I have big, round, bodacious...nostrils

A few years ago, I went to see a specialist for a chronic sinus infection (Are you turned on yet?). I'm not going to lie, the nose specialist was smokin' hot. After a month of potent antibiotics, steroids and prescription decongestants, I really thought he looked like this:

Off of my Sudafed cocktail, he likely looked more like this:

An-y-way...

As I was reclining in Dr. Love's chair, my tight red sweater stretched across my bosom, he leaned over me with his super sexy head mirror and whispered softly, "Wow. Oh, wow. Maybe I shouldn't tell you this, but, you have amazingly big... sinuses. I really can't get over it. Your maxillary sinuses are HUGE. They are freakishly large! Tom! Carla! Get in here! Look at these sinuses! Have you ever seen anything like them?"

Greeeeaaaat. Just flippin' great. Of all the things God could have given me that were huge - and in pairs - He chose sinuses. And everyone knows that big sinuses are crazy hot, right? That's why magazines like Nasty Nostrils are Maxillary Mamas are wrapped in covers in the bookstores.

Okay. Okay. It's not like I didn't know before the doctor's visit that I'm not exactly blessed in the chest area. That fact has been illustrated to me plenty of times before.

For instance, at an eighth-grade slumber party, one of the girls found my bra and said, "Oh. My. God. Jennifer still wears a TRAINING BRA!"

And then there was that time last month, I accidentally dropped a bra at the gym and one of the women picked it up and said, "Oh. My. God. Jennifer still wears a TRAINING BRA!" (I totally made that up. I most definitely do not ... go to the gym.)

I realize I'm not exactly voluptuous. Or even uptuous. Or even uous. Or even s. I have known it since the seventh grade, when one of my best friends and I bonded over our 28-A bra sizes. As our friends blossomed into women, we bemoaned our membership in the Itty Bitty Committee. As the school year drew to a close, we vowed to support each other - since we likely would never need Maidenform to do that.

My friend went to various camps that summer, so I did not see her again until the first day of eighth grade. As she made her way into the school auditorium, boys elbowed each other and craned their necks. What? Had she changed her hair? Did she have a new Izod? (One of these blogs, remind me to write about how I could not afford Izods in junior high, so I  bought Izod socks, cut the alligator off of them and sewed that alligator to - wait for it - Kmart overalls. Because everyone knows Izod overalls were the shizzle.)

As it turns out, my friend did not have new hair. Or a new Izod. She had new boobs.

And some nerve.

How dare she grow boobs when we had made our 28-A Club Forever vows! I have never felt so betrayed - or so flat.

That is, until a decade later, when I was trying on a dress for a wedding. As I stood in the dressing room in my undies, a stern little Chinese woman held measuring tape and fussed at me.

"I told you, bring a good strapless bra for fitting!" she said.

"I did!" I said. "I'm wearing it!"

"No. No. All wrong! You strapless bra too big! You so small!"

As I stood in my underwear and apparently too-big bra, the seamstress opened the dressing room and yelled through the crowded store, "Bring a new strapless bra!"

A clerk asked her what size. I kid you not, the seamstress looked me up and down, shook her head and yelled back, "Smallest size we have!" Then she whispers to me, "You know, I can sew you some boobies into your dress? Yes?"

Sigh.

Sadly, even that was not my worst bra-shopping experience. When I had my first child, I needed nursing bras for breastfeeding. I was incredibly proud of my postpartum chest. For the first time in my life, I had actual cleavage. Cleavage, I tell you! Crumbs got stuck in there and everything! Some women breastfeed for their children's health. I breastfed for the boobs. And that's why I nursed both children until third grade. Just kidding! I totally stopped in second.

So I marched into the boutique, stuck my chest out and asked for nursing bras.

The cashier raised an eyebrow and said, "For whom?"

"Uh, me?"

"Really? You're serious? What size?"

"34-B," I said, glowing. "B as in 'Big Boobs'."

