The Bearded Iris

A Recalcitrant Wife and Mother Tells All

Tag: bras

You people are sick (and me likee)

Yesterday I published a new post In The Powder Room about homophones (that’s phones, not phobes) and it flopped like my 32-Longs at 7:30 PM every night when I toss my Playtex 18 Hour Hydraulic Lift onto my bedroom chair (where it patiently waits to frighten me the next day):

the bearded iris has a bra stuck to her back

Frankly, I’m a little surprised the homophones post wasn’t a bigger hit, because it was all about naughty sentences. I used words like ‘humping,’ ‘lascivious,’ ‘cavernous areas,’ and funny pimp names. But no, apparently I have ruined you people with my gecko penis pornography.

Yes. I now know that gecko money shots are like a drug, and once you’ve developed a taste for them, you are no longer satisfied with *boring* things like vocabulary and grammar lessons.

I blame myself, really.

I have done this to you.

My gecko groin saga has touched so many of you…and it’s touched you deeply. One reader emailed me yesterday to share:

I’m almost 8 months pregnant and so I have been having crazy delivery dreams. Well last night I delivered a healthy baby boy: half gecko/half baby. And hilariously it had two hemipenises…most of the dream was spent trying to find diapers and clothes that worked! So thanks for the laughs and strange dreams! ~Tannith

I also heard from a funny fellow blogger who was so dazzled by my gecko’s perma-bone that she wanted to blog about it:

Hi Leslie!

I hope your family gecko’s penis is doing better. Who knew all that junk was wrapped up in those scales. In fact I was so impressed that I would like to get permission from you, and of course the gecko seeing it was *his* penis, to include a couple of pictures you posted in an upcoming post about how I’d like to walk a day in his shoes for a writing prompt. I mean seriously, that’s the luckiest gecko in the world. Most people would have left his little lizard pecker hanging out….Please let me know what you think. And just a heads up, if my penis ever pops out, I have left directions with my husband to call you.

~Kari (@Kbar3)

So don’t worry friends. I hear you loud and clear: no more vocabulary or grammar lessons, and more lusty lizard tales. Got it.

Come on back tomorrow for the next installment of Batman’s tell-all diary. But until then, please make sure you know the difference between throws/throes, affect/effect, elicit/illicit, and more. M’kay? Trust me, anyone who reads your words will thank you.

Yours truly and now with exposed reptilian sex glands,
-Leslie

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

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!

© 2019 The Bearded Iris

Theme by Anders NorenUp ↑