Ta-Tas Schma-Tas

Yesterday I almost drove my car into the back of someone else's because I followed them most of the way home from work on Rt. 422 and by the time I got off the road I was completely enraged by their stupid-ass bumper stickers.

And let me just tell you this -- we are not talking "McCain/Palin '08" stickers or even those lame "Coexist" things that are pretty much everywhere because hipsters think it's totally cool to be all about "tolerance, dude!" while they're drinking their imported light beers and cracking jokes about uglies and fat people.

Nope, what got me all het up was that the entire back of this person's car was covered with different variations and permutations of those suddenly-ubiquitous-but-no-less-ridiculous "Save the Ta-Tas" bumper stickers. "Save the Ta-Tas." "I ♥ My Ta-Tas." "Honk if You ♥ Ta-Tas."

Oh, give me just a small break, would you?

Listen, I know people who have these bumper stickers, and the keychains, and the T-shirts and the sun visors and the little tanks with the glittery words all over them. My sister has one on her car. They're all over the parking lot at work. Babies are wearing onesies that say "Be Vewy Vewy Quiet, I'm Hunting Ta-Tas." Seriously.

And I am sick of it. This is a more-than-potentially controversial position, no doubt, but I'm going to come right out and say it: I think this entire "Save the Ta-Tas" movement is really, really dumb. I know what the point of the campaign is supposed to be, and that it's supposed to be humorous and all, but I find the language and the "wink-wink-nudge"-iness to be really, really insulting.

The Girls' Club

The Girls' Club
Originally uploaded by r_ockle

L-R: Nana Robbie, Cupcake, Mommy.

My Eyes! Zee Goggles! Zhey Do Nozhink!

Swimming
Originally uploaded by r_ockle

... Yeah, whatever. I'm not in the best shape of my life; so sue me. And you can't see the best feature of my bathing suit, which is the keyhole cutout that pretty much puts my entire rack on display (and also sometimes makes for a sunscreen-application-situation, because: not so much cleavage as cleveLAND, you dig?).

But look at the KID, dammit! She is in the pool! And the water is only like 75°! And SHE DOESN'T CARE! Seriously, we had a hard time getting her out of the water. She just wanted to splash around in there. And chase her "baby" (more on that one later). And wave to everybody. And just generally be awesome, which she is.

I apologize about my hideous bathing suit, though. But let's just face it -- I have a kid a now, and I can't just run around spending money frivolously on new swimsuits or personal trainers or liposuction or body doubles. Although I will see what adjustments to my budget I can manage if Scarlett Johansson becomes available for stand-in work.

PS - Another photo by my sister. Hi, sis!

Riddle me this, Batman: why in the holy hell is it so goddamn difficult to get a pretty party dress if you're a real live grown-ass woman with actual fucking boobs?

I ask this question because I am looking for something to wear to my company's swanky annual booze-and-schmooze holiday party, and asking the vapid vacuous twiglets who work in so-called alleged "customer service" in mall department stores where one (aka "I") might find the plus-size cocktail dresses is apparently akin to asking Britney Spears if she knows where one (aka "any-damn-body") might find some underpants.

For example: at Macy*s in the King of Prussia Mall today, I asked someone -- she was maybe 22 or 23 years old, and she was wearing a pair of jeans that looked like they had been gnawed by badgers and then run through a thresher, so probably she was one of those faux "alternative" girls who has no earthly idea who the Ramones are and I swear to God, I don't know what is wrong with these kids these days -- if I might find the women's dresses in the dress section (where I was) or in the women's section (which is hidden up on another floor, waaaay in the back, hidden behind the coats and the elevators).

First, she blinked about seventeen times, like she couldn't believe that I was daring to speak to her. (Possibly, this was the case at first, since I do not speak like I am constipated and trying not to vomit all at the same time, thereby revealing myself to be not a native-born Main Liner.) Then I saw her mouth move for a full ten seconds before any sound came out. When she finally spoke, what she said was this: "Aren't you already in the women's department?"

