Motherfuckers, every one.

Tonight I found out I need about $3500 worth of dentistry.
Multiple fillings and something like three root canals.

I did, however, surprise the dentist. I've managed to get to this point completely pain free.
It's just more proof that I am a complete bad ass.

Soon to be a very very poor bad ass.
Anyone want to buy my stuff?

A confession​, an apology

When I was younger, much younger, and horrible, really horrible, I was in a kitschy store with my mother and at least one of my two sisters.
Somehow I knew that they had just bought me a miniature teddy bear for my birthday.
The miniature teddy bears were a thing at the time and I have always liked miniature things. No idea why, and I hope desperately that I don't become the kind of grown-ass woman who has a dollhouse*, but I always have.

I remember shoehorning into conversation that I didn't mind what [they] got my for my birthday, as long as it WAS NOT a miniature teddy bear.
I don't know why I said it** but it sickens me to this day. I was malicious for no good reason at all. I am ashamed that I ever acted that way*** and it kills me every time I remember. It really really hurts.
It is the first thing to fly out of my pandora's box of my idea of self.

I am sorry.

To whichever of my darling sisters this was: I am sorry.
To both of my darling sisters: I am sorry. This is just one event, and I'm sure you have your own memories of when I was so hateful. I am sorry.
To my darling parents: I am sorry. You didn't raise me this way, I don't think.

This may be why my family seems to find it difficult to choose presents for me. Because deep inside I have it in me to be deliberately, maliciously, embarassingly hurtful.

I am sorry.



* not that there's anything necessarily WRONG with this, it's just not how I see myself. Same with ladies who wear clothes featuring cartoon animals. I can't stomach it.

** I suspect it's tied up with the whole thing of being the eldest child in my family, and therefore the most "grown-up". A miniature teddybear was "babyish" and I was above such things. Like the one time I went to disneyland (1995) and ended up getting a CD of the Lion King soundtrack while my sisters got stuffed animals (bambi and thumper), I had wanted a stuffed animal too but at age 11 was expected to be older than such nonsense.

*** I am sure things like this happened more frequently but this one sticks in my mind. I'm writing this in an email at work, teary-eyed and ridiculous. I should be older than this nonsense.

Post-Show Malaise

It always happens like this.
I don't take care of myself very well when I'm coming to the end of the show. I can't eat in the evenings of a performance and I run on caffeine, stress, nerves, and adrenaline.
I end up covered in bruises and with exhaustion luggage under my eyes that lasts for a week.

This time I have also ended up with some horrible flu/tonsilitis/malaise illness.
It probably doesn't help that during rehearsals/performances there was always one cast member silently (or not-so-silently) suffering from a cold. I thought my usually robust immune system would ward it off. I never get sick.
But then, the not eating and not sleeping, and the bruises ... I am sick.

Everything sounds underwater and I have a horrible hacking cough.

I should probably be at home in bed but, as these things inevitably go, it coincided with a couple of days of work where I really couldn't be absent. And now? when I could possibly take a day off with little guilt? I'm feeling better. Ish.

Thank goodness for chicken noodle soup.

Oh no, DimitySo!

It was a revelation the first time I wore a bra that fit properly.
Trinny & Susannah and their ilk blag on and on about how most women wear the wrong size bra and up until that moment (at home in our London flat, after a trip to, of all things, Primark) I'd thought they were exaggerating.
It was so surprising that I walked from our bedroom to the lounge, in my bra & jeans (the lovely flatmate S was not home) and told Craig. He was underwhelmed. But to me, everything I'd read about how bras are supposed to fit suddenly made sense.
I was a 12F/14E.
And life got a whole bunch more difficult.

Regular bras, the ones that cost under $50 and come in a range of colours, sizes, and materials only range from A-D. For years manufacturers have regarded cleavage above a D cup as something to be restrained, hidden away, regarded as suspicious, and swathed in acres of fabric.

