Cori’s quest for slutty outfits

So the day after we recovered from much pillow fighting the night before, a group of us decided to head out to explore Philly and see what kind of mischief we could get into. Little did we know….

(Group of chattering women walking down Walnut St. in Philly….)

Cori: Hey, look you guys! Do you see what I see??

We’re walking past a seemingly non-descript store that looks like a no-name 5&10 kind of place, all sorts of crap and tchochkes stuffed into the window display. And yet – yet! – amidst this chaos, a wonder.

Cori: See? Look at the slutty nurse outfit! And there’s a sailor one too! And Tasha, look, there’s a slutty ref outfit for you!

Indeed there is. In the display of this very random store, there’s one slutty outfit after another, on headless mannequins. But what’s key is that these are tasteful slutty outfits. Meaning, they’re cleavage-enhancing and short-skirted, but no weird open-crotch stuff or anything truly skanky. This is like Mecca for appropriately slutty outfits.

But then we make the cardinal mistake, one that we’ll all regret for the rest of our lives.

Cori: Okay, so let’s go to lunch and then we can check them out on our way back.

You see, little did we know that this odd little store apparently is a front for a money laundering operation or something similar. Because its hours are, shall we say, a bit skimpy.

Meaning that when we walk past the place again at around 3PM, it’s closed. And it’s closed all weekend. Cori becomes like a woman possessed.

Cori: What? WHAT???? I MUST HAVE THOSE OUTFITS! Here, you start googling, find a phone number, I’m going to go talk to the merchant next door.

Cori talks to the guy at the store next door, who has no idea when the proprietor of the Harmand Toussel store (or whatever the hell it's called) is around, or where that person might be. She leaves numerous messages on the voice mail of the store, or what we think is the store’s VM, imploring the person to come in and open up, and she’ll give him $100 just for that. Clearly, hell hath no fury like a woman determined to get her slutty nurse outfit.

We’re all a little concerned that evening when Cori hits the bottle, muttering “Damn it, I’ll get that fricking slutty nurse outfit, dammit, if it’s the last thing I do, I will not be denied.”

Saturday is upon us soon enough…

Adventures in Boobages

Today I went to see Dr. Fine, aka Plastic Surgeon to the Stars, for some Boobage adjustment. It’s been a while. I had been under the impression that for this appointment they’d remove the marvel known as ports from the girls (sob!), so I changed my original appointment which was right before the Great Alpian Adventure, thinking stitches, vicodin and the like. Turns out, Dr. Fine, genius that he is, was in no hurry to remove them.

Dr. Fine: So, how are they doing?

Me: Good, but you see how this one is a little bigger? Well, maybe not bigger in terms of volume, but it projects more so it seems bigger.

Dr. Fine: Well, you know, most natural breasts aren’t the same size…

I just look at him, with a face fraught with skepticism.

Dr. Fine: Or we could remove some saline from the left one to make it smaller…

Now I look at him in horror.

Me: NO! No! We’re not making the Boobages any smaller!

Dr. Fine: Okay, so we’ll add some to the right and see how that looks.

Me: Yes!

Then the fun starts. Because you may recall, dear reader(s), that when we tried a Boobage adjustment back in June, on the left side, the port had flipped around and was thus inaccessible. The port being attached to the saline implant, hence making the Boobages wonderfully adjustable. As it turns out, it’s a good thing we couldn’t adjust then, because the right one wound up being smaller, thanks to the radiation which continues to fuck with your skin and tighten everything up. Cancer, the gift that keeps on giving.

So there we are, Dr. Fine with a needle poking around for the port, which has somehow drifted down to my ribcage. Poke poke poke.

Dr. Fine: Hmm, it seems to have flipped…..

I start chuckling. He keeps poking around.

Dr. Fine: You know what, I’ll anesthetize the area, and then try again…

At which point I start giggling, rather uncontrollably.

Me: Don’t you remember? This is exactly what happened with the left one!

Dr. Fine: Really? Because this really doesn’t happen often at all.

