Last night I was washing my bras in the sink. A little tid bit I picked up from my mother. She also used to tell me that more than a handful was a waste...or was it a mouthful. But I digress. I'm pretty sure the intention of the sink wash was to extend the wearability of pretty, little lacy Victoria's Secret numbers. Not my boring, older than my oldest child, white and tan, nipple covers. Embarrassingly small 34 B's, hanging from the towel rack, just like they do from my body. My bras...not my boobs. Not enough boob to hang. I'm sure I'll appreciate this...when I'm 102. Their Sears tags waving through the air, like the distant memory of my porn stars appendages. I laughed. It was almost as funny as when Grady asked me if he had a black penis. Napolean complex. For me and Grady.
Lillian is still mocking my boobs with her puke, nearly five years later. I swear just last night, after seeing my pitiful Sears purchases uglying up the bathroom, she vomited banana mucous all over her bed. I put her in the tub, and Sean sat with her while I changed the sheets. My over the shoulder pebble holders were so intoxicating, she fell alseep in the tub. My boobs just have that sort of effect on people. Look, Sean's been asleep for like, five years....how did you think I got two more kids out of him? Hooray for boobies.
This is actually Lillian's head on my boobs. In loving memory of my boobs, May 2007 to June 2008.
And if I made you laugh, please vote for me! One click on the banner below and you're done!