UNTIL! Bendon brought out select few of their Elle Macpherson range in cup sizes above D. And I rejoiced. Then quickly wept because lord but fancy bras are expensive. Also, the cup still they crept up the bust centimetre by centimetre compared to their A-D doppelgängers. As if anything over a D cup is liable to jump out of the cup if anything akin to cleavage is shown. Heaven forbid you want to wear anything with a plunging neckline - they just don't make the bra for you.

I find it so ... infuriating. How dare these lingerie manufacturers dictate how low cut I wear my tops. How DARE they. If all of a sudden all tee-shirts were only cut to show the collar bone people would be incensed. And yet those of larger busts have allowed lingerie manufacturers to DICTATE our modesty. Just thinking about this makes me so angry I'm typing with tense claw hands. Our breasts are not all that hard to manage. They do not need to be completely covered by an undergarment - as long as the bottom half-plus-an-inch is well supported then they are not going to LEAP from the bra.
Do the manufacturers assume that I dislike my breasts? that I am ashamed of them & hide them away? Because I'm not and I do not. They're just breasts. They will not destroy the world*. Heaven forefend I should ever wish to wear a push up bra.

I was hunting for a low-cut E or F cut bra in any shop I could find. No luck. I even talked to the saleslady in Bendon who told me about this mythical new range of lingerie that they were releasing - DimitySO (hate the name) - which ONLY came in cup sizes D-J! I was so excited. A range of lingerie made specifically for my cup range (and then some), surely THEY would make the kind of bras I want to wear. Imagine my excitement when a couple of months later I noticed on my twitter feed the hashtag #DimitySO appended to what appeared to be a competition entry tweet.
I clicked frantically to their twitter page and sure enough they were giving away 3 sets of lingerie each day - all you had to do was send a message saying why you deserved free lingerie. The first day? I didn't win anything. The second day I quoted an oscar winning rap song and won!:



So, just under a month later, a package arrived at my office, it was the DimitySO lingerie! I was so so excited. But not so excited as to run to the office bathroom and try it on. I waited until this morning.





The lingerie is admittedly beautiful. In a strange grey shade which, according to their website, is actually "Brown / Aqua Gray" and seems very well made. The first thing I found amiss was that the back strap was very thick, the three hooks very widely spaced. This is a hallmark of the grandma-esque bras I and a similarly endowed friend abhor. Seriously, ABHOR. And I know that it's not a necessity as the Elle MacPherson bras I have purchased in an E or F cup do not suffer this surfeit of strap, some of them even only have two hooks. Less like an orthopaedic brace and more like a, oh I don't know, a BRA.

Then I put it on. Immediately I knew it would not be worn often, despite the quality. See, I have this mole on my left breast:



I love it. Along with the beauty mark just under my right nostril (Oo! This photo shows both of them! Convenient), and I wear the majority of my tops so that it is visible. Not BECAUSE I want to show it off, it just so happens that this mole marks the point just above where I find the neckline of a top to be most flattering for my figure - too far above OR below it and I appear even more top heavy (yes, covering them up does make them look bigger. I don't know why but I'm not going to fight it) which is frankly, annoying.
So, given the placement of neckline, the probability of material on material slippage, and because people peer, I prefer my bra cups to finish at the most about 5cm or so below the mole. Believe me when I say that my breasts are still ... very well contained at this point. Anyway, I have elaborated enough.

My point with this ENTIRE screed of writing about breasts (hi there, men in my family who read this, sorry!) is that the DimitySO Bra?
IT COVERED THE MOLE.
Seriously. Not by a lot, but still, it was covered. I realised I would have to change out of it if I wanted to wear the tee-shirt I was planning to wear (this one) to the Martinborough fair. After I had put it the bra on and picked my jaw back up off the floor, I turned to Craig and said it has huge grandma cups! and he, the sweetest man in the world, who avoids saying anything bad about anything I'm wearing or considering wearing (this is sometimes the most annoying thing in the world) just said yea, yea they are.

