The Bearded Iris

A Recalcitrant Wife and Mother Tells All

Tag: boobs

Three cheers for boobs!

Who doesn’t love boobies?!

NOBODY, that’s who.

I myself am a big fan, as you probably already know, based on the number of blog posts and now a bestselling short story I’ve written about my yaboes.

In fact, I interrupt this blog post for an important message: BREASTS ARE BEAUTIFUL. Big or small, (or in my case—one of each), old or new, shaken or stirred, boobs rock. And nobody, I mean NOBODY, can tell me otherwise.

Which is why I am so disturbed about women being told to stop breastfeeding in public.

The following is my opinion about breasts, nursing, and Chick-fil-A-Holes. Warning, there is bad language (from me) and shockingly offensive intolerance (from others). Read at your own risk.

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That time I sprayed breast milk all over my dentist

Have I ever told you about the time I accidentally sprayed breast milk all over my dentist?

No?

Oh honey. Pull up a chair—this is a juicy one… so to speak.

Honestly, I would have rather been at home cradling my newborn son’s sweet little blue face to my beach-ball-sized bosoms, but I just couldn’t wait another day—I had to get to the dentist. It was an emergency.

I’m a “woman of a certain age.” Oh fine, I’ll tell you. I’m 43. And like most of my friends born in the ’60s and ’70s, my teeth are falling apart. I don’t know if it’s because we didn’t have the same preventative dental care back then or because I didn’t do a very good job brushing the Razzles and Now and Laters off my teeth, but by the time I was a senior in high school, every single one of my back molars was more filling than tooth. (Sorry, Mom.)

And the metal fillings from back then? They had a shelf life. By the time I was 30, every single one of those fillings had needed to be replaced.

All that drilling and refilling takes a toll on the old chompers.

I got my first crown when I was 35.

And then when I was pregnant with Bucket Head, it was obvious that I was going to need another crown.

But I was pregnant! And going to the dentist is the only time I get the good drugs! It would have to wait.

I bided my time for the rest of my pregnancy, chewing only on one side of my mouth and avoiding anything too hot, cold, sweet, or crunchy. It sucked. And then apparently while I was giving birth and biting on that leather strap out in the woods (not really, but that’s what it felt like) I cracked that compromised molar somethin’ fierce. I would need to get to the dentist as soon as I could remove the ice-pack from my nethers.

My husband had to work that day, so I called my neighbor and BFF, Tammie, and asked if she would be so kind as to drive me and newborn Bucket Head to the dentist and hold Bucket Head in the waiting room while I got my new temporary crown. “It will take two hours, tops.”

She agreed, God love her.

We timed it perfectly, or so we thought.

We got there a little early, and I nursed baby Bucket Head in the waiting room. Then he fell asleep in Tammie’s arms as I waited to be called into the back.

I was really scared. I hate having dental work done. It riles every single one of my freakishly heightened senses and I usually get prescribed valium for the night before and the morning of my procedure.

But I didn’t want to do that since I was nursing. I was drug-free and more nervous than a virgin at a prison rodeo.

As luck would have it, the dentist was running behind, and our perfectly timed breast feeding was for naught.

I’ll never forget it as long as I live. There I was, fully reclined in the dentist chair—mouth wide open, eyes tightly shut against the bright light, suction tube slurping away while the dentist drilled… and drilled… and drilled. I had my iPod rocking in my ears so I wouldn’t hear any of it. But the song ended, and in that 3 second lull between songs, I heard my baby cry.

Game over.

The tingling started. Then I felt the slightest bit of wetness in my ginormous nursing bra. I squeezed my eyes shut harder and prayed my breast pads would soak up the run-off.

The drilling persisted. My dentist, also a mother, kept stopping every few seconds to ask if I was okay, “Do you need me to stop?”

“No, keep going! He’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure? Do you want to go see him?”

“NO. The Novocain! It might wear off. Just do it. But hurry. I’m starting to leak.”

