Toddlers and Tampons

While shopping for tampons tonight at Target, my son said (yelled) this.

“Mommy, you buying snacks?”

Me: “No, these aren’t snacks.”

“Mommy, what are those?”

Me: “Special stuff for ladies”

“Oh, those are for your bagina. RIGHT MOMMY? THOSE ARE THOSE THINGS YOU BUY FOR YOU BAGINA? RIGHT MOMMY? It’s Mommy’s medicine for her bagina. Hey lady! (Griffith grabs hold of a strange woman’s shirt) My Mommy is buying weird medicine for her bagina because she’s very sick. Okay, lets go Mommy. Take care of you bagina.”

Now all of Target thinks I have herpes. Thanks, Griffith.



I always spill the beans. I tell everyone too much. I have begun to embrace this problem of mine in the last few years, but it still kinda bothers me that I am unable to keep my mouth shut. It’s like I am always drunk. So when I actually am drunk, there is no stopping what will come out of my mouth. One glass of wine in, and I’ll tell you about all my mental hospital stays, my overdose in College, that time I had sex with a homeless albino guy with a lazy eye, or my stint as a Madame in Elementary school when I gathered together a group of busty girls in my grade and encouraged them to go behind the bushes and show their boobs to all the boys at the playground every day until I got busted by the principal and almost suspended.

My Parents tell a lot of stories, especially my Dad. But they are both very concerned with privacy when it comes to things they are insecure about. I think most people are that way. I just, for whatever reason, turned out different. I don’t reserve certain information for certain people. Well, I don’t generally open up to people I hate. But if a person, lets say a co-worker I hated gave me a half smile and an unenthusiastic “Good Morning”, I would probably suddenly believe that they love me and want to be my best friend, so I’d go up to them and say something like, “Good Morning to you too! Hey, did you know I was raped once? Did I ever tell you that? I don’t remember it very well, but my therapist brought it out of me during one session. Its no biggie though. It helped me to become a stronger person. My Dad and my Brothers really want me to press charges against the guy, but I don’t want to because I am afraid he will get loose from jail and kidnap me and ruin my life and hurt my children or slash my tires or something. Oh look at me going on and on, what about you? Were you ever raped? Oh shit. Sorry, I shouldn’t ask you that. But really, were you? Or maybe just like a date rape type of thing? You had a boyfriend that beat you didn’t you?  That is why you are so quiet. You know, they have really good recovery centers around here for that type of thing. I could get you the number to one of them, because I know those people well because I have a non-profit organization I started. Oh, its nothing big. It is mainly just a charity. It is actually a complete and total failure, and I put blood, sweat and tears into it only to go broke and realize later that you need a rich uncle to donate a shit load of money to help you run the organization because 501 C3’s don’t make any money at first. But its okay. I’m thinking about doing stand up now, so we’ll see how that goes, but wait..really, were you raped?”

That girl will never say “Good Morning” to me again.

Obviously this is not what I would really say to someone, but it is really really similar to what I do say to people I barely know all the time.

I used to be really insecure about it. Especially when I was in High School and College and I would get really drunk and tell a guy I was interested in a bunch of horrible crap that made him lose interest in me. A common occurrence would be that a friend of mine would tell me that a guy had the hots for me, and I would feel confused because I never talked to that person. I never get that. I can’t have the hots for someone that I haven’t gotten to know at least a little. There are so many guys that when you look at them you think, OHMIGOD HE IS SO HOT, but then they open their mouth and you are like OHMIGOD HE IS SO STUPID. But anyways, a friend would tell me about some secret admirer I had and I would get all excited about seeing him at a party. And in one situation, I flirted with this guy and did really well with him until I got too drunk, then I started telling him how many blow jobs I have given in public restrooms. Then I told him about my fear of retarded people and how they tackle me where ever I go and how I think they should be parented the same way dogs are. Then I asked him if queefs make your dick feel good during sex? All of my friends were laughing their asses off, but I noticed he was beginning to inch a bit away from me with every word that left my lips and he lost that sparkle in his eye. You may be thinking, WHAT? Bullshit. A guy losing interest when you talk about blow jobs and sex!!? Yes, its true. Because he was not interested in just screwing me. His eyes decided that I would be his future wife. He was so sure of it as he was getting ready to go out that night, but then I shattered his cute little retarded dreams with my mouth. And I am happy that happened, obviously, because I needed to be with someone who could handle my stories and antics and find it endearing, no matter how vulgar it gets. But at the time, I didn’t know who my future Husband would be, (luckily he totally gets me and can handle it better than anyone I know) so I felt worried, depressed, and alienated. I just didn’t understand why I had to blurt stuff out. I tried several times to act like the opposite of myself, and not say personal cringe-worthy stuff, but when I did that all my friends and family would badger me so bad saying, “What is wrong with you, you are being weird.” So I’d give in and get back to normal.

