Writing Successes: Wrote a heck of a post for the Amazons.

Music Playing: KINK. Not "Lights Out" cause that's already over. And I was going to bed early, too.

Exerpt from "And You Think You've Got It Bad" by Barbara Fairchild Gramm

Make the Saturday Night Bath a Luxury - The requirements for your toilet table are: an alcohol lamp, curling iron, a folding glass which permits you to see your hair from all sides, two good brushes, two combs, plenty of bone hair pins, a jar of vaseline and a box of quinine capsules for when you are feeling down.

Qunine was used to treat malaria and is defined as a "bitter white pill." I'm totally afraid of how this affected one's moods. I am also wondering why you need two brushes and two combs. How much hair do you have? I can see having a spare if one breaks, but I only have one of each myself. Then again, I don't have a curling iron, an alcohol lamp, or bone hair pins. And I hate to try to explain just HOW I used vaseline last. (No, not like that, it was more....stupid than that.)

Well, I went on a little two-day vacation from everything. Man, what a stupid week to go. I should have remembered all the million things I had to do this week. Oh well. I think I'm pretty caught up now, which is a good thing. Did my PSP assignment, and since I'm fond of killing two birds with one stone, also did a WotW assignment in the bargain. Want to look?

Last time on "Past Lives" with Deoris, we asked the question: Why did I call my stepmother in the first place?

When I went over we talked of many things, obviously. I guess I need more conversations like that, if only as fodder for my blog. Anyhow, she mentioned once that Kellye's "boobs" were now "breasts" or something. I let it slide, thinking she (and her new husband) were just sharing some kind of "in" joke. Later, I realized what they must have been talking about. This is why I called, to confirm my suspicions and ask a few pointed questions.

Like me, my sister had a rather ample bosom. I'll spare her feelings by not relating the details. Let us say that it was above a double d by a few letters. My sister has only just turned sixteen. I can not imagine having been that large in high school, although I may have been. In my childhood, proper clothing was a luxury seldom indulged. So who can really say?

Anyhow, my stepmother confirmed that yes, Kell had undergone the surgery for a reduction. She was much happier now, of course, and it really hadn't been any trouble at all. I said the only thing I could manage. "You saved her from . . . from . . ." and a million problems I have went racing through my brain. "You saved her, trust me." My current, and ill-fitting, bra cup size was a double J. Yes, they do make J's. They make more letters than this, as well, luckily for me. I need a new one.

The upshot is that they truly saved her from so much. As bad as you may think it is, it's worse. You can't do much with a JJ cup size. There's no dancing, no running, no jogging, no bending over, no buying normal clothes from regular stores, no easy way to tie your shoes....a hundred and a thousand more things. It just paralyzes you and worries you. Checking yourself for breast lumps is seeking a needle in a haystack. And these are just the problems I'm willing to relate, mind.

I ask the "supposed" question I wanted the answer to: how much? Well, it's a damn lot. I could buy a brand new car, as an example. The payments alone would choke me to death. I sighed and thanked her for the information.

Which is when she mentioned that she and dad had offered to pay for mine when I was nineteen.

I was flabbergasted. Literally. Choked. Flummoxed. Bemused. Pick a feature. "You did what when?" I turned them down with some words about how I was just fine and dandy, and that God gave them to me, so why mess with nature or something silly. "Well, that sounds like me, that's for sure." I don't remember this at all.

At nineteen, I can honestly say I really didn't like my dad at all. He didn't come to graduation. He didn't ask me to dinner. He didn't offer me a place to stay while I went to college. He didn't....he didn't a million things. He did send my child support check every month. It paid for my room rental and nothing else. When I was in trouble or had a problem, I turned to my mother. I guess I kind of felt like he hated me or hated seeing me or something. All I know is, he didn't call or remember birthdays or anything.

And I did. I called on his birthday, I called on holidays, I called sometimes just to say hello. These conversations would last about 5.4 minutes. Hell, they still do. We aren't big phone people or something.

I can view my attitude from that light. He's ignored me for a billion years and now he's decided to pay for this procedure? Buy my love? More than that, I was young and scared, I'm sure. They probably didn't have a lot of rational facts or anything on hand. Reassurances, whatever.

I also have to say that I push things away when I really need to accept them. It's a terrible bad habit that I'm slowly learning to get over. That and saying "thanks" and accepting bloody gifts. I hate all those things. It makes me feel...bad somehow. "I can't provide for myself, you do it." Which I'd never admit to. I'm much better now, but I still struggle. The fact that I haven't shared any of these revelations from the past week with my dad should give you an idea. He and I even spoke, but he was at the store.

This conversation about boob size led to yet another conversation about Kellye. But I'm leaving it for tomorrow. Can't give you everything tonight, can I? LOL