Humor | Love, Jimmie

I Can’t Have Anything Nice

14 Aug 2018 4 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in In Which I Throw Myself Under The Bus Tags: Humor, Photos

Pee-Tah gave me a shop vac once. It’s really nice, a very manly vacuum. It can suck the paint off the walls if you try hard enough. I’ve broken it once by hoovering up a bunch of water with it and not turning off the filter. Or changing the filter. I really don’t know what I did but it was something with the filter, and Pee-Tah fixed it by purchasing a new filter and installing it.

The other day I tried to clean my dirty new car, and as I stood there with the shop vac hose suctioned to the carpet, I noticed that nothing was cleared. The same dirt I started with was the same dirt I was left with. I was dismayed, thinking that the nap on my new dirty car carpet was too tight to release the hay pieces I picked up somewhere, and I could picture me with tweezers trying to get them out. (Not really.)

I mentioned this lack of shop vac power to more than one person, and before I tell you their suggestions, I’m going to tell you another story. I’m nothing if not a story teller.

Back ages ago, when I was young and firm (cry), I lived in Colorado. It was a glorious time because Colorado. It was also glorious because my mother, after having driven my tiny tin foil Karmann Ghia on I-65 through Nashville rush hour traffic, traded that Karmann Ghia in on a giant Jeep Wagoneer with the paneling down the side. Those hummers are like tanks. There’s not a lot of damage one can do to a Jeep Wagoneer with paneling down the side in an interstate scrape. I do not know this from experience – I promise you, the only car I ever wrecked was my mother’s Suburban when I backed it into a tree. Anyway, I had that Jeep Wagoneer which was perfect for Colorado because it had 4-wheel drive and a heater that worked really well. It also had door locks that would randomly choose to engage and the propensity to eat a starter. I think I bought five starters during the four-year period I owned that Jeep.

Representation of a Grand Jeep Wagoneer

Representation of a wrecked Grand Jeep Wagoneer, which you can see is barely scraped.

Upon reflection, until I bought this silver SUV that looks like every other silver SUV in the world, I’ve never owned a car that didn’t need a lot of unusual vehicle maintenance. The Karmann Ghia had no heater, no defroster, windows that would not go down and an exhaust leak that made me smell great. The Wagoneer broke starters all the time, and then in one unfortunate incident, the motor seized up which required the purchase of a new motor. The Dodge Shadow had a paint job that would peel off in huge sheets as I was driving down the interstate and it spent a lot of time in the shop because it would never start. The Rodeo went through brakes like I can go through a bag of cherries, and then I got the Sonata. 98% of this blog is dedicated to Sonata problems so we are all familiar with that.

But! In Colorado, where I was truly on my own for the first time, I dealt with a behemoth of a vehicle that would collapse under the weight of its own greatness every now and again. It didn’t take me long to meet a nice mechanic. Really, that should be the story of my life.

“Tell me about your life, Jimmie.”

“Well, I met a nice mechanic. Works on cars like a champ.”

Mike was the mechanic’s name, and he could handle tears well. He was responsible for the installation of one of my four starters, and also responsible for fixing my Jeep when it got stuck in 4-wheel drive. He taught me how to navigate the automatic door locks that would randomly engage, introduced me to Van Morrison, and one day, when my Jeep wouldn’t start, Mike drove up the mountain in the snow to check it out. I had just driven it and it was fine until it wasn’t. Mike clambered out of his big truck, over a snowbank, and into my big Jeep. He popped the hood, checked the 4-wheel drive, turned the key, and then suddenly laughed.

“Jimmie,” he said, “a car won’t start if it’s not in park.” He ratcheted the gear shifter into park and started it right up. The flames on my cheeks were from the tears, sure, but also the humiliation. Sigh.

Back to the point of this article – I asked a few people about my shop vac suddenly not sucking and one super nice person said, “I’ll just check the filter for you. Hold on.” Out he trotted to the garage, and immediately he trotted back in as he bellowed, “Fixed your shop vac! I sucked some paint off the walls with it, just to make sure. Works great!”

He was holding my missing scarf, the silk one that Auntie Anne took from Auntie Susanne to give to Madre, the silk scarf that Madre gave to me when I got a corporate job, the silk scarf I had been looking for over the winter because it went with my nice coat and was professional. It was covered in grease and dirt and crumpled up like a grocery bag, unsalvageable. I have no idea how I sucked that thing up into the hose of my manly vacuum and DIDN’T EVEN REALIZE IT. How do you people even stand me?

With flaming cheeks I threw my ruined silk scarf into the garbage. Later, to celebrate, I shattered my Pyrex 8×8 pan full of cooked chicken, the pan that I use at least once a week, and dropped my cell phone into a full-of-water sink for the third time.

I’m taking applications for new friends if anyone is in the market. My old friends will surely dismiss me after this. I bet Pee-Tah never talks to me again.

Ruint Scarf, Complete with Grease

Busted Pyrex, Ruint

Pee-Tah, Ex Friend

Must Love Dogs, Peru

12 Jun 2018 3 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in I'm Going Somewhere, Pets Tags: Happy, Humor, Photos, Sad, Travel

Do all you get my Christmas card? If not, do you want to? Look, I know cards are pretty when they sit on your mantle spreading cheer for the three days you display them before Christmas, and they make a nice garbage can filler when you toss them, but I do understand that not everyone is enamored of them. Usually they include a poem about someone’s specialness, either the recipient or the Lord, and occasionally you get a signature that says, “Love you, XOXO” but otherwise there’s not a lot of substance. My favorites are the ones with pictures of your family, whatever that format looks like. I don’t have one of those to put on a card but I do try to make my card special with glitter and also a letter in which I am charming and funny. Sometimes I’ll make you cry, and I’ll be honest, that is intentional.

This past December I wrote in my letter about the loss of my kitty varmints, one to old age and one to a sense of adventure (hopefully). It was with no sense of regret that I threw the litter box away although it did take me six months to do it because I remained hopeful that Seamus would return with a wife and children in tow. I do know he lost his neuters at the tender age of “kitten” but a girl can dream.

Anyway, if you receive my card you already know this but if you don’t, surprise! I’m animal free and have been since September which is often really lonely. I pee alone all the time now and I sleep with all six of my pillows all to myself. It’s nice until it isn’t.