"Uhhhh. Ma'am? We don't carry any nursing bras that small. Most breastfeeding mothers are at least a 34-C."

I wanted to throw something at her, but the only thing I was holding was my baby, and well, people frown on that. Instead, I stormed out of the store

So perhaps by now, you're wondering why I'm telling you my most embarrassing boob stories? I have three reasons.

1. I poured a big glass of wine before I started writing this blog.
2. I drank said wine while writing the blog.
c. see (2).

Also, as I approach 42, I realize that the emphasis we place on boobs in society is ridiculous. As long as my boobs are healthy, I'm happy. Or maybe that also has something to do with the wine.

Plus I realize that I have some advantages as I age. Some of my better-endowed friends (most of them female) are contemplating breast lifts. A couple of friends heard that if you can hold a pencil underneath a breast, you likely need a breast lift. They soon discovered they could, in fact, hold pencils.. and staplers...and flashlights - which could come in handy, actually, if they ever have to replace a pipe under their kitchen sinks or do some work under the car.

I, on the other hand, will never have a breast lift. Or breasts.

But hey! Have you seen my sinuses?

A Mother's Prayer: 10 Years Later

A letter written to my children September 11, 2011

Dear Kelsey and Kyle, 

Ten years ago today, I stood in my small family room in a brick ranch in Paris, Ky., watching on a 25-inch RCA as Tom Brokaw and Peter Jennings tried to decipher why our planes were flying into buildings. I witnessed not only buildings crumble that day, but a nation. Some will argue the red, white and blue never flinched, but believe me, children, we were on our knees -- in shock, disbelief, fear and prayer. It was a punch to our collective gut, a robbing of innocence, a shattering of security, a faltering of faith.

I was in denial. We all were. After all, I had been a child of the Cold War days -- of America trumps Russia in everything from cheesy Rocky Balboa movie plots to Olympic hockey (U-S-A! U-S-A!), but those nuclear holocaust fears were behind us. The Berlin Wall had crumbled 12 years earlier, and freedom, peace and prosperity reigned in 2001. The American way was the way. We were the super power of the world. Liberty and justice for all!

So how could this be happening to us? Who would want to hurt us? That's what the world asked that dark day. And that's what I attempted to answer when I sat at my computer that night and wrote A Mother's Prayer to four-year-old Kelsey. I did not yet know how history books would respond to Sept. 11, 2001. I wanted you, my children, to know how I felt that terrible, terrible day.

For even in my deepest, darkest fear that night, I still believed we, as a nation, would rise from the ashes.

And we began to do exactly that. We reached out to each other in those next days and weeks. Regardless of political and religious differences, we held out hands to our neighbors, clasping tightly to our fundamental faith in our great country. We helped each other up to wobbly knees. United we would stand.

Ten years later, I re-read A Mother's Prayer with a heavy heart.

Today, a few blocks from where we live now, a young, brave soldier will be laid to rest.

Army Private First Class Brandon Scott Mullins, 21, from Owensboro, Ky., died Aug. 25 in Kandahar province, Afghanistan, of wounds sustained when insurgents attacked his unit with an improvised explosive device. His funeral is today, on this somber national anniversary. I did not know Brandon, but I have heard that he was a great young man, who was proud to serve his country and planned to re-enlist. Regardless of how any of us feel about the war or what side of the aisle we stand on, we owe Brandon our deepest gratitude for his service and sacrifice.

While Osama Bin Laden, the mastermind of the attacks that fateful day, has finally been killed, the war rages on, at such a costly price. I would give anything if it weren't so. I wish we could turn on the news and not see that another brave solider has died in a desert or mountain pass far from home. I wish we could hop on airplanes without fears and invasive searches. I wish we did not have to fear the worst when a backpack is left unattended in a public place. I wish we did not look have to look over our shoulders.

I wish Sept. 11 was just another day.