Agony.
It is the "Diamond Affair" bra and, having a look through their collection, it does seem to be one of the higher cut cups. But I am just so so disappointed. I expected so much more. But I will be checking out the range instore at some point - when I can face the disappointment.
A grandma-esque bra made in fancy colours and fabrics is still a grandma-esque bra, DimitySO, remember that.

Also? would it KILL you to make a bra for plunging necklines? Cheers.

EDITED: Just to clarify - my vitriol of paragraph 4 is not directed at DimitySO, rather at the current general large-cup-bra maelstrom.


* In addition? I will not implode with shame and self loathing, or cower in fear, if someone dares to look at them. So what? they're there, and they are simply secondary sex characteristics. Big fucking whoop. GAH.

Limit. Brim. Verge. Conclusion. Confinement

And there it is. With this pair of shoes I have reached my limit. I cannot spend any more.
I will not spend anymore. For awhile.

Today Craig and I went sale shopping and I purchased a shirt, a skirt, and a pair of shoes. And that apparently is my limit. I have completed a working wardrobe which includes more than 5 interchangeable outfits so I don't wear the same thing week in and week out, it includes 2 skirts that just fit my current weight so won't be enormous if I lose more weight (and, naturally, I have the skirts I no longer wear as they are annoyingly loose - just in case).
And I am tired of shopping. Tired of buying low quality items that begin to pill or lose their shape immediately. Tired of the endless consuming. Tired of SO MUCH STUFF (though, admittedly, compared to a lot of people - one of my sisters, and one of my best friends for example- I do not have all that much stuff) cluttering my life.

I will not purchase any any any clothing items or books for three months. And a bit. Until the 14th April 2010*.

Caveats:
I may allow myself to buy running shoes. Because I do still want to try and see if I can become a running-type-person. But I'm going to let myself get back into the Wii Fit for awhile first.
And of course, if anything gets irreparably damaged then I can replace it. Especially things like tights.
The book thing? I have a stack of books to read that is almost at hip height. Seriously. I do not need any more.

I was planning on keeping this to myself but then realised that it would be more achievable, attainable, restricting if I told The Internet (and my Darling Husband) and set myself a date. Something to count down to.

And in addition to this, I am going to actively cull my wardrobe. My drawers are not overflowing and my wardrobe is not bulging at the seams but I could do with, and would enjoy owning, less.
Sell, distribute amongst family, donate.

I'll let you know how I get on!

* That's only 98 days. I can do that, right?

Too heavy for a Saturday morning? Perhaps.

‘Cause the thing is, you and the guys you hang out with may not really mean anything by it when you talk about crazy bitches and dumb sluts and heh-heh-I’d-hit-that and you just can’t reason with them and you can’t live with ‘em can’t shoot ‘em and she’s obviously only dressed like that because she wants to get laid and if they can’t stand the heat they should get out of the kitchen and if they can’t play by the rules they don’t belong here and if they can’t take a little teasing they should quit and heh heh they’re only good for fucking and cleaning and they’re not fit to be leaders and they’re too emotional to run a business and they just want to get their hands on our money and if they’d just stop overreacting and telling themselves they’re victims they’d realize they actually have all the power in this society and white men aren’t even allowed to do anything anymore and and and…

I get that you don’t really mean that shit. I get that you’re just talking out your ass.

But please listen, and please trust me on this one: you have probably, at some point in your life, engaged in that kind of talk with a man who really, truly hates women–to the extent of having beaten and/or raped at least one. And you probably didn’t know which one he was.

And that guy? Thought you were on his side.

- Morning Feminist Classic Kickstart: Kate Harding.

Craig has a friend who I do not like.
A friend who every so often makes his racist, misogynistic, homophobic, hateful views disturbingly clear.
I know, I know, Craig doesn't share these opinions and he just rolls his eyes and steers the conversation back to cars or pool or their primary school days. But I do still worry. I worry, I worry, I worry.