BRA FITTINGS AND VIBRATORS

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

If the title of this post doesn't cause me to turn up in some interesting searches, then I don't know what will.

Actually, I read two blog posts on which I feel the need to expand.

First, Bobbi at Gracie Owns Me wrote about getting a bra fitting. She found it rather discomfiting and said she doesn't even say "panties." She prefers "underwear."

This post caused me to remember the one bra fitting I've had in my life. It was probably about 25 years ago (obviously I enjoyed it so much that I haven't longed to try it again).

I saw a sign in a department store, don't remember which one it was, and it said they were going to have someone from Playtex in the store to do bra fittings for free. I'd never had a comfortable bra, so although the thought of a bra fitting made me absolutely cringe, I showed up at the store at the appointed time.

The Playtex representative was a very pretty young woman. She was chatting with a sales clerk. They looked at me with disdain when I whispered I was there for the free bra fitting. 

The Playtex girl, who was probably no older than I was, asked questions about what size I was wearing and how did it fit and that sort of thing. I don't remember her taking my measurements. She grabbed a couple of bras and took me to a fitting room with orders to put one on and tell her when I was ready.

I put on the first bra and called out, Excuse me? I'm ready!

She whipped open the door and glared at me. This doesn't fit, she said as if it were my fault. Look. You're pooching out the sides.

Pooching? That must have been a bra technical term. She ordered me to put on the other bra and said she'd be back.

So I put it on and stood there in the dressing room, waiting and waiting and waiting. She never returned.

So I got dressed and walked out. The Queen of Playtex said, Oh, didn't it fit?

Nope, I said, and walked away.

Soon after that I discovered that sports bras had been invented and it was much easier to find a sports bra that fit. Then eventually I tried a bra from Victoria's Secret and figured out the correct size on my own, and I order them online. When I do go into a Victoria's Secret store, the sales clerks always offer me a bra fitting, and I say, No thanks. I know my size.

I don't want random people staring at my boobs in a bra, and then dumping me while I stand around scantily clad. It would be like a date with Coffey when Judy tells him to get his butt home.

As for "panties" v. "underwear," I grew up with some confusion regarding that word. My mom called underwear "pants." When I was in about fifth grade, I realized that what my mom called slacks were called pants by other people and that what my mom called pants were known as underwear or weren't mentioned at all.

I changed my vocabulary to avoid confusion with the rest of the world. I now feel comfortable saying panties, and so I do. For example, after Christmas I told Elvis Aaron Schwarz that I had used a VS gift card to get three sets of matching panties and bras. Then I showed him one of the new sets. While I was in them. He seemed pleased.

Hi! Remember me?
My name is Elvis Aaron Schwarz.
I like my baby doll in her panties or out of them.
Whatever.
I always remember to tell her she's beautiful and desirable.

Oh, that Elvis Aaron Schwarz. His compliments are the best cuz he really means them.

And now onto vibrators. Or maybe I should say on to vibrators. Little Lotta Joy reorganized her linen closet. Click HERE to see the results.

Of course, the first thing I noticed is what I think is a vibrator, so being me, which means politely and pleasantly curious about other people's private stuff, I asked if that was a vibrator in the closet. She said no, that it was a curling iron. When a couple of other people commented on my comment, she said that I think anything long and black is a vibrator!

Well, I felt compelled to point out that I don't own a vibrator, but my mom had one. It said on the box that it was a chin vibrator. I think I was in the third grade when she got it. I took it out of the box and put in on my chin and turned it on. I didn't think it felt all that great or relaxing like the box promised.

My mom said, Leave that alone. That's for me.

I never saw the chin vibrator again. I realize now that the curved shape just seemed so right for . . . you know. But I do not want to think about my mom with a vibrator and I don't care that my parents had six kids. Those people who claimed to be my parents did not have sex.

Some people have suggested to me that I need an arsenal of sex toys and have even given me links so I could purchase them online and not go into a store and whisper that I want a vibrator and which kind is best?

I guess when it comes to vibrators I'm like Bobbi about saying underwear. She prefers to say underwear, and I prefer not to have a vibrator.

But if I see a photo of your closet and it obviously has a vibrator in it, then of course I shall very sweetly and innocently ask you about it. 