I cannot make that so for you. But I wonder, dear children, if there are things we can do.

I often bemoan that we somehow lost that spirit of unity and determination that bonded us in our collective grief 10 years ago. We were not red states or blue states in the weeks that followed the attacks. We were the United States.

Please do not misunderstand. I do not want us to become a country of sheep or lemmings, who are herded into only one belief and lead off the proverbial cliff. Questioning our leaders is healthy, as is the system of checks and balances our forefathers were wise enough to institute.

But a decade after that horrible day, we are a divided nation. I am not questioning anyone's patriotism or love of country. I still feel a surge of pride when I hear the national anthem, and I am sure my neighbor -- though he votes differently -- does, too.  If we were attacked again, we would all do whatever it took to fight back. I believe that.

What I hope for you, Kelsey and Kyle, is that you do not have to grow up in a country that has to be attacked to stand strong.

Our country is hurting. Our politicians might not want to phrase it that way, lest someone doubt their faith in America, but I do not think we can deny our troubles. Yes, we are still a strong and mighty nation, but we also are a country wounded by war, serious economic woes and deep political division.

Perhaps it is time we stop pointing fingers at each other, and in remembrance of Sept. 11 and the many lives lost and forever altered that day, turn those fingers on ourselves. What can I do to build a better America? How can I help my neighbor? How can I help my country? We have overcome wars and depression. If we work together, what can we not accomplish, America?

Fifty years ago, in his inaugural speech, President John F. Kennedy Jr., said the following:

"So let us begin anew -- remembering on both sides that civility is not a sign of weakness, and sincerity is always subject to proof. Let us never negotiate out of fear, but let us never fear to negotiate.

Let us both sides explore what problems unite us instead of belaboring those problems which divide us."

Granted, he was speaking of our enemies across the world. But can we not apply these same wise words to each other today? Someone is not my enemy if he or she is registered with another political party. That person is my  fellow citizen, the brother or sister I reached out to 10 years ago, when our fears were powerful and palpable -- but ultimately -- our faith was stronger.

Dear children, you are the most precious resources our country has. I do not want to be selfish and think about what Band-aid America can put on its wounds today. I want to heal those wounds for your tomorrow. I hope and pray you will grow up -- and grow strong -- in a country that recovers from Sept. 11, 2001. In a spirit of unity and cooperation, we can outshine that dark day.

President Ronald Reagan once said, "The future doesn't belong to the fainthearted; it belongs to the brave."

For your sake, my beautiful, hopeful children, may we bravely go forward.

----

[Reprint of A Mother's Prayer]

There have been a few moments in my life when the emotions have been so strong, so overwhelming, that I shrugged off my cloak of daily writing insecurities and immediately - without procrastinating, censoring or editing - attempted to capture my feelings on paper.

I wrote letters to my children the moment I learned of them; I wrote tributes to my grandparents when I lost them; and I wrote this, a letter to my then four-year-old daughter, when her world forever changed on a terrible day in September.

Some of you have read it before, but I have never posted it from the Porch. I hope we all remember how we felt that September day. How we grieved, hoped, prayed and vowed collectively. How we shrugged off the cloaks of labels, denominations and red and blue. How that dark night, we were simply mothers, holding our babies, praying the world they grew up in would be a peaceful one.

A Mother's Prayer: A letter written to my daughter Kelsey on the eve of September 11, 2001

As I tucked you into bed this eve

I wondered how the sheets--thin, flimsy, transparent--would protect you.

Would the blanket, soft from so many washings,

The teddy worn, dingy, tattered,

Be enough this night?

I arrived at your school early today.

You were laughing on the playground

Beneath a cloudless sky

Not a single vapor trail tarnishing the sheath of blue.

As I watched you swing, jump, slide through the morn

So unaware,

I realized the promise the day might have held.

A day of baseball games, recess tag and lawn mowers

Windows rolled down and sleeves rolled up,

Not quite summer, not yet fall.

