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Sun’s out, Twins out.

Growing up, I was flat chested.

My busty girlfriends would say, “Your time will come!” or “You’re so lucky you don’t have to wear a bra!” Yet, I would stand in the bathroom and look at myself and just feel bummed out.  It was a very Judy Blume moment. You know, one of those “Are you there God, it’s me…”

In seventh grade, I made an executive decision to stuff my bra with toilet paper. I spent at least an hour in the bathroom getting the scrunching of the toilet paper just right. I didn’t want to appear too lumpy. I couldn’t fold the toilet paper either because that wouldn’t do much for the mission at hand. There was an illusion I had to create and I thought I pulled it off beautifully.

That day I was sporting a tiny white bra that had lace on the top part of the cup. No underwire, because let’s be real here, there was no support issue. As I walked up to the bus stop, my best friend yanked me away from the crowd. “Dude, did you stuff your bra?!”

“Yep. Looks good, right?” I gave a little runway walk and put my hand on my hip.

She turned me around so that my back was to the other kids at the bus stop. “Well, you went a little overboard. What are you, a C cup? Is there an entire roll of toilet paper in there? Jesus.. here…” And she shoved her hand down my shirt and pulled out a good bit of my hard work. Then she started adjusting my bra. Squishing the toilet paper. Molding it to look just right. She took a step back and said, “There. That looks more believable.”

God bless best friends.

The bus ride went along as normal- excruciatingly long (we lived out in the country and our high school was a solid thirty-minute commute) and classes were uneventful, until lunch break. As I sat with my best friend, we noticed people starting to whisper and point. “They’re on to me, aren’t they?” I asked. She leaned in close to me and said, “There’s a rumor going around that we’re lesbians. Yankee lesbians!”  We started laughing. “What? We’re not lesbians!” We agreed that maybe pulling toilet paper out of my bra on a street corner at 6:15 am wasn’t the best idea we’d had. The brutality of pre-teens in a situation such as ours was not lost on us. It was also a time when acceptance was a tiny seedling- so the rumors escalated and the teasing continued. No mercy was shown.

Anyway, we overcame the rumors and went on about our day.

Our weeks.

Our years.

Our Decades.

Five years after graduating high school, I was married and pregnant.

I went to bed one night slightly flat chested and woke up with a massive rack. Hand to heart, that’s how it happened. While I slept, the big man upstairs was like, “J needs a nice rack. She’s gotta feed that baby.”  My husband at the time was like, “Where did those come from?” I’m pretty sure we high fived one another.  That morning I spent a good hour in the mirror admiring myself and marveling at human biology.

My time had finally come.

After my son was born, the twins stuck around. My Dad told me that shortly after I moved back home, that he was at the local gas station and a few people were discussing how I must’ve had my boobs done.  In that moment, I realized I’d been called up from the minors:  I was part of town gossip!

There is a point to this if you’re still reading. I’m not just here to talk about how I came of age and the good Lord blessed me with a great rack (well, that’s part of it. Boobs are awesome, can’t lie). What I’m getting around to, is bra culture.

Currently, I have two drawers full of cute bras that give me coverage and are sensible. The ones with the wild patterns I save for when I wear black shirts because no one wants to see teal leopard print through a white shirt. Or maybe they do. Yeah, they probably do. I see you, there in the back, smiling.

Earlier in the year, I noticed that bralette’s were making a comeback. When I was in eighth grade they were in style- but not as lovely as they are now. I had a yellow one back then and it didn’t do much for me, except create a barrier between my tiny twins and my t-shirt.  Recently, a few of my girlfriends had been singing the praises of these sexy sports bras, so I decided I’d try one out.

Well, three actually.

The first one was too small and I felt like I’d smother.

The second one was too big and I would just fall out.

Last night, I picked up my third (and in my mind, final attempt at being somewhat fashion forward). It’s black and lacey. It’s cute. It fits.

Or so I thought.

Normally I give new articles of clothing a test run at home before wearing them out in public. I need to make sure that there won’t be any mishaps or uncomfortableness. Sometimes you buy a bra and it fits, only to wear it an hour and your back is screaming for relief. This time, I threw caution to the wind and just put the bra on and got dressed for work.

