The Rain In Spain and SoCal

We're the unfortunate victims of lousy drainage in the ever-so-itty-bitty plot of land we call our back yard. Consequently, when it rains, the water pools and stands...and stands. For the first year we were here, this wasn't much of a problem. We had one small dog, ten years old, and he went outside, did his business, and came back in. He hated water with a passion, except for delicate drinking, and tiptoed daintily over any other wetness he encountered.

Well, unfortunately for us, we lost that dog and through various circumstances, two others have come to live with us. These two dogs, however, do NOT have the same attitude towards water that the first one did. Indeed, these two LOVE the entire notion of close encounters with water, especially as it pertains to mixing with dirt!

Doggy One and Doggy Two take to the outdoors first thing every morning, catapulting out of their crates with the enthusiasm that only comes from being 14 month old puppies. One is substantially bigger than the other, and a different breed (pitbull), but that doesn't slow them down much. After their morning constitutionals, and traditional sniffing of butts, they commence their zooming.

We have a long narrow yard; so they do "laps"; round and round they go. We see one chasing the other down the yard past the window; a few seconds later we see them headed the other way, and the other is now in the lead. On and on it goes: first one is the chaser, then the other. There's a tremendous amount of vicious growling that goes along with this, as well as tumbling and mouthing and every once in a while you see the small dog with his head entirely in the pitbull's mouth. We usually holler at that point. It's not something one is comfortable seeing, given the reputation of a pitbull, despite us knowing that she's a bit of a pansy.

Then they'll stop and the pitbull will tackle the small dog and beat the crap out of him, pinning him on the ground and viciously mauling him while he struggles. Two minutes later, she'll stop, roll over and wait for HIM to tackle HER...."COME ON, dammit, it's YOUR TURN!" And he'll straddle her neck and choke her, and occasionally hump the hell out of her.

Then it's back to racing: up and down, up and down. She can outlast him, because she's bigger and stronger, so they've worked out a deal: when he needs a break, he jumps up on a berm at the end of the yard and just stops, and rests. She waits below him, and watches. When he's ready to go, he takes off, and away she goes after him! It's amazing what communication these two have.

The downside of all this is the poor drainage. It's been raining for two weeks, and our back yard, once a pretty green oasis, has turned into a mud pit at the hands (or paws) of these two renegades! One end of the yard is comprised entirely of soft, sloppy, wet mud, and of course that's their favoured end, up near the berm. They race and dive and roll, and there's no way for me to keep them out of it because after two weeks the area isn't just a "spot": it continues on around a corner and down along the yard....and grows.....

And so each and EVERY time they go out, they play. And each time, they head for that area, which is still wet, and each time they drag that mud and muck into the house. I cannot keep it clean! I have towels by the door and they skulk in looking guilty every time I open the door because they KNOW I'm going to tag them by the collars and make some effort to clean their feet before banishing them to their crates til their feet are dry!

Ah well, when the rainy season is over, it's ASTRO-TURF TIME!

And once that's done, I'll try to figure out how to stop them from digging up my damned roses!

My Cups Runneth Over

Can there be anything more traumatic for a "large-cupped" woman than bra shopping? Oh, I don't think so.

Buying a bra for a 38D - DD woman is a miserable job at the best of times. Pretty goes out the window. Utilitarian is often the best you can hope for. Oh, my kingdom for a feminine, lacey bra!

Every six months or so, I drink several cups of coffee to gird myself, slap myself in the face briskly, and set off to "the mall". Ugh. My quest is to find at least one, and possibly two, bras that will not bind, chaffe, squish, divide into quarters, cause to droop, or otherwise mutilate my boobs. Now you wouldn't think that this is such a difficult task. After all, you've all been in the department stores that have rack upon rack of bras in every conceivable colour and style: black, white, navy, red, pink, mauve, ivory, yellow, and even combinations of two...in lace, or without; demi-cups, full cups, push-ups, minimizers, and the newest trend: the "almost" bras..."almost A", "almost B", etc. WTF?Shoulderstraps: padded or not? Adjustable or not? And the last, but most important .... those with and without ..... the dreaded underwire.

I don't believe there's anything I hate more in a bra than the dreaded underwire. Never have I been more abused by any portion of a piece of clothing than that wire in a bra that is supposed to support my girls and keep them looking young and happy! Instead, I spend my time with my elbows out to the side, desperately trying to keep the wire from jabbing me in the ribcage and causing me to bleed out while standing at a check-out counter in the 7-11 paying for my slurpee.

Anyway...

