I went to get new bras last week for no reason other than it had probably been about two years since I'd bought one and also because my dryer had torn two of them in half and the only bra I had left should have long ago been sent to the island of worn out clothes.

People complain a lot about jeans shopping and dress shopping, but I think the worst torture in the world is picking out the contraption made of underwire and padding that is supposed to be our vehicle to sexuality and affirmation but is really just a lace and foam covered reminder of how society thinks your body should be shaped but isn't.

So I grabbed the same bra I've been wearing for years and, for some reason - possibly because I had been complaining to Boyfriend that I thought my boobs had grown, and wasn't that a tragedy - I went and actually tried it on. Oh, heavens. This was a disaster. Everything was squished and mashed against my chest, spilling over the sides and looking rather like roadkill.

"Can you just bring me the next size up?" I asked the saleslady, and she came into the room and inspected me.

"That looks right."

It did not.

"No, please, can you just bring me the next size?"

She stared at my chest, cocking her head to one side. "I'll just get you a different bra."

"No, I need a bigger size. My boobs are falling out of the sides."

"Oh, no, that's normal! Even the little twentysomethings have that. There are exercises for it! Look, you just do this," she said as she raised her arm to shoulder height and lowered it back down a few times. "See? Two, maybe three weeks, you'll see a difference."

"No, I'm not talking about armpit flab. I don't care about that. My boobs are squishing out the sides. I need a bigger size. I need all of this to fit inside the cup."

I am not what you would consider shy, and I contemplated just pushing past her in my jeans and the ill-fitting bra and grabbing the correct size, but for once in my life modesty won out.

"Honestly, honey, a bigger size is just going to look matronly."

She pulled this word out like it was the final weapon in this battle, her sword, crusty with the stains of earlier battles, but she was all confidence and no strength. Up against this dreaded word, how could I not agree? But instead of arguing further, she turned and left. I closed the door and rolled my eyes and a few minutes later she passed two bras under the door.

"Honey, try the black one on first. Sometimes different bras fit different ways."

I looked at the tag. My old size. Of course.

I tried it on and let her into the room again.

"See? Perfect!" She glowed, equal parts self-righteous and gracious, and waited for me to praise her cunning.

"It doesn't fit."

"No, I told you, there are exercises for that."

She had gotten me a larger bra, and I pulled that out of the bag and shut the door.

"I'm telling you, it won't fit!"

I put it on and, despite the - yes, matronly - straps and band, the bra was about as cute as could be hoped. And, miracle of miracles, it fit. My breasts had their arms and legs inside the ride, and I jumped up and down. They stayed put. I pulled a shirt on over top of it and opened the door.

"Oh, you tried that on again! See, it looks PERFECT. Everything fits exactly right."

"Yes, because this is the bigger size."

She shrugged and shook her head. I was hopeless, her expression said. I'd never understand the appeal of a smaller bra. Clearly I'm doomed to matronly bras and to never know what it feels like to have a man look at me with lust in his eyes. So sad.

So, I am both happy and sad to tell you the great bridesmaids dress search of 2013 has come to an end. We have a winner! It's pretty and comfortable and we're all quite happy with it.

But when I went to try it on, I was a little skeptical. The matron of honour found this dress, but she's also the same person that loved the purple dress of doom. So I tried on a few other options, just in case.


Dress numero uno. It's in the right colour and everything! Now, forgetting my moral objection to satin (shiny, shows every lump - and I have plenty - or just really damn heavy), I liked this dress. I liked it a lot, actually. It was long enough (a feat, given that I have a pretty serious case of The Tall), it was able to accommodate a normal bra, and it was comfortable. It was my number one choice, and a great way to start the afternoon off.

No sooner had I shimmied out of dress number one than I went on a terrible 3 dress streak. Unfortunately, this is one of those salons which did not allow photos (I pleaded my way into taking pictures of the best dresses since I'm in NC and the bride is in Oregon), so allow me to describe them.

The first was what I thought of as the Tinkerbell dress. Bright green ("But it comes in navy, they all do, so just go ahead and concentrate on the shape of the dress!"), cut for teeny, tiny fairy-sized boobs, and with some kind of tulle nightmare for the skirt. I didn't even come out of the dressing room.

The second was the mermaid. It was...well, silk charmeuse is what Google tells me it was, but I immeditately thought of it as "the Devil's satin."

Satin, though it clings to every lump, has an oddly stiff feel to it. Silk charmeuse has a lovely liquid quality to it, but that same beautiful shimmer will highlight every damn lump you've ever thought you had. It clings like satin but is even shinier so you can see every last butt dimple and that fun line where your underwear meets your muffin top. I found a picture of a dress in this fabric and I think it makes my point for me.


