Clearing The Air About My Derrière

I've been thinking lately about my butt.

I've always had a problem with it, and it's the opposite of what women stereotypically worry about: mine is too small. I have a hard time filling out jeans, and I worry that it makes my bit of muffin top look extra muffiny because it doesn't quite fill out the space under the lovehandles.

So yes, if you are keeping score, two of my biggest physical concerns are that my boobs are too big and my ass is too small. FINE, so my life is not THAT TERRIBLE.

But back to my butt. (FOCUS, people.) When I have complained about it to boyfriends past and present, they say the same thing: "Sure, it's small. But it packs a punch." Which....I don't even know what that means, but I appreciate the sentiment (usually followed by grabbing attempts I have to then ward off--serves me right for mentioning it.)

What I'm saying is: I have a complex about my caboose and the men who've loved me have never done anything to create that complex.

I think it's other women.

Since the moment I realized that the size of my tush could potentially be something to think about, there have been girls--friends--who have had something to say about mine. Specifically how small it is. I don't think anyone has meant to make me feel bad. But I think it's a bit like if you complain about your sister and then your friend is like, "Yeah, your sister is TOTALLY crazy." And your hair lights on fire and you scream, "YOU SHUT YOUR HOLE ABOUT MY SISTER."*

It's kinda like that. I can complain about my imperfections all I want. But you're not allowed to actually AGREE with me, dude. When you complain about your looks, a girl friend's job is to DENY, DENY, DENY. And when they don't? You know you have a problem.

I bring it up because I think it's something to consider--how much blame we may put on media or on the way men react to women for giving us such complexes. But I've realized, more often than not, men don't notice those imperfections we agonize over daily. They basically think we're pretty...and that's as far as they've gone with it. And sure, the media gives us rear ends to aspire to. But ever since Sir Mixalot pulled up quick to retrieve it, they come in all shapes and sizes and (with a few notable exceptions) do not a movie star make.

When we complain about the imperfections that bug us, the only ones who listen are other women. Presumably because they're worried about their own problems. Since it's something I worry about on myself, I notice other girls' butts. Often. It's weird. Not that I'm leering--more like analyzing. Like how a girl who hates her nose notices other girls' noses, I stare at butts. They are fairly hypnotizing. I see why people enjoy them. And what's funny is, when I see someone with a small patoot, I've never thought "that lady has a bad butt." Sure, I've occasionally thought, "She needs better pants," but never a better butt. So why do I think I'm the exception? Why do I worry that everyone is walking around judging my posterior, as though they have nothing better to do with their lives? Do I just need more hobbies?

I don't really have a big point here, at least not yet. But I thought I'd see if anyone had thoughts on the subject. Also, I'm not sure how these issues play out in LGBT duos. I'm not a relationship expert, I'm just a chick with a blog. But I'm really interested to hear how it may differ...or how it's still exactly the same.

Anyone else willing to call their butt to the attention of the court?


*Oh, calm down. No one talked smack about you, it was an example. Quit being totally crazy.

More Ranting About Bras

I will only say this ONE MORE TIME, PEOPLE. (Okay, that's a lie and we all know it...I will probably tell you this at least twice more by the end of the week.)

GO. GET. YOURSELF. AN ACTUAL. BRA FITTING. And not from Victoria's Secret. I'm talking Nordstrom, I'm talking Soma, I'm talking Intimacy, I' m talking Bravissimo for my large-chested UK readers (Oh did I not mention how international I am? Because I sooooo am.) Just for the love of GOD go do it.

Sorry, I'm having a mental breakdown this morning about this. But they had "The Bra Whisperer" on WGN this morning and she's showing before and afters of women in bras, and she said "We've switched her to a 32E" and the news lady was like "32 EEEEE?!?!?!?! DOES THAT EVEN EXIST?!?!?!?!?!?!?!? KJSGI{ONG"RLSNJSGI:JSEFPJWERLJN" And the woman just ignored her and moved on. No. NO, BRA WHISPERER. You should have whipped around, smacked that woman in the face and set her straight.

I'm talking one of these:



This is the problem with the world right now. Screw religious zealots and global warming--THE HUMAN RACE HAS A MISCONCEPTION ABOUT BOOBS AND WE NEED TO FIX IT BEFORE WE CAN MOVE ON.

