heatherbeck

Sauce No. 2 - TittySlut

Yeah, this one has a name. A while back, my friend and I were recovering from a hangover with a shit load of mac & cheese and a bunch of trashy Lifetime movies (she'd never seen a Lifetime movie before, so I feel both thrilled and guilty that I got her hooked). I can't remember the name of the movie, but I think it was about a suburban neighborhood where all of the neighbors were attractive, rich, and most importantly, all had open relationships for some reason, so they'd just bang each other like mad at these Eyes Wide Shut-style parties. 

Anyway, one of the characters, Gisele, was a standard-issue Lifetime movie gal in her mid-30s, and the way she was dressed was like, "va-voom!" Boobs bursting out of her top to what I can only assume is the maximum degree allowed in a MarVista Productions movie. It was PEAK Lifetime. 

So my friend says, in her lovely Spanish accent, "She is such a titty slut!" And then, it was one of those brief moments where she was worried that I might be offended, because, as a heavily titted person myself, I might have some reservations about such language and come to the defense of titty sluts everywhere.

But, nah. I just said, with a mouthful of macaroni and cheese, "Ahm a tittyslut!" And it's one of those things where it's not as funny as I'm writing it down, but at the time, it was HYSTERICAL, and we had to rewind the movie for like two minutes because I almost choked on macaroni and cheese, which just kinda went toward making it even more hysterical, and we were both hungover, so our defenses were down. 

Anyway, one of those moments where we got a word as a souvenir. Plus, it's just a fun word to say... "TittySlut."

It's for moments like that, that this sauce was created. TittySlut's definitely got a kick, but there's a lot of deceptive sweetness, too, that just makes you want more. Plus, there's just a tad of tartness that gives it body. And the color? How could I not name this sauce the TittySlut? :-D

It goes great on tacos, especially something light and fresh like pollo asado with a bunch of veggies. 

What would TittySlut be in Spanish... "puta de teta?" Which, I have just discovered, is also incredibly fun to say!

Here's the recipe...

• 30 g fresh habaneros, after de-seeding and de-capping

• 400 g fresh pineapple

• 10 g dried hibiscus (jamaica)

• 200 mL water

• 7 g salt

• 100 mL vinegar

Take the hibiscus, put it into the water, and bring it to a simmer for about 10 minutes. It'll be a deep red, which is just pretty. Discard the hibiscus petals and throw the tea into a blender with everything else. Bring to a low boil for 20 minutes, and when it's done, give it one more spin in the blender.

At this point, you can strain the sauce, which is fun, because in that case, it'll be crystal clear but still packed with flavor, though you do lose some volume. I don't mind the cloud of pineapple though, and the way it separates is just kinda fun. Next time, I might try straining it, just for the heck of it, and adding maybe a teaspoon of the "pulp," just to give it a little swirl when you shake it? Not sure. 

Oh! I also wanted to add a little lime juice to this too, which I really think would pull it together nicely with a cool touch of citrus acidity. Couldn't find any limes though! Guess they were out of season. Ah well. 

By the way, you'll see that a lot of these sauces separate in the bottle, which is totally cool. The cure a lot of folks use for this is xantham gum, which emulsifies everything and prevents it from separating, which is ok, I guess, but why add extra crap when you don't have to, you know? So, just give it a shake. 

YoU hEaRd mE! SHAKE THAT TITTYSLUT!

Heh. Heh heh.

Sauce No. 1 - Name to come...

(note: hot sauces should usually have funny, flirty, tongue-in-cheek names. But I’m actually kind of terrible at coming up with those... so if anybody has a fun idea for a name for this sauce, drop it in the comments!)

My absolute favorite hot sauce of all time is called “Miss Anna’s.” It comes from St. Croix in the US Virgin Islands, and the story goes is that it’s been the same recipe for more than a century, with Anna‘s grandfather making it in giant batches.

At some point, a hurricane raged across the Virgin Islands, and knocked the little island of St. Croix out pretty good. Not want to be kicked off her feet, the titular miss Anna decided to double down. She took her family’s famous hot sauce, and decided to go big time, manufacturing it in bulk, selling it all over the island, and ultimately, overseas.

To the best of my knowledge, her sauce has gone on to gather a bit of a cult status. It’s the kind of stuff that tastes great on top of that crabcake, on top of jerk chicken, as part of a chicken wing mix, throw it on a burrito, pizza, in a pot of soup… You can pretty much put the stuff on everything.

So, going off of nothing more than my recollections of the flavor, and a little bit of gut instinct, I read the ingredients online, and figured out how I could get as close as possible. And I got to say, in this case? I got about 90 to 95% of the way there, so I’m pretty happy!

When I got my shipment of habaneros, I decided to ferment half right off the bat. More on that to come. The other half? I didn’t. I was debating whether or not to use fermented peppers in the sauce, but then I realized something… Fermentation was invented by a bunch of people who couldn’t grow food eight months out of the year. Go down to the Caribbean? Food is growing out of the ground all the time. There’s no reason to ferment peppers to make this hot sauce. You know that Miss Anna didn’t have time for that shit! She just hacked up the peppers, threw them into a blender, put it on the stove, and called it a day.

If you’re familiar with habanero peppers, you know that they have a natural smoky-yet-floral kind of flavor that, even for some people who don’t like spicy, is worth enduring the pain. Turns out, this profile goes really well with mustard and curry, which are two of the big ingredients that make this sauce what it is.

Here’s the recipe:

• 125 g habanero peppers, after you’ve cut out the caps and pulled out the seed pods (save those for later).
• 125 g yellow onion
• 50 g fresh garlic
• 200 mL vinegar (i prefer white wine, but distilled white is ok too)
• 125 mL water
• 12 g salt
• 3 g curry powder
• 10 g Dijon mustard

Throw everything into a blender, and let it go till it’s as liquidy as it’s going to get. Put it in a sauce pan, and bring it to a low boil for 20 minutes.

Then you’re good! I’m no scientist (insert “preserve and eat at your own risk disclaimer” here), but 20 minutes should kill all the nasty stuff, and the pH balance should be low enough (<4.0 for home-made) so botulism can’t occur, so make sure you follow proper bottling techniques, and it should be able to stay on the shelf for a year!

Memoir Update — Rough Outline

This is how I usually start writing a story. Post-it notes on cardboard. To be fair, the process has been a little different than it would be with a work of fiction, but that kind of makes it fun, too. In this case, a chronological outline that at least pins down a lot of the high points, as I remember them.

For the past week or so, I’ve been scouring old journals, notes, tracking down old emails to confirm dates, and in general, have been racking my mind. But memory is a fickle thing. Isn’t it funny how, if you’re not thinking about something, it’ll just kind of stumble into your head? Meanwhile, if you try to sit down, and say, “OK, brain. What sort of wacky wild stuff has taken place over the last several years?” You end up with a lot more blanks than you think you should have. All part of the process, I suppose.

This memoir is going to be divided into three parts. I think that’s a pretty safe bet.

Part one is going to be early life. Background, growing up, family, career, things like that. Basically, everything that leads up to that one fateful night in October 2014 when this whole part of my journey began. I don’t imagine this part is going to be horribly lengthy, but a little background for context can’t hurt.

Part two is going to cover, roughly, everything that took place between the years 2015 to 2018. Some of that stuff I’ve written about here already, and aside from alluding to things I’ve already mentioned, i’m going to steer as far away from repeating myself as possible. There are some juicy stories that deserve a mention in the formalized memoir, but for the most part, I would love for this book to be things I haven’t really talked a lot about already. In that case, part two, this massive transitional period in my life, is probably going to end up being the bulk of the book. (It’s the part that I’ve spent the most time outlining above, because frankly, it’s probably the most interesting!)

Part three is going to take place roughly between 2018 and the present day, with some notes of looking forward. 2018, after all, is when I reached out into all this social media stuff, and when some of you started getting to know me. Think of that as the rebirth portion of the book.

The next step is going to be to expand on each of these high points, and to come up with a brief, but concise summary of what all I want to talk about concerning each of them. How they’re going to transition together, and how everything is going to flow.

Then, the actual fun begins. Outlining, for me, is a necessary evil. I enjoy the actual writing part whole lot more, but doing this, and getting the board set up, does go along way to making the actual writing process more enjoyable.

In the meanwhile… I’d like to ask you guys at this tier level a favor. Now, I know you don’t know my specific life experiences, outside of what I’ve already written about here. And since this is a memoir, I’m not gonna be writing anything that’s just artistic license. But, I don’t know: maybe there’s a certain TYPE of experience you’d like to hear about. One that, if mentioned, might trigger a “oh hey, you know what? That reminds me of...” kind of memory. if that’s the case, please feel free to post a comment here, or just shoot me a direct message. I’d certainly appreciate it, especially at this point in the process when everything is still clicking into place.

Schmear! - A Bagel Recipe

It's funny the things you miss. Back home, there was this outstanding Jewish deli near my place, and I would head down there all the time... They had this $5 breakfast special that was a cup of coffee plus a bagel with smoked salmon, red onion, capers, cream cheese — classic lox. God, those were good bagels. 

It was around that time, too, that I learned how to actually make bagels. I'm not sure why — I think it was just a kick I was on. But a friend of mine had learned how to make them from his own grandmother who, in her town's small Jewish community way-back-when, was the lady who made the bagels. So basically, how could I pass up a bagel-making Masterclass with only one degree of separation? 

It took some trial and error, I must admit, but at this point, I'm actually really good at making these things, if I do say so myself. A little crunch on the outside; chewy on the inside; a little schmear; and you're good to go.

This knowledge has served me well, as lately, I've become my town's Bagel Lady. Bagels aren't really a thing here; baking is an amazing way to pass the time and kill the quarantine blues; and I just get a kick out of feeding people things they've never tried before, so it works. 

So, if you'd like, I'll be happy to share the results of my labor here, in classic Heather-hates-how-cookbooks-are-written lingo. 

