Dear Baby's R Us, I am writing to you as, if I assume correctly, you make babies. You do, of course, carry all the accessories to my baby so would know who to forward this to in any case. I would like to report a defective baby. My husband and I purchased a 2009 female model in July of 2009. This baby was MUCH larger than expected and arrived 3 weeks after its scheduled delivery, but we overlooked that on account of it's cuteness. We have had this baby for a little over 9 months and have been very happy with her, but have noticed that she does not include the specifications we asked for in our order. I very clearly indicated on the order form that a "sleepy baby" was to be delivered, and even went as far as to highlight the portion of the baby purchase contract where it indicated alertness to insure that we DID NOT receive an "overly alert" baby. Our baby hardly ever sleeps and when she does, it is only in small amounts. Is there a recall that I am unaware of? Is there a floor mat that is getting stuck under her accelerator that we should move? I am terribly afraid she will be unable to stop one of these days, and I will careen into madness. Is there an at home kit I can use to correct this defect? Thank you for your time and I look forward to working on resolving this issue with you,
Lyndsay
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Monday, November 2, 2009
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Are you there,God? It's me ,Lyndsay.
Since the time I knew what boobs were- I wanted them. Lots of them. Huge, turgid, voluptuous breasts spilling forth from my third grade training bra was all that I thought about. The image consumed me. So much so that I resorted to the ever secretive stuffing. Like a Christmas Goose, I jammed and fluffed, stuffed and jabbed creating the illusion ( however poor) that I too had breasts. Maybe it was me grasping at womanhood.....or just trying to fill out a Bcup...but my life was unsatisfactory without the sloping curve of a sizable bust.
One day, when a stuffing malfunction gave away my secretly flat chest, my father said to me "more then a mouthful is too much". Now, besides the fact that this comment is far from constructive fatherly advice- he did have a point. After this traumatic- yet eye opening conversation- I decided to accept my breasts...the slight hadfull that they had become over my 18 years. No one had ever complained that they were not adequate, so why should I fuss?Life continued as always. Marriage, graduations, new jobs all distracted me from the thought of breasts. Bills piled up, friends moved, love waxed and waned all without the need to know my cup size. I made the occassional joke about being small breasted , but people would just awkwardly laugh and look away. I never understood why they were so uncomfortable and were so passionate about persuading me of my more than adeqaute endowment. I chalked this up to pity.Untill, that is, a recent trip to Victoria's Secret.
Bra shopping is ussually uneventfull you pull your size off the shelf , pick the style that you like, and wander to the dressing room to insure your purchase will fit. Not this day. Oh no..... I found a lovely demi cup bra with little sea green bows. Delicate, yet functional and proceeded to the dressing room. I stripped off my shirt, unhooked my bra and slid the straps off my shoulders- momentarily noticing what a relief it was to be braless. I picked up my potential buy and slid the 36 B bra up and onto my chest.
I reached around to clasp it shut- and something strange happened: I struggled. I began again and this time fought and held my breath to get it clasped.Victory!!! I turned towards the mirror. Oddly, nmot only did my breasts spill out the top AND bottom of the cup but my armpits seemed to well up and consume the straps. I took my cupped hands and attempted to tame my breasts. Forcing them, to no avail, to stay in this new bra. I convinced myself that this phenomena was just relugated to this type amd style of bra.
I returned to the sales floor , and again to the dressing room time after time only to discover the same problem. After an hour of this repeating pilgrimage, crying, sweating anf wondering what breast warp I had fallen into, a saleswoman- with a kind face stopped me. After some coaxing, she got me to talk.l I told her the tale that I am now telling you-- the tale of wishing, denial, and finally acceptance of my small breasts. She took one look at me and screamed in laughter.
"Honey", she said " If your flat chested, then I'm the Sainted Mother Theresa of Calcutta." And that my friends is how I got my breasts. That day I found my D cups in the eyes of a saleswoman, old and wrinkled, draped in measuring tape. She gently measured me and pointed me to the right path...the path of huge breasts.
One day, when a stuffing malfunction gave away my secretly flat chest, my father said to me "more then a mouthful is too much". Now, besides the fact that this comment is far from constructive fatherly advice- he did have a point. After this traumatic- yet eye opening conversation- I decided to accept my breasts...the slight hadfull that they had become over my 18 years. No one had ever complained that they were not adequate, so why should I fuss?Life continued as always. Marriage, graduations, new jobs all distracted me from the thought of breasts. Bills piled up, friends moved, love waxed and waned all without the need to know my cup size. I made the occassional joke about being small breasted , but people would just awkwardly laugh and look away. I never understood why they were so uncomfortable and were so passionate about persuading me of my more than adeqaute endowment. I chalked this up to pity.Untill, that is, a recent trip to Victoria's Secret.
