Big Boobies Trump Beauties

This is something that is more funny than interesting.

I am obsessed with people watching. It’s an illness; I’m sure of it. I love to predict what people (who fit into my mental stereotype categories) will do. Very seldom am I wrong, it’s a gift or maybe we are a lot more alike than we let on. That’s probably why so many people go so far out of their way to be originally different when all
they are really doing is pitifully conforming to what they think is interesting. FYI that’s not being original it’s being fake!!

You guys and your sly peripheral glances. The girl you are checking out didn’t see you, but I sure did. It’s so funny, all of you men are so predictable.

It is surprising how different my opinion of what is beautiful in a
woman compares to what a man thinks is beautiful in a woman. I have
seen girls walk by — that are so worth a look — get overlooked in
favor of the average looking girl with humongous boobs. Why? Just
because a girl doesn’t have gigantic knockers she somehow isn’t worth
that half second glance? It’s so weird to me. I have seen it over and
over. The ugly girl with saggy fibrous breasts always gets the guy.

If I try to think like a guy all I can come up with is girls with big
boobs are the worldwide pin-up mascot for everything adult
entertainment, and by being a large-breasted girl you are unavoidably
stereotyped to be porno-compatible? I’m not a guy so I’m sure that
isn’t accurate. The number of guys that I have seen get whiplash from
following a pair of double D’s has been very educational. My big booby
theory is no longer a theory, it is a fact. All of my mental stereotype categories for men fit into the big-booby lookout program. All guys are under the spell and visually drawn to the mountainous glands of fatty flesh.

Spit Or Swallow?

From howstuffworks.com: The olfactory bulb has intimate access to the amygdala, which processes emotion, and the hippocampus, which is responsible for associative learning. Despite the tight wiring, however, smells would not trigger memories if it weren’t for conditioned responses. When you first smell a new scent, you link it to an event, a person, a thing or even a moment. Your brain forges a link between the smell and a memory — associating the smell of chlorine with summers at the pool or lilies with a funeral. When you encounter the smell again, the link is already there, ready to elicit a memory or a mood. Chlorine might call up a specific pool-related memory or simply make you feel content. Lilies might agitate you without your knowing why. This is part of the reason why not everyone likes the same smells.

Working in the food industry I have been exposed to delicacies from all over the world. Some I love, some I have grown to love, and some I find repugnant. The first time I was confronted with brie cheese, I could instantly relate the smell and taste to semen. I shyly brought this up in conversation with the girls I work with, and they agreed with me.

It beCAME an inside joke. We would put it out for everybody to sample, and would analyze how they processed the smell and taste. We have been doing this for years. The findings have been very interesting. Single men who try it instantly dislike it but encourage their girlfriend to try. This has been consistent, and I have concluded that subconsciously they are conditioning their lovers to develop a taste for swallowing. I can see how this could be very effective. Married couples try, and instantly love it — they usually go back for seconds. They are proving they have both developed a taste for everything. Single women try and instantly ask, “What is this?” — all making the same wrinkled face. I tell them it’s an acquired taste, and in time they will grow to love it. I know this entry has been in very poor taste (pun intended): “But it has never been a trip to Baskin Robbins.”

The Ball Was In Their Court

My freshman year of high school I tried out for the Girl’s Junior Varsity Basketball team. I had a true love for playing the game, a fond desire to be part of the team, and I was really good at it.

I had been playing basketball for our community teams. I helped take them all the way to Regionals one year. The feeling I got when I played was amazing. I played with the guys from my neighborhood – after school, they helped me fine-tune my skills. I loved that I could hold my own competitively, and thought it was hilarious when I schooled them. (You got beat by a girl!)

The tryouts were grueling, it took seven days of line drills, free-throw shots, and eliminations to finally be informed that I had made the team. It felt great. I was playing the best I had ever played, I was always confident when I looked my name up on the freshly red inked list of remaining athletes. Not a new list, just the old one with bright red lines marked right down the center of each name that didn’t make the cut. I was proud of myself and it showed in my game play. I was accurate, fast and very competitive. I earned my place on that team. I had been working very hard, and had a great support group of friends that would cheer me on during tryouts.

I didn’t realize at the time just how big a role my friends’ support contributed to my abilities on the court. We got our ugly brown and yellow uniforms, and I was introduced to my teammates. I was number 12. The shorts were way too short for me to feel comfortable, so I would always wear a pair of black biker shorts underneath.

