Snippet from the Pulpit: Boobs

I was scheduled to lead the worship service this morning at church, so I dressed up: conservative black dress pants, heels, a royal blue sweater* with a built-in white shirt with french cuffs. Front-of-the-church attire, or so I thought.

The service was unusual because I not only spoke from behind the pulpit, but also at a microphone on a stand directly in front of the congregation.

After the service ended, a friend came up to the front of the sanctuary to say hi and to introduce me to her mother, who was visiting from out of state. But before she even made the introduction she said, "You spoke very well today and I'm sure what you said was wonderful, but I could think was, 'I wonder what her boobs weigh.'"

I turned my back to the sanctuary, gave the girls a little heft and said, "I'm guessing maybe 10 pounds."

She said, "I can only wonder, but I'll tell you this: If you ever go on a date, wear that sweater."

And then she introduced me to her mom .... who didn't even ask.

* Photos and/or video available, but you have to buy me dinner first.

Chicago or Bust: Part 2

You can read Chicago or Bust: Part 1 here.

My friends were already at the theater when I arrived. At each exit on the highway, I had felt my hands wanting to turn the wheel, pull off, turn around, go home. I sang my song to drown out the monster whispering in my ear: Turn around. I've done it before and I'll do it again. You will fail tonight. You will fucking fail and I will win. 

I just sang the stupid song again and told myself all I needed to do was get through it. I didn't need to get a part. Just getting through it would be enough. Just showing up. That's what I told myself.

At the same time, I believed every word the monster told me .... but I didn't turn around. I didn't take the easy exits that would lead to home and safety. I drove to the theater, pulled into the lot, parked, sat for a while. Finally I turned off my van and walked in.

My friends were waiting. They'd already filled out their paperwork, turned in their résumés. I don't have a résumé, but I filled out the paperwork: name, age, experience, part desired. My hand didn't shake. I was too tense to shake. My friends waited. They knew I was ready to flee. They tried to reassure me.

I handed the clipboard in and joked with the friend who was running the sign-in table -- something about Girl Scouts. I've learned not to let it show, the panic.

Finally we went into the audition room. I felt like the Cowardly Lion being escorted by the scarecrow and the tinman into the hall of the great and powerful Wizard of Oz. Only I didn't feel as brave as the lion.

I've been in that room many times. I've even auditioned in that room several times and had fun doing it. I felt like I'd never been there before.

We sat in the second row; my friends flanked me. A sweet young man from the Doubt workshop turned around, excited to see me again. He said, "I  can't wait to see you audition. You're going to be so great!"

I said, "No! Please, no, I'm not going to be great. I've never done this. I'm just going to try to get through it tonight." Usually flattery feels so good.

He looked shocked and then he laughed, like he thought I was teasing. He said, "But you're so good, so experienced. You've done this a lot. You have to have done this a lot ....."

I think he said more. He was excited, complimentary. All I could hear was the monster laughing and rubbing his hands in glee. It just got better! Someone with high expectations! You're going to fail in front of people who expect you to rock this shit. This is even better than making you fail in front of  haters. God I love my job!

The room was set up with rows of chairs near the entrance, a table perpendicular where the director and choreographer sat, and the accompanist at a piano across from us. A big space was left in the  middle of the room for the auditioners to face the  table.

I looked around and saw a few other people I knew, said hi. Acted like everybody else, I think.

And then the auditions started. I'd never even been to an audition like this one before, so I made sure to watch what the experienced people did up there.

The first guy was a guy I was in Wit with. A terribly talented young man who gave a great audition. And then another singer auditioned ... and another. I realized my song wasn't enough, wasn't right. I should have chosen something that would show acting too. More pressure.

I whispered that I should probably leave now. I said I was way out of my league. My friends said to stay. They said I would be fine. I wanted them to agree, to say I should leave. I wasn't fine. I really did think I was out of my league. That wasn't the monster talking. It was true.

By the time the fifth person auditioned, I had turned around a dozen times, making sure the doorway was clear  in case I decided to walk out. I reminded myself I could just leave. It wouldn't matter to anybody except me, and then I wouldn't fail. Again.

And yet I stayed and watched and clapped and smiled, because I may suck at musical auditions, but I really can act like I'm not having a big, ugly panic attack. It seemed to me that almost everybody who auditioned was really good. A couple of people were obviously weak, but they seemed to know what they were doing in spite of their vocal weaknesses.