So, to the rest of you who take on organizing projects and post photos of them: Hide the vibrator.

Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

MOVIE WEEKEND: HYSTERIA

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

The Hurricane recommended this movie to me, and now I recommend it to you. It's Hysteria, released in 2011 and available on DVD.

It seems half the ladies in Victorian London suffer from hysteria, a problem associated with the uterus.

Mrs. Bellamy: I truly don't even know why I'm here, doctor. 
[pen scraping] 
Mrs. Bellamy: Well, of course it's difficult running a large household by oneself. And raising four children is exacting, but they're wonderful, wonderful children. And my husband, he's a good man. A very hard worker. Um... Ahem. Well, there is just one thing. Sometimes at night, when he comes to me, I imagine myself splitting his fat bald head with a great large ax.

Dr. Robert Dalrymple (Jonathan Pryce) has built quite a practice by relieving the women of their hysteria through vulvar manipulation that brings on "paroxysms." Dr. Dalrymple is so successful at pleasing the women and thus releasing their nervousness and negative feelings, that he hires a doctor to work with him. This handsome young fellow, Mortimer Granville (Hugh Dancy), is so successful at pleasuring his patients that he can't keep up with them. Overloaded with work, he can no longer perform the task at hand and is fired by Dr. Dalrymple.

However, Dr. Granville has a friend, Edmund St. John-Smythe (Rupert Everett), a wealthy playboy who enjoys experimenting with electricity. Soon, St. John-Smythe and Granville develop a plan to put electricity to work to reduce the women's distress.

Edmund St. John-Smythe: [brainstorming] The Rubby-Nubby. 
Mortimer Granville: The Vibratorium. 
Edmund St. John-Smythe: The Jiggly-Wiggly? 
Mortimer Granville: Paroxysmator. 
Edmund St. John-Smythe: Oh, the Sorcerer's Apprentice. 
Mortimer Granville: The Excitetator? 
Edmund St. John-Smythe: Mr. Wobbly. 
Mortimer Granville: Oh, please. 
Edmund St. John-Smythe: What about, The Squealer? 

The rest, as they say, is history. Supposedly this movie is based on a true story. I don't think I want to know if it's true or not. I just want to enjoy it. 

I must also mention the performance of Maggie Gyllenhaal as Dr. Dalrymple's daughter, Charlotte, who volunteers at an East End settlement house, helping the poor and delivering babies, much to the dismay of her father, who wants her to spend her days as her sister Emily (Felicity Jones) does -- playing Chopin and acting in a pleasing manner as "the angel of the house," a very important function of the Victorian woman. Emily also engages in the practice of phrenology, which leads me to the question: Does anyone know what phrenology is? No fair Googling it. I learned about it in a class on the history of the English novel.

At any head, I love Maggie Gyllenhaal, and I love the character of Charlotte.

Hysteria has The Janie Junebug Highest Seal of Approval. It's very funny and not vulgar. However, it's not for children unless you want to be asked some very-difficult-to answer questions.

Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

P.S. As some of you know, our friend Melynda no longer blogs at Crazy World. She is instead devoting herself to our good health through promoting the use of herbalife products and offering her excellent advice. You can find Mel at https://www.GoHerbalife.com/melyndafleury/en-US. Get yourself some vitamins and feel better. Try the protein shakes. They're good for you and absolutely delicious. Melynda will work with you to help you solve specific health problems and to work on weight control. About six months after I started using herbalife products I was able to give up antidepressants, and I had been on them for a number of years. I just plain feel better since Melynda taught me how to eat properly and got me taking vitamins and using organic treatments for some of my physical complaints. Melynda is not trying to take the place of a doctor. It's better to think of her as a coach. Melynda also has The Janie Junebug Highest Seal of Approval.

DOWNTON ABBEY SEASON THREE

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

Oh, how I adore Downton Abbey. I love the way that times have changed now that the first war to end all wars is over. Skirts are rising, ankles are showing, and Matthew's mom is trying to help hookers learn to sew.

If you watch Downton Abbey, then you'll know what I'm talking about. If you don't watch it and think you might want to give it a try, then SPOILER ALERT!

My buddy Rita (over at Soul Comfort Corner) and I have been burning up the ether with our email discussions of Downton Abbey, and in particular, that spinsters get up for breakfast. This all started when poor beaky-nosed Lady Edith got jilted at the altar.