It was made very clear that I was an outsider, and not liked by the already bonded team of bitchy [c-words that rhyme with runts I'm not allowed to say because I'm trying to be good]. Playing with those girls was one of the most humiliating experiences of my life. I was under a microscope, being critiqued and made fun of every day at practice. Why did it matter that I didn’t hold the ball the way they wanted me to, when I made the shot? If the outcome was the same, who the hell cared how I got it there? I had no encouragement from any of the girls on my team, coaches included. Friends weren’t allowed into practice, so it was just me along with my fast growing, self-conscious self-doubt. My abilities I had been developing for years were slowly diminishing with every maliciously intended critique. My confidence was being smashed across the court as I started missing easy shots, running the wrong plays, and looking like the complete idiot they thought I was. The exhilarating feeling I would get when I could see myself make a shot before the ball had even left my hands was gone, and all that was left was a snowballing of missteps and embarrassing blunders.

I would go home after practice and play basketball with all of my neighborhood guy friends like I hadn’t missed a step. I was my old self when I was around people who liked and encouraged me.

The ongoing problems with the team made me feel so weak and stuck, I didn’t know how to regain my confidence. All of the girls on the team played against me at tryouts, and I kicked their ass. The coaches saw how well I could play. Why didn’t they connect the bullying to my sudden lack of eye- and hand-coordination? I stuck with it, thinking that over time they would accept me. They never did — I was cut from the team because I didn’t get the practice schedule for Christmas break and went to my grandmother’s for two weeks, I had no clue that we had practice… no one told me.

I remember walking home in the heavy, out-of-character rain with my away-game uniform still on. I was crying out-of-character over my defeat. A city bus pulled over and asked me if I wanted a ride closer to my house. He was sweet — he told me that whatever I was crying over couldn’t be worth my tears. It was kind of him even though he used a dumb line that never works.

I got home to my family, they asked me why I was home so early with a red face and a runny nose? I told my dad I was kicked off the basketball team. He stood to his feet and said, “OK!” like he knew what he needed to do. He walked over to me and gave me the most love-filled hug of acceptance and pride that I had ever felt. My humiliation and hurt gradually went away as I cried them out over my dad’s shoulder.

Looking back it was a horrible experience but an amazing life lesson.

Encouragement and acceptance are the strongest contributors to excellence. We are driven by our emotions — they affect everything we are capable of.

Transatlantic Something Or Other…

I’m not usually interested in being nominated for an award. But I just got a message that said my blog could be doing better in the voting department. It really annoyed me. All I can do is my best, and I need your help to accomplish this. If you could take just a few minutes to skim over the other nominees (to be fair) and vote for your favorite it would be greatly appreciated…. “Could do better“ WOW that pissed me off!!!!! Thanks in advance ~Jessica xoxoxo http://transatlanticdiablog.wordpress.com/the-2011-transatlantic-diablog-award-nominees-updated-list/

Good Vibrations

Woody Allen said ”masturbation is sex with someone I love”. I discovered this rather eye-popping sensation how most girls do. Trying to keep this as PG-13 as possible, I won’t visually describe it, and for the ladies I don’t have to.

I didn’t think it was a sinful act. I thought I had discovered something

amazing.

I was very young, and didn’t hide my miraculous new discovery from my parents. My mother gave me “the talk” from a religious standpoint: the guilt and shame carnivorously chewed it’s way into the depths of my being. None of it stopped me from performing three acts a night and a double feature matinee on the weekends; it just made sure I felt really guilty after.

The social taboos that surround sex are very oppressive to all women, religious or not. What’s available educational/entertainment wise seems to be aimed towards the sexual demographic that consists of men and bi-curious wannabes. I was researching sexuality and religion to make sense of why we are all hard-wired to associate sex as a sin. I found no viable answer that fully satisfied me except that our urge overpowers the DON”T!!!! The guilt sets in until the next overpowering urge takes over.

This brutal form of unsuccessful self-denial is cruel and unnecessary. We are all sexual beings and should be able to stimulate ourselves guilt-free.

In the 1850’s it was a common practice for women who were suffering
from stress, irritability, and frustration to consult with a doctor.
If the diagnosis was Hysteria, than the therapy was an inpatient
procedure administered by a licensed physician, a pelvic massage would
be administered manually that would stimulate the genitals until the
patient experienced “hysterical paroxysm”(Orgasm). It helped reduce or
relieve the symptoms. This is one of those things that makes me think
  

WHAT?