Also, since I can’t (won’t) seem to write with any regularity anymore, I’ll also tell you that I recently redid my living room. I got new paint and new furniture and a nice new rug that mostly covers the cat barf stains, and the orange fur coating that once blanketed my house has virtually disappeared. Things look nice and clean, and I’ve been very pleased. It’s just, I guess I can’t have nice things because since the orange fluffy loves of my life disappeared, all I can think about is a dog. YOU ARE NOT TO ENCOURAGE ME. My looking at the Humane Society website daily is encouragement enough. Also my Instagram stalking of all cute dogs, and my seeking out people with dogs, and my researching adoption policies for doggie rescue centers – that’s all I can take.

Everyone who knows me knows that I am not ready for a dog. I have a nice new clean living room with a new rug and new sofas. I travel way too often. I work way too far from home. I do not have expendable income to be spent on bowel surgeries after a dog eats the socks I lost under the new sofa. I don’t particularly like dog licks. My bedroom linens are solid white. I am not prepared. I still want one.

What will save me, I think, is my list of requirements for a dog. I have potential suitor requirements, found here, and I now I have dog requirements. Both of them are strict and if my ring-less left finger is any indicator of how well my strict process lends itself to actually putting a ring on it, I imagine I’ll be dog free for quite some time.

The dog cannot have a dumb name. I’m really over the Hendrixes and the Cobains and the trend of naming pets after weed and then abandoning them to a shelter because you are too burnt to take care of them.
My dog must wear t-shirts. Cool ones but not ones in memory of Hendrix or Cobain or weed.
My dog must not be interested in showing affection by licking.
My dog must not smell like Fritos.
I need a tall dog, a burly dog, a dog with large feet.
My dog must not have social anxiety or panic attacks or need any medication to control his mood disorder. A thunder shirt is fine, though.
No puppies! I need a stately dog, with some wisdom and potty training.
My dog must not need more grooming than me.
My dog must be able to be a couch potato sometimes. We are not taking up distance running, no thank you.
My dog must love dogs.
My dog will be a rescue or adoption.

This is by no means an exhaustive list.

I went to Peru, do you remember? Most of this content was a lead in for that question, and for the following photos, a collection I affectionately call “Street Dogs of Peru.” Guys, lookit them!

37cb7948-7334-4cab-badf-60034dd75ba2

I might have tricked you. One of these might be a llama. These dogs (and llamas) will also try to trick you. They will look at you with those sad eyes, in a posture of pitiful, but they aren’t, not even the hairless ones. They are the most well-behaved, healthiest, cleanest dogs you have ever seen. Happy, too. Not when you walk by with American pizza, of course, or a street taco, because they want you to feel bad so you will share your delicious treats, those fat little beasts. Some of them wear clothes and some wear collars. Some of them just roam all night like alley cats. You won’t catch their names yet they have friends everywhere. Aren’t they all so cute? Even the hairless ones!

Real Peru coming soon, not just Peruvian dogs.

Bye, Friend

10 May 2018 4 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Vehicle Tags: Family, Growing up, Humor

Driving home from work yesterday, I passed a granny blue Hyundai Sonata on the back of a tow truck. I looked into the cab of the truck and saw the driver bouncing happily along, knowing he was making money off of that tow, and the passenger looking miserable. I raised my fist in solidarity as a nod to the passenger and she looked over at me and sighed.

My old friend, at home on the back of a tow truck

That raised fist would have been better accepted, I think, had I been in my own granny blue Hyundai Sonata, but I wasn’t. I was in my sporty new Toyota Rav4, boring silver in color like 90% of American SUVs. It runs like a dream, though, and the money I would have spent over the next ten years fixing dumb stuff like the catalytic convertor, the starter (three times), the alternator (twice), the compressor, the blower motor, the bushings, the brakes (countless), etc. I spent in advance to purchase a more mechanically sound vehicle. I love it. I’d love it better if I could find it more easily in the Target parking lot amongst the sea of other small silver SUVs, but I do love it.

A week after Woney and I got back from Norway, where we spent all our money, the dashboard in my car lit up like Las Vegas. Every bell and whistle sounded and every light flashed and every buck a bronco could give you kicked off in the engine of my car. It was humiliating. I turned the ignition and rode that fair ride all the way to 5^th Gear Automotive where Austin said, “Seriously, Jimmie, it is past time.” Then he sighed and said, “Let me see what I can do.”

Turns out it was one of three things, all of them expensive, and Austin fixed one in the hopes it was the right one. It was, but only for a day, and then I drove my bucking fair ride back home and to work again. There was no point in spending another $1000 to fix something that was just going to break again anyway and I was tired of meeting tow truck drivers. Plus every penny I had managed to put into a savings account over the last five years was withdrawn to pay for another fix for that car.

Over the next few days I loaded up with Daisy in her nice, clean, mechanically sound vehicle and we test drove every single affordable SUV on the lot over at CarMax in Rivergate. William was my sales guy, and bless his heart, he was so patient. “Do you even know what you want,” he asked. Nope, no I did not. I was supposed to wait another year before buying. I had another year before I would be ready.

Here’s what I could tell William.

I wanted leg room
I wanted something that was mechanically sound
I wanted to be able to make out with my theoretical new boyfriend in the back seat
I did not want silver
It could not smell like dog or smoke

“That’s not a lot to go on,” he said.

Daisy said, “You don’t even have a boyfriend.”

“I know,” I said to both of them, “whatcha got?”

I drove a Mazda CX-3, a Honda CRV, a Honda HR-V, a Nissan Rogue, a Nissan Murano, and a Toyota Rav4. William kept pushing for a Ford but I wasn’t having it. Some of them drove like bobsleds and some of them drove like marshmallows, and I realized that I cannot really afford a marshmallow drive which is a shame. I liked those. I also drove SUVs that smelled like wet dog and smoke, SUVs that were painted silver, and SUVs that were too small to make out with anyone in any backseat. To test that particular theory, I made William, who was no small chicken himself, get in the back seat with me and have a conversation.

He laughed the first time I asked him to do it. “I’m serious,” I said, and when he looked over at Daisy with his eyebrows raised, she simply nodded at him. He was getting no support from her. In he clambered and in I clambered and Daisy stood guard in the parking lot until I was satisfied we had ample room. Then Daisy clambered into the back seat while William and I took our regular spots and off we’d drive.

Madre came up for the last round of test driving wherein William presented me with a silver Rav4. “I don’t want silver,” I said, and William opened his mouth to let forth a torrent of expletives. No, I’m kidding. William had the patience of Job. Actually, I forgot to weave this in, but when driving any of the cars across the lot, William and I had to switch places so that he was the driver on their property. He never put his seat belt on and the vehicle would ding all the way across the lot and out the gate. It drove me nuts. I’d say, “put on your seat belt” and he’d ask, “oh, is it dinging” and I’d roll my eyes and huff, “Yes!”

