Full frontal...

... wardrobe malfunction. Last Friday night was my office Christmas party. It's usually a fabulous, rip-roarin' good time, and this year was no exception. 

I was especially proud of my $40 dress purchase this year which was within my budget. How responsible of me, I thought. It was a sleek, dark purple number with a plunging neckline which could be casual or fancy, depending on how it was accessorized. 

The evening started out well, with me sportin' my new threads and having somehow avoided the "night bloats" that sometimes afflict me. I think it was this yoga pose I tried, prior to the party, that kind of "stretches out" your digestive system. It was that or starve myself for at least 24 hours before the party, and I love food too much to do that. 

Anyhoo, there we were at the Christmas party, enjoying a fine meal, wine and good company. Everything was going according to plan, and the top of my dress, firmly in place, looked like this:

Nothing wrong here; perfectly normal... 

Yes, I've now sunk to posting photos of my breasts on my blog. I'm that kind of girl. 

Once dinner and speeches were over, the "dancing like crazed banshees on acid" portion of the evening kicked off, always a crowd favorite. Fueled by alcohol and the sheer joy of  Christmas, I shook my bootie like nobody's business, probably for at least an hour, until I went to the washroom, looked in the mirror and saw this:

But Sassy, you say, what's the problem? Look a little closer my dear readers, something is definitely amiss...

After some serious dance floor exertion, my dress was basically trying to escape from my body by ever so stealthily crawling up my torso to, I can only assume, jump up over my head and run away. I suspect I made a tactical error in my choice of undergarments. 

You see, the top of this dress was designed for the presence of boobs only - no bras. The shape and weight of said breasts would keep the dress firmly in place. But, in my infinite wisdom, I chose to wear a strapless bra as well, lest the girls decide to bounce enthusiastically around during my musical gyrations and accidentally blind me. It could happen. 

My mistake. The dress could now easily slide over the bra and the ensuing wardrobe disaster is depicted in the above photo. To get the full effect, here's a side shot. (This photo, although strikingly similar to that of a very pregnant lady, which, evidently, I am not, aptly depicts the situation I found myself in.)

Boob padding riding up my chest.




My actual boob, or a giant fetus preparing to burst from my vagina (perhaps in a parallel universe).
 
Needless to say, when I first laid eyes on this situation, I was horrified. How long had this been going on? And why hadn't anyone said anything? I told my boyfriend about it, and he hadn't even noticed it. This was a good sign, since he's got quite a keen eye when it comes to my wardrobe. 

I can only deduce that none of my co-workers noticed either; that, or they were wrestling between feeling sorry for me and being mildly entertained by my dress anarchy. 

I'm somewhat grateful that I only noticed this heinous fashion accident later in the evening since I was much more self-conscious afterwards, and had to keep pulling down my dress on the dance floor. The lesson here kids? Don't wear bras in dresses with built-in support - trust the dress. That, or get too drunk to care.  

Ever wonder why Sarah Palin has her own TV show?

Whenever I wonder why Kim Kardashian is a fixation in our collective consciousness; why anyone in their right mind would give the Hasselhoffs their own reality show (mercifully, it was canceled after only two episodes); why the Twilight saga is so successful; why Arrested Development was canceled after only three seasons; why the cast of Jersey Shore was interviewed by Barbara Walters; why teen moms are glorified on MTV; why George W. Bush and his cronies were allowed to plunder the US for EIGHT YEARS without a day of reckoning; why, after only two short years in office, and having inherited the White House from the worst administration in US history, Barack Obama is heavily criticized for not getting things done fast enough, and why Republicans have regained control of the House of Representatives... I watch this short video, and all is explained.

I love me, with conditions

My boyfriend reminded me this morning to send my grandmother a Christmas card and he suggested we send a family photo we had taken a few years back. "But it's three years old" I replied. "What's the most recent one we have?" he innocently asked. "Last year's photo, but we're not using that one."

I want to ERASE ALL TRACES of that photo. I hate everything about me in that picture. I hate my haircut and the way my shirt is riding up my torso and it looks like I have a huge gut, and my washed out face that says: "I haven't slept in three days". No, that photo will never see the light of day again. This got me thinking...

... of other photos I kinda hate myself in, where some weird special effect, bad clothing or positioning makes me look, well, like this:

I suspect you're now thinking to yourself: "Does this girl take any good pictures?" or that I'm much less attractive than you thought I might be, given my writing genius. Of course, not all brilliant writers are attractive, or is it sheer charisma that makes people appear pretty? 

