To me,
An internote[1] that I was spammed begins, “It’s great to be a woman because men’s underwear has no deceptive powers.” …well, I laughed. T.
To penetrate my witless mind, oblique references usually have to do the flamenco atop my head, but this time I think I got it!
This internote refers to the delusions perpetuated by brassieres and infers that men are the reason that women have to run around in falsies, advertising anyway. I don’t know of anything that confuses women as easily as the elementary food source confounds men.
It’s possible that I may have missed the boat entirely on this issue, because I’ve noticed that as women everywhere are leaning forward to shake themselves into their bras, I am only wearing one to identify the direction that I’m headed—to decide whether I’m coming or going. (It makes life so much easier when I can just glance down.)
To all my fam,
I’m thinking of ordering a custom bra from a covert military magazine. In addition to a compass, I’ve opted for adding the GPS feature,[2] the optional listening device, and the elusive front closure.
Anyone else interested? Let me know, ‘cause I could get a volume discount. T.
I do not purposely set out to misrepresent anything, but in order to achieve my objective, (to accurately determine my direction) I am forced to wear a slightly exaggerated size. But, I am not alone; it seems that sixty percent of Americans are also wearing bras that don’t fit.[3] I had no idea so many other female persons are also lost!
As a member of such a high focus group, I feel that I’m qualified to state that sixty percent of all bras are misfits because they have been manufactured to fit a species other than women. I know because I’ve tried them all!
To me,
Did you know many women are forced to put their bra on backward to clasp and then jerk it around front to back? This is because as we age, it becomes impossible to reach around to the middle of the back to the fastener?
Not you yet? Just wait. Why don’t we insist on front fasteners? Or do what I do and continue to wear it backwards. Always thinking! T.
I do use mine primarily as a compass, (wouldn’t it be great if a bra really did beep as I turned due north) and so size and fit are really irrelevant.
And don’t talk to me about implants, I’m already unrecognizable in the mirror. Besides, I’m not about to change my shape as that would guarantee flat as the latest upcoming fashion! (Ya’ll can thank me later.)
This is because I’m prefad[4]. I bring in the trend, preempt it and make it happen! I’m prehip, prediva, and prefabulous.
Reality Bite: Prehysterical too.
[1] Wordsmith! I expect this one will grow as big as the net.
[2] Global positioning satellite
[3] Another fascinating statistic from Oprah!
[4] Ha! And you thought I would forget to explain. Oh, I already discussed this? And it’s detailed again in Book One? Oh.
Showing posts with label Cpt 6: Angle of Descent. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cpt 6: Angle of Descent. Show all posts
…the flake
To: realmom@stake.out
Is there a law in most states, against marrying—like the one against cousins marrying to avoid birth defects—if your mother has been declared hopelessly incompetent and forgetful? Is that possible? I’m really worrying about this one and I need reassurance. Write back... now! Again, desperately seeking… Terina
On-demand therapists are what my friends, family and even total strangers have become. Anyone who ventures within hearing must listen to my newest foul-up. It’s become the job of those around me—even sometimes the unsuspecting bystander—to pick up the pieces, put me back together and set me back on track to continue with life.
To me,
Today’s goof happened when I was at a daughter function and another young lady came up to me and in a whisper, reminded me that I was responsible that day for my daughter’s spotlight in her young women’s group.
“…just a short letter from you and her father telling her how great she is and then another note with cute anecdotes, so we can get to know her better and guess her identity...”
I hear water running. Back in a few, T.
Most instant-psychotherapists, when faced with this dilemma, reassure me by relating stories of their own to halt the self- flagellation and try to make me feel better. It’s a weak, “I’m-as-whacked-as-you-are,” assurance, because no one could ever top me. They attempt to reassure me that today’s blunder is understandable and “should expected from a person so busy and so involved.”
Could it be that I subconsciously seek out fruits and nuts of my same genus to reassure me that I’m not the only split pea in the pod,[1] and to inveigle myself into their lives to see how they cracked they are?[2]
To me:
This young girl had called ahead and warned me two weeks previously and I had immediately placed it in my mental memory, under the main folder, titled Forget!
Twice more in a three-hour period I was reminded and twice more I forgot. I could take two pages to explain how muddled a mélange my mind is, but suffice it to say, I was thinking about other things. Later, T.
