It’s About Breasts

Posted on 8/25/2008 by cheesefairy

I am a fool. You bet. I thought I could just waltz into a department store, boobs in hand (so to speak) and pick up a nice new nursing bra.

Why? Why would you go to a department store? You should go to a bra store. You should get yourself measured professionally, everyone is wearing the wrong bra size you know, and then you could get a good bra, a proper bra, a perfect bra.

Because I am stubborn. Even though, over many years of bra shopping, I have found a bra I love at a department store exactly once (1ce) and then went back to get another one to find they had discontinued it (not the store, the manufacturer) I still insist that the department store by its very definition should have a vast selection of things and amidst those things, the thing I want, whatever that thing might be on any given day.

Besides, I only had an hour and the mall was close and I thought: but surely in the two years since I looked at nursing bras at the department store, someone would have invented one that didn’t SUCK ASS. Surely, considering the baby boom apparent around me and all the nurse-ins and all the Breastfeeding Power To The People there would be a good, comfortable, un-ugly nursing bra for sale and I would walk in and buy it. Three of it. One in each non-ugly, non-sucky colour.

Also, there are no fancy pants nursing / maternity / motherlove-type stores in the Mizzle. I’da hadta drive to Kits for that.

Don’t you already have 17 nursing bras that you love? From that Breakout Bras online place that you always link to?

Actually, I have two good ones and three old, nighttime-only ones. But if I order more online they will take weeks to get here. And I wanted a bra with underwire.

But underwire will stab your baby in the face!

No it won’t.

Do they have bras with underwire at the online place?

They do, actually, but I wanted one yesterday. OK? I wanted a new bra and I wanted it SAME DAY.

Fine but don’t bitch about the selection at the department store if you don’t have the patience to wait a couple of weeks for a bra you know you will like.

Oh you’re so smart, eh, Ms. Rational Mind? Why don’t you go read some economics textbooks or something.

As I’m sure you’ve guessed, at the department store I was greeted by the same selection of nursing bras as last time (and the time before that. And the time before that. Yes, I mentioned I was stubborn?) Warner. Baby and Me. One soft cup kind that runs a bit small and one that fits properly that is lacy (ew!) and has a seam across the nipple.

What’s wrong with a seam across the nipple?

1. It makes a line under your clothes
2. It rubs against your nipple
3. Dudes: This is not as hot as you think
4. It’s just stupid. Why does there need to be a seam there? No reason.

So I ended up at London Drugs, which sells the bra I already have three of, for only a bit more money than it would be online and I got to take it home immediately. The downside? Still no underwire and there was only one colour available at the store. I got it home and SA said, “That bra is grandma beige, isn’t it?” And I said yes. And he made a face like if someone put a slug in your coffee.

I am creating an Imaginary Universal Regulatory Bra Body (IURBB) to be responsible for the design, manufacture and distribution of all bras from now on. Someone needs to be in control. I think it should be Goddessa. Here are the rules so far:

  • The band size should correspond to a real measurement. That means if I measure 34 inches around and I pick up a bra that says “34!” it will fit. No questions asked. Whether I am in Vancouver or Beijing. 34 = 34. 38 = 38.
  • Universal cup size. Someone (the IURBB) needs to pick a formula for measurement, make all the bras in the universe according to that formula and then widely publicize it. I have seen as many methods for measuring yourself “properly” as there are sands in the hourglass and none of them means DICK SQUAT when you go shopping because the people who make the bras don’t follow any formula except their own. My mom bought a bra a few weeks ago that had its own measurement grid on the back of the box. Neither of us could figure it out and neither of us is an idiot. And I don’t care about style differences. The genius bra designers employed by the IURBB will be smart enough to do the math to make sure that a 34D push up fits the same as a 34D jogging bra fits the same as a 34D nursing bra.
  • No more icky colours. Why is “grandma beige” (sorry all you grandmas) even an optional colour for undergarments? I think it’s supposed to be fleshtone, I guess in case anyone gets a glimpse of your naughties, but that tone is not like any flesh I’ve ever seen and is not going to fool anyone. The latest bra I bought euphemized the colour as “butterscotch.” Har dee har.
  • Specific to nursing bras: stop telling me your bra features an “easy, one-hand clasp” when it’s the kind of clasp you have to invert your wrist and swear under your breath to undo / do up. You know what’s easy? Snaps. Coincidentally, the nursing mother is already very proficient with snaps, because she is undoing and doing up infant clothing 40 times a day, so just use snaps. My favourite bra uses snaps. They rock.
  • For my small breasted sisters: make the small bras in pretty colours too. Even black would be nice. There is far too much “you’re small breasted so you don’t care what your bra looks like anyway” going on.
  • Ditto my large breasted sisters
  • Actually, you know what: every bra should be available in every colour and every size. From the smallest to the biggest, from the widest to the narrowest. Across this vast universe of ours, Consistently Sized, Attractive, Supportive Undergarments!

