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I would like to introduce you to my sister, Roxana Gillett.

"Roxie" is a musician, novelist, and playwright currently residing in Las Cruces, New Mexico with her husband. She boasts an unusual resume.

After a stint as a Hollywood stunt-person (she went toe-to-toe with a demon dog in the film version of Stephan King's Cujo), she became a performer with the country's last traveling circus and wound up spending more than 15 years caring for lions, tigers, and elephants, including a long Bay Area stint at Marine World / Africa USA.

Roxie turned to writing, in part, because she wanted to communicate "the beauty and loving hearts wild animals have and the dignity and respect they deserve when they 'allow us' to be part of their lives."

Her first book, The White Elephant Kneels, was inspired by her travels to Africa and her long experience working with African and Indian elephants. She is currently polishing two new musicals and there's another novel in the works.

The following "true-life mini-memoire" was written decades ago and a friend recently discovered it posted online. It had me laughing and seemed worth sharing. So here, after many years, is a frisky tale of one of my sister's worst days during her career as a circus performer.

Ta-Tas…..Breasts….The Girls.….Let’s Talk…..
By Roxana Gillett 

I admit I’ve always been a tiny bit obsessed about my Bra Buddies. It’s because I didn’t have any. Really. Nada. Nothing. Just Nipples. Don’t get me wrong, they were perky little things, but I wanted more than Flapjacks and Fried eggs. I wanted Gazingas and Goombas.  

Am I embarrassing you, talking about my Boobies? Seriously, it’s not like we are not all old enough. By this age, we’ve all seen a pair of Paw Patties, haven’t we? Anyway, back to my story. 

I was so desperate for normal-sized Mushmelons, that once, when I got stung by a bee on my left Snuggle Pup, I put the band-aid under the sting to give that Cha-Cha a little more lift. I didn’t even care about being lopsided. I figured one was better than none.  

For part of my Flat-hoodness, I was a performer with Circus Vargas—an Elephant-Broad, a girlie-girl. But being Mammies-challenged, I had to wear rubber-falsies under my teeny bikini. These flesh-colored Grillworks were the stuff dreams are made of—and for an extra two dollars, you could get them with nipples. I figured, heck, money well spent. I got the nipples. 

“Styling” doesn’t’ even begin to tell you how swell these Milk Shakers made me feel. "If you got them flaunt them" finally had meaning. 

So, we were in North Dakota, under the big top of Circus Vargas, all searchlights and glam. I rode into the tent confident and flaunting my Hood Ornaments, riding high, legs tucked tightly behind the lead elephant’s ears. Triple false eyelashes glued in place and Bodacious Ta-Ta’s bouncing, I was a sight to behold . . . a real beauty.  

Aha, but the god of “You ain’t got real Love Muffins” was about to bring me down. 

The ponderous pachyderms pounded the turf as they circled the circus arena. Dust bellowed! Clouds cart-wheeled. I waved to the cheering multitudes, my Bazooks thrust forward showing off their fullness, flashing rhinestone and gloating Pointer-Sister perfection under the bright circus lights.  

The elephants stopped at center ring. They stood, front feet on each other’s backs as I pirouetted in high-heeled dance shoes, to stand on top of my elephant’s head. The crowd clapped. The sound grew louder, and then . . . the big “O!” 

I got a standing ovation. It was my Montezumas that made the difference, and I was proud. When the elephants dismounted so did I. 

Once again they circled the tract. I waited, right hand in the air, smiling, Cup-Cakes jetted out and on display. The elephants raced toward me. I stood my ground. The crowd noise hushed. When the lead elephant was a mere six feet away, I lowered my hand with dramatic flair and collectively the audience sucked in their breaths. 

The lead elephant screeched to a halt with only inches to spare and lowered her head. The others stopped behind her. I grabbed the harness that wrapped around her face with flashing circus jewels. She flipped her massive head up in the air with a practiced jerk and sent me flying three feet above her. I twisted and twirled. I was to land on her back with a flourish and outstretched arms. But it was not to be. 

My LopIollies ejected! 

OMG! They have abandoned ship. Grab a life raft! 

One Billybong went right . . . the other Bonbon flew left. I reached out for them, but they eluded me, and shame upon shame, I landed on my butt at the feet of my fearless pachyderm. 

But in the immortal words of our Ring Master, “The show must go on.” I rose, smiled, and waved. I figured at the very least I’d get a round of applause for my bravery, but instead I got snickers. 

What this? I asked. Then I noticed the audience pointing at the Elephant, my ride; my liege. Their snickers turned to laughter, big-belly-tears-running-down-your-face-type of laughter.  

There perched on top my elephant’s huge gray head was one lonely Boob. And she, my friend the elephant, held the other Coconut in her trunk . . . a Double-Whammie of Defeat. 

Is there a moral to this story? Perhaps it’s as simple as: Next time you ride an elephant, pin on those Butterballs!