Maybe I'm slipping down the rabbit hole of looks = self worth and no good can come of that. Suffice it to say that commenting on my pretty pictures would be really boring. Hmm. Does that mean that pretty is merely boring? Nice to look at but not all that interesting? Rabbit hole! Aaaahhhhh!!!! Must. Stop. Now.

My delusions of kickboxing grandeur

Back in the day, I was an avid kickboxer. I know, this is surprising for someone who sits on her ass as much as I do, watching TV, but it started out as a way to vent my lack of creative expression. 

There was a dojo (that's what martial arts schools are called, not sure why but it sounds cool) just down the street from where I used to live. I passed by it on numerous occasions and for the longest time didn't think twice about actually going in. I didn't "do" martial arts. 

Until one day, the frustrated artist in me needed to punch something. So I walked in, and signed up for kickboxing, having absolutely no prior martial arts experience. Before I could join a group class, I had to take two private lessons to learn the moves and the lingo to avoid that "deer in the headlights" look in a group class. 

During my second private lesson, as I recall it, I had a brush with death. I couldn't breathe, and I was certain I was going to toss my cookies right then and there. The instructor was very patient and told me to sit for a few moments to catch my breath. I also didn't like that my extremities "jiggled" when punching or kicking. What WAS that? Jello? Was there Jello IN my body?

After my first group class, I could barely get up the stairs to my apartment. I was convinced my legs had turned to stone, or was it two pillars of salt as I looked back on my former slovenly lifestyle? Anyway...

I fell in love with kickboxing, especially since it felt perfectly tailored to someone with a triple "A" personality like mine. There were tests, higher and higher levels to attain and medals,  MEDALS, Olympic style,  and dammit, I was going to get all of them.

After about four years of dedicated practice, I was one of a small handful of students to graduate from the advanced kickboxing program. I was now in the "elite" group. Then, I guess life happened, I moved to another neighbourhood, and didn't step foot in a dojo for about three years. 

Recently, I decided to dust off my kickboxing gear, and get back in the game. I found a dojo in my new 'hood and signed up as a member. 

While commuting to work, listening to my iPod, I had visions of me, bleeding nose, bruised body, with one arm up, traipsing around the ring, à la Rocky Balboa, victorious in my first competitive match. Oh yes, I would attain my former dojo glory, and much, much more.

It's funny how reality can creep in and bitch slap you. On paper, I'm one of the most advanced students, even at the new dojo. On the mat, however, it's another story, one of a truly humbling nature. I had to start out in the beginner classes, to get my cardio fitness level back to where it used to be. My body remembered the techniques but was in no mood to get that heart pumpin'.

Within the first 30 seconds of that first class, after a three year hiatus, I thought I was going to die, again. Chest heaving, dizzy, and discombobulated, I wondered how I had let it come to this. Then, I pulled up my britches (metaphorically speaking) and vowed that I would work my way back to my former "elite" status. 

The irony is that this time around, there are no tests, since I passed them all. The only real examiner of my progress is me. Three years ago, when I graduated, this distressed me. I liked having the structure of goals, but now I'm savoring the fluidity of no particular goal in sight, except maybe to one day step into the ring... and survive.

Yeah.... that's right..... you..... heard me........ 

when I..... catch..... my breath........ you're.......

going down..... bitch.

Yes, Angie's a homewrecking slunt, but what about Brad?

There I was, minding my own business, scrolling through Popeater.com when I came across this article about Jen Aniston's new BFF Chelsea Handler calling Angelina Jolie a homewrecker. 

I adore Chelsea. She's f*cking funny and says what everyone else is thinking, and I love her for it. I also agree that Angelina is a homewrecking slunt not to be trusted.

However, what's missing here is the rant against Brad Pitt and his cheatin' ass. Why did he chuck what seemed like a perfectly good marriage to go play house with a chick who French kissed her brother at the Oscars? Granted, Angelina has a history of stealing unavailable men from their wives/partners. Case in point: she lured Billy Bob Thornton away from Laura Dern. 

But should the women whose men cheated on them be directing all their anger at the seductress? Maybe some, since yes, hitting on someone else's partner is selfish and mean. But the brunt of that anger should be directed toward the trusted husband/boyfriend who betrayed his partner. Why would they so readily leave a committed relationship to take up with another woman? 

Yeah, Angie's a big 'ol ho, luring men with her sensual rebel allure which naturally implies kinky, wild sex, but a man with a modicum of integrity would not simply drop everything to start a new life with Angelina. 

Sure, he can fantasize about her, he's not dead, but between fantasy and ending a marriage, I would argue, is a fairly large gap, and on which end of that gap your partner finds himself is indicative of the type of person you're dealing with.