I enter the first store confidently, thinking that after all these years (months?) there must have been some changes, and that finally (!!) there will be that "perfect" bra just waiting for me to pick it up, try it on, swoon over it's softness and loveliness, and take it home in every colour. Sure. I'll let you know when that happens.

So, I commence "The walk"....up and down past each aisle, checking every single rounder, examining ALL bras. This one is cute: doesn't come in my size. This one comes in my size: shoulder straps don't adjust-this means my boobs hang out in my front pockets. Ooo, this looks like it has potential! I begin examining it, and as I finger the lace, it begins to shred the skin on my fingers; uh, maybe not. Next rounder.

Oh, this stack has ALL lacey bras! There we go...not my size, not my size, not my size, not my size...wait...wait...nope, not my size....(sigh)...not my size...here's one! Oh, this one has a seam right across the front of the bra. WHY???

Moving on, I hit the racks with the "utility bras". I know I'll find something in my size, but this is NOT going to be something to attract my husband, but rather to keep my boobs caged like baboons at a zoo. But we look anyway, and pick out something that looks moderately less ugly than the rest: Adjustable shoulder strap, relatively soft cup, dreaded underwire, but it 'seems' padded. We'll take that one, and grab the 38-D. Next!

Above me, there's rack after rack of models, displaying what appear to be perfectly-fitting bras on abundantly-gifted forms. Why don't these fit ME like this? Well...they're plastic, bo, they're plastic. I scan them, and the sad realization hits me that I've tried on every freakin' one of 'em. Back to the rounders.

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I spot a dreamy lacey creation on the bottom rack....it's white, with soft lace allllll over. It's got underwire, but it's padded. There are no seams. The shoulder straps are adjustable. How can this be? Oh my! My hands reach out, in awe, and set it ever-so-gently on my arm .... I'll look for more, but I know that this ... this is my brassiere perfection! Without even trying it on, I know it's going to cup me so gently, so lovingly! My husband will stand and stare! Oh!

But I must take more than two bras, so I keep looking.

And I find half a dozen more, each with a flaw: it's too stiff, it's not pretty, the straps don't adjust enough, but I DON'T CARE. I have my beauty, cradled under my arm!

Before I hit the dressing room, I find one more pretty leisure bra, worn more for "fun" at night than support. I grab it and take it with me-what the hell! The straps don't adjust, and I'll have to hoist my puppies above my waist band, but it looks comfy. All in all I've got 30 minutes worth of trying on to do. And I know I'm saving the best for last......

The leisure bra comes first. It's actually pretty, and soft, and it fits. I have NO use for it. It offers no support, and all it does is cover me. What the hell is this thing for? I suppose I could wear it in bed, if I was going to wear one to bed. Hm, we'll put it on the "maybe" pile, just because it's comfy. Sometimes I like to wear things in hotels, etc.

I move into the "real" bras, and this is where the "real" problems start:

The cursed underwires. I slip into the bra, bend over, and grap a boob. I shove that bugger up into the cup. Then I grab the other one and shove it into the other cup. I jiggle. I juggle. Then I stand. I look into the mirror and ... WTF? Only half of each tit is in the cup. What the HELL is this? Bend over again...shove 'em back in again .... this is NOT working the way I'd planned. This IS the right size? Ya? Ok, forget this one. NEXT.

Round the waist, slide it up, over the boobs. Try a different tac this time. Shove 'em in from the top. Further down. Further. Now the other side. Stand up. Look. Uh oh. There it is: the dreaded four-boob phenomenon:.two IN the bra, two out on top. This does NOT bode well. Then I realize that the bras I'm trying are of a make that are generally smaller-fitting than most. I breathe a sigh of relief and grab a different one. I didn't really like these anyway. The pointy cups made me look like Wonder Woman.

Ah, this is MUCH better. This one is going on like a bra should fit. I'm deliberately NOT looking in the mirror. I want it to be a surprise. I'm facing backwards. Everything gets shuffled and shoved and stuffed .... it's all in. I turn around and...oh dear gawd. When did I become someone's grandmother??? The cups are aimed like bazookas, straight ahead, with seams across the front of the cups, and ripples in the seams .... this is possibly the UGLIEST fitting bra I have ever had the misfortune of putting on.

One after another I go through them. The pile is growing, and so far I have one leisure bra that I really don't need, one left to try, and "The One".

So the second to last: I go back to my original method of trying. Slip into it, bend over, shove the girls in, stand up, grimmace, bend over, shove some more and think, "Hm, maybe, if absolutely NOTHING else works out, this one MIGHT work".

But I still have, "The One".

