This Week's Great New Thing

While enveloped in my very latest creative rut, it occurred to me that maybe I need to broaden my horizons a bit. So, I've decided to try something new every week, whether it's taking a trip to Tonga or buying that mysterious ugli fruit that I keep passing by in the produce aisle at the grocery store. And, just in case others out there may be interested, I thought I'd chronicle in a blog my baby steps into some of these hot (or tepid) new frontiers. Hope you enjoy it. --S.L. Malone

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

It Fits! The Ballad of the Perfect Bra

The girls and I have been a team since I was eight years old. It’s true. Pathetic, but true. And I’ve tried to be very good to them all these years, because I know that if I treat them unkindly, they have the ability to seriously cramp my social life as I get into my forties and above. As a reward for my goodwill, they have generated for me more cat calls and poorly-veiled gawks than a woman with modest provisions could ever hope to imagine (whether or not that’s a good thing is still up for debate).

So, when my beloved Sam (an experienced gawker from way back) suggested that perhaps my current bras were not providing the ladies with quite the support they needed to really look and feel their best, I was only too pleased to explore the options for easing their burden. Please understand that at the time I was not sporting lingerie from “Billy Ray’s Bras and Tackle.” I had a wardrobe of lovely unmentionables from Victoria’s Secret, the uber-haven of brassiere couture, and I’ll have you know that the professionals at Vicki’s had verified that I was procuring the perfect size for my measurements—a 34 D, as in Delightful. Sadly, after a few months’ wear, that became D as in Deficient, which ultimately morphed into the dreaded D as in Droopy.

As luck would have it, Sam is a sensitive male secure enough in his masculinity to be comfortable surfing websites like Oprah.com, on which was featured Oprah’s pronouncement on the best place to go for a well-fitted bra. And as we all know, if Oprah says it, it is law. Anyway, Oprah’s shining edifice of mammary comfort, Intimacy Bra Fit Experts, is right on Michigan Avenue in downtown Chicago, to which I coincidentally had a business trip the following week. So, I packed the girls into their Vicki’s boulder holder and headed to the Windy City for a Great New Thing.

What first impressed me about Intimacy was the fact that I had to make an appointment for a fitting. My previous bra fitting experiences had involved a sales clerk, a measuring tape, and about 45 seconds of sucking things in. The folks here, however, seemed to really mean business. As I waited for my turn, I overheard the woman behind the desk ordering a few garments for a customer—in a 34 double H. “Double H,” I smirked to myself. “God bless the poor woman who has to carry those around all the time.” I thusly entertained myself until it was my turn to step behind the curtain.

My bra expert—a young slender lass who couldn’t have been more than a B cup herself—had me first model my current Vicki’s bra for her. After a quick once-over (and no measuring tape), she determined that Victoria’s real Secret was actually that the poor woman didn’t know how to fit her customers into bras. There were three telltale signs that my fit was fraught with issues. First, the back strap floated upward, a sure sign that the band was too wide. Second, my cups runneth over, a telltale sign that (big surprise here) the cup size wasn’t big enough. Third, there was the droop factor, which indicated to her that my straps needed a serious readjustment or maybe even a stronger foundation.

She dashed out of the room and returned moments later with a few garments for me to test drive. The first was a little too big, but the second fit like a dream, in every conceivable way. Never had the ladies looked this stunning. They stood like attentive little soldiers awaiting command, the very definition of perky, healthy—and sexy. As I turned around and around, admiring myself from every angle, I felt like a million bucks … until I asked the size of this miraculous bra.

My friends, I do not have one of those chests that people stare at with an unbelieving shake of the head. I’m 5’3” and a size six, and my breasts honestly do not look awkward on my body at all. Voluptuous--you bet. Circus freak—not even a little bit. So, when my Intimacy expert informed me that I was a size 31G, I resisted the urge to be shocked or humiliated. Instead, I l simply considered my reflection in the mirror. I looked well-supported, I looked good, and most of all I looked absolutely normal in my new 31G bra, under a size medium Gap T-shirt. Therefore, my final reaction is, “so what?” Maybe it’s time to recalibrate the public’s perspective on bra sizes. If it’s true (and it must be, because someone said it on Oprah) that up to 80% of women are wearing bras that are the wrong size, that means there are a lot more women out there just like me—D’s, double D’s, G’s, and yes, probably a whole truckload of absolutely stunning, well-proportioned double-H’s. I am a 31G, not G as in Gargantuan, but G as in Gorgeous, and I’ve decided to celebrate it. Ladies, get out there and get a terrific bra, and who cares what the letters on the tag say? You’ll look fabulous, and even more important, feel as beautiful as can be. And that’s the name of the game. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to change into my new bra and a tank top, and go out and walk past a construction crew.


