More from my misadventures:
I left the house this particular morning to go to the hair salon and run errands while Maria (Big-Sister-Roommate) left to go walk her dogs with her best friend. She had mentioned going to an immigration reform rally (Maria is Latina) earlier in the week but didn’t say much more so I forgot about it.
Fellas, you have to excuse me for a few keystrokes while I talk to the ladies, although you will probably find this conversation to be very interesting.
Ladies, no matter how big or small you are, sometimes you have to be free. You know what I’m talking about. No? Okay I’m talking about your cachungas. They come in all shapes or sizes ‘A’ through ‘God –Knows-What’. I’ve heard there’s even a ‘KKK’ size. Really. And no matter what size you are, again, sometimes you have to be free. Some of you are a nice single or double letter size, some of you have ventured into “three-letter-land” and may be flirting with letters like ‘F’,’G’ and ‘H’. Some of you need back surgery and some of you only need a bra when you cough. It doesn’t matter. Freedom is real and it’s deep. Sometimes they need to stick out or hang down – sometimes very low but freely. I’m talking when your headlights come on your shoes light up. I’m talking you trip over them when you walk and you’re okay with that. I’m told by a male friend that men don’t care about this by the way. I don’t think I believe that; I think he was dropped on his head once as child and then again as an adult but I digress. I think I’ve made my point.
Well I gotta tell you – I’m in that triple letter range, and some of my cachunga holders have ventured above that depending on the manufacturer. They’re pretty large and in charge. And wearing that bra all the time does not please me.
Okay now I’m addressing all of you.
On this fateful day, the first thing I did when I got home about 1 p.m. that day was rip this offending piece of bondage off of me – but for some reason I kept the rest of my clothes on. Then beat from the week before, still reeling about my mom’s death, just mentally & physically drained, I plopped down in a living room chair and turned on the TV. I remember looking at the clock. It was about 1:30 and I started thinking about what I was going to do for the rest of the day. I also remember thinking Maria had better get home soon or she would be late for the rally. Then I remember drifting off.
The rally was supposed to begin at 3 p.m. At about 2:45 the door flew open and absolute chaos erupted. The dogs flew in and started to jump on me. The cats performed a perfect 6-point scatter drill. And Maria ran past me and up the stairs yelling that she was going to be late for the rally and did I want to go.
Decision time, and apparently it needed to be made superfast. My sleep-induced, blurry fog hazed thought process was: I can stay home and let these effin’ animals crawl all over me while I’m feeling sorry for myself, or I can go rally behind some people who have bigger problems than me. I decided to go to the rally. But the problem now is Maria is tearing back down the steps yelling am I going because we gotta leave and pick up a student (Maria teaches at the Row). I yell that I’ve decided to go and I jump up and run around trying to get ready. Boy it’s a good thing I’m already dressed I think to my too smart for my own good self. I run in my room and change my purse to something I can just wear cross body, grab my keys and run out of the house – Maria is already in the car. We have less than five minutes to get from Silverton to Hartwell – and by the way, if we didn’t have to pick up this student, my money would be on Maria to make it.
So we’re sailing down Galbraith. I’ve got my head leaned back on the headrest and we’re listening to the radio. I’m feeling relaxed. Too relaxed. If you haven’t already figured it out, I left a step off back there when I was describing to you how I got ready to leave the house. But now I’ve realized it – and it’s decision time again. Do I tell her or keep it to myself? If I tell her, I’m pretty sure I’ll be reliving this moment at her leisure for the next 40 years. If I don’t tell her, and she figures it out (which since we’re both strictly dickly she won’t be looking but just in case), I’m pretty sure I’ll be reliving this moment at her leisure for the next 40 years. Add to that the fact we are going to pick up a female student who could possibly figure it out and I’m sure to relive this moment for AT LEAST the next 40 years.
Remember this kids: there are consequences and repercussions for your actions. When you screw up, you should always out yourself I believe. That way you have some control over those consequences and repercussions. I decide to tell Maria myself:
Me: “Sooooo, Maria?”
Maria: “Yah?”
Me: “I’m not wearing a bra.”
Maria: (Shrieking like a Howler Monkey) “WHAT?!”
Me: “I forgot to put in on.”
Maria: “As big as those things are you forgot?”
OK I know what you’re thinking. She looks. But here’s why. In December I gave Maria hell about her cup size once she informed me what size she thought she was. Having worked at Lane Bryant in the past and being forced to learn how to size women, I know that most women are not wearing the correct size. So long story short, Maria bought an evening gown for a gala she was going to, decided to buy a new bra for the dress, and got her face broke once she discovered what size she really wears. And you know me, I texted all our friends about it who wanted to know what planet she thought she was living on, and I laughed and gave her hell about it for days. I even started calling her ‘D’ which is the size she was – no longer. Karma’s a bitch. Believe that Shugas. Now back to the car ride.
Maria: “Well do you want to go back and get it?”
Me: “No. I’ll just keep my arms crossed and try not to think about it.” (Right.)
So we pick up the student and make it to the rally. It’s chilly out but it was at the point where you could go with a sweatshirt or sweater. I had on a zip-up hoodie. Matter-of-fact I think it’s in one of my photos. It’s a green color with ruffles on it. Ruffles, just what I need. Attention to my cachungas. And remember I’m wearing my purse cross-body, so instead of it resting between Pluck 1 and 2, it’s smashing them. Maria keeps insisting I look fine. She’s a damn liar, but a good Big-Sister-Roomie.
So I made it though the rally by going to the back of the room and sitting on the floor with the students and keeping my arms crossed most of the event. That gets tiring by the way. And if you’ve ever been to one of these events, the chant you hear most often is “Si Se Puede!” which roughly translated Spanish to English is “Yes We Can!” Though as they are chanting I’m thinking, “We must, we must, we must increase our bust!” from “Are You There God, It’s Me Margaret?” most women my age read as little girls. I’ll pay for that too. We made it home without incident, and within the next few weeks I went out and bought one of those cachunga holders you allegedly can’t tell you’re wearing just in case.
By the way, Mary Phelps Jacob, whose in the title of this story, happens to be the dump truck faced hooker who invented the bra in the first place. I put all of this on her. If she made it to Heaven when she died, I hope my mother is up there body slamming her right now – although from what I’ve heard they probably don’t allow that up there. And knowing my mother, she probably thinks all of this is funny.
Oh well. Eff you Mary.
Love,
Leslie
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