Veni, Vidi, Ventus --
The randomly chaotic and crafty scribblings of a deranged, wannabe artist allowed too many colours in her Crayon box.

Surgeon General's Warning: Some content of "From Pooka's Crayon" may not be suitable for: work, blue-haired little old ladies, the politically-correct, rabid moonbats, uptight mothers, priests, chronic idiots, insurance claims agents, Democrats, children, small furry quadropeds from Alpha Centauri, or your sanity.

Tuesday, April 24, 2001

Warning: Curves Ahead

Perhaps instead the warning should read, "No Curves Allowed."

Those of a delicate nature would be advised to skip over this. I feel a rant coming on, sing it sister, hallelujia.


I'll wait for the booing and hissing to die down.

Bras. There's that ugly word again. When you're my size, you can't go without one. I'm a Very Big Girl. Most of it is in my chest. I'm a 40-42 J cup. Big Girl.

Circus Freak big. I'm a monster.

No? You disagree?

Go shopping. Search the net. Search your local malls.

Find me ONE bra that is less than $30.00. Find me a GOOD one that's less than $40.00.

I'll be here waiting when you've finally given up in frustration and want to strangle someone. See, I'm already at that point.

A smaller woman can walk into Walmart and walk out, spending 30 bucks and carrying away 2-4 bras. I can't get one for that.

I have fibromyalgia. I can't wear underwires. I bruise. I blister. It's very unpleasant. Go ahead, find a soft cup bra big enough to fit me that's affordable. Find me a sleep bra, or a sports bra that will actually fit.

Forget it.

It's worse because my breasts are way too large, and the rest of me is much smaller. If I wore a 50 something band size, I'd be easier to fit.

I'm frustrated. I'm annoyed. I'm depressed. I want to be comfortable, dammit, and not have my kids starve to death because I dared to buy a new bra.

My last "new" bra is over 4 years old. I've bought a few since, and they never fit right. All too small. I was desperate. I won't waste the money again. I'm tired of maybes and almosts and not quites.

I want a bra that fits, dammit, and I don't want to have to sell a limb to get it.

Wednesday, April 11, 2001

Once Upon a Starry Night

... there was a lonely, scrawny, fey little thing that had a penchant for getting "lost." Oh, she knew where she was, but no one else was ever able to find her when she had to get away. There were legends about her ability to vanish, jokes about the fey creature's ability to teleport, even when being watched. I'm still reminded of these legends, every blue moon.

One rare lonely night, when she had the car to herself, she drove off into the middle of the woods in her pajamas. Her goal was to seek out a particular field where the stones had been carefully brought in and laid according to ancient pattern, all by the hands of men that knew the proper songs.

Still in her pajamas, she parked the car out of site of the stones, and stepped into the circle.

The moon was full. The stars were out in their full glory. This field was used for this purpose quite often, blankets laid on the ground as friends sat together and watched the dance in the skies.

This night, she was alone.

The stars danced for her, private performance for the little lost fey, and she for them, feeling not like a fool, but free -- and freedom was a rare elusive beast to her, teasing, and never caught. For the time being, the burdens were set aside, the darkness cast away and given back to the moonlight.

I'd like to find that girl again, wherever she is inside me, and dance one more time, for the night.