Monday, March 12, 2012

This One is For the Ladies...

If you are of the XY chromosome make up, have gingerbread or can look at the inseam of your Levis and have a finite twig and berries, then I highly suggest you stop reading now.  Seriously, stop. Because I am about to write about sweater pups.  Now, I know that if you are  a man you are probably looking forward to a sneak peak of a "lady" talking about her chest hams, but the following writing is not going to be about me describing rubbing the pups up in cocoa butter before walking 'em to bark at the moon, but rather the sheer logistical pain in the ass it is to have two fat sockets projecting themselves from one's lower shoulder/upper torso area.

You have been warned.

Bras.  Brassieres. Flopper Stoppers. Over the Shoulder Boulder Holders. Boobie Holsters. Unmentionables.  Call it whatever the Hell you want –– I call it a pain in the ass.

Before  I continue on my tirade of bras, let me be very clear. I do not hate bras.  They are important in preventing us from getting breast tears that can lead to growths and they also help us keep our sweater hams from wobbling to and fro, making sure we can never tie them in a knot or tie them in a bow.  Rather, I hate the sizing and manufacturing on bras.  And I hate how terribly awkward they make me feel.

If you were to open my bra drawer right now, you would find bras ranging from a 38C to a 42DD. Men, if you are still reading, I have two comments for you. 1. WHY are you still reading, did you miss the memo that this one was for the ladies??? and 2. Bras are sized in two ways: Width around (think the 36, 38,40 and cup size of B, C, D, etc. The number is the inches it takes to get around our bodies, the alphabet is the actual mass of said fat sockets.)   Back to my story, I came to the sad realization that I did not own a bra that fit me properly.  Naturally, I lamented this to my Mom and she sent me a card telling me to go get some "support" along with a cash donation to finance getting some "Proper Support."

I decided it was high time to get myself properly fitted for a bra because when considering my two favorite bras: One fit around me fantastically but made my poor sweater pups bounce around like ping pong balls in the cup and, the other cupped the girls fantastically but was so tight around that I had this weird double-ass forming at my shoulder blades.  Such is life...

Being the "lady" I am, I properly researched all lingerie shops in Chicago and finally decided on a shop located at North Michigan Avenue (aka hope you own a Lexus and a sweatshop to afford shopping here.)  I showed up 15 minutes late, covered in dog fur but carrying a Coach bag Santa brought me.  I check in (Yes, there was  a hostess!!!) and she tells me to wait a few moments, peruse their items and wait for my consultant.

I start casually window shopping and notice a 50ish-year-old man talking to a Consultant on bras for his wife.  Naturally, I discreetly move closer to eavesdrop and hear: "I want to buy a bra for her that does not make it look like an ass is sitting on her chest.  I just want her to not have butt boob."

A cackle rings through the store just as a large silhouette darts behinds a pillar, shoves her head into a clearance rack of negligees and starts biting on her fist to not simply lose it.

Two thing: 1.  I will give you one guess as to who the girl down on all four, head in a rack of teddies was. 2.  He said BUTT BOOBS!!!

Ahahahahaha  I am STILL crying laughing over that one!  Imagine it, a commodities trader telling a glorified lace and underwire pusher that he did not want his wife's chest to look like as ass any more!  I guess I just gave away the mystery of who the cackles that kept ringing through the store belonged to were...

Butt boob.  Really, does life get any richer than that?

Anyway, the hostess quickly assesses the situation, seeing a wealthy man disturbed by anonymous cackles ringing through the store and a lady with an appointment now on her side, rolling with the giggles behind a pillar, fist in mouth to supress her laughter, muttering Butt Boob repeatedly.

Cari Bear is immediately called to meet with her consultant.

I head into a private dressing room with my consultant, Angela.  She immediately tells me to remove everything from the waist up and I obediently do, having flashbacks of strip Flip Cup freshman year at Ohio U.  She asks me what my issue is and I explain to her that I am very disproportionate for my body shape and  I should be significantly bustier.  Women my size normally sport cleavage that a homeless family could take up residence in, whereas I would be lucky to accomodate Tinkerbell. I pour my heart out to Angela about how hard it is to find bras, tops and blouses that fit me around that are not a Hoover Dam of gaping fabric in the bust.  Mind you I am doing all of this while completely naked from waist up, roughly 8 inches away from her in a space smaller than most closets.

I do hope that across the room there was someone else cackling at my situation.

Angela comes back in with a huge assortment of bras, telling me she thinks I am more of a European fit (read: we can charge you 5 times as much because it's European.)  She starts tossing  lace and satin garments on me from all angles, tugging Righty up while shoving Lefty down so that my chest looks more balanced.  I get caught up in the moment, savoring the fact that there are, in fact, bras out there that fit my lovely chest hams perfectly while not making my back look like rotating hot dogs at a baseball stadium.  Angela tells me she knows that we would work well together immediately by saying:

"I can completely feel your pain on being so wide and having a relatively small bust.  I have a similar problem in that I have such a small frame and huge breasts from these ridiculous implants I got when I was 21."

Let that one sink in for a moment.

Yes, I can see how a plus-sized, size 14 with glorified C cups is exactly like a Size 2 with Double DDs in this culture.   And my skin that rarely sees natural sun and hair that  has not been dyed in 4 years is EXACTLY like your perfect golden spray tan and amazingly maintained highlights. I totally feel your pain.

I wish I could say that her comment made me throw all of those beautiful lace and satin garments on the floor.  I wish I could say I told that Consultant that she had NO IDEA what it was like to be built fat with small boobies in our culture.  I would be so proud to say I marched out of there with my head held high, telling the commodities trader to quit caring less about his wife's Butt Boob and actually ask her how she was doing and felt instead.

But I am a fat girl. And fat girl's have many weakness.  Rather, I spent the rest of my monthly grocery budget, and then some,  on a few garments that made me feel amazing, made me comfortable and made me feel as if I understood the pain of a consultant who was too thin and busty to handle the world.   The moment I walked out of the store, I texted JP and said, " I just spent way too much on one bra.  It made my boobies look like two beautiful dancing orbs suspended by sheer sex."

Because when all is said and done, I am pretty sure dancing orbs trump Butt Boob any day...


Wednesday, March 7, 2012

My Sad Reality

Deep Down, I always knew that the day would come that I would projectile vomit on the Red Line. I just always assumed that it would be a result of an evening of too much whiskey consumption, not a flair up of the flu bug that I shook a day ago.

To my fellow CTA riders, I really did try to keep it all in my Redeye, but for the past 48 hours I've only been consuming popsicles, gatorade and chicken broth.  Newspaper is no match for pure liquid.

To the CTA officials, I suggest you cordon off the third to last car on the northbound Red Line.  I hear kitty litter does wonders for soaking up bile, feel free to bill my transit account for the cost of said litter.

And to my stomach, thank you for keeping thing under wraps until after I got off work.  If it was going to happen, I would much prefer that it occurred in an environment where people regularly express their bodily waste rather than in a kitchen.

Next time though, I would appreciate some warning signs, such as some salivation, or just hold on for two more stops so I can do it in the gutter like the classy girl that I am.