Friday, August 27, 2010


If there are any men who read this blog, you're going to want to stop reading after the second letter.  If there are any vampires who read this blog, skip straight to the end.

Dear Feet,

It’s been fun.  Really it has.  Tripping in Publix Every. Single. Time. we go in there.  Tripping in Panera, in the parking lot, at the mall.  Really it’s been a blast, but all good things must come to an end, and I think the end has come, don’t you?

Yes, I realize there was a rug in front of the door at Panera, and technically, you shouldn’t be blamed get credit for that.  But you did manage to insert yourselves under the rug, and not just any rug, but one of those industrial, non slip, rubber around the edges, not even old ladies will trip on this rug, rug. Thankfully there was a door there to catch me when I flew forward or, feet, you and I would be parting ways.  I can get prosthetic feet.  Best of luck to you finding a prosthetic body.

I’m sure you want all kinds of recognition for yesterday, when you managed to get the toe of my super cute Ann Taylor heels caught in the tile grout at the mall, but guess what?  No kudos from me.  Big freaking deal is what I say.  Yeah, yeah, thousands, (millions?) of people walk through that mall in a given year and not one person has managed to trip over the grout, but, really, there’s nothing amazing about the fact that you did.  The grout was deeper than your ordinary household tile grout.  Anyone could have tripped over it. 

I suspect you’re doing this to satisfy, what you think, is my ever constant need for attention, what with my constant begging of people to follow my blog and leave comments.  Attention from the internets I want.  Attention from everyone in Publix, every single day, as I fling my shoe across the store, I could live without.

Like I said, it’s been fun.  But it’s over.  I will cherish the memories.  Laugh about them every once in awhile.  Maybe ten years from now, you can throw me down a flight of stairs for old times sake.

Best wishes,

Dear Boobs,

What is your deal?

I suppose you think I’m going to be ecstatic over the fact that you’ve grown a cup size.  But I’m not, for two reasons.

Reason 1: I no longer measure my self worth by the size of you.  I’m not thirteen.  I don’t wake up every morning, run to the mirror, yank off my shirt and hope that you grew over night.  I’m not going to invite my friends over for a party, take out all my bras and say, “You guys want these? They no longer fit me.  My boobs got BIGGER.”  I’m in my twenties now.  I have more important things to worry about than how big or small you are.  Like the cellulite on my ass and my ever slowing metabolism.  If you really want to be useful, figure out a way for me to still eat all the crap I used to in college without gaining weight.

Reason 2:  I don’t believe your growth is permanent.  I think you’re doing this just to mess with me; therefore, I will not remove the tag on my new bra for one month.  If after said month has passed and you are still the same size, then maybe I will believe you are here to stay and remove the tag. At which point I don’t doubt you will go back to the size you’ve been since I was twelve.

What I find most annoying about this whole thing is the hour, HOUR, I spent in Victoria’s Secret yesterday trying to find a bra that fit you. 

Bra after bra after bra and nothing was working.  You decided to spill out of every one of them.  And not in that sexy cleavage spillage way.  You oozed from every area where fabric was not.  It was like you were allergic to it and trying to escape it at all costs. 

In case you forgot what happened, here’s a recap.

How about this pretty turquoise one?  No.

How about the Sexy T-Shirt bra?  Two for thirty dollars?  That’s a steal.  I really hope these work…Oh no.  That is just awful.

How about this pretty Dream Angels one?  Holy pushup and padding Batman!  My boobs just grew six sizes!

How about this PINK one?  No.

What about this one?  No.

And this one?  No.

Ad nauseam.

If, in addition to being a twenty something year old woman, I was also a twenty something year old guy (or a guy at any age for that matter), well, that would be weird, but it would have also been awesome.  What with all the taking off of the bras, and massive cleavage and boobage runneth over.  But alas, I am just a girl and the sight of all that did nothing but annoy me.

I spent all night trying to figure out what, after all these years of being the same size, would possess you to get bigger now.  And finally I realized.  Envy.

You are jealous of some of my friends whose boobs have suddenly gotten ginormous.  But you shouldn’t be.  Their boobs have been called to a higher purpose.  They are sustaining life for another human being.  They are selflessly sacrificing themselves even if it means being sore and raw and cracked, in order to provide food and nutrients to their baybee.  You will never understand that kind of love.  I know for a fact that, if I ever have a child, you will not let the little rug-rat anywhere near you.  So in addition to being annoying and covetous, you’re also kind of a jerk. 

To give you some credit, I could have kinda maybe sorta had something to do with you thinking I wanted you to get bigger.  The other day, when I was wearing that low cut shirt and was like, ohmygosh cleavage! and spent ten minutes watching myself in the mirror as a crossed my arms in front me to achieve boobage of gargantuan proportions and then ran upstairs to the husband and was like, “honey, look, I have boobs!  Look how big!”  And was he like, “yay!” and I was like, “yay!”  Well that was just for fun.  Sometimes it’s fun to pretend you guys are big, but that doesn’t mean I want you to be big. 

We, me and the husband, like you just the way you are.  Yes, I realize the husband has to say that because he is the husband.  And yes, he would like you if you got woah big or itty bitty.  But, really, it’s not about him.  It’s about me.  And you’re pissing me off.

Peace Out,

Dear Victoria’s Secret,

I understand what you’re trying to accomplish.  I even appreciate it.  It’s nice that those of us with the wee boobs can appear to have the double d’s.  But Ms. Secret, let me share a little secret of my own:

Sometimes, we ladies don’t want our boobs pushed into our throats and spilling out of our clothes.  Sometimes, we just want to find something that supports the girls that we can wear under a nice work shirt.

Going to the club? Bring on the cleavage.  The more cleavage, the more free drinks.

Going to work?  Regular boobage will suffice.


Dear Pottery Barn,

I love you.  I could spend my whole life’s savings in your store.


*Dear Ladies Who Work At Pottery Barn,

Thank you for being so nice and helpful.  For running all over the store, chasing after my every whim.  For getting plates and stemware and replacing stemware for stemless wine glasses.  And checking in the back and measuring things.  And for telling me to be careful on my three hour trip home in the dark.  And for telling me where the Starbucks is, and where to get food. 

You were so sweet.

So. Very. Sweet.

Which makes what happened so very very awful.

I sincerely hope your responsibilities don’t include cleaning the bathroom.  Please please tell me you have a cleaning person.  Not that I wish that mess on them, but well, it’s their job.  They’re probably a little more prepared to deal with stuff like that.

In case you, my dear sweet ladies, were the unfortunate ones to clean the bathrooms, let me just say that no, I did not kill a small animal.  Nor did I give birth.  I know you’re thinking that’s the only way to explain all the blood.  But unfortunately, it’s not.

I did my best to clean it up, but toilet paper only goes so far.  If you'd kept bleach in the restroom, I would have gladly removed all evidence of the horrific scene.

Please don’t take it personal.  It’s not the first time this has happened in a public restroom. 

Again, I am incredibly sorry.  My uterus is an asshole.  I don’t know what else to say.

With Regrets,

*Before you think I am a total disgusting jerk who bled all over the place for someone else to clean up, let me just say that sometimes, I tend to exaggerate.

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