“Jimmie,” he’d say, “I’m a man. I can tune out any noise. I can drive this thing from here to Arkansas with no seat belt and never once hear that ding.” I am not that patient.

Anyway, I said, “I don’t want silver” and William said, “We can keep looking.” He meant it. He was in this with me. I looked over at my granny blue Hyundai Sonata and remembered how it bucked and rattled and made a disgrace of me and a nuisance of itself, and then I signed the paperwork on my new silver Rav4 while Madre wandered around looking at all the cars I had driven over the last few days.

My new friend, dirty and mechanically sound

The Sonata now belongs to Pooh who will be 16 soon enough and can use a car. I know you feel some horror upon reading that, but look. Giving a 16-year-old a nice car is the worst thing you can do. They get a sense of entitlement and snooty pride which having a car that breaks all the time will destroy. Standing on the side of the road waiting for your daddy to come get you builds character and makes you appreciate things later in life like silver Rav4s that run great and have plenty of room and don’t smell like dog. I am slightly shamed by the fact that the door handles have all fallen off the Sonata now. Only one left on the passenger side back seat door, and it’s likely hanging on by a thread. Coach is looking into buying new ones but he can only find chrome or black ones, so Pooh is going to be rolling in style. Builds character.

I asked Pooh and Tigger the other day this question – if you could pick any car in the world for your first one, what would you choose? Tigger had some elaborate something or other that I cannot recall, but Pooh said, “the Sonata, the same one you gave me.”

I was aghast. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” she said, “but I really like it.”

That kid has character.

Hot Guys Of Norway

13 Sep 2017 2 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in A Boy, NOT a Boy, Outings Tags: Humor, Travel

Good evening! Is today a good day? I just made myself sleepy by looking at Norway photos where I had time to sleep as late as I wanted but not the inclination because the sun never really went down. I gave you plenty of time to sort through my landscape photos and today we are shifting focus to the real reason Woney and I went to Norway: hot guys. <insert Woney’s eye roll here>

I was fully prepared to meet the love of my life in Bergen as evidenced by the weight I lost before taking the trip and the plumping lip goo I carried in my bag. I’m going to deliver a spoiler and tell you that I did not come home with a hot Norwegian man. I would have lead with that via billboard and wedding invitation.

However! I did meet some hottie hot hotties and I’m here to tell you about them now.

First up was Marco. A quick aside about Marco. He was the first thing in Norway to make me cry which will be included in a separate post titled: Things That Made Me Cry In Norway. Please stay tuned for that. Anyway, Marco was a pianist and also one of three tour guides for the two mile hike Woney and I took through the woods to a grotto (which in America we would simply call a cave). We had visited the home of Ole Bull, more about that coming later, and after the house tour, we set off for a walk in the rain to the grotto. We were implored to go ONLY IF our shoes could take the journey as it was gloppy and mucky. No one mentioned appropriate footwear neither in the ticket booth nor on the informational literature so I had opted for fun over functional in the hopes I would find my hot guy on day one. Well.

I asked the three tour guides if my shoes would work, making especially sure that I hiked my pants above my ankle so that Marco could see my well-turned foot bones, etc. and despite all of them musing, “meh,” I opted to go. Woney was going to do it on her new titanium knee and one of the tour guides was wearing rubber rain boots and carrying an apple basket so I figured I’d be okay. How hard could it be? I’d just go slow and hang on to somebody’s arm, perhaps Marco’s! And for a while, that’s what I did.

But then what had happened was, I was following feet instead of bodies and some of those feet took a detour but in the rain I couldn’t really see that so I found myself at the top of a slippery precipice which featured stunning views but lots of rain and fog and heather and mud. “Huh,” I mused. “Where’s the rest of the group? Where’s Woney? Where’s Marco? Where’s the lady with the apple basket in the rubber boots?” I found none of these answers but I found Margaret and her husband on the precipice with me, and we made our way down the rocks amongst the heather, Margaret clutching her husband and me clutching Margaret. Things were going swimmingly until I hit one rock just the right way with my “meh” shoes, and in the space it takes a hummingbird’s wings to flap, I was on my ass in the mud, my head buried in a bed of wet heather. I looked up to see Marco turn the corner, a look of horror on his face, and then he sprinted towards me. You’d think I’d be pleased what with Marco sprinting in my direction to save me, but the truth is, Margaret was no spring chicken and I had taken her down with me. Yes. I took a white haired old lady down into the mud and heather, and not only was I humiliated, but I think I hit so hard that I peed a little which is not really the way to properly introduce yourself to a hot Norwegian man, even if he has already seen your well-turned foot bones, etc.

We all made sure Margaret was okay and we got most of the mud off my butt (Marco did not help) but the mood was ruined. We then made our way to the grotto where I took this stunning picture so in the end, I guess I’m okay.

No, I did not get a good picture of Marco. Of course I didn’t.

A couple of days later, Woney and I took the Norway in a Nutshell tour (HIGHLY RECOMMEND!) and I experienced the second and third things in Norway that made me cry. Stay tuned! Post coming soon! Part of that tour included a ride on the Flam Railway which is just about the most scenic trip I have ever taken in my life. I guess it was the same for everyone because the great seats Woney and I snagged were soon squished with other eager passengers, two of which were Magnus and Stiegan, and Magnus was gorgeous. Wait. Magnus was GORGEOUS. My word, his legs, his oddly green eyes, his manly jaw. He sat next to me and I thought my ovaries were going to burst. Not only was he beautiful but he was interesting and friendly, not very common in Norway. The Norwegians are not a friendly people. Not unfriendly, mind you, but not in your face friendly like we are here in the South.

Anyway, we had a couple of hours to yap with Magnus who is an orthopedic surgeon (!) and also Stiegan who I do want to mention because he was nice although a little homely, and things were going quite well. I figured, “what the hey, I’ll see if I can get a selfie with him,” because I had used my lip plumping goo and thought we’d look nice together, but the minute I whipped out my phone, Magnus fell into paroxysms of “No! I can’t allow photos to be taken! I am terrified of biomolecular biological technology and facial recognition!” and I wondered if maybe he’s a wanted man? Was I sitting next to a criminal of some sort, like a playboy ax murderer? It felt a little weird and Woney and I made eyes at each other like, “Is he serious or just a fruit loop?”

Later Magnus and Stiegan offered us a drink but it was a warm can of beer out of a box and they were hiding behind a pole so that the train conductor would not see them drinking at the train station. Plus they both donned ladies sunglasses, so all-in-all, I think Woney and I dodged a bullet from a bonafide fruit loop.