###

First, take a big bowl. 4 cups of flour; a cup-ish of water; couple of teaspoons of salt; couple of teaspoons of yeast. Then, knead the shit out of it, to the point where your arms start burning — you're gonna want to get those gluten chains all unlocked. The consistency you're going to want to end up with is not wet, but not dried out, either — a big, smooth wad of dough that doesn't stick to your fingers. 

Divide that dough into six balls, and roll each ball between your hands so you end up with a bunch of dough snakes. Turn those snakes into circles, squish the ends together, and put them on a sheet of parchment paper. 

Now, this is the part that blew my mind — you don't let the dough proof like you would with a loaf of bread. You're going to take these dough circles, and stick them in the fridge for, like, 24 hours. I know, it's totally jacked: how does the yeast do its thing if everything's just sitting in a fridge for a day? 

24 Hours Later...

Preheat your oven to 375F, and get a pot of water boiling. Now, if you HAVE it, the best thing to put into the water is two tablespoons of malted barley flour. You probably DON'T have it, because what the hell is this stuff, and it's not like it's a kitchen staple. But it is available in some baking sections (probably a bit more of a Whole Foods-y thing), or on Amazon for like, $5 for a giant bag. You don't NEED it. You can get by with a couple of tablespoons of sugar if you're in a pinch, I guess... But you know that slightly sweet-but-earthy crust you get on a really good bagel? That's MBF (as the cool kids call it), and when you float the bagels in the water, the dough actually gets a little caramelized. Just gorgeous. 

Whatever you're going with, take the bagels out of the fridge. They'll look a lot like they did yesterday, maybe a little more puffy. Then, plunk a few of them in the boiling water, making sure not to crowd the pot. They'll float on the surface, and like those weird little pills you'd drop in water when you were a kid, the ones that would turn into little sponge dinosaurs, they'll start to puff up like crazy. I like to keep the bagels bobbing around for about 4 minutes. 3 on one side, then flip 'em, and one more minute on the other.

You know how some gardeners will say that the tomatoes turn out better if they listen to music while they're growing? I find the bagels turn out better if you play Hava Nagilah on a ukulele. Here are the chords, just in case you would like to follow this important step:

[A] Hava nagilah

[A7] Hava nagilah

[Dm] Hava nagilah

[A] venis' mecha

Scoop them out with a slatted ladle (or fork, or whatever, they're not delicate and won't collapse or anything), and plop them onto a baking sheet that's lined with parchment paper (this stuff is the absolute best, and you need it, so just grab a roll). 

At this point, they're still nice and wet, so this is when you put on whatever toppings you'd like. Your girl Heather's a huge everything bagel fan, but since I can't find poppy seeds or sesame seeds to save my life, I just stick with rock salt and garlic. Sprinkle sprinkle, and you're good to go. (The barley flour or sugar helps the toppings to stick better than if you were just do plain water, BTW.)

A note on garlic. I make my own. Just take a bulb of garlic, peel, and be prepared to spend a little while with a knife, cutting it into tiny little chunks. Spread the garlic chunks on a cookie sheet — parchment paper again! — and put them in the oven for, like, 2 hours on a super-low temperature. You're not trying to cook them, just dehydrate them, so... like, 120F? Anyway, once it's completely dry, you can just dump it into a jar and keep it for when you need it. 

Anyway, once everything's all seasoned up, stick the tray in the oven for about 18 to 20 minutes, or until they have a pretty gold color to them. Then take them out, put them on a wire rack, and let them cool for about 10 minutes before slicing one open. 

I'm not entirely sure if this is going to go viral (#bagelchallenge? Everything becomes a challenge these days...), but bagels are delicious, and we've all gotta have hobbies. So, if you try it out, let me know how it goes! Feel free to hit me up if you've got any questions!

So... I’m writing a damn book.

Yup. A memoir, a la Big Girls Don’t Cry by Tina Small. (if you haven’t read it, let me know… I might have a PDF lying around here somewhere...) An original collection of life stories that tell the tale of... me. Printed, hardback, ink on paper, delivered right to your door.

While it’s being written over the course of the next four-and-a-half months, i’m sure I’m going to be poring over old journals, recalling certain stories, and fitting everything into place. It’s going to be a pretty Herculean effort… 60,000 words? That’s no small feat! But September 1: that’s my drop-deadline, and the one that I am committing to the printer.

So for those of you who would like to join me on this journey, I have created a new tier here on Patreon.

Feel free to check it out, and hit me up if you have any questions. But essentially, I would really love for those of you who are willing, to receive a first edition that’s bursting at the buttons (so to speak) with all sorts of exclusive content. The text, first of all: along with all sorts of exclusive illustrations, never-to-be-seen-elsewhere photographs, doodlings, scanned pages out of my actual diary, notes in the margins, and probably a whole lot of extra fun stuff as I think of it. Only printed for people at this level, and never to be printed again: consigned, as George Washington said, to oblivion, and to the mansions of rest. Future editions, not to be printed until next year at the earliest, will only contain text. This is the one that will have all the fun extras. Not a bad project to ride out the quarantine.

A lot as happened in my life over, well, my life. But a giant transformative part of that has been in only the last several years. So if you are interested in hearing new parts of the story, and want a weird addition to your coffee table, check it on out.

This one’s...

... for all of the folks who say I look sad all the time. I don’t think it’s sad, per se... maybe more “in thought?” Some gals have resting [insert quality] face; I guess I just have resting sad face.

Hey, real quick: I’ve said this in private a lot lately, but I just wanted to say it to all of you, because it means something.

I actually don’t have a very huge Patreon following. I’ve been informed, by close friends and distant acquaintances alike, that this following could be absolutely enormous, if I just went the normal route. But... eh. Those of you who have read back to the very beginning of my posts know why I tend to veer away from the usual cam-girl thing. Instead, with every month that rolls by, I’m consistently flattered and shellshocked by those of you who choose to remain. That you showed up for the boobs, but you stuck around because of… the girl behind them.

So many of you have written me and said that you’ve been able to identify with some of the stuff that I’ve written on a visceral level. So many of you have communicated to me that I am your only subscription on this site, which is actually pretty huge for me in an I’m-doing-something-right kind of way. A decent number of you have iterated that you really, really like my tits, and that’s cool too — some of you who stick around tend to communicate that with a sense of indulgence, which beats the hell out of the usual meretricious stuff (and shit, I do value honesty... nobody knows that I have massive jumblies better than I do). That actually means a lot to me, in ways that I never would’ve been able to express… Well, not too long ago. So, very first, thank you. That means a lot.

The reason I mention this is because it just hit me today that it’s been just about two years since my first Instagram post. I remember what that was like. My last growth spurt was only about a year before, and while I was supremely overjoyed that the whole “uncontrollable growing” part of my life was apparently put to bed, I still had to deal with the aftermath. It’s not easy to be 30, with C cups, and then have life throws you a curve ball like it threw me.

But, I persisted. First, on IG, then here... A bit of a personal social experiment, if you will. And I can’t tell you how many relationships I’ve developed in that time, because I decided to do that. I had become a hermit, but in putting myself out there a little bit, I came out of that shell more than I would have otherwise. It’s been a back-and-forth, sure... I’ve gotten more dick pics that you can possibly imagine, and if I had a nickel for every time I’ve had a milk bottle emoji thrown at me, I would probably be a millionaire by now. But overall, it’s been great, and I am thrilled to say that I’ve grown (in other ways, and) on my own terms.

For the past week, I’ve been in a fairly depressed state, I don’t mind saying. There are things that depress me. Relationships with family and friends, feeling that I’m not doing enough, going to bed at night, regretting all the things that I COULD have done that day... do you ever get that? You’re on your way to sleep, and then your body shocks awake with some innocuous regret that’s weeks old? God, that’s the worst. But for me, at least in the last week or so, it’s more of a “state of the world” malaise.

I was talking with a good friend of mine the other day, and he helped put it into perspective. “It’s easy,” he said. “Society is fragile, and we are fragile. You might never go to Chipotle, which is fine, because diarrhea. But for some reason, knowing that you can’t go to Chipotle is much worse. It’s going to take us a long time to figure out why that is.”

There are a lot of layers to what he said, and I paid a lot of attention, because he’s a smart person, and wise, and when smart, wise people put complicated issues in terms of poop, I tend to listen. I’m only a little smart, and only a little wise, and I have a brain like a 13-year-old, so when somebody says poop, I pay attention, and the rest of it kind of sinks in to the periphery of my head.

I’ve been wondering lately about how a lot of you are doing. Some of you I know well, some of you only a little. And if you’re reading this right now, that means that you’re one of not very many. But, the reason you’re still here, is because you like what I have to offer; in exchange, I like you, because you are chill. For what it’s worth, we’ve actually established a bit of a community in these weird times. Isn’t that crazy? Denizens of the internet, and all, united in the mutual strangeness that is everything?

I’m getting damn close to rambling. And frankly, all of this is just kind of freely pouring out of my head. The fun thing, is that I have five more pictures from this set, that I will be posting over the next five days. Hopefully, by the time I get to the last picture, I will have actually figured out a way to say, in all of my wordiness, what I want to say.

I don’t know what the long version of that is yet, but I do know that the short version is: you are welcome here, and thank you, and we are all in this together, aren’t we.

Girl in the High Tower - Chapter 6

This was always the hard part…

With tense fingers, Roger navigated the drone over the wall of the penthouse terrace, and lowered it, ever so slightly, to about six feet off the ground. The lights were on full blast inside the cavernous apartment, so there was still enough light to see the drone’s surroundings on Roger’s hand-held view screen; still, he was ever-cautious to make sure he steered clear of the elevated pool, lest the little machine take an unwanted, deadly bath.

The unit was a little harder to navigate than he was used to. Over these past several weeks, he had used the little machine to deliver a few frivolities — a note here, a flower there, both of which caused her to become visibly emotional — the small flying device had never carried a cargo this large before. He was pleased when it even got off the ground at all.

