Throwing Out My Bra

It was time. Past time. I stood with one hand poised over the trash can holding my bra. The elastic on the straps was shot, the material puckered around the back where it meets the hooks and eyes. There is no longer any support offered, but yet the cups now seem woefully big for me - or is it that with the advancement of time, my boobs have shrunk yet again.

Standing over the trash with the bra, I hesitate. My conviction wavers. What if I just keep the bra as a back up, some emergency moment when all the other bras fail me or are in the wash? The truth is this — this bra has been good to me.

This bra has supported me through the last three years. It has taken me through parent teacher conferences, been there for medical pronouncements, supported me when the doctor called to tell me the lump was benign. It has exercised with me, walked and hiked. It had held me together while my husband recovered from injury and I tried to buck up my children’s fears. It has grocery shopped and gone on girls’ weekends. It’s been to concerts and gotten sweaty in raspberry fields and while doing yard work. This bra has seen me at my very best and most joyous and put up with me through the headaches, the petty and snippy moments, the nagging.

I’d bought the bra in a group of three—one black and two nude, skin color they called it, although I have yet to meet someone with that truly pinkish color of flesh. But one of the fleshy ones was defective, one strap kept coming unhooked, and so it found its way to the back of my drawer. This one, the one I held now, had become, by default, my go-to bra. How many hundred times had I washed it by hand with Woolite?

But the support was gone. And now, with the passage of time, there seemed to be a chasm between the lip of the bra cup and the flesh of my breast. Its like the space between two glaciers. There is no longer any contact. You could lay an entire banana between the gap between my breasts and my bra now. Sigh.

I hate bra shopping. Hate it. Perhaps if I had perfect, perky boobs or a boob job where they sat like mounds of dewy perfection I’d enjoy this exercise. But bra shopping to me is an exercise in facing my flaws in a fluorescent mirror. It’s a little bit like whipping a cat-o-nine-tails over your back.

So as I held the bra over the trash, a sort of simple bra-prayer played over my mind; the kind of thing one mentally mumbles when a hamster or gold fish dies. You have a flash of remorse for the thing that was, even though it didn’t live on the grand emotional scale afforded a cat, dog or human being.

Here was the thing. I had already replaced that bra. I’d gone to Victoria’s Secret with my teenaged daughter, determined to walk out of there with something appropriate and well fitting. We’d chosen three again, one black and two that pinkishy nude of a band-aid, nothing racy, lacey or with demi-cups. Once again I’d ended up with something sensibly supportive.

With one last look and a sigh, I dropped the bra unceremoniously into the garbage trash. Covered with coffee grounds and rotten broccoli and the leavings of the previous meal, it seemed an inglorious end to something that had been so intimate.

I imagine it now, in some kind of land-fill heaven. I envision sea gulls dive bombing the area for food scraps as the bra stands, cups outstretched to the sky, silently holding together its little patch of hill.

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A Three Stooges Day

After the failings of July weather, August burst out with brilliant blue mornings and clear, cool nights. I was racking up banner days with my kids; cloudless skies on the lake, a little canoeing, swimming with their cousins. Kicking back on the beach chair with a book, I could hear their squeals of delight as they played rag tag, throwing the wet piece of towel at each other and ducking under the raft.

I call these helium heart days. You go to bed with a lightness of being, fullness of day and a sense of completion. You’ve hit the mark as a Mom on these days, checked off most things on the “Most Wonderful Mom” list like “played with kids,” “meaningful conversation” or “maintained good cheer.” You know these days don’t come all the time, maybe not every week, and so you try to still them, to soak them in.

Coming back up to our cottage I spread out the towels on the railing to dry and turned on the stove to roast a chicken. I was determined to check the box for “healthy meal” on this day too. I loved this; loved the pace of summer, of not having anywhere to be that night, of knowing we would all open our books on the couch that evening or tuck into a movie under blankets.

And so to demonstrate my contentment, I did what most people do when they are happy. I let out a Three Stooges Curly “whoop-whoop-whoop,” as I was stuffing the chicken’s cavity with rosemary, onions and garlic. Truth be told, it was kind of a combination of Curly and Julia Child, inspired as I was by the French Chef to be pulling the bird’s goose-fleshy legs wide open.

“What was that?” asked my daughter Claire.

“The Three Stooges,” I said, casually binding the chicken’s legs together with string like a demure virgin.

“I’ve heard of them. I think we have the movie.”

“Well, let’s find it,” I said. “Every kid needs to know about the Three Stooges. Whoop- whoop-whoop,” and I quickly rubbed my hands on my head the way Curly used to do. My kids laughed.

They tried to imitate the Curly thing, but without a good example, the real deal, they had no traction. There was no Three Stooges DVD in the drawer.

“Let’s You Tube it,” I said. Honestly, what did we do before You Tube? Life must have been one giant game of charades. How did we function without the ability to view everyone’s pratfalls, oogle bad plastic surgery transformations or watch the woman walking down Fifth Avenue with her skirt hem tucked in her panties.