FACT: 85% of women are wearing the wrong bra size. If you are not 100% confident that you are wearing the perfect size for you, guess what? You are one of the 85%. You are wearing the wrong size. You.

The thing about the woman who was the 34E? She didn't look "big chested." Joe and I were both watching (torture for Joe, I'm SURE) and as my face turned a nice shade of FIRE, I said, "See? THAT girl is an E! And does she look big?" And Joe said, hands down, NO. She did not look big. Granted, he also probably didn't want to be clawed into a million tiny pieces, but I'm pretty sure he ALSO agreed with me.

But when you hear anything DD or above, your mind goes here:


When it should actually go here:


That is a screen grab from the video of the Bra Whisperer, which you can watch in full here. And do you see what I'm talking about? THAT is a 32E. THAT, you guys.

And that's all I have to say about that.

10 Steps To Making A Man Fall In Love With You

Okay, fine. I’m no expert. I have no degrees or training in relationships. Hmm, what would that look like? Girlfriend 101: Be Nice...Girlfriend 350: Dealing With Farts?

But I do think I have some idea about how to snag a fella. Not only have I done it, but I have also done it WRONG many, many times. Which means I have learned. I have done just about everything that ACTUAL relationship experts tell you not to do. And I have taken those learnings and put together my own list of the ten basic things you need to be able to do if you want to make your man fall desperately, madly, slightly embarrassingly in love with you.

Of course, this is assuming you’ve found a guy who’s worth falling in love with. Don’t just pick some schmo off the street and try these tactics out. That’d be creepy. I don’t want any of you citing me on Cops, because I will NOT defend you.

All I’m going for here is this: maybe you’re really good at snagging guys. Whether they fawn over you at the bar, or you have some kind of award-winning OK Cupid profile, you’ve figured out how to make a gentleman raise one eyebrow and stroke his beard. But maybe you have a harder time holding onto them. For some mysterious reason, they just don’t make it past the 1 or 2 or 6 month mark. Well, here’s what I’m thinking:


10 STEPS TO MAKING A MAN FALL IN LOVE WITH YOU
By Emily

1. Don't make him do lame stuff.

Don’t take him shopping. Don’t drag him to movies with Jennifer Aniston or Ashton Kutcher. Don’t make him sit in the corner while you and your girl friends scream “Girls Just Want To Have Fun” at karaoke. Go do your girl thing and leave him at home. You’ll both be happier.


2. Speak up.

If there is one phrase that is unanimously hated among boys, it is “I don’t know, what do YOU want to do?” Buck up. Make a decision. The great thing about guys is, they don’t have secret hidden layers like girls do. They tell you what they want, and they tell you what they don’t want. I know, right? It’s baffling. As the great Kelly Kapoor once said, “I mean, who says exactly what they’re thinking? What kind of game is that?” But it’s not a game! They’re just that low-maintenance! And all they want in return is for us to be blunt and honest when we know that we want to get a burrito and go dancing. Or eat a burrito, buy some Maalox and rent Ace Ventura 2: When Nature Calls.


3. Make him a sandwich, woman.

I’m not saying you should be his slave. But when he’s at your place, be a good hostess. Offer him a soda. Grill him up some cheese. Show him that you’re a giver. Then when you’re at HIS place, he can make you things. Because relationships are a give and take. Just because you make him a meal does not mean that you’ve lost the Women’s Rights battle. If you expect him to always bring YOU presents and give YOU massages and buy YOU meals, you’re going to see a boyfriend-shaped puff of smoke where he once stood. So grab a palm frond, peel some grapes, and show some love.


4. Realize when you've been talking for an hour.

The easiest way to figure out how much you’ve been talking is at a restaurant: If he has practically finished his chicken carbonara and your meatballs are untouched and cold, maybe you need to slow it down there, lady. Take a breath. Ask him a question and shove a little food in your gob. Don’t you love those people who you see after a long time apart and they seem legitimately interested in the things you’ve been up to? You could be one of those people! How was his day? What are his thoughts on Palestine? Whatever! Just ask!


5. Take care of him when he’s sick.

This one’s a little tricky because you have to wait around until he’s under the weather. But when he is, SWEEP IN! Let those mothering instincts take over. Cold compresses, chicken soup, medicine. Read a book nearby while he sleeps. And importantly: ask nothing in return. Don’t be that girl who’s like, “Back massage, Baby? Try not to get any phlegm on me this time.” Basically, be the person you wish you had when you were sick.