He edged the unit forward as slowly and smoothly as possible, pivoting it to the right when he felt confident he was close to the wide pair of French doors that led inside. They were open, as he supposed, and though at this distance — nearly the whole length of the floor away — she was still a little blurry, he could see her, sitting in her usual spot. He could make out the outline of her face, craning up to see if the buzzing noise was, in fact, him approaching. But even with this scarcely detailed feature, he knew it was her. Hers, after all, was a difficult shape to miss.

He imagined what it must look like for her, all alone in her apartment, to have this soulless machine hovering toward her. He wondered if the heart-pounding excitement he felt, every week when he first arrived, came across somehow through the wireless signal. He assumed it might. As he approached her, she had a big smile on her face, one that never failed to intoxicate him. It took almost every ounce of concentration he had to still control this little craft, what with his attention darting back and forth from her beautiful face, and to… the obvious.

As he could never get used to her smile, so too could he not ever quite get over the view of her when the little flying camera was still about eight feet away. He halted the drone for a moment so he could take it all in — he was certain there was a body perched on the oversized, cushy reclining chair, but he couldn’t see it: only a face, shoulders, and a pair of arms that rested lazily over two enormous breasts that were laid out before her, perched mightily on the table-sized ottoman. The crane, a recent addition to their weekly visits, was relaxed slightly, allowing the mass of her chest to rest completely. But whereas the natural elasticity of her skin would have normally allowed them to pile neatly, like two enormous half footballs, the taut tubes of opaque white fabric did what they could to constrict her endowments. They had already joked about what a strange fashion statement this was — with each of these encounters, she had opened up more and more, and had even been willing to make some self-depricating fun at her own expense — but he still found himself holding back from letting her know the odd mixture of feelings he had in seeing her so adorned. There an eroticism he still couldn’t quite explain, magnified almost certainly by the fact that her nipples and areola were still completely exposed, out of her sight completely, but entirely within his field of view (he enjoyed fantasizing that, somehow, she didn’t know that she was “poking out”). There was a small amount of pity. They had talked at length about, simply, how long it took her to get prepared for this weekly night completely on her own. The more he learned about her, and the more blanks he filled in, the more he realized that even the simplest of tasks were difficult for her and required a substantial amount of preparation. If, of course, they weren’t impossible. And then, there was a not inconsiderable amount of respect. This woman, he had come to realize more and more, was unflappable — optimistic to a fault, funny, and always willing to look on the bright side, even if sometimes that mentality contained a discernible vein of sadness. At least she was trying to make the best of things. 

“Come on, get over here,” she said toward the hovering camera. She patted a landing zone on her right breast. “I’ve got your spot all ready.”

Roger felt a tightening in his jeans as he hovered the camera forward. Confident that he was in the right place, he lowered the drone slowly into place.

He saw Nadya giggle in the corner of the frame. “This part… it always tickles,” she said, responding to the downward draft of the fans, which she could feel even through the white fabric. “I should paint a large letter H inside of a circle for you.”

Her expression shifted. “Oh, what did you bring me today? Can I see what it is?”

She looked at her phone, anticipating the three ebbing dots that would tell her Roger was typing. This was the nature of their conversations: Roger could see her and hear everything she said; she relied on responses to come only via Instagram DMs, so far their only form of communication. But that would change in a moment.

Sure! Open it up and see what’s inside! Roger sent on DM. You look very lovely tonight, as always. :-* , he followed.

She gave a little smile and blushed as she retrieved the small, gift wrapped parcel from where it was affixed on the top of the drone. 

Sorry, Christmas paper was all I had. :-P 

“That is okay,” Natalia said as she weighed the small parcel in her hand, turning her attention from the phone sitting on her left breast, to the camera perched on the right. “Before I open… Do I get a little hint?” She always liked to savor the process of opening a present, even if it was something small. 

Well… Roger typed. It’s smaller than a car… you can’t eat it… and it’ll open up the world

A grin of recognition before a guess lodged in her mind. “No… you didn’t…” The paper tore open; inside, a brand new iPhone.

“No!” Nadya let out a squeal. “It is so… shiny…” She turned it over in her hands, wide-eyed, and with a glance and a wide grin back at the camera, clicked the home button. The screen flickered to life, illuminating her face. 

Her expression shifted a little. “But… this must have been so expensive!” A text had already come through on her old, cracked phone.

And don’t you dare say it’s too expensive!

She laughed.

Ok, let me give you a tour. I know you can’t get online for almost anything in your apartment. So this has a SIM card in it that will give you 20 gigabytes a month. So you can download apps, go on youtube, listen to music, anything.

“And we can even talk?”

Yeah! Video, voice, whatever you want! Roger was hoping for video, but he would take what he could get.

“What about… Spotify?” God, she was cute…

That too!

“Wow! Thank you! I… I do not know what I can say.”

Well… I have one idea.

“Yes?”

Would you like to go out with me tomorrow night?

When Nadya read this message on her old phone, her expression turned to one of disappointment. Without looking at the camera, she spoke, quietly. “Why do you ask this?”

Roger had already begun typing. The last thing he wanted was to come across as insensitive — he knew that, of the few points of self-consciousness they had left after their two months of getting to know each other, that her inability to leave her apartment was a big one.

Wait… I think you’re going to like this.

“And besides… even if I could… you know I have my treatment tomorrow night anyway. We have talked about this, Roger.” Her expression was still sad. He dropped the coy act.

Can you unlock the phone, Nadya? :-)

She did so. The usual collection of factory-set apps was on the screen.

OK… now click on GlassView. It’s on the lower-right.

Her brows furrowed. She wasn’t so disappointed anymore, more curious.

Roger led her through a small series of prompts that he had memorized from setting the app up on her phone a few hours before. Now… Click connect.

As she did, Roger could see her expression change. He knew what she was looking at on the screen of the phone: the streaming video of her, from the drone’s point of view, as seen on the LCD display of Roger’s control unit. 

She was confused. “I do not know what I am looking at… this is me?”

Roger turned his head up, and took a few steps toward the edge of his building’s rooftop. The view streamed onto Nadya’s phone.

“How… is this you right now?”

“Sure is,” Roger said. “By the way… I guess this is the first time you’re hearing my voice. I hope I sound okay.” His words emanated from her phone, along with an evening view of buildings and streetlights. 

“But…”

“It’s these glasses,” Roger said. “They have a little camera and microphone built in. So you can see and hear everything I see and hear.” He looked at the screen to see an expression of disbelief on her face.

His enthusiasm boiled over. His heart was still pounding over the possibility of offending her, so he blurted, paying little mind to the fact that this was the first time they had ever talked, more or less, live.

“I… I know you can’t leave your apartment. And I know you get a little lonely because you live in this big city, and you don’t get to see any of it. And… I know you have your treatment tomorrow, and that you don’t like it very much. So… I was kind of thinking… while you’ve got four hours to kill tomorrow, why not sync this phone up with your VR headset, and we can… go on a date.”

That was it. That awkward moment. The “D” word. The silence lasted for only a moment, but to Roger, it seemed like an eternity.

Suddenly, Nadya’s expression changed. Her smile returned. “Yes,” she said, straight into the drone’s camera. “Yes, okay!”

She could not see his expression, but he hoped she imagined that it looked very much like her own. 

“Cool!” Roger was over the moon. They were both silent for a moment. Nadya dreamily staring into the lifeless camera perched on her breast; Roger, flushed, dead-locked on the drone’s remote control unit. 

“You have a pretty voice,” she said. Roger felt incredible. 

“Thank you,” he said.

Nadya wasn’t sure why she did it now. She had been keeping this thin piece of metal safely tucked away, deep in the cushion of her armchair, for weeks. Always ready, at some point during their hours-long conversations, to pull it out, brandish it at him, and re-use the tape that normally came with some small present, on his drone. Maybe it was the enthusiasm over the notion that tomorrow, instead of being scared and alone inside that six-foot tank while her treatment took place, trying to distract herself with 30-year-old television, that she would instead finally get a glimpse of this enormous city that she had been so dying to see. Maybe it was the thrill over getting such a gift — notwithstanding the luxurious accommodations she called home, she had never gotten a present like this one. Maybe it was Roger’s thoughtfulness, or the trust she had, at this point, solidly built for him after their countless hours of text messaging. Maybe she just wanted to meet her friend for the first time, in person, and was sick of the fact that so little space separated them, and yet, he seemed a whole world away. 

“I also…” she said, plunging her hand down into the fold of cushion, “have something for you.”

Roger was taken aback. “Oh?” He said? “What’s that?”

Nadya held up a large key. She felt a lump in her throat. She had practiced mumbling this a few times already, always trying to be casual and sultry like she saw on some TV show, but the words escaped her mind. She bit her lip and said the first thing that came into her head.

“It is a key… duh,” she said, smiling. She leaned her face closer to the camera. “I will tell you what. If this date goes nicely tomorrow, then maybe next weekend… you can use it.” It sounded so much smoother in her mind.

Roger practically felt his heart stop. He wanted to tell her to put it on the drone now, that he would fly it back to himself, and that he would be up there in 10 minutes. But he stopped himself.

In so many ways, this woman was a mystery to him; but one that offered no short supply of surprises. And besides… for some reason, this felt natural. The timing felt good. He would have to make sure that tomorrow night was the coolest evening Nadya had ever even dreamed of… and if it was? Shit, was he going to get to meet her in person?

“Are you okay?” Nadya said. “Hello?”

“Ummm, deal!” Roger said.

“Ummm, good,” Nadya responded. She smiled into the camera while she taped the key to the top of the drone. And before Roger could respond, asking the flurry of questions that were blowing through his mind, she interrupted.

“So.” She leaned her elbows atop her breasts, and perched her head atop her palms, clearly settling in to be regaled. She could play the part of the ingenue, for sure, Roger thought. But why, when he was so convinced that she was naive, did she have an ability to say and do exactly the thing that captivated him? 

“Where are we going?”