Bra shopping is ussually uneventfull you pull your size off the shelf , pick the style that you like, and wander to the dressing room to insure your purchase will fit. Not this day. Oh no..... I found a lovely demi cup bra with little sea green bows. Delicate, yet functional and proceeded to the dressing room. I stripped off my shirt, unhooked my bra and slid the straps off my shoulders- momentarily noticing what a relief it was to be braless. I picked up my potential buy and slid the 36 B bra up and onto my chest.
I reached around to clasp it shut- and something strange happened: I struggled. I began again and this time fought and held my breath to get it clasped.Victory!!! I turned towards the mirror. Oddly, nmot only did my breasts spill out the top AND bottom of the cup but my armpits seemed to well up and consume the straps. I took my cupped hands and attempted to tame my breasts. Forcing them, to no avail, to stay in this new bra. I convinced myself that this phenomena was just relugated to this type amd style of bra.
I returned to the sales floor , and again to the dressing room time after time only to discover the same problem. After an hour of this repeating pilgrimage, crying, sweating anf wondering what breast warp I had fallen into, a saleswoman- with a kind face stopped me. After some coaxing, she got me to talk.l I told her the tale that I am now telling you-- the tale of wishing, denial, and finally acceptance of my small breasts. She took one look at me and screamed in laughter.
"Honey", she said " If your flat chested, then I'm the Sainted Mother Theresa of Calcutta." And that my friends is how I got my breasts. That day I found my D cups in the eyes of a saleswoman, old and wrinkled, draped in measuring tape. She gently measured me and pointed me to the right path...the path of huge breasts.
The Story of Ruby
So my mother is a little wacky-- all of you who know me know that. A wonderful, caring, yet particularly bizarra woman I have found my mom to be. To those who know not of her wackiness...I will explain.
Example #1: I get a call form mom proffessing the powers of this new workout video she has acquired. Its fun, fresh, and oh so affective. She has been doing it for weeks and has a brand new sense of confidence"What video is it?" I innocently ask. "Oh," she says "just something new. Do you want to come over adn we can do it together?" "But mom, what video is it? Is it Belly Dancing? Is it Tai Chi?""No...even better. It s Carmen Electra teaching you how to strip for your husband!!"
Silence......"Um Mom-- as fun as it would be to be stripping and dancing around the foundation polls in the mildew ridden basement, with Dad upstairs eating cheetos, and you half naked and undulating erotically- I think I'm going to have to say No.End of conversation."
Example #2
Mistakenly, I taught my mother to knit. It is a great passion of mine, and I thought " Why not share this amazing gift with the woman who cared for me, loved me, and brought me into this world." After many hours of patient tutorials and many question, she became a true knitter. A Knitter with a capital K. Stashes of yarn push against the foundation of the house, threatening to split the siding. Bags and Bags of needles poke you at every turn, even when you sit you must look out for that stray darning needle.One day, when visiting I came across 5 garbage bags filled with knitted items. "Wow" I thought " She's been busy". I yelled down the stairs to her inquiring about the ginormous heaps of baby sweater.
"Oh...thats for Ruby." Who the hell is Ruby? I chalked it up to menopause and continued on.Weeks went by without so much of a thought about the recipient of all those handmade garments untill a family gathering some time later.My Grandmother, who has suffered a traumatic brain injury, has no short term memory. She weebles and wobbles throughout the house , muttering tomelessly to her miniature poodle, whom she calls Shrapnel. His name is cricket, but he seems more fierce when reffered to as "Shrapnel" so I don't correct her. My grandmother reaches over the couch and rubs my belly, with a knowing look in her eye. I wince." Has she become some sort of prophet? Does she know something I don'? When did EPT come out with the human version? AHHHHH! She scuddles her way up the stairs and isn't seen for hours."Where's Gram?" My cousin asks after a few hours without a sighting. We become worried as my grandmother has a tendency to wander off. No one seems to remember. We search and search, calling to Shrapnel. Suddenly my brother calls out "She's in here!"WE find my grandmother aslepp amongst the 5 garbage bags filled with knitted baby clothes, Clutching a tiny booty in her crumpled hand. All 6 of us crowd around, confused. She lifts an eyelid, spots all of us and whispers "Ruby" and falls back to sleep I look at my mother. "Who the hell is Ruby?""WEll, Ruby is my grandbaby. She'd not ready to come out yet, but I dream about her and we go for long walks .......and then she touches my face..........she's got little gold ringlets..." she conti nues on for a good five minutes.My brother is in the corner rolling his eyes. I am quite perturbed by now and yell" You mean to tell me that you told all this to Grandma, head injured "can't remember her own dogs name " grandma? She thinks I'm pregnant.""Well, she needs something to look forward to! Besides I see Ruby every night in my dreans." She sighs wistfully.Beginning to cry she wimpers "Can't you give us that?"By now my grandmother has become fully awak amidst the garbage bags. Heaving herself onto the largest, she cries madly "BABY", spittle rolling offher lips as she smile wildly. Disgusted,I leave the room.Now whenever I see my grandmother she is clutching that same blue, tattered, dog mauled booty. She pats my stomach, looks into my eyes and cackles "Ruby". Again I ask...Who the hell is Ruby???