6. Stop complaining.

Honestly, I am taking this one out of Men Are From Mars. But here’s the deal: women bring their problems to other women because we like to share. That’s how we show love. But dudes only bring their problems to other dudes when it is A Problem That Needs Fixing and he can’t do it on his own. So basically, when you spend half an hour talking about your terrible experience at The IHOP, all he hears is “Help me with my strawberry syrup problem! What can I do? What did I do wrong? Fix it!” And if you keep riding that complaining train, he’s not going to stay on it for very long because it’s grating and stressful. You’ll end up at Alone Junction. And probably DoubleStuffOreoville.


7. Get a good-fitting bra.

Nothing makes you look sloppier than a bra from Victoria’s Secret. Go to Nordstrom and do it now. This actually won’t make him fall in love with you, it’s just my personal quest. But you know what? No. It WILL make him fall in love with you. Because you’ll look better, you’ll feel better, and he’ll want to be around someone who looks and feels like a million bucks. Which you will. If you go to Nordstrom. Stop it, Emily, you’re scaring them.


8. Learn how to do something for yourself.

Like change a tire. Or unplug a toilet. Whatever self-help level you’re at is fine. It's amazing how impressed guys can be by the littlest thing that girls ‘aren’t supposed’ to do. “Whoah, you aren’t afraid to kill spiders? You’re so cool.” “Whoah, you can chop wood? You’re so cool.” “Whoah, you built a house using nothing but hair ties and a can-do attitude? You’re so cool.” Whatever it is. Guys want a girl who can hitch up her pants and get things done.


9. Have a conversation with his friends when he’s not around.

Whether your boyfriend’s in another state or just in the bathroom, show his friends that you can be a cool person without him backing you up. The thing is, his friends just want to know if their bud’s gf has his best interests in mind and makes him happy. So be the supportive, fun person you are, and hopefully you’ll win a few hearts over.


10. Be interested in the stuff he loves.

I mean, you don’t have to become a die-hard Lakers fan or learn the ins and outs of the Lamborghini or pick up the keytar. But if he’s a woodsman, go camping with him for a weekend. Watch a couple soccer games. Go see his band play. Be supportive! And if you hate the stuff he loves? Um...why are you dating him?



Really all I'm saying here is to be the other-half you wish you had for yourself. Do you want a mean, complaining, uncaring boyfriend? No. And he doesn’t either. So please, ladies, take my advice: be the person you’d want to date. Be nice. And deal with farts. I’m just saying.

PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT: Victoria’s Secret Sucks

BEWARE BEFORE YOU READ: This post is intended for my lady readers. Men, feel free to keep reading if you want to have some real talk about bras. Otherwise I'll see you next week. You've been warned.

Yesterday there was a big Advertising Halloween party at an editing house. It was great! Free beer, free fun, loud music…OH, and once again I ended up on my soapbox about getting a bra fitting at Nordstrom in the middle of the crowded dance floor.



I am shocked—SHOCKED—that I have had this blog for almost an entire year and I have yet to write a post about bra fittings.

Here is the nub and gist of it: if you have only gotten a bra fitting at Victoria’s secret, dusted off your hands and called it a day, YOU ARE WEARING THE WRONG SIZE BRA. I will put money down on that fact to ANY of you.

Here is how I know:

Every SINGLE person who I know (and I know at least six off the top of my head) that thought they were wearing the right size according to Victoria and then went to Nordstom, found out that they were TWO whole cup-sizes bigger. And every person, once wearing the new Nordstrom bra, felt better, perkier, more holstered, and more comfortable than they ever had before.

And of course, me included.

I have known people to go in thinking they were an “unattractive” (and I use those quotes EMPHATICALLY) 36A their entire young lives, to come out finding they’re a lovely, enviable 36C. I have known people to go in thinking they were a droopy awkward 36D to come out finding they actually feel slimmer and more comfortable in their 32F.

Nothing makes me sadder than someone who looks like they feel awkward in their own boobs. Except maybe someone who laments that they’re an A when even I can now take one look at them and guarantee them that they’re bigger.

Oprah did a whole show and has online info on bra fittings, and guess who sponsored the whole thing? NORDSTROM.

GO. TO. NORDSTROM. OPRAH SAYS SO.

And don't even give me the "I don't WANT to be 2 sizes bigger!" excuse. Because trust me, you do. You will once you feel what a difference it makes in the way you feel and walk and stand.