Instead, it was a day of odd, quiet chaos

As the frightened lined up for gasoline

And bought ground beef, canned goods, milk, bread, and bottled water.

Searching for reassurance, people crowded into the cinder-block ice-cream stand

To hear the president

And mumbled "bomb the sonsofbitches" or

"God bless us all."

It was a day of cell phone calls,

Open churches,

And closed businesses.

I held your small hand and lead you through parking lots,

And I was ashamed that you completely trusted me

For I am not the person I was when I went to bed last.

 I witnessed too much this day

And my eyes are stamped with images of

Thick black smoke

Airplanes

Fire

And ash.

I run my fingers through my hair continuously,

As if the dust, miles away, somehow reached me.

And old woman nodded at me today, her eyes haunted by another time.

"You haven't seen this before," is all she said.

I called my mom, my mother-in-law,

My sister, my brother,

Again and again,

As if we could make ourselves believe

The unbelievable.

While carrying in groceries,

Your father and I had stopped

Dropped bags and held each other tight.

We ate frozen pizza for supper,

Not saying a word as the TV blared.

Later I caught you peeking at the screen,

And I drew you onto my lap, kissed your head

And tried to explain what I still can't comprehend.

I promised you the world is good,

You are loved.

You are safe.

I nestled beside you in bed,

Clasping your hand, warm and moist from the tub.

I breathed your smell of soap and toothpaste.

I sang your lullaby.

We prayed.

I told you America is strong and right, mighty and free.

As you drifted away, I pictured America's mothers.

We are blacktop roads, shotgun houses, and Spanish tile.

Marble, loose shingles, and Bradford pears.

Gated communities, brick ranches, and trailers.

Three bedrooms and two baths.

Geraniums, roses, and dandelions.

Linoleum and sidewalks.

Mortar and stone.

Sand, salt, and dirt.

Tonight as One,

We held our children closer.

We crept into your rooms many times

As if you were babies,

Fragile and new.

We touched your cheeks and felt your breath on our hands,

Warm reminder of life.

We looked through the window at the darkest night

Anxious for the sun to shine on us again,

Silently weeping for the innocent lost

And lost innocence.

The Toaster is in the Mail!

I glanced at my pitiful, neglected blog today and suddenly realized I have -- get this -- 50 porch sitters! And you want to know the best part? Some of them aren't even related to me (like maybe two aren't, but still...).

So I am celebrating this milestone by eating a(nother) big slice of chocolate cake. Yes, I would do that anyway, but everyone knows you absorb far fewer calories if you have an excuse. I also am throwing imaginary confetti around the room and dancing on my couch. Yes, I would do that anyway, but everyone knows you burn far more calories if you have an excuse.
 
Dang, that cake is delicious. I'll be right back....

[5 minutes later]

Look at what you made me do, 50th porch sitter:

For the record, that was a whole cake at 49 followers, but you are so worth it. I love you. Oh. Um. Sorry. I was talking to the cake.

Is This Thing On?

Hey, guys! Long time no see ...

Wow. Have you lost weight? Did you change your hair? You look fabulous. I feel like Grandma Helen on "Sixteen Candles": Let me take a look at you... Fred, she's gotten her boobies! And they are so perky!

Me? I've been up to my usual tricks: friending Californians on Facebook in the hopes of obtaining Chocodiles; sipping sweet tea on the porch swing; and trying to figure out how circles work in google+ (if I have to calculate a radius, I am so out of there).

Obviously, I've been neglecting the Porch -- bad blogger! BAD! -- to focus my energy elsewhere the past few months. I would update you, but I prefer to be mysterious. Maybe it involved Hugh Jackman. Maybe it didn't. I'll never tell. That's a condition of my parole.

Relax, potential future employers. I'm totally kidding. It was Christian Bale.