Finally the director called my name. I forced myself out of my chair .... forced myself to walk to the center of the room. I said my name even though the director knows me and is even a Facebook friend, because that's what everybody else had done. I said I'd be singing "Cry Me a River." The monster had me by the throat, but I asked the accompanist for a B and told her I'd sing a capella.

I opened my mouth and the words started to come out, but not like I'd practiced. Maybe it was the monster laughing so loudly in my ears, but I couldn't hear myself even though I knew I was singing. Weak. Very weak. I pumped it up, tried to take control, tried to level my breath ... looked at the director and tried to perform the song like I had in front of the mirror at home.

In a fairy tale Ursula would give me back my voice and I would sing like a red-headed mermaid or some shit like that. The director would leap to his feet and say, "Auditions for Mama are over! I've found my mama!" In real life, the monster doesn't have to let go. It can fuck you up and there's no happy ending.

I want to say I beat the monster back and took control, but that would be a lie. I want to write this as something funny that happened last week that I can laugh off now, but I can't. Sorry. I have to be honest.

 It was bad. I was pitchy, weak, unsupported by a single, solid breath. I have no idea what my body was doing. I probably looked like a terrified 10-year-old who's been forced to sing in front of the parents at the school Christmas program.

The director was taking notes while I sang. I was pretty sure he was writing "Never let this woman audition for me again. This is painful. Oh my poor ears. Please make her shut the fuck up." I would never talk to another person the way I talk to myself.

The only positive thing that happened was that I got through it. I sang the fucking song to the end. It was the wrong song for that audition, and I sucked, but I got through it.

This time it wasn't enough to get through it. I walked back to my seat in a bitter fog of shame. I wanted to walk straight out the door, but I'd gotten that far and I'm not a bad sport. I sat down and just tried to breath. I didn't want to look at anybody and see the disappointment I was feeling reflected on their faces, the expectations shattered. So I clapped and smiled for the other brave people who auditioned like it didn't matter.

Finally it was over and we took a short break. I talked and laughed with friends who were there either to audition or just to watch. Ran to the bathroom. Tried to act like I hadn't just stepped on my weenie in front of 30 people.

And then came the dancing. Did I say I was out of my league? I was so out of my fucking league! Fortunately I wasn't the only one.

The choreographer did just what I expected. She taught us a dance and then expected us to perform it up to speed with music from the play. A reasonable expectation.

She was good. She broke it down by beats of 4, then 8. Then she put it together with the previous 8 beats until we had a short routine. A fun, Fosse-like routine that I wish I could do just for fun.

We went over and over it. I could only sort of do the steps even at slow speed. My brain knew what I should be doing; my body didn't respond though. It was like I was telling my feet to cross over, heel out, sink down .... I was watching Annette do it in front of me ..... and yet my feet took seconds to respond so I was thinking about the next step before my feet had done the last one .... and I kept running into my friend who was on my left because she really was dancing.

I apologized to her a couple of days later. She blew it off. I insisted. I said if that had been anybody but me, we both would have been complaining over a game of pool about what a fucking clumsy ass bitch I was and wondering why the fuck I thought I belonged at those auditions in the first place .... It's true.

I felt like the donkey in donkey basketball.

In all, the dance probably took 20 seconds at full speed. It was the hardest workout I've done in years. It was like riding 30 miles on my bike in the space of 20 minutes.

I can dance, but I'm not a dancer. Yes, I've danced on stage, but this was some kind of Fosse shit -- that shit that looks so easy until you try to do it? It was that kind of dancing.

I had every opportunity to learn that dance. She taught it to us in the big group as we collided and laughed and sweated and grunted. She broke the big group into 2 groups and taught it to us again while the other half rested. Then she called us up in groups of 5, went over it a couple more times, and then sat to watch us do it alone for her.

Did I say this shit was exhausting? People decades younger than me were holding their knees and crying. OK, maybe not crying. But they wanted to; I could tell. They'd already sweat their tears out.

Annette danced with every group, every time, except the 5 or 6 times she sat to watch.  She worked harder than any of us and I'm not sure she was even sweating. I'd chalk it up to youth, but I think she's about my age.

Anyway, I got through the dance audition and felt pretty proud satisfied that I learned as much of it as I did, in spite of looking like a donkey. It was hard. Anybody who watched from the sidelines and judged should have gotten their asses out there and tried it. (Get it? Donkeys? Asses? Nevermind.)