Everything was working out fine until half way into my commute something felt off. Like a little too breezy. I looked down and noticed my boobs looked weird.  At a red light, I pulled the neck of my shirt out to take a glance downward.

Well. Look at that.

Lucy left boob is just HANGING OUT. Apparently, she too likes to throw caution to the wind.  What an attention whore!

In case you’re wondering how my Friday will be, I’ll  just be here in my office, constantly adjusting myself. Thankfully, I don’t have any in-person meetings today nor do I have to be on television or go through TSA.  Let’s all hope that my coworkers are accepting of my peekaboo boob. If it becomes too much, I could always just rip this bralette off and go free.

I’m kidding. No one needs to see how low they go.

Although, nothing screams casual Friday like a wonky tit, amirite?




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Letters piled on top

Outside, in the front bed, the calla lilies are blooming.
I want to show you,
but you are asleep.
I want to tell you that they remind me of the cup Willy Wonka ate,
but those are daffodils, not calla lilies
and these flowers look like flutes-
Their outside petals are creamy and beige
like flat paint on walls
in a remodeled house
the inside deep purple
like a fresh pitcher of Kool-aid
i want to fill them with water
and take a drink
just how I used to do with tic-tac containers
when i was a kid

a universal pattern is emerging
where we talk and talk
then we don’t and we don’t
some mornings, i cannot rip
all those piled up letters out of your
so we let them tumble out
like tiny crumbs
left in the corner
to be noticed later

there are evenings
when i want to roll up my sleeve
and show you
that i’ve worn those same badges
as you
heart on sleeve
ten to the dozen
this too shall pass

“I come as a poet, to call upon a poet,”

you are tall and slender
with the weight of the world
giving you a curve in your spine
let me take it
so that you can stand
without worry

after all,
i spent so much time
waiting for you
and the calla lilies
are only going to be
in the front garden
for just a few days

wake up soon,
we don’t have to
pile words on top
of one another

we can just stand

knowing that
in all of this
we will grow

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Sick, Tired & Changing

Three years ago, I quit my corporate desk job and gave the middle finger to my ridiculously long commute.  For the first time in a solid six months, I could take a deep breath without worry or panic rising up inside me.  It was awesome. I felt free. I felt alive.

Within a few months after leaving, I picked up a part time gig working retail. I loved it. I loved moving and being on my feet for sometimes, ten hours a day. I survived Black Friday, the day after Christmas sales, working weekends and the ever disgusting “clopen” shift (for those of you unfamiliar, clopen is when you close the store and then have to be back within a matter of hours; often with little sleep). I loved that job. I was so happy and I’m pretty sure I should’ve stayed there.


In that year and a half, I lost twenty two pounds.

That’s like a small toddler.
Or a small dog.
Thank you, retail!

And then, I found out I was pregnant.

I talked with my manager and store manager at the time and let them know that I was a little concerned with all the lifting and ladders. I was still cool with walking around, doing front end work, etc, etc etc. But heaving giant vacuum cleaners to top stock while straddling a 14′ ladder might have to wait. While I didn’t plan on leaving my retail gig, I did. One afternoon while I was on break, my miscarriage started.

I put my notice in a few weeks later and decided to go back to the corporate life.

Fast forward two years-

I’m back to the desk life.
The panic and anxiety is back.
And so are those pesky twenty-two pounds.


Last week I was trolling Facebook when I noticed a high school friend of mine was posting about how he lost twenty pounds in three weeks. Ever skeptical, I commented. He let me know that he started the Eat to Live program by Dr. Fuhrman. Curiously and cautiously, I googled.

Within the hour, I was on Amazon ordering a used paperback copy (because what if I don’t like it and I just shelled out all that money for a book that will just take up space on my bookshelf)? I also ordered the cookbook (so I could get free shipping). Tonight, I sat down with both and worked up my meal plan and grocery list for the next seven days.

If you’re not familiar, the Eat to Live is a total game changer. The first six weeks (actually, it’s the rest of your life moving forward) are strictly vegan/vegetarian. No meat, no dairy, no caffeine. I know, it sounds totally insane. This is crazy. But it makes sense y’all.

You know what else is totally insane? Sitting on my ass all day at my job and then being so emotionally and physically drained from my day that I come home and sit on my ass some more.

