On Friday night, after a lovely dinner of lovely Indian food with some lovely friends, my bra promptly exploded. You know, as bras do.
You didn’t know? Right, me neither. Because bras don’t actually do that. At least 99.999999% of the time you put on a bra, you can expect it to not implode. But as I’m sure you’ve learned by now, odds are not my friend.
Unfortunately, this was not a fun, flirty fembot type bra explosion. That would’ve been awesome.
No, this was more of a horrific, confusing turn of events, because at first, it appeared as if my boobs themselves were the source of combustion.
We came home from dinner and when I went to the bathroom sink to wash up, I promptly noticed that my shirt was drenched in the chest region. I wish I could say I was wearing black, or any dark color for that matter, thus making it less obvious/mortifying. I was not.
“Oh, that’s embarrassing, I’m leaking milk” I thought, before my brain cells, wading through the sea of tequila I’d consumed, came up for air and informed me that I had stopped breastfeeding my baby 8 months prior.
Eric, cued by my ensuing screams, came racing to the bathroom to see what was happening, but quickly lost interest once he realized I had ripped off my bra in panic, not invitation.
Utterly confused by the sheer volume and odd consistency of the unidentifiable liquid, I immediately jumped to the conclusion that I must be experiencing some weird, unfounded symptom of early onset menopause or early onset death.
Luckily, a quick google search confirmed that oily liquid exploding from your boobs is pretty fucking weird, but probably not an emergency and also probably it’s definitely not coming from your boobs, you idiot. Check your bra.
Further googling revealed that some push up bras are made with packets of oil inside them, and while EXTREMELY RARE, they CAN burst, and then leak. Everywhere.
Bra-blast is more likely to happen if the garment is very old, so this is definitely not my fault because I bought this bra only like two decades months ago, guys!!!
I think I wore it to prom.
So, ladies (and/or men. No discriminating here!), this is a PSA to update your lingerie. You never know when it might attack.
People keep asking me if I’ve made any new friends here in Westport. But listen guys, it’s always hard when you move to a new place. And even harder when there’s a global pandemic. And even HARDER when you’re the kind of person who uses the global pandemic as an excuse, when really it’s just that you’re awkward and you hate meeting new people and talking in general and doing stuff that isn’t on your couch or phone.
Regardless, this week I actually started to make some social headway.
During Nora’s farm class (shut up) I was chatting it up with a bunch of moms who seemed refreshingly normal. As we watched our kids chase roosters around the chicken coop (yeah I’m just as confused by my new life as you are), one mom commented that every time she leaves the class, her son’s socks, shoes, and ankles are caked in mud.
I nodded knowingly. It’s absolutely never not often that I feel like I have worthwhile mom advice to give, but for once, I had it and I owned it.
Me: “So, I had the same problem with Nora. I finally got smart and put her in tall rain boots for class. So only the boots get dirty. Then after class I take them off, put them in a plastic bag, and have a clean pair of sneakers for her in the car.”
Other Mom: “Oh my god brilliant! A clean pair of sneakers! I always have a change of clothes in the trunk, but it didn’t even occur to me to have clean sneakers!”
“Oh yeah, the clean sneakers are key,” I replied, while mentally collecting my parenting trophy.
Other Mom: “Seriously, why didn’t I think of clean sneakers? Every week I’m here chasing him around, making sure he doesn’t step in THAT, and bring THAT into my car.”
She pointed to a gigantic pile of caked mud and animal poop. Just a huge steaming pile of shit. A mountain, really. It was as if every animal on the farm– the sheep, the cows, the alpaca, even the lone Nubian goat– had made a pact to ONLY shit in that one designated spot.
And of course, at the exact moment we all turned to look at said shit-pile, Nora sauntered right on over to it.
But I wasn’t worried.
Other Mom: “Uh oh, watch out for your daughter!”
Me (laughing): “Nah, she’s fine. She’s just checking it out. As much as she loves stepping in a good rain puddle, she does NOT like things that are straight up gross.”
And as if right on cue, Nora then turned around, a complete 180, and walked as far away from the pile as possible.
Other Mom: “Wow, good for her! And good for you! You really know your kid!”
Me (admittedly smug): “Yeah, she’s pretty good about–“
And that’s when I heard the rushed pitter patter of little feet and swung back around to see Nora sprinting across the chicken coop with Forrest-Gump like determination– straight toward the steaming pile of shit.
It turned out she hadn’t walked away because she found it disgusting, she had walked away because she wanted to give herself A RUNNING START.
I yelled for her to stop, but she just waved her hand at me and screamed back, “IT’S OK MOM! I HAVE MY BOOTS! I CAN’T GET DIRTY!”
I flashed back to the conversation we had in the car on the way to the farm. She did not want to wear her boots. But I had explained, over and over, that it’s a good idea to wear the boots, because if she wears them she can step in mud and SHE WON’T GET DIRTY.THE BOOTS WILL PROTECT HER. This reasoning had made her very happy and compliant, and I had awarded myself approximately 785 gold parenting stars.
God DAMMIT.
Before I could intercept, Nora completed her sprint and took an Olympic-style pole-vaulting leap into the fresh pile of animal dung. She soared through the air with the confidence of a superhero, armed with the certainty that her magic boots would act as a full-body protective cloak.
The entire farm watched in shocked silence as, upon landing, Nora’s feet gave out from under her, and her tiny little tod-bod sank into the dune, which completely enveloped her, quicksand style, in shit. Even the hairy, 500-pound hog, half asleep in a mud puddle, was repulsed.
As soon as Nora discovered that her magic boots had not performed their mommy-promised protective powers, the high-pitched, bloody-murder screams commenced.
While hyperventilating and snot-sobbing like me on election night 2016, she somehow managed to extricate herself from the dung mountain. She surveyed the lumpy streams of crap covering HER ENTIRE BODY– her shirt, her pants, her hands, her face. Everything drenched and dripping in feces.
She ran toward me, arms outstretched, hysterical, screaming, “MOMMY HELP MEEEEEEE!!!!!” She was clearly traumatized and desperately seeking solace, so I did what any parent would do in this situation.
I ran the fuck away from her.
She was covered in shit, you guys!!!
The pack of moms stared in disbelief as Nora chased me around the chicken coop and I literally hopped the fence to avoid her. One of them half heartedly offered a change of clothes, but I assured her “No no, that’s ok, thank you– I have clothes in the car, obviously. You’re not a mom unless you cart around a change of clothes, right?!” (casual laugh).
I had no change of clothes.
Keeping a good 5-foot distance ahead of her, I somehow managed to verbally coax Nora back to the car, where I promptly covered my hands in plastic bags and stripped her down naked right there on the grassy knoll. I then bathed her with baby wipes as she stood there screaming, her pale little wrinkled tush blowing in the 50-degree breeze. I should mention that we were parked roughly 30 feet from a gardening event attended by approximately 15 senior citizens, all of whom were watching this scene unfold. Plastic-bag-hands covered in shit, I waved.
After what seemed like an eternity, I finally got Nora decently clean, shoved her clothes in a garbage bag, and threw her in the car seat. She rode home buck naked and wailing.
“Oh, wow! If you two have kids together, they will have the most BEAUTIFUL eyes!” — my cousin, at last year’s Active Minds Casino Night, when I introduced her to a guy I’d been dating for a few months.
So you can see why I’m nervous that someone I’ve been on 4 dates with is coming this year….
(In her defense, that guy DID have gorgeous eyes).
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