Some of the younger girls really did get it, and by the time they auditioned in their small groups, they looked so graceful and confident doing that bitch of a dance, I wanted to cheer for them. 

Am I starting to sound lighthearted about the audition? The dancing helped take my mind off the earlier disaster for a while. Learning the choreography was grueling and took total concentration. The hard workout burned off some of the adrenaline. I felt like an idiot, but I wasn't alone out there stomping and stumbling through the routine.

Finally it was over. I wanted to go home and crawl into bed wrapped in my failure. I didn't. I went with my friends across the street to a smoky little dive that has a couple of pool tables. We drank and played pool, laughed and got a little rowdy for a couple of hours.

Written on a bar napkin that night.

Finally I went home to face the monster's ridicule. Yeah. It was almost as bad as the fucking audition.

Nobody bullies me like I do -- though some try.

The next morning a friend who is one of the most -- maybe the most -- respected directors in community theater here texted to ask how the audition went. I wanted to tell him I kicked ass, but all I said was that I got through it. The next day he texted to see if I'd been called back. I said I didn't expect to and no, I wasn't called back. He said at least it was a good experience. I said I was trying to believe that. I was so glad he hadn't seen it.

As far as I was concerned the monster won. Again. Maybe not such a resounding defeat as when I was 14, but I didn't even do well enough to call it a draw.

Sometimes when I face this phobia down, I feel successful, invigorated, ready to go back for more; I know I've landed a heavy blow. Other times, even getting through is still a failure. I know next time it will be just as bad. Sometimes -- like the Chicago audition -- success is as imperceptible to me as it is to others.

So why do it? Why go through it? I don't fucking know. I'm not Liza and I'm not Barbra and I'm not Meryl. It doesn't take much for me to get in over my head -- which I do regularly. And it's not like I'm saving lives. I'm not repairing cleft palates, or rescuing children from burning buildings, or designing the next Google.

Nothing in the world would change if I took a permanent seat in the audience.

I can't explain it. I just keep battering away at that fucking phobia.

The reason I didn't write this last week right after the audition is simply because I was depressed. I couldn't sleep; I was teary. I kept replaying the audition over and over and over, and feeling the same shame and humiliation. I gave up. Oh, I was pitiful, I was.

If you had asked me last week, I would have said I was done with theater. I would have said I'd never audition again -- not even a cold reading, which I love. And I would have meant it. I'm sick of being a fucking failure.

I ask the question again: Why do I that to myself? Why set myself up to fail again ... and again. I don't have to put myself in a position to be a loser. Plenty of people didn't have the nerve to stand up there and audition that night. People came just to watch. I don't have to be one of the few who gets up there and takes the risk. Why would I, when I know I'm just going to humiliate myself? I'm not a masochist. Why would I do that?

I don't like being in the phobia funk and I wanted out of it. I went over to Elvira's and played with Coraline. Baby smiles heal like nothing else. I went out with various friends, although I didn't take the mic at karaoke. Chicken Grrl and I booked a couple of paying gigs over the weekend. I kissed a cowboy. Plays end, but life goes on.

This week I went to a rehearsal for a reading and discussion of The Laramie Project a group of us are doing Friday. Yeah, I know. I said no more theater for me .... but I'd already made a commitment. I mean .... I couldn't let down my friends, right?

And I started thinking about what went wrong at that audition. What I didn't know going in that led to my failure. What I could have done different, better. Not that I'd ever do it again, of course. I'm finished with theater .... well, maybe not all theater. Maybe just musical theater. But what if I'd sung a different song ....chosen a lower key .... asked someone with more experience to coach me .....

Damn it.

to be continued .... 

Chicago or Bust: Part 1

When I don't write here for a week or more, it's usually because I'm avoiding the next post I want need to write. I've been avoiding this one since Monday night when I auditioned for Chicago at a local community theater.

I've been avoiding it because I would like to write here only about my successes. I want to shine a light on my wonderfulness and self worship at the feet of my own grandiosity ..... or something like that. So let me try it out, just for a second. I auditioned for Chicago and I kicked ass, baby. I sang like Barbra and danced like Liza. The director cast me in every fucking part and now it's a one-woman show all about me. I mean all that jazz is all about ME.

Yeah. It's too late to start lying here now. The real story ..... 

I decided to go to the audition for a four reasons:

1. Peer pressure: several friends wanted me to go and audition with them.

2. The director: I thought the director would be looking for younger actors, so I didn't even expect to get a part, but I would love to work with him sometime.

