You gotta know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em. . .

I went shopping for a bra yesterday. After watching me undress to try on the sequins and polyester required to sing barbershop harmony in my group's upcoming show, the costume lady told me I needed a new bra. Something beige. You got a problem with my ten year old white sports bras? Apparently so. So I went to Betty Schwartz, the local chain of lingerie shops for boobs and butts of every size and configuration, hoping to get something that wouldn't cause alarm.

          Unlike most women who want to enhance whatever opportunities their cleavage may offer, I'm from the get-them-out-of-the-way-so-I-can-play-sports school of breast control. Less is more in my opinion. A lesson learned on the front lines, as it were. I made the mistake of wearing a tight t-shirt once when I was nursing.  I answered the door for the diaper delivery and the kid never saw my face. He talked to my huge rack of milk filled titolas the whole time. Transfixed wouldn't be too much of an exaggeration. For those of us used to having A-cups and developing our personalities, the power of having such honkin' huge hooters was way more than I was used to. And I knew from the moment this teenaged boy stood with his eyeballs pressed against my chest that I would not be able to use this new found power for good. No, I was overcome by the endless opportunities for evil. Good times. So to prevent future disruption in my life, I became a fan of sports bras because they would help keep me on the path of goodness and righteousness. Plus they had no hooks, no unnecessary enhancements and I could get them on and off in one move.
          While my daughters and women with men in their lives might choose Victoria's Secret for their panties and other underthings, I've moved on. At my age, bras have one job, and it isn't to be removed in a luxury suite in Vegas. Nope, Betty Schwartz is the intimate boutique for women who've been there, done that. Her stores have all the sex appeal of Home Depot. Well stocked, but no frills. Victoria's Secret on the other hand, is wallpapered in a vaginal pink and smells like a really expensive douche. No thanks. Give me the scent of Latex and foam. Give me racks and racks [pardon the expression] of elastic and microfiber that only an orthopedic surgeon could love. Give me Betty Schwartz. Even the name says, "Sex? You're kidding, right?"
          But I have to admit I wasn't prepared for the saleswoman. I thought Betty Schwartz would hire sensible middle aged women who insist that beige your best color. Instead I was looking at someone who had the big blond hair and turquoise painted nails of a carnival worker. Okay, let's be nice -- she looked like a stripper who retired in 1950. In fact, you know the term, blowsey blond? I never knew what blowsey meant until I saw it standing in front of me. A mountain of teased blond hair cascaded past her shoulders, but failed to provide cover for her time-ravaged, though well-lacquered face. And when she spoke, she was channeling Selma Diamond.
          I was staring at her in disbelief as she finished doing whatever it was she was doing. "I need a bra. In beige, please. I am not allowed to wear a sports bra for this show I'm in."  Show? The saleslady perked right up. We had bonded. After measuring me with a few "tsk tsks" she brought me four of the most humongous contraptions I'd ever seen. Full metal jackets. I couldn't be that big I thought, worried that my chest was going to look like the deck of an aircraft carrier. But after a couple of tries, I was actually surprised to discover that once everything had been folded and stuffed into place, my chest looked years younger. Mainly because everything going down to Florida got moved back up to Northern Illinois. So I bought one with an underwire and one without. One for annoying the airport security people; one for showbiz.
          Now you'll have to come to the show to see how good my new bra looks with sequins and polyester. Too bad I'm not telling when or where it is.

Going to the Dogs

I babysat for one of my older daughter's two dogs today. Mishy's about six months old, so it was like having a toddler. First she sat by the back door whining when everybody left. Whine whine whine whine whine. I couldn't console her. Finally, I let her out in the back yard so she could play with the dogs next door. But she ran straight to the side door of the garage because that's where she saw everybody go when they left. Then her dog pals came out of their house. And only then did she stop acting like a baby. After having some fun with her new buddies, she wanted a drink. Then she had to pee. Three times. Later she wanted me to throw and catch the ball with her when she was tired of chewing on her bone. Finally, she lay down and took a nap. In three different places. One on her doggie bed. One on the chair that's covered with a doggie blanket. The final one on the rug by the sliding door to the deck.
           At one point I made the mistake of asking if she wanted a treat because I thought I knew where they were. She knows the word "treat" and her tail was wagging, her head was cocked, and she was waiting for me to produce the goods. But I couldn't find them anywhere and I knew I had seen them the day before. Since my daughter just moved in, they must have been put someplace where the dogs would never find them. Me neither. So I got her a few pieces of kibble from the dog food bag and she was just thrilled. Especially since she didn't even have to do a trick to get her treat. I wasn't sure what tricks she knew besides sit and down and I didn't think it was fair to ask her to do something she wasn't familiar with. "Okay, you want a treat? Let's see you wash the dishes."
          My daughter and her boyfriend and his brother were back at the old apartment packing up what was left after their move to the house where I was dog sitting. They moved to a place with a backyard in the farthest northwest neighborhood in Chicago. They're so far north, they're less than a half hour from me. I didn't think it was possible to be in the city and yet so close to me in suburbia. Turns out I can take the road a couple of blocks from where they live all the way back to my town in about fifteen minutes. Mapquest directions had me take a very circuitous route the first time that required five different busy roads and lots of turns. Over 25 minutes. Maybe Mapquest didn't know I lived so close. Going home I made one left turn and I didn't have to make another until I got to my town.  Saved ten minutes.

Rocky and Mishy when she was around 12 weeks.

          I was watching Mishy so she could get some rest because she was just spayed. The other dog, Rocky, is like having an obnoxious teen age brother. If he isn't bugging her to play, he keeps trying to lick her stitches. EWWWW. So my daughter, et al., took him back to the old place to give her a break. They're American bulldogs, a breed that has the energy level of otters on crack. But they're very smart and they learn fast. And when things are quiet, they get quiet, too. While she napped, I managed to watch most of the Green Bay/Detroit game -- except when the score was 28-26 Green Bay and Detroit looked like they might score with less than a minute left. She woke up and we had to go outside for a pee break. Hers, not mine. And I never found out if Detroit was able to get off a field goal.
          The good news is that I didn't have to change any poopy diapers.