There are less bras lying about during the week. On the weekend they might be found strewn wherever, almost strategically, less fashion statement and more territorial marking? Despite racking a swell man-boob myself, I’m still the only guy in the house - and I don’t know what ‘bra marking’ is all about. Hanging on a hallway doorknob, on the back of a kitchen chair, clip-chipped to the message board, stuffed into bookshelves? What does it mean? Where do the bras go during the week? Does this mean they aren’t wearing them on the weekend (perfect, way to go hippy dad!)? Or do they just take them off on Friday’s, like a construction worker that throws his hard-hat in the middle of the kitchen - too exhausted and disgusted with it to wear it another step, replacing it with that perfectly worn ball cap? Or is it more euphoric - like a frisky dog, loosed from his collar, with a long case of the zooomies’ at hand, naked again and naked forever!
Having been collateral damage of scores (hundreds? Thousands?) of sweater/scarf/shirt/make-up battles, I say with confidence that bras have some special consideration, a Geneva convention like clause that precludes direct conscription of another’s bra. (1)(2). Punishment having broken the Bras before Bitches rules varies from face-scratching (aggravating factors for this most severe reaction include: working out or sweating in said bra, staining said bra, or stretching said bra out with “your giant dinosaur tits” (3) to the more passive treatments like throwing said bra in the trash, along with one of your sister’s bras as tribute, or drawing smiley faces on the cups, to the threat of a ‘boob-punch’ (5)
Anyway, this was just a quick shout out to Bras. Your consistent mystery is something to behold. To the beautiful women in my life: May yours be form fitting, supportive, easy on, easy off, comfortable enough to sleep in if you get too drunk, machine-washable and quick to dry, and most importantly have enough heft and elasticity to rubber band shoot clear across the room with accuracy - to fling perchance to hang, where all who walk past will know - here lies woman, unbound, this is my house and I’ll be comfortable here. (4)
- I do my fair share of household chores — I didn’t use to, for like, oh 20 years or so? I did often pay for regular house keepers / nannies and gardeners — (note to spouses: it’s one thing to always pitch in when asked to, it is entirely another to proactively do the task that needs doing…it is the latter that I’ve started to pick up on…. Note: I never felt bad about spending my money to give other people work, I wish I had meaningful work to focus on, that time will come again, for now, keep writing…oh yeah, the footnote, I have always folded clothes (my mother was quite particular about how clothes were to be folded), but I do NOT fold bras or panties.
- This is not an essay on all underwear - what goes on with the panties around here is none of my business, what I can say from casual observance is this — There are far too many pairs going around, and at the same time, not nearly enough actual panty. There is a physics law in here somewhere; as the size of absolute P goes up, the # of individual P goes up and the size of individual P goes down? Working title, the Panty Paradox.
- I’ve heard my daughters ‘roasting’ each other, kids do that these days? It’s brutal and hilarious and I wish (at time of writing, they had) stop doing this— I forget who said ‘giant dinosaur tits’ or it may have been something else, the point is sisters will say some hateful shit to one another, it can break your heart as a parent. Just keep encouraging them, force some family time / problem solving together, and show them all how much you love them all - they may not end up being best friends and that’s just ok.
- This saying got a little out of hand around here…this is NOT a nudist camp, I am NOT a nudist, you are NOT a nudist, put some damn clothes on…I am the only one allowed to scoot naked to the fridge and back, if I ever meet another one of you scrambling for ice cream naked, I’m sure to die of heart attack, please, a towel, something…
- our household’s compromise on cunt-punch, I mean, we do go into public sometimes and we do have neighbors, we’re not animals!).
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