Don't know about you, but I didn't really have anything to say to that. I know I about felt my eyes roll out of my head, though, and I guess Miss Wisconsin (get it? her pants were chewed by badgers? oh, never mind, you're ruining my joke) thought I was having a seizure or something, because she got this panicked look on her face and quickly added: "I mean, we don't really have a separate section for the trannies or anything. They just shop with the rest of us."

Is that so? Was she really telling me that it would be easier for a Joan Rivers impersonator to find a dress in that store than it would be for me?

Look, I'm not ashamed to admit that I am a size 24. In fact, it bears repeating: I am not ashamed to admit that I am a size 24. Really, it's not like I'm diseased or anything. Could I stand to lose a few pounds, or a few dozen? Hell yes. But I assure you, cellulite is not communicable. Maybe I can't sneak up on people the way I used to (and I would argue with my big freaking mouth that I never really could), but I don't deserve to be treated like I belong in a circus freak show.

There are only a couple of stores around here that carry clothes in my size anyway, and most of them either do not carry dressy stuff at all, or they stuff they do carry is hideous and looks like it's made out of upholstery fabric. Which makes me wonder what is wrong with retail buyers. Do they really think they're helping us out by buying ill-fitting blazers in floral chintz with giant fucking buttons? That blending in to the sofa is going to make us look smaller? Are they deranged, blind, or just assholes?

Alternatively, do they really think I'm going to spend $149.99 on a dress that is so shapeless and unflattering that I wouldn't expect my 80-year-old grandmother to wear it? I am 33 years old and, if I may say so myself, fairly hip. Which those frocks most definitely are not. I double-dog-dare the "social occasion" dress buyers at Boscov's to actually wear one of those ugmobiles out in public. Are you kidding me? I'm fat, but I'm not hideous, and I'm definitely not stupid. No way am I spending money to voluntarily look dowdy.

So at this point it looks like I'm going to be doing the tackiest thing in the history of ever: I am going to wear the same dress to the same event twice. Two years in a row, even. But I shouldn't complain too much (although I will). Last year's dress was red and kind of slutty and made my rack look fantastic.

Miss Wisconsin? She'll have to buy 'em if she wants 'em. Heh.

When I die, I would like my obituary to read as follows:

rockle is dead. She was unruly and ornery and absolutely monkeyshit crazy, but at least she never dressed like a crack whore for work, except for that one time, which was a complete accident, and she ran out and got a replacement outfit to cover up for the wardrobe malfunction and anyway, it was her husband’s fault.

That “one time” was today, unfortunately. Well, it wasn’t unfortunate that it was today; mostly, it’s unfortunate that it happened at all. I might not always behave professionally, but I like to pride myself on the fact that at least I look like a responsible grown-up when I walk out the door in the morning. And now all of that has gone up in smoke because of a warm day, bad lighting, and one seriously ill-advised top.

I had my reservations from the beginning. The top I wanted to wear to work today – a cute new yellow empire-waist number with a bow in the back – was lightweight cotton, and I was afraid that there might be some peek-a-boo action going on. This is may be my biggest style issue in life: I have been gifted with, as they say, quite a rack. Where others have cleavage, I have Cleveland. The Girls come in handy at bars and Christmas parties, but they kind of get in the way when you’re trying to be taken seriously as a professional outside of the sex trade.

How do I normally handle a questionable sartorial choice? I ask the cats, every time. But they are almost never of any real help; I mean, come on, they’re colorblind, so I can’t reasonably expect them to know whether this shirt goes better with these pants or that skirt. So then I ask G how something looks. And being a good husband, he always says, “Fine.” Which is exactly how I trained him, so I know going into it that I can’t trust his words – but this time I did anyway.

We were running late this morning, so I assumed (fool!) that the pre-selected and pre-screened outfit was still OK, even though I was wearing a different bra that I was wearing last night, when we did the walkthrough. Like I do every morning, I got dressed by the light from the reading lamp. Went down the stairs, kissed my husband goodbye, ask him sign off again on the boobage, heckled “Mike & Mike” in spectacular high definition on ESPN, got in the car, rocked the iPod, went to work.

