August 14, 2006

No Smooching In The Boy’s Room

    My high school boyfriend played tackle on the football team and I was on the dance team.  During halftime, while the team was huddled in the locker room, I’d be on the field in gold sequins, boots, and Cherries in the Snow lipstick, performing high kicks.  After the game we’d change clothes and meet up at the after-party and drink keg beer.  Off the football field, he sang and played guitar in a band and I devoted a great deal of time to copying Madonna’s wardrobe.   When football season was over, sometimes we’d eat cheap Mexican at El Gringo’s with his friends.
Other times I’d put on my Madonna clothes and we’d head to Morris Avenue to the Cavern, the only punk club in town.   

        After we’d dated a while, I felt like we knew everything about each other.  We were close friends.  He consoled me when my parents split up and my dad moved out, and I celebrated with him when he got into the Ivy of his choice.

    But as close as we were, and as much time as we spent together, I never saw his bedroom and he never saw mine.  My mother had trained me from an early age never to enter a boy’s bedroom, lest my reputation be sullied forever.  The smooching we did was confined to the den.  That’s my version of events, anyway.

    I thought of all this last week when we were at the beach with my college roommates and their families.  What started nine years ago as a trip of eight adults and four children has blossomed into the same eight adults and ten children, with another arriving any day.  Our four families live in three different cities.

    We thought it was hard when we were chasing toddlers and keeping sippy cups out of the sand.  In truth, that was much easier than some of the challenges we’re facing now, like determining whether the kids are great friends, or whether they might be flirting.

    The oldest kids are Finn, the Voice of Reason’s daughter Marley, and the Atlanta daughter, Clara.  This year they had more freedom than ever.  They organized biking tours for their siblings, bossily refereed games of four square, and oversaw the building of drip castles on the beach and the digging of The Pit Of Doom.

    At lunchtime one day, the Voice and I were finally sitting down to eat.  Marley and Clara were in their bedroom working on a top-secret project when they yelled for Finn to come join them.  He did, and then there were giggles and cries of “Close the door!” and “It’s a secret, dummy– we don’t want our brothers to know!” came trickling out.  The bedroom door slammed shut.

    The Voice and I looked at each other, stunned.

    “Whoa,” I said.  “Those three are in a bedroom with the door shut.”

    “I know,” the Voice said.  “I’m pretty sure that they’re just working on the trivia game where they think up little-known facts about our families, but you’re right.”

    “I mean, it’s the beach, and they’re still young, and the bedroom is on this main floor,” I mused out loud, “but a boy can’t be hanging out in a girl’s room with the door shut.  Period. “

    The Voice and I stood rooted to the spot.

    “I haven’t discussed this particular issue with Finn yet,” I confessed.  “It’s never come up.”

    “Me either,” said the Voice.  “Of course, we haven’t had the sex talk either.”

    “Well, we’ve got to do something quickly, or we’ll lose our window of opportunity.  How about, it’s okay for them to hang out in the bedroom here, at the beach, as long as the door is open.  Is that okay with you?” I asked. 

    “That seems reasonable,” said the Voice, who knows.

    “I’ll handle it with Finn,” I said.

    “I’ll take the girls,” the Voice replied.

    I marched up to the bedroom door and knocked.  “Finn, could you come out here for just a minute, please?” I called.

    Finn came out.  “Yes, ma’am?” he asked.  The Voice quietly entered the bedroom.

    I bent down to his level (which wasn’t far to bend) and said quietly, “Hey, there’s a rule that has never come up until now but I need to clue you in.  In general, you never go in a girl’s bedroom, even if she asks you to come in.  Here at the beach, it is fine for you to go in Marley and Clara’s bedroom if they ask you to come in, but you must leave the door open.  If you have any questions about the rules feel free to ask, and we can go over it in more detail if you want.  I do want you to understand that it’s a different rule for this week at the beach than it is in real life, though.”

    “That’s cool,” Finn said.  “Can we finish our game now?”

    “Sure,” I said.

    The Voice came out of the bedroom and Finn went in, leaving the door open.

    “I think I need a small glass of wine,” the Voice said weakly.

    “Go sit on the porch,” I commanded.  “I’ll join you.”

    As we sat drinking our wine, I could tell we were both thinking the same thing.