The nice thing about getting older is that you start embracing all of the stuff that you hated about your personality your whole life. I am not always 100% pleased with my TMI problem, but it seems to really entertain people, and I like entertaining people so I doubt I will ever have it under control.

Stand-up Comedy Virgin

I haven’t been blogging much because for the past month whenever I have gotten some time to myself, I’ve been working on a stand up comedy act (and I recently started working at Starbucks). Stand up is not something I have always dreamed of doing.  Not because I didn’t want to, but mainly because it never crossed my mind as a possibility. I just never thought of myself as someone who does that professionally. But when I look back at my life, I realize that I have been doing comedy in one way or another since I was little.  I am always telling a story in front of a large group that is laughing at what I am saying. It feels good, I’ve always enjoyed being a silly little asshole. People have suggested I pursue acting or comedy before. My reaction to that was usually, YEAHFUCKINGRIGHT. I would never get on stage. I guess if I had more confidence growing up, or if I wasn’t always so self-absorbed and stuck in my head, maybe I would have thought about taking my talent for being a complete jack-ass clown onto a stage and see if it got the same kinds of laughs that I do in real life. Well, better late than never, just as I always say when I get my period.

The real reason I even thought of this as something I seriously wanted to try is because of twitter. I am pretty sure I have discussed my feelings about twitter on this blog in previous posts, but just in case I haven’t…basically, it gave me validation that not only my friends want to listen to my ridiculous shit. Which is what I always assumed before. But of course, twitter is not a stage. And computer keys are not a microphone. But my curiosity is officially sparked, and I want to find out if I could take my twitter persona that I created 5 months ago, and say it out loud in front of a bunch of drunk people looking for a laugh. If It goes well, I’m positive I will become a junkie and want to do stand up all the time from that moment forward, because I am a middle child, a redhead, a rape victim, a former fatty, and a reformed slut, therefore I am a complete and total attention whore.

I’m debating allowing any of my friends or family to come to my first show. I have read mixed opinions about this online. I think I only want my Husband there for the first time. Because he has heard me fart at least 2500 times. He has rubbed oil on my pregnant belly stretch marks. He has seen my postpartum hemorrhoids. He has cleaned the puke off my face countless times from legitimate sickness, or hangovers. He has heard me singing when I didn’t know anyone was around. You get it. Basically, I can’t get really embarrassed in front of him at this point. A little embarrassed, sure..but nothing traumatic. But friends, that is a whole different story. So yeah. Maybe the friends will have to wait until the second or third show.

I secretly (well, not so secretly because I’m writing this online, idiot) hope that absolutely horrible comedians go on before and after me so that I feel like the shit, and I leave convinced I am a star in the making rather than feel enraged with jealousy and doubt because the other stand ups were way better than me. Am I getting ahead of myself, yes?  I am thinking too much, yes?  Am I psyching myself out, yes? Have we met? My name is Tara. I am the female version of Woody Allen, only I have no interest in sleeping with my Asian orphan stepchild.

Apparently the place I am going to do my first ever set at is a comedy club/hair salon.  Yeah, that’s right. Hair salon. WTF? I don’t know. But it sounds like a safe bet for a virgin like me.

So I’m scared. But at the same time, I have this cocky, balls of steel woman inside of me that is like, “You got this, Tara. This is the only thing you don’t fuck up at, being a total jack ass. This is where you shine.” So hopefully that strong internal dyke of mine will pin my inner Woody Allen down and cover his mouth with duct tape on the big night so that I can make people laugh rather than cringe for me.

I hope I break both my legs on the way to the show to make sure I do well.

In conclusion, this video of Dave Chappelle discussing this topic to James Lipton is really encouraging, and helped make me feel more at ease about all this. But since Dave Chappelle ended up losing his shit, and quitting the business at the top of his game, maybe he shouldn’t be my go-to guy for inspirational speeches. Oh well, too late. I’m inspired.