Me: Well, I do have the worst luck of anyone I know, so……

Luckily this time he gets the port flipped around, and Boobage Adjustment commences. For those curious or not in the know, this procedure is probably exactly what you’d imagine it to be. Insert a needle attached to a big-ass syringe, this one with 50ccs of saline. Push saline into Boobage. Watch Boobage get insta-bigger. Yes, it’s kind of like blow-up doll technology for CancerChicks. Instaboobs!

Then we’re chatting, and I mention to Dr. Fine the GAA…

Me:….and you know what? You were right – the lat flap didn’t affect my cycling at all!

Dr. Fine: Glad to hear it – I didn’t think it would. That muscle really is just used for pushing down.

Me: Oh, well, I haven’t tried swimming yet, so I’ll have to see how that goes…

Dr. Fine: Well, for most people and their typical splashing around, this won’t affect them either.

Wait. Splashing around? This was like déjà vu all over again! Of course, the difference being that the last time we had this conversation, I was in a state of deep cancer angst, still trying to find doctors and figure out treatment, hence less able to see the humor in the situation. Now? Now I just agree that the few seconds difference in swim times won’t make much of a difference for a Triathlon Alpian Goddess such as myself, and note that it’s the bike that really matters anyway. And we smile, understanding each other perfectly. And we leave the ports in – so yes, these babies? Still. Adjustable.

Rock$tar.

Next month on the Boobage front: tattoos!

The Par-Tay!

Mary Ellen and I head back to the house, and of course now my schedule is totally off, so right away, I yank ME’s luggage out of her hand and whisk her over to the counter to get to work. “Slice those limes!” I bark – though when I notice that she’s staring at said limes with a glazed look in her eyes due to lack of sleep and jet lag, I command her to take a nap instead. But now I’m down a helper. What to do??

Luckily, salvation comes just then in the form of…..Supermom! Yes, my mom, one of the esteemed guests at the Par-tay, has come early to help out. Whew! Of course I immediately assign her to the most heinous, miserable task known to man, namely attempting to peel hard-boiled eggs that have been made from too-fresh eggs. Meaning that in spite of my patented egg-boiling method (put eggs in pan of water, bring to boil, turn off stove, cover eggs, let sit for 15 minutes. They’re always perfect.) – it’s absolutely true that fresh eggs will NOT peel well. Or at all. I had tried to peel one and gave up. I will be doing penance years for this one, for foisting this on my mom. Thanks mom.

In the meantime, I set to the critical task, that of smoking the fish. My secret method consists of taking a b^&*(@(*^&0897)*#$@)$^*&^@)*&&($#$)*(!$)*(&.....oops, sorry, keyboard got stuck there for a moment. Anyway, once the fish is done to perfection (and it’s so perfect that we debate telling guests that it turned out horrible so that we can have it all to ourselves – my dad would be proud), I need to leave to pick up the barbecue and that damn cake. Again. I head out, bellowing instructions to my mom and Kathleen, friend and SuperTenant to the Stars:

Me: Tote that bale! Dig that hole! PEEL THOSE EGGS!

I head back to Dinkel’s, and luckily the cake is ready this time. Before they hand it over, the older woman comes over for an inspection:

Woman: Wait! Let me see that cake first.

She gazes at it solemnly, this way and that, while we all wait, silently. Finally……the nod of approval!

Woman, sagely: Yes. That’s absolutely perfect.

And indeed it is, well worth the wait.



I then battle traffic to pick up the brisket from Smoque BBQ – I’m always worried I won’t have enough food at my parties, so it seemed good to supplement with some barbecue – and head home. Where I find that my guests will NOT be eating any spinach dip, because Kona has stolen and eaten an entire loaf of Hawaiian bread. Not just a corner of it, such that I could salvage it and still serve it to my guests. Nope, the whole damn thing. Clearly he should be used in marketing and ads for the Hawaiian bread people.

* * * * * *

My guests start arriving around 3:30, and luckily it’s stopped pouring so I send some people outside, while I stop to chat with other people in the dining room. Suddenly, without warning, we have our first dire situation at the party:

Tessie, with a wail of anguish: MY BLANKIE!!!!