You will understand that we did not get a photo of Magnus. Or Stiegan. Trust me, Magnus was a hottie. And sure, Stiegan was nice. It was this train ride where I took this stunning photo so I’m okay with no hot guy photos.

Finally, Woney and I took a second scenic cruise that featured a wad of fjords and also the fourth thing in Norway that made me cry. That promises to be an exciting post so be sure and look for it! I was standing on the deck of the boat, my hair whipping in the wind and my mouth hanging open as I looked at our beautiful world, when a hottie hot hot guy said, “Hey. It’s gorgeous isn’t it?” And that was it. We were off and running. I’ve never met a more me person than me before until I met Dhruv. “Hey, want to take a selfie real quick?” he asked. DO I! “Hey, want to try my snacks?” he asked. DO I! “Hey, can I have a hug before we part ways?” he asked. CAN HE! “Hey, should we try to get together before we both leave for our home countries?” he asked. SHOULD WE! Poor Woney. She is used to me and loves me but I think it was a bit much for her to have two of me all in one spot. Oh, she tried all the snacks and took all the selfies and gave all the hugs but it was more “your new friend is cute and you do what you like, but pajamas are calling my name” than it was “yes, let’s have lunch and breakfast and tours of the leprosy museum with a midnight meeting for some more food, yay, new friends!”

Dhruv and I tried hard to get together again but in one teensy way Dhruv is not like me (aside from his nationality and heritage and gender, of course) in that he wants to hike at every opportunity. I like hiking, sure, but I do get tired like a normal human and so it never happened. He went hiking and Woney and I went shopping. We are connected, though, and Woney and I plan on heading to London soon to meet up with some of our new friends, Dhruv included.

Yes, I did get some good pictures of Dhruv and I present him here for your viewing pleasure. Ain’t he cute? Plus the whole vibe is “stunning photo” so I feel good about it. I’ve got Dhruv’s deets for any of you interested in meeting a man with a British accent and excellent teeth. I’ll take you with us to London. Woney will be so pleased. <insert Woney’s eye roll here>

Crush: Addendums and Furtherances

02 Aug 2017 10 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in A Boy, I'm Going Somewhere, Weight Loss Tags: Happy, Humor, Travel

I love Chipotle.

There, I said it. I’m not sorry. I remain unfazed in the face of norovirus and rat reports. I would eat there every day if given the opportunity.

This ^ is a Chipotle Chicken Bowl

This ^ is some guacamole

Woney loves Chipotle, too, maybe with the same zeal that I have. This is convenient because soon she and I will strap ourselves in a plane to meet in Detroit, and we are hopeful to find a Chipotle. What, you don’t fly to Detroit to have lunch with a friend? Just me?

Below is a list of my friends who like Chipotle:

Woney
Squash
Nurse Bananahammock
Felix
Kindle
Freddie
Quan
Javier
Martie
Madre
Pooh
Tigger
Coach
Daisy

I feel like Daisy is the one I have to most persuasively convince that we won’t die of Ebola if we consume some guacamole on top of delicious spicy chicken, but despite her affection for reading the news, I can usually manage to drag her in there. That’s because I’m bossy and she is nice.

I don’t know how long her patience with me will last once she reads the below, though. I may lose her.

A story, by Daisy:

“I bet I saw Star Wars 52 times when I was a kid. I don’t know how my parents could afford it but my brother and I saw it every week for months. Brother had Star Wars posters in his room, tons of them, and I would stare at Luke Skywalker all the time. I loved him. I was eight, and this was real. I knew that he lived in California because I read it in Teen Beat, and I knew that when I got to California and he saw me, he would love me back. He would just know I was his and he was mine, I was certain.

“I asked my parents for a plane ticket. They were in the kitchen cooking spaghetti for dinner. When I asked, they laughed, a parents’ affection for their baby child. It took them too long to realize I was serious, that I was not going to be placated. They put down their stirring utensils and explained that I could not go to California. That was not possible. They probably touched my arm and looked me right in the eyes with love.

“I weighed maybe 60 pounds but I flung every bit of that 60 pounds down the hall and into my room where I planted my face into my pillow and wailed. I was devastated. That was my first real heartbreak. All of my dreams were dashed at age eight by my mean, mean parents who never let me fly to California to meet my love. I know exactly how Pooh feels.”

2fb7dc3e5cb7b12b454aa1bfdf45573f

A story, by Jimmie:

“I bet I saw Star Wars 28 times when I was a kid. Madre would make plans to go to the movies with her friends, and she would drop me and Martie off at the Luke Skywalker show and then go see her grown up movie sans children. It was the 70s; people did that back then.

“I loved Luke Skywalker. I always preferred blondes. I felt like if he had less nose and fewer ears, I could really fall in love with him, but he was still pretty cute. I’d have married him if he asked.”

I’m sorry, Daisy, but I loved him, too. Do you think we will come to blows over him? I never told you because I want to keep you as a friend, and everyone knows once you have a catfight over a man, you can’t be friends anymore. Sadly, I’d bet on you to win. You are scrappy and I’m a marshmallow.

Daisy is driving me to the airport so that I can meet Woney in Detroit. I might have misled you when I said we were meeting for lunch. We are meeting for lunch, but then we are going to strap ourselves into a plane to travel to Amsterdam and then do it again to travel to Bergen. That’s in Norway, bitches!

Bergen ^

Why Norway, you ask? Let me just tell you. Woney and I were planning our next big trip and we made fancy lists on Excel spreadsheets detailing our travel bucket lists, the money we’d need to get there, and what we could do there. Norway was not on the list. Spain was, though, and that was mostly because neither of us would have to drive and because it’s pretty. We were both gung ho about it until I found myself on Instagram following Pooh and Tigger and also some hot Norwegian guy named Lasse Matburg. Also gung ho about it until Madre and I took Pooh and Tigger to Key West last year and then decided to stay a week in JULY which is HOT and also FIERY and also HOT. I could not breathe, so when Woney called to yap, I opened with this:

“Oh, hello heifer, we are not going to Spain, FUCK THAT, it is hot as you-know-what down here and Spain is worse and I am not, I repeat, AM NOT going anywhere near the Equator, Woman, we are going to Norway where is it not hot plus there’s this Instagram model hottie named Lasse and I’d like to get a gander at those Nordic men, hey.”

And Woney said, “Well, hello to you, too. I could do Norway.”

So basically we picked it because it’s not hot and Lasse Matberg. Woney doesn’t like him at all which leaves more for me, yay! Plus I am bossy and Woney is nice.

