November 14, 2006

In Which The Gap Fails Finn (And Pre-Teen Boys Everywhere)

For reasons too complex to delve into, Sunday I had approximately twenty-four minutes to purchase Finn some underwear that he needed ASAP. I didn’t have time to drive to Target to buy his favorite Fruit of the Looms, so I squeezed in a trip to the mall between fixing some Santa Fe Soup and getting everyone presentable to go to Aunt Su’s. Aunt Lulu and her baby were in town, and the boys had to meet their new cousin.

I ran into a couple of stores, neither of which carried Finn’s size of underwear. It seems that while I have uncommon breasts, Finn’s fanny is a popular size. The Gap was my last option.

I found one package of XL underwear quickly. It was perfect, containing one pair of gray knit boxer briefs, and one pair of white.

The Gap knit boxer, size XL, in white and gray. Perfect for the 87 pound fifth grader.

I figured he needed at least two more packages, and I continued to scan the shelves. As I did, I was assaulted by a dizzying array of colors and designs, not only in XL, but XXL and perhaps higher. My mind began reeling and I felt as if I was back in college, listening
to “L.A. Woman” in a smoke filled dorm room festooned with psychedelic
gauzy sheets on the walls. My heart started racing as I struggled to make sense of it all.

Here were the other designs available for fifth grade boys who know about sex, use deodorant and acne wash, are keenly aware when girls wear perfume, and conduct nightly searches for manly hairs in their armpits:

And most disturbingly:

I gasped, and hailed a saleslady to look in the back for some plain XL underwear. While she was gone, I fumbled in my purse for my Klonopin and swallowed half a pill right there.

If you are wondering what is wrong with this underwear, I can only conclude that you design boys’ underwear for the Gap or do not have a preteen.

First, when little boys are transitioning from diapers to the potty, a mother’s number one weapon looks like this:

If you don’t go in the potty, you wear a diaper. If you go in the potty, you get to wear big boy pants with Sponge Bob on them. Whee!

Translation: only boys who are being rewarded for properly using the toilet wear underwear with little designs.

Second, a boy does not wear words on his butt. Girls can wear panties with words on them:

Remember when Bloomies made the day of the week panties? I had some. Did you?
And, of course, ladies can wear underwear with words on the derriere:

This is pretty much how I look in my underwear every day of the week!

Consequently, men do not wear underwear with words on them. I left the Gap with only two pairs of plain underwear.

According to its web site, the Gap’s corporate purpose is to “make it easy for you to express your personal style throughout your life.”

I’d say the Gap failed pretty miserably in making it easy for Finn to express his personal style on his ass.

September 21, 2006

Finn’s Fashion Wisdom

This morning as we were getting ready for school, Finn said, “Mom, I really love this shirt. It’s so soft and comfortable.”

“Great,” I said, as I brushed a big tangle out of the back of his hair. I think it looks pretty good myself, considering it cost around $10 at Target.

“The girls dig it, too,” Finn remarked, as he started packing up his backpack.

Bill looked up from his Special K with a look of confusion. “How do you know the girls ‘dig it?’” he asked.

“Well, when I wear it, the girls flirt with me,” Finn said, handing me his agenda to sign.

“How do you know they’re flirting?” Bill asked.

Finn looked at Bill pityingly. “Dad, you just know. I mean, when I wear it, they’re like, all over me and stuff.”

“All over you?” I yelped. “Surely you’re exaggerating.”

“If he is, I don’t have any idea at all where he got that from,” Bill said.

“I don’t mean they literally climb on me,” Finn said. “What they do is, like, Kristin will be on the other side of the room, and she’ll say (and here Finn used a high-pitched voice) ‘Finn, would you mind bringing me a pencil?’ Or sometimes they’ll ask for a book or help reaching something on a shelf, but you know they could’ve gotten it themselves.”

“So what do you do?” I asked.

Finn shrugged. “I’ll tell them it’s no problem and I’ll go get the pencil or whatever. What they really mean is that they want to see you walk across the room and use your manly muscles. I figure I’ve got ‘em so I might as well show ‘em off,” he said nonchalantly.

I turned my back to Finn and pretended to be very busy pouring another cup of coffee so he couldn’t see my face.

“So dude,” Bill said, “do you really work it?”

