In the Battle of Woman V. Girdle....

As a rule of thumb, I don't dress up that much.  I am short and stumpy, and somewhat lumpy.  With no beautiful attributes to behold, I can say without malice that one part of my body just blends in with another. At work, I am only one step up from casual and on the weekend, I am your typical small town hoody and jeans type of girl. With a secret fantasy of my legs growing longer and my body becoming fabulous, I hoard away my share of accessories.  Purses, jewelry, shoes, shawls, scarves, you name it.  If it is feminine, its sitting in my closet pining for a day it will actually be used. 

So, when I was invited to a Murder Mystery party this past weekend by a friend of ours who really is the hostess with the mostest, I knew that I would have to bring my A GAME in the dressing up department! With the accessories needed to spruce this average girl up to a 1905 flirtatious tramp named Chastity Darling, I knew that the only thing missing was the clothes to cover my rather less than desirable body.  So with credit card in hand, I tromped off to the local clothing store.  

The moment I walked through the store, I instantly heard the sound of angels followed by a blinding light coming down from the heavens and shining on "IT" in all it's 1920ish glory.  Beautiful beyond words, delicate in appearance, the black and lace frock with a kick out at the bottom portrayed the look of a bygone era. With my size in hand, I ventured into the change room and tried it on!  And wouldn't you know it, the bloody thing fit!!! I stood and viewed myself with a tiny bit of admiration until I moved in the mirror.  What was that I thought... It couldn't be?  It can't be?  Oh my lord it is!!!! The only thing holding me and this beautiful frock from creating a binding love affair was the nasty betrayal of my jelly belly that was wiggling to and fro with every movement.  And just as I was about to declare defeat and send it back to it's place on display, words of wisdom were shouted from the great beyond, better known as my mother:  GET A GIRDLE FOR GAWD SAKES!!!! 

Huh?  They still make those?  Really? So as I scampered around the store, wouldn't you know that they had a seamless and promise to show no lines, guarantee to thin you by two sizes, spandexly happy version of the modern day girdle.

So with dress, nylons and girdle in hand, I arrived home to start the process of transforming this average woman into a character worth remembering.

Laying out all my wares on our bed, I scooched my better half out of the room, and emphatically stated "No matter what you hear, whether it be grunting, groaning, whining and howling, DO NOT, I REPEAT, DO NOT OPEN THIS DOOR!!!"  Good lord it was bad enough that I had to witness the debacle of moving fat around on my body let alone subject my better half and cause him permanent blindness.  So with box in hand, I opened it to reveal a two inch by two inch square of stretchable fabric. Was this it? Seriously, I was suppose to get that around all of my body? Never one to back down from a challenge, I stepped one leg into the 16th century torture contraption. And with another leg in, I yanked, I squeezed, I tugged, I pulled, I sweated, I groaned, and I even whimpered once or twice until that two inch by two inch thing was made into a two foot by two foot thing which was then yanked unceremoniously up my body and secured into place.  With my stomach now pushed up into my breasts and my breasts now pushed up into my throat, I was ready to venture out.

At the dinner party, it became painfully obvious that with cutting off all amount of circulation to my stomach, the food was resting somewhere between my boobs and my mouth.  As the minutes ticked on and on, I could feel my stomach collecting gas and trying to expand beneath the torture device that was holding it securely in place.  With a shift here and a shift there, I felt light headed and dizzy and I was sure that a fart was going to explode out through my nostrils!  I moved from hip to hip and leaned as far back as I could in a desperate attempt to find some type of relief.  I spoke to my body silently willing it to conform, to adjust, to please just be good! But as the night progressed, I could feel my fat bubble into other free areas of my body.  I was developing a new form of a muffin top, a second set of boobs, and third double chin, GOOD LORD MY FRIENDS, I WAS GOING TO EXPLODE!!!

And just as I thought I couldn't take it anymore, the game was over!!!  And with a run from my chair, I grabbed my bag that contained jeans and a hoody and comfy undies and sprinted to the bathroom to make my change from gaseous trollop to everyday average girl.  

And as I stood there in my lovely friends' washroom, all halloweened up, I did the only thing a really comfortable friend would do, I took off the girdle and let my rather large patooty explode!!!  And as my body parts then settled back into their regular roles, I proceeded to jump around like a maniac trying to wave the rather nauseous scent away, then I rejoined the group, prayed nobody needed the bathroom soon, drank some wine and relaxed.

And what I can say my friends is that in the battle of Woman versus Girdle, that damn Girdle won!!!  Well sort of that is because when I got home and deposited my nemesis into the garbage, this woman snidely looked at the evil little thing and said "you may have won the battle my friend, but your off to the incinerator which means that I won the war!!" 

