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Archive for the ‘Boobs’ Category

That was the only phrase the “man” in the red shirt could utter in English that crucial, balmy Venice evening (er, morning) back in the summer of ’02. I still don’t know if those words rang true or if he was just a behind the times Fine Young Cannibals fan. For whatever reason I decided to leave my virginity with that… Angel.

I wanted the journal entry I wrote the next morning while riding the train to Venice to accompany this photo — but I just read through it once more and it’s still that brand of dry heave inducing, coming-of-age mortification. I’m talking the feeling took me back to that moment in 3rd grade when I spilled chili directly into my crotch on my birthday and couldn’t get ahold of my parents for a change of clothes embarrassment.

His name is Luca and that’s all I know.  Admittedly, as tragic as that t-shirt is… I’d totally scoop it up for a crisp Lincoln if the Salvation Army ever gave me the chance. An insignificant extension of me would wear it while taking someone else’s virginity, but I think that’s the wrong kind of paying it forward.

I’m glad he carried condoms in his tiny, baby blue backpack and that he wore reflective sneakers.  Dual levels of safety first.

I think this quote from a friend sums it all up quite nicely:  “blake:  you lost your virginity to a gay dude?”

Because I’m pretty sure I did.

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I got my braces off this afternoon and the moment I opened wide in the mirror I saw that guy on the left staring back at me (minus a flaxen miss on my arm).  My teeth look and feel super-colossal to me right now.  Don’t worry, I’m chalking it up to a first world problem.

Soon I’ll be used to seeing all that white when my lips part, but for now I feel like I’m forcing those around me to survey ghastly, exposed bone.  If I made you laugh and you lifted up your shirt to show me your naked rib I might black out or wail, “PUT THAT AWAY!”  Thankfully, no one has had that reaction.

It felt amazing to strut into their office knowing I’d soon prance out a woman who can finally brush and floss in under half an hour.  The removal was a snap, literally, but the impressions that followed were not.  That was more like a crackle and a pop.  Ouch. 

I guess you could say I have a bit of a freakishly runty mouth, and the impression tray is seriously just the heel end of a men’s shoe size 18 insole.  I’m convinced.  Oh, with a giant wad of wet, grape flavored plaster smeared on top of it.  Mmm, open sesame! 

The first technician’s technique was questionable.  She put me in a headlock, shoved it into my mouth, and held my head against her boob until the plaster hardened.  It didn’t take the first or second time, and by the third I was losing focus.  That focus being:  DO NOT LAUGH, APRIL!  I’m sorry, but by the third time she had me in that breast-y sleeper hold I could not hold it in any longer.  I spit plaster and gave myself a pretty sensational, violet beard.

She called for backup and it just so happened to be my favorite orthodontic technician of all time, Deb.  We bonded before my surgery over a love of pizza and fear of skin grafts.  She even sent me a post card once to make sure I was recovering well.  I read it to myself in her pack a day Selma/Patty Bouvier voice and cried the day I received it.

It took Deb two tries, but we finally nailed it.  I was out the door with a “CONGRATS!” balloon trailing behind me and a smiley face bag loaded with candy from the FORBIDDEN FOOD list they gave me two years ago.

I brought an apple with my lunch in hopes that I’d have the guts to bite into it, but I chickened out and sliced it up instead.  Snore. 

It reminded me of the time I had a cast removed from my healed, formerly broken wrist.  I refused to use that arm for days because I harbored irrational fears about it breaking again.  My mom forced me to open and close the sliding side door of our family mini-van with it while I grimaced and whined.

If she were here now I imagine she’d make me open my own car door with my teeth.

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Snacklash.

I’m in a real pickle. 

I was invited to a friend’s going away celebration this weekend and the invite clearly specifies the theme as “BLT”.  You might be as disappointed as I was to learn that this acronym doesn’t actually stand for BACON, LETTUCE, AND TOMATO.

It stands for black tie, lingerie, or toga.  A toga?  What?  I don’t even own white sheets.  I do have brown sheets which just sounds downright offensive out loud. 

Ex: 

“Hey!  Have you seen my friend, April?

“Perhaps I have!  What is she wearing?” 

“She’s covered in brown sheets.”

“Ew!  Has she seen a doctor about that?”

I’m toying with the idea of showing up as a terribly confused sandwich.  If the others don’t see the humor in it I picture myself awkwardly double fisting too many appletinis in the corner and becoming every host’s least favorite guest, the dreaded belligerent sandwich.

By the end of the night I’ll have lost my crust to a skuzzy Roman with Heineken breath.  You’ll find me in the front lawn yowling at some jezebel decked out in a lacey, Fredericks of Hollywood teddy to hold my mayo.

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She’s lump.

I imagine that my brain got stuck inside of my body like a splinter 26 years ago and ever since the tissue and skin has been growing over it, trapping it, and now I’m making do.  

Today I thought we could delight in a nice annual physical together and take our pee in (or around and all over) the cup and place it in the teeny window and get on with our lives. 

There are many instructions and required reading involved when you’re going to pee in a cup.  And a pen dangling from a chain that you’re supposed to use to write your name on the cup and so on.  It’s a shame that they specify, “NO NICKNAMES” because I was going to write April “Showers” Swartz on my sample.  A sample!  A sample of what I have to offer you… in urine. 

I struggle with a bit of performance anxiety when I have to take a piss at a specific time in an appointed place.  They should have a 3-ring binder full of plastic sheet protected photos displaying dripping faucets, streams, and waterfalls next to the toilet.  Sort of like what they offer men for their spank banks. 

Could we not meet in the middle with some nudie mermaids?

