June 02, 2008

Boobs, Bees and Beijing

The first real days of summer. I was out in them for twelve whole hours of the weekend and I am not one bit sorry.

I did have to duck indoors for BikiniSearch 2.0, which you’ll be pleased to know, yielded not one blasted thing (“pleased” in the sense that I can go right on bitching, although the whiny wind has considerably gone out of my sails on the topic). Kohl’s, like every other department store, was a complete bust: One underwire, and it was hideous (we’re talking green faux-camou with a bow. That’s not even irony; that’s just stupid).

I fared far better at Marshall’s; all the reject bikinis coming together in one discount location = just the place for my atypical figure. I thought I had found nirvana with a blue-flowered Esprit that passed 90% of the requirements—alas, it fell short on one that couldn’t be ignored: size. It was a shade too small; the straps around my larger-than-average ribcage were starting to irritate my asthma—and I’d been in the thing less than a minute. No amount of tantrum-ing through the racks could recreate this cruel, red herring bikini with an L on the tag. I left empty-handed, again, disheartened, again, and ready to switch the search to one of online convenience. Prove yourself to me, J. Crew, and I will be your nubile lover.

I had hoped that after the restive weekend, I’d have more of a comprehensive, back-on-track sort of post for Monday. Unfortunately, all the balls I have up the air have no respect for the calendar week. There are big things on the horizon but I don’t want to get into them until they are concretely in place, for fear of big, fat, green, drooly jinxes. So today is about the odds and ends, noteworthy musings that don’t amount to stand-alone posts.

· There’s a show on BBC America called My Big Breasts and I. I watched ten minutes of it, relating, and when it ended it was followed by My Small Breasts and Me. Points for showing both sides of an issue, but I'm shocked at the obvious bias that it’s better to have small, grammatically-correct breasts. Quality wins over quantity after all (prizes include straight posture and halter tops).

· Should I be more disappointed in Visa for sponsoring the Olympic Games (considering the general atrocities China has gotten up to, much less the treatment of its citizens in the name of said games), or Morgan Freeman, for his voice-over on the commercial asserting that we are all equal, all one, as exemplified in the Olympics? The location of this year’s games was taking on a “things unsaid” policy (because, well, it’s China) but the things that are being said in this advert are jabbing a pointy, overt insult right in that blind eye. It’s good to know all the people displaced and homeless in the wake of the new stadium are humanly equal to the Olympic athletes; that’s some innately true and completely disregarded information, right there. Thanks, Visa.

· I’m mulling over taking a jewelry soldering class in Kerrytown. The price is a bit steep, but after learning all the twisted wire and leather/hemp techniques, soldering seems like the logical next step—I have tons of photos of my grandparents that would make lovely adornments. And I’m such a dork that making Shakespeare quotes on a metal string totally gives me a boner. Also, if I ever need to weld a propeller back on the African Queen, I can write this off as a lifesaving primer.

· I was driving downtown with Joy yesterday when something fell through the window into my car. I looked down to see a bee on my leg—not moving, but sitting terrifyingly still in the sunshine on my jeans. I freaked out from the neck up, keeping my hands at ten and two on the wheel, elbows akimbo, ranting something like “oh my GOD it’s a BEE I though it was A LEAF or SOMETHING but it’s A BEE a BEE Joy what do I DO about THE BEE?” As it turns out, the bee was just trying to warm up, because when I made the first legal stop to put Joint Operation Open Door And Flick With Magazine Very, Very Quickly into effect, the intruder flew up and out the window and back onto South U. I must have aged a year in that minute, trying to keep my PH level in case bees can smell fear. Joy laughed at the whole thing, but I was still a little to close to it—I felt like a released hostage leaving the bank. I wanted a cheeseburger.


a. said...

Once my mom, dad and I were driving to Church and a bee came in through the sunroof and went right down into my mom's Sunday dress. It started buzzing around in her cleavage and she was like 'stop the car!' so Dad pulled over and she ran out and tore the dress open (it must have been a snap-button thing). And the bee went flying out. Awesome moment.

I'm glad the bee thing worked out for you sans stings, though.

Sarah Beedoo said...

Jesus, step aside, because THAT is the Greatest Story Ever Told.

Sarah Beedoo said...

Wait--she didn't get stung, right? A boobular sting would seriously impede my love of the story.