How unimaginative could you be to not figure out this instinct-like action on your own, and how awkward it must have been to let a doctor tap one out for you…I find this hysterical, and it makes me so grateful that I have a much more creative imagination.

So remember: the next time you are feeling upset or stressed, and sex isn’t an option

tap one out!

…It’s doctor recommended.

Crack Doesn’t Kill, It Just Makes Me Very Uncomfortable.

I love women’s fashion. Beautiful dresses and shoes galore. It became apparent early in my life that I would always choose comfort over couture. Trying different looks was short-lived, and I ended up being the jeans-and t-shirt girl that I am. I love a good pair of well-fit, broken-in jeans. My newly-developed concern for ever-changing fads are the cute low-rise jeans of today.

They seem to be getting lower and lower. They look adorable standing
but as soon as you sit or bend, it’s peek-a-boo with your backside. I
have spent a good chunk of time making sure this doesn’t happen to me.
Checking just how far I can bend before you see the top of my buns.
It’s always in the front of my mind. So I’m puzzled as to how so many
woman don’t feel the need to practice my ritual of modesty.

To say it bluntly: “I see a lot of crack.“ More and more everyday. How are they not aware that the top of their ass is exposed???

In addition, is there a polite way to tell someone they should ”pull
up their britches“? I have yet to find one. Am I gradually entering
the over-the-hill phase of my life, where you stop evolving with the
masses? Is it now acceptable to show your butt? I’m baffled!

Men have been mooning for as long as I can remember. It has been
universally labeled “plumber’s butt” and rightly so. It has always
been an off-putting sight, and negative as a whole. I can’t help but
feel the same way towards the female side of this wardrobe
malfunction.

It’s like a car wreck….I can’t look away…

When Legend Becomes Fact Print The Legend

When I moved to Austin, everybody would talk about all the things I had to do and needed to see. The Texas Chainsaw Massacre House was first on everybody’s list. I wasn’t really interested in seeing a house where a massacre took place, still everybody insisted. I started doing
some research about this infamous slaughterhouse and the blood bath that took place there in the 1970s.

What I found was very interesting: a whole lot of NOTHING…No newspaper
articles, no mug shots of Leatherface, and no death certificate for Grandpa.

It’s all fabricated.

Still, people swear that this gruesome event actually happened — a
friend of friend knew the family.

Whatever.

I see how it could be exciting to live where a historic event took
place, but a chainsaw-wielding cross-dresser and his enabling family? It kind of makes me sick.

I can’t fact people into submission — they would rather believe the
story. Not such a huge departure from our country’s history (or
history in general): full of fabrications, and exaggerations,
Thanksgiving, I cannot tell a lie about cherry trees, ect. The
hypocrisies aren’t hidden; you just have to look in places that
haven’t been filtered into being flattering and school
textbook-appropriate.

I am fascinated with child development and the fact that no parent
will ever get this very tricky responsibility right. Seeing the pure,
trusting excitement that a child feels when they know that Santa has
brought presents, or that the Easter bunny has scattered chocolate
eggs all over the backyard, may come at a price. The smiles are
warming to our hearts, but has some kind of eventual emotional damage
taken place at their expense? I can only speak for myself, but I
couldn’t help but feel confused and lied to when I found out
one-by-one that

the holiday characters that I thought loved me didn’t exist

not to mention

having all the infinite dreams and magic smashed into millions of sparkly shards that blew away with all of my possibilities.

After I learned that all the holiday magic was a big, fat lie, I found
myself questioning my faith in God. It’s like the boy who cried wolf;
after so many false alarms, I wasn’t going to fall for it again. Oh
yeah sure, God’s real… It was a very harsh reality check.

I would love to conduct an experiment with children being raised in
reality: pure and simple, no lies or candy-coated concepts. I would
just like to see if they were more realistic in life choices, more
selfless, and more contributing as a whole. Don’t worry Moms: I will
never have babies. My sister nearly killed me when I told my niece
that Santa was really her mommy and daddy. She still hasn’t forgiven
me for it, and my niece still chose to believe in Santa.

Santa’s Sweat Shop

It’s no secret that I hate the holidays. I have tried to celebrate them. My favorite holiday character is Scrooge; unlike him, I don’t have the ghosts of
Christmas past, present, or future to help me see the error of my
ways. I am so over the “God bless us every one,” I want to take Tiny
Tim’s crutch and knock him over the head with it.