La Cocina

You had no way of knowing that the blouse she was wearing was, at one point, destined for the trash can. 

She had gotten it only a week before, after one of her hit-and-miss online clothing stock-ups. Some of the articles miraculously fit like a glove; most were destined for a trip to the seamstress; this piece, like a couple of the others, was hopeless: so tight that the bottom hem required a generous amount of tugging to barely fit around her low-hanging, braless breasts (something that was impossible if her proud chest was hoisted high by a supportive bra), and with almost zero stretch — she should have paid closer attention to the description on the website.

But, it managed to stay in her wardrobe. There were times, after all, where she preferred to go braless, if anything so she could fill her lungs with air without the extra weight piled on up top. And whereas one of her standard flowy go-to blouses would be a preferred option for some lazy cleaning-over-a-glass-of-wine, this one served a special purpose: it managed to tightly batten down the fullest parts of her breasts, solidly around her waist, which helped minimize the jiggle factor. Heck, she could even bend over without having to worry about being slapped in the face, or feeling an unpleasant tug in the sensitive area of skin where the underside of her breasts met her ribcage. 

You had no way of knowing that, before she entered the kitchen, she had stood in the bathroom mirror for a long moment, evaluating how this top made her look. How she looked at the top of the sloping curves, and tried to reminisce to years ago, when the fullness of her C-cup chest was positioned somewhere 'normal,' before time, gravity, and sheer size lowered the latitude of her shape. Turning to the side, she thought, if she squinted a little, it almost looked like she could be mistaken as being quite pregnant. 

And, as you watched the surreptitiously recorded video, you would have no way of knowing that, as strangely comfortable as this top was, with the compression it offered, that her mind was still lingering on the commitment she had made to herself: "This is a house shirt, not for wearing in public, and not for company — there's no way I'm going to let someone else see me in it."

Very Simply...

...because there were requests to put the pics from the IG story up. This has been an uncharacteristically brief post. Good day.

Venus

Kurzgesagt is this really great thing. If you haven't checked them out, give them a look on YouTube. Essentially, they're a collective of researchers, writers, illustrators, and animators who spend boatloads of time making these original (and frequently adorable) videos on a huge variety of topics that run the gamut from social science, to health and medicine, space, speculative technology, politics, economics — basically, deep dives into subjects that deserve deep dives. All done with exceptional research and as little bias as possible. 

One of their episodes speculated that a more balanced calendar could be one that's a little re-vamped. A large percentage of the world uses the standard-issue Gregorian calendar (January, February, etc), and if there's one that most folks generally go by, its that one. The reason we have the years (1492, 1776, 1969, 2020) we have is basically based around the observation of the birth of Christ. Most of us say BC and AD (Before Christ and Anno Domini), but a lot of folks who are a bit more secular say BCE and CE (Before the Common Era and Common Era).

Anyway, this video was a fun little thought piece, and proposed that, since the establishments of civilizations started about 12,000 years ago (best we can tell), that we should use that as a "Year Zero," and call the past 12,020 years HE (or, the Human Era). Check out their channel if you are looking for a new way to binge away the time. 

Anyway, needless to say, humans have been around for a lot longer than that — it's just that we were hunters and foragers who happened to exist on this planet, as opposed to the dominant, terraforming creatures we are today.

Going back twice as far, in the midst of those nomadic days, we weren't too horribly different than we are now, which is kind of a cool thing to think about. We were still having conversations with one another, fire was something we could create and control, we hung out with dogs, things like that. We weren't completely cave people, and some of these early humans could actually find themselves dedicating their efforts to creating pretty things instead of simply surviving. Creativity has been a part of us for a long time (I'm thinking of plant-dye drawings in caves of stick figures gathered around a mammoth).

And at some point, we started figuring out that sculpture was a pretty cool idea, too. 

I suppose the reason most conventional "religions" took off the way they did was because we finally found ourselves in communities that were large enough for ideas to be widely disseminated among large groups in a standardized fashion. Before 12,020 years ago, we were mostly small, wandering tribes.

But, we were still humans, and humans have an instinctual need to revere something. So, we took reverence, mixed it with art, and all around the world, took to making these little statuettes of women. I take this as a bit of a compliment... women are pretty freaking awesome.

These figurines were about as far away from Barbie as you could get. They weren't slender. They were round, and curvy, and fertile, and productive — representations of conduits who were likely extremely valued in the communities of say, 30,000 years ago, when bad fevers or saber-toothed tigers could take out a large swath of your tribe over time. 

I like Venus statues. They represent an ideal of something. And, on a selfish note, since I kind of align with the ideal they represent (at least in a purely physical sense)... yeah. I take them as a sort of nod that my body isn't madness in a general human sense. Just a modern one. 

A new friend sent over this picture, which I am reposting here, pretty much because I think it's interesting.

It reminded me of an artist friend of mine who, years back, asked me if I might be inclined to serve as a model of sorts for a project he wanted to do. Basically, a modern interpretation of statues very much like these. He was a cool guy, and not at all weird about it, so I appreciated the thought, but I declined. This was a few years ago, after all, my breasts had only recently stopped exploding in size, and I was still profoundly self-conscious. As many of my longtime readers know, this insecurity has taken a long time to get over, and it's still a work in progress.

That being said... If I had it to do again, knowing what I know now? I would have absolutely jumped at his offer. I think it would have been really cool to see what his interpretation would have been (he was an amazing sculptor, actually). After all, I've been lucky enough to have made the acquaintances of some artists here in the online lands, and have really enjoyed collaborating in that regard. Plus, shit... I gotta say, it's actually kinda fun to be a muse. Isn't it funny, the things we regret?

Ah, well. A similar opportunity will present itself at some point. Life is a meandering thing, and it's always a little more flavorful when you surround yourself with eccentric creatives. 

Oh, by the way... my favorite of the 9 Venuses above? Lespugue, all the way. Girl be thikk. :-P What's yours?

Pardon the Mess

The memory on my phone was almost full, so I was going through and deleting a bunch of pictures. This one almost made the chopping block. The room was too messy, the lighting kind of chopped my head off, and if you ask any woman over the age of 25 how she feels about downward-up angles, you’ll get the same negative response (though even I have to admit that my legs look ah-maaazing... wonder why nobody ever notices those... 🤪)

And God knows what I was thinking with that piece of lingerie I got for a euro, that was way too hopelessly small to fit my body, but if I chopped it up and tied it back together, would create a sort-of boobs-only halter-top sling-style (what can only be loosely described as) piece of neglegee.

But… I don’t know. Chubby-looking arms and weirdly-squished left boob aside, it just seemed kind of fun, and demure, and something to liven up an otherwise drab Sunday.

Man, I’m one hell of a saleswoman, huh? 😜🤦🏻‍♀️

Pinhole

You waited outside for an hour, but it felt like longer. She was making her daily trip to the vegetable stand down the street, you knew, at some point. She would only be gone for a few minutes; in a neighborhood like hers, not even long enough to need to lock the door.

When she rounded the corner, out of sight, you strolled up to her door, casually as you could, and tried the knob. Just as you thought, unlocked.

You felt uncomfortable in this inner sanctum. You tried your best to see that no sign of you would be left behind, as you scanned the room for a place to plant the tiny, innocuous camera you had just purchased. Someplace where it might not be noticed for days, until the opportunity arose for you to retrieve it. And in the meanwhile... who knew what it would see?

A few moments of searching, as the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end. You knew you were running short on time, and Lord only knew what this mysterious busty woman would think if she walked into her kitchen and saw you standing there...!

A noise outside. The rustling of plastic bags as a voice chatted with a neighbor. You hastily moved toward the first hidden place that seemed reasonable: a utensil basket, peppered with small holes, just above the dishwasher, occupied only by a collection of soup ladels. With any luck, she wouldn’t notice before you returned, later, to remove the only evidence of your intrusion.

You scanned around the space, aware that your entrance could no longer be your exit. She was only moments from re-entering. And, just before the front door opened, the back door closed behind you.

Undique

When I was in college, I took two semesters of Latin. I have no idea why... I seem to recall something about the romanticism of it. It birthed so many other languages, so I guess I thought I would gain some greater insight into the structure of words themselves if if figured out where so many of them came from.

It sucked. Like Pacino in that one Godfather movie, "I thought I was out, but they pulled me back in." (I needed two language credits in the same language, so I had to see it through to the end.) 

My professor was a dear. One of those lumbering, awkward Mensa guys who had awful teeth, smoked two packs of Marlboro Reds a day, was a no-show to class often more than his students, and prided himself on his verbosity. There were times when he would pound his fist on the desk and shout at us, with a sort of gutteral lisp, "Okay, I'll say it one more time. The antecedent of the reflexive pronominal is indicative of number and gender, but the case is determined by the syntactic necessity of the clause! Jesus Christ, you motherfuckers, how many times do I need to tell you that?!" I still have absolutely no idea what the means, but I can hear him say it in my mind, it makes me laugh a little, so I've long-since committed it to memory. He was a pretentious douchebag.

Still, he bent over backwards to make sure the lesser among us at least got a passing grade. We were supposed to have four or five tests per semester; he gave us a test every week, instead, so we could do our darnedest to level out our curve a little. I think I walked away from each semester with a C, which I was thoroughly happy about. For me, simply passing Latin was good enough. I suuuucked at it.

And so did a few others. So, we formed a study group. We'd meet at the library once or twice a week, and try to cobble our thoughts into something useful — the takeaways from that week of teachings. Screw syntax, usage, all that jazz... we were just trying to get the vocabulary down. We did the flash card thing: Latin on the front, english on the back.

I remember only two things from two semesters of Latin. The phrase, "Quintus festinat ad ludum" ("Quintus, who did walk to school," though that might still be wrong), and the word, "undique." (Pronounced oon-DEE-kay.)

While we were flash-carding, we tried to come up with clever little pneumonics for each word. The memory-hack for this word came from the dude with the bright-red hair. "Undique. it means, 'from all sides.' So... women like 'undique'... from all sides." Since I've always had the sense of humor of a 13-year-old, I chuckled.

