Butterflies and Mammaries

This post is inspired by an article I read over at Already Pretty. The author, Nadine Thornhill of Adorkable Undies, moved me to tears. Then I was moved to write and write and write. It's taken me this long to organize those ramblings into something reasonably coherent. Actually, I'm pretty sure some of these thoughts still aren't quiet coherent. I'm having a difficult time finding the words to express what I feel, but I'm going to post this anyway. If nothing else it has a picture of Neil Gaiman.)

I was shopping for black, work-appropriate trousers when the butterfly cardigan caught my eye. Though I really didn't need it, I decided to try it on anyway. My immediate impulse was to grab a large, but the saleswoman talked me into a medium. I figured it was a long shot. When buying items that button in the front the larger the better. My beyond-double-D breasts tend to be more than most buttons can handle.

I was shocked. I loved how I looked in the medium cardigan. It hugged all the right places.  Even the saleswoman had a "wow" when I opened the dressing room door. I was HOT. 

Then I bought the cardigan in large.  This, in spite of the fact that I don't love how I look in the large. Don't get me wrong. I love the sweater and all the memories it evokes. I just don't love myself in the large sweater like I did in the medium.

So, why the heck didn't I buy the smaller one?

Well, several years ago, when speaking to my boss, a client referred to me as "Chesty LaRue". Instead of reprimanding the client, my boss spoke to me about my clothing choices. She felt that my shirt might be too revealing for the some of clients that frequent our workplace.

There's much about this that still upsets me. 

Around the time of the incident at work I wore the same top to a book signing. I've included a photo below. (That's Hubby on the left and Neil Gaiman in the centre. Double swoon!) Yes, you can see some cleavage, but I am bending forward in the photograph. Even so, the lads in the picture don't seem too distracted by "that little line peeping through", and my breasts were far perkier and distracting back in those days. 

My boobs sit lower now. And yes, I do wear uber-supportive bras to give them a little lift. That's not just for appearance's sake. Leaving my breasts to their own devices is not good for my posture. And without containment they do tend to stray uncomfortably with the least bit of activity. Besides, finding clothing to fit breasts that have surpassed the double-D department is challenging. Finding clothing to fit large breasts that are rapidly approaching your waist is impossible. 

Don't get me wrong. I like my breasts. They are nicely shaped and healthy and they've been with me for years. Hell, they're real and they're SPECTACULAR! It's the reaction to my breasts that leaves me scrambling for cover. 

And scramble I do. Finding tops that fit in the shoulders, sleeves and bust can be frustrating. I often sacrifice fit elsewhere to ensure my breasts are decently covered. Long sleeves are usually a waste of time, as finding something that fits in the chest means the sleeves are miles long. Button-front anything tends to gape, or strain, or just burst open at the most inconvenient times. (I had a lovely silk blouse I wore to job interviews after university. As I walked into one interview, a strategic button burst free. There was no time to fix it. Worst. Interview. Ever.) Length can also be a problem. Shirts that cover another woman's belly don't always cover mine, as fabric that should be covering my gut tends to ride up to cover my chest. 

All those fit issues and I haven't even tackled cleavage-coverage.

And I do try to keep my cleavage covered. I make an effort to de-emphasize the size of my breasts. The incident at work isn't the only time I've been the recipient of unwanted attention because of my breast size. There was bullying in middle school. There was a job interview where, even though I was buttoned up to my chin, the interviewer spent the entire time staring at my chest. There have been innumerable bra-snappings and taunts and snide comments. After years of tolerating this kind of behaviour from others the impulse to cover my cleavage has become automatic. Putting the medium "wow" sweater back on the rack and taking the less-appealing large didn't even require thought. 

Yet sometimes cleavage peaks through in spite of my careful choices. Sometimes the extra clothing required to cover my chest is too restrictive. I do like to be able to move my arms from time to time. Sometimes it's just too hot to employ cleavage-camouflaging layers. (I tend to feel the heat more than my smaller-breasted colleagues. Must be all that extra insulation up front.) Camisoles and high-necklines and related concealment leave me red-faced, soggy-palmed, and pit-stained. Is that more professional than that controversial bit of cleavage? 

Apparently, according to my long-ago boss, it is. I was dressed unsuitably. I was responsible for that man's reaction to my breasts. His comments were my fault. Nadine's suggestion that it may be otherwise blew me away. That shift in thinking moved me to tears. It still does. 

Does this mean I'll be intentionally flaunting my cleavage any time soon? Probably not. Even now I'd still buy the larger sweater. What it does mean is that when confronted with unwanted attention, as I was a couple of weeks ago when some random pick-up truck driver felt the need to share his comments on my appearance, I'll be more forgiving...

... of myself. 

Introduction to Art: Week 2 ~ Sexy Bananas!

In week two of my Introduction to Art course we tackled the Fantastic art movement of the early 20th century. We started with a general overview of the genre, its history, discussions of Dadaism and Surrealism, and then we moved on to specific artists. 