3. The choreographer: a couple of people who had worked with the choreographer, Annette, said it would be worth doing the audition just to get a chance to do that much of her choreography. I've seen plays she's choreographed and she's impressive. I'm still a newbie to the theatre world, but even I can tell she's earned her rep.

4. Performance phobia: I've sung on stage many times, a couple for theatre. I've worked through it until I'm pretty comfortable up there. But the singing audition .... my heart is starting to race just writing about it .... the singing audition is the tyrannosaurus rex .... the King Kong .... the monster under the fucking bed of this phobia. Just the thought of doing it makes my stomach clench, my throat close, my brain search frantically for a place to run, to hide. I've been battling the monster for years, and the only way to beat it is to do the thing that feeds it. To try to go back and remake history .... not that I can. This is one of the last things that can fully awaken the monster now, because the singing/dancing audition ... that is where it all began.

I was fourteen, about to enter my freshman year of high school, and the one thing I wanted to do in high school more than anything else -- even basketball, even dating! -- was swing choir. I wanted to sing and dance and compete and OMG it was the coolest thing I could imagine being in swing choir. I just had to get past the auditions. Easy peasy.

Toward the end of summer the high school music teacher held a couple of practice sessions to teach us the music and choreography for the two songs we would sing in front of a panel of judges: several choir directors from other schools and our music teacher. I went to the rehearsals, learned the songs from the older girls who were already in swing choir (girls I'd admired from afar), practiced at home in front of my mirror. I loved the songs and I loved the dances and I felt so cool doing them. I was ready. I was going to be in swing choir!

On that hot Sunday afternoon in late August I put on my best dress and walked across the street to the high school, certain I had both the songs and the dancing nailed

I found the choir room and waited in a dark hallway with the other kids who were auditioning. I don't remember much about that. I'd never been in that part of the school before. We didn't watch each other audition, just waited for our turns to go in when we were called. Finally I was told to go in.

Each audition had 4 participants: SATB. I was an alto then (because I could read music), so I danced with a bass, a guy who had graduated already, but was in swing choir when he was in high school. The intimidation started. This guy would never even have talked to me and here he was waiting to dance with me in this audition. A senior soprano danced with some other younger boy. I don't remember who. I wish I didn't remember any of it.

The judges sat on the choir risers with clipboards on their laps. The accompanist started playing ..... the dancing started .... and it was nothing like what we'd practiced. I mean, the steps were the same, but it was much faster, much snappier .... it was terrifying. I felt like I was being dragged behind a car. I think I did the dancing though -- not well, but I did it. I think.

What I didn't do was sing. My mouth shaped the words, but nothing came out. Not during the first song. Not during the second song. Not one fucking note came out of my mouth. I kept trying to force air through my throat, but it felt like it was closed. Not even a squeak came out. My partner sang and danced like he was a Solid Gold dancer. I ..... I just failed.

I don't even want to describe how humiliated I was when I left. I went home. Nobody asked me how it went and I didn't say anything. I'm not sure I ever told anybody until I was an adult, years later. I never tried out for swing choir again. I was never in the annual school play, because they were all musicals. I hid in the alto section of the choir and even dropped that when I was a senior.

And that is how a phobia is born.

I've already written about how I've forced myself to come back from that day, so I'll fast forward to Monday night. I almost chickened out about 450 times. By Saturday I was telling people I probably wasn't going to audition after all. My friends encouraged me to just go. They said I'd be fine. They said I could do it. They couldn't feel the cold, paralyzing terror I was carrying in my stomach, in my ears, in my throat. They couldn't hear the voice that said I could do it, but only in the shower, only where nobody could hear. They couldn't hear the voice of the monster that said it was just waiting to send me back to high school to learn my lesson again.

But I practiced a couple of songs anyway. Ones I've known for years. I practiced even though I was pretty sure I wasn't going to go. Even though I was sure I would get up there and .... you know. But I practiced. I've been at this a lot of years. I could either face the monster down .... again .... or retreat. I wasn't sure I could do it this time.

The day before the audition, in an act of what seems like extreme hypocrisy, I listened to new friend who had never auditioned for a play before sing her song, and I even gave her a few pointers. I confessed that I was very nervous and had never done this kind of audition before. She's seen me perform in other venues though; I don't think she believed how serious I was.

I didn't tell her I was already going into it with a big, fat L on my forehead. I knew though. I knew and the fucking monster knew.

To be continued.....

