”

“Yeah, well you didn’t help me buy any of it!”

“Nope! And I’m not helping you with this one either!”


I got my first bra when I was six.

It was Fourth of July weekend and I was standing on my grandparent’s porch with my nine year old cousin, waving sparklers. She was making fun of me for not wearing a bra, pointing and laughing at my flat chest. This was the same she-devil that taught me about sex with a Barbie and Ken doll and how to steal the candy from our uncle’s army food packs.

The more she taunted me the angrier I got, until finally I took my sparkler and stabbed her in the hand with it. She ran off screaming and crying, eighties hair still visible over the bushes as she cut through the yard.

My Nana came out the side door, cigarette in one hand and the obligatory gin and tonic in the other. I didn’t know she'd been watching.

“What did ya do that for, dawlin?”

“She was making fun of me.”

She stood staring at me for a moment, blowing smoke out of her nose, before finally saying, "You come on with me.”

I was sure she was going to take the yard stick to my ass. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

She went into the spare bedroom, opened up the closet and started digging through a drawer. I stared at the lengthening ashes of the cigarette clamped between her bright pink lips. I remember thinking that if she dropped it, I had to step on it quick and make sure it was out. Because Papa always said, “Jackass, you make sure your Nana don’t burn this house down, ya hear?”

She finally found what she was looking for and turning around, held it up for me to see. It was a pale blue training bra with one of those sticky appliqués on the front of Strawberry Shortcake.

“This was ya cousin’s first training bra and now it’s yours.”

I didn’t want a hand-me-down training bra, but I knew better than to say that to Nana. She handed it over and told me to go to the bathroom and put it on.

The rest of the day she made sure to tell everyone that I was wearing that fucking bra. I was mortified. The only consolation was my cousin had a nice, red welt across her palm and was getting no sympathy. Training bra trumps sparkler burn.

My mom didn’t deal well with “girl issues”. It made her uncomfortable to talk about anything relating to underwear, boys, and especially periods. Nana used to say, “That woman just needs to touch herself, that’s all there is to it! Pain and simple.”

So Nana continued to buy my bras, panties, and other girl products as I grew up.When she passed away I was 12 and I started buying my own things.

My she-devil cousin was old enough to drive then and we would go to the mall with Papa’s credit card, buying whatever we wanted. My first run-in with Victoria’s Secret was on one such trip.

It was around my 13th birthday and I wanted something new and special to mark the occasion, but I wasn't sure what that was yet. She-devil marched into VS like she owned the place and started digging through the racks and bins. I was too busy gawking at all the leopard print and lace. Obviously this place had never heard of white cotton.

I finally started looking around, trying to draw as little attention as possible. I had a strong dislike for women that measure you for bras (still do actually) and I didn’t want one of them feeling me up in the VS dressing room in front of the she-devil.

I was rummaging through a bin when I saw a sign I couldn’t ignore. Glancing furtively around, I made my way toward every teenage girl’s destiny: the padded bra.

I found love with an emerald green, satin Wonderbra that day. The padding in that sucker was un-fucking-believable.

I took it to the counter, paid, and immediately went to the dressing room to switch it out with my plain white “Virgin” screamer.

BAM! Insta-titties!

I was so fucking proud of those things. Until I got home.

I stowed my bags in my room, made myself something to drink, and settled on the couch with a book. A short time later, my dad and mom came home from wherever the hell they’d been. It couldn’t have been 60 seconds before....

“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON WITH YOUR CHEST?” My dad was gawking at me.

“What? What’s going on?” My mom peered around him and her mouth promptly fell open.

“Let me see what you bought today”, she said reluctantly.

“Papa said I could get whatever I wanted!”

She started to my room. “Just show me.”

My dad was still yapping to himself, trying to wrap his pea brain around what was going on. “Don’t know what’s wrong with...is that green....I don’t think....”

A bright, emerald green strap was poking out from underneath my tank top and I shoved it back.

My mom started digging through my things and pulled out the Victoria’s Secret bag, empty except for tissue paper and a receipt. She read it and looked up at my dad standing in the doorway.

“It’s a MIRACLEbra”, she said with tears in her eyes, horrified. My dad looked at her, and then looked at my chest. Back and forth he went before finally bursting into laughter.

“MIRACLE! IT’S A MIRACLE”, he howled.

My face was bright red. I snatched the bag from her hand and stomped out.

“Call him”, I heard my dad say.

“I WILL not”, my mom replied.

Then I heard the unmistakable sound of the speaker phone. Ring. Ring. Ring. I stood in the hall, horror struck.