“Oh yeah,” Finn answered. “I make sure I flex my muscles while I walk across the room and back, because that’s what the girls really want to see. The pencil is just an excuse.”

Just then Chatty Mom drove up and honked and all the boys ran out the door.

Bill and I looked at each other, processing this new information.

“Honey, do you think we ought to go ahead and start saving up for a home condom machine?” Bill asked. “I think we might need it for peace of mind.”

September 17, 2006

In Which I Declare Myself The Victor In The Breast Wars

Here’s a multiple choice test to get you in the mood for today’s column. If you saw this, what would you do?

1. Grab a frying pan, a mallet, butter, capers, lemon juice, and wine and make a delicious chicken piccata.

2. Say, “Modern art doesn’t interest me very much, but I hear there’s a fabulous new lunch place down the street.”

3. Slap those suckers on your chest and strut your stuff like Dolly Parton.

All are good answers, but in my world, the correct answer is 3.

Behold: the NuBra.

Those of you who have been keeping up with the replica of my breast I made out of food and the embarrassment I suffered when I tried on approximately forty bras with Bill’s help due to a roller-blading accident (rather than privately as I had planned) will be happy to hear that the Breast Wars are over.

First, a little background on my bra situation prior to the beginning of the wars. Before I discovered that there is a bra for women like me (women with itty-bitty titties topped with fireplug nipples), I was resigned to the fact that if I wanted a bra that actually fit, I’d be wearing two triangles of fabric with a little rosebud centered between them. This is the kind of bra you buy in the preteen section at Macy’s–the ones where the package shows some girls at a sleepover painting each others’ nails. When the wars began, at a minimum I hoped to purchase a bra from the women’s department bearing a tag that pictured an actual grownup wearing the bra (preferably a woman).

The best solution I had found to hide my perma-nips was the NuBra, which is a sticky, gel-like breast form you stick on top of your boobs. You can use it as a regular bra or a strapless bra, if you’re small-breasted, like me. As long as you wash it off after each use, you can wear it over and over.

The NuBra has two drawbacks. One is that it’s funny looking, which is why Bill often says,”You wearing those chicken breasts out tonight?”

The other is that the forms don’t stick so well when you have sweaty boobs.

Aunt Lulu had a lovely outdoor wedding on a sweltering day in May 2004. In Alabama. Here is a picture of me just before the ceremony, when both sides of my NuBra were firmly attached to my breasts, sort of filling up the front of my extremely pink dress.

There were four bridesmaids, and we all stood in the searing sun wearing our chicken breasts as Aunt Lulu and her husband promised and vowed. Just as I felt a trickle of sweat run down my back, I heard a thwa-kink! and another thwa-kink! and I realized that my NuBra had popped off and was nestling in the band of my dress between my boobs and my stomach. A moment later I heard several fainter, but unmistakable thwa-kinks! on both sides of me, and soon there were four bridesmaids standing up front with eight uncovered nipples in thin Pepto dresses. We walked down the aisle with our NuBras lying limply at the bottom of the bodice of our dresses.

I tried to stick it back on several times, but it was a hot day and I was dancing and sweaty and therefore unsuccessful. Here’s a picture of me later, after I stuffed the chicken breasts in my purse and resolved to party all night, regardless of nipple protrusion.

“My dress is caving in and I don’t care! Cheers to Aunt Lulu!”

So the NuBra is good, but not great in my climate. A real bra that fastens with straps and snaps would have been helpful in that circumstance.

Another recent discovery I’ve made is this product:

Low Beams are basically flower-shaped band-aids that you put on your bosoms to paste your nipples down. They certainly flatten my Tootsie Rolls, but they don’t add any fluffiness to my pancake. And at $9 for 5 pair, I find them pricey. I do like the package, though, which has a key ring and the slogan “Headlights are for cars.”

Because neither the NuBra nor the Low Beams fully met my boobie needs, I whiled away an afternoon at a lingerie shop while I was in New York waiting on Aunt Lulu to have her large bundle of joy. There an elderly woman measured me and pronounced me a 34AA, not a 36AA as the last three “breast experts” had. My bust size is difficult to assess, not because I’m uncooperative or unduly modest, but because I have a hump under my right shoulder blade because of my scoliosis, and even my second spine surgery didn’t reduce it. Apparently I stood different ways for the various women who measured me and that accounted for the discrepancy in the calculations.