We try desperately to hold on to the Christmas holiday traditions that
have been successfully preserved and embedded into our minds. We don’t
question the rather questionable customs. With Halloween, the
inevitable dangers are so widespread that we now have our candy
x-rayed and pedophiles have had their trick-or-treating rights
revoked.

Conversely, Christmas has remained unchanged with our ever-changing
times. Do we feel that Santa Claus is an acceptable holiday icon for
the children of today? He’s a really old man, who has no children of
his own, but loves kids so much he has spent countless years
overlooking poor little elves frantically slaving away as they make
toys for the Santa following children of the world. He is welcome into
your homes. If you think about it, Santa really fit’s the
stereotypical profile of a child molester. What parent would let their
child desire the attention of a grown man who has no children and a
never-ending supply of gifts and candy? (Michael Jackson) I would be
skeptical.

I just think it’s confusing. We teach children not to take candy from
strangers… with Santa being an exception. We still lug our kids to
the mall for the traditional sitting on Santa’s lap photo-op. I have
seen so many trembling babies being forced to sit on Santa’s lap so
mom and dad can capture the perfect moment of Baby’s First Christmas.
But all the babies are crying hysterically! They don’t want to sit on
some strange man’s lap! Still, you convince your kids to pose for
pictures. It’s traumatizing.

Santa is never ever liked at first glance – we have to teach kids
that he gives candy and presents, and then they love him. Is Santa
the foundation for all of the greed and excess in our
consumer-thriving, uncaring economy? He gets all the thanks and
gratitude while most people are still paying off last year’s holiday
generosity. We do it to ourselves.

Hints of Life

I was thinking it would be fun to list all of the helpful hints I have
discovered to simplify my life. Feel free to comment and share yours.

Matchbox

I keep a box of matches in every bathroom in
my house. My ex-husband has the most rancid digestion problems due to his poor diet. It was difficult and frustrating to express my discontent when he thought it was so funny. My brother told me that
lighting a match would neutralize the mustard gas bombs that were
launched like clockwork on a daily basis in my presence. It worked,
thank God. The habit stuck and I never have to walk into a
gastrointestinal ambush again. It’s also helpful when you find
yourself in a new relationship where you’re not quite comfortable when
it comes to colon evacuation. As an extra precaution keep a box of wet
naps handy too.

Two-Sided Sponge

I always used the abrasive side of my sponge when I did my dishes. I would have the hardest time getting my Tupperware squeaky clean. I was watching a
special on The Food Network hosted by my favorite Food Network personality Alton Brown. He scientifically demonstrated how simply flipping my sponge from the scrubby side to wash my grease laced plastic would not only properly clean them but it would produce that
squeaky clean sound that has the same addictive appeasement I get when
I pop bubble wrap.

Bleach

I always keep an olive oil dispenser of bleach to the right of my dish washing sink. My mother had told me years ago about a salmonella study she read about.
The group conducting the study had a woman prepare a chicken dinner for her family, and clean as she went so her kitchen would be tidy when dinner was ready. They tested her visually spotless kitchen and found thriving salmonella all over her counter tops, cabinet fixtures, sink and dishes. The next day they had her do it again. The same meal with the exact same method of cleanup only this time she was asked to add 10 drops of bleach to her dishwater. The findings were remarkable.
No salmonella could be found. I was instantly converted and have been
a devout follower ever since. I practice my belief every time I wash
my dishes. I also use bleach-water to wash all of my fresh veggies, fruits,
and herbs. I was skeptical when my husband explained his method of
produce preservation but the proof is in the plums. By dipping rinsing
and draining all of our fresh produce I have witnessed the doubling of
their life expectancy, and no one has sprouted a third eye. Well not
yet!

Instead Cups

I use insteads instead of tampons. They work like a diaphragm cupping the
cervix to collect blood flow. You can wear them for up to 12 hours and
will never again have to go through the disgusting reminder that it’s
your time of the month when you unmindfuly pee on your tampon string.
When I first started using them I was preoccupied with concern over
leakage. Surprisingly there has never been an occurrence, and for you
brave women sex is magically back on the menu. I have always been
scared that the rim of the instead although soft and pliable would
somehow rake across my partners penis during intercourse rendering him
out of commission till further notice. I am usually very tender on the
first day of my period so I never use them until day two. In the
beginning I would recommend using the shower for evacuation of menstrual
emissions. Just until you get your angles right.

