of cans and melons

Hey, guys, take a break.  The ladies and I, we’re going to chat for a little bit.  We have important Lady Things to discuss, and if you really want to listen in, that’s okay, but it’s not something I’m gonna encourage.  Here, go play a game or something.  We’ll see you in a few minutes.

Are they gone?

Is my audience exclusively female now?

So, okay, boobs.

I have some, and I’m pretty glad about it.  They’re not too shabby, in the grand scheme of boobs, and they’ve served me well.  Granted, I don’t really know how to use them properly.  I know plenty of girls who can use their boobs to get free stuff.  Booze, or clothes, or a conversation, but I’ve yet to crack this mystery.  Really, having some decent sweater kittens is like having some kind of complex power tool.  It slices!  It dices!  It feeds your mammalian young!  Unfortunately, they don’t come with any kind of manual and so most of us deal with their limited functionality.

I’m going to take a step back for a second and use a phrase I couldn’t work in to the previous paragraph.  I’m not even going to give it context, because honestly I don’t care that much.  I just want to say ‘Swiss Army Boobs’, so there you go.

Swiss Army Boobs.

Are the dudes still gone?

Despite not using these melons for any complicated purposes, they still need to be well-maintained.  I was going to say ‘well-oiled’, going on with the whole power tool metaphor, but that just got a little weird and visual and my Mom reads this blog, and I don’t want her shooting poor Taylor any dirty looks.  Point being, you’ve got to take care of your gazongas, and the best way to do that is to invest in some quality bras.

I’ll be the first to say that I take terrible care of my bras.  It’s a tragedy.  My bras are the underpaid immigrant workers of my closet, forced to do double duty with limited breaks, for way longer than is humanely permissable.  I have maybe two bras that fit me right now, and I alternate between them with an unwavering ruthlessness.  When I open the drawer, whatever bra is in there stares up at me, shrinking into the corner, howling, “No, no!  Don’t make me go back!  I’m tired!  I’m worn out!  I can’t do this anymore, please, noooo!”  Cruelly, I ignore its pleas and I put it to work.  I’m like that.

It’s getting to the point, though, where something needs to be done.  Slowly, structural integrity is weakening.  There are cracks in the hull.  Soon, there will be a full on breach, and all pressure will be lost.  Boobs will go spilling out into the atmosphere, and ‘all hands on deck’ will take on a very literal meaning.  Something has to be done.

The logical thing to do would be to buy a new bra.  Let the old ones retire with what dignity they have left, but we live in uncertain times and the logical thing is not always the easiest thing.  A good bra costs like sixty bucks, you guys.  Let me repeat that.  Sixty bucks.  Sixty.  That isn’t anything to sniff at.  Dedicated readers will remember that my sense of frugality prevents me from buying anything over the twenty dollar mark, and even then I berate myself for days afterwards.  “COME ON,” Frugality screams at me, “DID YOU REALLY NEED THAT SHAMPOO?  DID YOU?  THE CAVEPEOPLE DID JUST FINE WITHOUT SHAMPOO, BUT NOOOO.  YOU HAVE TO BE FANCY AND CLEAN.  LET’S SEE HOW CLEAN YOU FEEL WHEN YOU’RE HOMELESS BECAUSE YOU CAN’T PAY THE RENT.”

So paying a lot for a bra is an issue for me.

I’m considering going to Fred Meyer or Target or something to try to find cheap undergarments, but I haven’t been fitted for a bra in years.  I know in Victoria’s Secret you can take anything you want into that back room, but can you try on bras in a department store?  It feels wrong, somehow, to hand the attendant something and be like, “Hey, I just put my boobs in here, but I don’t want it now.  You take it.”  Do you just guess what size you are and return it if you were incorrect?

These are burning questions, and I’ve been putting off answering them for a long time.  I need to do some figuring out.  The bras I have are little better than doilies on a string at this point, and it’s getting a little inconvenient.  You can practically SEE the ‘WUBBULA WUBBULA WUBBULA’ sound effect written around my person as I walk.  There’s persistent jiggling.

To end this, a tidbit.  During my lunch break, Taylor and I ate pineapple out of a can and watched The Good Wife online.  During a commercial, I took a bite of pineapple and said:

“I’m writing a blog post about boobs.”

Taylor didn’t answer immediately.  He chewed this knowledge over in his mind.

“That may be inadvisable,” he said.

“Why?”

“Well, uh, depending on how you do it.”

We ate silently for a moment while the show came back on.

“Am I in it?” Taylor asked.

“Kind of.  There’s a part where I make a crack about my mom being mad at you.”

“Ah,” Taylor said.

Why he doesn’t want to be discussed in a 900 word post about boobs is completely beyond me.