Identifying Those Early Memories

While  I muddled through trying to find a topic on which to post tonight (since, for once, I’m not either working or sleeping), I wandered all the way through old posts, back to 2011 and our post on the anniversary of the Challenger explosion.  I was re-reading an exchange in the comment between reader, Teapot, and Kristy about how Teapot, as a kid born in 1981, really didn’t remember Challenger like those of us born in 1980 (or earlier).  Kristy’s comment pointed out that in her research, so far, anyone post 1980 really did not remember Challenger the same way, and that the next really big world event was the fall of the Berlin Wall.  I thought, “I should have replied back and asked Teapot if the fall of the wall in Berlin was her first “global event” memory”  and that was followed by the thought that, Challenger was not really mine.

Prior to Challenger,  I have a very vivid, scary memory of a hostage crisis on a plane.  But I still don’t know what it really was. Read the rest of this entry »

Going Braless: A Query

It’s been a long time since we’ve talked about my underwear on this blog, so it seems like it must be about time. Actually, this post is only sort of about my underwear, it’s mostly about my boobs. But probably not in the exciting way you’re picturing. (No, there will not be pictures.)

I think I’ve mentioned before (and if I haven’t, most of you know anyway) that I didn’t have boobs to speak of until I hit my late 20s. I went through most of my life as a perky little B-cup. (Before you ask, no, I was not one of that majority of women wearing the wrong bra size. I was not a busty F-cup deluded into thinking she was a B-cup.) Now, if you knew me then, you might not have realized how small my boobs were because I’ve long had an affection for padded bras—part of my attempt to make myself look like I had a waistline. Then suddenly, and perhaps not coincidentally, around the time I started aerial work I went from a 34B to a 36E/36DD in about six months without gaining any significant amount of weight elsewhere. I am the story that gives all other members of the IBTC (that’s Itty Bitty Titty Committee for the uninitiated) hope.

The point here is that I’m still not quite used to these things on my chest. So I have an honest question for my fellow busty girls—isn’t it really uncomfortable to go without a bra?

Okay, obviously running or other vigorous physical activity is uncomfortable without support, that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about just sitting around.

I’ve noticed several of my female friends when they are free of male company and want to get comfortable take off their bras. I used to be one of those girls. Now I can’t stand that! I’ve started seeking out pajamas with some semblance of a shelf bra just to avoid it. When I take off my bra my now not-so-perky boobs hang down onto my ribcage. And there’s this weird skin-on-skin contact thing that happens—I wouldn’t call it chaffing exactly, but it’s uncomfortable. I would rather wear a bra, even if it’s cutting into my shoulders and poking me in the ribs.

Am I the only one who has this problem? Is it because I carry a lot of my weight around my middle? Or is it just because I’m not used to these things?

Guide me oh experienced busty ladies. What am I missing here?

Stupid Bowl

In which Cammy manages to be completely unaware that it is Superbowl Sunday (and not for the first time).

I really thought I could only manage to do this once in a decade.  Maybe it’s a sign of over-achievement that this has happened twice in less than 5 years.

I get up on Sunday, mid morning (*cough* possibly midafternoon for those of you who didn’t have a night courtesy of antihistamine–damn you sinuses), head to the grocery store because I’m out of everything important (in my world, that means sour cream, cheese, spinach and beer).  The parking lot is abnormally full.  Like, we-are-about-to-have-a-blizzard full.  Only I know that the snow isn’t supposed to be hitting us until Tuesday, which means this is waaaaay too early for everyone in this area to be raiding the bread aisle (why prepare early, when you can create a shit storm rush at the last minute?).

It’s not until after literally waiting in a queue to get to the sour cream that I note the swarm of guys in game-day gear, with buggies full of meat and steak sauce converged on the beer coolers.  They have managed to completely eliminate the supply of anything I’d ever want to drink and a whole lot of what I wouldn’t touch if it were the last alleged beer on Earth (my Daddy raised me with standards.  Natty Ice will never pass these lips…though it is useful for helping break down thatch on a lawn).  WTF was going on?!?

Then I did the math.  It’s cold outside, not Christmas, these are  clearly sports fans…fuck, it’s Superbowl Sunday.

Yeah.  That’s how out of touch with all reality I am.  Several weeks worth of 12 hour days at the bill-paying job, and I haven’t seen any news other than the weather alerts that pop up on my recently acquired phone (which is working spiffily, fuck you, Verizon).  The only TV I’ve seen has been my un-breakable Sunday night date with Downton, and spending the hours leading up to Downton catching up on a new telenovela (Que Pobres Tan Ricos–nothing like a Columbian telenovela exported to Mexico and made more awesome by Rosy Ocampo).  None of which are places I’m likely to hear about professional football.