Time stands still. The room goes silent. I look down, and there’s The Kone, calmly holding onto Tess’s precious blankie – and I know from babysitting her that this blankie is like the holy grail to this child.

Tess, again: Blankie! Blankie!

Everyone is frozen in a tableau of fear, as to what might happen if Kona decides to start shaking the blankie in order to break its neck, as he tends to do with things. I know better, that he’s just playing his “I have something you want so I’ll stand here until you give me a treat for it” game. So I grab a hunk of cheese from the table, and Kona of course drops the blankie immediately, which Tessie clutches to her bosom, such as it is for a 2-year old. Whew, disaster averted.

* * * * * * * *

One constant throughout the day is that my friends are all telling me how cool all my other friends are, those they haven’t met before but have been happily chatting away with. We have a number of different contingents here: hockey, triathlon, gardening, Accenture, Kiev, Dobe rescue. And they’re all enjoying each other’s company. Even though the first words to me out of Alise’s (from IDR) mouth were about Kona – “He’s fat!”

Me: He just looks that way – he ate an entire loaf of Hawaiian bread today – the whole thing! – so that’s why he’s a bit barrel-shaped. Plus people are taking pictures of him, and you know how they say the camera adds ten pounds.

I grin, charmingly. Alise still looks a bit skeptical. Damn. *I* thought that sounded good….

* * * * * * * *


In the end, it was a glorious party and celebration. Some other highlights:

• Dr. Fine receiving many compliments on his excellent work, and rightfully so.

• Jennifer G. getting the most accolades for the impressive boobage display, apparently thanks to a stellar push-up bra from Victoria’s Secret.

• And Jennifer and Bo were also the proud winners of the Grand Door Prize, the Jingle Jugs! Which were actually won first by Stacy, who oddly guessed the exact number of medical bills/notices I’ve received in the last year and a half (762), but opted for the Fuck Awareness, Find a Cure bumper sticker instead. So off they went with Jennifer and Bo – who pointed out something that I hadn’t even noticed. Which is that before the Jugs start with their little song and dance routine, there is apparently a “breast cancer awareness message” first that one gets to listen to. I kid you not. Hey, and who said those Jingle Jugs people weren’t responsible??

• Happily, I did NOT have to man the grill, as Alton very generously offered to take care of grilling duties. Men who love to grill are the best.

• In spite of my fear of there not being enough food, there was enough left over to feed a small Himalayan country, in spite of the 70 or so people who showed up. And I think it’s safe to say the smoked fish was the hit of the par-tay.

Now, it’s a toss-up as to which gift I received was the best. Not that people needed to bring anything, but it was very sweet of them to do so. The VS gift cards were awesome, and will be used well, and the Knockers sweatshirt, well, I can’t say enough good things about that. The ironic pink stuff, also brilliant, and the Tassled Tomatoes? Basically the hit of the par-tay.

But there was one gift that we were speculating about all evening, as to what it could be, and I should have opened it that night but then my shriek of delight would have woken up or startled everyone in the neighborhood. Because this was simply the Best. Gift. Ever. But take a look for yourself. Behold:



Yes, my very own pink bat, engraved with my name on it. Sniffle. Many many thanks to Ron and Shirley, you guys are the best!! And thanks to all who came, and to those who wished they could make it but were there with us in spirit and hoisted mojitos. Many hoisted mojitos. It really didn’t surprise me that all my friends thought my other friends were so awesome and cool and fun – I already knew how lucky I was to have such amazing people in my life…..

A week in the life....

Sometimes, people express amazement that I have as bad of luck as I purport to have. Somehow, they think that I just MSU. All the time. Now, while I might use a wee tiny bit of artistic license at times, merely in order to portray events with the acuity and sharpness they deserve, the basic facts are always accurate. To illustrate, let’s look at last week, a typical one for Miss Tasha:

• I realize that I’ve used up my last check, which wouldn’t be a big problem except that I need one in order to write a check at Costco, where I’m going to shop for the Boobages Par-tay. I scour the house looking for the subsequent checks. Nada.

• So I decide I’ll just get some cash and use that. I stop at an ATM and am trying to hurry, since I’m parked in a bus zone. So I grab the cash and dash off, only realizing when I’m a block away that I forgot my card in the ATM. Oops.