The Weight of Doubt

Recently I participated in a week-long theatre workshop that ended with a reader's theater performance of the play Doubt. After our performance, most of the cast also met to watch the movie. It's good. It has Meryl Streep in it, and Phillip Seymour Hoffman, whose  name I can never remember. They deserved the awards they were nominated for.

The title of the story comes from the lack of resolution the playwright gives his audience, the doubt that Streep's character, a nun who is the principal of a parish school, feels after she turns in a young, popular priest for possibly engaging in inappropriate behavior with a male student. And the doubt the audience is intended to feel as to whether she was right, as she vehemently insists, or whether the priest was innocent as he claimed. The complex, flawed characters make it impossible to be sure--or at least it was for me.

I was privileged to deliver the last two lines of the play, the only two lines that show a crack in the nun's certainty. She simply says to a younger nun who was involved, "I have doubts. I have such doubts."

After the performance where I delivered those final lines -- we did the final scene without rehearsal -- I found myself thinking about doubt in my own relationships, in particular those that have ended without resolution.

I too have doubts -- such doubts -- about the part I played in certain events, about the decisions I made. About the times I felt backed against a wall with only one choice remaining -- or so I thought. About whether I was absolutely sure I had only that one choice or if maybe ... maybe?

Some people get do-overs. I don't. My doubts, although I allow them to run like rabid dogs in my mind, will not fix or resolve anything. This I know.

I could write for days about those doubts and the situations that provided them fresh meat and bones to gnaw on for months .... years. And about the people I may have hurt and who hurt me. I see no benefit in reliving those times in words, especially here.

What I need to write about is what I don't doubt.What I'm sure of.

Maybe if I were working a 12-step program I'd write to each and try to make amends, but I'm not. And as one friend recently said in another context, even trying to make amends can be a form of bullying.

So instead I'm writing an open letter to those people -- I know who they are and some of them would know who they are too.* It's like throwing a note in a bottle into the ocean and hoping it will wash up in Ohio, but that's what blogging is anyway. At least the way I do it.

Here is my letter.

Dear _________:

I'll get right to the point. I hope you're happy. I really do. However you define happiness, I hope you are. I hope the dreams we talked about came true and you're working on new, improved dreams now.

But more than that, I hope you're loved in a way I couldn't love you. I hope you have someone in your life who lifts up the best in you and inspires you to rise to the challenges life throws at you; who listens to your dreams and tries to tease out the meaning;  who holds you when you cry; who brings you soup when you're sick; who cries with you over your favorite movies; who sings duets with you; who laughs at your jokes -- even the stupid ones or the ones you've told a dozen times; who listens to your stories about work and your childhood and the breakdown of your marriage; who tells you the truth even when it hurts; who holds your hand when you walk down the street; who loves to see you naked and wants to lie for hours with her head on your shoulder talking; or who holds you in his arms while you sleep; who gives you cookies just the way you like them -- hot and moist and by the dozen; who tells you you're perfect just the way you are, makes you feel important and precious ...... who sincerely wants to take care of you and not just allow you to take care of her or him.

I want all of this for you because I saw see something in you that is shiny, sweet , yearning and perfect. Because in spite of our deeply frustrating, ubiquitous, human imperfections, we all possess a unique, fragile, perfect self that only some people will see and nurture and love. I saw see that in you, even now. No matter what happened, I still see it and I love you for it.

So I hope in your life you have at least one person who also sees that you are precious and worth making a priority, even a sacrifice for sometimes.

This is what I want for you, because I believe it's what we all want if we're emotionally healthy. Sociopaths .... nah, but this isn't directed at any of them. They wouldn't get this.

(But if there's a sociopath in your life, I hope you are easing her or him out. You don't deserve that. You deserve real love.)

As much as wishing you better relationships than what you had with me though, I want to thank you.

I want to thank you for forcing me to face my own vulnerability. Because of what happened between us, I either wasn't able to, or I chose not to, retreat into my own inadequate perfectionism behind thick, impenetrable walls. Oh, you know I'm not perfect, but other people are still fooled. And I can make myself crazy trying to live up to their vision of me.

I've never been good at showing hurt in any of its forms: confusion, fear of abandonment, fear of not being good enough, fear of hurting someone else, the loss of someone precious .... fear.

I'm better at it now. I've been practicing. Some of my oldest friends have told me they feel like they've finally seen past my walls. I practice letting them. It's hard, but you've given me the gift of hurt and shame that I can share.

