I have a hobby and it is shopping. I like to look at things. I love to feel the fabrics. I adore trying on clothes. I am one of those who fixes clothes back on the hangers.
I always return my things to the racks. I do not believe in buying anything at full price. A 50% discount sends me in rapture. 75% off is practically orgasmic. Belk's was having a huge clearance sale. I had waited for this day with great anticipation. Belk Bucks were burning a hole in my pocket yearning to be spent. I even had a 4% Rakuten cashback bonus. Everyone needs a hobby. This was mine. Yes, Wilma and Betty had nothing on me. I was ready. Fired up and poised to shop. My finger was limber and primed to click. I had enough coupons that Belk would owe me money on a purchase! Vibrating with excitement I watched as the sale items start forming on the screen. Slowly I scrolled down the rows of pretty things. Periodically I stopped to scrutinize details of an enticing item as I pondered the worthiness of my coupon I reached the bottom; the end of all the pages. Nothing. Nothing? I found nothing I wanted. I had pants in all those colors. I had more tops than Belk had listed on either its clearance or its regular purchase list. There was nothing to fire my imagination of dressing up to go somewhere so I could flaunt my new duds. Sigh. SHOES!!! I hadn't checked shoes. Quickly I began the search for the perfect pair of shoes. Row after row. Page after page. Nothing. I found nothing. Again? There was not one pair of shoes to buy. No new colors. No new styles. Covid has taken its toll. I don't need anything, because I don't go anywhere. I have shopped through the pandemic and have no place to wear my pretties. Oh woe is me. My hobby is failing me and my husband is laughing and dancing a jig. "She found NOTHING" he sings. Gwinnettcitizen.com November 23. 2020 I was trying to choose a topic for the October column. Should it concern the centennial anniversary of women’s rights, Halloween, or Covid-19, a nightmare in itself? Then it clicked. October. Pink. Ta-ta month!
Oh yes, it is ta-ta time again. If you haven’t had your annual goose from the giant Squisher, you need to make your appointment. Practice your deep breathing exercises, not for calmness, but so you can take that great big gasp when the plates make your breast the baloney in the sandwich. “Hold your breath. Hold it. Hold it.” Try not to pass out. It hurts to hang by one breast from the machine. If Dante had been a woman and the mammogram had been around in his time he would have made the fifth rung of hell all about this experience. As a matter of fact, women should re-write Dante’s Inferno from our point of view. It has been eight years since my time with the Big C. When you have boobs the size of mine, the Big C has significant meaning. I am down to being squished twice a year. Been there, got the tattoos and don’t want to do it again. Let’s talk about those jugs, girls. We got ‘em. They come in different sizes. Gravity loves to pull on them. The female undergarment industry designs fancy pieces of nothing that won’t hold up a grape, let alone a cantaloupe. Hate to tell you this, girls, after the first child or 30 years of gravity, you need industrial-strength rebar to hold those babies up. Laughing with a friend, she commented on how often she had gone without a bra during the Covid quarantine. I asked why she was wearing one now. “I got tired of them rubbing my knees raw” she responded. It is true. I walk down the hall and it sounds like the Clydesdales’ hooves pounding on the floor. It is just the old ta-tas beating against my thighs. I had hand surgery last month. Putting on clothes with zippers and clasps has been hard. Fastening a bra was impossible. Enter the husband. Snell said he had forgotten all the tricks on fastening and unfastening bras. He asked me how I managed to get “those things in there and they not fall out.” I told him it took practice, perseverance and the fear of pain. Another friend had to have both breasts removed. When she talked to the surgeon about reconstructive surgery she requested "itty bitty titties". She was about like me - nine-pound bowling balls in each cup. She throws her chest out—because she can now stand upright--and points her tangerines out into the world. Her husband likes to hug me. I told him he just missed Cherry's big, bodacious boobs. He said "I think I do.” And hugged me again. When you go in for your Mush and Squish you are asked to “remove all navel rings, nipple rings, and body studs.” I can’t have nipple rings. I would get my toes caught in them and my arms are not long enough to undo the fasteners. It makes me smile to know that all these rings, studs and tattoos will eventually be wrinkled and crinkled. That rose on your breast? It will look like a poison ivy growing up from your waist. That butterfly on your fanny will looks like a dirty spot on your thigh. If you see a young woman with perky boobs and all the guys are eyeing her, take solace. Time and gravity will fix that. So go get that inner beauty photo taken. It is an hour. It isn’t comfortable. Wear warm pants because the top of you will be cold and the machines are icy. So are the technician’s hands. The room temperature is only about 45 degrees Fahrenheit. Don’t believe them when they tell you it is 68. They keep medical places cold so blood vessels are constricted preventing excessive bleeding. Germs don’t survive well in cold temperatures. Breasts are fat wads. It is cold. That adipose tissue will solidify. Hard to squish those babies, but don’t worry, those technicians know how to do it. NO matter the shape, color, size or length, they are yours. Take a couple of hours and protect your health. After all you are the woman in the family. Without you, everyone suffers. I hate helpless. Hand surgery left me dependent on the kindness of others. My family can’t wait for me to be doing all the things I did before--feeding cats, zipping my own pants. My husband said it had been so long since he hooked and unhooked a bra that he didn't know what to do when he got it off me. I told him he could stand there in awe or help my put on pajamas. He helped me with the pajamas. There is nothing awe inspiring about these ta-tas any more.
Hey Y'all,
This is my first attempt at posting on my blog. I would appreciate it if you let me know that you got this message. I, and a bunch of others, will be at the Decatur Book Fair on Saturday,August 31 and Sunday, September 1. I am part of a group called the Scribblers (www.scribblersweb.com). Our location is booth 420 and 421. If you would like to do something different that weekend, come out to the Decatur Book Fair. There will be over 144 exhibitors besides the +/- 600 authors. I will also be at the Snellville Fall Festival (10/19/19) peddling my book, Life is Hard. Soften It with Laughter. It is a great festival full of talented artists and amazing foods. Hope to see you soon, Marlene facebook: Marlene Ratledge Buchanan MsRatWrites@gmail.com www.MsRatWrites.com Lord, I have been trying to get something posted on this blog for months. As most of you know, Hissy Prissy (that's my computer) and I don't always gee-ha with each other. It also doesn't help that I am techno-challenged. But, hopefully, progress has been made. The keyword here is hopefully. Fingers crossed. MRB
Hey Y'all, I want to welcome you to my blog. Pull up a seat and grad a drink. But, first let me warn you in case you didn't see the warning about my blog on the home page, drinking while reading this blog may cause liquid to be expressed through the nose and from the mouth. Read and drink at your own risk, the risk of your computer, and any items that may become wet. Life is hard and laughter is guaranteed.
I am a retired teacher and counselor. Trust me, I know about adolescence hormones and have developed a ritual to help survive them. But, first let me explain the name of Ms. Rat. It is the name given to me by my students. My maiden name is Ratledge and my daddy was also known as Rat. He was a police officer for the Atlanta Public Schools when I began teaching and worked at the same school with me. So, my students called me Ms. Rat. This has stuck with me over the years. The illustration of Ms. Rat is something I drew several years past and am glad that she has found a purpose. So, when you find yourself in need of a chuckle, gauff, or snort of humor to help lighten your day. Please drop by and let me entertain you. |