And then I walked away cackling!

Until Next Time.

Tracy

BACK AWAY FROM THE MAGAZINE, AND NOBODY WILL GET HURT!!!

By this point (unless your new to my blog or new to my life), everybody is most likely aware that I have some odd idiosyncrasies.  One of the craziest things about me is my love of a fresh and never been handled magazine.  Oh how I adore them with their new smell, their feel, their glossiness, and the fact that I am the first to touch their clean pages. Why in fact, it is nothing short of utterly exhilarating.  It's a love affair I have had for more years than I can count and it probably started when I was a child. You know I use to have two subscriptions, one to the Annie Oakley Fan club and the other to Junior National Geographic (yea yea, I know I look like a dweeb, but please there were no junior/teen fashion magazines back then and probably is the reason behind the way I dress now!)  Anyway, I use to wait that long 30 days in between until the next magazine would come in, and when it arrived in that delightful brown paper packaging with my name on it, I would bolt to my bedroom to savour the excitement of opening it all to myself.  

Oh the joys of it all as I sat there staring at my newly minted magazine in all it's shiny, new and cleanly glory. Many years later, and I can confirm that I still feel the same way. It probably would come as no surprise to find out that I nearly burst a vein on the side of my forehead if someone else touches my virgin magazine before I do. Those who know me well, know that I must be the first to flip thru it's untouched pages and I must be the first to read it, and if I am not, don't even bother giving it to me!

Of course, it should also be no shock that I absolutely cannot touch a magazine in any office setting. You know what I mean? Those horrid disgusting, finger licked magazines that glaringly stare at you while you are sitting at your doctor's or at your dentist's office. All I can see is a zillion little fingers that have flipped thru those pages. EEEEWWWW!  It blows my mind that most doctors offices require you to put a face mask on during flu season so as not to spread germs, but leave out for everyone to touch, sneeze on, cough on, snot on, paper reading products! Like we aren't going to catch anything off those little germ collectors! *shudder*.

Ironically, I have been with my better half for eight and half years and he still does not understand this flaw in my personality. And I nearly get frantic when I come home from a store and he starts to empty out the bags and grabs my magazine and does a quick flip thru those virgin pages.  It takes all my strength not too leap across our kitchen island, put him in a choke hold and slap him silly!  He regularly looks at me as though I am some sort of maniac, and perhaps I am.  But it is only when I have read the magazine thoroughly and I mean every page from top to bottom, from side to side, from article to article that you may pick it up and view it. Yes I know what you are thinking and you wouldn't be the first to call me crazy!

I think I can say with total assurance that at this point in my life, it is highly doubtful that I am ever going to change when it comes to the virgin magazine. And if you are ever in a magazine aisle and you see this girl reaching for the magazine way way waaaaaaaaaaaaaay at the back of the pile, the likelihood is, that is just crazy old me!  Harmless of course, unless you touch my virgin magazine and then I take no further responsibility for my future actions.

Until next time.

Cheers

Tracy

...in the midnight hour

I live with a man who during the daylight hours I adore completely, but during the night hours, it takes all my control not to throttle him senseless with the pillow he rests his rather large head upon.

I am sleep deprived you see.  

My mild manner better half is driving me to the brink of exhaustion!

To wit:  the other night, I had curled deep within the warmth of my duvet and fell off into a lovely, dreamless slumber when I was ghastly awaken by the following:

"GET UP GET UP, YOU ARE GOING TO BE LATE FOR WORK!!!!!"

With my heart beating fast and sleepy-filled eyes, it goes without saying that I hopped out of my warm and comforting bed and moved my decrepit body as fast as I could over to the loo where I dropped my pj's and scrambled into the shower to clean the old body in the most expedient way I possibly could!

Still feeling slightly tired, I came out of the bathroom to find my lovely better half deep alseep and snoring peaceful under a mound of duvets.  What was more curious was that it was still dark out. Usually by this time, there is a thin stream of daylight coming in from yonder window. However, the only thing that I could see was the glow behind my curtain of the mandatory street lights.

I stood there and scratched me head and proceeded to hobble over where the alarm clock was sitting and took it over to the window to get some light to read it. I stood and stared at perplexed, shook it a few times and wondered if perhaps the batteries in the back had finally died, as this time couldn't be right! On closer inspection, I could see the second hand moving without hesitation. In shock, I stood and watched that bloody second hand moving in perfect sync and felt a mad rush of warmth gather over my face. With a turn of my heel, followed by a thunderous over-exaggerated walk,  I stomped my way over to my side of my bed, grabbed my pillow and unceremoniously hit my better half in the head with the following screaming words:  

"IT'S ONLY MIDNIGHT YOU BLOODY FOOL....AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!"