Baking Soda

Heartburn was a common thing in my last life. I would get it all the time, and had trouble finding something that gave me lasting relief. I was watching an episode of food detectives they said If you drink a small amount of baking soda dissolved in cold water It will instantly neutralize your heartburn and make you belch a tune of appeasement without the acid reflux. It works just make sure you drink it fast because it tastes absolutely putrid.

Nothing

This is for the guys. When your girlfriend /wife/ whatever is obviously upset with you, but when you ask what’s wrong their reply is “Nothing“ usually it’s because they’ve found something incriminating while snooping through your stuff. The only way to nip it in the bud is to call them out on it. Have fun with this little nugget of knowledge, and report back to me.

No Pockets No Longer

All of the modern styles of jeans seem to be designed for shapeless twigs. I have hips! I love them but wrapping the gift God gave me in the wrong packaging can be an unflattering no-no. I really hated that
I could see the bottom of my front pockets
across my thighs. I would bunch them up so it wasn’t visible anymore but all that did was give the illusion of having a kind of stretched camel toe. So I cut out my pockets and fixed the problem. My jeans fit better at my hips but I still had a problem with my pockets gaping open so I sewed them shut. I do this with all of my jeans and slacks. It gives a much more flattering fit and you don’t have to contend with
compromising bumps and bulges that give the illusion of a belly pooch
or could be mistaken for a tranny boner.

There’s a lot more but I think this is enough to get started. I’m
excited to hear all of your helpful hints so don’t be shy….

Poof! You’re A Parent

I got married when I was 16. I wasn’t ready for the instant upgrade from teenager to adult. It was like saying, “I’m an adult now!” miraculously made me one. I had to grow into the role just like everyone else. I was terrified at the thought that I had assumed the identity of an adult through the simple act of signing a piece of paper.

It took several months to view myself as a wife. I was reminded that I was married throughout the day because my wedding band would make my skin sweat as it pressed against the folds of my fingers, irritating the webs of my hands. I needed to dry and readjust the band several times a day. I would be annoyed, and say, “What the heck is bugging me? Oh yeah, I’m married.” The ring’s symbolic meaning changed over the duration of my marriage. It originally reminded me of happiness, love, and commitment; surprisingly, that ring became a binding reminder of my discontent, and realizations that we didn‘t love each other enough. This is why I will never put another ring on my finger.

A relationship is a choice, not an obligation.

After I left my husband, it took some time to not feel married. It was a weird thing to take the wedding band off my finger knowing that I would never put it back on. I had emotionally severed myself from my husband and was resolved in my decision to no longer honor my marriage. I was done!! But I still found myself wrapping my right hands fingers over my left to adjust a ring that was no longer there. Reminding myself, “Oh, I’m divorced,” it was funny to me that I was using the same method to get comfortable with my new socially contemporary title of divorcée.

Fast forward a few months. Now that I’m remarried, I find myself confronted with a whole new set of titles that my mind needs to catch up to. When someone asks me about my husband, I have this puzzling mental image of my ex. It’s not something I stress over — it’s more of a funny-how-the-mind-works kind of feeling. I just know it’s going to take some time to habituate my life.

The tension-filled disapproval of my marital status has been weird. This marriage is both mine and my new husband’s second marriage. For some reason, all of the people who oppose find comfort in not accepting the fact that we are legally wed.

I had to take a step back and think about the possible reasons people choose not take our marriage seriously. It became clearer to me that people have individual grieving and healing processes. I was done with my marriage the second I turned off the front porch lights of my house locked the door and closed it behind me. It symbolized closing an old, dormant chapter in the book of my life, and helped me move on. Not everyone works the way I do.

For a lot of people we still belong to our exes, and it hurts when the mind reminds them that we aren’t. I am sensitive to the pain we caused but I also know it was deservingly just. Remember:

a relationship is a choice not an obligation.

Another thing I am facing is the flip-flopping status of my “stepparent-ness.” People on ”Team Us” are calling me a mother, and everyone else says I’m playing house. I want to make it clear that I do not feel like a parent. When people call me “Mom” I can’t help but feel annoyed. My mind hasn’t caught up yet, and I’m not really sure what role I feel comfortable playing in their lives. I am a stepparent by virtue of my status (regardless of preparation), but just like being told I’m an adult (before I was ready) it doesn’t make me one. I need to grow into the role.