This genre is rather bizarre, and I often find myself wondering why an item is considered art.  "I don't get it" is my most frequent response to artwork from this era. Thankfully, we started gently with Rousseau and Chagall. I quite enjoyed their colourful paintings of items I could identify. The examples used in the video lectures were generally cheerful and playful. My kind of art. 

Then we moved on to De Chirico. The paintings we discussed were colourful, and they included items that I could identify, but the mood changed. His work was dark, sombre and desolate.  Odd combinations of objects added to the overall strangeness of the paintings. I found them somewhat disturbing. Still, considering the time and place of their creation, I understood De Chirico's intent. Or at least I thought I did. 

The Melancholy of Departure by Georgio de Chirico
Image "borrowed" from WikiPaintings.org

I was happily following the lecture, feeling like I might actually be "getting" art for the first time in my life. Then we got to "The Melancholy of Departure". My illusions of comprehension crumbled when the narrator shared this delightful analysis:

This painting was created after De Chirico moved from Paris to Italy in order to serve in World War one. The melancholy of his emotional state is conveyed through this artwork. Implictily sexual, the juxtaposition of the bananas in the foreground, and the miniscule train the background, once again show the bizarre imagination of De Chirico...The bananas in the foreground are the focal point of this painting, capturing our immediate attention.

Ummmmm. Implicitly sexual? Really? I didn't find anything about the painting sexual - implicit or otherwise. And the bananas are the focal point? I hadn't noticed the bananas until the narrator mentioned them. So much for understanding art!

There was much discussion in the forums amongst us beginners. Few of us thought the bananas were all that sexy. Odd in that particular environment? Definitely. Lonely? Yep. Strange? For sure. Sexy? I don't get it.  To me, it felt like a painting of an abandoned city; a place struck by disaster; a place where people fled in terror leaving everything, including the bananas, frozen in time for later explorers to discover. It was sad and desolate, but not sexual. I was beginning to think that "art" was synonymous for "ridiculous hoax".

Our assignment for this unit was to "choose an Independent, Dada, or Surrealist artist that inspires you and utilize his style or concept as sources of inspiration to create your personal Fantastic artwork...Think about what Fantasy means to you and how you can express yourself through Fantastic Art.  Have fun with this artwork while you examine your own dreams and subconscious thoughts." 

I had originally wanted to do a "sexy banana" parody. I clipped symbolically phallic images (cigars, hot dogs, neck ties) from magazines. (I found the phallic symbols in men's magazines and parenting magazines. Insert your opinion here.) My thought was to create an abandoned-looking industrial building with a "sexy banana" image in each window. I envisioned a combination of original work and collage. 

Sadly, my artistic skills are limited, so my imagined artwork never came to be. It was probably just as well. I wasn't sure my parody would be understood or appreciated, and I didn't want my mark to suffer because of my attitude.

Instead, as the assignment directions suggested, I chose to examine and illustrate a dream. I was careful when selecting my dream. My art work would be evaluated by randomly-selected classmates, and given the huge variety of students taking the class, I wanted something that wasn't too controversial. (Actually, I rarely have controversial, or even memorable, dreams.)

Fortunately, a recent dream had been so bizarre that I woke laughing. It seemed like a safe bet for my project. In the dream, I lived in Neil Gaiman's  bathtub for a year in order to scrape baked-on cheese from a bicycle. I kid you not. I'd like to say you can't make this shit up, but obviously I can, or at least my sub-conscious can. I'm sure this dream could lead to all kinds of interesting analysis, but I'm convinced it was a result of bedtime reading materials combined with ill-timed snacks.

The project was more challenging and time-consuming than I thought. Through it I discovered that I don't clearly visualize my end product. I have ideas, but nothing firm. I also came to see that I often don't have the technique or the skill to carry out the ideas I do have. My work is very much a process. The assignment piece evolved over time, and I didn't know what the end result was going to be until I was done.  Overall it was a rewarding, though sometimes frustrating and nerve-wracking experience. 

Writing the artist statement, on the other hand, was pure fun. Because I regularly couldn't see what the artist intended in the pieces we studied, I felt that I could be pretty free in the meaning I assigned to my work. Seriously, if De Chirico's bananas were sexy, my crumpled, stained calendar could represent the passage of a year. 

Here's what I submitted for my assignment:

Like many of the artists of the Fantastic art genre, I chose to explore dream in the creation of my work.  In this particular dream, a year was spent in Neil Gaiman’s bathtub scraping cheese from a bicycle.

Although my piece contains none of the abstract and biomorphic shapes Jean Arp employed in his art, I was inspired by his use of chance and collage in his work. 

The elements of my collage are mounted on 8”1/4 x 11”3/4 drawing paper. The background is composed of tea-stained pages torn from a day planner that were then dry brushed with watercolour paint. The remaining elements were cut from a variety of magazines.

The magazines were purchased from a library discard table. I had no control over the selection of magazines available for sale, nor did I have control over the images I would find in those magazines. Thus I had to rely on chance when looking for images to illustrate the dream.

