The Busty Pear

Dear Ever-So-Sought-After Fashion Magazine,

Every time I open your magazine, your pages are filled with fabulous ideas of how to dress according to body type. This includes busty babes, petite cutie pies, curvaceous chickadees, and pear shaped vixens. I give kudos to you for praising all body types, however, I find that I'm both a busty babe and a pear shaped vixen. Just call me Kim Kardashian. Because of this, I feel like a ginger in a school yard. Now what?

Sincerely,
The Busty Pear

In other news, I've managed to scare my dog today, as well as make the world's most interesting politically incorrect typo ever; I typed back boner instead of back burner. Yeah, all that happened. At least the typo was yesterday, so I can allow myself a bit of a sigh of relief knowing that much fail did not evade one solid day. On the other hand, if we sat and brainstormed as to why Charlie Sheen was such a tool, we'd learn that my fails were still more of a win than any win he's had in the last few months. Sad, isn't it?

Also in the works for my *new book, Realtors Say the Darnedest Things, are the following quips. The other day, I was at a Realtor open for a three quarter of a million dollar house. I see your problem with this, and no, I'm not a Realtor. I went with my mom because I wanted to see the house. I also got free lunch, but that's not the point. The house was gorgeous, had an amazing floor plan, with open rooms and a park like atmosphere to the land. However, the bathrooms were stuck in the eighties. Stuck like glue, guys. The house was built in the 90s, but that didn't seem to matter to the bathrooms. They had that a-little-kid-went-apeshit-with-the-crayons wallpaper, the mauve sinks and tubs, and the snazzy black and pink granite counter tops. Since only Realtors come to the open, they all end up congregating and talking about the house openly.

At one point, one of the Realtors came down the hallway, stood in front of us, and then said, "If you had a medical condition, that bathroom could give you a stroke." He was not lying. Directly after this, he went upstairs. Several seconds later I heard him yell, "WOW!" The only thing worse than the downstairs bathroom...was the upstairs bathroom. Guess where he was when he yelled that?

A little while later, another Realtor came. She began to regal us with a story of her first sale twenty some odd years ago. She told us how her first client was so difficult to work with that she almost quit her job. On her first sale. She said she actually cried and tried to rationalize her quitting by saying that real estate school hadn't been all that expensive or time consuming, and she could always go back to school for something else. Who was that client, you may wonder. My grandpap. Yep, Squirrel Monkeys, no lie. I giggled uncontrollably and had to put my food down so I didn't choke.

You have to understand that I hear these stories about my grandpap consistently and have since I was little. After hearing the one about the Indian who went on the warpath with him in the middle of a 4-H meeting in front of several people, nothing surprises me anymore. However, that's not who my grandpap ever was to me. He was the most loving, kind and gentlest person there was. He took care of me, loved me, and is the only reason I know that someone can care so selflessly for another person. But apparently he was only like that with me. I figured a long time ago that I could choose to see him in a different light and be upset or just remember who he was to me and the way he treated me and always carry that with me and laugh off the stories. I do the latter.

* I'm not really writing a book about this, although I could. I just don't think I could do so inconspicuously. I don't want people hating me.