Well- now we know....
Example #1: I get a call form mom proffessing the powers of this new workout video she has acquired. Its fun, fresh, and oh so affective. She has been doing it for weeks and has a brand new sense of confidence"What video is it?" I innocently ask. "Oh," she says "just something new. Do you want to come over adn we can do it together?" "But mom, what video is it? Is it Belly Dancing? Is it Tai Chi?""No...even better. It s Carmen Electra teaching you how to strip for your husband!!"
Silence......"Um Mom-- as fun as it would be to be stripping and dancing around the foundation polls in the mildew ridden basement, with Dad upstairs eating cheetos, and you half naked and undulating erotically- I think I'm going to have to say No.End of conversation."
Example #2
Mistakenly, I taught my mother to knit. It is a great passion of mine, and I thought " Why not share this amazing gift with the woman who cared for me, loved me, and brought me into this world." After many hours of patient tutorials and many question, she became a true knitter. A Knitter with a capital K. Stashes of yarn push against the foundation of the house, threatening to split the siding. Bags and Bags of needles poke you at every turn, even when you sit you must look out for that stray darning needle.One day, when visiting I came across 5 garbage bags filled with knitted items. "Wow" I thought " She's been busy". I yelled down the stairs to her inquiring about the ginormous heaps of baby sweater.
"Oh...thats for Ruby." Who the hell is Ruby? I chalked it up to menopause and continued on.Weeks went by without so much of a thought about the recipient of all those handmade garments untill a family gathering some time later.My Grandmother, who has suffered a traumatic brain injury, has no short term memory. She weebles and wobbles throughout the house , muttering tomelessly to her miniature poodle, whom she calls Shrapnel. His name is cricket, but he seems more fierce when reffered to as "Shrapnel" so I don't correct her. My grandmother reaches over the couch and rubs my belly, with a knowing look in her eye. I wince." Has she become some sort of prophet? Does she know something I don'? When did EPT come out with the human version? AHHHHH! She scuddles her way up the stairs and isn't seen for hours."Where's Gram?" My cousin asks after a few hours without a sighting. We become worried as my grandmother has a tendency to wander off. No one seems to remember. We search and search, calling to Shrapnel. Suddenly my brother calls out "She's in here!"WE find my grandmother aslepp amongst the 5 garbage bags filled with knitted baby clothes, Clutching a tiny booty in her crumpled hand. All 6 of us crowd around, confused. She lifts an eyelid, spots all of us and whispers "Ruby" and falls back to sleep I look at my mother. "Who the hell is Ruby?""WEll, Ruby is my grandbaby. She'd not ready to come out yet, but I dream about her and we go for long walks .......and then she touches my face..........she's got little gold ringlets..." she conti nues on for a good five minutes.My brother is in the corner rolling his eyes. I am quite perturbed by now and yell" You mean to tell me that you told all this to Grandma, head injured "can't remember her own dogs name " grandma? She thinks I'm pregnant.""Well, she needs something to look forward to! Besides I see Ruby every night in my dreans." She sighs wistfully.Beginning to cry she wimpers "Can't you give us that?"By now my grandmother has become fully awak amidst the garbage bags. Heaving herself onto the largest, she cries madly "BABY", spittle rolling offher lips as she smile wildly. Disgusted,I leave the room.Now whenever I see my grandmother she is clutching that same blue, tattered, dog mauled booty. She pats my stomach, looks into my eyes and cackles "Ruby". Again I ask...Who the hell is Ruby???
Well- now we know....