Today, whenever someone mentions something coming at you "from all sides," I still remember that word. It kicks through my brain like a reflexive knee jerk. Undique. Heh. Heh heh. In hindsight, I should have taken Spanish... a language that people, you know, have spoken in the last 1,500 years... But, at least, I got a fun dick joke out of it. 

Speaking of which. I'm not gonna say much. You've all been reading the news. You all have your own points of view and your own life experiences and your own circumstances that determine how you're approaching/dealing with this whole Coronavirus nonsense. And whether your scared, frustrated, inconvenienced, or any number of the above... well, yo también. This virus is some weird stuff, yo. And it feels like it's coming at us undique.

That being said, I'm not gonna go on for too long about Coronavirus, and it's likely not going to be the topic of many future posts. That's not why you fellas are here. But, I will share my experiences so far, just so you have an idea. 

In the last couple of weeks, the number of cases here in Spain have gone from only a few hundred to, at today's count, just a little over 13,000. The country instituted a (very civilized) lockdown, with travel in-and-out being very difficult, and not terribly advised. In the local large town, everything has been shut down. I read an article in the New York Times about how, when France shuttered its bars and restaurants, it "struck to the soul" of the French lifestyle. Same here — Spanish bars are the lifeblood this country, and knowing that they're all closed is... eerie. 

I have some friends in Madrid, and they're saying that it's "like August." That's when it gets really, really hot in Madrid, so the tourists stop coming, and all the madrileños head to the mountains, or to the beaches, where there's some relief from the heat. "But, moreso," they say.

The only things that are open, nationwide, are supermarkets, pharmacies, healthcare centers, and that small handful of essential government services (the post office, for instance, but even there, hours are limited to only a few a day). So far, so good — food supples seem to be keeping up with demand. Yours truly is not in any fear of running out of brandy, which is pretty damned essential. And, I have enough tobacco to last me for a few weeks, at least. 

I'm sure, wherever you live, that you've seen elements of this: the news and social media broadcasting videos of people getting into fistfights over toilet paper, and we think things are falling apart; but then, in your day to day interactions, this sense of calm. It's a tense calm, no doubt about that. Not like people are trying their best to repress their most animal of instincts; instead, it's that we're all stressed, we know we're all stressed, but we're all stressed about the same thing, and for once, after so many years of so much of our stress being the result of other people, our stress is coming from... something fucking else. There's an odd sort of solidarity to that. It's humanizing and, in spite of how terrible this whole situation is, somehow oddly refreshing. 

Someone mentioned that this could be generation-defining in a 9/11 kind of way. That we'll look back in 20 years, and realize that this was a defining moment in our culture, and was responsible for a shift in our worldview. Usually, such a status is reserved for things like wars, where there are definable enemies, or whole ethnic groups whose "fault it is." Not so, this time. 

Can a natural disaster be era-defining? No, I don't think so. Not for everybody. I've been through a few hurricanes, and lost everything during one of them, save for the one suitcase of stuff I put into the back of the car when we evacuated. It was era-defining for me, but not for people in California. Many of them felt awful, I'm sure, but their lives were unaffected. If there was a massive earthquake in San Francisco later this month, I would feel terrible for the people whose lives were turned upside town, and for the pain of it. But my life (not to seem callous) would continue on somewhat unchanged. 

How about the death of someone famous? My mom was 12 when Kennedy was assassinated. She remembers everyone in her classroom being brought out into the hallway, and told to face the lockers (not sure of the reason for this). And then, teachers walked down the hall to make the announcement that the president had been killed in Dallas. This was an era-defining moment for her. But to a 12-year-old in the UK? Light a candle, thoughts and prayers, but life basically returns to normal. 

But a virus. Something that lacks intelligence or intent, that carries with it all sorts of eerie uncertainties: incubation period, between 2 and 14 days; symptoms, mild fever and a tickley throat or complete respiratory failure; vector point, human-freakin'-contact; cure... stay inside and catch up on Netflix? Seems kinda... bleak. 

But! We're humans. And we are a hearty, adaptable lot, with our big brains and opposable thumbs. And we've gotten through nasty stuff before. 

You know what one of my favorite eras of cinema is? Trashy, huge-budget action flicks of the late '90s. I'm talking Independence Day, Armageddon, Deep Impact, Volcano, The Rock, True Lies (though man, that one aged poorly), Face/Off, Mission: Impossible, Broken Arrow, GoldenEye (Temple, slaps-only, one-hit-kills, no OddJob), Con Air, Starship Troopers — those. Films like this hit that sweet spot between special effects, money to burn, star power, and that quintessential American braggadocio. 9/11 hadn't happened yet. We didn't feel so scared that normalcy would be taken away from us. 

Yeah... Those of you who lived during that time period, you know what I'm talking about. That period of time between when we had this crazy capacity to do insane, grand things, just for the sake of doing them. When there was no enemy that was so great that we couldn't overcome it. There were nukes to disarm, and alien invasions to prevent from invading us, threats from outer space itself... But we're humans, dammit.

But, that was back then. And this is now. We don't need to drill into the Asteroid, or disarm the nuke, or get rid of the VX Nerve Gas on Alcatraz, or swap faces with Francis Coppola's nephew, or get rid of extra-tresstral bugs. We just do what we can, to be the action heroes we need, right now.

Wash your hands. More than you feel you need to. Try to not rub your nose or rub your eye. If you're locked down, like me, go for a walk every now and then, and maintain the standard 6 feet. Don't be a dummy, like me, and assume that it's ok to stand too close to anyone because you're afraid you're going to offend someone (lest you feel worried for the next few days). Yell at your parents to stay inside, just like they used to ground you. 

This can be a time that breaks us, or it can be a time that brings us together. Even if we're practicing social distancing. 

In my case, I'm cooking a lot. Practicing good sterilization methods, just so everyone feels comfy, and just in case. I've got some reeeeallly old neighbors, and I've put together a good, nutritious gumbo for them a couple of times. It only costs me a couple of bucks to cobble together something for my very-own-at-risk-old-folk. That's how I'm disarming the nuke. 

Be well, all of you. For you lovely folk who have made it this far (and for the rest of you), thanks for the patience. It's been an adjustment period over here with your dear old Heather. I'll make it up to you in the next 11 days before Patreon charges you again. Lots to come. Hopefully, undique.

Oh, and this picture. A preview. We should all have a quarantine hobby. Mine has been making hot sauce. Stumbled into a batch of habaneros. I have the very best recipe. That'll be next. 

You heard...

...that she lived down the street. You were new to the area, and you could swear you saw her a few fays ago, sitting across the plaza, sipping on an espresso. You asked around, without being too conspicuous.

One night, you made the decision to perch your phone in the crooked branch of a tree, aimed roughly at her street-front window, and press the record button. Would she notice? Would your phone be spotted and snatched by some passerby? You stayed close, at a cafe only a few doors down the quiet alley. Near enough to keep an eye. Airplane mode, enough MBs to record... at least a half hour.

She might already be asleep. But maybe you could get a glimpse of her life, however mundaine it might prove to be.

Later, when you retreived your phone, you found that the majority of this recording showed only one image, of an empty room, fruits piled against the window. Except for a few moments of laundry day.

Señorita

I've kinda fallen in love with this image. Inspired by the set I posted recently, this is a re-creation of the first shot, with one (or two!) noticable difference/s.

It's funny how things like this work out. I would never have taken this image, except that a dear friend shared their inspiration. I got inspired too, added a flair to it, and a beautiful feedback loop of art took place. It's the kind of thing that turns out to be very refreshing, that recharges the creative batteries. I live for that kind of stuff. And, in this case, it resulted in one of my very favorite self-portraits.

So, to the picture itself. When I slapped a filter onto it, all of a sudden, the image that resonated with me was that of a poster that you might find on the streets of Madrid back in the '20s, advertising for some bullfight. Somebody noted that it looks like a particularly sultry loteria card. That it was relaxed, but had a tenseness to it...

This same friend and I were talking the other day about art, as we so often do, and the topic turned around to photography. One of us mentioned that the photographer Philippe Halsman said that portrait is more about the photographer than it is about the subject — that the subject is a canvas that the photographer uses as a repository for his or her own perceptions and experiences. What, then, is the personality that eeks through when the photographer and the subject are one and the same? And then, what happens when that work is interpolated into something else?

The jury is still out. But that's the nature of these kinds of things. For some, this picture might be a statement on some grand and glorious aspect of the human experience. Maybe it's a middling of elements between two poles. Or, still, it might just be a picture of a brunette with big boobs. Maybe I'll get lucky, and it's a mix of all these things! ☺️

In any case, I like it, and hope y'all don't mind if I share.

Girl in the High Tower - Chapter 5

A final generous dusting of talcum powder, spread evenly across the vast expanse. Nadya felt her nose tickle as the fine white dust floated into the air, but she had become used to the sensation, and set to work ensuring the depths of her cleavage were coated; Zoya, meanwhile, dutifully managed the regions that were simply too far out of Nadya’s reach. 

A moment later, Zoya retrieved two folded squares of white cloth from a shelf to the side of the palatial bathroom, and quickly unfolded each, revealing two white tubes of fabric. In a series of smooth, experienced motions, she stretched the first tube around the the erect, half-tennis-ball-sized nipple of Nadya’s right breast. Without having to be told, Nadya reached forward and held the end of the hem in place while Zoya shimmied the tube along underneath. It was delicate work that required Zoya’s firm hands, and Nadya assisted as best she could by standing from her kneeling position in front of the broad, shin-high table where this new ritual took place. 

Finally, with the tube hugging the swollen curve of her breast all the way to where it met her torso, at level with her belly button, Nadya resumed her kneeling position as Zoya ensured that the open end of the compressing garment stayed clear of the delicate skin of Nadya’s broad, amber-hued areola. 

