Cross My Heart and Hope To Buy

In a fit of social conformity and because a quick glimpse of myself in a department store mirror reminded me of the Matterhorn during spring thaw, I went bra shopping today. On the whole I’d rather have first dibs in the selection of nooses the hangman is going to use to finish me off. Or at least pick which angry nail technician is going to file my little toe down to niblet size at Naughty Nails.

First off, there’s the personality clash. Bras today are undeniably perky, padded, and prime-time ready. If the bras I saw in the lingerie section were the Tiggers on Pooh’s corner, my chest is covered in wall-to-wall Eeyores. Unless I raise my arms, you couldn’t pick me out of a lineup of Christopher Robins. Out-of-date eggs are more likely to be sunny side up.

It’s not bad enough that bras are displayed according to styles instead of arranged by sizes like hammers, condoms, and other handy household items. Overcrowded conditions cause the things jump to their deaths like lemmings whenever you approach the rack. The floor is covered with scraps of lace and spandex like the result of a bridal party-streetwalker collision. To streamline the whole process, I selected a wheelbarrow full of likely candidates and threw them on the floor.

I blame the whole thing on over-aggressive sales clerks who know that once you enter the barren land known as foundations, you’ve forsaken pleasure shopping and are not going home without an underwire that doesn’t snap in half like a fortune cookie whenever you bend over to tie your shoe.

Not only was I discouraged that everything seemed to be the wrong size, I was dismayed to find they were also the wrong shape. To me, pushups are something I had to do in gym when I refused to wear the regulation gender-neutral guerrilla togs. In Lingerie Central, it’s something that plugs your boobs into your nostrils like nose plugs. A swimmer with a push-up bra will never have to worry about water on the brain. And at my age, I’m in real danger of losing at least one over my shoulder.

I wanted something a little kinder to my body than the underwire air mattresses hanging in rows. Something feminine made from fibers that did not originate in the Space Program. I finally found a cotton and lace number that made sand castles out of parts I thought had been lost at sea long ago. Never again will I have to check my armpits to see which direction I’m facing.

I celebrated my successful shopping trip with dinner at The Egg Roll King where I finished up with a fortune cookie that was right on the money. It said, “Things are looking up.”

But just to be safe, I’m going to get someone else to tie my shoes.


This column first appeared at An Army of Ermas. Scoot over there for more than the government daily allowance of fun.

Married with Sequins

My cups runneth over. When you've been married for ten years, that makes a road trip to Victoria's Secret an essential part of the tour of duty. Cruise on over to An Army of Ermas and see how I justified a detour to the mall to take the sparkle out of our anniversary trip. The Captain never knew what hit him. He was blinded by love. And sequins.

Nothing but Net

I’m finally beginning to understand what all the fuss is, about the World Cup. Here in the United States, where it takes a team of Clydesdales and a professional athlete with a pending felony charge to get a football game rolling, we don’t appreciate the fact that every other country in the world is up to their ankles in a sport where a forward pass takes place at a level where feet are more important that fingers and there is something more spectacular to see than girls with extended ribcages and multicolored pompoms.

And all along I thought the World Cup was half of a really big bra.

In America, when we’re still yelling at our kids, “Don’t grind the crumbs into the carpet with your foot. Pick that up with your hands,” international mamas are saying, "How are you going to dribble if you can't even kick your sister?"

I don’t think these World Cup guys started as babies discovering their fingers. Once they got their toes in hand, they were ready to play. These guys learn to use their feet for fancy ball work better than many of my relatives use cutlery at the family reunion. That’s why we have mostly finger foods; Cousin Earl is still puzzled by the spork.

I don’t want to toot my own vuvuzela here, but my kids have played soccer since they were so small their shin guards doubled as a protective cup. (The vuvuzela is horn that produces an obnoxious noise in support of the obnoxious behavior on the field or in the row behind you. We have something like that in America, too. We call them “Yankee’s fans.”)

Son Two opted out of soccer when he realized that games competed with Ninja Turtles time on Saturday morning (after all, Michaelangelo was a Party Dude), but Son One played until he stretched the envelope of the age limit far enough to require extra postage. Rules state that once you’re old enough to serve in Congress, you can’t play AYSO soccer.

When my kids first started soccer they spent more time chasing the ball into the woods than kicking it into the net. I’ve never seen World Cup play halted for a parent to dash onto the field to tie somebody’s shoe. Son One took his job seriously as a ninja goalie and didn’t allow me on the field even when he was six, but I don't mind admitting that the time he tied his shoe to the string in his pants was a show stopper.

Team USA is out of the competition for this year, but their inspiring play brought the game to our attention like never before. Americans have a dedicated mindset when in comes to sports and I’m sure they will use the four years between now and the next World Cup competition boning up on the rules, finding out more about their favorite players, and planning ways to make a profit by selling bobblehead dolls. After all, the way to our hearts takes a direct path through our wallets.

I hope they never have the games in this country, though. After watching the SuperBowl commercials, I'm convinced that if the World Cup took place in the United States, someone in advertising would try to supersize it and add fries.