Because  of this reliance on chance, the resulting collage is not a direct depiction of the dream. Still, the overall feeling is the same, and all the elements are represented in some way.

The bicycles, cheese and bathtubs are self explanatory.  The hand tools were selected to represent the scraping involved in removing the cheese from the bicycle. Clocks were employed to represent the passage of time and to pay homage to the work of Dali. Time is also illustrated by the stained and crumpled calendar pages in the background.

The shadowy silhouette of Morpheus rising from the bathtub in the centre of the collage serves to subtly bring Neil Gaiman into the work. This depiction of dream is an interpretation of Gaiman’s creation in the Sandman graphic novels. That the character is Dream further emphasizes that the piece was inspired by the subconscious.  

Bravery and Joy

I am often afraid. 

I'm afraid of saying the wrong thing, of doing the wrong thing. I'm afraid of what people will think.

I'm afraid of having too much, of not having enough. I'm afraid of endings and beginnings. I'm afraid of change.

I'm afraid of what I might lose, of what I might find. I'm afraid of getting lost in the never-ending, day-to-day minutiae and never finding my way. 

I'm afraid of posting this. 

When I read Neil Gaiman's New Year's Wish my first reaction was fear. In it he wishes us bravery, and that scares me. If I'm going to need bravery, it means something scary is going to happen, so thinking I might need bravery frightens me. 

It's fun being in my head, isn't it?


It took me a while to realize that bravery isn't something reserved for terrible things. You might need bravery to do something you want to do. Like sing the theme song from a favourite childhood television show at your wife's New Year's Eve concert. I understand Neil wrote his wish while waiting backstage to do just that.  (If you want to hear Neil read it go here.  You'll have to scroll down to get it. The wish is at about the 6 minute mark. Listen to his "Make Good Art" speech while you're there.)

Once the lightbulb flashed on, and I understood that bravery isn't just for worst-case scenarios, I started to think of bravery in different ways. I thought about bravery as a tool to get over the daily fears that hold me back. 

And that realization is bringing me joy. Pushing past the fear is helping me to shape my world in new ways. I'm trying new things. I'm saying yes when I would normally say no. And sometimes I'm saying no when I feel I "should" say yes.

I printed and framed Neil's wish so I can be reminded of my brave, new way of thinking. It floats around my house, and pops up in new places from time to time. Even that brings me joy.

Printed in Comic Sans MS. I felt it was appropriate, as the Sandman series was my first introduction to Neil's work.

Of course, now I'm afraid the copyright police will come knocking on my door for posting Neil's wish without appropriate permissions. I know I'm not lucky enough to have Neil come knocking. Good thing, as I'm afraid my house isn't clean enough to receive guests. 

I Am Lisa Simpson. Almost.

I have a confession.  I watch The Simpsons. Regularly. I've done so for years.


On Sunday one of my favourite authors, Neil Gaiman, appeared as himself on the show. I loved it. Neil, as always, was wonderful, but his guest appearance wasn't the only thing that had me laughing out loud. The episode poked fun at the publishing industry, teen lit, the vampire genre, bookstore/coffee shops,  writing by committee and itself. What from that list wouldn't appeal to me? Yet with all these topics to enjoy, it was Lisa's struggle with her writing that had me laughing loudest. 


When a disillusioned Lisa discovers that her favourite series is written by cubicle-bound ghost writers she decides to write her own tween lit novel. She gets as far as "Chapter One" before the distractions set in.  I wish I could list these distractions for you.  I'm tempted to  fire up the PVR and watch the show again so I can give you an accurate summary of Lisa's non-writing process.  I'm going to resist that temptation, but I will admit that I spent a significant chunk of time this morning trying to find clips online.  Are you beginning to see some similarities here?


What do I remember? Lisa with her laptop at the coffee shop. She signs onto the internet in case she needs to do some "research" while writing her novel. (I currently have two, now three, tabs open in the browser.) Once Lisa logs on she feels that she needs to compensate the coffee shop for using its free internet, so she lines up to buy a snack.  (I had breakfast, a tea, a coffee and two snacks before I finally sat down to write.) 


Once back in her room, Lisa is distracted by a tiny spot on her window.  She is shown scrubbing at it from inside, then later from outside. If you've read this post you'll know why I found that particularly funny.  (Four tabs open.) Nothing like a speck of dirt, or fuzzy felt feet, to keep a writer from writing. 


Lisa's trials with her novel are juxtaposed with the successes of a novel-writing team. This team includes, among others, Bart, Homer and Neil.  It's Neil's job to get lunch for the group.  (Five tabs open. Six. Seven.)  I don't know how pizza delivered by "British Fonzie" isn't a distraction for the group.  It certainly would be for me. I guess my relationship with pizza isn't as strong as Homer's.    


The similarities between Lisa's writing process and mine tickled me to no end. It comforts me to know that someone out there has the same issues, even if that someone is a fictional yellow girl (or the writer(s) of a fictional yellow girl). No wonder I keep watching this show. I'm Lisa Simpson, almost.  The difference being that, unlike Lisa,  between distractions I sometimes manage to write.