Lately I've been spending a lot of time getting to know a very cute boy. We talk, a lot, swapping stories like a very long first date. He recently brought it to my attention that many of my stories are, ahem, a little bit unbelievable. In my defense, while I do tend to exaggerate a bit, I limit my creative license to things like, "god, I was waiting for like six hours!" or "Seriously, I think I ate a hundred cookies!" Last night I was telling the story of a job I once had as a showgirl at The Rivera casino in Blackhawk, CO, and how ridiculous a job it was. This was not like a take your top off and dance type of showgirl, my duties included holding up those number signs at boxing matches, taking pictures with jackpot winners, and walking around the casino talking to the old folks. He just started laughing, a derisive laugh that indicated he absolutely did not believe this latest tale. So to prove to him that I am not a barefaced liar, I emailed him this picture this morning: Please note that those are not my real boobs, I strapped them on when I got to work each day. In fact, they had sequined bras with various degrees of padding, little padding for the more well endowed, and padding the size of a small child's head for girls with, um, girls like me.