Onward, to the business centre! Goddessa needs letterhead!

Posted in clothes, Goddessa Smites You, new westminster | 8 Comments

I Kissed FedEx / And She Liked It

Posted on 8/21/2008 by cheesefairy

I was crankpotting around the house this morning, both because it’s all wet and dark since the great heat wave broke the other day and because it’s only August which means I Ain’t Seen Nothin’ Yet W/R/T two small children and one big meanie under one roof while the rain cascades in sheets and we grow weary to the point of exhaustion of each others’ company.

To get before October:

– hobbies
– play groups / local friends
– better at wrestling children into swimsuits
– more wine

I had no right to complain because Fresco was napping from 7:30 until 10 as it turned out, which gave me lots of time to hang with Trombone, wash dishes, eat toast, but in my head, complain I did because usually we’re out before 9 am and I was eager to get to the Most Depressing Mall in the Universe in order to visit the strangely huge dollar store within it that I might purchase Rainy Day Accessories such as paper, paint, glue, plastic Go Diego Go plates, etc.

Also, Trombone gets up at 7 and 2 hours is about as long as he wants to play at home without starting to re-enact the Los Angeles riots, including the looting and burning.

Fresco woke, I dressed us all for our outing, got the children strapped into their seats and was stuffing my face with peanut buttered bread while trying to find another shoe and a knock came at the door. It was a FedEx delivery person. She asked how I was and I said “arsesome” because my mouth was gummed up with peanut butter. She said she had a power adapter for me. I squealed with glee. She seemed pleased to have made me squeal with glee. I sure think it would be fun to be a FedEx delivery person. You get to wear shorts every day and drive a truck and bring people things they want.

And then, because I am a Truly Superior Person, I continued on, leaving my power adapter at home for later, so that we could get to the mall before the lunch rush.

When we got home, I tossed Fresco onto the couch with eleventeen fresh bibs, opened up Trombone’s new paints and handed him a brush and a pad of paper * and plugged Gloria in. “Charging,” she announced. Ah, sweet charging bliss.

But Gloria? You’re on notice. One more thing goes on you and you’re going swimming with the fishes. I’m not even starting a “computer” category because this is my last post about you. SA doesn’t need much of an excuse to order one of those Dell computers with Ubuntu on it. (In fact I think he might be sabotaging you while I sleep. You’ll let me know, won’t you? Now that you can turn on long enough to send email? Thanks.)

* The other day I bought Trombone some finger paints. I got them open and showed him how it was done. He got the “gross” face and took a big step back. “Mummy, they’re squishy! Put them away!” FAIL. I know he likes to paint, though, because he has an easel & all kinds of great stuff at my parents’ place. So today I bought the washable poster paints in the little pots, the ones that come with a little brush. Open it up. Hand him the brush. A few tentative dabs at the paper later, he’s gone to five blades. His hand is painted with three different colours and he’s smearing it like a mad thing all over the paper.

“Hey look, you’re finger painting,” I said, quickly moving the baby out of range.
“It’s squishy!” he said, “I wanna do more finger paints!”

Posted in Fresco, new westminster, trombone | 2 Comments

Technical Jackassery and the Creative Process

Posted on 8/20/2008 by cheesefairy

This is how I like to write a blog post:

Have idea.
Type frantically to capture idea.
Add hyperlinks, if relevant.
Re-read.
Re-write.
Re-read.
Re-write.
Delete.
Add.
Delete.
Post.

I hope that didn’t ruin the magic for anyone.

Some of what I write pleases me greatly. Some of it does not. When what I write comes from a genuine place, I think I “stick the landing.” When I’m forcing myself, for whatever reason, or over-editing because I like to keep some secrets, I often miss the mark. When I don’t have the time to take two ideas and stitch them together, when I don’t ever get to the place where I am happy to hit “post” but do it anyway just so something else is up, I spend hours regretting it. Okay, hour.

What am I, famous? Right? Is someone sitting out there on the Internet, checking this blog periodically and scoring it 1: Irrelevant, 2: Uneven, 3: Just Not Funny 4: Overindulgent 5: A Trifle Sentimental? I doubt it. That someone is actually in my head. (waves) That someone, my inner critic, code name Priya, she is often unfair but she is sometimes right, too. That’s why I don’t set her on fire.