I was lamenting to Daisy that I didn’t lose all those extra layers of fatty cushion I needed to so that I could look frail and cold in Norway and perhaps be comforted by Lasse or similar as I shivered on a fjord. Have any of you noticed that it is harder to find hottie hot hot men that that prefer squishy, white, middle aged women anymore? Anyway, I guess I lamented too much because this exchange happened with Daisy last week:

Is Daisy still being nice to me? Or is this a sick attempt by her to play upon my affections, my very 13-year-old teenage hormones/ heart longings in an effort to trick me into dying a horrible noro-Ebola virus death so she can have Luke Skywalker all to herself?

I still didn’t lose all the weight.

^Hot

^Fiery

In case it wasn’t clear, this ^ is fiery hot Lasse Matberg

I stole all these pictures from the innernet, Lord, please have mercy on my soul. And my ovaries.

Online Dating: A Nashville Woman’s Perspective

07 Jul 2017 2 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in A Boy, Alternatively, A Boy (As In, Not A Man), NOT a Boy Tags: Happy, Humor

Women’s biggest fear in online dating is that they will be harmed in some way, that they aren’t safe. Men’s biggest fear in online dating is that their date will be fat.

~astute observation made by someone whose name I cannot recall

In the interest of fairness regarding Wednesday’s post, my last bout of online dating resulted in dates with five very nice gentlemen. It didn’t seem that any of them cared about my fat although one of them did dump me right after he asked for a second date. It was my favorite way to get dumped, though! He explained that he had a great time, that he wanted to do it again, and asked if he was tall enough for me. I enthusiastically replied with all positive answers and then a few days later when I texted him, he wrote back, “Oh. Hey, girl.”

If ever I find myself on the dumpee end of a budding one-date relationship, I’m using that! “Oh. Hey, dude”. Effective, ain’t it?

Y’all, I don’t even know why I thought I wanted to date men right now. I feel like I’m an amazing person, not in an ego way, but in the way that I’ve worked hard to have a nice life, a good attitude, joy, and peace. That makes me pretty special, at least to me, because I’m as close to the person I want to be as I’ll ever get. Then something gets squirrely and I find myself hopeful with a dash of wild hair and hop online to peruse my selections, like in a grocery store aisle. Most of what I see is a huge disappointment. I mean, I’m always going to select Vlasic pickles over some generic wimpy-looking pickle, but at least in Kroger there are entire shelves devoted to the many variants of the Vlasic pickle and I can make my selections accordingly. In Nashville, the men selections are becoming increasingly the same, the wimpy-looking generic pickle, and those generic pickles are a pretty pathetic substitute for my really nice life full of joy and peace and contentment.

I’d like to paint a picture for those of you who have never online dated but are curious about it. I feel like doing some quick math here will demonstrate my point.

Conservatively speaking, I’ve swiped either yes or no on about 1,000 men. I’d say that 88.2% of those men’s profiles said one (not more) of the following:

*crickets*
I’m just me.
If you want to know anything, just ask.
I’m fluent in sarcasm.
I work hard and play hard.
I’m looking for my partner in crime.
Oh, and add five years to my age.
Facebook made my age younger than it really is and I can’t change it.
Looking for spontaneous and adventurous (note: this means hookup).

You are probably thinking, “I see nothing inherently wrong with any of those sentences.” I would agree except our reasonable math here will explain my dilemma. 88.2% of that 1,000 equals 882 men, which leaves 118 men who did not type out one of the above phrases. Or non-phrases if we are being picky. When you read the same phrases 882 times, you begin to see a pattern, and I’d venture to say it becomes tiresome after reading it the first 200 times.

Now, of those 1,000 men, roughly 60% of them are in Nashville to pursue some kind of career in music, or if not career, then at least fame. That means that they post country music rock star pictures of themselves on a mountain with their thumbs hooked in the pockets of their tight Buckle jeans and wearing hemp choker necklaces, usually with a hat of some sort pulled low over their eyes which are looking pensively off into the distance. Actually, that’s picture one. Picture two involves the instrument or mic of their choice and also usually involves someone’s arm in the right-hand corner raised up with a lighter. The amount of fame increases the amount of arms. Note I said fame, not skill. To continue our math, and to make it easy, let’s say that of those 118 men left who wrote more than one original complete sentence, 60% of them are pursuing some sort of music fame. That is 71 men.

It is relevant to note here that I will never date a musician. I have a thousand reasons for that, not least of which is the significant other is so far down on the priority list, after fame and fans and instruments, and groupies, and roadies and so on, that there might as well not be a significant other. So my pool of potentials now drops from 118 to 47.

Going back to our original numbers, I’d guess that 30% of the men online are either A) married (you can tell by the lack of photos or the lack of non-dog pictures) or B) in a polyamory relationship (most of them say their wives are okay with it, but call me skeptical.) I, for one, don’t share. No thanks. So using our math skillz, let’s say 30% of the remaining 47 men are not available for a single monogamous relationship. That leaves us with 33 men.

Now we must factor out my dealbreakers:

If I can’t see your eyes, I swipe no
If your name is Fred, I swipe no
If you have used every available filter readily available to you so that all of your pictures have BEER THIRTY emblazoned on the bottom, I swipe no
If you are an atheist, I swipe no
If you say your children are your entire world, I swipe no because clearly there is no room for anyone else in your life
If you say that at 50 you are hopeful to still start a family, I swipe no

I forgot to add in the scammers, all of which claim to be military men who have been stationed in a foreign country, because everyone knows that all lonely, sad, single women are patriots who cannot wait to send their money to the Nicaraguan claiming to be Army in Lebanon. For the sake of easy math, let’s combine them in with all of the above and give that group a conservative percentage of 20. That leaves me with 27 men from whom I can make my pickle selections, and 20 of them are terrified that their dates will be fat. So I got seven, five of whom I had at least one date with. And of those five, I am terribly afraid to report that not one of them is my person for one reason or another. Every single one of them lovely, a Claussen at the very least, but not mine. And typical for my experiences with online dating.

The funny part of me wants to say, “I’ll just move to Alaska where there are .2 women for every 100 men and I’ll be wildly popular!” But the real part of me wants to say, “You know what? I’m okay. I’m happy. I’ve worked hard to be this person and I like her. I like her friends. I like her family, and mostly I like her life. So thanks, generic pickle, but I’ll wait on my Vlasic because a squishy wimpy soggy pickle is no substitute for the real thing, and honestly, I’m pretty happy with this bowl of olives that is my current life right here in front of me that includes no pickle at all.”