How do you do?
I am poor beaky-nosed Lady Edith Crawley.
The man next to me is the dolt who left me at the altar.

Lady Edith can be kind of -- shall we say? -- pissy. Always jealous and causing trouble for her older sister, Lady Mary, who got married recently and then it was supposed to be Edith's turn, and we all know how that ended with Lady Edith dashing home from the church and casting off her veil ever so dramatically so that it gracefully floated over the staircase and to the floor in slow motion and then Lady Edith fell on the bed to sob. Exactly what I did AFTER my wedding. But, I have to admit it wouldn't be easy to have a beauty like Lady Mary as your older sister.

Hello. I was Lady Mary Crawley.
Then I married my distant cousin Mathew Crawley.
Now I am still Lady Mary Crawley.
I am a great beauty and I know it.

Mary and Edith help me realize how fortunate I am to be the youngest of five sisters and the only good looking one. It's so lovely to be hated for one's beauty. Perhaps I shall marry a distant cousin who will one day be Lord Grantham. 

Ah, but I digress.

Back to Edith being a spinster. After Edith lay on her bed and sobbed for a while and refused to eat, then she got up the next day for breakfast because, she said, spinsters get up for breakfast. The matter came up again in the most recent episode. Matthew asked Edith why she didn't stay in bed for breakfast like the other ladies. Well, Matthew, you fool, she's a spinster and she SAID spinsters get up for breakfast.

Now this whole situation has Rita and me wondering why married ladies get to stay in bed for breakfast. Rita opined that it's because of all that sex they're having, which got me to thinking that breakfast in bed might be a married lady's consolation for performing her wifely duty by lying still in bed and thinking of England.

I wonder if Queen Victoria really recommended that sexual advice to her daughters. Another digression, I know. I have a huge biography of Queen Victoria that I hope to read before I die.

So, I guess what this all really comes down to is if you know why married ladies got to have breakfast in bed, then please tell Rita and me because we are burning with desire to know what's up with ladies in bed. And shut that mouth in your dirty mind.

Infinities of Downton Abbey love,

Lady Janie Junebug

HEEEEERE'S FRANKLIN!

HI EVERYBUDDY! It's me me me me mememememememe -- Franklin the Bordernese.

Mom said I could write today's blog post cuz her throat is sore and she has a headache (whine whine whine, right?).

Besides, I have something so cool to tell you. I got to visit elvisenronshorts's house last weekend, and I THINK I'M IN LOVE.

Her name is Dixie. She is my new bitch (Mom said I should mention that I learned the word bitch from Samson who lives with Inger at Desert Canyon Living. I just thought of something else, and don't tell Mom I said this, but Mom is elvisenronshorts's bitch heheheheheheheh. Sometimes I am so funny I just crack myself up).

Here's a picture of Dixie:

Isn't she just beautiful? She likes to spin in circles when she gets a t-r-e-a-t. Mom thinks I don't know what that spells, but it means biscuit.

Dixie likes to play. We played together a lot. We ran and we sniffed each other you know where. You do know where, don't you? Out in the yard. We sniffed each other's faces. We even kissed each other on the face. Oh, Wow!

And here's the very coolest thing about Dixie: She has her very own doggie door. If she wants to go outside when it's dark and elvisenronshorts is sleeping, she doesn't even have to tell him he needs to get up to open the door. She can just go out.

elvisenronshorts said that one time his sister started screaming Oooooo! Get it out of my bed! because Dixie killed a mole and brought it in the house and put it in elvisenronshorts's sister's bed. I guess she didn't understand it was a present.

Anyway, I don't get it, but Mom says that's the reason we don't have a doggie door. Also because of the time one of her sister's dogs put a dead squirrel in bed with her. Some people just don't appreciate gifts.

I wanna ask you all something. You know I'm a Bordernese. Well, Dixie is a Rottenwiler. Do you think a Bordernese and a Rottenwiler can be in love? Wait -- I just figured it out. We're both dogs. It's okay. It doesn't matter that we're different kinds of dogs.

I hope Harper doesn't get jealous about Dixie. He's still my bromance buddy.

Thanks, elvisenronshorts, for letting me visit you and Dixie. I love you and Dixie a whole, whole bunch.