My laptop computer, whose name is Gloria, is an iBook G4 and has been my close companion since 2004. But she started having some trouble in the past year. I used to use her attached to a network cable because the wireless in our place is fussy. Then wireless started working, right when the battery stopped holding a charge. Fine, so I’m attached to a power adapter all the time because the battery life is 10 minutes long (I am not exaggerating) and now the memory is full. We buy more RAM. One day the computer won’t turn on. We reinstall the OS except we actually upgrade because we couldn’t find the original install disks so now I’m running Leopard and all my files are in backup. Groovy except now, because the adapter is always plugged in, the plug is wonky and doesn’t connect properly so the computer keeps flashing its “you need to plug me in” warning even when it is plugged in and then two days ago it ran out of juice, couldn’t access the more juice and shut down in the middle of my preshus blogging time. Didn’t have enough juice to come back on. I wiggled the plug to no avail.

Talk about blue balls.

So my last few blog entries, most memorably the one from this morning where I deftly non-segue from nostalgia to bitterness to full on rant without so much as a topic sentence, have been written somewhat on the fly given that I only have early mornings, naptime and the delicate 30 minutes between dinner and bed (assuming I am not watching trashy TV, guilty as charged) to complete my (admittedly, convoluted and overwrought) blog-writing procedure. Now it looks like:

Have idea (usually while nursing infant)
Wait 5 hours.
Type frantically to capture
wait 10 hours
type frantically to capture idea
wait five hours
re-read
re-write
re-read
wait 24 hours
delete
add
aw fuck post it already.

The good news is a) we have another computer in the house and b) that a new power adapter has been ordered. We may get a new battery too. I know. Why did I not buy a new laptop? Because it is easier to spend $50 at a time if you think it will be the last $50 you will spend. And now we’re too far in to give up. Says me.

It is a poor writer who blames her laptop. I am still working on finding a way, a compromise, so that I can use the time I have more wisely and still write things I am happy with.

Priya just wanted me to tell you: I’ll do better.

This post is not in any way a criticism of Apple Computers, my in-house system administrator, my darling children who will nap only when they are good and ready, or CNN’s Showbiz Tonite. OK maybe that last one.

Posted in bloggity!, more about me!, whiny, writing | 4 Comments

Aye She’s A Curmudgeonly One

Posted on 8/20/2008 by cheesefairy

I only cared about the Olympics once. It was the summer of 1988 and I was watching for a high diver named Dave Flewelling. I am unsure of the spelling. He had been part of an ensemble called The Great American High Diving Team (I am humming their theme song as I type) that performed at the Pacific National Exhibition 5 times a day in the summer of 1987. I was working as a grounds sweeper at the PNE the summer of 1987 and had plenty of opportunities to sit at the back of the bleachers, feigning vigilence over every tossed cigarette butt but really admiring the toned, tanned, writhing-in-the-air physique of young Dave as he dove, dove dove.

(If I knew then what I knew now I would have moved on to the Superdogs because Dave is an impossible name to love.

Sorry, all you Daves.

Do I have any readers named Dave?)

In that crazy way that 14 year-olds love, I was obsessed with DF the diver. One day late in the Fair, I actually got him to sign my uniform hat. This was something we did, we grounds sweepers. We got autographs on our hats; kind of like a yearbook. There was no internet or I would have been watching his facebook profile like a hawk. But one day I heard tell or remembered that he was part of the US Olympic Diving Team and I made it my mission, that Olympic summer, to see as much of him as I could. I think the Games that year were in France so I scheduled the VCR to tape high diving in the wee hours of the morning and then I watched it during the day and ate nachos. It was pretty boring and involved a lot of fast-forwarding because there were a lot of other divers competing and none was as cute as DF. I got over it pretty quickly. School started and I tired of doodling the name of a hero I would never see again. Grade 10 took over and I tried to get crushes on guys actually at my school.

I have not cared about the Olympics since. Go ahead and hate me. I don’t get it. I don’t follow sporting events the rest of the time; why would I follow the king of all sporting events, a bloated, over-hyped 2 weeks during which everyone and his terrier “is Irish” and claims opinions on medal counts in the areas of BMX biking, beach volleyball and god I don’t know competitive rain dancing? Is that a sport?

You love the Olympics. You have your reasons, your Dave Flewellings. I know. That’s cool. But I am avoiding them like the plague so I haven’t turned on the TV or the radio in a while. Which is how I missed all this actual NEWS, like the one where Tony Clement, the federal minister of Health, calls Canada’s doctors a bunch of know-nothing hypocrites (to their faces! I hope he doesn’t get any nasty infections anytime soon!) for supporting harm reduction measures in the area of drug addiction. He claims, in part, that Canadian doctors and nurses are culpable in the deaths of drug addicts, because they are letting people die by giving them a safe place to inject their drugs. He seems to think that if we let users inject their drugs outside, in the filthy alleys, using disgusting puddle water from underneath dumpsters, all by themselves, that it would somehow be better. I suppose if the people are outside then we are not forced to WATCH them inject themselves with drugs, especially if we just stay out of the alleys (and bathrooms and doorways and, well, the street corners). And if we don’t see them doing it then we don’t have to do anything about it. Aha – the onus is on YOU, addicts. Get yourself some help! No, not the kind of help that would suit your needs. The kind of help we approve of.