My hands were full when I got to work – of what, I don’t remember – so I put something down on my hood and you can imagine my horror when I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window. There, right in front of one of the VP’s and God and everybody, was my bra. Showing through my shirt. And not just “oh-hi!-rockle’s-wearing-a-bra-today” kind of showing, either, but “Christ-on-a-cracker-rockle’s-wearing-a-yellow-lacy-number-today-and-she-fills-it-all-the-way-out” showing. Like, I have nightgowns for intimate purposes that cover more than this blouse did.

I stuck it out for two hours before I was so mortified that I had to go shopping a buy a new shirt. When your friends can’t tell you with a straight face that you’re decent, you know you’re in trouble. Thank heavens for TJ Maxx. I changed in their dressing room before I went back to work. I still got comments, almost all of them good-natured, because I am still showing some skin, but definitely not so much that I feel uncomfortable about it. A certain amount of exhibitionism is fine by me.

Let it be known: I am a woman of principles, gosh darn it, and one of those principles is that I don’t care if people can see my boobs, but they are not going to see my underwear.

Could someone please tell me what in the holy hell is the big goddamned deal about Hillary Clinton's cleavage?

Wait: let me backtrack. I don't usually talk about politics much this early in an election cycle. There are still, what, 16 months until the 2008 Presidental Election? So it's about 400 days before the commercials start, and about 450 days or so until the really bad mudslinging gets under way. If my math is right, that's about eleventy bajillion soundbites from the talking heads on the news (which is why, dear readers, I get all the news I need from SportsCenter).

So of course I was shocked to discover that there's been a lot of buzz lately about strong words being exchanged between Hillary and Barack Obama already, with the occasional ineffectual rejoinder thrown in by John Edwards, or something. I'm not really sure what's happening. I will be the first person to admit that I'm not paying attention yet, because the person I really support for President (w00t! Bill Richardson in the hizzle!) is still under the radar. For now. Plus, what news I don't get from ESPN I get from the most awesome blog ever, maruthecrankpot.blogspot.com.

(OK, maybe it's not the most awesome blog ever -- mine is, har har -- but if you've already made up your mind about the relative evilitude of the current "misadministration" and you don't really want hard news, but juicy almost Perez-Hilton-style partisan gossip, Maru is the wo/man. Check it out when you don't have anything better to do.)

So, annnnnnnnnnnyway. Back to Hillary's boobs. I overheard somebody at work talking about some incident with Hillary and some cleavage, and I thought, quote, "[Scooby-Doo noise]?" What? Why on Earth would anyone be talking about Hillary Clinton's breasts? Did I mishear her? Was she maybe talking about Bill Clinton's moobs? (Love the guy, voted for him twice, would have voted for him again if I could have, but let's just call a spade a spade and acknowledge that he isn't the fittest guy in America, m'kay?)

But, no, I continued to eavesdrop (what? I'm a witch! whatever!) and my coworker very clearly said "she." I believe the words "classless," and "hideous" entered into the picture somewhere -- which is funny, because one of the people in my building is a woman who is absolutely the trashiest, crack-ho-iest, most terrible dresser ever in the history of the world and I include the Dirrty-era Xtina Aguilera and the late-model Brit Brit in those calculations, plus this particular woman at work has the worst weave ever oh-my-god-i-don't-even-want-to-talk-about-it-halp! I can't believe Hillary could have been worse than that, but then again, I am not a registered Republican, so what do I know?

So, long story short, I came home and used my awesome Google-fun powers and ... 348,000 hits on the string "hillary clinton cleavage"? Really? The fashion writer for the Washington Post felt compelled to write an actual story about the fact that the Senator wore a pink blazer and a V-neck top to talk about education, and you could maybe if you looked real hard see a bit of boobies? For realsies? And people are writing letters to the editor about whether or not it was appropriate for someone to write a story about Senatorial cleavage? Like, this is what passes for news?

Is it any wonder that I get all my news from SportsCenter?