Diamond in the Rough

I realize my Husband is not considered a catch. I totally understand why girls he crushed on didn’t love him back, and why he had only one serious relationship in his life before we met when he was 31.  They didn’t want him because he couldn’t support them financially, and he was reckless.  Maybe also because he doesn’t shower.  Hmm. Well,  I think it is mainly the no money thing. It is not just that he has no money, its also that he has a rebellious nature and is not interested in seeking out ways to make money. He is interested in money seeking out him. But it doesn’t. It is illogical, and totally infuriating. So it makes sense that I would be the only crazy person to put up with it. But I know something that all of these girls apparently didn’t. He is the most entertaining person I have ever met. He is hilarious non-stop.  He can turn the most mundane details into an hour long hilarious conversation topic. If you don’t have stomach cramps from laughing after 5 minutes of hearing him speak, then you aren’t paying attention.

I am never bored. We don’t have a working stereo system in our piece of shit car right now, but we don’t need one. I seriously enjoy listening to him still even after 71/2 years of marriage so much that I don’t want to tune him out.  I think that is so much more valuable than money. I’m not saying it is easy.  I often compare our relationship to Jackson Pollock and Lee Krasner, and if you are unfamiliar with that reference, he was basically a selfish nut job genius and she was as desperately in love with him as she was desperately frustrated. But every wife is frustrated about something.  And I would rather be annoyed and unfulfilled about material stuff that doesn’t matter much in the large scheme of things, rather than bored with the person I chose to spend the rest of my life with.

My point is, I think most girls just want to marry a paycheck. I would rather be homeless and laughing every day than rich and yearning for more laughter or for a new connection.  So I’m glad they passed him off as a reject, and a bad egg, because I saw in him what I know is what we all want the most in life.

Someone that I am attracted to who is unbelievably entertaining day in and day out.

How to Parent

I hate guns.  I think they are really scary and stupid.  So we don’t buy toy guns for our almost 3 year old, and we discourage him from shooting lasers out of his finger pistol.  I feel like “no fun” when I do that, and I’m wondering if discouraging it will just make him more curious about guns as he gets older.  That’s how it works, right?  Your parents forbid you to do something, so you do it.  Your parents encourage you to do something, so you don’t.

So maybe I should just say, “Griffith, Shoot guns for Mommy. Lets shoot guns and lasers and play war, and cops and robbers all day!”  Maybe he will begin to get bored of it, and start thinking it is really uncool to do that violent stuff because I told him too.  And maybe when he is a teenager, I should say, “Griffith, go out and have a bunch of unprotected sex with your girlfriend, get AIDS, get her knocked up, and ruin your life!”  While I’m at it, I could say, “Griffith! Drop out of High School, Don’t go to college, and become a drug dealer!  Drug dealers make a lot of money, way more than most people.  You may end up dead or a junkie, but at least you will be rich!”  Then I might as well also say, “Griffith! Drive Drunk! It is really cool, and it makes everything easier than calling a cab.  You might die or go to prison for life for killing a baby, but hey, its worth not having to find your car the next day. I do it all the time.”

We also are raising him vegetarian, and he is not allowed to eat butter or drink regular milk unless it is super organic.  This is more my Husband’s hang up.  But I don’t have a problem with it, and I drank my Husband’s veggie kool aid a long time ago, so I follow through with those rules.  We also rarely let him have dessert, and we never allow him to have candy.  Not even on Halloween.  We had him trade his pumpkin of candy for toys, which he loved.  I actually think that is a pretty cool tradition.  Toys are way better than candy.  Then we just trashed the candy.  But with all of these strict rules, I am afraid he will freak out when he gets to be a teenager, and overcompensate for what he missed out on by becoming a super carnivore who is obsessed with meat and a sweet tooth who is obsessed with candy.  Maybe he will get really into understanding the difference between eating healthy and eating like a regular American, like we hope, but I don’t know.  Its that whole rebellion thing I worry about.  So maybe we should say to him when he goes over to friend’s houses, “Griffith!  Make sure to fill up on meat and sugar when you are out of the house since you never get it at home.  You may end up sick, and fat, but at least you got the thrill.”

Not sure what is more effective.  Maybe using educational humor like this will help, but who knows, it could also fuck him up and make him resent us. I have tons of books on parenting, and they all seem to have conflicting advice and tips.