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Tuesday, August 22, 2006

Portugal

My bathroom cabinet is made of wood, which has soaked in so much moisture from the room over the years that it now emits a mildewy, slightly putrid smell. I never really was aware of the smell in the past, but ever since we’ve returned from our vacation to Portugal, I need only walk into that room to be transported right back to the cities we explored. When you get right down to it, the smell of my bathroom is a perfect analogy of our findings on Portugal in general—not off-putting, but just a bit too foul to be really enjoyable.

Our problem may have been that we didn’t set our expectations correctly. I lived in Spain for a while, and my beloved Sam has some experience there as well, so we automatically assumed that given the geographic proximity of the two countries, Portugal would similarly woo us by the friendly demeanor of its people and the beauty of its landscapes. What we didn’t consider, global citizens that we are, was the fact that the two countries have vastly different historical and socio-economic stories to tell, and that those differences would have an impact on both the locals and the locations. There is also something to be said for our choice of stops during the trip. We chose to avoid the more touristy spots, like the picture postcard beaches of the Algarve in the south, in favor of the historic hotspots and areas with lots of local flavor. So, I suppose, you get what you bargain for. So, I thought I summarize for my fellow explorers some of the good, the bad, and the ugly as it pertains to our Portuguese expedition:

Nazare

  • The Good—This little beach town has a lot of traditional flavor, including women in skirts with seven petticoats, ridiculously good seafood, cheap accommodations, and lovely beaches.
  • The Bad—Those lovely local women are actually bossy as hell, and spend a good portion of their down time in heated discussion with each other. As Sam and I strolled arm in arm down the ancient streets, we came upon an especially saucy discussion between two local ladies, one of whom was so disturbed by the argument, that as we walked passed her, we witnessed her lean over in her chair and retch onto the cobblestone street, then sit back up and continue on as if nothing had happened. How romantic, no?
  • The Ugly—Let me only say this—that odor to which I’ve already referred was permanently burned into our memories by a shop owner from whom we bought a lovely shawl in Nazare. Small store, 95-degree heat, and a dude who had probably not bathed in a week. No wonder the local ladies are in such a state—they have to cuddle up to my bathroom cabinet every night!

    Lisbon
  • The Good—Lisbon is one heck of a history center, with seven hills, half a dozen distinctive neighborhoods, and a palate of international influences. There’s no shortage of opportunity to café-hop, shop, or dine well on a tight budget. And the pastries in Belem are so delicious as to defy description.
  • The Bad—While in Lisbon, do not attempt to check your e-mail or have a light-hearted, friendly conversation with anyone who is not a tourist. Both of these endeavors will be fruitless, and you will end up as sullen as the people with whom you tried to yuck it up. And it’s not a language thing, either. . . I speak Portuguese. Thus was crumpled my hopes of a Seville-like charm from the folks on the other side of Iberia.
  • The Ugly—“No, I do not have any money to give you. You’ve come up to me at three cafes in the last day and a half, and I tell you every time that I do not have alms for you. And please tell your nephew with the Chihuahua and the accordion that I still don’t have anything for him, either.”

Quite honestly, the only Portuguese town that Sam and I would return to—and would like to do soon at that—was Porto. What a marvelous place! Other than the occasional BO, which you’ll find all over the country, I suppose, Porto had that vibration, that vitality, that we didn’t perceive in Lisbon or Nazare. Porto is alive—people are creating new and better lives and professions, and the city is making itself into a new-fashioned old-world hotspot. The port lodges and the stunning views charmed us in the daytime, and the riverfront, with its friendly people, incredible food, and happy bustle, seduced us by moonlight. If you ever venture to Portugal, be sure to climb the hills of the Ribeira, look over the lovely Rio Douro, and raise a glass of tawny to a city that toasts you back.


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