I Don’t Know Why I Get So Hopeful

05 Jul 2017 3 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Alternatively, A Boy (As In, Not A Man), NOT a Boy Tags: Humor

I used to work with a man who always had a really great tan. He had pretty teeth, too, and he was tall and he did a bunch of rodeo riding in his spare time. The first time I met him he wore the Wranglers that only true cowboys can pull off, a belt buckle he’d won from one of his rodeo gigs and some boots, the good kind, the shit-kicker kind. I nearly passed out when we first came face-to-face because although I had talked on the business phone with him for years, and although I’d heard he was pretty, I was unprepared for all of that beauty housed in one man. Watching him walk across the room towards me made my ovaries whimper and I’m pretty sure another whimper flew out of my mouth, but I said “excuse me” like I had just burped and I’m pretty sure he didn’t know.

During that meeting he called me “baby” once. I think it was an accident but I still remember it like it just happened.

A few years later, when Boss and I changed companies, hot cowboy moved to Nashville to work with us in our new office and I got to see him every day. At first I walked around the office with my stomach sucked in all the time and I coiffed my hair into spectacular perfection every morning. After a few months, though, I realized that hot cowboy was still hot but only until he opened his mouth to say something and then somehow the hotness piggybacked out on his words and left him. He was still cute but I no longer religiously engaged my core, and some days I put my hair in a ponytail. That’s the thing about getting to know people. The insides don’t always match the outsides. He was good in motion if the motions you got to see were the cattle roping and the bowlegged swagger across a room, but he was no Dammit Todd. The motions stopped there.

That year we had a big old project out in the desert, and I was slated to pick him up from the airport after he had flown out to Utah for an airport inspection. He had a cocktail or two on the ride home so was pretty free with his words, and he told me that his girlfriend thought I was pretty, that he did, too, and that perhaps we should try this thing out called a “threesome.” After I finished wheezing with mirth, I said, “no thanks” and dropped him off at his car. Nothing was ever said again and I was relieved. I chalked it up to the alcohol and then made it a point to really pook my stomach out whilst walking around the office, and I wadded my hair in an unflattering mini-donut bun often.

Eventually Cowboy and I left that company and moved on to other life adventures. I fielded a couple of calls from Cowboy when he needed something related to the work we used to do, which was unique. He also let me know that he married a woman who owns a ranch and I was pleased for him as his work was always just a means to feed and keep show ponies. This was quite a few years ago and there was never again a whisper of suggestive talk, so I never worried about it again.

That’ll learn me.

This is a transcript of our last phone conversation, sometime last year.

Cowboy: Hey, Jimmie.

Jimmie: Hey, Cowboy! What’s up?

Cowboy: I’m in New Orleans, by myself, and its lonely here.

Jimmie: <cluing in right away, because I have gone down this road before with at least more than one online dater> That’s too bad. You should call your wife.

Cowboy: She’s boring.

Jimmie: Then don’t be boring when you talk to her. I’ll talk to you later.

Cowboy: Wait, I have a real question, an important one.

Jimmie: Yes?

Cowboy: Why did we never have sex?

Jimmie: Cowboy, no. I’m not talking about this with you.

Cowboy: But why didn’t we? I always wanted to.

Jimmie: We worked together! And now you are married, so later.

Cowboy: I’d still really like to see what you and I would be like.

Jimmie: *crickets*

Cowboy: It’s kind of hot to think about, right?

Jimmie: *crickets*

Cowboy: I’m kind of hot thinking about it right now, actually. I’m going to take my pants-

Jimmie: <firmly presses end button on cell phone><blocks number>

Why is it that I forget these things? Why do I get hopeful that men will be different as time passes? Why do I sign up for online dating, for crying out loud? It has never, not ever, been my best idea.

For you reading pleasure, below are some messages I received in my last go round of hopefulness.

Boy 1: Hey.

Jimmie: *crickets*

Boy 2: Hey.

Jimmie: *crickets*

Boy 3: Hey.

Jimmie: *crickets*

Boy 4: Hey, how r u?

Jimmie: <contemplates answering because thinking this is as good at its going to get but *crickets*>

Boy 5: wyd?

Jimmie: I don’t even rate a full sentence?

Boy 5: *crickets*

Boy 6: BBC?

Jimmie: What is BBC?

Boy 6: Big Black Co-

Jimmie: <firmly presses the delete key>

Boy 7: Have you ever made love all night long?

Jimmie: Did you read my profile? Let’s level the playing field here. I’m celibate until I get married. Do you want to talk to me now?

Boy 7: *crickets*

Boy 8: Hey.

Jimmie: *crickets*

Boy 9: Hi. I like your profile. How are you today? Would you like to email?

Jimmie: Praise the Lord, yes! I love full sentences! This is so great! Yes, how are you?!

Boy 9: blah, blah, blah, pretty, blah, blah, I like travel, poo-tee-weet, blargh

Jimmie: ditto

Boy 9: Before we go much further, I do have a question. I don’t want to waste your time. Do you like dominant men?

Jimmie: Dominant men? Did you just step into the sex talk because I have to tell you, I’m celibate until I marry and if you can’t deal, we can stop this train right here.

Boy 9: No, this has nothing to do with sex. I’m just dominant in every way.

Jimmie: Like, for the Lord? Like the head of the household thing? I may not be getting this.

Boy 9: Well, I’ll give you an example. If we are at a restaurant and you have to go to the bathroom, you’d ask my permission first.

Jimmie: <wheeze> Seriously?

Boy 9: Yes.

Jimmie: <wheeze> So if I needed shoes, I’d have to ask permission to buy them?

Boy 9: Yes.

Jimmie: <wheeze> <snort> <much eye rolling> I feel like you expect me to be flattered here because I seem “worthy,” but I think perhaps I’d be a little too spunky for you. I’ve lived alone a long time and I pretty much do what I want. I don’t think I’d be able to never question a decision or live without having a voice or worry about my needs being met.

Boy 9: Those things can happen.

Jimmie: Successfully? Can your partner be successful in those things?

Boy 9: Not really.

Jimmie: Thanks, but no thanks. That is no life for me.

Boy 9: I would be happy to train you.

Jimmie: <in the throes of apoplexy> <eye roll so hard it causes a sprain> No, thank you. I’m not interested.

Boy 9: If you change your mind, let me know. It’s never to late to learn something new.

Y’all. To late. TO late. Oh, hell no.

Jimmie: Look, here’s how I see this going down. You’d “instruct” me in something and you’d use improper grammar. I can’t deal with that. I’d have no choice but correct you. In turn I’m guessing you’d feel the need to “punish” me for speaking “without permission” and then I’m sorry, but I’d have no choice but to beat the shit out of you with a frying pan. Those are my rules. Do you think you can live with that?

This will shock you guys, truly, but this is what he said to me:

Boy 9: *crickets*

Somebody send me the link to this one when I sign up for some online dating thing next year. This one will work, too. Please and thank you.

