Booberiffic

I knew this morning when I woke up there was just something in the air...

After my shower, I got dressed in the same manner to which I've become accustomed. I reached in the drawer and pulled out a black bra I haven't worn in a while. In fact, it must have been pretty cold the last time I wore it because that is the only thing which could justify the adjustment of the shoulder straps. Once I was locked and loaded in it, I realized my boobs could double as ear muffs. I readjusted the straps and my body temperature returned to normal, then I went and did my hair and it, shockingly, performed quite well today. About flipping time!

So, I puttered around the house and hung some laundry out. I cleaned toilets (bleah) and kind of organzied some things. I loaded the dishwasher and figured out what to make for dinner. You know, basic useless stuff. Brian had mentioned that there might be some viewings of the house today so I wanted to be ready.

After I finished puttering I was bored to tears so I decdied to head to WalMart for no real reason other than to putter around there. I went to the McDonald's inside and got a Diet Coke. I journeyed through the craft department to look at the scrapbooking markdowns (Martha Stewart stuff is being marked down!) and came across many interesting people.

I've mentioned before how annoying it is that women can't seem to find clothes to fit them. Since I turned 15, I have been every size from a 7 to a 26 and now linger somewhere in the middle. I can find clothes which fit me. Aside from fit, there is the lucky possibility that one's ensemble might actually flatter their body. I shoot for that. Sometimes it works and other times it doesn't. Whatever, at least I make the effort.

Today was Ta-Ta Thursday. And, who doesn't love a great rack? Seriously, I appreciate the work a woman goes through to look good. Many of us really have to put some serious effort into looking put together while others (cows) roll out of bed looking like a million bucks. We don't like the ones who do. I do understand that when we girls look good, we feel fabulous and everyone wants that. I think one of the things men notice about a woman who looks good is the confidence she feels in knowing she hit the mark with her appearance. Knockers help us seal the deal.

So, today at the store there was a plentitude of ladies (ah-hem) weearing baby-doll t-shirts three sizes too small so they get the dreaded muffin-top, or the muffin-top's evil cousin, the hanging foldover. You know, that thing that happens when the belly overspills the top of the jeans/shorts/skirt, and in doing so, the spillage seems to fold itself and hang like a stuffed apron of skin about the midriff. There's an image for ya, consider it a gift. You're welcome.

Only slightly less striking than the belly waterfalls abounding the discount superstore was the wealth of ooohverstretched sildscreened images and phrases emblazoned across the milkers of our day's favorite fashion victims. Seriously, do you buy clothes with the sole mission of ruining them? Buy the right size, ladies, society will thank you for it!

So, when I was leaving the store with Diet Coke and chocolate cake in-hand, there were two ladies with their litters walking near my truck. Both ladies were well dressed as were the fourteen children about them, but the disaster about it all was the pregnant lady. She was wearing black capri pants and black ballet flats. She carried a very nice black bag which was no doubt stuffed with lots of snacks and items to entertain the little cherubs. Her hair was done nicely and her make-up was impeccable. Where then, was the trainwreck? Ah, her hormone engorged funbags ensconced in what my friend and I affectionately call, a "booby shirt."

We all have them, shirts which empower us and make us feel like we can, via our vessels of womanhood, conquer the world. They may be snug or low-cut. They might have built-in accessories which draw the eye to the region. You never know what you're gonna get and my booby shirt may be your fatal mistake, or vise-versa.

This particular booby shirt was a print featuring red, black and white. It had a small metal ring which gathered the fabric between the twins and forced the neckline into a vortex of cleavage. Seriously, I feared walking too close to her for fear I would be sucked in that valley and never return. It was clear that 47% of each melon was visible, with the nipple being the vulgarity guide. And, of course, remember she was pregnant, likely about six or seven months. She was workin' what she got, but those boobs were really distracting. Yikes. Yuck.

Once I got in the truck and pulled out, I chose to exit the lot to the south and travel between the restaurants since it tended to get me out of there quicker. Then, it got worse.

I was stopped at the stop sign near the Golden Corral when a family happened across the lot in front of me. There was a retired military guy (you know them when you see them if you got skillz) in his undershirt and stretchy shorts (to maximize the benefits of a buffet visit), what appeared to be three young adult children, and a lady who appeared to be older than retired guy, but not by much. Her hair was done nicely. She had on decent shoes and her make-up looked ok. And then, I realized it. She was wearing a mu-muu. In public, she was wearing a mu-muu and this is not the big island. What is worse than the mu-muu was the lack of a bra. No, it was not an ill-fitting bra. It was not an improperly sized bra. It was a non-existent bra. And, lets remember, we ain't talkin' 'bout no spring chick. She must have used the gals as bumpers to keep her tummy from hitting the table. Ick. Put them away!

So, take this as a bit of friendly advice. If you don't package the presents well, no one will see you as a prize.