Yesterday, while grocery shopping, I had the dubious pleasure of standing next to a woman when her ample bosom began to ring. Then I had the even more dubious pleasure of watching her fish around in her cleavage to retrieve her phone. She wiped the sweat off the screen with her shirt and sneered at the caller ID screen before silencing the ringer and shoving it back down between her lady pillows.
If you were to ask me, I’d tell you I’m pretty good at maintaining a neutral expression in the face of witnessing somebody…oh, I don’t know, wiping boob sweat off her phone? But considering how often I get dirty looks—occasionally accompanied by hand gestures—I’m probably not as good at schooling my expression as I’d like to think I am.
So anyway, she looked at me and said: “Everybody carries them there.”
Refraining from pointing out that, while I’ve seen many women tuck their cellphones under their bra straps, I rarely see women elbow deep, fishing for the phone which thankfully for them got hung up on the muffin top, I held up the Droid X in my hand and said: “Depends on the phone, I guess.”
“Yeah, that won’t work for you,” she said after giving my bosom the same sneery look she’d given her boob sweat-smeared caller ID screen.
I managed to keep myself from asking her if she’d carry my iPad around for me and went on my way…where I was, several aisles later, hit on by a very tall, very skinny man with nothing in his cart but twelve-packs of Dr. Pepper, two bottles of Rolaids and an End of Days-worthy stockpile of microwaveable frozen pizzas. And not the good ones, either. His cart was teeming with those 99-cent specials with the cheese-like shavings and sauce on a cardboard frisbee. I can only guess at his motivation:
Woman with a full cart + an ass the size of Montana = a woman who can cook.
(If you know me well, you either just laughed or snorted because the poor man was so very, very wrong.)
And for those accustomed to me saying “an ass the size of Wisconsin” and not Montana, I offer two words: Winter. Weight. I put on a little. And by a little, I mean a very large tribe of cannibals could survive on me for so long they’d have to dump the leftover me because there’s just too much.
(Extra points if you remembered the opening of this rambling blog post and thought Yeah, unless they like breast meat.)
And on that note, I should probably go now. But I swear, if we ever win the Powerball, the first thing I’m going to do is hire somebody to do my grocery shopping for me.
Which chore or errand would you hire somebody to do for you?