Pee-Tah Moved

27 Jun 2017 4 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in A Boy, I'm Going Somewhere Tags: Friends, Humor, Sad

I bet I didn’t tell most of you because I couldn’t really tell it without crying, but Pee-Tah moved away from me. He’s done it before and he’s very good about keeping in touch and visiting, but it still feels terrible when I want to go over to his apartment on a Friday night in my pajamas to watch Jason Bourne do unspeakable things to bad guys. Or speakable things. Jason Bourne is one of those guys who isn’t really all that good looking on the surface but then he does something like knock out a guy with one punch and you find yourself dealing with overactive ovaries and wondering why it all of the sudden got hot in the room and speculating about why you feel compelled to fling your bra at the television screen. Like how women react to Dammit Todd. Those people are the good-in-motion people.

Pee-Tah arranged nights with each of his close friends to pack a section of his apartment and then have dinner together. I was slated for the kitchen packing night which works out well for me because Pee-Tah has only expired foods in his pantry because he forgets to eat, but he has great appliances and gadgets, all clean, barely used. Packing his kitchen is easy. Toss the food and place the unopened gadgets, already packed securely in their original packaging into the storage bins, then tape, date and stack. After packing, we went to dinner and planned on talking about his new house, his new friends, the dates he had planned, but instead we decided to cry and touch fingers while people around us assumed we were a couple. In a way, we are.

“I didn’t realize everything I would be leaving,” Pee-Tah whispered. “I didn’t think about leaving you, really. I know we will see each other but right now you are just around the corner. You won’t be around the corner anymore.”

“I know,” I choked. “I can’t come lie on your bed and you can’t serenade me with the piano, and I can’t rummage in your cabinets and steal expired raisins. I can’t go to anybody else’s house in my pajamas and fling my bra at Jason Bourne. Even if I could, I don’t want to!”

We sniffled for a while, watched our poor waiter flit around desperately trying to take our orders, and then talked about the logistics of the trip. That made it worse because Pee-Tah said with a warbled voice, “Pilot Frank offered to ride with me in the moving truck so I wouldn’t have to go alone and I said no. Why did I say no?! I don’t want to do this by myself!”

“I don’t want you to, either!” I wailed.

Then we looked at each other, and looked away and then looked back and I said, “I can go.”

Pee-Tah didn’t even hesitate. “OKAY!” he hollered. “OKAY, CALL YOUR BOSS RIGHT NOW.” Because she is great, she also said, “You can go,” and our short notice travel plan was born.

I’d like to talk briefly here about the moving truck but I have to be honest with you, I don’t think I’m going to be able to do that. You should’a seen that thing! It was huge! Enormous! Pee-Tah’s plan was to attach the tow trailer on the back for his car and have some good-in-motion moving men load the truck, and all of that worked out pretty well except for the part where Pee-Tah wasn’t fully packed yet and he and I loaded the last of it for a few hours.

I took a thousand pictures of that truck before ever clambering in it and when I say clambered, I mean clambered. Two steps with hand rails just to get to my seat, and my seat was a bench that I shared with Pee-Tah with storage underneath for our snacks and my purse. I worried about us driving that thing for 14 hours to Minneapolis. Would we be safe? Would the car be safe back there? Madre worried about us being safe, too. “Drive carefully,” she fretted. “Don’t go too fast,” she instructed.

Once we hit the road, I no longer worried. There wasn’t a soul on the road that could hit us at any speed and cause us any damage. That truck was a Sherman tank. That truck was a hoss. That truck was indestructible. The only worry about that truck was filling it up with diesel and I don’t even want to know how much of Pee-Tah’s money we spent on that bill.

That truck also rode like one of those fat shaker machines – you know, the kind where you can strap yourself in and then jiggle with a cocktail in one hand and a cigarette in the other and still get a full and effective workout? That kind. It was pretty loud, too, so Pee-Tah and I spent a lot of time speaking very deliberately and forcefully to one another while I shook my fat and Pee-Tah just shook his bones because he doesn’t have any fat. When our 14 hour drive turned into a 21 hour drive because we never got over 50 mph because of the enormity of the truck (“don’t drive too fast,” Madre said), Pee-Tah and I spent a lot of time doing singalongs to 80s ballads and 90s love songs. I sing great.

My favorite part of the trip, after spending 21 hours with Pee-Tah in a moving truck, and after sleeping about 8 hours total over two nights, and after the conversations we had about what we’d like God to say to us when we get to Heaven, and after we planned my next trip via plane to MSP, were the dinners we had at the truck stops. Truck stops, y’all! I had dinner at some truck stops! I love truck drivers. I always have. I’ve always felt very safe seeing those big rigs with all the lights on them when I’m driving in in the middle of the night in my small sedan. I know not everyone feels that way, but I always have. The truck stops were such a rewarding experience for me, but I am always particularly moved when I see someone in their element. Those men (and probably women!) could back those trucks into the skinniest of spots. They had beds in the back where they slept for the night on the exit ramps. Some of them brought family members and all of them were friendly. Plus I got to eat truck stop food which was not only plentiful but delicious. Well, as delicious as it can be when the partaker has given up all grains.

Pee-Tah and I woke up on our last morning together at 4:30 am. Something like that. We were puffy-eyed and sleepy but we had things to do: he had to complete a home inspection and I had to catch a plane. We performed our morning ablutions and ran out the door together where he fired up his big rig with a car attached, and I climbed into an Uber with a guy who desperately wanted to be an actor and wore all the gold chains and cologne to prove it. We didn’t cry, we did hug, and we took off for our business. It was the only way we could do it; otherwise we’d still be clenched in a lover-like embrace at the entrance of the Holiday Inn while people walked around us and wondered why we were boo-hooing like toddlers. Pee-Tah’s house was inspected and then purchased and my plane was caught. We talked later that night and were right on the edge of losing it when his mother arrived to help him move in. We talk every so often to make plans for my next flight out there so I can decorate my room. I have a room. It’s the one with the full size bed.

I’m okay. Pee-Tah is okay. This is what being a grown up is. We make our choices, the best ones we can, but we never lose sight of what is important. He is important to me and he always will be. He moved, but he’s never far away and I’m so damn thankful for that. Plus, we are good-in-motion people and you don’t just get over the good-in-motion people. You keep them, because they are the best.

Words of Wisdom, From Joe

18 May 2017 4 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Health, Imparting Wisdom, Outings Tags: Humor

“Jimmie!” said Joe. “Did you know that macaroni has lots of calories?”

