It's The Boobie (as in mammary) Generation

 My boyfriend and I went to a prom photo shoot at his daughter's friend's house. I'd never seen anything like it. Then again, I've never seen anything related to a prom because I didn't go to mine. And before anyone thinks that no one asked me, hush up. I was dating someone at the time but I didn't want to go. Corsages make my wrists look fat.

There must of been 50 couples milling around the backyard of this over the top McMansion. Think stone fountains, sweeping balconies and a perfectly manicured lawn; Housewives of New Jersey territory. Not only were the kids there, but the parents (and The Girlfriend Mom) were there too. It was like an award show with the adults standing outside the red carpet, as the kids sashayed in. Click, click, "Hey Tiffany, over here." Click, click "Michael smile." Click, click, "Brandy, you look beautiful." 

But as I snapped a few candids of my boyfriend's daughter and her beau, I was less interested in the dresses and more intrigued by the parade of ginormous mammaries! If anyone doubts the effects of hormones in our food, as well as environmental shifts (and not for the better) on prepubescent bodies, seeing this group of teenagers would dispel those doubts.

I've never seen so much cleavage in my life. Not only were there big boobies, but these girls looked like they were in their twenties and had already been ravaged by life. I think in some cases, they were ravaged by tanning beds. This is surely a different breed of teenage girl.

And then I looked at some of the mothers, because in some cases, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Maybe the way today's youth looks is a combination of hormones and their mother's influences on them. Maybe some mother's project their own views of beauty onto their daughters.

I know mine did. Beauty and fashion were never her passion, which is why she still hasn't mastered foundation application and lives most of her life in leggings. You gotta lover her though, she looks about ten years younger than her peers.

When my boyfriend and I got in the car, I had to ask. "Do I look like those other women?"  I know as women there's always a tinge of distortion when it comes to being objective about how old we look, especially when we hit 40 and the rings around the neck start to look like those inside a giant sequoia. I like to think that I'm pretty truthful about my signs of age and to be honest, I DO NOT LOOK LIKE THOSE OTHER WOMEN.

And my boyfriend, god bless him, read from the only acceptable script for this scene. "Not at all, honey. You look half their age." Of course I returned the favor, it was the right thing to do. "You don't look like those fathers either." Holy crap we're attractive, youthful looking and humble.

Don't Put Hard Boiled Eggs in Your Bag

I went into the city yesterday for my annual mammogram. Controversy aside, since my insurance company pays for it, I do it. It’s that simple. When I went into the dressing room to put on the two sheets of paper towels the medical field calls a gown, I looked in the mirror and saw that my pants zipper was down.

I don’t know how long it had been down. A while, since I couldn’t remember the last time I went to the bathroom. That explained the smiles from strangers on the street. I thought they were reacting to my ravishing beauty. Oh, well. I wouldn’t care so much if this had been the first time, but it wasn’t. It was however, indicative of the day I had.

I’m a performer deep down, always have been, always will be, and an audience is my crack, but when the head Mammographer brought in two other women technicians to ‘observe’ the squishing and shmooshing of my tits on a plate of glass, I got stage fright. Not that the techies could tell. I’m a professional and the head techie even commented on how mobile and pliable I was. I’m a star! Or I have star tata’s. Whichever. 

I left the mammary performance and had a hell of a time deciding what to eat. I left the house early in the morning and only had time for a large cup of coffee, which was now irritating my stomach wall. I know, I can’t find anything to eat in New York, pathetic. I have some food restrictions, too many places to choose from overwhelms me. And then I remembered that I had put two hard boiled eggs in my Lululemon Flight bag.

I usually pack an egg or two on trips; whether it by car, plane, or in this case, a train trip to the big apple. The hard boiled egg had exploded. It got squished (not unlike my bosom) in my bag and shells and yolk were everywhere.

I tried to salvage it, and it turned into a big fat mess. Did I mention that I was juggling my bag, and the egg, as I walked? I believe most people would’ve thrown the egg in the gutter, as soon as it was retrieved from the bag. No sir, not me.

I despise it when people, especially New Yorkers, throw their trash into and onto the city streets. Of course an egg was different, it wasn’t a cigarette butt, but it took me three blocks, with egg yolk on my face (pun intended) and hands until I said, “Fuck it, “ and threw it into the gutter.

The rest of the day went something like this. I paid $7.50 for a lame-ass sandwich that I ate while I walked. I had to wait a half an hour until the box office to the show I was getting tickets to opened, standing around looking like a tourist. I met my mom for lunch because I didn’t see her on Mother’s Day and she, not only forgot a book from her house that I asked to borrow, after reminding her on two separate occasions, but she made me a Mother’s Day card of sorts, which was uber sweet, but it referred to me as The Boyfriend Mom, instead of The Girlfriend Mom.

Have you met me, mother?