» Breasts

Boob Cakes
This is a story about a breast. Not one of mine (I have two, and I'm very attached to them). This was more of an accidental breast.

I was probably about 14 or 15, and not very wise in the ways of the world (so naive and innocent--now I'm much older and naughtier, so things have changed for the better). I wanted to make a cake, so I picked a recipe for a Christmas tree cake with different sized layers stacked and frosting with green icing to look like a tree. The only problem was, I missed the part in the recipe where it said to double the recipe. The cake turned out flatter than it should have been. That's okay, I could just slap some frosting on it and it would still taste just fine.

So I baked the cake and stacked the layers on top of each other to make my very short tree cake and started to make the frosting. We didn't have any green food coloring. No problem, I'll just use white frosting and it will look like a lovely snow-covered tree. I blithely spread pale white frosting all over the cake, thinking about nothing but how good that cake was going to taste.

So the cake was finished and sitting on the counter, and my dad muttered something. With my usual quick thinking, it took me a few seconds to figure out what he said. "Is that a boob?" I looked at the cake, and yes, it was a boob. A giant, pale white breast, sitting on the kitchen counter. All it needed was a little pink frosting on the top.

Looking back, I think I missed this very obvious sign that my true calling was making erotic cakes. My life would have been very different if I had figured that out at the time, but now I've gone in a different direction. I could be like the woman who came up to me in a parking lot and told me she had something to show me in the back of her station wagon. I am dangerously curious sometimes, so of course I went with her, and the back of her station wagon was full of trays of erotic gingerbread cookies. I wonder if she's still selling anatomically-correct gingerbread men in shopping center parking lots.
(Fri 7th May 2010, 23:54, More)

» Doctors, Nurses, Dentists and Hospitals


Thank you for bringing up a long-repressed memory of a very traumatic experience. This is probably my earliest memory, and it's not a good one.

I developed asthma when I was about three, and I had to go to the hospital more than once when I was a wee little thing. So I was in the hospital, on oxygen in a crib with a plastic tent around it. The nurse had just checked on me, and I remember her walking away, and I saw the little girl next to me, just old enough to stand up in her crib, pull the oxygen hose out of my little airtight plastic tent. I yelled and banged on the side of the crib, but the nurse didn't hear me (I think her name was Mrs. Webb, and she was actually a very good nurse otherwise), and she just kept walking down the aisle to the other side of the ward. I was terrified, frantic, panicking, watching her walk away. After that everything went black, and the next thing I remember is waking up, being sponged off and breathing lovely air again (I'm sure it was antiseptic and hospital-smelly air, but it was air, and it was the best air I ever breathed).

I'm not sure if they ever told my parents what happened, because they did take me back to the same hospital again.
(Fri 12th Mar 2010, 22:43, More)

» The Boss

One from my crazy ex-boss
This may have been the worst thing my ex-boss did to me (and that list includes mental torture, bad candy, contaminated brownies, a nest of bugs, and much more general craziness). One of my co-workers came in wearing a gorgeous new shirt, and she was telling us all about the great sale at the department store where she bought it. So my crazy ex-boss (I'll call her Fran, because that was her name), said that she should go check that out to get some new pajamas for her (very unattractive and with an even worse personality) boyfriend. Why? Because he wears hospital gowns to bed.
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Oh. Dear. Lord. The last image I want to have in my mind is her ugly boyfriend's ugly, pasty asscrack sticking out of a hospital gown. And also the two of them sleeping together. Ugh. I very nearly needed therapy. Maybe I still do.

Fran was a mess. She would inevitably leave the coffee pot on after she made tea (even though she always complained that the tea tasted funny. Well, yeah, tea's not going to taste very good when you make it in a coffee pot.) She left a chewed-up lollipop stick in the copy room. She left a used tea bag in a big stack of papers on her desk. I found it when I was looking for something I thought might be in her office. I got to the tea bag and the soggy papers around it, and then I thought, this just isn't really worth it. So I put everything back and left. A dirty cookie plate (with smears of jam from jam-filled cookies) also ended up in a stack of papers on her desk. She tried to leave it on another co-worker's desk, but it was returned to her before long.

She made me return a book to the library that she had spilled a cup of coffee on. It wasn't just a spot--it was soaked in coffee. I hope she had to pay for it.
(Fri 19th Jun 2009, 23:11, More)

» The Boss

I have the patience of a saint and nerves of steel!
My supervisor...

Drenches herself in nasty perfume that smells rotten. It gives me a headache, and our whole hall smells like her perfume. The good thing is, you know where she is. It's like an early-warning systems for stinky bosses.

Smacks her gum, very loudly. Her office is right next to mine, so I have to close my door sometimes to shut out the smacking. Then she comes in to my office and smacks her gum in my ear.

I give her documents to review and never see them again. Until I get in trouble for not releasing that document. Sorry, that's not happening until it's been approved! Because she has a habit of making me think that a document is ready to go, and then at the last minute she'll have to make some (pointless, unnecessary) changes. So I always have make absolutely sure that this is really the final version and she really, really isn't going to have any more changes.

Takes my supplies. Takes things out of the cabinet over my desk and leaves the door open and leaves the things she took out of the cabinet on my desk. If she doesn't leave them on my desk, she leaves them in her office, and then when I need them, I have no idea where they are.

Lets the printer run out of paper and doesn't refill it. Takes my printouts off of the printer, so I think maybe I just forgot to print it and I print it again. Can we please stop wasting paper?

Hates it when I type. I have been "spoken to" about typing too much - I had only been typing for about two minutes!

Borrowed my sweater when she had to work outside one evening. I have no idea what happened to it, but it must have been messy, because she took it home to wash it, and she brought it back to the office much smaller than it was before. She must have used really hot water, because I had washed it before and it was fine. But now it is too tight. She said she would buy me another one, but I think you've all guessed by now that that didn't happen. I liked that sweater. It was black with nice pearly buttons. I miss it.

That's really just the beginning, but I don't want to bore everyone. More later, maybe. I'm not even going to get started on my really crazy boss from a few jobs ago. That could take a while.
(Fri 19th Jun 2009, 3:35, More)