So the measuring: She tells me, “Ok, I’ll need your shoulders and your bust to neck mesurements and your arms.” And I relax because, hey, how many people have FAT bust to neck measurements. It’s not like people in personal ads remark “Svelte SWF, curvy with a luscious 12 inches from bust to neck….”
Phew! I explain to LadyAtWork that I was a little nervous because I hate being measured, cause it’s so damned scary. And she get’s this blank look on her face and says “Oh, I’ll need the standard bust, waist and hips too.”
Erm. Ok.
She whips out this little tape measure that she carries in her purse and gives me this big hug to get it around my ample bosom and you know what? The tape went to the very fucking end to measure my bosom. Yep. She ran out of fucking tape.
Cause that’s what kind of SuperWoman I am.
Do not misjudge the power of my breasts. They have the power to make mortal tape measures recoil in fear!
But really, I’m freaking out. Because I KNOW my ass is bigger than my boobs. So I’m trembling when I feebly say “Um, I guess you’ll have to guess for my hips….”
You should have seen us. It was like some strange S&M scene gone awry. Two women, fully clothed, one with a tape measure around the other one’s chest, leaning in close to read the numbers, me doing an impression of Portly Ballerina with my arms up over my head. In an office cubicle. While various Hindu contractors busied themselves around us, trying not to pay attention to the crazy white ladies next to them.
She sighed. “Actually, I don’t think I’ll need the waist and hips because it’s an empire dress. Just your bust.”
I realize this was her giving in to the power of my SuperChest. I should have had more faith in the Girls. They know what’s best for me.
So other than the Breast-Tape-Running-Out incident, the most traumatic thing was the arm fat measurement.
I have the great misfortune of inheriting my great-grandmother’s scary grandma under arms. You know the stuff you see at church picnics and retirement homes, peeking out at you from sleeveless ginham shirts or throttling at you madly to hold the elevator at Our Lady of Perpetual Hygiene.
My cat developed this same type of thing on her belly when we had her spayed. It’s too bad you can’t just put a zipper on the thing and call it a coin purse. Really. That could be handy some day. Think of how much simpler clubbing would be if you didn’t have to carry a purse? I think this is my body saying, “Since you’ve decided to forego the pregnancy course, we have a lovely round of menopause planned for you,…. the kitchen will just be needing a little extra time to prep for that, so I’ve brought you an appetizer of arm flab on the house. Would you like me to refresh your skin with a little rosacea while you wait?”
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Tonight, I ended up on a two hour call with a client who doesn’t like to talk to anyone else but me– Chip. He says I understand him. I entertain him because he always says “Yes, Ma’am” when I ask him questions or tell him to do something. It’s not an age thing, either. He’s actually much older than I am. It’s a southern thang. I eat it up. When I saw the dredge that was Pearl Harbor, I sucked up the part where Ben Affleck and Eye Candy Boy keep saying “Yes Ma’am” and “No Ma’am”. Man, that southern boy thing is sexy. So now I envision Chip looking like a mix of Ben Affleck and Eye Candy Boy, which I’m sure that he does not. He probably looks like a mix between Colonel Sanders and Boss Hawg, but as long as he says “Yes Ma’am”, he’s got his own personal Tech Answer Girl.
Yes Sir.
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Because I ended up not leaving work until 6:30 due to my extended Chip-fest, I drove directly to my volleyball game and arrived late. No chance to go home and change. No chance to eat. No chance to pee. Slipped off my black leather flats and scooted barefoot onto the sand court in black pants, taupe shirt, black hooded vest and my kick-ass Harley Davidson sunglasses.
We then proceeded to stuff the ball down the Debutante’s throats. I think we had them at an advantage because someone would yell “Muffy, get it” and they’d all go for it. We took all three games. Rocked the house down. Also, I think I must have looked pretty damned cute out there, all a mix of business class and coach, hillbilly and Beverly Hills.
Of course some people call that look “trash”.
Then afterwards I skedattled because I still hadn’t peed or eaten or even changed my clothes. Flutter Tummy is still dictating dining choices (although the Fudge Fluffs are not going to be making another appearance, thank you. Apparently, twelve Fudge Fluffs would take down a normal mortal. I, on the other hand, am not as susceptible, because I am empowered with SUPERBREASTS. Ok, I’ll stop that now.) So I was thinking that the perfect meal would be a Diet Coke and a McFish thingy without the mayo stuff. So that’s what I ordered. And fries. And a single cheeseburger without mustard because what if I took one bite of the McFish and had a flashback to the whole chicken head incident, which is responsible for my abstinence from McNuggets?
And that’s when I had an epiphany. I’m sitting there with a five in my hand, waiting impatiently at their drive-through window for the McUnderpaid to give me my din-din. For five minutes. Five minutes with my arm hanging out the window with a $5 bill in my hand. And I thought: that’s five minutes of my life I’ll never get back again. If I were terminally ill, I’d really be pissed off right now. And that’s when the message of “Dead Poet’s Society” really hit me, people. That’s when I let it in to my heart. Don’t get a special order at McDonald’s because they will sap your fucking life away from you while they scrape the tarter sauce off your McCarp. Special orders, do, in fact, upset us.
But the upside to this: McUnderpaid Boy gave me two fries. I suppose he was thinking “Two sandwiches get two fries”. So, I get home and now I’ve got serious glut of fast food, since I had “contingency planned” in the first place. It was quite the connundrum. Believe me.
So I did the unthinkable. I tossed the fries and the cheeseburger.
I know. I’m just as shocked as the rest of you.
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And that brings our rare Double-Entry Wednesday to a close. I hope you enjoyed your flight. Please return all tray tables to their upright position.
Wave at beautifulson because he’s having a bad day today. But he made me smile a dozen times today so I’d like him to feel better.
Tell me about your day here.