Blow Dryer, Flash Fryer

I’m convinced my hair dryer, the Flame Thrower, is trying to kill me. Oh, there’s nothing I can point my finger to and say, “Here are the transcripts from a conversation with the hot rollers which definitely points to annihilation by hair sabotage.” It’s subtle things like hurling sparks at my ear early in the morning when it thinks I’m not paying attention. But I’m too cheap to throw the thing out until it chokes on a hairball and sputters to a stop for good. So unless it bites off more once-blonde locks than it can chew, we’re together for another year.

Luckily, since this is a low wattage appliance and therefore has a limited capacity for complicated planning, it has been limited to spitting fire and summoning bursts of superheated air dedicated toward restyling my hair into the flash fried appearance of an overcooked Dorito. My left ear is scorched and it appears that I shrink wrapped my head in an old Brillo pad, but other than that I’m fine.

Lately the wretched thing has been sabotaging me with clandestine bouts of guerilla warfare. Its latest campaign involves the secretive, but effective technique of grabbing clumps of hair and consuming them in a teeth-gnashing frenzy like a buffet-bound supermodel on the first day of retirement. Whenever I bend over to dry the back of my hair, I end up with a festive “hairdo by shredder” look. And the hair dryer looks like a Chia pet in full bloom.

Given the embarrassment of losing daily battles with an appliance that can’t make ice, iron my clothes, or dispose of my garbage, I hoped my hairdresser wouldn’t notice. Perhaps I would sneak in for a trim.

Hairdresser: Well, Amy, what shall we do to. .OH MY GOD! HAVE YOU BEEN IN A FIRE!?

Me: Just even up the gaps, please.

Hairdresser: That’s like pulling up your knee highs to meet your push up bra. Did you lean too close to the birthday cake again?

Me: No, I just had a little trouble with the settings on my hair dryer. It thinks off means "off with her head." Say, could you make me look like Jennifer Anniston?

Hairdresser: OH MY GOD! HAS SHE BEEN IN A FIRE TOO?!

Me: Never mind. Just shave it and I’ll tell everybody I’m sympathizing with Britney during the bad years.

I slunk out of the hair salon looking like a cross between Michael Jordan and last year's geraniums. My resolution for the New Year? That blow dryer’s going down. Even if I have to get the hot rollers to help me.

It Ain't Easy Being Lean

My body is the result of a strenuous conditioning program developed by a team of experts, Ben and Jerry, who have discovered through scientific study exactly what I need to maintain my biological unit in its present operating condition.

A Very Important Detail in my physical routine is that I am fully capable of chugging chocolate until the wax in my ears turns to cocoa butter, but that’s professional-level stuff and I don’t recommend it for everyone. Please consult your doctor or confectioner before engaging in any unusual activity.

However, given the fact the stretchy part of my pants is beginning to function more as a guardrail than a fashion accessory, I’m considering taking action before the overflow threatens the structural integrity of my Fruit of the Looms. But don’t be concerned; I have no intention of jumping on the current diet wagon. To me, a hamburger wrapped in a lettuce leaf is a steak dinner gone horribly wrong.

I plan to donate my figure to foundations.

It’s a common myth that proper undergarments will make a treacherous and unfortunate outfit as socially acceptable as a little black dress at a Kennedy cocktail party. This is simply not true. Some tasks are far beyond the abilities of even a long-line bra and panty girdle. Spandex does not have superpowers.

And while we’re on the subject, if the person that tells you that 50 is the new 30 is waving you on down the fashion fast lane with a thong and a stick-on bra, you’d better take the next exit that leads to a department store. There are some things that need full coverage, even if you’ve had enough plastic surgery to make a clever overnight bag with the leftover skin.

Fifty year-old cleavage should be kept locked up tighter than the family silver. I have a close friend, bless her heart, who insists on wearing the kind of top made to show off the designer label in her underwire. When she bends over, it looks like the tide going out over a coral reef. I shudder to think of what could get lost in the undertow.

And while we’re passing out fashion tips like door prizes at a Cosmo party, please keep in mind that when Mama told you pearls go with everything, she was not aware that a generation would come along who would spray on tans like she sprayed on Midnight in Paris, and who would sport pants that show more cleavage in the back than Joe the Plumber when he’s snaking the septic line.

Now they’re saying that hip huggers are hazardous to your health, so I’ve decided to just stick with my stretchy pants and hope the elastic holds out. According to a specialist (some guy on the radio), snug-fitting hip huggers could pinch a nerve and cause the outer thigh to tingle; a condition caused skanktrampitis. As far as I’m concerned Johnny Depp causes the same reaction without the Surgeon General getting involved.

The important thing to remember is that good taste never goes out of style. But if it takes a push up bra to lure a pirate to buried treasure, make sure there’s plenty of booty.

