A Cat, a Half-Naked Woman, and a Computer

Okay, so this is a bit personal, guys. I have large breasts. Really large. I wear a 42K in my current bra, but in other bras I can go all the way up to an N-cup. Until a few years ago, I didn't even know bras came in N-cups.  (It also means that my options for bras were very small to begin with, and they're getting smaller.  I currently know of 3 non-custom bras that will fit me.)  It means that I can't find any plunging bras.  I came close in my last batch!  But they gave me quadri-boob.  (Let's be real, I'm gonna keep them around for those times when I'm wearing something really low cut and sexy, and just arrange the neckline cleverly so it looks like a push-up bra).

Today, I got new ones in the mail, moving up a couple cup sizes, and the cups finally fit!  But the center gore sticks out.  So I start to research.  Her Room, where I get my bras from, has a whole section of the site where they help you troubleshoot your bra fit problems, which is one of the reasons I shop there.  Another is that they have this thing called Universal Cup Sizing, where you tell them three bras and the sizes you wear them in that fit really nicely, and they help you find all the others they carry that will also fit you.  It's not foolproof, but with the fucked up arbitrary Magic 8-Ball based sizing bras are in, that's still a huge help.

The conclusion was one of three things: either my bra cups were too small (unlikely in this case), or I have breasts that sit too close together ("kissing breasts"), or I need shorter gores (yeah, I wish I could find that).  So I looked up kissing breasts, which pictures totally say I have.  It means I have fantastic cleavage, but that there's not enough space between them for most gores.  And I have large enough breasts that I simply cannot wear non-underwire bras.  Damn it.

And then I learned about a thing called Symmastia.  Which...dude, pictures say I totally have that.  It's where your breasts are connected at the top with a band of skin and muscle.  Mine's really mild, but it's really apparent if I bend over.  I thought it was just because I was fat or had underdeveloped (or maybe overdeveloped?) pectorals!  Mine is thick enough (when I bend over or slump) that I can reach down and pinch it, about the width of a finger.  It's too thick to pierce, according to my marvelous, genius piercer.  (Instead I pierced my nipples, because damn it, I love my breasts, and they need jewelry!)

So that was today's oversharing.  Yay!

I am a klutz.  It's not that I'm not careful, it's that I'm easily distracted and I sometimes have a screwed up sense about my own edges.  (For those playing at home, it's specifically my proprioceptors that sometimes get wonky.  I can't always figure out where my body is in relation to everything else.  I walk into walls, I can't park a car, stairs always seem much more dangerous and steep than they really are, etc.  I can sense my central body stuff, but my extremities sometimes get lost in the shuffle.  I step on my own toes.)

I've had my two paintings from the art show chilling on my craft table because I just stalled on hanging them, so I decided to get busy on Saturday.  I also can't hang anything straight, which leads to my roommate and various other people surreptitiously following behind me and straightening things when they think I'm not looking.  Being the clever girl that I am, I actually broke out the level, the measuring tape, the hammer, spent 10 minutes plaintively wandering the house trying to find the nails...

I got things nailed no problem.  No bashed fingers or anything!  It's been a while since I bashed a finger.  Rather proud of that.  But the little hooky things on the back of the shadowboxes wouldn't actually hang on the nails, since the back of the frame isn't flush, and it turned out that even with all my precautions, the paintings were still crooked on the wall.  So I called Ben in for assistance.

We yanked two nails down, so that it was just one nail per painting, and that went without a hitch.  Then we strung cord through the two hooky things on the back of the frames, so that it had one anchor point.  Ben used a fancy knot, because Ben was a Boy Scout and God forbid he do things the simple way, and he wanted me to do the second frame.

Which is when the snips stabbed straight into the tip of my ring finger, and I bled all over the table.  (Ben declared that if I bled on the carpet, I was going to Urgent Care--right across the street from our apartment--and I then declared I was going into the kitchen.  I hate hospitals, and I will whine the entire time I'm there.)

The doctor--who's seen me before and at this point shows me pictures of his dog--came in, said hi, told me it was bad enough to need stitches, and then offered a nifty treatment that involves basically putting a silvery mesh over small cuts and inducing a clot.  It might get a little messy, but not much at all.  He then bandaged me up and sent me home with instructions to not get it wet, don't use that hand, don't take the bandage off until the next day, yadda yadda.  (I'm actually a little disappointed.  They would have been my first stitches!)

Now I'm behind on my Big Bang art, my hand hurts, and I'm sulky because someone made me go the hospital when I could have just put pressure on it for an hour and I would have been fine.*

Today, I hung the paintings.  They are still probably crooked, but now it's easy to fix that.  My finger still hurts.  I'm still behind on my Big Bang contributions.  But I hung the damned paintings.  I now have a wall of my own art in the living room, just like I've always wanted.  Take that, finger.



*Yes, I realize that "I'm fine" is the mating call of every inept self-injured person everywhere, but damn it, if we say it enough it might someday be true.