Monday, November 13, 2006

His car is in my garage.

It takes a whole lot of work to make it onto my shit list. It is an extremely short list. You can add your name by fucking with me, my husband, one of my family members or one of my close friends. Get there quicker by fucking with a combo of any of these elements.

If you fuck with me, that’s bad. If you fuck with my husband too, that’s worse. If you fuck up our weekend, it’s over.

His practical joke fucked with all three. He is now on that list. And right now his car is in my garage. No additional details needed.

If the garage were attached to my home, there would be no need to ponder further. Brake cables would already be cut, and I would have pushed the vehicle into a ditch. But the car is in our garage, which is located across the apartment complex. The distance could allow me the luxury of ignoring its presence all week if I want to – or, I can think of lovely things to do to the car until the shithead returns.

Wipe my ass on the door handle?
Leave a piece of rotting meat in the exhaust pipe?
Introduce the vehicle to my New Jersey neighbor Hoop (you can see his work above)?

The possibilities really are endless.

So what is a girl to do? This guy’s relationship with my husband is unfortunately important enough to merit his car being in our garage. Regardless, this is a prime opportunity for payback. It could be as garish as a “Pimp my Ride” episode gone very, very wrong. It could be as subtle as just him knowing this little “harmless” rant exists.

Payback is a bitch, buddy,
even if only in my bitter musings.
We’ll see if it goes anywhere from there.

Thursday, November 02, 2006

Introducing: "the girls".

Since the 3rd grade, “the girls” have defined me. Boys had crushes on me because I had mine before everyone else. In high school, word was that I wore necklaces over my extra-large sweatshirts because I wanted to draw attention to them. I went to the gynecologist today, and even he seemed impressed when he caught his first glance - as completely uncomfortable as this made me. The attention “the girls” get has always made me very uncomfortable.

I am an average 5 foot 4, weigh an average 135 lbs, and carry a bit more than average size boobs. If I wear something baggy to cover them up, I look overweight. If I wear something that fits, it looks as though the goal of the outfit is to make you look.

Within the past year, I have taken the attitude that I would embrace the fact that I know people are looking. It’s me and my girls – nothing’s changing, so I have to work it. All right, maybe not work it so much as not shy away from reacting when they are reacted to.

My sister and I began performing “Breast Marionettes” acts at home. Hum a little ditty, grab the bra straps from under the top of your shirt, and you are ready to go. I like to animate the left one first, than the right, then alternating. It used to make my parents turn magenta. It was empowering to make someone feel just as uncomfortable about looking at the girls as I felt having them looked at.

The strangest power the girls have is that men feel free to say things they never say whenever the girls are around. I once worked with a supervisor who would only compliment my outfit if the girls were on parade. I mentioned this to one of my male co-workers, who at first didn’t believe me but did once he witnessed it himself.

Afterward, we’d joke that the next time it happened, my coworker would say “Yeah Aj, your tits look fantastic”, to which I would answer “Thank you so much for noticing. I’ve been working on them” or “Do you think this blouse makes them look bigger?” He bailed on the plan when the supervisor paid his next “compliment”, but I can understand why. To many, the titties are taboo. To me, they are the objects that many acknowledge, but cannot say anything directly about. And most of the time, I can translate what isn’t being said.

Every day I dress myself, and have to consider that what I am wearing could very well change someone’s perception of me. The girls are here. There is little repressing them, regardless of if I wear a turtleneck or a v-neck. Sometimes it’s hard to get someone to listen when they can’t get their eyes past my chest.

Back to the gynecologist. At the end of my appointment, he asked how long I have been on the pill. He asked if I had breast cancer in the family. He asked how old I am. He then told me that I should consider giving up the pill, as the hormones could put the girls and me at risk. This has presented a new issue – do I keep the girls healthy at the risk of starting a family before I’m ready, or risk loosing them in an attempt to plan my family and protect my autonomy? Part of my identity has become coping with my mammeries and the reaction they get. and I have finally become accustom to one way of dealing with the girls – as objects that attract eyes. I’m not ready to fully embrace the idea that they may also become a magnet for disease.