Suddenly, Bucket Head’s cries were the only thing I could hear, even over the drilling and the music on my headphones. My sweet little baby needed me, and my milk bags were responding to his hungry pleas.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

I glanced down and my shirt was soaked. Actually, it was my husband’s shirt, since I had just had a baby and all I could fit in was one of his old button downs.

Behold, a dramatic reenactment:

That time I sprayed my dentist with breast milk by The Bearded Iris

The milk flow was so strong and steady, it soaked clear through the paper bib resting on my chest.

Y’all, there was milk everywhere. It was dripping down my back onto the chair!

I could smell it.

I was absolutely mortified.

Everyone worked at lightening speed to get me up and out of there. (And not just because of the milky mess I was making in their dentist chair.) The microsecond that temporary crown clicked into place, I was on my way back to the waiting room, unbuttoning my shirt like Clark Kent on his way to the phone booth. I could not get that baby onto my boob fast enough. Poor Tammie—I practically ripped her arms off taking that wailing baby from her.

Thankfully, everyone in the dentist’s office was so sweet and understanding. “Bless your heart!” they clucked repeatedly, and not in the stereotypical Southern “Oh you pitiful idiot” kind of way. It was more like, Solidarity, sister! We salute you and your overactive milk ducts! They were women helping one of their own, and I would be forever grateful.

Talk about the milk of human kindness.

This post, and my 13-year-old son’s future therapy bills for having to take that reenacted photo of my leaking fun-bags, were both made possible by the International Breast Milk Project. Their vision is that every infant in the world have access to donor human milk as a first choice when a mother’s own milk is not available, and they aim to create awareness for the need for donor human milk, mobilize donors, and provide donor milk to infants in need. 

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Boobs, when bras attack, and Rob Delaney loves me

Last night two of my girlfriends and I went to see Rob Delaney perform in Atlanta. He’s a comedian I’ve come to know and love through his consistent hilarity on Twitter such as:


 


 

And those are some of his cleaner Tweets, so don’t bother following him if you are *uncomfortable* with combos like filthy high chair straps and Mexican prostitutes. Trust me on this one. Personally, I think he’s magically delicious, but you know me; I’m not quite right in the head.

Also? I don’t mean to brag or anything, but Rob Delaney told me he loves me (and my raunchy friends). Kinda. So I’ve got that going for me.

rob delaney loves the bearded iris on twitter

But when you’re a 42-year-old WAHM like me who doesn’t get out much, a Wednesday night out with the girls can be a real killer.

In fact, I woke up with a strange limp today. And the only explanation I can come up with is that I must have laughed so hard at the show last night that I injured myself.

You see, I don’t have one of those glorious out-loud laughs like some people. I’m more of a silent-but-deadly laugher. My friend Kate though, who was sitting on my left last night… she has one of those amazingly contagious hearty “guffaw” laughs. Her laughter actually turns heads and makes other people smile and laugh along. Comedians should pay her to sit in the audience; she is that good.

But me? Since my laughter is so quiet, I think I developed a tick as a child to slap myself in the leg repeatedly when something is really funny so people will see me and know I’m laughing along. That’s right folks. I’m a knee-slapper. A real-live-honest-to-God-knee-slapper. And I laughed so hard last night and slapped myself in the leg so many times that I injured myself.

Jesus, I’m getting old.

And when you’re old, and tired, and injured, and super lazy, you tend to throw your clothes on your bedroom/desk chair at night instead of putting them where they belong.

messy office and bedroom

But this is (one of many reasons) why you shouldn’t do that:

the bearded iris has a bra stuck to her back

Yep. That’s my bra…

…stuck to the back of my sweater.

I got up from my desk this morning to get more coffee and when I walked by the mirror, out of the corner of my eye I noticed something long and black slinking behind me.

Y’all, it scared the bezeezus out of me.

For a second there, I thought a raccoon or a stray cat or something had snuck up behind me.

