Bra Party Etiquette and Saluting Men of Genius

    Last Saturday my ma and I piled into the family car and headed to her friend Betty’s house for a good old fashioned bra party.  Yep.  You sit around drinking wine and wait for your turn to be fitted for The Perfect Bra.  Sounds great right?  So, like, first you have to sit through a presentation about who developed this company and why and what products they have.  I guess they are really proud that Oprah wears their sports bra.  They passed it around for all to see—a massive, oppressive, elastic suit of armor for the bigger gal.  There wasn’t much room for boobage, but I guess at least you can rest assured those babies aren’t going anywhere.


            They make you take a couple foil sticky stars—the kind your teacher gives you for being real sweet in the first grade—and stick them to your shirt so we can all see where your nipples are.  I got handed the sticker sheet first.  I hate to admit it, but I had to look.  I had some idea and all, but I wanted to be really accurate.  Exercises such as these make for some very awkward moments.  Most of the women there had a hard time with star placement.  Some of those stars were riding mighty low.  One woman had a hard time because she only had one breast after her mastectomy.  And everyone’s stars kept falling off.

            When it’s your turn you head to the bedroom and the fitter takes your measurements and gives you a few to try.  She then comes in and looks at you.  She taps her chin and really considers whether too much spillage is occurring.  Maybe the bra is just too big.  She helps you adjust the boob just so for the perfect fit and then asks you how many you want.  The fitter took this opportunity to ask me all about my mom being sick, which is always such a cherished conversation.  Especially with total strangers. Who are looking at me in my bra and trying to sell me microfiber thongs in the 4-pack.  I think I changed the subject and, just so I could get out of there, I bought two very expensive bras I’m not even sure I liked.  She said they gave good lift. 

            Throughout the afternoon she’d send certain women down to show us their newly improved racks.  Most of their stars appeared to have sunk to their tummies.  It was truly mind-blowing. 


            We have come to the section of the blog where I have decided to honor men and women of genius.  Genius honestly abounds—we just don’t readily acknowledge it.  And maybe that really just points to deficiencies within each and every one of us.  Take my uncle Gummo* for example.  He is allergic to Windex.  I mean, he had very bad Windex-poisoning which involved tingly hands, nausea, and general yuckiness.  I didn’t know this was possible until my brother told me he got a Gummo lecture about using non-organic household cleaners instead of expensive spray orange oil.  My brother also got scolded for using some kind of nasty spray bug killer to massacre hundreds of god’s creatures.  Gummo, I am happy to report, has invented an eco-friendly ant trap.  And for that reason, I honor him here. 


    To make your very own eco-friendly ant trap you must first take an empty plastic salsa container and you cut a little hole in the top.  Then you stir up some honey and boric acid.  And there, my friend, you have it.  It completely doesn’t work but maybe these things just take time. 


    The other man of genius I want to honor is my cousin, Numbnut*.  He is a self-proclaimed genius.  He recently told my grandma that he is a genius.  I’ve determined that we have to amend of our traditional notions of genius.  Sometimes genius means getting into half a dozen car crashes (sometimes with and sometimes without insurance), “surprise” babies, and dropping out of state college to sell steak knives.  I think sometimes people are just too smart to live normal lives.  My grandma said he looked at her after telling her all about his supreme intellect like he thought she should give him some money.


If only I had me some smarts.


*Names have been changed to protect geniuses.

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