In all seriousness, I have spent the past few months being, well, serious. Who wants to hear about that? Since we're constantly bombarded with news of the economic crisis, bickering politicians, crazy weather patterns, and most importantly, reports that George Clooney dumped yet another girlfriend (uh, hello, George? Fellow Kentuckian here. Holla!), I figure we've all had enough weighty issues to deal with for a while.

Since I have my poignant moments, I'll never rule out writing the occasional melodramatic post, but not today.

Today, I simply want to say hi (I'm waving at you right now! Wave back, so I don't look like the only idiot waving at my computer); thank you for checking in occasionally; and recommit myself to writing regularly. I put that in bold-faced type so you know I mean it.

In fact, I'm strongly considering writing full-time and seeing where that leads me. My guess is I'll be living in my van (DOWN BY THE RIVER!) but I'll sit on the hood and call it my van porch, so we're good.

I'll Be Back. You've Been Warned

Hi, Porch Sitters!

Thank you for hanging out on the Porch and waiting for me, while I was inside scarfing down Cheetos and not watching "The Bachelor". As if I would watch that George W. Bush sound-alike and Texas cry baby Brad! Puh-lease, people. I have standards, you know. Not high ones, but standards. But um, now that I assume the final rose has been handed out to Emily (lucky guess) and I am no longer not watching "The Bachelor", I need suggestions for other Monday night shows I will not watch.

For instance, I actually did not watch an episode of "The Real Housewives of Orange County" the other night, so I did not notice that the housewives all have identical long, blonde hairstyles to match their identical plastic Barbie bodies and shallow, catty personalities. Nope. Never seen it.

Regardless of all the mindless television shows I most assuredly do not watch, I apologize for the long delays in posts. Your readership and feedback are important to me. Believe me, I have wanted to write and, at times, desperately needed to write lately, but I am going through a major life transition, and my focus and energy are elsewhere -- as they should be.

Maybe I will write about it here eventually; maybe I won't. Elizabeth Gilbert already wrote Eat Pray Love, which pisses me off, as it killed my book idea: Eat (Chips that End in "o"), Pray (Hostess Puts the Ding Dongs Back in Foil Wrappers), Love (Trashy Television). Or maybe it didn't. I sense a bestseller in the works...

But that's tomorrow, and I must first get through today. That's enough. In fact, it's plenty.

A wise friend of mine told me this is the storm before the calm, and I believe that. I also received a fortune in my monthly crate-o-Chinese takeout the other day that declared, "Spring has sprung. Life is blooming!" I believe that, too, as we all know cookies never lie.

But spring is a fickle season that fluctuates between cold, gray, rainy days and sunny, blue-skied ones. I sincerely believe that brighter days are ahead, but I am not foolish enough to think that I won't have to go through some storms (and God knows how many bags of Cheetos and boxes of Ho-Hos) before the sun emerges again.

One thing I have going for me is that I am, for the most part, an optimistic gal. I'm not quite Charlie-Sheen-I'm Tired-of-Pretending-I'm-Not-A-Total-Bitchin'-Rock-Star-From-Mars optimistic, and I certainly have my non-winning moments (duh!), but I am the type of (yes, annoying) person who attempts to glean the good from the muck.

For instance, I was on a dreary drive a couple of weeks ago, and was so damn tired of the rain and barren winter landscape, when I rounded a curve to see an entire hill dotted with daffodils. I have to believe my daffodil hill is just around the bend. Sorry. Maybe I have rainbows imprinted on my DNA. Or maybe I have a chemical imbalance in my brain brought on by vast amounts of polysorbates. Whatever.

While I look for my daffodil hill, please be patient with posts. Things are difficult enough, and I'm trying to avoid additional melodrama when possible. If you've read this far, you see I'm not that great at it yet. And while humor and pain can be sisters of sorts, there are days when, quite frankly, it's just too hard to find the funny. I do good to find the trashy television shows I'm soooo not watching. When does "Jersey Shore" come on again?