Thank God I was home alone because I’m pretty sure I shrieked a little. And then when I figured out it was just my bra from last night I was so relieved. That’s fucked up, right there. “Oh thank God that’s just a bra on my back and not a raccoon.”

bra vs raccoon by the bearded irisI can’t decide if the lesson here is that I should get out more or put more effort into putting my things away.

Regardless, I am just grateful I didn’t drive my kids to school this morning and walk them in to their classrooms. As if my kids need yet another reason to be embarrassed by their mom.

One last thing: some of my blogger friends and I have volunteered to be “big sisters” for some new(er) bloggers we know. I got paired up with a cutie-patootie named Stephanie of Binkies and Briefcases. I liked her right away because she has a tutorial on her blog for making Sweater Puppets.

As in, puppets…made out of recycled sweater sleeves. Duh.

Only, bless her heart, she didn’t know that the term “Sweater Puppets” is actually a euphemism for “boobs.” 

Of course, as her official blogging big sister, I set her straight…eventually. Once I stopped laughing, that is.

Ironically, Stephanie has a really large pair of actual sweater puppets herself. In fact, she wrote a really funny letter to Santa about her fun-bags that I published for her today In The Powder Room. Whether you have boobs, wish you had boobs, or just enjoy boobs in general, there is something for everyone in her post today. Do yourself a favor and check it out.

Yours truly,
Leslie

NYC, Thongs, Offensive Analogies, and Some Eye Candy

Well I’m just back from NYC and have lots to tell you about my exciting/painful/star-studded/harrowing/grope-tastic/hilarious/exhausting/potentially-life-threatening journey to BlogHer and back, but that will have to wait for later this week because I’m about as tired as the mauve-accented linoleum that still graces my circa 1993 master bathroom.

(No, we haven’t finished that sucker yet. I know. Shameful.)

So instead, I have not one but “TWO-TWO-TWO-for-the-price-of-one!” posts up at In The Powder Room this week that you are certainly going to enjoy if you are a fan of things like lady bits and/or the F-bomb. Because I know what you cheeky-monkeys like and I am a fast motherfucking learner. ‘Nuff said.

But before you go, here’s some eye candy as a parting gift:

Aren’t my business cards fabulous? Especially THERE! Day-um.

No, that’s not my spectacular rack/card holder. It belongs to one of my fun blogging sister-wives who was gracious enough to let me store some personal items all up in her boobness while I rifled through my ginormous purse for a cheeseburger. Sort of. Whatever. You know what, forget that part, just bask in the majesty of that glorious anonymous cleavage and then go read my smut In The Powder Room, m’kay?

Num-num-num-num-num-num,
Leslie

Mama Needs a New Pair of Boobs

So I met this cool chick named Kristen McClusky a couple of weeks ago at the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop and it was basically love at first sight. And not just because she has really pretty hands and lives not far from where I used to live in Oakland, California. Kristen writes a delightful blog called motherload: diary of a modern day housewife superhero. And it was after I read her About page that I knew I had to have a little piece of her (in a totally non creepy way) to share with all of you.

Well guess what? I networked! I sent her an email expressing my non-creepy love and asked her if she would pretty-please be my very first guest blogger.

And she said YES! OMG. I made a new friend…in real life. Somebody pinch me!

So without further ado, I present my new friend Kristen McClusky and her boobies…

*********

My gay friend Rick thinks I have great tits. He admires them with the shameless gusto that only a guy with no interest in “going there” can.

I’d have slapped other men for saying even half of what Rick has said about my boobies. But with him? I’m flattered. I mean, Rick has exceptional taste.

Then one day while critiquing my shoes and cleavage, he asked me if my hooters were fake. And I was crushed.

Crushed because it was suddenly, painfully clear that when it comes to ta-tas, the man has no idea what he’s talking about.

I think my response went something like, “THESE?! These barely B cups? You think someone would PAY to have these droopy, nursed-two-babies, formerly not-even-that-fabulous boobies surgically constructed?”