As this dance was repeated for Nadya’s left breast, Zoya remained focused on her work, saying very little. Nadya stood again, holding on to her end of the matching tube, and spoke.

“So what will you and Xenia be doing tonight?”

Zoya’s eyes remained on her work, shifting the tube up Nadya’s breast. “We will have dinner. Her nephew is visiting from Pennsylvania, and he is insisting on trying a new restaurant near to where she lives.” Zoya let out a shutter as she sharply exhaled through her nose.

“You don’t sound excited?” Nadya responded sympathetically.

“I am. Xenia’s nephew is a very nice young man. But he is telling me that Ethiopean food is a wonderful thing.”

“It sounds exotic, and mysterious,” Nadya said.

“They eat raw beef with their fingers,” Zoya said with a tone of disgust in her voice. “I came to America for things like hamburgers. Things that have cooked meat in them.”

“And pizza,” Nadya said reassuringly.

Zoya’s gaze rose to meet Nadya’s, and she cracked a small, stiff smirk. “And moo goo gai pan?”

“Yes!” Nadya chuckled; Zoya's returned to her work.

“Decide what you want for dinner tomorrow,” Zoya said, finishing. “We can do take home from your favorite restaurant if you want?” 

Nadya nodded her head eagerly. “I will eat 50 spring rolls.”

“Well. What will you be eating tonight?” Zoya asked, walking to retrieve a large roll of canvas from a tall closet on the opposite side of the room.

“I will use the salmon while it is still fresh,” Nadya said. “I found a recipe from Sweden, where it is baked and then topped with a sauce of mustard and dill.”

“That sounds very nice,” Zoya said, unrolling the canvas at her end of the table. “You shall have to make it for me some evening. When you are finished, leave the dishes in the sink, and I will wash them in the morning when I return.”

“No, Zoya,” Nadya said. “I will do the dishes as well. It is no burden for me.”

Zoya sniffed. “As you please. I know how important it is to have these evenings alone, koshka. And knowing that you will be stubborn and do them anyway, I will say no more.” A moment of silence hung in the air as the canvas sprawled at the base of the low table. A dark green rectangle, it was twice as wide as Nadya’s breasts, which were again splayed in two mounds atop the table, dwarfing the face of the young woman they were attached to. 

“Just promise me you will be careful with the stove, yes?”

“I will, I will, Zoya…”

Zoya sighed, peeking her eyes toward the ceiling. “This machine… it is a blessing and a curse…”

“Zoya, you promised,” Nadya interrupted. “Once it was finished, you would give yourself one night, every week. And I can take care of myself! You are gone for only 12 hours, and I am asleep for much of that time!”

“But emergencies can always happen, koshka.”

“And what kind. I set the building on fire? There is a flood? A group of bandits?”

“Yes, yes, yes...” Zoya interjected, giving up her argument.

“Do not worry,” Nadya said, patience on her face. “And besides,” she said, glancing at the clock on the wall. It is nearly 6 o’clock. And Xenia will be upset if you are late.”

Zoya sniffed again. “It is… be good, koshka.”

“I will get into much trouble,” Nadya gave a mischievous smile.

“OK,” Zoya said, shifting her attention to the table. “Much like we did this the last time. Can you stand?”

“I walked in here, Zoya… yes, I can stand,” she said with a placative tone in her voice.

"Yes, but with my help this time," Zoya said. Nadya's face flushed a little. 

Slowly, gingerly, Nadya shifted from her knees to her feet, rising slowly to a standing position once more. Though the table was low, her breasts were inclined to hang even lower, and they rested on the surface of the table before her. Reaching for the triangular handle, which hung from a chain on the ceiling, she grabbed on, steadying herself before leaning to take a step onto the tabletop, and then, another, before slowly straightening her back completely, lifting the enormous heft of her breasts off the surface of the table entirely, if only by a few inches. 

“Do you have pain?” Zoya asked.

“No, I am fine…” Nadya said defiantly, feeling the strong muscles of her back tense and strain. “How... low do they hang?” 

Zoya adopted a tone that was noticeably kinder than her usual neutral sternness. “They look about the same to me since last week.”

Nadya could see through the forced cadence in her voice. “So this means just a little lower, doesn’t it....” Her brow furrowed.

Zoya moved to arrange the canvas sheet under Nadya’s suspended chest. “You know what the doctor says. This will take time. Now,” Zoya said once the canvas was arranged. “Take a few steps forward.”

Nadya abided, feeling her knees press into the flesh of her breasts as she carefully edged herself forward several feet, strutting in a series of lurches, still clutching tightly to the metal handle at chin level. 

“Now, stop,” Zoya said, “And rest them.”

Nadya bent her knees, allowing the weight of her breasts to again meet the table, this time, atop the thick sheet of canvas. 

“Now step back…”

Nadya lowered herself as she took a few steps backward to her original position, still holding tightly to the handle as she removed one foot from the table, and then, the other. Content that she was stable, she slouched again back on to her knees, her white-fabric clad breasts again an expanse. 

“How do... “ Nadya started, “How do you think we will do this… when I…”

“Do not say when, koshka. You think too far.” And that was, as far as Zoya was concerned, the end of the conversation.

A few moments of awkward silence followed as Zoya busied herself clipping a pair of metal bars onto the sides of the canvas tarp, snapping carabiners to sturdy metal rings at the corners. Next, a pair of long chains were clipped onto the ends, each running slightly longer than the length of the bar itself. 

“Do you feel comfortable?” Zoya asked, stepping over to a nearby countertop to retrieve a small black box with an attached lanyard.

Nadya didn’t respond, but nodded her head.

Pressing a button on the box, Zoya aimed her gaze at the ceiling. A dull whur emanated from the metal track overhead, as a large steel box slowly glided into position directly over Nadya’s breasts. Suspended from inside the box, yet another length of thick metal chain that was attached to a singular metal metal bar. Zoya moved her head slightly to prevent its erratic swinging from bumping her. 

Once in place, another button was pressed, and the bar lowered, slowly, emanating a slightly more high-pitched buzzing until it halted, a few inches above Nadya’s twin horizons.

A few more clipping sounds, with the light jangling of strong metal links. The center of one chain was clipped to the singular bar. Walking to the other side of Nadya, Zoya repeated the process. 

“This… should be good!” Zoya said, a feigned enthusiasm in her voice. “Are you still comfortable?”

“Yes,” Nadya softly said. “I am comfortable.”

“Then here you are.” Zoya handed the box to a still-kneeling Nadya, who took it and draped the lanyard around her neck. 

“Now remember, koshka,” Zoya said. "The buttons at the top are for —”

“Yes!” Nadya said, trying to purge the sudden impatience she was feeling. “Yes... The top two are for forward and backward. The middle two are for up and down. The dial is for adjusting the speed. And the bottom switch is for changing the track when it splits in two directions.”

“And the red button?”

Nadya glanced at the red button that was covered with a hinged plastic shield. She felt her patience return to her — Zoya was only trying to help, she knew.

“That is for if I need help. Which I won’t, Zoya. I am fine, I promise.”

“But you know I can return in 20 minutes if you need me.”

“I know. Thank you.”

“Well.” Zoya said, dusting her hands. “Let us get your settled.”

Nadya was already on it. Resuming a squatting position, she pressed one of the buttons, straightening her legs as the crane lifted her breasts from their position on the table, not letting go until the device automatically stopped rising, with the bulk of her colossal endowments at stomach level. As much as Nadya didn’t look forward to the monotony of this process, there was always one moment of euphoria once she was so equipped — the weight removed from her body almost completely, she hyperextended her back, and rolled her shoulders from side to side, relishing the lightness she so rarely felt. She allowed a moan to escape her lips as the tension exited the strong muscles of her back, neck, and hips. 

“Your reading chair?” Zoya asked.

“Yes, I think I may read for a moment before I prepare dinner,” Nadya said. She twisted the dial to medium speed, and before pressing the “forward” button, stepped to the side in a circular fashion, rotating easily in the direction of her reading nook in the much larger adjacent living space. 

It was a feeling she had not yet become accustomed to. Perhaps because the majority of her efforts spent walking for the entirety of her adult life were spent burdened by the weight that extended ponderously from her body; by contrast, this felt simple — she wondered if this was how Zoya felt when she walked. Or anybody, for that matter.

But it was strange in a different way, she reflected as, under the hum of the machine, would take a little getting used to. Though she was maintaining a slow speed of walking — barely a shuffle — the thought re-entered her mind that she was being escorted by her breasts. That they were tugging her along on their slow, deliberate journey through her penthouse. Her body was walking… her legs propelled her torso, arms and head. But their direction was determined by her two most prominent aspects, thanks, in part, to a machine that was more suited to a factory than a home. 

She didn’t know how this made her feel. But goodness, if it wasn’t more comfortable than what she was used to. 

In the hallway that led out of the bathroom, an oversized mirror hung on the wall. Though Nadya didn’t remove her thumb from the “forward” button, she took a moment to gauge her own reflection as she walked straight toward it: Long auburn hair sprawled across the fronts of her shoulders, the ends resting lightly at the crease formed at the top of her cavernous cleavage. From this angle, the canvas sheet looked like a wide letter “U,” firmly supporting her compression-stocking-clad breasts. Her nipples and areola, the only portions of her chest not covered by these “socks,” stared back at her, reminding her of a pair of watchful, cartoonish eyes. 

Before she had a chance for determine whether these “eyes” were staring back at her with judgement, or with pity, or some mixture of the two, the craned turned the corner, and her with it, being guided, slowly, until she entered the next room. She finally settled at one of the stops along the crane’s fixed track — between an oversized reclining arm chair, and a rectangular ottoman that, were it a table, could easily accommodate six for dinner, a setup flanked by a wall of bookshelves. 

Zoya trailed behind, making sure Nadya could manage on her own. Which, not to the surprise of Nadya herself, she could. With a sweeping motion, Nadya rotated her body until her pajama-clad bottom was fully prepared to take a seat in the large chair. And with another press of a button, her breasts slowly lowered — and her with them — until they rested on the ottoman.