Stunned by the onslaught of my pillow, sleeping beauty looked at me with confusion, and then it dawned on me that the freaking stinker was talking in his sleep again!

The rest of my evening went something like this:

• 1:00 a.m. finding said better half sitting on the side of the bed, asking him what he was doing, his answer "nuttin" and then him falling back on his pillow and snoring.
• 2:30 a.m. finding said better half sitting on the side of bed, asking him what he was doing, his answer "nobody's business" and then him falling back on his pillow and snoring.
• 3:45 a.m. finding said better half standing at one of our bedroom windows peeking out thru the slit of the blinds and saying "did you hear that, did you hear that?" and then him walking back to his side of his bed, climbing in and not missing a beat to his snoring.
• 4:30 a.m. finding said better half standing over our dog's crate and saying the street light is keeping Fred awake and then him climbing back into bed and snoring once again; and finally
• 6:30 a.m. the alarm going off and better half waking up with a stretch whilst Tracy drags her sorry ass out of bed.

I don't care what they say, I am going to do my best to bring separate bedrooms back into fashion!

Good lord, someone help me now!

Until Next Time!

Tracy

This Post is not for the Faint Hearted

You know I have always been a pretty open blogger when it comes to my personal life.  And in doing so, I have lost readership and I have gained readership. It's life. I have always been honest in my posts and have shared many things about my aging droopy body, from my ever-reaching-floor boobs, to the odd stray hair poking off the side of my nostril, to eating fart bars at will just to get even with my better half.  All of which compare nothing to the tale I am about to tell you.

So if you are easily offended or grossed out by bathroom humour, now is the time to skip to the next blog. I promise, my next post will be all flowery and full of daisies.

But in the meantime, all ladies and gentlemen, are warned to avert their eyes.

On to my story:

If you are familiar with me at this point, you know that I am a chronic pain sufferer.  I tend to shy away from pain medication until there comes a point when the pain is making me so outwardly miserable to all those around me, that I just have to give in and take something.  Such was the case for the last week and half.

So with a click of my magic fingers, I blinked up my delightful cocktail of pain meds and happily went on my way much to the pleasure of all those around me. 

The unfortunate part of pain meds is that after a few days they back up my old garbage disposal, if you get my drift.  You know what I mean right? My engine gets a blockage, my cat gets a fur ball, there's a rat stuck in the wall... No? You still don't know what I mean? Oh for gawd sakes, I get constipated people!!!! 

And constipated good, I must say.  This time it had been three days, three long days of torturous agony, until I took it upon myself to drastically force a flushing of my radiator. 

It all started like this.  I finally could no longer take one more moment of the pain in my lower back or the bloating in my ever increasing stomach.  Not too mention the constant pressure on my poor tookis. So with toilet paper in hand, and a determination in my gait, I finally, on the third day, decided to get the deed done and reward myself with a warm bubble bath to soak my soon to be released from agony nether regions.  So with the bathwater running, I decided to disrobe, and plant my naked body on the toilet to give an old heave ho to my ill suffering bowels, and from there jump into my bath and soak my sore patooty.

While idly sitting, for what felt like an eternity on the toilet, and bursting several blood vessels on my face, a few odd and disturbing things popped into my mind, like:

What if it didn't come out before the water in the bathtub started to overflow and my better half came into the bathroom to see why there was an indoor flood happening only to find me in all my naked glory sitting there grimacing and grunting on the toilet with two inches of water around my ankle yelling "we're almost there baby, almost there!!"

Or

What if, gawd forbid, I pushed too hard and gave myself an aneurysm, fell off the toilet and my better half found me naked, lying butt up in the air, dead to the world, with half a poop sticking out.  Good gawd, how on earth would he explain that to the family!!!

And if that wasn't bad enough, I spent an inordinate amount of time fantasizing about taking a pair barbecue tongs and pulling and tugging until I set my bowels frees.  Of course, when I merely mentioned my fantasy to my better half, he raced into the kitchen at full speed, and lets put it this way, I haven't seen those tongs in two full days. Like I'm really going to use them.  Okay, maybe it is good thing I can't find them.

In any event, I am happy to report that I did survive the bowel gate scandal of 2011 and that I burst out into glorious song the moment it happened!

The fact that I am now sitting on a pillow and a heating pad, is nobody's business but mine, and well, maybe yours too, and anyone else who has the courage to ask!  Because, damn it, I am not ashamed!  Okay, maybe I am blushing a bit in the cheeks, well, the cheeks I am sitting on that is!

Until Next Time.

Tracy