I guess this is what being a Parent is all about.  Trying your best, but not knowing for sure if anything you are doing is right. I guess for now I will just stick with the same routine of, “My house, my rules.” and “I’m the adult, you are the child” minus the sick jokes. I haven’t mentioned my Baby girl in here because all she does is look cute, giggle, breast feed, poop, and sleep.  Man, are babies easy.  Its when they get older that things start getting tricky.


Typical Conversation

Husband: “Hey, make sure to never let my Sister eat our Jelly, okay?”

Me: “WTF?”

Husband: “Well, you know, if she comes over here sometime and asks for jelly, just don’t let her eat it.”


Husband: “Well, like, if she wants a toast with jelly or something. She can’t have it. Because I put my peanut butter knife in the jelly jar and she is allergic to peanuts, so she would die.”

Me: “But she never comes over, like ever.”

Husband: “Well, just in case.”

Me: “Haha. Okay. What the hell. Okay.”



All Natural Nazi

This post is something I just wrote for my Happy Mermaid Skin Care blog, but it was very Faux Ma like, so I decided to post it on here too. That naked pregnant woman is me, by the way.

I grew up in Connecticut in an Irish, middle-class household with my 3 siblings and Mom and Dad. We had a pretty average American lifestyle. Mom cooked her delicious meat and potatoes meals about 5 nights a week, Pasta and meatballs was for Sundays. We had weekly visits for lunch or snacks at Mcdonald’s, Wendy’s, Dunkin’ Donuts, and an awesome Northeast chain unhealthy restaurant called “Friendly’s” that I actually ended up working at for a while. I had pretty awesome co-workers there. Well, back to my story. My Mom stocked the house with lots of veggies, but she also stocked it full of sodas, cakes, cookies, meats, and nothing organic. I’m not trying to bitch slap my Mom or anything. (<—- Catholic guilt speaking) But we definitely weren’t impressing any health guru’s or personal trainers out there with our diet. We were all involved with tons of Sports. I think that was mainly because my Mom wanted to keep us out of her hair as much as possible. Don’t spank me, Mom (<—I was raised Catholic).

I played Soccer, Basketball, Field Hockey for a while, and I was on the Swim team. I loved sports, still do. I run and do bikram yoga like a good girl 4 x a week. Now I’m just bragging. Despite all of these athletics, I had a horrible body image from age 11 until I was 22 years old. I blame this on my bad diet. I did not realize that health food existed growing up. All I knew was that I heard supermodels hardly ate anything, and if they did eat, they’d throw it up. So that is what I did. I ate all the delicious, unhealthy food my Mom and my school cafeteria served me, and I would vomit it all up. So I got skinny. It seemed like the skinnier I got, the more guys asked me out and noticed me. So that just reinforced to me that I was doing the right thing. Because life is all about sexual attraction, right? Then one day when I was 17, I threw up blood and passed out next to the toilet for a while. My Mom didn’t know. She thought I was in the bath. I freaked myself out so bad about this, I decided to tell her about my Bulimia. She knew about it, because she had caught me before, but I really made her KNOW about it this time. I demanded she get me some help, because rich little white girls have the luxury of making those demands, you know.

So my loving and concerned parents got me a shrink and a nutritionist, but they weren’t much of a help at all. So through my frustration about how crappy this “professional” help was, I stumbled upon a Natural Living book at a hippie bookstore. That was the beginning of my enlightenment about how to treat this ol’ body of mine. Everything was so simply stated, easy to learn and obvious. The same “your body is a temple” concept. It spelled out very plainly that meat and dairy product consumption was not intended for Human beings. I began realizing that the reason I felt the need to throw up was because of my binge eating of heavy, unnatural and unhealthy foods. I mean, I never threw up a salad before because that is healthy. I know the meat/dairy thing is a controversial topic, but whatever, I believed in it and still do. So I became a vegetarian. It was hard to avoid eating my Mom’s delicious meals, but luckily I was an angsty teenager, so this kind of felt like a bitchy rebellion I was going through. Plus it gave me tons of attention when people would ask me why I was the only person at the table eating a salad, and I’ve always loved attention. Being healthy made me feel strong, proud, vibrant, beautiful, glowing…but I’ve always had a great love for drinking alcohol. My books encouraging giving that up, but I am not ready to do that. Not sure I ever will be, being Irish and all.

So you may be saying to yourself, “When is this goddamn ho going to mention anything about all natural skin care?!”. I hear ya. I was wondering that myself while I’ve been typing this. A smart person would erase everything, start from scratch, and condense this post to be a more specific and appealing one-two paragraph piece on my skin care journey only. Oh well. Not going to do that.