Nadya could almost hear the questions before it was asked. “Comfortable?” Zoya asked. “Any pinching, or tightness?”

Nadya settled into the chair, shifting her butt, and her legs, which were somewhat compressed by the weight, but not in a way she was unaccustomed to. She could always raise the crane a few inches if she needed to. Finding a comfortable position was something she had turned into a bit of an artform. 

“Perfect. Thank you, Zoya.”

“Alright, koshka,” Zoya said. “Well…” 

Nadya predicted again. “There is nothing else I need. I have my book right here,” she motioned the side table, "and I promise. I will not burn down the building.”

Zoya admitted a rare, genuine smile that cracked her otherwise stolid face. “Very good. Okay! I am going now. Remember, I will return at exactly —”

“6 a.m., yes, I know.” 

Zoya fetched her long jacket from a nearby hook. “And remember —” 

“I will be fiiine.”

Zoya raised her palms. “Yes,” she said. Another sniff. “Have a nice evening, koshka.”

“And you as well, Zoya. Give Xenia my kind wishes.”

And with that, Zoya nodded, took her purse, and walked toward the front door, closing it behind her. 

Hearing the latch click shut, Nadya waited a moment before taking a deep breath. She closed her eyes for a moment. Saturday nights, she thought... where she could be left to her own devices for an entire 12 hours. It felt like taking a long vacation, each week, where the whole world was at her fingertips. She still hadn’t gotten used to the solitude — for as long as she could remember, privacy was something she had never been accustomed to. As much as she had been looking to that first night a month before, when the crane had been completed, she found herself a little… scared of the quiet, in the same way she had been afraid of monsters being under her bed when she was little. At one point, she was thinking of pressing the red “emergency” button on her remote control, to summon Zoya back, but thankfully, she decided against it. As much as she had been begging for one night a week, what would Zoya think of her if she took it all back?

And also, Roger. He had made her feel less lonely. Even if it was only through their text messages on Instagram — the only form of communication she had available to her — it made her feel less… lonely. Like a friend was there to keep her company, and make her laugh. 

But… there was one new tradition that she and Roger had started since that first day they met, at her bedroom window, nearly two months ago…

Nadya shifted her body and wedged her hand in between the cushion of the chair, until she felt two metallic items. The smaller of the two could wait until later, so she retrieved the black smartphone, with its cracked screen and barely functioning machinery, and clicked it to life — happy, as always, that the ancient device hadn’t chosen today to finally die for good.

Opening Instagram, she clicked on the touchscreen. A single short sentence. Seeing only seconds after sending it that it was marked as 'seen,' another beat was followed with an emoji of a wide smile and hearts for eyes. And then, an emoji of a helicopter.

Nadya placed the phone on the table next to her, and smirked giddily. Between the chair and the ottoman, her toes curled, as she let out a small sigh. Glancing over the crest of her breasts to the vast expanse of empty penthouse, she picked up her book, and opened it to the last page she had been reading. Her eyes flickered over the words on the page, but her attention was diverted. She didn't feel like concentrating.

A few minutes later, she heard it... through the sliding door that opened onto the terrace, a faint approaching buzz.

Lady in White

My inspiration for this, my first "set," is a testament to, well, resourcefulness. I purchased a few pieces of lingerie on Amazon a little while back — little numbers that were only €2 or €3 each — and I was fairly certain that, even in the size that I was ordering (6X makes a girl feel skinny!), that they would never fit in a way that normal lingerie is supposed to fit. (The exception to this little splurge is the long lace dress, which fits adorably (I think) and was given to me as a very lovely gift.)

Underneath? A stretchy white camisole that ended up going around my waist (the cups are ludicrously small, so it works as an under boob short skirt); a very see-through teddy; and something that was originally intended as being atrociously scimpy, and that would never, ever, ever work on my body: in the end, I actually cut some of the straps, retied it together, and ended up fitting it around my chest while tying it around my neck like a boobs-only halter top. And then, over all of it, the long flowing gown, which does sway and flow with the breeze. Oh! And there are white stockings.

This first set is all five of those items together. The NEXT set will represent a bit of a progression… Peeling away the layers in some sort of crazy Patreon-only version of a dance of the seven (well, five) veils.

For me, this was fun. I got to get all gussied up, really took my new smart phone tripod for a test drive, and got to play with a super bright light that I plugged into the ceiling.

And, it was a little strange, giving the woman in the mirror a quick glance up and down before the shutter started snapping. Who is this woman, why is she wearing make up, and what the hell happened to her T-shirt and jeans?

What's that called? A... "set?" Also... thanks.

I've gotten a few letters from you guys, asking if (and this is the phrase that was used) everything is OK. And, thank you for those. I need to respond, but in short, yes. Things are fine. They are just… Things.

Yes. With the beginning of February, I kind of shattered my promise of doing a thing a day. I'm really sorry about that, you guys. The last week has been interesting. I've been in a place where my mind has been trying to catch up to whatever it tries to catch up to. I do myself a disservice by saying, "I'll get to it tomorrow." And then, time goes by… I guess we all go through that sometimes.

So, as far as thing a day is concerned? Promise broken. I can try to make up for it, and replace the days that were missed, but at this point? Those days were missed. Sands through the hourglass.

That's what I like about all of you. My following here? And whatever that means? Following? I don't have as many followers as my contemporaries. Which means I don't have as much money! (Good Heavens!) Which means I don't have as much prestige! Which means that I can't get into certain parties, or garner the attention of people who want to advertise with micro influencers! Or even, eventually on a white tiger!

The wonderful thing, and I think that those of you who are reading this right now know this... is that it's never been about any of that stuff for me. What a wonderful thing this is! I get to do whatever I want on this website, putting up long winded essays, pictures of what I'm cooking that night, and, yes, occasionally a picture of my big ol' titties. I don't think I can possibly express to those of you who have bothered to stick around, how much I appreciate that you have. You're under no obligation to. You can cancel at any time. But if you're reading this, it means that you like me. And you like what I have to say, and more importantly, it resonates with you. Maybe in some goofy way, maybe in some erotic way, maybe because you want a recipe for a really kicking ranch dressing. We are a small band of weirdos, but we're in this together.

We don't say this enough to the people we really care about. There are some of you I know well, and there are some of you I really do feel that I would like to get to know. It's a small group here, on this Patreon. But I do consider you all to be friends. You're a force of sanity in my life, and a way that I can contextualize what is often a hurricane in my head.

Tonight… I got out of my funk, and I did a photo shoot. Just me, my iPhone, and a tripod. And a light, that was anchored into the center of a room. I had a few drinks, took some breaks in between and lit up a cigarette, trying to figure out what I was going to do next. I rearranged some furniture, played with some angles, and… Holy shit.

I'm going to put them through the filters, and I'm going to play with them a little bit as far as exposure, contrast, and whatever else this funky app I have offers me. The pictures aren't done until they've taken on the aesthetic that I want them to take. But tomorrow, or maybe the next day?

I think you'll all actually get to see what my large breasted contemporaries call a "set."

XOXO

Gossip Girl

Patsy

I'm not going to Google it, because I find there to be something a little lovely about the idea that, in the not-too-distant past, we used to be able to go into a restaurant, sit down, somebody would bring up some fact, people would argue about it, and there was no oracle in your pocket where you could clarify whatever conversation happened to arise. In a previous life, my friends and I would leave our phones in the car, so we could postulate, confident in our own opinions, without one of us being able to check on the facts. It was a great way to anticipate a hangover, especially when it happens at a Waffle House.

In that spirit, here's how I recollect it, purely from my own mind: Patsy Cline was born in the '30s. She basically built an entire subsection of Country Western musical culture, and toured around the country back in the days before giant arenas. She played in gin joints and what we would, today, consider to be "a medium-size music venue." 

She was a pretty girl, but you wouldn't look at her and get the same ravishing ingénue vibe that you would with, say, Taylor Swift. There was something about that day and age of American music, where yeah: you have to be pretty, but your sheer talent meant more. In the days of radio, the music was more broadcast-able. I wonder how stressful it is for Taylor Swift, as talented as she is, to also have to consider her physical appearance at every moment, every day. To be honest, it surprises me that she doesn't spend the vast majority of her life curled into a fetal position.

So Patsy Cline, when she was about 30, was doing with a lot of rockstar stuff at that time, and was traveling around the country primarily through the means of little propeller planes. Her manager, as I recall without Google, was a guy named Hoss, and he said that she should travel by car; the guy at the airport told him that there was going to be a lot of fog and rain, and that it might be safer that way. The thing is, Patsy had been scheduled to do two back to back shows at some little town in Indiana, that turned into three, and she was tired, and was heading down to Tennessee, and the drive would've taken about eight or 10 hours. So, she was willing to roll the dice and fly.

"Hoss," she said, "if this is when I'm going to go, this is when I'm going to go."

A couple of hours later, her plane crashed, and she died. That's super sad, because plane crashes are horrible things, and we as a society, despite all of our faults, are still wise enough to see when somebody so great was taken away from us while he or she was still so young. James Dean, Billie Holiday, The Big Bopper, Ritchie Valens, Jim Morrison, Amy Winehouse, Kurt Cobain, Carl Sagan, Alan Rickman, Anthony Bourdain… Some of these people are members of the 27 club, but by our current standards, it's still kind of a bummer when somebody who is younger than 65 kicks the bucket. That perception is a triumph, in some ways, because 65 was pretty old until fairly recently, but still... it sucks.

I don't know why, but I feel like a little bit of a hipster when I say that I identify with Patsy Cline. I got to visit her grave site in Winchester, Virginia once. It wasn't grandiose, but it had a Country Queen vibe to it. This woman was a big deal, and people decided to honor her passing in a way that they thought was befitting. Would she have hated it? I didn't know her personally, so I dunno. But she just kinda seemed like the sort of woman who wouldn't give a fuck, so it was a little curious that there was an actual bell tower there, regardless of how humble it is. Most of us don't get bell towers. 