Sure, I think Brad's done some good work and he seems like a cool guy but I won't forget that he left Jennifer for Angie. That has left a permanent mark on his character. So Chelsea, where's your rant about Brad, the homewrecker f*cking asshole?

You a very, very bad man.

Best quote ever...

A dear friend of mine came up for a visit this past weekend. We were all sitting in the kitchen having breakfast when my stepdaughter asked me what I wanted for Christmas. I said I wanted world domination. My friend replied: "They sell that in gift packs at Wal-Mart."

F*cking brilliant.

Some Palin porn to kick off the weekend

Who can resist an opportunity to dump on Sarah Palin and Elizabeth Hasselbeck? According to Popeater.com, Sarah dumped Elizabeth as a friend since she's no longer needed. Back in 2008, Elizabeth went on the campaign trail with her new gal pal and introduced her at rallies in Florida, I guess to give Sarah some star power.

But now that the Palins have their own (disturbing) TV show, Sarah no longer needs Lizzie to pump up her image. She won't even return Lizzie's phone calls. How sad. And if it were anyone else, I might feel bad. But it's Elizabeth Hasselbeck, vacuous blond, Republican supporter. Only Lizzie H. would think that she and Sarah would remain besties following the 2008 election. How naïve.

Frankly, how can anyone take a Palin supporter seriously? All Ms. Palin needs to do is open her mouth, utter about two words and it's apparent she is most definitely NOT White House material. 

If, for some unfathomable reason, Sarah gets the nomination and runs in 2012, I will officially give up on my American neighbours. As Michael Moore once suggested following Baby Bush's first "win" in 2000, I will call the UN and tell them the US can no longer govern themselves and that the UN should intervene.

I never thought anyone could be worse than Dubbya but the prospect of this gun-totin', "Real America" pushin', bossy mom as leader of the US is truly frightening. I mean, if you're gonna sink to this level, why not put the cast of Jersey Shore in charge? Aren't they the "Real America" too?

On top of being a ruthless user of celebrities, Sarah is also apparently a cunning PR specialist. There's a rumour going around that she forced her daughter Bristol to compete on Dancing With the Stars, so "America would fall in love with her again". Allegedly, Sarah blames Bristol for losing in 2008 what with the whole teenage pregnancy thing, and her daughter "owed" her. Harsh.

I can only hope the American electorate will think twice before even considering giving this woman an opportunity to run for the White House. If Sarah Palin happens to become the first female US President, it will be the biggest, baddest cosmic joke ever, and I will move to Europe so as not to be in geographical proximity to "Sarah Palin's America".

The musical: the Wal-Mart of theatre

Before I launch into today's rant, Jennifer E. over at Newsy.com sent me a link to this video, outlining some media reactions to Barbara Walter's picks for her Most Fascinating People of the Year list. I especially like the quote about Elizabeth Hasselbeck - it really does explain a lot. Thanks Jennifer!

Multisource political news, world news, and entertainment news analysis by Newsy.com

And now, today's topic: why does every goddam movie need to be turned into a f*cking musical? News that the new $65 million Spiderman musical previewed on Broadway this past week, with the production coming to a grinding halt numerous times due to technical difficulties  really, as Family Guy's Peter Griffin would put it, "grinds my gears". 

Now, I know there are many fans of the musical out there, and I respect your love of this particular type of entertainment.  However, when movies like Shrek and Legally Blond are translated from film to musical, I start to wonder about the total lack of original ideas out there. 

A line must be drawn somewhere, I mean, come on. Spiderman, the musical, costs $1 million a week just to operate. Really, this is where our priorities are in a time of high unemployment and recession? And this is coming from a playwright! I'm certainly not against the masses being entertained and given a reprieve from their worldly troubles since some of that entertainment will one day consist of scripts written by yours truly.

However, a theatre production that relies so heavily on technical stunts seems to strip the art form of its content, of its very soul. Gripping, entertaining theatre is about compelling stories, characters and relationships, not about harnessing actors in high-wires to fly above crowds. Leave that to Cirque du Soleil - they do it best.

Whose genius idea was it to turn a superhero comic strip into a musical? (That was a rhetorical question - I know the answer but used it merely for dramatic effect.) Is nothing sacred? Can't certain art forms simply remain in their original format without being converted into some flashy, dumbed down version of their former selves destined for mass consumption?

The musical is becoming the Wal-Mart of theatre. It's grotesquely large and forces its suppliers to make an inferior version of their original product.