And speaking of big boobs--It annoys me GREATLY that people think enormous boobs are DDs. I remember a crass frat boy telling a story and saying "they were the biggest boobs I've ever seen in real life. They were like DOUBLE Ds, dude." Guess what. If they were the biggest boobs you've ever seen in real life? She was at least an H (That's five Ds). I guarantee that you see double Ds every day of your life. But because most stores, including VS, only go as high as DD, everyone assumes that's the biggest anyone could be, and anything higher would be a freak show. And anyone who is bigger is not told by the VS people that she is actually too big to fit their bras. She is simply given the wrong size and sent on her merry way, jiggling uncomfortably down the street. It's no wonder 8 out of 10 women are wearing the wrong size bra. These people have probably been fitted by Victoria.

GO.

TO.

NORDSTROM.

And even if you go and find out Victoria’s Secret was right (there’s a first for everything, I suppose), I have another reason you should get your bras from Nordstrom: they have the best return policy in the whole wide world.

Here’s a fun little story for you. Walk with me, won’t you?

A few years ago, I bought a bra from Nordstrom that didn’t fit me right (I tried sizing myself without help. I was wrong.) But I didn’t realize that until I’d worn it for an entire 90 degree day. As you can guess, things got a little sweaty up in here. Well I didn’t want to be The Girl Who Returned a Bra With Sweat Stains, so I washed it. Then I realized that I needed to dry it quickly so I could get to Nordstrom before they closed. But they say not to throw it in the dryer. So what did I do?

That’s right, I used a blow dryer. Face, I’d like to introduce you to Palm. You should be friends.

I noticed that the place I was blow drying was becoming a different color. I thought it was just the water drying. I kept going. Then I stopped. I looked harder. Oh yes. I had MELTED MY BRA. My bra that I needed to exchange for a different size.

I think I screamed. I definitely cried. And since my mom was at work, my poor dad had to be the one to try and console his hysterical daughter cradling a half-wet, half-melted bra in her hands. But he told me I should still try to exchange it.

So I did.

I walked up to the girl at the lingerie register, gave her the short version of the story, and (at this point I was basically on my knees with my clenched, entwined hands raised above my head in desperation) asked if there was any way she could exchange this one with a different size.

The girl, who was probably about my age, gave me a look like I cannot BELIEVE I am about to do this for you and said, “What size do you need?”

And that, my friends, is why you HAVE to go to Nordstrom. RIGHT. NOW. You HAVE to.

Please get a fitting. Even if you are old enough to remember Gandhi. DO IT. If you can go to Oak Brook, ask for Faye. She’ll help a sister out. If you have to go to the one downtown Chicago, then that’s probably better than nothing, but the suburban Nordstroms are best. Hopefully for those reading outside of the Chicagoland area, your Nordstrom is good, too. If not, hop on the next train and get over here. I am not exaggerating when I say that it will change your life.

Or at least it’ll change the way you fill out a dress.

Why Unemployment Might Have Fixed Me

Now that I'm back in the work force and a functioning member of society again, I have been looking at my tenure of unemployment and analyzing exactly what it's meant for my life. And what I've decided is: it was awesome.

Not while it was happening, of course. And not in a "hooray, I haven't saved any money in the past 3.5 years" way. But in a way that I honestly, truly believe it's made me a better copywriter and actually a better person in some ways. So in no order...

Why Unemployment Might Have Fixed Me


1) I try at work again.

I used to think I wasn't fireable. Mostly because everyone told me so. "No, no. You don't make enough to be worth letting go." Well guess what, kids? It's a recession. Everyone's fireable. Knowing that, and knowing that whatever I used to do wasn't enough to keep my job, now I'm like Bugs Bunny. I race from 1st base to throw the ball and then over to 3rd to catch it...occasionally announcing things as I do them in an old-school, nasally sportscaster voice. "It's Emily to the printer. Emily back to her desk. Emily back to the printer. And there she goes! I don't believe it! I just don't believe it! She actually! Printed! Out! The copy! For! The! Meeting! This is a momentous day, ladies and gentleman. A momentous day."

2) I appreciate tv now.

When I was unemployed, TV was like an evil plastic box filled with talk shows and soaps which did nothing but remind me that the good shows weren't on until Real People got home.
Now I see my TV as a savior. Here to comfort me softly, like a rocking hug. It's here to fill my life with knowledge and laughter when my brain is too tired to fill itself on its own.