We all have our firsts. The first food we ever remember really enjoying, the first job that we think that we're going to have when we grow up one day, the first favorite animal, the first time we masturbate, and in the back of our minds, wonder if that's what they were talking about in school, and am I going to die? Or even worse, am I going to go to hell? I was raised pretty conservative, so that was absolutely a thought in my head at the time… Thank goodness we all grow up.

And then there's that first song that's ever stuck in your head. At least, the first song you can remember. Patsy Cline, San Antonio Rose. 1957. (I literally have no idea what year this song came out, but in the spirit of not Googling it, I will just do what people used to do, and tell you that's the year, and I'll trust you not to Google it.)

There are many nights when I keep Patsy Cline on loop on my ancient iPod. This little gadget, which I've affectionately nicknamed "Ernesto," rolled off the factory line in 2007. Back when Barack Obama was a junior senator from Illinois who nobody had ever heard of. I've used it pretty consistently over the last 13 years, when it came at a discount because I was buying some other Apple product? I can't even remember. But the battery still holds a good life span, it still works, and I love durable goods.

This photograph has not been staged. This is just the way a 4 ft.² portion of my accommodations happens to look at this moment. Take from that what you will. To me, it feels, again, like one of those Where's Waldo pictures. Search through it, and you can find pieces of the whole. There's a lemon, too.

In the meanwhile, if you happen to have access to Spotify, or YouTube, or even a collection of CDs, or whatever you usually resort to, take a moment to give Patsy a pat on the back. She was a classy fucking broad. And, she was catchy.

Memes… The term was coined back in the '70s, by an English dude named Richard Dawkins. He postulated this idea that, like a virus, our ideas can spread from person to person, and they can grow, and they can mutate. And these ideas, which can come in the forms of pictures, experiences, cultural phenomena, music, social impulses, shared observations… they provide a venue through which we can share common experience. Like interpersonal conversation, times 1,000,000. 

We live on in that way, through our ideas. Sometimes, I wonder if we've evolved out of the idea of progeny (and we just don't know it yet), when in a more modern sense, we're more able to "live-on" through the memes we've put out there in the world. We never know quite how a brain-fart, shared extensively enough, will change more people than something like an offspring ever will... Is it possible (I'm being, as my old college professor used to call me in J-School, "high-falutin'"), that something you've read on this humble Patreon page will affect you or someone you know, in a way where it gets passed on, Cloud Atlas-style? Maybe some notion that gestates in a brain somewhere, and turns into an idea that somebody didn't have before, in quite that way? Or maybe, this, like all things, will fade, eventually, and that's OK?

Shit, I don't know! Sometimes, there are just things you just can't Google.

Now this one...

Yeah, this one's gonna have to pay a visit to the seamstress... I was waaaay off...

Funny... looks way better on the model... 🤣🤦🏻‍♀️🤣🤦🏻‍♀️

Did you miss ham?

Because I think you missed ham.

Ruffles. And they are ham flavored.

Despite my three posts last month relating to the benefits of ham, I never tried ham-flavored potato chips.

And then, I broke down. I bought a bag of these.

The verdict? Eh! They're ok! They taste oddly like ham. Which is simultaneously delicious, and also just a little disconcerting.

I have a feeling that if we were to dedicate as much energy and attention to space exploration and curing cancer, as we do to flavoring potato chips, we would be a solid Type 2 on the Kardeschev Scale.

But in the meantime... we have ham-flavored potato chips.

A very fine line...

So, I've talked about this before. But when it comes to certain types of garments, I find myself in impossible situations. Now, usually, I opt for T-shirts and jeans (that's about 95% of my day-to-day wear, and I'm a T-shirt junkie, so it works), but every now and then, it's nice to feel like a real girl. 

Which brings me to dresses. For me, there are four kinds of dresses. 

The first are in the vast majority: ones that hang long and loose, like giant muumuus. These aren't so bad, because for the most part, if I like a pattern and a general style, I can take it in to my trusty seamstress, and she'll have her way with it. 

The second are the ones that I sometimes obtain out of sheer necessity. Maybe I'm going to a wedding, or a party where I'm pretty sure there are going to be some pretty conservative people. In that case, I take as much of the guesswork out of these types of dresses as I can, and usually through laziness, end up with something that makes me look like a 19th century Amish woman. Not ideal, but it gets the job done. (Plus, I tend to upstage brides, and brides don't like that. Long story).

The third type are the ones that make me look like a RAAAAGING slut. Not really too hard to imagine that one. Remind me, and I'll pull out a couple of examples of these that have been otherwise relegated to the back of my closet (because what the hell was I thinking!?! I can't wear that in public.)

[Oh! Fun trivia... the "!?!" punctuation you see at the end of sentences sometimes? That's called an "interrobang." Isn't that fun? "Interrobang."]

The fourth kind... these are the very rarest of them all. Like the rare kinds of Pokémon I can't recall (because my Game Boy died back in the early 2000s, but I did remember that there's an acute over the é!). The ones that meet an almost impossible set of criteria: I can wear them off-the-shelf; they show a little bit of cleavage, so I can be kinda flirty, but not so much that it's like "stare at mah tiddies even more than you already are!"; cute pattern; suuuuuperrr comfortable; hides my tummy; and also something that's not gonna piss off an old-school grandma. 

This dress covers all those bases, which basically means that I cant wait for la primavera to come quickly enough. Hang tight, new dress, hang tight! Only a... few more months? Ah well.

By the way, totally unrelated... but is it just me, or have there been a million memes going around about how January seems like it's lasted a loooooong time? I don't really think I've noticed, but does it feel that way to any of you?

Happy almost February, y'all!

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow...

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,

To the last syllable of recorded time;

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,

And then is heard no more. It is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing...

...

...would you like to try... our Apple Dippers...

Would you rather...

Would you rather fart every time you laugh, or burp every time you cry?

Would you rather poop your pants once a year in public, or every day in private?

Would you rather fight 100 duck-sized horses, or one horse-sized duck?

Would rather be able to speak to animals, or communicate in every language in the world?

Would you rather begin every sentence with "Hey, Idiot," or end every sentence with "Haha, I was just kidding."?

It's questions like this that make me stare at walls for a long time...

(For me: burp; annually in public; horse-sized duck; every language; and "Hey, idiot.")

028/365.

I'll be gash-durned if I miss one! So just a quick selfie tonight. I love all of you. 😘😁

027/365: Spicy-a-Meatball.

An extension of my post on Instagram earlier. This is me in the middle of the process. It was going to start out as a Bolognese, but eventually I decided to go more of the vodka cream route. I like to think of this picture as a sort of Where's Waldo, but more appropriately, a stark reminder to myself to not let my boob get too close to a hot burner.

Can you imagine? That would be horrible. I've never had any injuries just yet, but to be fair, I am careful. 😱😱😱

#bigboobproblems #dontburnthetiddies!!!

026/365: Only 45 minutes left!

I am a bit of a night owl, so there are times when I post these messages well after midnight. My general rule is that if I can get it posted before midnight Eastern Standard US time, I will be OK.

Tonight, it's been a late one. And I realized that I am very close to crossing that event horizon. But! In the spirit of keeping pace with my once-a day-obligation... I offer this little ditty.

I hope your weekends are ending well, and that your weeks are off to a lovely start.

025/365: Bah-Dah-Dah-Bah-Dah-DAH! ...buh.

I swear to God, it took me 30 minutes to figure out the chords for this one. Which feels like a long time for just 12 notes. 

The payoff? I now have a handy dirge to play, should anything mildly tragic occur in my presence. #weekendwin #lifeskills #its-a-me

024/365: T-Shirts?

As Mel Brooks said in Spaceballs, "Merchandising!" ...Nah, not so much of a cash grab as a rarely produced Boba Fett action figure from 1979. 

First thing's first — I'm dipping my toe into the pond of T-shirt design. Am I a master graphic designer? Hardly. Is expressing myself visually something I've pledged to do in 2020? That's more like it. If, on the off chance, someone stumbles across one of these expressions and cares to make it a rotating member of their laundry basket? That's the ticket. :-)

For my inaugural design, a more concise version of an idea I had a few months back. It's inspired by a quote from Carl Sagan that's been resonating with me for years now. 

If you decide to visit teespring, where these products are listed, you'll see the following block of text in the description at the link below. If not, that's cool; I'll C&P it here:

"Our remote descendants, safely arrayed on many worlds throughout the Solar System and beyond, will be unified. [...] They will gaze up and strain to find the blue dot in their skies. They will marvel at how vulnerable the repository of all our potential once was, how perilous our infancy, how humble our beginnings... how many rivers we had to cross before we found our way." —Carl Sagan

This design was inspired by many elements of my life. By my favorite author, whose words (above) will always inspire me; by my love of communication, represented by the Morse code; by my love for our home planet, the Pale Blue Dot, that sits in the dark among a smattering of stars; and an homage to the number of rivers so many of us have had to cross to get where we are.

So, there you have it for now. I'm pretty sure I'm not going to be the next Donna Karen, but for what it's worth, this design means a lot to me, and getting it nailed out in a print-ready format was a delightful way to spend the downtime over the last few days. We'll always have Paris. 

And, here's the link. (For you Morse-savvy sailors out there, PLEASE don't tell my I got my S's and O's confused — that would be terrible, second only to getting a tattoo in hanji that you're sure meant "peace and love," only to discover later that it means "pork dumpling." :-P )

Mmm... pork dumplings sound good right now...

Where was I? Oh yeah!

teespring.com/stores/heather-with-the-beck 

023/365: It occurred to me...

...that the other day I mentioned button gapping in the flannel shirt. And then, I totally left you all on the line for that one.

After this picture was taken, I ended up keeping it on for a little while longer… I don't think the fabric around the buttons and the buttonholes will ever be the same again, but so much for longevity.