It's Not The End Of The World As We Know It
And I do feel fine, as a matter of fact. Even though I very much agree with Roger Ebert's assessment of the whole debacle: "Think what could have been done with the $100 million spent to advertise Rev. Harold Camping's bullshit." Awesome.
So! Okay, Apocalypse Not, as I like to call it, and that is lovely. But even though the world isn't ending, I figured I'd go ahead and tell y'all the bra story. And also, I will try to post some pictures of the dogs. I have no real plan here, did you notice? I AM JUST SO HAPPY TO BE ALIVE! And I am just so completely avoiding doing responsible things, such as laundry (sorry, I was kind of looking forward to a post-apocalyptic Mad Max wardrobe consisting of fabulous leather pants and...I don't know, ripped shit. I figured we'd need to conserve water! I was doing it for the cause!). And it is Sunday and we're having a post-birthday party for Brian's mom this afternoon, and I...wow, do I need to straighten up the house, but you guys, let's just hang out instead.
Okay, so: you know. Bra thing (heeee). Although by now, I've probably built it up to the point that it is not even going to be funny anymore, but I am going to try anyway. Stick with me, you guys! Open mind! Tabula Rasa! Other words!
The Thing With The Bra
One of the awesome things about having a sister in L.A. is the noticeable effect this has had on my cleavage. This sounds wrong, I am sure, but here's the thing -- because Ziz works in television and movies, she always knows all of the best beauty tips and wardrobe secrets, and she shares these with me, because she loves me and she doesn't want to be waterboarded. But, anyway, one of the BEST things Ziz learns is which bras work best, and can transform a...well, board-shaped lady into a buxom type thing, and I have paid very close attention to her teachings in this regard.
So, a few years ago, Ziz sent me a package containing a Water Bra. Now, for those of you not familiar with the concept of the water bra, which has probably long since been banned by...I don't know, the FDA, or NASA or someone, it was a bra that was filled with a gelatinous substance (SOON WE WILL FIND OUT HOW I KNOW THIS) so that it gave you boobs, while also looking natural, and moving and...um, bouncing sort of naturally. It did not necessarily feel natural, unless you have boobs which are filled with a gelatinous substance (and you know, to each her own), but that did not matter as much, as most strangers do not feel you up upon being introduced. And the water bra really did do amazing things for the cleavage, to the point that, once I started wearing it, lady friends would actually ask me if I'd...you know, HAD SOME WORK DONE, while eyeballing my chest suspiciously, and I loved the water bra. Water Bra + Doxie 4Eva.
Until. The Rapture of the Water Bra. Which was probably more like a rupture, but it all started one morning about...oh, almost two years ago. I was wearing the bra under a thin sweater, looking all busty and proud of myself, and I was driving to work. I never get into a car without a Diet Coke, because I am a filthy little addict, so I was driving down the highway, sipping my drink. When all of a sudden I noticed a little...moistness. On my lap. Not much; just a few beads of..."water," pooled up on my skirt. And I cocked my head like a confused terrier, and looked at my Diet Coke, and concluded that it must be the condensation from the can. And then I went on with my life, and forgot all about it.
UNTIL. I got to the office, was sitting at my desk, typing vigilantly on something legal, and looked down again. And now there was MORE "water." In my lap. Significantly more water. And the Diet Coke had long since been replaced with another, and it was sitting on my desk, throwing up its little Diet Coke arms, all "Don't look at me!" and so I started looking around for the possible source of all this wetness, when I suddenly caught a glimpse of what was going on inside of my sweater. And that was when I realized that water bra had burst, and that I now had an enormous, wet stain, spreading -- waterfall like -- from my left boob, down to my waist. AHHH.
So, I immediately emailed Cookie, all "AHH EMERGENCY! GIRL EMERGENCY COME ALONE" and she came barreling down the hall to my office, took one look at me, and shrieked, "Are you LACTATING?" and I said, "IT IS MY BRA" and then I lifted my sweater and we watched as a perfect arc of goo squirted forth from the bra, landing all over important legal papers, and we both shrieked because holy shit, my BOOB IS ERUPTING, and also, now that I am AWARE OF THIS, I am realizing that it is erupting something STICKY and vaguely SMELLY and OH MY GOD.