My supper club bunch and I were having dinner at Finezza’s (Italian – very good, highly recommend), and Joe had apparently watched a new documentary.

“Yes, I know,” I replied.

“It’s got more than the cheese! I thought macaroni and cheese was healthy!”

“No,” I replied smugly*, “noodles have a lot of empty calories. They are a great way to convey flavors to your mouth but the calorie payoff is pretty rough.”

*I can say this with smugness because I’ve recently given up all grains and if I don’t say it smugly, I might cry.

“Also, did you know that fruit juice is mostly sugar?” Joe was distraught.

“Yes, Joe, I know. It’s disappointing. It sounds so good for you but it’s really not,” I replied.

Joe shook his head mournfully. “No wonder I’ve gained so much weight,” he said (he hasn’t) and then he sighed.

The waiter rounded the table to take our orders and I wondered what Joe would eat. He’s a lot like Dammit Todd. His food is his focus until the meal is gone and there’s no talking to him until the last bite has been consumed. He thoroughly enjoys whatever he has ordered and it’s a pleasure to watch him at dinner.

“What will you have, sir?” she asked Joe.

“Lasagna, please. Extra cheese. And lemonade, thanks.”

Oh, Joe. I do love him.

Snarky

01 May 2017 Leave a comment

by Love, Jimmie in Health, This Will Probably Get Me In Trouble Tags: Beauty, Friends, Humor

This weekend I went shopping with Daisy. Often I like to shop for undergarments and often I drive my shopping partners nuts because I only wear matching sets. Finding matching sets isn’t always easy for me despite all those cute undercracker sets you see in Target. Those cute sets only come in size perky or petite, and this will surprise you, but I am neither.

I’ve been on a quest to find the right nude and white sets of undies. I’m sorry, this is TMI, but we are in the trenches now. Anyway, on my quest, I’ve recently purchased and worn a set of each, only to discover that the brassieres are at minimum a size too large, despite my having been measured by an “expert.” (“Expert” here means a shop girl holding a measuring tape and the measuring is done over the blouse, not “expert” like that high school football player who offered to “measure” me that one time because he “knows titties.”)

Daisy was off in the sized perky and petite bathing suits, rummaging for a suit for our pending Florida vacation, when a brassiere measuring “expert” approached me about the undergarments I was riffling through. “Would you like to try one of those?” she asked. “It’s the best brand. They fit like a dream.”

“Sure,” I said, because we all know that once a woman trails off into the bathing suit section, things can take a lengthy turn. It’s because women like being mean to themselves and criticizing all their perceived flaws, and I was going to let Daisy do that in peace because no amount of my telling her she’s perky and petite will make trying on a bathing suit any easier. What else was I going to do with my time but try on some bras? Plus, I was in the market for one.

The “expert” trundled me off to the dressing room to give me a thorough measuring and once she got a gander at my (super cute, almost perfectly fitting) bra, she began bellowing.

“WELL NO WONDER YOU ARE IN HERE. That bra fit is AWFUL. MY GOD, THIS IS TERRIBLE. You aren’t in the right size AT ALL. Look at that wide back! You need a triple D, with LOTS OF SUPPORT, GOODNESS!!!”

She waddled out of the dressing room after my thorough tongue-lashing during which I had to say, “Could you please not let everyone in the store hear my business? Could you please stop yelling?” and helped me select three bras. I picked the pretty ones and she picked the parachutes.

“Try these on,” she ordered. “They are meant to COVER THE BREAST UNLIKE THAT THING YOU HAVE ON THAT LETS THEM SHOW OUT THE TOP.” I clutched my three selections and shame-facedly made it back to the dressing room, me and my ill-fitted bosoms.

The first one, her selection, sure did fit like a dream, if a dream fits too large and droopy. My whole breast was swimming in there, and if any of you have breasts, you could have put one of yours off in there with mine. It isn’t often I put on an undergarment that is too large, but I have to say, that was heady stuff. I turned to the side to see how the breast just kind of pushed out from the body and then flopped over like a pancake on the lip of a plate. That was weird because my breasts don’t do that even on their own, even unfettered. I’m 44 but gravity hasn’t killed me yet.

The second one was just as bad. Maybe bigger in the cup size, though, and instead of making me look like I had pancakes for boobs, I looked like a little kid in my grandmother’s bra which was stuffed with pads and slightly pointy.

“How’s it going in there?” the sales lady hollered through the door.

“I look like a battle ax in these. I mean, the hooks on the back cover up the entire area between the top of my shoulder blade to the bottom of my rib cage. And the straps are like rip cords. Very sturdy and not at all flattering.” I was not impressed.

Neither was she. “YOUR ENTIRE BREAST IS FALLING OUT OF YOUR BRA. These are meant to be SUPPORTIVE, something you CLEARLY NEED.” I remembered how my breasts looked in my super cute, almost perfectly fitted t-shirt just five minutes ago when they were high and tight in my super cute, almost perfectly fitted bra and was puzzled.

I tried, though. “Sure, I’m with you, but this bra will stick out of my shirts because it comes up so high. The one I own is more of a lifter and separator, because I like my breasts placed in the breast region, not smashed down and covered to my neck, where, and this is weird, I don’t have any breasts. Does anyone have breasts up to their neck? Because this cup comes up to my neck.”

“You do what you want but I wear these all the time,” she sniffed, and then stiffly marched back to her cash register.

I tried on the pretty bra that I picked out and wouldn’t you know it really did fit like a dream. I didn’t look like a ‘ho, but then I didn’t look like Maxine either. I turned this way and that and admired how high and tight everything was, how I could breathe normally, how nothing fell out of the bottom, and then I took it off and hung it back on the hanger.

As I walked out of the dressing room, the sales lady called, “Did you like that one?”

“I did,” I replied.

“There is a free gift with purchase,” she enticed even though she was still offended.

“Ooh,” I mulled. “Is the free gift a matching panty?” I was intrigued and would have slapped down the ridiculous $65-per-bra lickety split if she had said yes. But she didn’t.

“No, it’s a lingerie bag. We don’t have matching panties for that bra.”

And that was that. Bra back on the rack, Daisy and I out, saleslady miffed.

That’s how it goes, folks. Never an easy answer for boobs like mine.

Love, Jimmie

I Can’t Have Anything Nice

Must Love Dogs, Peru

Bye, Friend

Hot Guys Of Norway

Crush: Addendums and Furtherances

Online Dating: A Nashville Woman’s Perspective

I Don’t Know Why I Get So Hopeful

Pee-Tah Moved

Words of Wisdom, From Joe

Snarky

Jimmie

NaNoWriMo

Archives

Recent Posts

Subscribe Here