I met my Husband in 2004 and he is a big old all natural living junkie. He made my lifestyle look so unhealthy and horrible compared to his super strict diet. Since I am super competitive, I couldn’t have him looking more healthy than me, so I read all of his crunchy granola hippie books and copied his lifestyle habits (well, besides masturbating to porn for hours) so that I could be just like him, a pretentious healthy vegetarian. I still eat meat occasionally in moderation, but for the most part I am a vegetarian. We have been happily living as annoying health freaks for our entire 7 1/2 years of marriage. Except for the beauty products I used, those were all generic up until 2009.

In 2008 I got pregnant with our first child, and that is when I got into the all natural world of skincare and cosmetics. Being pregnant does that to a lot of women. You get really worried about what is going in and on your body. And even more worried about what is going on your baby. We were so poor, but I required we only use the very expensive all natural baby soap, lotions, diapers, diaper wipes, clothing, etc.  I have let up a bit about that with the clothing, but not in terms of the skin care items. All of my research shows that what you put on your skin is just as important as what you put in your mouth, so I decided to become as much of a nazi about skincare as I’ve been about food.

With the discovery of my second pregnancy last November, I decided to turn my new passion for natural skin care into a business by creating my very own line of all natural skincare products because I had problems with the consistency, texture, scent, ingredients, quality, safety level and abrasiveness of a lot of products I’ve tried. I named the business “Happy Mermaid” skincare because I love mermaids, I’m a jolly person, and the whole idea of mermaids seems to convey the cleanliness of the all natural market, and the timeless beauty and moisture I am looking to bring to people’s skin and hair through my products.

Thanks for reading, and I’d love for you to keep checking my blog for updates on my Company’s progress. Feel free to comment or message me any ideas for products, questions, hell…even hate mail if you want. Click here: to go to Happy Mermaid Skincare

Milkshake Mafia

I got hired as a server in a new hip sushi restaurant in August 2010, and I had a pretty cool Manager. He was funny, cocky and kind of dumb and dorky. My favorite type of Manager, basically. We got along great. He took me aside often to tell me how I was his favorite. Then I would catch him say that to other chicks and I’d break his balls about it. On my drives to work, I was really excited for the banter we shared back and forth and I got pretty annoyed if he wasn’t working the same shift as me. My Husband loved hearing stories about him when I got off work. It was like a dream job, except the money was horrifyingly bad because they overstaffed the shit out of the place and did zero marketing, so it was actually a horrible job, but my funny manager took the edge off all that. The staff was awesome too. Just a bunch of fun drunks with lots of charm and charisma. I really enjoyed working there.

I got pregnant in November of 2010, and told everyone there about it in December and things were still the same, but now I got more snacks and more loving remarks. I couldn’t drink with anyone anymore though, but I still felt like a big part of the team. But around April of 2011, my awesome Manager started getting weird. He was uncomfortable with my bulging belly. He talked down to my baby bump every day. He would get grossed out if he heard me discuss ultrasounds, and he shook his head at my bump telling me to cover it up more and to wear looser clothing. I thought it was funny and psychotic at first, and I would just make jokes to him about how he should discuss his mommy issues at his next therapist appointment. But it got unfunny fast when he began cutting my tables down from 10 table sections to 4 table sections suddenly. Now he was fucking with my money. He claimed that my performance started suffering since my belly had gotten bigger. I asked for examples of how my performance suffered and he said I didn’t refill ice teas fast enough on one table during a busy lunch, which was true, but not worthy of that kind of penalty. The crazy part about this is, when I started there, I fucked up so much every shift, and I NEVER got in trouble. I split checks when I shouldn’t have, I ordered the wrong shit for people, I even left trays on tables before, I could barely open a bottle of wine at the beginning, and he laughed it off for months and months. I felt like I was getting favoritism when I was not with child, and screwed after I got pregnant, because by April, I knew for a fact that I was a pretty decent server, mainly because my tips started getting incredibly better and I started getting requested as a server more frequently. It was obvious this had to do with my belly. It was a pretty hip restaurant, so all I can guess is that he didn’t like the way a pregnant woman looked serving martnini’s on his floor at night. I kinda get that, but oh well, its against the law to fire someone for that.