At this point, I ripped the pulsating, squooshy bra from my body, and tossed it in the trash, where it continued to piss forth a slimy, unholy gel, and Cookie ran to the break room to grab me some wet paper towels, and then we tried to clean me, as best as possible. And while fortunately, this made me less sticky, it also presented a new problem, namely -- now I was braless. And I was being braless in a tight-fitting sweater that SORT OF REQUIRES A BRA, if you get my meaning. Cookie kept staring at my chest, transfixed. "That has got to chafe," she said.
So now, new dilemma. I couldn't just hide in my office all day; we actually had a meeting that afternoon with all the other firm attorneys, so I was going to have to get up and move at some point. Plus there was the chafing factor. But what do you DO when you find yourself without an article of underwear in the middle of your working day? I couldn't send out a firm-wide email, like they do when someone needs a parking spot or to borrow a copy of a law dictionary or something; moreover, I found it very hard to believe that anyone would be like, "Oh, yes, please. Use my bra. I keep spares in every size, right here in my office lingerie drawer." So I was puzzled.
But then! Flash of brilliance! I remembered that in our break room, we have a ludicrous little medical center, filled with an assortment of hilarious emergency items, including (a) a splint, (b) a hazmat kit for contaminated blood spills, and (c) BAND-AIDS. (Note that the well-stocked emergency supply kit does not include tampons, a fact that has been noted by...oh, every woman in the office ("Are we supposed to use the Hazmat kit?" has been frequently asked) but that is neither here nor there.) ANYWAY, point being: band-aids. In many sizes, and so I slapped an enormous folder to my chest and wandered down the hall and check out my brand new selection of nipple-covers.
I found some lovely, flesh-colored options, each enormous; they were like the big professional band-aids you'd put on a skinned knee. And I plastered them on my bare chest, while Cookie watched, shaking her head at the pain this would ultimately involve, but you know. DESPERATE. And hilariously, it all worked perfectly, and those suckers were just seamless, and I was feeling pretty proud of myself. HA HA WATER BRA, you can't ruin my day.
Until. I got home, and Brian and I were getting changed out of our work clothes, casually chatting about whatever, and I pulled off my sweater. And I'd forgotten about the band-aids. And I hadn't told Brian yet. And so, the second my shirt was over my head, he turned, did a double take at the two industrial bandages attached to my breasts, and screamed, in genuine horror: "WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR NIPPLES?"
As if they'd fallen off. Oops! Lost a few nipples at work today, baby. Hoping they regenerate. Like starfish.
And, that is the bra story. See? I told it. The world did not even have to end.
*I make good titles
From over on the fan page: even though it's not the end of the world for us, people are still post-apocalyptic over in Alabama. Here's an awesome way to help. And here is a truly incredible video shot by my good friend Boozer Downs, who is an amazing photographer and an fantastic guy who has done so much to help the victims there. So, y'all go help, too! And then maybe if the rapture DOES come, you'll be all good-deeded up. We're savin' souls over here at Miss Doxie! While still avoiding laundry. I multi-task.
Back to funny*
*See? I did another one. I call it creativity.
And now, because I promised: dogs! Next time I will post evil kitteh, but that will require fishing her out from under the bed so she can be photographed. Unless you just want to see a picture of her ever-expanding ass, in which case: perv.
If you not feed Bo ham, Bo has prophecy. Of apocalypse of UR FACE.
GIMMME NOT AFRAID TO SHOW NIPS! SEE? NO BAND AID FOR GIMMME YAAAAY!
And that is all. Y'all enjoy not being raptured, ruptured, or otherwise covered in goo. I'm off to do laundry...although I haven't totally given up on those leather pants.
NOTE: Apparently comments now say that they're pending my approval. I don't know why, as they've never cared about my approval before, but whatever. I will unblock you when I see it, provided that you are not black gay porn. Black gay porn is staying banned, because I am a bitch like that.
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