Carry On, Good Soldier!

I smile every time I see the new Halls subway ads. The expressions are ridiculous, but I love the attitude they encapsulate: “You can do it. You matter. It makes a difference that you get up in the morning and go to work, raw nose and all. You are an unsung hero.”



I’ll take my encouragement anywhere I can find it.

Today I carry on with organizing my office desk, a task I’ve avoided for several weeks. This picture is actually an improvement over how it looked yesterday morning.

On the wardrobe planning front, I have so far earned an F. But since it isn’t yet the end of the world, I have time to improve. Besides, on the empty-my-inbox front, I earned an A+ this past week.

I hope your holiday weekend was a good one and that you’re rested and ready to charge into the week ahead.

Thankful Eating

Just one more quote from Permission Slips before it goes back to the library. This is exactly how I feel about food, minus the diabetes to reign me in:

If I was cured of diabetes, which meant that the only side effect from overeating was getting fat, I’d drive straight to a McDonald’s and order ten number 6s. With a regular Coke, not diet. [. . . ] I have been good for so long, there would be no stopping me. Grocery stores within a one-mile radius of my home would have to hire armed security guards. Ice cream would have to be delivered by Brinks, because I would be out of my mind.

My goal tomorrow is to enjoy Thanksgiving dinner. Last year we began the day with a breakfast of everything we love so that by the time dinner arrived, I could barely fit another thing in. I dutifully cleaned my plate, however, because that’s what you do on Thanksgiving, but tomorrow I start the day with Shredded Wheat. This way, I know I will feel thankful for each bite at dinner.

By the way, Sherri can fit into size 6 jeans and wears a size 10 dress. She lost four inches from her bust once she decided to take her diabetes seriously, but she’s still a DD. According to this article, when asked if she would ever consider breast reduction, she answered, “What?! No! I would never ever, ever, ever. I don’t care how old they get and how long they get, I’m going to love my boobs. I’d never get rid of them.” I heart Sherri Shepherd. (Nothing after the jump.)

Giving Myself a Reading Break

The good news: We closed yesterday! The bad news: I have an appointment with a landlord-tenant attorney this afternoon to begin eviction proceedings against our former tenant, also known as the new owner’s current squatter.

In the midst of this tense situation, I’m loving Permission Slips, Every Woman’s Guide to Giving Herself a Break, by Sherri Shepherd. She’s making me laugh all over the place. And just as I suspected, she has something to say about large breasts. This is from the chapter “Chesticles”:

I started writing heckler lines ahead of time to prepare for the black crowds. One problem I had was actually two. My breasts. They are large, and people feel like they can comment on them as soon as I take the stage. Like me being a comedian gives them some kind of diplomatic immunity and they can be rude.

If I didn’t acknowledge my chest immediately, the audience would get restless. Does she know how big her breasts are? Invariably, someone would shout, “Damn! Look at those titties!”

I’d catch men in the act of staring at them all the time. At the law firm, I couldn’t really say anything [(I can relate–see here)]. But onstage, I could call them out.

“Don’t look down there, the jokes ain’t coming from my boobs, they coming out of my mouth, look up.”

I’d disarm the women: “You got a little appetizer, but mine is like a whole buffet. You can put mine in a refrigerator and warm them up in the microwave and they’d still be good.”

Still, the black audiences were much more vocal about my breasts, and they did not let go of the topic just because I’d told a few jokes. One night, I cooked up a great heckler line. All I had to do was deliver it with complete, tough-girl confidence and the audience would be mine.

My plan was, no matter what a guy said about my chest, to say, “You so broke, you couldn’t even afford my breasts. You have to put my breasts on layaway.” (Now this was back in the 1990s before Visa started giving credit to everyone. If you wanted something that was too expensive, you put it on layaway.)

So there I was, onstage at the Townhouse in Inglewood. And this is the night that the pimps brought their hoes to the show. This is a demanding audience. This is their equivalent of a lunch break; they go right back to work after the show. I had to bring it.

Someone heckled me. I summoned my inner ho and said, “You couldn’t. You. Uh. My titties got . . . to be on layaway!”

I’d fumbled the ball at the Super Bowl. The audience stood up, the pimps and their hoes, and started doing that Apollo thing.

“BOO! BOO!” Their hands pointing to the part of the stage where they would like me to go–off. I couldn’t talk over their boos. I still wince thinking of that walk of shame to the bathroom.

D.L. Hughley was the host. He found me afterward, crying. “Sherri,” he said, “you have to get back up on that stage. Come back next week and get up on that stage.”

I didn’t want to hear it. The audience had won. I had been crushed, and I wanted to surrender forever.

But I took D.L.’s advice and I came back the next week. And I killed.

Closing Today!

If all goes well, we close on the sale of Mr. Campbell’s house today. Our outgoing tenants only last night discovered that their new apartment doesn’t have enough room for all their stuff, so there’s a little bit of drama in today’s transaction.

Meanwhile, here’s a picture of Iris and Jan, my VIT, at a fit meeting last Thursday. I loved listening to these two experts compare stories, and we’re one step closer to a shirt for you. (Nothing after the jump.)