• I head back to the ATM, and my card has disappeared. Sucked into the black vortex of ATM Purgatory.

• That day, I get yet another bill from a collection agency regarding – what else – my medical bills. Where I see I have some $1K in charges for 2010 that I’m pretty sure I already paid. But the charges that REALLY piss me off are for 2008. What. The. Fuck. You mean 2008, as in the year that I already paid way more than I should have? Yeah, you can just fuck off.

• Wednesday night is the monthly Tri Club meeting. It’s Bridget’s last meeting as President, so I’ve ordered her a cake from Dinkel’s, and I stop there to pick it up before the meeting, parking in the 15-minute parking spot across the street, blinkers on. I come out and see…… a ticket?? What fresh hell is this? Did they have me on a stopwatch? Because even if they did, I clock myself at less than 15. Oh, wait, it’s for my expired license plate sticker, which I’ve ordered but haven’t received yet – mind you, it expired June 1st, and it’s June 2nd. Fucking vultures. What I “love” about Chicago and what is one of the things that has me planning my departure someday soon is the fact that unlike in other cities where parking tickets are a reasonable $10-20, here, they’re $50. Yes, $50 for a single parking ticket. Fuckers.

• Also on Wednesday, I speak to my Most Awesome IRS Taxpayer Advocate Michelle –at this point, we’re practically in the “exchange holiday cards and recipes” phase of our relationship. We chat about her upcoming vacation, and she tells me that we’re still at status quo, but that she doesn’t think I’ll owe any money. Whew. Except then 2 days later I get a letter from the IRS, where it appears that they’ve oh-so-magnanimously reduced some fees – but they still seem to think I owe them thousands of dollars. At this point, I hardly even care. It’s not like they can get blood from a turnip.

So in other words, a typical week. Par for the course. No sweat. And then. THEN. Boobages Par-tay Day was upon us…..

Miss Tasha’s Coming Out Par-tay!

For those who know me only through my blog, it might come as a surprise to know that I’m actually a rather modest person. Really. Not modest regarding my obvious superiority – hell, I have so many gifts I could pass them out like party favors! – but rather in the Victorian sense. I grew up with parents from the “old country,” meaning nothing related to sex was ever brought up in the house. Never got “The Talk.” Chicken had white meat, not breasts. You get the idea.

So it was a particularly cruel joke played by fate when The Cancer came along, in the form of a large lump in the worst place imaginable, at least in terms of removing it. But being my shy self, I’d spare people the details, which prompted questions and comments like “Oh, a lump, so they can remove just that and then that’ll be it, right? Why would you need recon? You don’t need recon, do you? For just a lump? Blah blah blah, yes?”

Until one day I snapped. Right here on this little blog, I believe it was. Where after the six millionth puzzled look and inquiry as to why I’d be so vain as to go through reconstruction for just a little ol’ lump I finally responded with:

“It wasn’t just a lump! It was a huge honking lump that was RIGHT UNDERNEATH my fucking NIPPLE, okay? So the whole thing had to go, leaving me with the Appalachian Mountain Boob problem, okay? You know, with the whole top sheared off! THAT’S why I need recon!”

So here we are. Where I still don’t like to talk about things like nipples or fipples, but sometimes, it’s for the greater good, and so I’m okay with it. But when it comes to the Boobages, and the new lovely cleavage, I figure, all bets are off. I earned these puppies, and the right to flaunt them any way I damn well please. Which I plan to do, in spectacular fashion. Not just because they’re fake, but especially because they’re fake, and pretty. Because as we say around these parts – the real ones tried to kill me.

All this is a prelude to announce the big celebration of Miss Tasha’s New Boobages, in the form of a Coming Out Par-tay on June 5^th! The Boobages party of the decade! And not coincidentally, it’s also my birthday weekend. There’ll be the usual fun, food and festivities, with Kona stealing guests’ food at every opportunity, and in the “special events” category we’ll have:

- The giveaway of the Jingle Jugs to the person who comes closest to guessing just HOW many insurance bills/notices/threatening letters Miss Tasha has received in the last 2 years!