    As my mom would say, and surely knew, that rule no more kept my boyfriend and me from smooching than flying to the moon.

August 9, 2006

The Breast Wars: Part II– I Suffer Injury And Humiliation

My box of lingerie from BareNecessities.com was waiting for me when we returned from the beach, but I was too high to care. The day before it had rained, so the Glamores headed to Rockit Lanes for some alternative recreation. At the last minute, we made the fateful decision to rollerblade instead of bowl. I raced against Drew, fell, and landed on my tailbone and wrist. I was in a world of hurt.

After hours at the hospital, and admonitions from a Dr. Legg to discontinue my rollerskating career, I was discharged with a wrist fractured in two places. I also had a bruise the size of Idaho on my ass, an arm splint, and some Lortab so strong I couldn’t stand up. Apparently we packed up and drove home as scheduled the next day, although I don’t remember that part.

When I came to, my left arm was on fire and I was face-to-face with a huge box of bras. I peered inside and flinched as I moved my left hand. Inside the box was a colossal pile of brassieres, each individually wrapped in a sealed baggie. I picked one up and was unable to open it one-handed. I tried pulling on the bag with my injured hand, but I couldn’t move the fingers on my left hand at all without suffering an agonizing spasm. I realized that if I was going to try the bras on and return the non-fitting ones in a timely manner, I would have to let Bill help me.

Bill approached the task with his usual good humor, believing, as all guys must, that helping your partner put on and take off a boatload of bras is bound to be enormous fun.

He picked up the first one from the stack and read the tag.

“This is the Le Mystere Tisha T-Shirt Bra,” he announced, handing it to me. I gingerly put my arms through it, then turned my back to him.

“Why are you facing me that way?” he asked. “I can’t tell anything about that contraption from the back.”

“Honey, I need you to fasten it in the back, and I may even need you to tighten the straps,” I said patiently. “After it’s on properly, then we decide if it fits.”

He fumbled around with the back of the bra.

“Damnation,” he mumbled. “No one ever told me I had to learn how to put these back on. All those years of practicing to take them off, and here I am learning to put them on.”

He fastened it, and I winced.

“Not so tight!” I yelled.

He hurriedly adjusted the back, then stepped back.

“Honey, the straps are drooping almost to my ankles,” I pointed out. “You slide that clippy thing up until the strap fits over my shoulders without sagging or cutting off my circulation.”

He did as instructed and then I turned around and faced him.

Maybe this would be a good time to insert a control picture of myself so you can appreciate what we saw.

This is what I look like when I am wearing a brown camisole and light blue shorts. Note the place where my breasts would be, if I had any.

Here I am wearing the Tisha T-Shirt Bra.

“Honey, that makes it looks like you have a handful up there,” Bill said happily.

“It’s too big,” I announced, giving it the push test. “See?”

I pushed lightly on the cup until the fabric of the bra touched my actual torso.

The empty space in the bra was apparent. Bill’s face fell, but only for a moment.

“All right, then, let’s move on,” he said jovially. He handed me another bra. “How about the Chantelle Alhambra Soft Cup Bra?” He helped me put it on.

“I seem to remember that the Alhambra is a Spanish castle,” he mused, as he fastened the bra and adjusted the straps. “This bra doesn’t look Spanish at all.” I turned around and faced him.

“Oh,” he said.

I looked at myself in the mirror.

“Balls,” I muttered.

Just then Finn burst in the room, oblivious to the closed door. He stopped short when he saw me.

“Mom, is that bra supposed to be so wrinkly?” he asked.

“No, it’s not,” I said. “It’s made for women with larger breasts. If you put something bigger in it, the bra would be filled up, not all foldy.”

“Yeah, I would think if you wore it that way it would look like you had something weird under your clothes,” Finn said. “Hey, I have an idea!” He ran from the room and returned a moment later, holding something.

“Why don’t you see what happens if you put this in one side? I bet you wouldn’t have any wrinkles then.”

I took the small turnip he handed me and looked at it in disbelief.

“Go on, honey,” Bill said. “None of us like turnips anyway.”

Well, they were right. The turnip filled up the Alhambra in a way I never could.

“I’m going to get my brothers and see what else we have in the kitchen!” Finn yelled, hurrying off excitedly.

“Honey, this isn’t a freak show,” I told Bill.