It doesn't sound like a good thing. I wish it didn't need to be so, but this is one of my lessons. So even if I miss you and wish you were still in my life, I'm grateful I knew and loved love you. I'm grateful you shared your stories, your fears, your laughter, and your time. Thank you. I mean it.

And finally, two words I don't care for much. But I will say them because they are the only words in our language that will suffice. 

I'm sorry for what I might have done better. I'm sorry because sometimes I react with anger, hurt, shame, or even desperation and there may be a better solution. I'm sorry because sometimes I don't communicate as well as I could or sometimes I say too much. And I  either couldn't find my way back or you wouldn't let me back in. The gate is closed and I'm locked out. Just as I did, you did what you needed to do. It takes courage.

If I see you and I don't talk to you, it's because I want to honor your desire to .... to move on. I don't prefer it. I am not ignoring you. I respect your need for distance.

No excuses though. I am sorry. Even though I don't always know what I could have done better .... sometimes I'm not sure what I did ..... I'm sorry because you aren't in my life any more. Or if you are still on the periphery ..... it hurts. Telling you that is part of that whole vulnerability thing. I'm aware you could easily mock me for it. It's OK. If that makes you feel better or brings you closer to someone you need, it's OK.

I love you. I want to make sure I say that. I love you for ..... well, for what I saw in you and for what I felt for you. I can only speak for myself. If I wasn't as important to you as you were to me, I'm sorry for that too. As the song says, "somebody always loves a little more."

That's all. I love you.

Sincerely, 

Reticula

* Disclaimer: If I ever used the word "abusive" to describe your behavior, that situation has been resolved. This is not for you. If you ever fucked with my family, come closer so I can curb-stomp your face. I'm not Jesus, and I don't play him on this blog.

Tell me I'm not the only one with such doubts. Do you carry doubts in your heart?

Please feel free to share this letter if you have doubts about a relationship that ended badly. The world doesn't need more conflict.

Lose Weight Immediately!

 A text conversation with my daughter, Elvira:

Elvira: My boobs weigh 10 pounds.

Me: How do you know?

Elvira: I weighed myself and then Rock Dad held my boobs up and I weighed myself again.

Me: You let him see you on the scale? Whose daughter are you?

Elvira: Only so I could weigh my boobs. They weigh 10 pounds.

Me: Oh. Did you feed Coraline before you weighed them so you weren't weighing milk too?

Elvira: I'm not an idiot.

Me: Just checking. The weight of your boobs doesn't necessarily correlate to the weight of your brain.

Elvira: You know what this means, right?

Me: That you have enormous boobs? That's obvious to most people.

Elvira: No, it means I weigh ten pounds less if I don't count my boobs.

Me:  I think you have to count your boobs. I've always counted my boobs in my weight.

Elvira: No, I don't. I just lost 10 pounds. You're jealous.

Me: You can't just deduct a part of your body unless it's amputated. And then I've heard there's phantom weight.

Elvira: I can if I'm talking about whether I need to lose weight. I don't need to lose weight on my boobs. I now weigh 10 pounds less than I did this morning.

Me: Oh. Somehow that makes sense to me.

The next evening Coraline was playing in my bathtub, and Elvira and I were sitting on the floor talking when Elvira jumped up and kicked the scale into the center of the room.

Elvira: Mommers, let's weigh your boobs. Get on the scale.

Me: No.

Elvira:  Don't you want to know what your boobs weigh?

Me: No.

Elvira: You'll lose weight. You always want to lose weight. Get on the scale and then I'll hold your boobs up and we'll see what they....

Me: No.

Elvira: I want to know if my boobs weigh more than yours.

Me: No.

Elvira: Pllllleeeeeeaaaaasssssszzzzzzzze? Please weigh your boobs too!

Me: No.

Elvira: You're just afraid my boobs weigh more than yours.

Me: No.

Elvira: I won't look at the scale. I'll just hold up your boobs.

Me: No.

Elvira: You don't love me.

Me: No.

Elvira: .......

Me: No.

Elvira: We could have a contest on your blog where people guess how much your boobs weigh and the one who comes closest wins something.

Me: That could be fun. But no.

Elvira: Please.

Me: No.

I did not let Elvira weigh my boobs.

However, last week my doctor told me to lose weight, the bitch. She said, "You should buy a little trampoline with a handlebar and bounce on it while you watch TV at night."

I said, "Great idea, doc. But I'd rather weigh my fucking boobs."