So I feel like he decided to push me out by fucking with my sections and badgering me so much during shifts that I would just quit. When I came into work and saw that I had 3 tables in the worst section during a lunch in June, I fucking flipped the mother fucking fuck out. Mind you, I was 8 months pregnant at this point. I tried to confront him about it before the shift began, but he was hiding in his office with the door closed. So I worked the shift, and like I thought, the other skinny, young chicks I worked with made over $100 and I left with TWENTY FIVE MOTHER FUCKING DOLLARS SUCK MY CUNT YOU DICK I’M PREGNANT AND I WILL KILL YOU AND BURN DOWN YOUR HOUSE AND BREAK YOUR CAR WINDSHIELD MOTHER FUCKER. When he finally decided to stop hiding like a little bitch, I let him know that I was extremely pissed the fuck off, and that we needed to have a meeting. So he made me stay and cut the other two girls. So basically, the closer, ME, had to stay until 4:30pm and leave with $25 while the other girls got to leave at 2:30pm with $100+. That’s fair…NO.

So I left it at, I am pretty sure I am quitting, but I need cash, so I think I’m going to think this over tonight after I calm down and get back to you tomorrow. He was like, “Cool, see you tomorrow.” I left crying and my coworkers (especially the male coworkers) were very sweet and told me how much they hate to see me getting screwed over like that. God I miss those people, good, good people. So anyways, when I got out to my Husband’s car, he saw me crying. He asked what happened with the talk. He got insanely angry that my Manager did not apologize to me, and had a pregnant woman on her feet all day for $25 rather than cut me first if he was going to take my tables away like that. I noticed an XL milkshake in the car while Nathan was fuming mad. Before I got to ask why there was a milkshake here when we don’t drink milkshakes, he grabbed it, ran out of the car, and stormed into the restaurant. I felt in utter shock. I watched the horror that ensued through the windows. This sushi place is all windows, so you can see everything. I saw my Managers walking towards him, and Nathan threw the milkshake as hard as he could on the ground making it splatter all over the floor, hostess stand, part of the bar, and on one customer. I covered my mouth while screaming watching this happening. I started having serious contractions and thought I was going to give birth right there in our shitty 1990 Ford Festiva. I felt like I just saw him murder someone. You have to understand, as much of an asshole as I can be, I have this thing about jobs. My goal at every job I have ever had was to be the most prized employee, and to leave with a great recommendation. My parents raised me to be super polite to Authority, so I always have been, well only when I am getting paid by said authority figure.

When Nathan got back into the car, I told him to drive away as fast as he could and I proceeded to hyperventilate. I should have been laughing, but I was just so worried about money, future jobs, recommendations, etc. After I calmed down, I realized it was totally deserved by this Manager to experience some sort of lashing out, because I wasn’t the only person he screwed over royally. Nathan ran into a few of my old co-workers at bars and they shook his hand for doing that. Which was comforting, to know that people understood his rage.

Five months later today, I have a beautiful baby girl that joined our family and was born in a hospital and not in our Festiva on that horrible day. I have a Husband who I now know will do almost anything to defend me. And I still have the respect of the Assistant manager at the sushi place who I just used for a recommendation, which helped to get me a new job last week. I feel like I had a messy break up with that manager, and it is sad, but life goes on and I learned from it that you really don’t know people until you see all of their sides and colors. I already knew that, but this incident just made it that much clearer to me.

Stinky Vaginas

Faux Ma Fans, I wrote my 2nd post in my Happy Mermaid blog about a new product I am creating for smelly pussies. So gals, if you wouldn’t mind taking a second to read it and let me know all about your vagina, I would really appreciate it.

Tuna Be Gone

Hershey Kiss Nipples

My Nana really wanted me to be a sexy girl when I was a kid. She isn’t a pervert, she is just a little bit of a skanky grandma. Growing up as a chubby, shy wallflower, I had no concept of what was sexy. Instead of going to spin the bottle parties in middle school, I liked to play “hide and go seek”, and barbies with my kid sister, Katie. My whole look, and attitude was very immature. This bothered Nana. She would make comments like, “Don’t you have any boys you could call up to come over and watch a movie with?” Instead I preferred to play dress-up with Katie. At Thanksgiving, she would encourage me to be careful not to eat too much, stating that I “had enough meat on my bones already”. I have to admit, it really got to me. Being as insecure as I was, I did not need all this criticism.