Dear Tony Clement: Guess what? Even if you can’t see them, they’re still there. You smug, misinformed bastard man. You should not be the Minister of Health if you refuse to acknowledge that sometimes Health looks different from how you see it in your pretty little world. I would write you a letter but then I know some poor bastard at ground level would have to respond to it and I’d feel bad for him because I don’t want a response where you claim you will revisit a policy or a practice but instead I want you to revisit your FUCKING HEAD which is screwed on sideways and I don’t believe any policy dude would be able to right it.

Reason #42 I don’t like the Olympics: They push all the real news out of the way and then I get sputteringly, frustratingly, incoherently angry.

Posted in idiots, more about me! | 6 Comments

Holy Hell My Brain is Melting

Posted on 8/18/2008 by cheesefairy

I wrote this yesterday, Sunday, but couldn’t post till now. Today is much cooler.

I fully admit I am a wuss when it comes to humidity. I was born and raised in (what is now called) Metro Vancouver, in the temperate pacific north/south west (depending on your orientation) and I am not used to being sticky. Like, if I touched my arm right now, my hand would STICK to it. I am not currently sweating, but my sweat has dried on the back of my neck and I feel like I bathed in a tub full of melted jellybeans. That shit ain’t right. You people who live in humid climates and do not kill the people you live with, you are my new heroes. Five blades, man. Represent!

Today marks the completion of Fresco’s 17th week as an air-breathing human. And it is August 17th! Yesterday I realized this fantastic coincidence and thought I would use today’s naptime to write a ponderous screed re: 17 weeks of two children o-mi-sufferin’-soul but then today’s naptime fell by the wayside and here it is almost my bedtime and no screed has presented itself, ponderous or otherwise.

Four months old on Wednesday, he will be, and an absolute delight. He does have a very loud screech which he hauls out when he is happy, bored, lonely or overtired. It is so, um, interesting to have such a relatively quiet first child and such a very loud second one. Trombone would always just sit back and look at stuff, even at this age. Fresco is more like, “Hey! Where’s more STUFF? Where’d you guys GO? HEY!” It’s clear that he is accustomed to noise, chatter and action, in a way Trombone never could have been, having spent his formative months with, well, me and Saint Aardvark. And my mom. And the CBC radio one.

Now that the strict keep-it-alive phase of Fresco’s babyhood is over, I find myself at something of a loss with Trombone. I have more time to spend with him, but we’ve disconnected in the past few months. It is the age of loveyou/hateyou and kisses turning into bites and that would be the case whether or not he had a baby sibling. I am coming back to him from newborn-town with the same love as I had before but he is looking at me with these slightly sceptical, slightly older eyes, these eyes that say you are wonderful and the only mother I ever had but you left me for that shrieking banshee and I might just want to kick your ass. I get it, I do.

I guess I hoped they would be more interested in each other; more interested in each other than they are in me and that this would offset any early competition for my attention. As it is, each of them drinks me in when he’s alone with me, drinks me in so that I feel all drunk down, dehydrated, flat. And when we’re all three together, sometimes the competition for my attention is so loud. So bloodthirsty. So … unwarranted, to my old brain, so desperately important to their young ones.

I want them to be independent, when they’re this young? I had children why? So I could ignore them?

No. I want to be left alone sometimes, this much is true.

But more than that, I am eager for them to be building a relationship with each other, the way I have built a relationship with each of them. Like when you have a great new friend and you introduce her to your old friends and you want your old friends to see how much you love this new friend and you want them to love her too, for the same reasons, and also so you don’t feel as guilty about not hanging out with them as much, but all your old friends do is bitch that they never see you anymore and what’s so great about her anyway she’s got bad taste in movies.

I know. I can’t force anything. I’m not forcing anything.

I also know it is too early for them to be able to entertain or interest each other (much) without causing bodily harm. Trombone is busy learning everything about everything; Fresco is busy figuring out how to get chewable items into his mouth; they will build their relationship as they are ready and able and in fact, they are doing it now, in small steps, when Trombone brings Fresco a toy, when he apologizes to him for “being cranky” with him, when Fresco lights up to hear his brother’s voice, doesn’t protest when he gets a mouthful of hair, doesn’t even protest when he gets a head butt. They are doing their level best, as am I, as is Saint Aardvark. 17 weeks down, a lifetime to go.

It is a jumble; my thoughts, this summer, our world. Everything is covered in sand and sweat and drool and ice cream and tears. Of course, I can’t imagine it any other way.

Posted in Fresco, trombone, two! children! | 2 Comments