After throwing back my head and laughing heartily, I tousled his hair and said, “Stick to what you know, honey.” Then walked away.

By the time you read this I’ll be in Miami at the Mom 2.0 Summit. A trip to Miami sends a clothing-careless Nor Cal mom like me into a fashion frenzy. My yoga-pants-and-flip-flops uniform will not carry over to the Versace Mansion (where I’m truly attending a party, thankyouverymuch).

So I’ve been shopping.

I had the good luck to find a few new fabulous frocks. But I’ve gotta say, my mommy mammaries are NOT doing them justice. I mean, especially in a strapless number. It’s one part engineering–needing to just hold the dress up–and one part aesthetics. Having more would just look better.

I needed bigger boobs in six days. So I went to Victoria’s Secret.

I was on the phone with my friend Meggie when I walked into the place. Which was good since it let me wave off the short, older woman with a tape measure around her neck who approached me. I know her type–the bra-fitting Nazi–all too well.

I had a Russian crone measure me for a nursing bra once and nearly needed therapy afterward. She hijacked me with her tape measure, stretching it over my chest in the middle of the store. She barked, “NO!” to the bras I’d picked out, yanked others off the rack, then marched into the small dressing room with me to try them on. She wrenched straps into place, and poked at puckering fabric as I stood terror-filled. And I don’t scare easy.

“This one good,” she snapped as I meekly tried to look at it in the mirror. “You get it.”

I left with three bras I was afraid not to buy.

At V’s Secret I found an apparently un-hostile saleswoman and quietly stammered, “I uh… need to buy some… boobies.”

“Built into the bra, or separate?” she enquired, as if she were asking, “Milk or sugar?”

“Uh… separate? I think?” I was doing that make-everything-a-question thing California girls do. Probably since I felt like a kid myself, looking to stuff my bra.

In the corner of the store she grabbed a pink and black box and pulled out a rose-colored satin pouch. From there she withdrew a semicircular, clear rubber blob.

As we both stared down at it, I wasn’t sure what to say.

“Do I, uh, try it–them–on?”

“You can,” she said, handing the box to me. “Can’t get any germs from ’em.”

In the dressing room I shoved the cool gel disks into my bra. There are actually two per boobie–one goes underneath for lift, and the other on top to flesh things out.

I took a picture of my curvy profile with my phone and texted it to Meg. (If you don’t have a girlfriend you can text tittie pics of yourself too, what have you got? If you need, I can send you Meg’s number. You’ll love her. Email me.)

She texted back her approval. And I was pleased too. For $59 this was a hell of a lot cheaper–and less messy–than surgery.

As I dropped the rubber falsies back in their sack I couldn’t help thinking about the single gals who use these things. I mean, for the unacquainted couple, they should be called Disappointment Disks. Sure, in the bar they look great, but back at your apartment how do you explain four rubber jellyfish flopping out onto the floor? Doesn’t seem so sexy after all.

At the register a middle-aged woman rang me up with a smile. “Love these,” she whispered.

I wondered what The Husband would think of them. Foolish or fabulous?

Whatever the case, when you finally get the rack you’ve wanted since you were 13, it’s not for your hubbie. It’s not even for the admiration of your fabulous gay friends.

No, these new boobies are all for me.

*******

See? Didn’t I tell you? You can get more of Kristen (probably wearing her “Disappointment Disks”) at motherload, Twitter (@MotherLoadBlog), and Facebook.

Show her some love, y’all!

My First Mardi Gras

In The Powder RoomHey party people! I’m over In The Powder Room today reminiscing about my first (and last) authentic Mardi Gras experience.

I don’t want to spoil the ending, but let’s just say that if my daughter ever wants to go to Mardi Gras it will have to be over my dead, heavily beaded body.

I’m not kidding.

Come on over and read all about my maiden voyage to the Big Easy. I’ll bring the Muffalettas. (Not a euphemism.)

-Iris

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