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Milk Toucher
Dear Milk Toucher,
I know that the community refrigerator, is infinitesimal in size and does not lend itself to storing our perishables in a neat and orderly manner. However, it is bad enough the I must hook myself up to a glorified plunger every two hours to squeeze every last drop of milk from my pendulous breasts, then take said milk and parade it down the hallway, store my bodily fluid in a PUBLIC refrigerator, without you putting your little milk touching, greasy, stranger paws all over it. What is even worse-- I carefully and reverently seal this precious liquid gold in a black zippered tote, as to not offend or concern your delicate senses, and you still find it necessary to look inside! Are you just as concerned as I am with how many ounces I am pumping? It's milk,buddy. Same as last week. In Conclusion: Don't touch the milk or I will be forced to hook you up to my breast pump and then perversely examine your mammary secretions while you are not looking.
I am watching.
A Whiter Shade of Pale...
There are times when you should listen to your mother. No matter how crazy or belligerent her suggestions may be, take heed my friends or you will end up like me :Let us begin at the beginning. Born to pale parents, Lyndsay was bound to be pale herself. From birth everyone could tell she was different. "Fair" as the politely called her, masked their true f eelings of shock and awe whenever her legs were exposed. Through her almost-albino skin shown clear, pulsing , blue veins, and the occassional rogue freckle. The pain of being different did not compare to the pain of the constant sunburns. Lyndsay would venture out into the sun, only when swaddled in a towel and iced with SPF150. Like a lifelike cake, Lyndsay religiously reapplied ever 45-50 minutes. But to no avail, she would crisp up like bacon in the microwave. Her life was dived into two colors: Sheet ass white or lobster red.Lyndsay envied her tan, caramel- sun colored friends. Longing for the day that she could be free of the shackles of creams and avoidance. But she carried on and every summer shed her skin like a snake after every trip to the beach.Oneday, a man named Doug finally overlooked her dayglow whiteness and they were married. A beautiful white dress hung dauntingly in the closet. Lyndsay wondered "Would she look too pale? It was a summer wedding..could she face her guests looking as pastery as she did? She turned to the idea of sunless tanning. "Mom?" she said, embarrassed by the question she was about to pose."Yes, honey?" her pale mother replied"I was thinking about getting one of those spray on tans for the wedding. You know, to look good in my dress and all." She waited for her mothers response.The older woman looked up thoughfully and replied"Now darling, you're already wearing a WHITE dress. Isn;t that lie enough?"Lyndsay was crushed, but agreed with her mother none the less.
The Day Grammy Went to Jail
A true story as told to Lyndsay
Also published under the title: Betty Lou, Where are you? Runnin' from the Law!
Every other week or so I will get an urge to talk to my Aunt Julie. A bitter divorcee that smokes three packs of capri lights a day and owns no less than 17 cats at any given moment. A strong, loner of a woman who shoots groundhogs with a BeeBee gun from her porch . My Aunt Julie is one of my favorite people.
This is the woman who wedged herself in to a bear trap to wire Kentucky fried chicken to the bottem because she was ( and I quote) " Sick of the fuckin' bears eatin' all the damn cupcakes". I was puzzled at this exclamation, but laughed my ass off when the bear trap locked her inside smeared in chicken grease: A virtual Bear Pinata. Not to worry folks-- Fish and Game arrived and extracted her from the trap... You know you're a redneck when... Anyway, I digress.
I thoroughly enjoy our monthly chats. Just yesterday I called to inquire about the health of all her cats, the state of my cousin, and to make sure she hadn't become completely unhinged. Our conversation starts out light: I hate your grandfather. ( Normal) The Dog ate a "Ponds Microderm Abrasion Facial Wipe" and crapped it out 10 days later still intact ( EWW..Weird) " Oh and your grandmother got arrested." ( Exscuse me?) I immediately flash to an episode of cops where gramma is dealing out of her trailer with no teeth and a housecoat on. And thats when I lose it..and laugh uncontrollably.
Now, my grandmother has some issues, as mentioned in previous blogs. After the accident, which rendered her completely insane/hilarious, she has been quite a handful. Between the rampant boozing ( not joking.. she stashed.a 30 rack of Mikes Hard Lemonade in the "cat tent" to help her "sleep") and the disintegration of her short term memory ( insisting that my husband is my highschool boyfriend)...Awkward) she has become quite a handful.
Apparently, my grandmother had a warrant out for her arrest. Was she emailing people claiming to be from the nigerian embassy?No. Was she caught with an underage football player?No. Was she abusing crystal meth and robo tripping her balls off? No. My grandmother was writting letters.