I’m trying to identify with unique individuals to appreciate their eccentricities and assure myself that I’m just like them…well, in an individual way, and they are just like me… well in a communal way. But most importantly, I want to reach the point where we get to know each other so well that we like each other.[3]
To me,
So I end up at the youth meeting, in front of twenty young women hiding my blushing face behind a too-small sheet of paper while the spot-lighter explained that she would highlight this girl, but it was impossible because her mother was not forthcoming with the information.
The group unanimously guessed who the girl was. My reputation precedes me. Blushing, T.
I must face it; no individual is as oddball as I am, so I have to learn to appreciate me. When I do, that means others are forced by the dictates of polite society to reciprocate in kind, right? Yeah! We do all fit in.[4]
To realmom@stake.out
Hey, family, so I’m just wondering if sweet innocent girls with flaky mothers are allowed to wed if there is no possible way the mother of the bride can be that organized? I promise I’ll remember all the little details, but probably not the big ones.
My daughter reassures me that on the way to the wedding, she will call me an hour before the ceremony and remind me that the groom will be by to pick me up. And not to worry, she will have my dress. Whew! Terina
Reality bite: No, it’s not fair for my children to be saddled with me, but I remind them, “That’s Life, It’s not fair. You can choose your friends, but not your mother.”[5]
[1] Reality television helps
[2]Validation.
[3] If that’s too deep, or just plain confusing, skip it.
[4] An issue left over from the teen years.
[5]I mangled this one personally.
Is there a law in most states, against marrying—like the one against cousins marrying to avoid birth defects—if your mother has been declared hopelessly incompetent and forgetful? Is that possible? I’m really worrying about this one and I need reassurance. Write back... now! Again, desperately seeking… Terina
On-demand therapists are what my friends, family and even total strangers have become. Anyone who ventures within hearing must listen to my newest foul-up. It’s become the job of those around me—even sometimes the unsuspecting bystander—to pick up the pieces, put me back together and set me back on track to continue with life.
To me,
Today’s goof happened when I was at a daughter function and another young lady came up to me and in a whisper, reminded me that I was responsible that day for my daughter’s spotlight in her young women’s group.
“…just a short letter from you and her father telling her how great she is and then another note with cute anecdotes, so we can get to know her better and guess her identity...”
I hear water running. Back in a few, T.
Most instant-psychotherapists, when faced with this dilemma, reassure me by relating stories of their own to halt the self- flagellation and try to make me feel better. It’s a weak, “I’m-as-whacked-as-you-are,” assurance, because no one could ever top me. They attempt to reassure me that today’s blunder is understandable and “should expected from a person so busy and so involved.”
Could it be that I subconsciously seek out fruits and nuts of my same genus to reassure me that I’m not the only split pea in the pod,[1] and to inveigle myself into their lives to see how they cracked they are?[2]
To me:
This young girl had called ahead and warned me two weeks previously and I had immediately placed it in my mental memory, under the main folder, titled Forget!
Twice more in a three-hour period I was reminded and twice more I forgot. I could take two pages to explain how muddled a mélange my mind is, but suffice it to say, I was thinking about other things. Later, T.
I’m trying to identify with unique individuals to appreciate their eccentricities and assure myself that I’m just like them…well, in an individual way, and they are just like me… well in a communal way. But most importantly, I want to reach the point where we get to know each other so well that we like each other.[3]
To me,
So I end up at the youth meeting, in front of twenty young women hiding my blushing face behind a too-small sheet of paper while the spot-lighter explained that she would highlight this girl, but it was impossible because her mother was not forthcoming with the information.
The group unanimously guessed who the girl was. My reputation precedes me. Blushing, T.
I must face it; no individual is as oddball as I am, so I have to learn to appreciate me. When I do, that means others are forced by the dictates of polite society to reciprocate in kind, right? Yeah! We do all fit in.[4]
To realmom@stake.out
Hey, family, so I’m just wondering if sweet innocent girls with flaky mothers are allowed to wed if there is no possible way the mother of the bride can be that organized? I promise I’ll remember all the little details, but probably not the big ones.
My daughter reassures me that on the way to the wedding, she will call me an hour before the ceremony and remind me that the groom will be by to pick me up. And not to worry, she will have my dress. Whew! Terina
Reality bite: No, it’s not fair for my children to be saddled with me, but I remind them, “That’s Life, It’s not fair. You can choose your friends, but not your mother.”[5]
[1] Reality television helps
[2]Validation.
[3] If that’s too deep, or just plain confusing, skip it.
[4] An issue left over from the teen years.
[5]I mangled this one personally.
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