“Aw, let’s have a little fun with it,” he answered. “You put something on under that puckered-up titty-tamer for a little modesty, and we’ll fill up that coconut-sling with all kinds of things.”

“Coconut sling?” I asked.

“Okay, lima bean-sling. Now put something on.” He pinched my butt too close to my bruised tailbone and I slapped him.

So that’s how we ended up with all the boys on the bed laughing while I performed a fruity bra fashion show.

The kiwi looked good.

And it was a good fit, though maybe a little oblong.

I had high hopes for the Le Mystere Nikita Bra, both because of its elegant name, and because of its decorative straps, which formed a lovely criss-cross pattern.

Unfortunately, it turned out that I was a tomatillo and an avocado short of filling up that bra.

On the other hand, I had a really good start to an excellent guacamole.

In the end, I was unlucky with the bras. Not a single bra fit. However, the Glamore family had some cheap entertainment at my expense. It was much more enjoyable than rollerblading.

I decided the show was over when Porter asked, “Mom, why is your nipple as big as a meatball?” Finn and Drew were soon sent to bed as well.

Round I of the Breast Wars is over. I will let you know should I choose to fight again.

August 7, 2006

The Breast Wars: Part I– I Devise A Winning Strategy

Picture an average pancake, sitting on a plate. Now think about the tiny Tootsie Rolls people give out on Halloween. Cut one in half cross wise. Put a dot of syrup in the middle of the pancake and place the Tootsie Roll on it like a rocket. When you are finished, you will have made an extremely realistic (and edible!) model of one of my breasts. It should look like this:

(front view)
(side view)

(I could have made this a little thinner to more accurately represent my breast, but I didn’t want to burn it.)

I read a lot of Renaissance poetry in college, and poets always described bosoms as “orbs” or “globes” in recognition of the fact that the area supporting the nipple is usually three dimensional and round, like a baseball or a cantaloupe. I have yet to find a poet who says:

For gladly would I give up burritos, and water, and coins
In exchange for your smooth, flat bosom, so like a compact disc
That plays the music of the fire in my loins.

Unfortunately, bra makers also seem to think that all bra-wearers have round boobs, not pancakes topped with a Tootsie Roll. Finding a bra that fits me is even harder than getting all my laundry folded. I can go braless, but then I flash headlights regardless of the temperature. Bill doesn’t object to this, but in the Tiny Kingdom you can’t exactly hang out by the frozen foods at Publix with your party hats on and not expect to start a rumor that your marriage is on the rocks and you’re trolling for men by the DiGiorno pizzas.

Last week I decided to tackle my titty problem directly. I paid off my American Express bill, then sat at the computer to find the perfect bra, one that doesn’t crumple from unused space, that doesn’t chafe with prison-quality underwire, and most importantly, one that provides a smooth silhouette, with no wrinkles or obvious nipple.

I found BareNecessities.com, which had a huge selection. I ordered a wide variety of 36A bras, ranging from the $20 Warner’s “Be Flirty” to the $127 La Perla “Vintage Contour Bra.” (I figured if it was the magic bra, I’d just buy one and wash it out every other day or so and maybe wear Band-aids every once in a while to save wear and tear.)

Then, because I was already on the site, I ordered some new underwear as well, because mine are getting ratty. I had already ordered Bill fancy new underwear and undershirts from Nordstrom, and I figured that I deserved the same level of undergarments.

Many clicks and dollars later, my order was complete. The boxes would be delivered in a couple of days, I’d try on all the bras and underwear in private, then ship the rejects back quickly so my credit card could be credited.

The next day was a busy one. Drew and Porter had spent the night at camp, and Finn was sleeping late, so I headed to Jazzercise before I ran errands to get ready for the beach. We were leaving the next day and I had to get decorations for Bill’s 40th birthday, beach toys, and groceries.

While I was doing rock-claps to “It’s Raining Men” my cell phone rang. I answered it, panting, and heard a teenager on the other end of the line calling from camp to tell me that Drew was vomiting and needed to be picked up. I estimated that I was thirty minutes from camp.

“It will take me at least forty minutes to get there,” I told the counselor. “I’m on my way.”

I ran to the minivan and headed up the highway, making only an eight minute detour to purchase some decorations for Bill’s 40th birthday party, which would take place at the beach. I wasn’t at all confident that I could find what I needed once I left the city.

