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| ::: ::: Journal entries: ::: ::: ::: Check out: My current book recommendation: Surviving the Extremes. Incredibly interesting. Artifact:
Somebody really needs to pay attention to that dog, and stop putting bras on her.
| Monday, January 2, 2006 So I bought these new bras, because my old ones had been subjected to that bout with pregnancy I had last year and were a bit frayed at the seams. Not only stretched out and ill-fitting, but actually threatening to explode off my torso in a deadly cloud of elasticy shrapnel. Sexy! I suppose bra-shopping isn't universally a hated activity, somebody's buying all those lacy, adorable little A and B-sized frothy underthings, looking at themselves in the fitting room mirror, and smiling with satisfaction at their lithesome, perky-hooted sinew-monkey body. Yes indeed, it must be oh so nice to wear something that doesn't look like it was manufactured in the Hungarian Soviet Republic. Tell me, won't you, just how it is to be able to button a shirt? To reach for the salt without dragging your left breast through your pasta? To expose your tits with riotous drunken glee for the nice Girls Gone Wild cameraman who said you looked just like Tara Reid and you thought you saw him rolling his eyes at the show's washed up comedian host but goddammit you're going to get that t-shirt if you have to flash beaver and oopsy, guess the floor was a little wet, ha ha ha, can you help me up? This is pretty much how my Fred Meyer's experience went the other day, except add in the shame of trying on underwear in a store that also sells Liquid Plumr, peat moss, and poorly constructed wood composite furniture. But! I was out of the house, on a break from the child, and thus my patience was infinite. The one bra type I've always avoided, besides the push-up Wonderbra (now that I have seen what post-birth breast engorgement looks like, let me say that the results of wearing a Wonderbra are frighteningly similar - which is to say my boobs can be seen using Google Maps. At zoom level 14), is the built-in cup kind of bra. You know, the molded contour cup that retains its shape regardless of whether or not it contains an actual breast? I think they have foam in them, or something. The reason I've always passed these by is that the one thing I'm not looking for is extra cushioning. I don't want or need any additional padding or thickness; my personal volume is already set on "matronly", I want to avoid cranking it up to "Elsa, The German Milkmaid". However, that is exactly the style I settled on after trying approximately five hundred thousand different brands. The contour cup seems to scoop up all my errant bits and pieces and heft the whole mess into a nicely-shaped, if alarmingly robust, bustline. Plus: no standing-in-the-freezer-section-looking-for-Texas-toast-hello-DOLLY nipple peekaboo. The problem now is that my new bras render all of my recently purchased Threadless t-shirts a size too small. The lift-and-shape action is great for being able to sit down without having my boobs rest on my goddamn lap, but it certainly does add some, uh, cubic measure to my general chest area. In other words: extra-large, baby. Once again, sexy! Should you be in the market for a spectacularly unattractive bra that does the work of ten strong men, I recommend the Vanity Fair Body Contour. It comes in the following colors: 1) Pinkish, Sort Of and 2) Black. There will be no less than three (3) hooks in the back. There will be no lace, sheer fabrics, or "balconettes" found on the Vanity Fair Body Contour bra. Here is a highly scientific photo using the famed Labrador Comparison Effect to illustrate aforementioned bra:
Now that I've told you all that, I bet you have one solitary burning question on your mind: did she wash that bra after putting it on the dog? Tune in next time, when I conveniently forget to answer that and instead talk about something entirely different yet equally alluring, like high rise briefs. ::: I have never thought photos of children with food smeared on their faces were cute. Never. Birthday cake, mashed potatoes, whatever - if it's all over their face and hair? Gross. Someone get that kid a fucking wet wipe. That said, here is a photo of Riley with food smeared on his face. Because it's different when it's your own baaaaaby. Next up: the contents of his diaper, shot with macro lens!
His first cereal experience. Oh my god, SO FUNNY. Seriously, you want to see something hilarious? Give a baby solid food for the first time. (Note: you will need many, many paper towels.) |