I push everything else off to the side and remove it from it's hangar, fingering the soft lace lovingly. It's got a tiny little pink rose at the center, and I touch it. I've never been one for little rosy accents, but I'll put up with it for this bra! Gently I unhook it and lay it flat, just to take one more look. I inhale, and close my eyes. This is it! With shaking fingers, I slip it on, hooking each eye carefully, and sliding my arms into each strap. One last time I bend down to lift each plump breast into it's soft lacy home! But...

It's not ... quite ... going ... in ...

I must have something twisted somewhere. I've been the same size for years! And yet the horrible has happened. They won't go in. THEY WON'T GO IN! In desperation, I bend and shove, shove and bend, shovelling and pushing, willing them to shrink in some manner! NO NO NO NO NO! This can't be happening! This is The One! Grunting and wheezing, I finally stand, and look: and the finality of it sets in: it does not fit. I have waited til the end, to find that my wonderous, soft, enticing bra, does NOT FIT. My cups do indeed, runneth over.

Don't panic. I'll just get a cup size bigger. It's ok! I can do that! It's not the end of the world! A bigger cup size. Odd, but not unheard of. Ok. So out I go to search again. Through the rack again and again and again and the most hideous, most painful, most ironic of all:there IS no cup size bigger.I must look at it, dream over it, and leave it behind...

And walk away, dejected...with a couple "potentials" and a leisure bra...and the dream of what almost was.

Don't It Always Seem To Go...

Am I the only person who wants what I can't have? Is this something that is inherent to humans? Or is it something that is unique to those who have or are missing something from their lives?

I want a father. But my father is dead. He passed away in January 2003. Wouldn't it be lovely to be able to write a tribute to him about how much I learned, and how much I miss him? But I can't, because even while he was alive, he wasn't really my father. He was old, and an active alcoholic, and there wasn't a lot of grey matter left. He didn't know who I was, and that's probably a good thing because quite frankly, I was resentful as hell.

My mother raised me. I don't pretend that she did a perfect job, and as time goes on, I learn more and more of the mistakes she made, but she had five kids, and I was the youngest, and by gawd, she had her hands full. Her first married memory was of her new husband letting his buddies into their marital hotel room with a case of beer because he was a 'Good Time Charlie' and didn't want to turn them away. Situations like this continued in one form or another until I left home; it was never calm. The mantle of alcohol was heavy on the shoulders of each of us there. Rarely was there laughter and happiness.

Dad was a workaholic as well; he owned his own business and put in long hours each day, each week, each month, each year, simply to drink away the profits or watch people rip him off, too addled by booze to stop it happening. My mother saw it and did her best to curb it where she could, but since she was a part-time employee, it was limited. Each of us kids worked with him as well, and this was where we got to "know" dad. He had pride in us when we worked there. Why? Because we were doing something for HIM. We never saw him at home, with the rare exception of a meal, or a fight over liquor with mom.

I took up hockey for a couple years; hockey was my dad's passion outside of work. For a very brief time, I saw pride in my father. He would actually step away from his business and come to the rink to watch me play. I was good, too. A great skater, a good puck handler, and a goon. Yup, that was me. My nickname was, "Hacker". He'd go back to work and regale his cronies with tales of my misspent time in the penalty box, with glee! He liked that. I liked that.

But mostly, I grew up without a father, and I needed one. There was just this man, who seemed to cause my mother great anguish. I knew, as a relatively bright teenager, what I could get away with, and if I wanted something, how to get it through my father. What I didn't ask for, and what I needed most, I did not get: guidance; structure; form; discipline. There was no man to teach me that I could strain against the boundaries all I wanted, but that he would stop me each and every time I went too far, because he loved me and wanted to keep me safe: from myself, and from others. No father to teach me how to be a lady because he wanted others to see the best in me. No man to teach me that I could be anything I wanted, not because I had boobs and a vagina, but because I was smart and capable. No man to hold me tight when I screwed it all up and tell me he loved me, even though there would be consequences for what I had done.

There was no man to teach me what I needed to know about other men: that I was worth more than the sum of my parts, and that a man worthy of me would seek to know more about me than that.

So what do you do when you're 43 years old, and suddenly you realize what it is you're missing in your life? Where do you go? How do you reconcile yourself to the fact that you never had and WILL never have what it is that you're craving? That it was a time-limited offer, and the offer has expired?

Where do you go to find that structure as a grown adult? Ask someone, watch them recoil and see their faces reflect the anxiety and uncertainty the question provokes. No one knows ~ no one has an answer.

But....the question remains.