On Christmas, when I was 11 years old, my Nana kept stressing how much I would enjoy the present she got for me. I wasn’t very excited seeing as how she always got me weird ceramic sculptures of cats that she must have picked up from the clearance section at a local pharmacy.When I got to her present, it was larger than a ceramic cat, or a bottle of knock-off perfume. Maybe this year she would surprise me. When I pulled the gift-wrapping off, it was a pink box with “Victoria’s Secret” written on it. I thought, Wow! I’m only 11, what in the world could this be?When I pulled off the top of the box, I could see white lace peeking out under the pink tissue paper. It was a nightie with matching lace panties. Definitely meant for a woman, not a little chubby redhead with no boobs. (Well I did have “boobs” I guess. Because I was overweight, I had fat lumps where my boobs should be) Despite all of this, I was secretly excited. I always tried to buy the more flashy, womanly panties at the department store, but my Mom was adamant about buying me the 6-pack of white “Hanes Her Way” briefs. She wouldn’t even get me the bikini briefs. I was only allowed the kind that came up over my belly button, almost reaching my breasts. When my mom saw the new ensamble, she gasped with disgust. She said, “Nana! Tara is too young for that!” Nana ignored Mom and with a devilish smile asked me if I liked her gift. Embarrassed, I didn’t answer. I looked over at my brothers, who seemed like they were mentally blocking out the whole situation. I think it was a bit too much for them having to picture their kid sister in lace lingerie. After we finished with opening presents, we headed to church. The whole time I was sitting in church, instead of praising the birth of Christ, I was imagining what the nightie would look like on me. I wondered if maybe in a year or so, my body would change and I could wear it with pride.

When we finally got home, I rushed upstairs to try on the outfit. I was lucky that my Mom was so distracted with house guests, and preparing dinner. She would have confiscated the gift under normal circumstances. So I took off my Sunday best, and my “Hanes Her Way” Briefs and stared at my nudy, premature body to assess how this would look on me. With rolls-galore the outlook wasn’t good. But I tried it on anyway. How frustrating! It looked ridiculous. Since I only had a little bit of fat bumps where my boobs should’ve been, the top hung down so far you could see my nipples. It needed some bigger, perkier boobs to fill it out. The panties cut into my love handles so far, you couldn’t even see the fabric because my fat was hanging over it. Oddly enough, I still felt a little sexy. Just knowing that I owned lingerie, whether it looked good on me or not, felt good. I began to wrangle up some ideas to make it look more flattering. I pulled the panties up on the sides, so it was over, not under the fat. Then, I grabbed a hair twisty and tied the straps in the back into a bundle, so the top would fit more properly in the front. It looked a lot better, except for one annoying factor. I had soft nipples. My nipples had never been hard in my life until I was about 17. I would try every trick in the book to make them hard. Tickle them with a feather, rub ice on them, nothing worked. I really wanted to have hard nipples in this lingerie. So I came up with a great idea. I got dressed (with the nightie on underneath my clothes) and I ran to the downstairs cupboard. My mom always had a bag of Hershey kisses in there, so I found it, grabbed two, then went back to my room. I took off my clothes, then peeled back the Hershey kiss wrappers, and put them in my shirt, where my nipples should be. I had to stand with perfect posture, and stick my chest out to make them stay. It looked great. Very convincing. I stood in front of my mirror and modeled the outfit for myself for a little while. I grabbed my lamp from my desk, and placed it on the dresser as a spotlight. It got pretty hot, and I began to sweat. Before I knew it, my Hershey Kiss nipples started to melt. I quickly took off the top and noticed two large chocolate stains. I quickly ran to the bathroom, holding my t-shirt out so it wouldn’t press against my chest, which was also covered in chocolate. When I went to the bathroom, my brother was in it taking a shower. So I went to my parent’s room, but my Dad was using the bathroom. I wouldn’t dare go downstairs to clean off the stains, afraid my mom would find out. So I waited in my room, and listened by the door to hear when someone left the bathrooms. Ten minutes later, I finally got in there. The chocolate had dried, which made it pretty hard to clean. First, I washed off my chest, then I scrubbed the shirt. When I was done, there were still two stains, but now they were bigger from the scrubbing. Not knowing how to do my own laundry yet, I had no choice but to throw it away and tell my Mom I lost it, or confront her about what I did, and ask her to wash it. I chose to pretend that I lost it. My Mom actually never asked about it. Maybe she, like my brothers chose to block the thought of me having lingerie in my possession out of her mind.

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