Yes. Writting letters. Years ago my grandmother decided that driving after her head injury was a good idea. Well it wasn't. She completely wrecked this guys car and was sued for damages. Relegated to pay this man 25$ a month for eternity, she faithfully wrote out a check every month. Or so we thought. In her head injured haze, my grandmother began writting letters to this man and sending him checks for 2$ inserted into different hallmark cards: Happy Barmitzvah! My Condolences! Happy Belated Birthday!...here's 2 dollars. Well Accident guy got pissed that he wasn't getting his money and called the cops. Which brings us to the following phone call submitted into evidence:
Aunt Julie: Hello?Sherriff: Yes. This is the Bartlett Sherriff. I am calling in regards to your mother.AJ: Holy fucking shit!!! Scott - turn down the TV and get me my goddamn cigarrettes. What is going on??Sherrif: Your mother had a warrant out for her arrest for failure to pay restitution. We arrested your mother this morning, but she seems ..ummm..confused. Is there any reason your mother keeps demanding 2 pounds of shrimp? AJ: SCOTT!! Put some clothes on we have to get your grandmother out of jail. Officer we'll be right there.
After posting 500$ bail, because my grandmother is a HUGE flight risk, my aunt takes her home.
As my aunt says in between drags of her cigs:"Don't worry Lyndsay. Pffffff. She doesn't remember.pfffffff. what happened. So.pfffff. no harm no foul right?pfffff." Exactly..Aunt Julie...Exactly.
Also published under the title: Betty Lou, Where are you? Runnin' from the Law!
Every other week or so I will get an urge to talk to my Aunt Julie. A bitter divorcee that smokes three packs of capri lights a day and owns no less than 17 cats at any given moment. A strong, loner of a woman who shoots groundhogs with a BeeBee gun from her porch . My Aunt Julie is one of my favorite people.
This is the woman who wedged herself in to a bear trap to wire Kentucky fried chicken to the bottem because she was ( and I quote) " Sick of the fuckin' bears eatin' all the damn cupcakes". I was puzzled at this exclamation, but laughed my ass off when the bear trap locked her inside smeared in chicken grease: A virtual Bear Pinata. Not to worry folks-- Fish and Game arrived and extracted her from the trap... You know you're a redneck when... Anyway, I digress.
I thoroughly enjoy our monthly chats. Just yesterday I called to inquire about the health of all her cats, the state of my cousin, and to make sure she hadn't become completely unhinged. Our conversation starts out light: I hate your grandfather. ( Normal) The Dog ate a "Ponds Microderm Abrasion Facial Wipe" and crapped it out 10 days later still intact ( EWW..Weird) " Oh and your grandmother got arrested." ( Exscuse me?) I immediately flash to an episode of cops where gramma is dealing out of her trailer with no teeth and a housecoat on. And thats when I lose it..and laugh uncontrollably.
Now, my grandmother has some issues, as mentioned in previous blogs. After the accident, which rendered her completely insane/hilarious, she has been quite a handful. Between the rampant boozing ( not joking.. she stashed.a 30 rack of Mikes Hard Lemonade in the "cat tent" to help her "sleep") and the disintegration of her short term memory ( insisting that my husband is my highschool boyfriend)...Awkward) she has become quite a handful.
Apparently, my grandmother had a warrant out for her arrest. Was she emailing people claiming to be from the nigerian embassy?No. Was she caught with an underage football player?No. Was she abusing crystal meth and robo tripping her balls off? No. My grandmother was writting letters.
Yes. Writting letters. Years ago my grandmother decided that driving after her head injury was a good idea. Well it wasn't. She completely wrecked this guys car and was sued for damages. Relegated to pay this man 25$ a month for eternity, she faithfully wrote out a check every month. Or so we thought. In her head injured haze, my grandmother began writting letters to this man and sending him checks for 2$ inserted into different hallmark cards: Happy Barmitzvah! My Condolences! Happy Belated Birthday!...here's 2 dollars. Well Accident guy got pissed that he wasn't getting his money and called the cops. Which brings us to the following phone call submitted into evidence:
Aunt Julie: Hello?Sherriff: Yes. This is the Bartlett Sherriff. I am calling in regards to your mother.AJ: Holy fucking shit!!! Scott - turn down the TV and get me my goddamn cigarrettes. What is going on??Sherrif: Your mother had a warrant out for her arrest for failure to pay restitution. We arrested your mother this morning, but she seems ..ummm..confused. Is there any reason your mother keeps demanding 2 pounds of shrimp? AJ: SCOTT!! Put some clothes on we have to get your grandmother out of jail. Officer we'll be right there.
After posting 500$ bail, because my grandmother is a HUGE flight risk, my aunt takes her home.
As my aunt says in between drags of her cigs:"Don't worry Lyndsay. Pffffff. She doesn't remember.pfffffff. what happened. So.pfffff. no harm no foul right?pfffff." Exactly..Aunt Julie...Exactly.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
