Every. Single. Frickin'. Time! I go out to eat with JF tonight, and, like always, I dribble something on my front. It's always upon one (or both!) of the breasts. I have come to the conclusion that there's a food magnet in there that just draws sauces and little foody, drippy bits to them. Why not? JF's hands are like boob-seeking missiles. Why can't the rational explanation be that instead of the fact that I am both bosomy *and* clumsy?
I am damn near 35 years old, and I have to wear a bib over nice clothes, or they don't remain nice for long! I don't have all that many "professional" clothes, since I mostly crawl around on the floor with kids, and skirts/pantyhose are an oppressive tool of The Man. (Also, if two legs' worth are "panty hose", is just one leg a panty ho?)
My hatred of the Twins is not helped by the fact that JF thinks it's the coolest thing since Star Wars that he can wedge a canned drink in the middle and it not only stays still and upright, but mostly cold as well. So, they can be shelf, bosom, *or* a drink coozie.
Oh, and JF wanted me to tell you all that the link on the right to Jason Garfield's site is just about the other coolest thing since Star Wars. JF is virtually in love with this man and his juggling ability. I told him that I'd post it, so -- there you go, Snookie Bottom!
I want breast binding to come back into fashion.
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