I love you, everybuddy!

Franklin the Bordernese

OFFICE DEPOT, YOU SUCK

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

Last week Elvis Aaron Schwarz got a new credit card. He activated it and then decided to break it in by buying a notebook computer at Office Depot in Gainesville, Florida (if Gainesville has more than one Office Depot, I'm sorry you're getting picked on because the manager at the other Office Depot is a dip stick). Elvis was going to use the computer at work to put in figures when he's on a water testing site. Obviously, his employer should provide him with the tools he needs, and they should pay him decently, too, but they don't.

EAS went to the cash register with the computer and his new card. The cashier swiped the card and the screen said to request an ID. Elvis showed her his ID. Then, through some error, the screen said FRAUD.

The manager said, Yeah, he looks like a deadbeat.

Elvis told the cashier that he didn't blame her for the problem and it wasn't her fault, and then he told the manager that if he said one more word he would f&*(^%! throw him through the window. Then he said, That's my truck right there. You can see the tags. Call the police if you want.

Office Depot manager, even if you think fraud is being committed, then you can still be polite in handling it unless you know for a fact that the customer is trying to get away without paying for your crappy merchandise. After all, sometimes machines and cashiers make mistakes. And you better not ever call my honey bunny a deadbeat again.

My sweetheart gets up early every morning and works hard all day long to make sure that people like YOU, dumb manager, have safe water coming out of your faucet everyday. I don't think many people appreciate how important Elvis's job is and that besides testing the water, he gets parasites from the poopy water. He also has to deal with all sorts of things that people flush that are not intended to be flushed. He shrugs it off and says it comes with the job.

But being called a deadbeat shouldn't be part of Elvis Aaron Schwarz's life.

Hi! I think you remember me.
I'm Elvis Aaron Schwarz.
I'll never shop at Office Depot again.

I'll never shop at Office Depot again, either, Elvis. 

Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

ABUSERS AND THE ABUSED

You've probably read horrific accounts of patients abused in nursing homes. And it definitely happens.

But I'm willing to bet you've never heard about the other people abused in nursing homes: staff members.

Vera, a night wanderer on the second floor, wheeled herself into her neighbors' room at about 2 a.m. "Vera," I whispered loudly, "you can't be in here. It's not your room."

Looking as fierce as a pit bull preparing to clamp down on an unsuspecting caretaker, she opened her mouth to hiss, "I can go wherever I want."

"Vera, c'mon. You'll wake these two ladies and maybe frighten them," I said, as I grabbed the handles of her chair and pulled her out of the room.

When we reached Vera's room, she turned on me and started slapping me with both her hands.

I swear to God there is no one stronger than an 80-year-old woman in a wheelchair who wants her own way and she doesn't care what she has to do to get it.

I had something on my side, though. My legs worked and I could run faster than Vera could wheel her chair.

Owen, fondly known as "Pop," got pretty pissed when a charge nurse told him he stunk and that it was my job to unstink him. He punched in our direction like a shadow boxer.

"Stay back," the nurse warned me. "He will punch you in the face if he gets the chance."

Yeah, right. So how was I supposed to get close enough to wash him? Jo came in and saved the day. Pop liked Jo because she took him to the day room to watch old episodes of The Cosby Show, which were new to him. He listened to Jo's soft voice when she promised she'd take him to watch TV after I helped him clean up.

On the third floor, my great nemesis, Dot, once grabbed my face with her long polished nails because she didn't want her diaper changed. Fortunately, one of my favorite co-workers, Carol, was there, too. I put up my hands to try to protect myself from Dot and might have hit her in self defense if Carol hadn't been there to pry Dot's claws from my face. Perhaps I wouldn't have been fired for slapping her hands in that situation, but I would have been raked over the coals and suspended for anywhere from a week to six months.

And then there was Carl, who was psychotic? schizophrenic? a sociopath?

I don't know what his diagnosis was, but Carl once told me that the lights on the building across the street were electric eyes watching him. ''I can close the blinds," I said. "We'll shut them out."

"No, it wouldn't do any good," Carl said dejectedly.

I was lucky that Carl liked me. Why some patients with mental problems took a liking to certain staff members and couldn't stand others was incomprehensible. The secret was in the patient's befuddled mind, just as it was when Carl grabbed a young man who worked in the laundry and put his hands around the kid's neck.