- A piñata as a stand-in for BCBS execs!

- Whatever other crazy stuff we can come up with!

And YOU are invited! Yes, you! Well, okay, those of you in the Chicagoland area, which I think narrows things down considerably. I’m also inviting my doctors, so they can admire their handiwork in a social setting, and guests (the female ones) are encouraged to flaunt their own girls in a show of solidarity with my own Boobages. Man boobs are not encouraged. And given that some of my dear CancerChick friends are planning on coming, this could be the finest assemblage of Boobages, fake and otherwise, that my little burg has ever seen.

I do think it’s telling that my female friends who’ve responded to the Evite are all giddy about buying new push-up bras, picking out the most boobalicious clothing, etc.

The guys just seem frightened, and most of them have gone to ground. Nary a peep from many of the menfolk. Sad.

But speaking of the Boobages, it’s almost startling to discover that hey, I now gots cleavage! And not because the girls are pushed up and wonderbra-ed within an inch of their lives, but because they’re now naturally busty, thanks to the superior work of Dr. Fine and his people – well, and the fact that he had a good base to work with, naturally. Modern medicine can do just so much.

On the road to Boobalicious

….or, a PSA for the fipple-inclined

So once in a while among the serious triathlon tips, the suggestions on how to follow my own strict Paleo-based diet, the gentle discourses on politics, etc., I like to impart some useful information to my sisters in breast cancerhood who might stumble upon this blog somehow. This is information that in many cases is totally useless to the rest of you, or may even be TMI for some, and I get that. If this isn't something that's become part of your life, like it or not, then reading about it is probably a bit disturbing. So stop reading now please, if you’re not in that “sisters looking for info” category.

Okay, where were we….oh yes, the fipple. There’s a reason we call them FrankenFipples. That’s because no matter what method they use to recreate the nipple - twist-and-stitch, a graft, etc. – when you first see it, you might totally and completely freak out and wonder what the hell your plastic surgeon has done. In fact, you might think that there was a mishap as the doctors were snacking in the OR and passing around the Dots, and oops! One fell to your breast and got stuck there! And they figured heck, that’s good enough, no one will notice.

You will notice.

Now me, I’ve read enough threads on YSC that all started the same way – “oh my god, I’m a freak, I’ll never look normal, what have they done!” – to know that this whole gumdrop-nipple appearance is totally normal, and to be expected. I know that and yet I’m still a bit skeptical, though trying to keep the faith. Motya was asking how they know how much the fipp will shrink, and she suggested that there was some kind of “fipple algorithm” they use to determine just how big you need to start out with, which I’m sure is the case. These are surgeons after all – they have this shit figured out.

So that’s my PSA for today – if you’re having the fipple surgery, or thinking about it, do NOT freak out when you see the little Mount Vesuviuses stuck on your chest. All will be well, eventually, after you go through what Kim described as the three stages of fipple recovery: meat grinder, nursing incident with teeth, and prickly fipple. Kim rocks because she came up with a shot that she christened the Prickly Fipple (pear vodka, pear liqueur, mint) – which definitely elevates her to Rock $tar status in my book.

Oh, and one final thing – do NOT get your hopes up that you’ll get the spongy nipple bundt cake thingies to protect the fipple! I was totally looking forward to that, based on someone else’s pictures/website, and what do *I* get? Plain old bandages. Hmph. I think this calls for a letter – or at least a visit to the craft store, to ask if they carry spongy nipple bundt cake thingies. I’ll report back.

Teleshot Monday

While most people may assume that my Boobages have already achieved a state of perfection, the fact is that the Boobage Process requires multiple steps. And so it is that today, Monday, I’m having what is hopefully my final reconstruction procedure. Well, scratch that – I keep forgetting about the tattoos, which come later. But that’ll be a piece of cake in comparison.