Drew wasn’t looking so bad when I picked him up. I let him drink a couple of sips of water as we headed home on the crowded highway. Moments later, he made a choking sound, and then I heard splattering. He threw up twice more on the way home, and we stopped each time to clean out the van. By the time we got home, Drew was pale and trembling.

I bathed him and tucked him in bed. I surveyed the van, which reeked. I sprayed rug cleaner liberally over the affected parts and decided to opt for the “let it soak in” method of cleaning. The van had to be sparkling and the smell at least tolerable by the next morning, when we’d be pulling out and heading toward the ocean.

With Drew consigned to bed, my day of running pre-vacation errands was shot. I headed to the computer to pay bills. The phone rang.

“This Geneva, from Bare Necessities,” a woman said. “You get our email about you order?”

“No, I haven’t had time to check emails today,” I said.

“Ah. Well, because you are new customer, and because of size of order, we must needs to check your credit card information more exactly. Can you send us copy of you drivers license, front and back, and credit card, front and back?”

I looked at my caller ID. Geneva was calling from Bare Necessitites.

“Certainly,” I said. I got her phone number and email address and hung up.

As I prepared to scan the information, I realized that I had put the order on my American Express. I believe that card is somewhere here in the room near our computer, and I’ve kept a close eye on the account, so I know no one else is using it, but I haven’t actually seen the card in over a year. I just have the numbers and expiration date and I use it for ordering online. There was no way I was going to be able to send Geneva a copy of the American Express.

Instead, I retrieved my Mastercard, and sent it. I emailed all the information, and included a note explaining that I had substituted one credit card for another.

Moments later the phone rang again. It was Geneva.

“I get you email,” she said. “But I cannot put order on new card. System will not let me do. You cannot send me the American Express?”

“No,” I said truthfully. I didn’t want to tell her I didn’t actually have it, so I said, “you see, one of my twins is throwing up, and I’m not at the office today, and I don’t have the American Express with me. I have this problem with my bosoms– they’re just so tiny and flat, but my nipples are really protrusive, and I can’t find a bra that really fits me, and your company looked like it had a good selection, so I was ordering a variety of 36As to see if I could find the perfect bra. And then I decided maybe I deserved some nice underwear. But really, I’m almost forty, and I’ve dealt with it this long, so maybe you should just cancel the order. I’m not going to be able to leave the house, and I’m leaving town in the morning.”

There was silence on the line for a moment, and then Geneva said, “I talk to manager and call you back.”

I barely had time to check on Drew before the phone rang again and Tatiana was on the phone. “Geneva tells me you have uncommon breasts,” she said.

I’ve seen a lot of naked ladies in my day, and I’ve never seen anyone with boobs like mine, so that seemed like a fair assumption. “I guess you could say that,” I agreed.

“I am sure Bare Necessities will be able to provide a bra that fits you,” Tatiana said smoothly. “We were able to confirm that the names and addresses on your American Express and Mastercard matched, so I have simply canceled the order from your American Express and reordered it on your Mastercard. Will that be satisfactory to you?”

“Sure,” I said. “I certainly appreciate your going to all that trouble.”

“It is our pleasure at Bare Necessities,” Tatiana replied. “Let me know if I can be of further assistance.”

The customer service at Bare Necessities certainly put me in a good mood, which was just as well, because I still had to pack for the beach, clean the van, and tend to Drew.

By the time Bill got home, I was bone-weary.

“You seem quiet,” Bill remarked.

I told him about Drew, the vomit, and the rest of the day, which included a tearful goodbye to Finn’s best friend, who was moving to Tennessee, Porter’s return from camp, apparently germ-free, and the creation of piles of beach clothes for each boy, neatly laid out in the den.

Then I told him what was really on my mind.

“Honey, today a lady who knows a lot about bosoms told me I had ‘uncommon breasts,’” I said.

“As in uncommonly small?” Bill asked. “I’d say she’s right on the money. We’ve always said that when we got married, you gave up long haired men and I gave up big titty women.”

“Yeah, but you could grow long hair if you wanted to,” I pointed out.

“Don’t go worrying about your boobs, honey,” Bill said. He handed me a glass. “Drink this gin and tonic.”

Then he slapped me on the bottom.

“Besides, I married you for your ass, not your tits, honey.”