3) I got a better fashion sense.

I am not...how you say...fashionable. I don't think I ever will be. Old Navy flip flops are the only shoe that won't give me blisters and my awkward boob-to-butt ratio makes me just awkward-looking enough to avoid 90% of most styles. BUT! Once I became unemployed and I couldn't spend my money on clothes anymore, I had to learn to appreciate what I already had in my closet. No more turnover. You hate that shirt? Well, will you hate it when it's literally the only thing left in your closet? Or will you slap a vest on it, add a belt, steal a skirt from your sister and realize it was actually okay this whole time?

4) I lost weight.

The thing is, when you are unemployed and the only way to stop yourself from spending the day conversing with your roommate's cat is by going to the gym, you form a different relationship with working out. It became the thing that got me out of the house. The thing that helped me forget my stress. The reason that I couldn't spend the entire day without brushing my teeth or putting on deodorant (Am I the only one who loses all sense of hygiene as soon as there's no one to clean up for? No? Just me?) And in that way, as a source of entertainment, the gym was--dare I say it?--kind of fun.

5) I became a better cook.

The only OTHER thing I had to do all day besides working out was looking at recipes and walking up and down the aisles of Jewel. I would have been all kinds of awesome at that Supermarket Dash show or whatever it was called--you know, where people run up and down the isles looking for things and running their carts into all kinds of stuff and you feel a little sad and awkward because the lighting is weird, so you switch over to the Price Is Right, where everything's a little less blue and the microphones are longer and the music is soothing to your ears? ...God, I really did watch a lot of daytime tv. What was I saying? Oh, right. Cooking. I'm better at it now.


So that's about it. Unemployment has fixed me. Or...parts of me. What do you think? Other ways that unemployment/underemployment has taught you a lesson?

I Hate Running. There. I Said It.

GOD!! DO I ever learn anything EVER?! How many times do I have to jinx something before I STOP TELLING PEOPLE ABOUT STUFF?! First rule of jinx: don't talk about stuff. (Second rule: make sure the soda machine is not sold out of Coke.)

So the apartment we were hoping for yesterday was denied. Wah wah wahhhhh. It's really fine. There were things about it that we weren't crazy about. So now we don't have to deal with those things. But now, in honor of jinxing things, I'm not telling you people NOTHING. So suck on that.

So now I am sulking and eating salsa like Rupert Grint's life depends on it. (It might.) And sometimes the salsa is a little spicy but it's okay to feel pain because at least then I feel SOMETHING.

I'm sorry. That joke was not okay. HEY! You know what else is not okay? Running. Running, my friends. Who decided that running was an "activity" and not something reserved for life-saving situations only? Also, who decided not to renew her gym membership for this month to save money? I want to kill both of those people right now, and then spend my life worshiping the elliptical gods.

4 Reasons why Running Sucks:

1. Running is medically bad for you.
Okay, technically it has its benefits. Heart, lungs, all that nonsense. But your joints and bones do not appreciate it. And who decided that your heart is more important than your bones anyway, hmm? You know what your bones would appreciate? A hearty glass of chocolate milk and a nice recliner. And I have to say, I agree.

2. Throat Issues
Why, as soon as I run more than a block, does my throat decide that now would be a good time to close itself off/fill up with mucus? What kind of defense mechanism is THAT? "Oh you're trying to be healthy/save lives? Here, let me help you by hurting a lot and giving you all kinds of gross things to cough up while you run."

3. Lowered Attractiveness Level
Some girls look good when they run. They're all lean and standing tall and their sports bra matches their iPod and their elbows are pointed in the same direction and it's all well and good. I, on the other hand, have on a college t-shirt with sweat stains and am leaning forward, hacking and gagging on my newly acquired phlegm. And somehow I get the feeling that I really more shuffle than run for the most part.

4. Boobs.
I'm just going to throw this one out there: Boobs. I have them. AND HOW. And it's lovely most of the time, because I get to be oggled by douchebags in bars/yelled at by homeless men on the street (some girls get ALL the luck.) But running? Yeah, it's a problem. Mostly, it's embarrassing trying to figure out how to run without folding your arms in front of you.

I'm not against aerobic activity. I'm all about being healthy and working the heart and giving your deodorant its chance to shine. But really. The odds are stacked up against running. I'm sorry, but it's science.