Thanks to NBC Sports for the photo. Also: That is not my husband.
Things that are happening because my husband is at a race at Watkins Glen:
I rolled out of bed, ran a brush through my hair, and had a friend over for breakfast. I made omelettes. We drank high test coffee and talked about girl stuff, music, and world affairs. All before I'd put on street clothes, makeup, or a bra. Friends you don't have to vacuum for are AWESOME.
I've watched two different documentaries: this one and this one. I highly recommend them both. You'll need tissues.
I've left the air conditioner off and the windows open.
I've made cheese quesadillas an honorary food group.
I did laundry, but I haven't put it away. I may not put it away today, either. We'll see.
There is wine. Its cheap, cold, and in a jug. There is a high probability of italian food later, and it will very likely be consumed with a glass of the aforementioned cheap cold wine. Probably while watching another documentary.
We've had this text exchange:
Me: Having fun?
Him: So far so good hot
Him: (Later) Pretty awesome
Me: Yeah? Can you see well where you are?
Him: (empty message-- itchy send finger, I guess)
Him: Yeah baby.
Me: Is it loud?
Him: Oh yeah.
So I gather from this that NASCAR is either so mind-numbingly awesome it simply buggers the imagination and one's ability to articulate its awesomeness via text message, OR its so loud and disorienting that it has reduced my husband's vocabulary to that of someone receiving a lap dance.
Either way, I'm not feeling sad or left behind.
I think I'll bake some pretzels.
Sunday, August 01, 2010
Main Entry: 1bos·om
Pronunciation: \ˈbu̇-zəm also ˈbü-\
Etymology: Middle English, from Old English bōsm; akin to Old High German buosam bosom
Date: before 12th century
1 a : the human chest and especially the front part of the chest
b : a woman's breasts regarded especially as a single feature
If I was interviewed on 'Inside the Actor's Studio', and the man with the stack of blue cards asked me what my favorite word was, I'd be torn between 'luminous' and 'bosom'. I always associated bosom with a lady in a long dress and an apron who bakes and administers good advice.
On the way back from a late night ambulance run, we stopped at an 24 hour retail establishment because my co-pilot needed to buy a set of shelves that wouldn't have fit in her car. As we pulled into the parking lot I realized that I would practice some good self care and pick up something I desperately needed. How desperately? You be the judge:
That sad garment has five identical sisters. They slouch in a graying, resigned pile in one corner of my sock drawer, ready, sort of willing, and mostly able to do the very important job of aiming my headlights. I knew they needed to be replaced. I tried to ignore this fact. The final straw --no matter how carefully I attempted to avoid it when fastening my seatbelt in the ambulance, I always honked the horn with my left boob. Not exactly the professional demeanor one is going for in that situation.
Yes, it was time for some new ones. But I had two problems. The first had to do with the complicated algebra of determining correct size, where you are supposed to put on a bra that fits you properly (which is problematic because if I had those, we wouldn't be engaging in this particular exercise), measure around the band, measure around the 'fullest part of the breast', subtract one from the other, solve for 'x', multiply that by the cosine of 'y' over the result, bearing in mind that the nearest exit may be behind you, then have your chart done when Mars is ascendant to determine your cup size. I hadn't done this. But I had a vague notion of numeric size and as far as cups go I was somewhere between 'Well, Alright' and 'Rack of Doom'. So I figured I could guess.
The other problem was the time. 2-2:30am is not a particularly good time to make decisions about vital pieces of clothing.
I was not one of those girls that couldn't wait for a training bra. In fact, I held out so long that we were past training and heading into orientation before I agreed to wear one. I think I was terrified by the undergarments I watched my grandmother put on as a child. Ever the preacher of 'a dress only looks as good as what you wear under it', my grandmother took underthings very, very seriously. To put it in other terms, if your run of the mill Playtex is a VW Beetle, Mom-Mom favored the Armored Personnel Carrier. To this day I'll never understand how she did 18 hooks behind her back. I was no fan of scratchy fabric. Back then bras came in boxes, organized in drawers in the department store, and every single one a rappelling harness with a tiny rose embroidered on it. You wore it and you didn't complain.
Now the choices are numerous and varied. Too numerous and varied, I'm thinking, for someone who has been awake all day, got four hours of sleep the night before, and is now running on fumes through Walmart at 2:30 with only a vague sense of proper size. They still have the ones in the boxes; the drawers crouch demurely in the corner alongside gaudy specimens in every conceivable color and style, including some that should come with a red feather boa. I aimed for something in the middle and started digging.
One whole wall was what I would term a 'sports bra'. No hooks, you sort of wrestle yourself into them and those of us beyond 12 year old gymnast size end up with an attractive Uniboob. No, thankye kindly. On to the more traditional offerings.
Here's my first mistake. What is going on here?
It looks like it already has a pair in it. What was I thinking? I tried it on and while it fit nicely, I felt like I didn't so much put it on as decide to stand in it.
If only it came with a lariat. Oh, and in my delirium I bought an UNDERWIRE. Hate hate hate.
The second mistake was a two-fer. It was two to a pack; its sister is just blue.
No words. Only this.
Photo from here.
I suppose I'll get used to these in time, though due to a couple of miscalculations I need to get some extenders. But at least everything will be pointing in the right direction. And not activating any horns or sirens.
I'll let our buddy Creed take us out with some boobular wisdom.
Posted by Shieldmaiden96 at 8:47 PM