So what’s today’s surgery? That would be the Fippleotomy, mainly. (Faux nipple = fipple.) I mention these details so that a) people don’t feel compelled to ask me which surgery this is, and b) so people know what a huge holy fricking pain in the ass cancer is, so I suggest you avoid it if at all possible. Anyway, I need nipple recon on the right, and a lift on the left. Why a lift? Well, you see, radiation does such an excellent job of ultra-tightening one’s skin that it looks like I had a lift on my right side, and so the girls are totally uneven as a result. Now, I could just see if they’ll irradiate my left side to get that same skin-tightening effect…..but I decided I’d take the easy way out and go with surgery instead.

This is all taking place this morning with Dr. Fine at Northwestern, and I expect to be back to my usual strenuous routine by tomorrow. Speaking of which, I know some have expressed alarm and dismay that I’m not sharing every tiny detail of my grueling training regimen for the Alps, and I must explain that I hesitate to do so only because I worry about the impact of such information on all of you, my gentle reader(s). I’m flattered by those who would seek to emulate me, yet when a fine physical specimen such as myself is already up to holding The Plank for 25 seconds…..well, you see the issue here. However, sigh, those nuggets of wisdom will indeed be forthcoming, but I think it goes without saying – don’t try this at home.

Anyway, back to the whole surgery thing. So I’ll go home tonight, and then I’ve already arranged with Hooterlicious Kim to do a teleshot. Okay, 15 teleshots to be exact. I don’t know how we came up with that number, but it has something to do with the surgery, it being Kim’s birthday (whee!!), the number of tomatoes I have planted already, and the winter solstice coming to an end. Or something like that. So I invite all of you in the blogosphere to join us, tonight at 8PM CST, in hoisting some kind of fruity alcoholic beverage – because after all, nothing says “doing the stupid things” like getting likkered up (on shots, no less) while one is still emerging from the effects of anesthesia.

Now if you’ll all excuse me, I must go back to designing some kind of early-alarm system, to warn me in case some miscreant should decide to try to steal my precious driver’s license from my purse. I know, that type of horror doesn’t even bear thinking about. I wonder if a mini-guillotine mechanism is overkill…….

Letters, we get letters....

Sometimes, as Kona and I are combing through our reams of fan mail, invitations to soirees, gifts, telegrams, awards and accolades, we come across a missive or comment that deserves extra attention.

And so, without further ado, a question from Faithful Reader Missy:

“Miss Tasha, I was explaining to my husband Steve how the Great and Wonderful Tasha-with-The-Boobages was having all these problems with Turbotax, how gremlins had infiltrated your computer or something like that and made sure that none of your tax programs worked. And he’s a guy, so he couldn’t quite figure out how that could be, mumbled something about how TurboTax is supposed to let you open previous years’ files no matter what. So is he being clueless, or just being a guy? Ha, but I repeat myself!”

Gentle readers, this is a question I get quite a bit, in various forms. Namely – “But that’s not what’s supposed to happen! Why isn’t it working for you?” Because you see, for everyone else, aka those who inhabit NormalWorld instead of TashaLand, it’s true. Everything works as planned, at least for the most part. Those reliable easy-to-use Macs? Yep, those work just fine – they don’t wind up with a dying hard drive inside of 14 months. iPods? Same. They don’t generally freeze up and refuse to work, NOR do they play Dancing Queen over and over even though you keep deleting the damn song.

And so it is with TurboTax. I’m sure that it’s supposed to work such that you can indeed open previous years’ returns with ease and aplomb. You forget who you’re dealing with here though. Not only does technology hate me, but let’s recall that the IRS has now apparently lost my returns for 2 years (2004 and 2006), and they’re jerking me around for 2003, even as we have multinational corporations paying not one single dime in taxes. Is this a beautiful country or what?

They don’t call me Schleprock for nothing, kids.

And a comment from Astute Reader Kim:

“You my friend are so courageous. Thank you for taking one for the team, you have saved your thirteens of readers from the artery clogging sampling of KFC's newest grease bomb. Komen would be so proud.”

Indeed. I am expecting the call from Komen any day now, informing me of my impending sponsorship by their organization. Or the grant they’re surely planning on giving me. Oh, wait a minute! Damn, I forgot! They don’t actually do anything with their millions* for actual individuals. They’re still working on making people aware of BC. You know, breast cancer – the happy shiny smiley pinkish cureable “a pink gift in disguise!” kind of cancer! Yay! Pass that fried chicken! Maybe I’ll jus’ eat mah chicken while I’m admirin’ them Jingle Jugs, given to me by my still-secret elf last Christmas. Jingle Jugs, also allied with Komen. Yep, sometimes even I can’t make this shit up.