I’m a little bummed, really.  I like to actively plan an anti-Superbowl (generally with a crap ton of Jane Austen adaptations, and capped off with the Downton Abbey cherry on top).  I suppose my less formal marathon of drooling over Jaime Camil probably works in lieu of British Costume Drama, but I would have liked a little more wallowing in my own rebellion against the American norm.  Although, there’s something truly rebellious about my ability to completely overlook the event to the point that only missing beer is enough to remind me anything is going on at all (and, I still don’t know who’s playing–I just know it’s not Kansas City because that would have been impossible to miss around here).

And so,tomorrow will begin the semi-awkward series of conversations that begin with “Did you see the [insert brand] commercial?!?” and end with me saying, blankly and bluntly, “No.”

Happy Anniversary to Us!

By the time I get this posted it won’t be St. Brigid’s Day where I am anymore, but it still is in Cammy’s time zone, so I say it counts!

Happy anniversary to us!

I actually have some more substantial posts stockpiled, but I wanted to take the opportunity to thank all of our readers. All five of you.

Seriously, we’ve been flaky this year. We’ve been flaky this week. I would give you all of the perfectly legitimate reasons for this, but I kinda figure you already know or don’t care anyway. Bottom line is, we are still blogging and we hope you’ll keep reading.

And we hope you celebrated St. Brigid’s with colcannon, because I didn’t. I know. Fail. Truth be told I didn’t realize the date until I already had black beans and rice on the stove.

On an Irish heritage note, I was informed by those who would know, that when I do an Irish accent I sound like I’m from the Dublin suburbs. That was exciting considering I always thought I sounded like an American trying to talk with an Irish accent and failing.

Take care. Stay warm. Much love.

The Book Thief Stole My Time

I am not going to say the recent film adaptation of The Book Thief was a bad movie.  I’m just saying that in my expectations that it would be as good as the book, I walked out feeling like my time had been vampire’d because I could have waited to let it come out on video and been just as well off.

First off, I do recommend The Book Thief as a book.  I had originally shied away from it because coming of age stories in Nazi Germany with the obligatory hidden Jew element are, frankly, almost a cliché.  Been there, read that.  When I finally picked up the book and read it, I ate a bit of crow because while this may have some of the necessary ingredients for the same old same old, it is put together in a way that made it a fabulous read.

What I should have realized before I saw the film was that what I love about the book are the little details, and the awesome narrator.  If anything is sacrificed in a film, it is the details, and narrators are usually under-utilized.  So, clearly, I was doomed.

Of course, being doomed in this way won’t stop me from complaining.  For the narrator, I will only say that the narrator of the book was one of my favorite narrators in any book I’ve ever read.  Full of insight and dark humor.  I can more or less forgive the drastically reduced role the narrator plays as I know that it can be tricky handling narration on film without the whole thing sucking.  I’ll grudgingly give the film a pass on this.

I’m not giving on the details, though.  Not completely.  There are some that, okay, fine, so the house didn’t fit the description completely.  And the random German words were minimized.  I can live with that.

But I  maintain that other details do matter.  When an author specifically calls out the main character’s eye color, and does so in terms connected to the time and setting (the author specified that Liesel had “dangerous” brown eyes.  Kinda mattered in Germany at the time), maybe the filmmakers ought not to go dead opposite (we’re talking full on Elijah-Wood-hobbit-ass big baby blues).  Really, there’s a detail that’s not too much to ask, in my opinion.  Also, if you are going to insert a death scene in the film that was not shown in the book?  Do not give it to a person who, while all right enough on screen otherwise, cannot actually act a decent death scene (if you watch, you will know this one when you see it.  It screams out for a whole new award category for Most Terrible Death Scene That Should Not Even Be In The Film). But the real kicker was a seemingly tiny change that I am sure the film makers thought nothing of, but which changes a fundamental element.  In the book, Liesel has an innate gift with words.  She struggles with reading and writing, but actually forming sentences and choosing how to describe something she does without any help or assistance, and does remarkably well.  She does not necessarily realize it is a gift until it is pointed out to her by another character, but it already exists in her.  In the film, rather than having her produce the description on her own, they chose to have that other character coach her to better describe something.  Totally killed a fundamental for me.  There is a difference between doing something naturally and having someone coach you to do it.

I hated that moment.

All that said, the costumes were great, and I appreciated that they did retain a modest amount of the little German words and phrases thrown throughout the book (which I totally ate up).  And there were some fantastic performances from the cast (bad, unnecessary death scene notwithstanding).  It’s the first time that I’ve watched a movie with Geoffrey Rush where he didn’t creep  me out (not saying he’s been bad in other things, just that I’ve found him creepy–on that list of people I don’t want to meet in a dark alley, like Christopher Lee).

Since it was in such a limited theater release in my area before the holidays, I assume that by now, I probably don’t need to warn anyone not to pop for theater prices, but if you see it screening, go see something like The Hobbit instead and wait for this one to come out on Netflix.

Or, just read the book.