Now, while you can't see it clinging for dear life to every curve of the model's ass, you can see the way the softness of the fabric and its inability to hold shape make this poor girl look like she's hiding 17 tiny, saggy tits in her dress. Or maybe like she's shoplifting pacifiers between the ceremony and the reception.

Dress number three was what I referred to as the Bubblegum Princess dress. It was....well, you know what? I honestly have no words for it. It was some kind of chiffon, and was either too tight or too loose, but what it really was was pink. Incredibly, mind-numbingly pink. Nevermind that the dress I end up in will be navy. Nevermind that this could possibly have been a contender. I really don't know, because I couldn't see anything but a massive wad of Bazooka.


This is the dress that I call "The Confused Mermaid" for no real reason. It's not bad, it's not good, it's just weird. I feel like the side rouching that goes over my stomach really just looks like ripples in the water, or like those pictures of people underwater where their hair looks light and airy and not at all like the soggy mess it's turning into. And remember, I am showing you the pictures of the BEST dresses I tried on.

A few incredibly dull dresses later, I reached Bubblegum, round 2.



So, I feel the need to tell you that this dress is not nearly as pink as the Bubblegum Princess dress. Just to give you a frame of reference for just how much pink I can handle - I have a high tolerance for it! I really do. All things considered, this isn't that bad. Sure, it's a size or two smaller than I'd need. But the length is good and the neckline is similar to one from round one. And I liked it. Until.

Until I saw the flowers. That exposed strap? It has little daisies tacked to it. And I just can't trust a designer that would do that to a poor, unsuspecting dress. I just can't.

A few more unremarkable dresses and I finally tried on the dress I came for (yes, I have the patience of a saint). And I was pleasantly surprised. I don't have a full length picture because the manager was in the fitting room, but the bridal consultant (seriously, guys, these titles are a little out of hand) came into the fitting room to snap this shot.



It swishes very nicely around your feet and makes you want to twirl around like a little girl. The neckline is low enough to look nice but not so low you're risking "Vegas cleavage" as the bride put it. It's a little heavy, but a very nice feeling dress. So come next October (yeah, not this coming October, but October of 2014), expect plenty of pictures of me in this dress. But in navy. Not this poopy brown.

So we have a few women in my office that are a little vocal in the bathroom. And by vocal I mean...they're singers. I didn't know these people existed, but apparently there is a whole little bathroom culture that I did not know about. But these women sing while they're in the bathroom - one hums little tune to herself, hitting high notes and low, tapping her feet and turning the bathroom into her own little recording studio.

The other sings more recognizable songs. Part gospel and part lullaby, the songs are quiet and soothing. However, they're also a little distracting. Somehow being able to hear somebody sing actual words instead of just a quiet humming makes using the facilities feel rude. But the openings under the stalls are also large enough that your shoes are very, very visible. If you're just wearing black flats, that's no problem. Do whatever you like. But when you're wearing, for instance, gold sequined flats, people notice you.

Not that she was wearing anything very distinctive, you understand. I am. Today I am wearing gold sequined flats. And I was close enough to the singer that I could hear her singing "Rejoice, rejoice, rejoice" and see her sensible black flats. And for her to see my shoes.

This put me in an awkward position. Having sat down, gold shoes visible and pants around my ankles, what could I do? It felt rude to use the bathroom, but it also felt like an odd kind of rejection to hike my pants back up and leave. But if I used the bathroom, I would have to flush, and I couldn't figure out where that ranked on the rudeness scale. Horrible? Forgivable? I mean, they're automatic flushing toilets, I don't have a lot of control. And I'd sat down, so no matter what I did, it was going to flush. And it seemed weird to have it flush but to have clearly not done anything to cause it.

That brings me to issue number two. I had to poop. And while I could come to terms with making other noise in the bathroom, it just felt wrong to poop in front of somebody singing worship songs. Even in the bathroom. Even if I didn't know who it was. Because she could find me. She'd look two stalls over, see my shoes, and think, "That bitch just pooped in front of Jesus."

So I might be a bit of a crazy cat lady. I love my cats more than is reasonable. No, really. I do. And I think that there is some cat lady magnet that draws other cat people to me, so I have several friends that are also mildly obsessed with their cats. So when we start talking about our cats and our lives with our cats, things can escalate quickly. For example...(names have been changed to our cats' names for obvious reasons)

Olivia: In an effort to calm the cat fights we've had lately, I ordered this gigantic, hideous cat tower last night. It's going in our bedroom corner and blocking my one tiny closet. If they fight over it I swear to fucking god I will light it on fire and NO ONE CAN ENJOY IT.

Emma: You really are a crazy cat lady if you're willing to give up access to your one closet.