While I eat cereal.
Or cookies.
Or chips.
I’ve even been known to fall asleep with a granola bar in my hand.

There’s a deep emotional void happening with me as well- and I know that not all of the weight I’ve put back on is based on my job entirely. I do feel that it plays a large part in the downward spiral- but mostly, it’s me. I need a redo on my insides, the way I look at food, the way I look at life.

Three months ago I quit smoking (although, I do still bum off of my best friend at work on those ever stressful days).

Last week I started doing intense meditation at night. I’ve noticed that on the evenings I meditate before bed, I wake up feeling refreshed, relaxed and happy. This morning was beautiful for me too. Up at seven, stretched, showered and off to run errands by nine. I felt good. I miss that feeling.

I’ve been going to the gym (although not every day) with my husband and my son. While my workouts aren’t nearly as intense as theirs- I’m still there. Huffing away on the elliptical. The rowing machine. The cycling.  I do it. And I do it terribly. Heh.

Baby steps are better than no steps at all I suppose.
Prepare yourself for the onslaught of rage posts.
The diet is coming.


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most days
I try to write
exactly what I’m
into paragraphs


this way feels

I don’t have to use
or be all super
proper about shit

paragraphs mean
that i have to give
more than four
sentences that make sense
the past few nights
i spent time looking back
on this blog-

there are some pretty funny memories
and not so pleasant ones too

this sketch i found sums that up well:

Cameron Mark (@cameronmarkart) on Instagram:

this week i bought tickets
to take MD to see Paramore
in October
at the Fox-
which reminds me

my heart is still bruised
over the death of a front

i did a card reading
my first in a very long time
the outcome was positive
and the recipient pleased

that felt good

doodling feels good
seeking out my creative self,
which had been tucked away
feels good too

traveling soon
summer is here
changes afoot

and they wonder why we act this way
Funny Giraffe peek-a-boo stamp kids gift Around door WoodlandTale:

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Sitting here watching playoff hockey, I keep logging into my math unit, expecting to do more homework, but there is none.

I have finished it.
All the work.
All the pre-tests.
And the tests…

Which I passed by the skin of my teeth.
This was a very long five months.
I finished my psychology class in four weeks just so I could focus all my time on math.
There is still one more math needed towards my degree, but right now, there’s no way I could do it (actually, I could and I probably will take it in August. But I don’t want to).

When I close my eyes at night before I fall asleep, I see this:

Image result for complex radical equations

That’s right, I’ve turned into a Radiohead lyric. This makes sense to me now. I see the breakdown of the equation. The questions on my exam were a little bit more complex than this, but you get the idea.

Or not. That’s okay! My brain took it’s sweet ass time learning the setup and destruction of these problems.

I have a few weeks off before the summer semester kicks in. I’ll be at the beach for a solid five days doing nothing but sitting in a beach chair while the waves crash agains my shins. Boozy drink in hand. Naps. Quiet mental solitude. There is a slight possibility that I’ve hyperextended my brain by taking political science and American lit over an 8 week time frame, but hey…

It’s not complex radical equations.
Or fractions with parenthesis where the exponents are on the outside with negative connotations.
Ya feel me?



Posted in Uncategorized

Immune to coffee

I sit at my desk, in a haze
stayed up too late
watching playoff hockey
and the
is not doing
what it’s suppose
to be doing
which leaves me



Posted in Uncategorized

Overthinking in fragments

like the receipts
in the bottom of
my bag

now just smudged with
because I’ve put too much
on in traffic

there were mornings
where I’d jot down
the smartest
one liners I could

mayan belly massage
and saints

if I say enough hail marys
if I do more squats
and less internal

I could burst through
the social media bubble
with a tiny little package

and scream fuckyouwedidit

but I won’t
because it’s been a long road
we know where it’ll go
i know what it will be

so i set up shrines
and dress tiny porcelain
dolls with red ribbons


in the morning
when I say that one extra
hail mary full of grace
our lord is with thee
blessed art thou among women
and blessed is the fruit of thy womb


vacant like the tomb

come at me

I dig for more receipts
because I’ve put on too
much lipstick

and forgotten all
my poems