Call them what you will, but there was a set coming toward me that I simply couldn't take my eyes off.
Two helium-injected sweater girls were battling to escape from a skin tight t-shirt, as an otherwise petite, 40-something woman grazed past me at a brisk pace.
"Ridiculous," was my first thought. Bleached blonde, fake nails, and breasts that required regular touch ups with an air mattress pump from Canadian Tire.
My guesstimate was, this size-6 woman was wearing a 34 quadruple E bra, just to keep her saline sweater puppies from escaping into the neighbour's yard.
I stood there in my Russell gym shorts and sneakers, grateful that in an emergency situation, if I had to break into a gallop, say, if there were a fire, or if I were being chased – that my Nike sports bra would hold my girls down.
Then I recalled a conversation I had with a gentleman (who is now on wife #3) about blondes, and how, as a natural blonde, I found it amusing and somewhat frustrating that men couldn't tell a peroxide bottle blonde from a natural blonde – even if she whipped off her big girl panties to prove that the drapes indeed matched the carpet.
"Men don't care." was his response.
If that statement is true, and men really don't care if they're eating Velveeta or naturally-aged cheddar – then why should I care if a woman objectifies herself by morphing into Malibu Menopause Barbie.
According to the American Society for Aesthetic Plastic Surgery procedural statistics, breast augmentation is the second most commonly performed cosmetic procedure (behind liposuction). As we approach Breast Cancer Awareness month, I think of my friend Kelly, her triumphant battle with breast cancer and consequential, painful breast reconstruction surgery. I suppose the reasons "why" come in all shapes and sizes.
Just then, I heard, "S'cuse me!" and turned to see sister silicone – guns a blazin' – coming back toward me.
Shit. She read my mind. She's going to smother me with her pillows, or claw me to death with her fake nails.
"I'm going to have to ask you to move your car." she said, funbags heaving.
"I'm going to have to ask you, why?" I responded, staring at her Goodyear blimps.
"You're parked an inch from my bumper and I can't get out." she replied haughtily.
Did she says bumpers? This was too good. I walked over to see that I was at least 12 inches from her rear bumper – not only that – she had 36 inches or so between her Barbie camper and the car bumper in front of her. Clearly her depth perception had somehow been compromised. Maybe she also hadn't noticed that her cannonballs were grossly out of proportion.
There were so many things I wanted to say, but I went with a simple "No," all the while mesmerized by her lofty cantaloupes. "It's called parallel parking, and I could land a fucking helicopter in there." I said, making a circular gesture in her direction. With that, I turned and walked away – thinking how difficult it would be to do a three-point turn with a set of beach balls strapped to your chest.
Her archery days are over.
"I'll call the police!" she screamed. "I'll write down your license number!" This was a woman accustomed to getting her own way.
I chuckled – half expecting Tits on a Stick to whip a ball point pen, a cell phone, and a pistol out of her cleavage – and went about my merry way. A man, given the same circumstances, likely would have jumped at the opportunity to assist this damsel in distress – even if, underneath all the plastic and peroxide – she was a total bitch.
Tailwaggrs had my little dog all groomed and ready to go. While paying, it dawned on me – I spend way more on my dog's beauty regime than I do on my own. And it shows. I don't even let the girls at Flaunt blow dry my hair. And I obviously don't care enough to change things up.
When I returned to my parking spot a few moments later, Barbie's car was indeed gone. I was almost disappointed, geared for another in-depth conversation with her hood ornaments. I pulled away and wondered if I would have been more gracious to a different kind of woman. A woman who wouldn't resort to helplessness. A woman whose shingles matched her porch, and whose doorbells were so small you had to knock to see if anyone was home.
I double-D doubt it.
Get your hair coloured, curled and coiffed to perfection at Flaunt Salon on 2166 Windsor Street 425.0020.
Get your dog done too, at Tailwaggrs in Bedford, or in Halifax at the old Metro Dog Wash Location. 422.9364.
Get a safe, high-quality boob, nose, ass, neck, or hand job at The Landings Surgical Centre in Halifax. Okay, maybe not a hand job, unless you hurt your hand.