“HELLO”, my Papa shouted into the phone. He always shouts.

“DAD! THERE’S BEEN A MIRACLE!”

“WHAT?”

“WE’VE HAD A MIRACLE AT 154 blank ROAD!”

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKIN BOUT, JIM?”

“YOUR GRANDAUGHTER BOUGHT A MIRACLE BRA WITH YOUR CREDIT CARD! SHE’S GOT 'ER BOOBIES PUSHED UP TO 'ER CHIN!”

Loud, obnoxious, old man laughter.

“AND IT’S BRIGHT GREEN!”

More laughter.

For the next several years I became known as “The Miracle at 154 blank Road”...all because my mother was too embarrassed to help me shop for underwear.

Now it’s mine and my daughter’s turn to go through these rituals. I guess I'm about to buy her first training bra. Weird. Hopefully I'll do alright with this girly, parenting stuff and not embarrass her too much. It's definitely not all sugar, spice and everything nice.

But it will probably be fine.

After all...I have no problem touching myself.

We've only just begun: The end. I win.

His mother told me she found my work number in the court papers. She wanted to see her grandchild.

I was floored. I honestly couldn’t ask her any pertinent questions. Mainly, “Where the fuck have YOU been the past year and a half?”

I agreed to take the kid to their house so they could see her. At that point, I was imagining Chris covering up her existence...or something. I thought that I would see what it was all about, see if they were good people, and if they were...they should be in her life. It was the right thing to do.

It was hands down one of the top three most awkward moments of my life. Poor Hannah had no idea what the fuck was going on. They didn’t even remember who I was, but I remembered every little detail about them.

Chris was there, in close proximity again. He sat in a chair across from mine, barely moving or saying a word. I was so deeply embarrassed by my still there raging sexual attraction for him, I rambled. They asked one or two nonchalant questions about the kid, and I went off on a tangent. Yatta yatta yatta. I know they were thinking, “This chick is on speed.”

I think I only made it about two hours. I couldn’t stand it. I made up an excuse and bolted.

The next few times were a little easier. I asked Chris’s mom to meet me, without the kid, to talk some things out. I was irritated and angry that they never once offered me any kind of explanation for their absence. They just stepped in like, “Hi. What’s for dinner? Oh, hey kid!”

We met at the mall and sat in the food court. I wanted a public area where I would be less likely to show my ass and she would, hopefully, be less likely to show hers. I didn’t know how it would go.

Basically, I tanked. I never ended up getting the answers I came for or saying all of the things I wanted. She twisted around what I was trying to nervously get out and made it sound like I was being ridiculous. I felt like the little teenager that was trying to wear her mom's shoes and play with a real live baby. This woman had delt with three other women before me...what the fuck did I think I was doing?

At one point, when she said something about me not contacting them I said something along the lines of this, “Talk to Chris about that. I called him over and over again, for months, and he never had the time.”

“I didn’t know you’d asked him”, she said.

“Oh, yes. I asked him.”

“Well, I’m sure he feels kind of awkward...since you two don’t really know each other. But Hannah shouldn’t have to suffer for a one night stand.”

Bitch say WHAT?

I know my mouth was hanging open. I was appalled, embarrassed, angry, defensive....so many things. Maybe we didn’t know each other well, but it wasn’t a goddamn one night stand. I was having more sex in your house than you were, lady. He met my parents...even if it wasn’t intentional. I met you guys several times and you don’t even fucking remember me. My head nearly exploded.

I stayed calm though. I don’t remember what I said, but I’m sure it was borderline civil.

I rarely spoke to Chris in the months that followed. The kid continued to go over for day visits without me. I was weary of overnighters, but his mother and I were getting along better. She and Chris’s father are truly good people, just misguided and ignorant when it comes to their youngest son.

I took Hannah to their house for Christmas Day present opening. Chris and I exchanged tentative smiles and conversation. We sat next to each other while we put the kid’s toys together. Another one of those moments of feeling loss....

He was never far from my mind now that I was seeing him more often again. I still wanted him and I never once let him see me looking anything less than completely put together. I raged about his lackadaisical involvement out loud to everyone and dreamed about his hands on my body at night. It was mental torture. Had he said “come”, I would have...on the spot. That’s embarrassing to admit, but completely true.

Then the accident happened.

His mom called to tell me that he’d lost control of his motorcycle and wasn’t wearing a helmet.

