Oversharing: The Chicken Cutlets

I’m not a fan of fantasy or sci-fi for the very reason that I suck at suspending my disbelief; I just can’t get with fairies or spaceships or what have you. That said, The Hunger Games is my shiz, so you explain that one. The point I’m trying to make is that I find reality provides all WHAT THE WHAAAA?! moments I need in my life. No aliens or zombies for me, thankyouverymuch.

Then I met Ashley.

Ashley is not a zombie (at least I don’t think she is…), but her childhood reads like a fantasy novel on steroids. I’m talking nuns, no running water, a childhood lost under a blanket of responsibilities so thick it would have suffocated a lesser lady. But that’s not the fantastical part: it’s Ashley’s sense of humor. She shares these intimate details of her life on her blog Big Top Family as though she’s chatting up her BFF over coffee. Her writing is simultaneously heavy and light, and I am honored that she is here today sharing what can only be described as Sex and the City meets the Humpty Dance meets mortifying Michael Jackson moonwalking.

The Chicken Cutlets

I am not now and never have been chesty, unless you count the time my knockers blew up to 38Ds while I was pregnant with twins. Way before I even got pregnant or married, though, when I was 27 years old and living the life of a newly single girl in the big city, I was surviving on a post-breakup diet of wine and Power Bars, and therefore skinny and flat as a flapjack. I had to boost my marketing appeal to all of the superficial, club-going dipshidiots I was trying to attract, so I called upon the help of “chicken cutlets.” No, I’m not talking about something sold at KFC – I’m talking about boob-shaped and textured inserts that you stuff into your bra so that you look like you have juggernauts.

One night, fully loaded on Red Bulls and vodka, and my bra fully loaded with cutlets, I ventured out to one of the cheesiest bars in the metropolitan area with two of my girlfriends. The night started off great. They were playing old-school hits like “Humpty Dance,” so I was busy doing my signature dance moves like the Card Dealer, the Dirt Digger, and the Sprinkler Head (to name a few).  When the DJ took a break, my friends and I headed to the bar to get a drink. Waiting for the bartender’s attention, I noticed a group of guys staring at me with their eyes popping out and mouths wide open. Damn, I thought. I am lookin’ HOT tonight.Feast your eyes, fellas! I pretended not to notice their adulation, but the staring was so blatant, it soon became impossible to resist glancing back over at them. Catching my eye, one of them gestured to his chest with cupped hands and starting mouthing something to me. Of all the dick-move-come-ons, I thought. This jerk is objectifying me for my ample bosom! Well I’ll show him! I looked him squarely in the eye, smiled, and lifted my middle finger. He just shook his head and went back to talking, and now laughing, with his friends.

I turned around to tell my girlfriends, who were waiting right beside me for their shot at the bartender, and one of them grabbed me, shrieking, “Oh my God, Ashley! Your cutlet popped out!”

And, sure enough, my cutlet was half out of my low-cut shirt, almost up to my clavicle. The guy I thought was being a jerk was actually trying to prevent me from making a complete ass out of myself, though I think it’s pretty clear no one can stop me from that free-fall when I’ve set my mind to it. I stuffed my cutlet back into my shirt, covered my face, and basically moonwalked myself out of there.

Ashley Allen is a multi-task-dysfunctional mom of three boys, including a set of twins, and a survivor of a weird childhood. She writes a circusy, irreverent humor blog at Big Top Family about her childhood and adulthood, and how the bridge between them is not as long as you might think. Find her on Twitter and Facebook!