Sometimes when I’m in there I think I’ll just never pee.  I’ll finally stumble out into the hallway at two in the morning dehydrated, lips cracked, throat closing, vision distorted, and knees creaking loudly like the Tin Man’s to find all the lights off.  Then I’ll collapse in the arms of a lonely night cleaner who gives me the disapproving mother face as I drift to sleep in his pine sol-y embrace while loosening my grip on one sad, empty cup.

Don’t worry, we eventually gave it up.   

Later on my doctor gave me a dummy boob to play with while he left the room.  I was instructed to “find the lumps”.  A game best played by one’s self, like Solitaire. 

Well, I cheated because there were 3 dirty and weathered spots on this hobo boob.  I mashed on them and felt snow caps

It felt pretty awesome to tell my doctor to “wash that boob” before I left the office.

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Sinema.

During the first (Mormon and caffeine free) decade of my childhood, watching anything other than asexual, happily ever after films was strictly verboten. 

I can’t complain because my cousins had it far worse.  They weren’t even allowed to say the word, “butt”. 

You can only imagine the horror in my aunt’s eyes the evening she walked in on me confessing to her children how I desperately wanted to be the piano seat beneath Richard Marx’s butt in the Christian music video we were all watching. 

In hindsight that certainly seems like more of a nightmare (to be smothered by Richard Marx’ ass) than a turn-on, but love does work in mysterious ways. 

It should also come as no surprise now that during this time no one ever discussed “the birds and the bees” with me. 

Instead I took notes from actors and actresses in a plethora of late 80’s to early 90’s erotic/thriller/contraband VHS tapes my parents kept tucked behind the Disney collection. 

Bear necessities vs. bare necessities.  Guess which ones I chose?

Basic Instinct (Spoiler:  It turns out to be not so basic.)

Nine 1/2 Weeks (Mickey Rourke as the naked Wrestler.)

Sliver (A Baldwin!)

Bitter Harvest (Another Baldwin!)

No Way Out (My favorite at the time for the erotic limousine tour of the Washington DC monuments and memorials.  Somebody hose me down over here.)

Flash forward to last week in Production class where the teacher announced our homework, to describe the use of dramatic lighting throughout the movie, Basic Instinct

I blushed and forgot for a moment that she wasn’t asking us to watch porn. 

I honestly couldn’t even tell you what the movie was about.  My ten year old review would read simply: “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOBS!!!”

Will my twenty six year old review be any different?

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The truth Hz.

I feel like a deranged Todd Solondz version of Polly Pocket this morning. 

Included: 

1.  One pair of period panties, black, size WB (weather balloon).

2.  Two extremely large, fabric bandages to cover the blisters on your heels because you’re foolishly sacrificing the health and well-being of your feet for a perky rear end. 

3.  One safety pin to close the gap between buttons on your cardigan where your boobs are visually threatening to make like Lindsey Buckingham and go their own way. 

4.  One flipbook full of frightening, residual, mental images leftover from that crazy nightmare you had where you were making French toast, but when you cracked the eggs they were full of jizz.  All because the night before you watched an episode of Freaks and Geeks (where Sam gets egged in his homemade Gort costume) followed by an episode of Cathouse (where the ladies of the desert are paid large sums of money to handle that substance on a regular basis).

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In case you were wondering, I didn’t miss the helicopter. 

The class tour of our local news station was quite a bit more fascinating than it sounded.  I didn’t retain a sizeable hunk of what our tour guide was talking about during the introduction though.  I was busy in the back (that’s what she said) choking back tears, stifling laughter, and far more interested in the live feed direct from the Pentagon just behind him. 

Before they went on the air the anchor man broke a clean sweat fluffing a Charlie Brown tuft of hair every which way while performing some sort of possessed lip yoga.  He was going to town on an invisible corn cob.      

Later we met our local weather man who wore a pair of white Reeboks with his suit. 

Now every time I flip the channel past him I desperately feel the urge to share that tidbit with anyone within earshot.  Maybe even a neighbor walking their dog down the street.  “HEEEEEEEY!  OUR WEATHER MAN IS FOOLING EVERYONE!!!!!!!!!!!!” 

I hate that about myself.

I took (mental) notes throughout the day on how each of the anchors handled themselves on camera.  I never know what to do with my hands and I was scheduled to host a snippet of our student news piece a few days later.

I never told Ben this, but I put his favorite pen in my pocket before I left the morning of our shoot.  I was in need of a stupid human trick to calm myself down and it worked.  I know I’m not a lunatic yet because I stuffed a pen in there, and not his toe nail clippings. 

Although when you leave things like that scattered about on the dining room table you’re just asking for someone to hot glue them together with dry elbow macaroni for use as an amulet.  Not that the thought ever crossed my mind.

We set up for an outdoor scene on campus and I counted to ten into the boom mic.  Okay, we don’t even call it a boom mic.  The technical term, if you must know, is actually, “kong dong”. 

 

 

My awesome lady teacher kept telling me to hold it lower and lower until it accidentally ended up crotch level and we both had a good, twelve year old laugh.  That’s probably… no, that’s definitely the moment when I knew we’d be friends. 

I read my lines with no problems.  I was a little nervous, okay, I was a lot nervous.  Who the hell am I kidding?  But I didn’t appear uncomfortable.  

I know this because I got to watch the footage the other night in class.  And I was mortified, but not for the reasons I thought I would be. 

It wasn’t because of my braces or how they give me a slight lisp.  It was because the cameraman framed the shot expertly capturing nothing but boobs and a tiny head on top of them mumbling on and on about gosh knows what. 

Downtown Charlotte sparkled in the distance and Titzilla left her mark on this cruel world by crushing each skyscraper one areola at a time.  

The editors promised to cover the mams up with a banner, and I can’t even begin to express how awkward that conversation was.

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