I was terrified he would die and the kid wouldn’t know her dad. I was terrified he would die period...but I felt like I wasn’t allowed to feel that way. What was he to me other than Hannah’s dad?

I found out he had a girlfriend then. His mom called to give me an update about him waking up. He was confused, she said, and asked for me.

Me? He asked for me?

Yes. Instead of his girlfriend, his mom said. She had to remind him of her.

I was a mental case. What did that mean? I went off into fantasy land and didn’t come around for a very long time. I became obsessed with his recovery process and hearing about this girlfriend I knew nothing of. What did she have that I didn’t? Not his child. She was older. I was younger. Surely I was the better choice?

Along with those feelings, I had others.

He was having trouble with his memory and not thinking clearly. It took him longer to speak a sentence. He was physically banged up too...deep gashes on his head that required surgery.

Once it was established that he wasn’t going to die...I felt a sort of grim satisfaction. His girlfriend wasn’t likely to stay and help him recover (and she didn’t). Who knew what else he’d lost? He was already having trouble with his mind. I had as many cruel and smugly righteous thoughts as I did worries for his health. In a way, I thought of it as his payback for everything I’d been put through...for all of his nonchalance and disregard for our daughter and.....well, my fucking uterus, ok.

I got over that relatively quickly, only lapsing into calling him a retard when I was really angry or frustrated. He’s not, by the way.

A year after the accident, he was still home and still struggling with his recovery. He still moved slowly and felt like he was in a fog sometimes. Whatever that meant...

He seemed lonely and depressed. I felt sorry for him, but after the accident...there was one very noticeable difference.

The way he looked at me.

I could be completely off base, but I could have sworn he was checking me out. His smile, the old look in his eye...they were there. He seemed shy instead of indifferent when we spoke.

I seized that idea and ran with it.

The kid was spending the night there one or two weekends a month. Instead of making his mom meet me, I drove the LONG drive to their house, just so he could see me in one getup or another. I wore going out outfits when I wasn’t going out. Shoes that were...ridiculous. A lot of the time, I was going out...and I let it be known just how much fun I was getting ready to have while he sat at home with his parents.

It was ridiculous and petty. I wanted him not only to want me, but to know that other men were having me...to feel alone and disabled.

But he never changed. He stayed home, he didn’t seem to be progressing, and he didn’t seem to be taking any more interest in my antics. I stopped.

But don’t think that I was some desperate psycho baby’s mama, fawning all over him and blowing up his phone, crying on his doorstep. All of those issues...stayed internal. I never made a scene; I never professed any kind of feelings for or to him at all (except the original irritation with his lack of parenting).

I haven’t seen him out of sweat pants or jogging shorts in two years. I asked him if he’d like to go to dinner with me twice...to get him out of the house and to see if I could finally have the conversation I never had with him. To just ask him...why? He agreed then backed out due to not feeling well.

My best friend went with me to pick up the kid once and observed his odd behavior with me. She thinks he’s embarrassed about his issues and doesn’t want me to see him this way. Who really knows?

He avoids me most days now. Stays upstairs. He and the kid have gotten a little closer. I can tell on those days when I don’t call ahead and he’s still in the living room...she cares about him and he looks like he cares about her. They hug each other and kiss each other and she squeals and laughs with him. I know that doesn’t sound like much to you, but for her it’s massive. She’s lived in a house with three women and she’s always been wary of men. She doesn’t let them close to her and she isn’t easily persuaded.

I go over there with yesterday’s makeup on and pj pants now, my hair in a messy bun and with a carefree attitude. More often than not I have his mom meet me somewhere. He still gives me those looks from time to time that make my face burn and my heart skip a beat. I still have this place inside me that compels me to care about him, to still want him sometimes. But I don’t let it make me crazy anymore. I ignore it and I go on about my business.

I’m no longer that 18 year old girl that went after trouble and got it. I’m a 24 year old woman. And now I’m the trouble.

Oh...and so is she:

Fat kids are fun. Richard Simmons has a vagina.

What is the definition of food?

The chief comfort Southern women are born and bred to provide to their loved ones.

The Grandmother isn’t a true Southern woman in a lot of ways, but that heifer can cook. Fried chicken, mac-n-cheese, rice and gravy, biscuits. And bake...Boston crème pie, cheesecake, pound cake, peach cobbler. When she wasn’t cooking, she was feeding me store bought goodness. Cheetos, cookies, ice cream sandwiches, candy bars.

I would sit in my brown wing chair, watch “Clarissa Explains it All” marathons and stuff my chubby little face. Then I’d lock myself in my room and read about horror (Goosebumps) and pre teen angst (The Saddle Club).