The Jingle Jugs, by the way, will be my fantabulous door prize at the Coming Out/Bring Your Boobs Par-tay I’m having in June. This grand prize will go to the one lucky winner who comes the closest to guessing just HOW many bills/letters/notices/etc. Miss Tasha has received from medical providers or insurance over the course of her “cancer journey.” Start counting now, folks.

*Though I read just today that they’ve actually raised $1.2 billion over the years – WTF, $1.2 billion and you don’t have a fucking cure yet? What the hell are you people doing, Scrooge McDucking your way through acres of cash?

And finally, from my mom:

“What’s going on with your taxes? And how about your driver’s license?”

Sigh. This is the problem when you’ve reached the level of fame and fortune…..well, fame at least…that I have. Your life is an open book. I can’t keep anything a secret anymore – okay, so that might be because I write about everything here in the blog, but I don’t think that’s a huge factor. Incidental at best. But now that my mom (hi mom!) has discovered my blog, and figured out how to read it even on her ancient computer, I’m doomed. Unless I start writing a totally different kind of blog about the perfection that is my life. Hmm……

Next up: The unveiling of my new blog, theperfecthappyrainbowfilledlifeofmisstasha.blogspot.com!

Ask and ye shall receive

Now that the H2H Posse is growing by leaps and bounds (welcome Laura!), of course we’re already thinking about how we can show off the girls to their best advantage, even as we’ll be kicking ass in the race part of the whole thing itself, this 10K. Or marathon. Or half. Or whatever it is. Clearly, we’re very serious about the running part.

So JoJo posits this most important question: “I wonder if they sell push-up sports bras?”

Something that could have kept us busy for months, but then, as if fate willed it this way, just this morning Alert Reader Molly sent me a link to the following product:
No, it’s not someone with the drains and tubes following surgery, which was what I initially thought. It’s the “Wine Rack”! But wait, they can explain it better than I ever could, in spite of their apparently pidgin English:

“The Winerack every girls best friend. Turn an A cup in to double Ds and sport your favorite beverage for yourself and your friends. Better than a Boob Job and Cheaper Too. Not to mention the savings on over priced drinks. We developed The Winerack to Fill Out our product line if you will. The picture shown here is of our good friend Drea, who is not, no offense Drea, Well Endowed. Sporting the Winerack and Voila’ Drea’s giving Pamela Anderson a run for the money. Take a bottle of wine, a mixed drink or even a fifth of your favorite hard stuff to the movies, concerts, ball games, even PTA meetings. Sporting a rack that will turn heads and serving a beverage that will have guys standing in line for a sip of your secret stash. With simple blow into the tube it's easy to keep that full look even as you drink from your secret stash.”


So not only can you stash a fifth of whiskey in your bra and be slurping away while showing off the new cleavage to your fellow drunkards – but then you can help yourself pass out by continually blowing into the tube to keep yourself busty! Nothing like a little hyperventilation to go with that raging drunk you’ve got going on.

Of course, I won’t need such a thing since I’ll be sporting the new Boobages in all their glory – though Alert Reader Mark did mention that this could be a good substitute for a Camelbak. Wait, which begs the question, why did I get The Rack via surgery, if I could have just gone with the WineRack?? Hmm.

Is it too late for a refund?

Okay, so.....

...WHY, oh why didn't anyone tell me about this?? Which unfortunately already took place, on March 7th:



I can't do this by myself, people! Does it or does it not take a village? Sheesh. Please, I expect a little more vigilance in the future. Thank you.

Adjustable boobages = FAIL

So I went trotting on downtown today, eager to see how much we could adjust these babies in one fell swoop. Sky's the limit, right? After all, when it comes to The Rack, go big or go home, that's what I always say. Well, at least as of recently.

And in case I didn't mention it often enough, yes, I have adjustable boobages. In theory, that is. Where there's a port underneath, and they can add saline to that to make the girls bigger or smaller. Theoretically.

