Sqeaks and gurgles.

I haven't had a drink in seven days. Now for most of your 'normals' out there who find daily existence tolerable without the rose coloured glasses created by a few litres of wine, I bet that sounds like nothing. For people like me, it sucks. I have certainly not abstained all this time for no reason though. I have done it (begrudgingly) because alcohol thins the blood and I can't have thin blood tomorrow when I drive to North York to get  my chest fillet'd and stuffed with round bags of gel, for which I have paid handsomely.

I'm getting a little nervous now that the day is so near, but that apprehension is mixed with a lot of excitement that I finally quit bitching about how flat chested I am and decided to (wo)man-up and do something about it.

Either way I'm about as prepared as you can get. 

It is my inherent nature as a journalist to research the shit out of everyone and everything in my life. If information is a drug then I am a degenerate addict. I know exactly which items I'll need at arm's length during the first 48 or so hours to ensure that my discomfort is kept to a minimum. I have lip balm, moisutizer, pre-selected books, magazines, movies, pillows galore, comfy slippers and  loose fitting silk (front button) pjs. I have people to help me up and to the bathroom where t.p. is stacked right next to the can - plus hair ties, soft food, a thermometer and frozen peas for ice packs. Oh yah, and we mustn't forget the selction of pharmacueticals I'll be prescribed to make the world all fluffy and pink.

In addition to all this, I have thoroughly educated myself on some things to expect from recovery. The list of lovely reactions I can (and will) enjoy include, but are not limited to:

 

- nausea                                          

- swelling  

- pain  

- bruising     

- difficulty sleeping (from the pain) 

- mood swings (from pain meds)                                          

- innablity to properly bathe for approx. 5 days (eeeew)

- loss of sensitivity (temporary...phew)

- over-sensitivity (a.k.a nippons)

- squeaks and gurgles.... UMMMM SORRY?

"Do not be alarmed if you hear gurgling, buzzing, or crackling noises coming from your augmented breasts. These noises may result from fluid build-up or air bubbles within the implant pocket."        

www.breastimplants4u.com

That's right kiddies. It is not uncommon for your newbies to make noise as they settle.... sorta like a new house. Amazing.

So, there you have it! Isn't this fun? You probably won't see any posts from me for a few days. I doubt I'll be ranting on here or creeping my 'friends' on facebook or even touching my laptop at all in the beginning, but I promise to post about the outcome of this surgical adventure just as soon as possible.

You know, just in case anyone is reading this.

 

Cohabitation. The constant irritation.

Living with another human being is a daily test of patience and a feat of self-control. Recently my significant other (boyfriend to be exact, I wear no rings) and I decided not only to move in with one another, but to become home owners as well. I knew it would be difficult. I knew that men and women are from different planets thanks to a cleverly titled book that people often refer to when attempting to verbalize the countless discrepancies between the genders. What I didn’t realize however, was that our planets were in alternate universes and we are really not even of the same species.

“Sometimes I wonder if men and women really suit each other.  Perhaps they should live next door and just visit now and then.”  ~Katharine Hepburn

Now this lady had it bang on. I have learned from my three months of co-habitation that there are moments and hours and sometimes even days at a time where the company of that certain opposite-sex-someone is fabulous. You can talk and laugh and appreciate each other’s endearing quirks and the small yet considerate things they do for you each day. Sometimes, one can even find oneself warming up to those cute little habits like leaving wet towels on the floor, dirty dishes in the sink and making a spectacle of digestive gases.

Then comes the moment, the hour, the day: when you want to hit them in the face. You don’t of course. That would be bad. But you want to. And when you close your eyes and think about it, or about getting in your car and driving to the nearest watering hole where untold shots glasses of sweet sweet release are beckoning to you from beyond the bar, it makes you smile. If only for a moments before you open your peepers, see him (or her, but for the purposes of this rant I’ll use the masculine) sitting unshaven on the couch in sweatpants, playing that fucking Call of Duty game next to three empty cans of Bud, a bowl of chips and two granola bar wrappers.

This is hardly a crime I know. There is nothing wrong with grown men playing video games, or so they repeatedly assert. I suppose he could have a far worse habit like prostitutes or crack. But I get all mental just the same when he sits and stares at that glowing rectangle in the living room for hours on end while I run about like an ADD kid cleaning the damn house.  I have no doubt that my tendencies irk him in much the same manner. In fact, I know this because he tells me all the time. I’m a bit of a nag, it’s true.

So, ummm, is the visit over yet? Can I go back to my sanctuary next door now with a big glass of wine and re-stock my depleted supply of kindness and tolerance? Not quite.

Last year I lived at home and my parents drove me nuts. I would go to my boyfriend’s house to escape and bitch about them until I felt better. Now, when upset and frustrated by living with this creature I cannot begin to understand, I drive to the house I fled just 90 days ago to sit with my once unbearable parents, watching a smile spread across their faces as I whine childishly about my insignificant problems….

Much like I’ve just done here.

My humps.

Psssssst.

Now that we’re friends I think I want to tell you a little secret. Make sure nobody is listening….ok….you ready? Here it comes……

I’m getting a boob job.

Now before you go telling me that I look fab just the way I am and that plastic surgery is for strippers please hear me out.  Some girls hate their crooked noses and others despise their Oprah arms. There are redhead girls covered in freckles who aren’t too crazy about the hand they were dealt and there are even girls with an affliction quite the opposite of mine, who actually have mammaries so robust that they get in the way.  We all have something that we would like to fix.