Misty water colored memories....

Until...TG decided she was tired of my expanding, adolescent waist. She began her campaign then and there by making the most beautiful cheesecake I’d ever seen.

(There’s a long list of things I’ll do for good cheesecake and most of them are felonies and/or crimes of a sexual nature.)

She brought said cheesecake out on a lovely glass platter and called my 10 year old self into the dining room. “Look what I made”, she said as she extended her arms, bringing the platter level with my face.

As I looked, it sang its cheesecake siren song and demanded I inch just a bit closer. So I did. But as I took that one tiny step, TG took one back. I looked up at her in puzzlement. This was my offering, was it not? I was the chosen child, was I not?

“Oh, I forgot...you can’t have this”, she declared. Then she whipped around and toted it back to the kitchen.

That was the day my sister became the undisputed favorite and I became the “Oh, you can’t have that” grandchild. Even 15 years and a normal weight later, I’m still the “Oh you can’t have that” grandchild. Old habits die hard, I suppose.

Once TG started her campaign to shame me into losing weight, my mother jumped on the band wagon. She realized that she had found the perfect work out buddy to help her lose that 2nd baby poundage.

I saw my life flash before my eyes when she purchased matching work out clothing and a box set of Richard Simmons exercise videos.

But no matter how much I protested, I was told that the Department of Social Services most certainly wouldn’t consider it child abuse. No amount of threatening, begging, or bargaining with my candy stash could keep her from her goal: 3 days a week mimicking Richard’s scary, tan legs pump pump pumping away at the pony.

Have you ever seen a fat kid and her mom do the pony in spandex shorts? Don’t. Ever.

To this day I can’t listen to most oldies songs for fear of regression. If I hear Peggy Sue, my feet start doing the quick step heel toe heel toe heel toe and I start pulling out my hair in panic. When I watch Dirty Dancing, I put the TV on mute through the Wipeout song montage.

But copying and watching that giddy man stomp away wasn’t enough punishment for the fat kid. NO.

My mom thought Richard Simmons was sexy.

While we ponyed across the living room, he ponyed across the TV screen in his tiny red and while stripped shorts...tan, shiny legs flashing and afro bouncing.

And she would say, “OOOOO WEEEEE! Huff, puff left. LOOK AT THOSE SEXY LEGS! Huff, puff right. I’D LIKE TO LICK THOSE CALVES SOMETHIN’ FIERCE! Huff, puff left. LOOK AL, LOOK AT UM MMMM MMM! Huff, Puff right.”

Her favorite saying though, was “Richard Simmons’s legs were hand crafted by Jesus.”

Once she said it in front of my dad and through him Crown Royal replied, “Jesus don’t craft fag legs.”

My daddy was (is) an eloquent, well mannered drunk.

As you can well imagine, after weeks of being subjected to this treatment I was growing more and more agitated. Rebellion was inevitable.

It came on a Saturday afternoon. My mom had some kind of lunch get together for her friends and one brought their daughter for me to play with. Her name was Suzanne and she was a walking fence post. Of course I hated her.

As they fixed our lunch plates, our mothers discussed Richard Simmons and his “Sweatin’ to the oldies” tape. And then it came.

“His legs were hand crafted by Jesus”, my mom said reverently to her nodding friends.

And the angry fat kid in me heard those words, saw all the vegetables on that fucking lunch plate and lost it.

“Daddy says Jesus doesn’t craft fag legs and with shorts that small he probably has a vagina. And I bet he’s right! Richard Simmons is a woman!”

Crickets.

Crickets.

“Excuse us”, my mom said.

She grabbed me by the arm and pulled me down the hall, into her room, and beat my ass with the biggest belt she could find. I laughed.

She banished me to my room with my plate of vegetables and the fence post Suzanne. I dug out my candy stash.

“Are you supposed to be eating that”, she asked.

“No”, I said.

“But what if you get caught? You could get spanked again.”

“So what?”

“Well...I’D be scared!”

I popped a piece of chocolate in my mouth and grinned. “That’s because you don’t have any padding, fence post.”

Then I did the pony out the door.

(Ok, so I didn’t do the pony part...but that would have been awesome right?)

After everyone left, my mom called dad at work to tell him what I’d done. When he got home that evening he stopped by my room.

“Here”, he said, handing me a $10 bill.

“What’s that for”, I asked.

“For making me laugh and pissing off your mom’s friends.”

I bought lots of candy with that $10...and I never did the pony again.