The Thighs Have It

I’m at the age when my thighs angrily reject fat-free muffins. “Bring us biscuits,” they sneer, spraying sparks as I walk. I would like to see daylight between my thighs just one more time before I die. I’m not planning on leaving the world of supersized fries and double-thick shakes any time soon, mind you. But it’s nice to have a goal.
So after an unfortunate career change (from having one to suddenly not having one) I decided to join the health and fitness craze and submerge myself in aerobic (free) activity. It was either that or shop for a new interview suit in the chubby department. “Let’s go walking,” I suggested to my sister, Laudy.
“Why?” she gasped, regarding me with the look she usually reserved for artificial cheese.
“Well,” I said, suddenly inspired. “If we’re out of the house, we won’t be licking crumbs from the toaster oven tray. I got a nasty burn chasing banana bread bits last time.”
So every morning we walked at the mall. We walked 20 minutes in from the parking lot to the biscuit place. Then we walked 20 minutes back to our cars, chewing thoughtfully.
“You think we should pick up our pace?” I asked one day as we strolled along.
“I’m stuffed. I couldn’t eat another bite.” She held tightly to her biscuit wrapper as two elderly ladies dressed in sweat suits shot past us, whipping up an unruly breeze.
“Well, maybe we’ve missed the point.” I brushed sausage crumbs from my stomach. “I wore corduroy pants last week and almost set my underwear on fire. Smoke was coming out of my pants leg and a waitress poured tea in my lap trying to put me out.”
Ultimately I had to give up the “walk yourself thin” health regimen touted by all the women’s magazines. I gained so much weight, I found out my stretchy pants were in cahoots with a panty girdle I’d stuffed in the sock drawer.
For the New Year, I’m tinkering with an experimental new program: The Sports Bra Allover Workout. With the startling acumen that usually alerts me to uneaten pie crust on the plates of nearby diners, I noticed that I often bust buttons off of blouses in spontaneous bursts of rapid fire. I also snap underwires like rednecks crush beer cans, only I don’t use my forehead.
Therefore I have instituted a rigorous physical training program. I plan to keep fit with a three times weekly series of stretching exercises followed by a trip to Wal-Mart to try on sports bras. Granted that this is a pastime fraught with danger, I’m going to approach my new exercise program with a certain degree of caution and respect for spandex.
Yesterday when I attempted my first fatbuster fitting, I foolishly tried to pull the treacherous garment on over my head. I exercised not only myself, but two elderly saleswomen and a security guard who thought I was trying to rob the lingerie department when the wretched thing snapped smartly around my face like a ski mask leech and wouldn’t let go. My ears stuck through the armholes and I had to chew an air passage in the doubleknit to breathe.
I may have to give up on my new exercise program, though. The store manager red-carded me and banned me from lingerie. Maybe I’ll try Victoria’s Secret. It did wonders for Heidi Klum. She’s had three children, looks great, and gets a discount on all the undergarments that fight back.

Life in the Fast Lane

I spent 40 years pinning my bra straps to my undershirt, and here comes a whole new generation that never tried to put on pantyhose in a moving vehicle who they think they can rewrite the Ten Commandments of style. Fashion rules these days are scratched on sticky notes instead of carved in stone.
Today, my niece wears Tommy across her chest, Abercrombie down her arm, and Liz on her behind.
“Who is Tommy and why are you wearing his clothes?” I asked her one afternoon as she pranced in to show off new duds.
“They’re MY clothes, they just have his name on them.” She stared imploringly at the ceiling as if hoping enlightenment would come from above and strike me with a smart bomb. She pointed to a label I shouldn’t be able to see. “He’s a designer.”
“Let him wear his own clothes. Any boy that’s plastered across your body like that should give you a ring. Or share his nights and weekend minutes.”
“You’re out of date. Tommy is tight.”
“I can see that. Didn’t he have anything your size?”
“No, TIGHT.” She drew the word out like she was playing the sound game on Sesame Street. “You would probably say Tommy is cool.”
“I would say Tommy is living high on the hog with your college savings. What did you pay for the rights to that dustcloth?”
She shrugged. “It was on sale. I cashed a couple of bonds.”
“You spent your future on a rubber band with one strap and a few sparkles? Couldn’t you just cut armholes in a shower cap?”
“You’re too funny. Shower caps aren’t made of breathable fabrics.”
“And what natural fiber gave its life for that plastic skirt you’re wearing?”
“It’s called leatherene.”
About that time my mother oozed into the kitchen clad in a leatherene miniskirt tighter than an onion’s skin. She was melted into a crop top that read “Princess” in metallic letters, and sported a jeweled tattoo beside her navel that boasted a word I was once grounded for writing in my diary. Could this be the same woman who went white around the mouth when my nail polish and lipstick didn’t match? She crossed her legs and I winced. I haven’t seen that much of Mama since the day I was born.
“I see your appendix scar hasn’t faded.”
She snapped a strap and winked. “That’s not a scar. That’s my thong.”
I choked on my wheat toast and shot decaffeinated coffee out my nose. Just my luck. I spend my whole life trying to stay out of the fast lane and my Mom passes me on the curve.