 It took a number of nurses and GNAs to keep Carl, still going strong at 70-some years old, from strangling the boy he happened to be in the mood to abuse.

We could't hit back. It was against the law. The only retribution I ever saw a patient face was when Letitia became angry with a pretty young LPN who tried to give Letitia her meds. Letitia chased the pretty young LPN out into the hall and tried to whack the poor girl with her cane.

Letitia was promptly hauled off for a visit to the psych ward at the local hospital.

But she soon returned to our facility.

Oh, yes. The lunatics often took over the asylum.

THOSE WHO COULD NOT SPEAK: RAYMOND

"Janie," Lynn said to me, "will you please put Raymond's shoe and sock on for him? I know his feet are cold."

"Of course, " I told our director of nursing, although I knew Raymond would remove the shoe and sock from his blue foot within minutes after I put them on.

Like Vada, Raymond was developmentally disabled. He didn't walk at all. He was incontinent and didn't speak. He had no visitors, no family as far as we knew.

Our nursing home took many indigent people from the community. I was told we had a policy of not turning away anyone in need.

Raymond spent his days using his feet to move his wheelchair up and down East Hall, the hall with the most patients. Also the hall with the most difficult cases.

When a charge nurse gave us our assignments as we began our shifts, I always asked for South Hall, but said of course I would work wherever I was needed. However, I always requested that I not be alone if I had East Hall. "Those people poop sooooo much," I often said.

Plus, they were very messy poopers -- difficult to clean up. Raymond could be especially problematic. When he was in bed and had a full diaper, if we didn't find it right away, Raymond almost always "finger painted," the phrase we used to describe a patient who used his hand to remove the feces from his diaper and smear it on his bed rails and sheets and anything else within reach.

Raymond didn't finger paint because he wanted to be nasty or cause trouble. I think he played with poop because it was there.

He never fought us or tried to be difficult when we cleaned him up. Although he took off his shoes and socks, as far as I could tell it, he did it because he liked having bare feet even though his feet were very cold. He didn't even struggle during the frequent finger sticks used to monitor his diabetes.

Raymond could feed himself, but after a few bites, he would wheel himself out of the dining room. I couldn't blame him. The food seldom looked appetizing, but he needed to eat. We had orders to encourage Raymond to eat at meals, but he didn't seem to understand what we said. He never appeared to understand what we said. He didn't seem to even listen, although he wasn't deaf.

Life for Raymond seemed much like life for a hamster running on a wheel and never getting anywhere. He was in a world of his own.

My daughter, Katharine, was a high school student when I worked at the nursing home. She had an adorable dog she had adopted at the county humane society. Emma was a large Labradoodle, adorable and full of life and love. Emma was crazy about everyone. When we took her shopping with us to buy her pet food, children always wanted to pet Emma.

"Sit," we commanded, and Emma immediately sat and held very still while the children giggled and stroked her.

Emma had the kind of furry face that made people fall in love with her immediately.

Because she was so sweet and friendly, I asked Katharine to bring Emma to the nursing home to visit the residents. So many of them were lonely and had little to distract them from the daily routine.

I had no idea that Emma's interaction with Raymond would provide one of the sweetest and most touching moments in my life.

Katharine was happy to bring Emma, so I obtained permission for the visit from our administrator, a very kind person who treated her employees and patients with respect, concern, and dignity.

Katharine and I took Emma up and down the halls. Her big tail swished with joy. She wiggled with delight at meeting so many new people and receiving so much attention.

Then she passed Raymond as he paddled along on East Hall. I was surprised that he noticed her, and even more surprised when he put out his hand to pet her.

Emma stood very still and was on her best behavior, acting the same way she did when a child wanted to pet her.

Then I heard a voice, a small hoarse whisper. It was Raymond.

"Good doggie. Good doggie," he said as he touched Emma gently.

I had tears in my eyes because of the beauty of the moment, and I thanked Katharine for providing a special evening for Raymond.

I never heard Raymond's voice again. He died soon after he met Emma.

I'm still so grateful that Emma and Katharine gave Raymond a moment of happiness before he passed away.

"Good doggie." What could be better last words?

Emma