I have always been self-conscious about lack of endowment, not because I want to look like Pamela or because I think that getting stared at is some kind of validation. And trust me, if there was an exercise you could do or a food you could eat to convince a post-pubescent body to sprout breasts, I would have them by now. It just doesn’t work that way.

 I just want to buy a bikini without first checking to see that it is sufficiently padded. I want to wear a strapless dress without a strapless bra. I just want boobs. Not huge boobs, just boobs. And now I’m getting what I want through the miracle of modern medicine.  Brilliant.



I'll be kissing my AA-cup goodbye



My boyfriend (bless his heart) is taking a whole week off work to ‘take care of me’. He has a weak stomach and I’m pretty sure there’s going to be some icky bandage changing involved so it might actually be comical (for me) in addition to being intensely painful.  He was wary of the whole process at first, but is becoming increasingly excited at the prospect of fondling me post-op.



I have had other women reply with everything from “I went to work the next day” to “I couldn’t f***ing move for two weeks” when asked about recovery. I’m in decent shape and don’t smoke I’m hoping my experience is more like anonymous quote #1.

BooB countdown: B-minus 09 DAYS



Diddy is my Grandmother.





No seriously, she is. Her actual name is Dorothy but Diddy was what people called her long before a certain rapper/music producer thought it was a good idea. In fact he probably copied her.

Anyways, Diddy (a.k.a. Grannie) turned 90 years old this weekend. Can you imagine? I think it’s terrific and the ol’ pistol still doesn’t miss a beat. If you tell her a funny joke she’ll have a good laugh then tell you one right back. If you tell her a bad one she’ll tell you how bad it was and advise you not to quit your day job.

She is a hardcore Brit and even looks a bit like queen, only she’s older. She thinks everything is better in England. She had seven rotten kids, of which my dad was the second last. Those kids had tons of useless children of their own, including yours truly. I however, am an only child because once my parents took a gander at my ugly mug they decided that they had already done enough damage to society and stopped reproducing immediately.

Grannie is one hell of a lady though. She watches Corronation Street daily and once shot down a German WW II fighter jet during her time in the British Army. Cool eh? She loves tea and biscuits and when we go out for dinner she orders steak. When her plate arrives with her steak on it the whole thing is covered in blood. She is the only person I know who orders her steak blue rare and it make me both sick and proud at the same time.

This weekend we went to the Mandarin to celebrate her 90 spins around the sun and she barely ate because she didn’t want to mess up her Weight Watchers.

I know what you’re thinking and I agree.

Why the hell does a 90 year old woman, who shot down a Nazi bomber, birthed 7 children, is a grandmother, a great grandmother and even a great-great-grandmother give a flying fuck how much she weighs?

 I don’t honestly know the answer to that one, because I think she looks great. What I do know is that I have no doubt the old battleaxe will make it to a hundred and be around to hold my no-good puppies when I decide to settle down and have some.

This job of mine

So I'm the associate editor of a neato trade magazine that covers the exciting world of airline food. No but really, it's preety sweet. To say that we only cover airline food is a massive understatement. We write about everything above the wing from interiors to entertainment to amenities and yes, food and beverage. We do the same for other fancy modes of transportation like trains and cruise lines.

My boss sends me all over the place to stay in swanky hotels and rub elbows with people possessing substantial wealth, influence, talent and the ability to consume mass amounts of drink. Not a bad gig. Especially since bars are always open and the dinner menu is typically comprised of things like buffalo steak, foie gras, caviar and all manner of fancy pants stuff I would never get here.

Two weeks ago I took a little jaunt over to Barcelona for a trade show and conference. What a gorgeous city! People party like freakin animals there. I shit you not, if you go to the club at 1am you are an early bird an you'll dance by yourself for 2 hours. My first night I went out for Tapas with top dogs from Bacardi and MillerCoors. Needless to say that sobriety was not an option.

Night two I had a fancy dinner with some executive cruise line chefs, saw some opera singers and went to a private party where me Austin Powers' dad did a photoshoot...grrrrr baby. Grrrrrrr.

Clubbing ensued....

Night three was much of the same. Dinner at a winery. Caviar and duck. Alcohol. Hotel Bar. Clubbing ensued....

Day four was all room service and sweating as my body fought to rid itself of the poison that I had been feeding it for the last several days. In the afternoon I managed to get dressed after showering for the second time and drinking Strong coffee. I bought stuff for my friends from some gypsies at on La Rambla (Barcelona's main drag, to to speak) before cabbing back to the hotel, crawling into bed, and sweating for another 15 hours and half-sleeping until 6am, when I went to the airport.

Hi there.

When I was a kid I was really skinny. I had long wavy blonde hair and was always tanned from playing outside. I had a huge forehead and still sort of do. That used to really bother me until someone told me it meant I had a larger brain than other folks. That made perfect sense to me since I already thought everyone else was a bit slow.

My best friend growing up lived downtown next to some empty lots, an old skate factory and the GO station. At 5 or so when the trains would start letting people out, they walked by her front lawn in great masses. Being both entrepreneurial and quite mean, we set up shop with a folding table right on the sidewalk and  asked a mere 25 cents for freshly muddied rocks, suitable for throwing at little brothers, big sisters, the elderly, or anyone else that annoyed you.

We couldn’t understand why those jerks in suits never wanted such lovely muddy rocks, but then again we didn’t understand a lot of things back then. Like why it was considered inappropriate to create clubs that excluded everyone we didn’t like, or why threatening to sue you first grade teachers ass got everybody all fired up.

Looking back, my years of hell-raising with DD were really what started it all.

Coming Soon