Dont Mince Words

Hot doctor is trying get rid of me. After nearly two months of twice weekly dates, he’s got me on a bi-weekly schedule now.

While he tells me I’m still his favorite redhead, I can tell he’s just not that into me. He’s fixed me and he’s got more needy patients now. I figured this out at my two-month appointment when I sported the paper g-string panties and he took 360 degree photos of me.

“Look at the difference. You are a good healer. A couple more appointments and you are finished,” he told me.

Breakup foreshadowing, unless of course, I can find an excuse to go back. Boobs?

Beans was over the other night and made the observation that my iPod doesn’t have a “makeout” playlist. I agreed that was odd since I’ve loved music forever, was a college DJ, and still kept up with what’s good and current. Oh, and I do love sex. It was necessary I build my K-tel equivalent of “smooth jazz” so the next time we are on the couch making out, we aren’t surprised by the B-52’s or Cole Porter.

I poured through my 18 gigs of music and realized, I have a lot of crap. I have the musical equivalent of getting in an accident and not having clean underwear on. EMS could come into my apartment, look into my iTunes and discern my musical tastes were schizophrenic at best.

How did this happen? I can blame my parents for this one. Dad was stuck in WWII. His woodshop/shed was outfitted with a stereo so he could listen to his big band music…where sawdust meets the USO. Mom, who was 10 years younger, kind of missed out on the normal stuff (early ’60s folk) because she was stationed in Germany. No Beatles or even lighter protest music. She liked Helen Reddy and Engelberg Humperdinck.

Needless to say, I got an after-school job and saved up. When normal girls were out blowing their money shopping, I was counting my pennies and ended up with Yamaha components and a pair of kickass Boston Acoustic speakers. Now I could lock myself in my room and listen to Bob Marley, Joni Mitchell, Heart, The Police, and The Ramones.

Now I’m going through my music library and realizing my upbringing may of been torturous at the time, but the musical influence is very evident by the variety. I have some big band, mid-century blues and jazz classics, 60’s rock, 70’s punk, 80’s new wave, alternative, and a lot of afro-cuban/latin jazz which I total attribute to repeat listenings of the ‘dinck’s classic “Quando Quando Quando.”

I’ve got 52 songs on my “makeout” playlist. Obvious selections like Barry White, Marvin Gaye, Sade, and Bryan Ferry are present. But I’ve also tossed in some zingers that reflect my personality, like Depeche Mode’s “Personal Jesus,” The Beastie Boys “In 3’s,” and the Happy Mondays “Loose Fit.”

Make out with me, love my music. Besides, I don’t know a man alive that can last 3.8 hours to hear the whole list anyway.

Stay tuned.

I may be the only woman in America that doesn’t like clothes shopping for myself. Get me in Home Depot, Williams-Sonoma, Amoeba Music, or Target and I’m a maniac.

My aversion to shopping probably began when I was young. I was a fast grower. I mean fast. I was so huge when I was four, my mother begged the church school to admit me into kindergarten. That’s when the thrift store shopping began. Digging through racks of used clothes to find something that I could wear for a couple of months. Long arms, long body and short legs. It was a nightmare. By the time my boobs arrived, it was official – I hated shopping, even for new clothes.

When Victoria’s Secret expanded to the east coast in the early ‘80s, it seemed like a fun place shop for undergarments, at least more fun than going to the “foundations” section of traditional department stores. But my first visit was my last because, at the time, they didn’t carry DD bras.

Now, with breast augmentation and a national obesity problem, Victoria’s Secret finally carries sizes I can wear. I was going back in thanks to a recent gift certificate from a friend. Unfortunately, I showed up during their semi-annual sale.

The experience wasn’t too far off from my old thrift store days. Women were picking through panties. Clothes were on the floor. I stood next to a woman my age going through the medium panty bins and asked her, “Do you think this is worth it?” She said she didn’t think so. It was pandemonium. Were a pair of $3.99 underwear really worth the effort when I could walk into Target and get my three-pack of Jockey’s in less than three minutes?

My solution was to venture over to the full-price displays and quickly pick a couple pairs of panties. Getting the matching bra was entirely out of the question because the line for the dressing room was as long as the line for the cash register. My mission was to get out of the store before the women and pissed-off husbands sent me over the edge.

I love shopping for other people, especially men’s wear. My father used say I was like a smart bomb when I shopped with him. I knew which door to park near so we could get in and out. I have $50 remaining on my VS gift certificate, but I’m not going back until I better plan my visit…. off-sale, remote location, helpful sales staff, and no line for the dressing room.

Until then, the bra and the panty are not going to match.