And so as I finished the dinner prep, boiled the beets and cut the tomatoes, the sounds of Moe, Larry and Curly emanated from my office computer. The girls were transfixed.

Heading upstairs with my glass of white wine to take a shower, I realized that amongst the slaps, whines, screams, kicks and whoop-whoop-whooping soundtrack, one sound was missing --- my kids’ laughter. My girls were watching, fascinated, but that slapstick kind of humor that was such a hallmark of the vaudevillian years was eluding them.

I had always sort of identified with the Three Stooges as a kid, being one of three girls. I was the oldest, Moe, the one starting the trouble and usually meting out the punishment. Watching a few of the clips, I’d forgotten what a complete bully Moe was, a serious tyrant, a dictator even, as seen through the eyes of my kids. But the expressions and the physical humor made me chuckle.

When it was almost time for dinner I walked in again to see them still both still mesmerized by the screen. That meany pants Moe was pulling Larry by the hair. And who was Schemp? Had Curly died? I couldn’t remember. Maybe he’d taken so much physical abuse that he had just keeled over one day.

“It’s really violent,” said Claire.

“And it’s black and white,” remarked Nora.

“Yeah, these shows were made even before I was born.”

“Wow,” said Claire. “That’s a long time ago.” I nodded seriously.

“Are they rated PG?” asked Claire. She was still stuck on the slapping, dragging, hair pulling and screaming part of the Three Stooges. Our kid’s did humor differently now. They had their own entire genre of “appropriate shows” that were educational. They learned other languages, how to get along, kindness and inclusion. There were Teletubbies and Dora the Explorer. Sesame Street taught them to count and read at an early age. Hannah Montana had her own identity and boyfriend problems to work out. There was absolutely, positively no slapping, hitting or boulders being dropped on anyone’s head.

“Use your words, Moe, not your hands,” I could imagine my Nora thinking as he popped Curly with an iron, screaming so hard his eyes bulged out of their sockets and veins stood out on his neck.

“That’s an outside voice Larry,” I imagined Claire thinking. But still they watched, with a combination of fascination and horror. Man, there went Moe again, swinging a two-by-four at poor Larry’s head. Well, that’s a brain injury waiting to happen, I thought as Curly’s eyes rolled back and Larry saw stars. I thought about all the things that used to pass for OK when we were kids, people on TV hitting each other in the kisser with golf clubs, no seat belts in the car, no bike helmets. Spanking was acceptable for the bad transgressions and the best ever was riding on the back of the station wagon, tailgate down, to get ice cream, legs dangling out over the road. All of this carefree recklessness I associated with my childhood. And I had loved it.

Sure, our kids were safer now and protected. We were smarter about so many things from diet and nutrition to political correctness and inclusion. As a generation of parents we had learned from our own parents’ mistakes and had gained from the knowledge of science, psychology and medicine that comes with the advancement of time.

But sometimes there is simply no substitute for the silliness of the “whoop-whoop- whoop.” There is simply no better, simpler, pure dumb-ass pleasure than the Three Stooges.

“Time for bed,” I called hours later. And when no one moved, I resorted to the technique my father had used in the good old days.

“See this finger?” I held out my pointer and Claire and Nora grinned, nodding. I had their attention now.

“See this thumb? “ they started laughing and running and in unison we all shouted….“See this fist…. You’d better run!”

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Perfectly Imperfect is Here

So this is the week.  It's here.  My new solo effort book hits stores on Tuesday and it feels a bit like giving birth.  I'm waiting for my water to break or for the day of induction to roll along.   I'm excited that it has gotten good reviews so far-- that people have smiled, nodded their heads, laughed out loud and cried.  One of the greatest honors as a writer is to connect with people and to evoke emotions that draw common bonds around us. Heck-- I'm mostly just happy to make people laugh. As I set out on the book tour, kicking off this week with my first reading at  the Lincoln Center Barnes & Noble in New York, I know I have to pace myself.  A book tour is an endurance test or travel and strength, interspersed with wonderful moments of connecting with the reader.  I will look forward to seeing old friends, meeting new ones, hopefully hitting chords with Moms and sisters, girlfriends and daughters, friends and wives and all their men too!  this is not just a woman's book. I probably won't get a chance to update my blog much on the road, perhaps on some of the weekends in between-- and I wont get a chance to log onto comments often.  Somehow my computer doesn't like being away from home-- weird things happen in my email that take me too much time to un-do (I told you I was a techno-peasant).   But I do promise to check in and let you know how it's going. My scheduled appearances are listed on this website and I hope you'll encourage your friends to turn out for the readings in the various cities I'm headed to. I'm excited, anxious, thrilled and incredibly happy.  I also feel very, very lucky. Lastly-- I hope those of you who twitter and who care about our wounded troops will go to tweettoremind.org and sign up to donate a dollar for each of your tweets this Memorial Day weekend......  We all need to come together to help our wounded families heal.

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