Being Al Bundy

There is this old truism:  men, when given a moment when they think no one is looking, will stick their hands down their pants.  As it has been told to me, the most common objective is to attend to a persistent itch or rearrange the deck chairs -- but sometimes, it just feels good to hold on to them.  It's relaxing.

Here's a secret folks, the same is true for some women and their boobs.  Breasts, too, get itchy.  They move around, get pinched in clothing, and require occasional adjustment through the day.  And yes, boobs are also fun to hold on to.  I'll admit to it.  After all, boobs are warm, they're soft, and, when combined with the support of a bra and the right posture, they make for a good shelving.  So when I lounge around my house, watching TV or reading the Sunday newspaper, I have the unconscious habit of resting my hand down my shirt.  It's hardly sexual.  If you saw me, the first image that would come to mind would be of Napoleon.

Unconscious habits, though, are what lead to moron tax.

I was at the office, in a meeting with my coworkers, both male.  At some point in the meeting, a difficult question was asked of me and I took a moment to ponder it.  As I pondered, I leaned back in my chair and stared at the ceiling.  Distracted, I stuck my hand down my shirt and started rubbing at a patch of sweaty skin into between my breasts.  I had just come in from a brisk walk around the office to enjoy the sun and, consequently, had gotten a little humid in my clothes.  I wasn't aware of what I was doing until I started to reply to my coworkers and noticed them trying not to stare at my hand plunging up and down my neckline.  I stopped mid-stroke and quickly tucked my hand away.

The moron tax here is double-fold.  First, there is the ripe embarrassment of having unconsciously fondled myself before my coworkers.  Second, and worse, there is the mortifying discovery that I have become one of those women whose breasts have lost all trace of their sacred sexual power and transformed into appendages for which you had to invent some purpose, like pinky toes and second chins.  In a year, I'll be one of those women who pay for things by reaching into their cleavage for the money and credit cards they stored there for convenience. 

*For the record, the boobs pictured here are not my own.  They belong to a famous person who was gracious enough to pose for a photo with me.  I included this picture since I think they make for compelling visual aids.

FEATURED POST by Angela Chien

As you may have noticed, I have been in a funk about blogging.  While I continue, as I always do, to rack up moron tax upon moron tax, I haven't lately been inspired to write about it.  Not less than 10 minutes ago I dropped a 1 lb metal tape measure on my toe while trying to measure my fireplace mantle.  Even though I hopped around on one foot for at least 10 seconds and cursed out-loud to my mother, who was listening to the whole debacle over the phone, I didn't see much humor in it.

Thank goodness for Angela.  She sent me this precious nugget to cheer me up.  It gave me a good, well needed laugh.  Her story reminds me that though our personal foibles may vex us, they eventually compost into great stories.

Saying Goodbye to Teeth

When I was little, about five or six years old, we lived in Houston, and we had a very smooth marble foyer. We also had a yellow sponge that was printed and cut in the shape of Ronald McDonald. These two facts would be unrelated in any household but ours.

I was running around with this sponge one evening, and my mom was on the phone, keeping one eye on me, because who knew what kind of trouble I'd get myself into with nothing but a sponge. It was a dry sponge, quite dry. I squeezed it to make sure it was dry, but apparently, Ronald McDonald sponges are deceptive, as a little bit of water came out onto the marble floor.

I looked at the water and thought, "Ooh, someone might slip on that if I leave it there, I should wipe it up." I didn't want to use the sponge to wipe it up, since I had just removed the water from the sponge, but I knew I'd get in trouble if I left the puddle there. So I decided to wipe it up.

With my socks.

That I was wearing.

By dancing on the puddle.

I am not a coordinated person now, and I was not a coordinated person then, so do the math:

Uncoordinated kid + socks + dancing + puddle + marble floor = ?

I landed on my face, and was soon bleeding all over the marble floor. My mom got off the phone and ran over, then grabbed me and my sister, threw us in the car (my sister was very upset because she had a book report due the next day), and drove to the ER.

When the baby tooth that I landed on eventually fell out, it looked kind of grey, and had apparently suffered some damage, for which I blame Ronald McDonald and his evil sponge twin.

Ronald was not to blame, however, when almost fifteen years later, I chipped the adult tooth that replaced that baby tooth on my college roommate's forehead. That one was her fault.