The difference between a 34 and a 36 mattered because the cups in a 34AA are smaller than those in a 36AA, and tinier cups were exactly what I needed, as I illustrated with fruit in the second part of my description of the wars.

Once I had the correct numbers and letters to work with, the sales lady advised me that Wacoal is great with petite bras, and her suggestions were right on the money.

To my great delight, I arrived home with five bras that fit.

I bought this bra in ivory and nude:

You can just take my word for it that it doesn’t mush in if you press on it, and there’s no extra room for an avocado or turnip in the cup.

Then I bought this bra because it has a bow:

You do remember that Bill has a thing for bows, don’t you?

That’s why I think he’ll go wild for this bra, which I bought in nude and black:

That’s not just a bow; it’s a lace-up mini-corset looking thing, which is far sexier than anything I’ve ever worn on a bra before. I don’t think this ad gives you a true picture of the vixenish quality of this brassiere. For a lady used to slapping silicone chicken breasts on her front and calling it a day, this is a definite improvement.

August 17, 2006

In Which I Commit A Fashion Felony And Maybe Poison My Family

I’ve progressed from a splint to a cast for my fractured wrist. Wearing a cast is not only awkward and frustrating, but can lead to a life of crime. My cast extends from the base of my fingers halfway up my arm. Theoretically I should be able to use my fingers, but they are still sore and swollen and not good for much, including:

1. Buttoning
2. Chopping
3. Holding
4. Applying makeup and beauty products
5. Anything else

Consequently, I’ve spent a lot of time this week learning to adapt and admiring the surfer girl who had her whole arm bitten off by a shark.

Some of the crimes I’ve committed have not been serious. I’ve been driving all over the road and failing to use turn signals, because I can only hold the wheel with my right hand, and it hurts to even flick the signal with my injured hand. In Alabama, though, that’s pretty much considered normal driving for all but the biggest sticklers.

My fashion crimes have been more serious. I have called a temporary truce in the Breast Wars because I am unable to fasten any bra at all by myself. Thus, I’ve gone without. That leaves me with the nipple problem, which has forced me to dress in layers to hide my headlights. Even that isn’t foolproof, so I’ve resorted to throwing on strings of beads in order to direct attention to the bright, shiny colors and away from my chest.

My fashion felony? Dressing like an Olsen twin.

Longtime readers know I’m pretty adamant about fixing a decent dinner where we all sit down and try to enjoy each other’s company. That’s been a challenge now that I can’t do much more than turn on the faucet. Last night after we finished dinner, I had Bill help me make one of his favorite dishes, Beef Balls In Red Wine Sauce, for us to eat the next night. When I say he helped me, I actually mean that I carried as many of the ingredients as I could over to the counter and coached him through the entire process.

He mixed the meat with thyme, paprika, salt and pepper, and formed it into large balls.

“A little bigger– no, not that big or they won’t brown all the way through,” I said in my nicest voice, inwardly cringing at the odd sizes of balls he was producing.

While I browned them, he chopped onions, carrots, celery and garlic and added them to the pan.

“If you could chop those just a little smaller, honey, sometimes the boys will accidentally eat a piece of vegetable without realizing it,” I hinted. Surely he wanted carrots to end up inside our boys, not pushed around on their plates.

Bill frowned at me, so I concentrated on my balls. I managed to stir the veggies a little and sprinkle a few tablespoons of flour over the mixture. Bill opened some cheap red wine, chicken broth, and a can of tomato sauce, all of which he poured into the pan while I hovered over his shoulder, making sure he got the proportions exactly right. I added a cup of water by myself and then we supervised baths and homework while the Beef Balls simmered, covered, for forty-five minutes.

I let them cool on the stove while we tucked in the boys. I was unable to lift the pot to put it into the refrigerator for the night, so I left it while I spent eleventy billion hours moving the clothes from the washer to the dryer, piece by piece. I’d get Bill to put the balls in the fridge later.

This morning the pot was still on the stove. Under normal circumstances I’d have thrown the whole thing away, for fear the Beef Balls In Red Wine Sauce had turned into the Beef Balls Of Plague And Poison.

But things are different, so we’re eating the damn beef balls anyway, in the belief that the overnight process both aged the beef and let the flavors marry in a pleasing way. I’m going to boil the hell out of it first, however, just in case my theory (and the meal) is a crock of shit.

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.