I meet with Dr. Fine first, who pronounces me bustalicious (okay, at least that was my interpretation), and then he sends in Michelle, his doctorial assistant. What is she, a nurse? Medical technician? I don't want to refer to her as the wrong thing, but basically she's his right-hand woman. She comes in, finds the port, inserts the needle.......moves it around....pokes around some more.....removes the needle.

Michelle: Okay, sorry about this, I'm going to try it from another angle.
Me: No problem! Do what you need to do.

She tries two more times, nada. Apparently the port has turned itself around, the sneaky bastard, so she keeps hitting the back part instead. She sends in the big gun, Dr. Fine. Great. I guess this solidifies my reputation as the Problem Patient. Just what I've always dreamed of - having my plastic surgeon hate me.

So Dr. Fine gives it a shot. Inserts needle, pokes around, nothing. Gives me a shot of local anesthesia, so that he can poke around in there again with the needle and try to pry the port up along its edge. Dig dig dig. Dig. I start laughing.

Me: Sorry I'm laughing, but really, this is just par for the course for me. If anything can go wrong, it will.
Dr. Fine: This usually doesn't happen.
Me: Of course it doesn't! Unless it's me. Really, I'm used to it.
Dr. Fine: Really, this doesn't happen. Very rarely.
Me: Well, I just look at it all as something to write about. My fans expect it of me.
Dr. Fine: That's a good point. It's like singers - what would they have to sing about if their lives were perfect and rosy?
Me: Exactly! That would be my dilemma as well. But nope, not a problem for me AT ALL.

I'm guessing I'm the only patient they've had who's been poked, prodded, etc. and who has basically come in for nothing because there's no adjustments to be made, who's laughed about the whole thing. At least quite that heartily. I'm still snickering when I leave.

And have no fear, my legion of Rack-Unveiling-Awaiting friends. This only means they can't do any adjusting now, but when I go back in April to have the fipple done, they'll remove the ports and then, yes then, adjustments will be mine. And after going to all this trouble? Yeah, I might be going REALLY big.

Back to my roots

Well, after that foray into the world of imparting useful information for the greater good, I’m pleased to report that I am returning back to my roots, to that for which I’m known and renowned the world over (hello, alert reader in Saudi Arabia!). Yes, the hard-hitting triathlon and general fitness wisdom that people have come to expect from me. Not just expect, but anticipate with fervor, and wait for impatiently. I feel confident in saying that with today’s blog post, you will not be disappointed.

So I contacted Dougger, the captain of my erstwhile hockey team The Chiefs, and told him that I had been struck with the most brilliant of ideas: that I wanted to change the name on one of my jerseys to THE RACK. The question was, should I change WHO OWNS, or BNCRUSHER? WHO OWNS I liked because it prompted a lot of confusion and puzzlement, and separated the wheat from the chaff, in that I could judge intelligence and hockey knowledge by seeing who’d figure out the whole “Who OWNS the Chiefs?” schtick from the movie Slapshot…..and who didn’t. Call it my own more relevant version of those eHarmony quizzes that try to determine who you’re compatible with.

But BNCRUSHER, well, that speaks for itself, and has been great for striking fear into the hearts of the guys I play against. Sure, they’d look at the lipstick and the ponytail and think puh, what the hell is this? But then they’d see the name and suddenly everything would be different and….okay, that’s a lie. I mean, it’s true they’d underestimate me, but it wasn’t the name but rather the fact that I’d take my stick and cross-check them without hesitation, or there were the couple of times I threatened guys with bodily harm – deservedly so! – that might have sealed my reputation. So the name was kind of redundant. Plus, Doug *did* point out that to go with the new look, I might as well embrace a new persona too – so, goodbye BNCRUSHER, hello THE RACK. I can hardly wait. Am I the only one who sees a hell of a lot of opportunity for fun with this? Sure, my team and a lot of the guys I know at Johnny’s will get the inside joke, but woe to those who assume I’m just some fake-boobaged bimbo trying to snare guys with a provocative name. I mean really, bimbo indeed.