Tag Archives: bras

a panty for your thoughts.

16 Oct

Not sure if you noticed, but October is like totally Pink. Holy hell, it’s everywhere! Like, I have a Breast Cancer Themed pancake spatula. And tomorrow I’m going to a Breast Cancer Themed Sushi Party at some jappy place in Syosset where I will drink Breast Cancer martinis and eat Breast Cancer hand rolls and talk about which limited edition Breast Cancer bracelet I’m sporting. In a month that is packed to the gills with pumpkin carving and celebrating Hispanic Heritage and finding a slutty-yet-family-friendly costume and apple picking and watching the leaves turn to fluttering jewels, we are also expected to FIND A CURE. Like, wow, October. No pressure or anything.

Since I don’t like to focus on anything negative on my blog, I’m eliminating Cancer from the equation and instead celebrating Breast Awareness Month. Although this evening I’ll be referring mostly to my own particular boobs, this is really a celebration of all breasts everywhere. Even the ones that are so perfect that you’re a little bit bitter. Yes, Perfect Booby Chick, this one is for you….

Oh, also this is for my Aunt Babsy who is currently undergoing treatments and doing it with such finesse and optimism that she should be awarded free pink ribbon bagels from Panerabread for life, and then some. This particular side of the family is famous for our disproportionately large racks. And now, she’s suddenly got the littlest ones in town! I can’t even imagine what it must be like to wear a button down shirt without it gapping, but finally someone in my family (other than the dudes) can describe what it’s like. Kudos to you, my Dear Aunt!

Back to me.

Something that we’ve discussed in the past is that I am nothing without my bra. Mostly I’ve discussed my Friday and Saturday night knickers, but the rest of the week matters too!  You know what? I wear a bra every single day! And here is how I select them!!!:

Bra-natomy: A week in review

  • Monday: As this is typically my day off, I usually strap on one of those sheer and unsupportive numbers. Chances are it’s like a decade old and I’m clinging to it as though one day I’ll wake up and the girls will be as perky as they were when I was 20. If I do muster up the desire to hit up the restaurant, I throw on a whatever overthing and a pair of leggings and head over. The only time I ever run into a problem is in the winter, because I am too cheap/lazy/selfless to turn on the heat in my office and then I walk into the dining room to see someone and they’re all “Ooh somebody’s chilly!” or “Is that a cork in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”  or the classic “One of your headlights is out.” Otherwise I love, love, love Monday bras. Here is an example of a Monday bra. This one is Calvin Klein, which you can apparently pick up at Macy’s if you’re attempting to emanate me and my boobies. 
  • Tuesday: Logic might tell you not to waste good cleavage at the beginning of the week because it’s not when you’re gonna see the bulk of your customers, but this is the day that most vendors stop by, and a low cut shirt comes in real handy. My favorite approach with the Tuesday bra is to really play into the fact that you’re just any other dumb broad, do a lot of giggling and hair twirling. Then when the beer/liquor/coffee/newspaper ad guy gives you his “best offer, but just because you’re so sweet,” you slam them with your cutting wit and lethal negotiating skills. Here is a Tuesday bra. Have I mentioned that these are all photos of my body with other girls’ heads Photoshopped on? And I have had like little-to-no plastic surgery. Crazy, thanks Mom and Dad and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups for the great bod. Seriously, I owe you one.
  • Wednesday: I always dress extra professionally on Wednesday because I go to my shrink between lunch and dinner and I just love it when she commends me on being such a fabulous and serious businesswoman. On occasion I’ve dressed like my regular self and she has accused me of being a little too slutty looking to get the job done. After I had my babygirl she questioned whether my exposed cleavage was a way of me desperately clinging to my youth. She has also accused me of trying to use my breasts as some sort of scheme to take over the world, and I don’t really want her to know about that until after I have actually done so. So for this reason, head to Soma and pick up a boring ass bra like mine:
  • Thursday: On Thursdays I try to make my boobs look as small and perky as possible, because Thursday is Trivia Night and random people from my past keep showing up and I need to look better than I did in high school, because that is how life works. If there is a chance you are going to see someone from a long time ago, you have to look a)better than you used to, and b)better than said person. Thankfully I have discovered the pushup without padding, because it’s like SUPER CONFUSING to me as to how you can look skinny with literal extra padding on your body. Check out this one from Victoria’s Secret. I was extra tan in this shot! 
  • Friday: Rule of thumb for the first night of the weekend: Short skirt OR low cut shirt. Personally I’m a fan of the short skirt on Fridays because it isn’t as busy as Saturday, so I spend more time walking around the dining room and less time standing behing the host station. This means that I am seen from the waist down just as much as the waist up. So Friday bras are made more for enhancing than for highlighting. A larger problem is the choice of underwear, because if you have a panty line you look like a farty old mom, which means you sort of need a thong, but I am like really anti thong, because wedgies are NOT FUN and perpetual wedgies are JUST TOTALLY FUCKING STUPID. So I’m partial to the boy short, which covers the cheek pretty fully without any. Judge me and my granny panties, I don’t care. But if you ask me, G-strings are for violins and guitars, not girls with short skirts. This set is Hanro from Neiman Marcus, and if you haven’t been turned on to the joy of underwear that completely covers your ass, you truly haven’t lived (happily).
  • Saturday: Rule of thumb for Saturday night is like Friday, only instead of choosing between tits or ass, you choose tits AND ass. You have to do it, because it’s the only way customers are nice to you. Men are nice because you make them feel young again and you can distract them from the fact that their table is going to take 45 minutes longer than you told them it would. Women stay away from you because pushed up boobs make you look confident, and they’re scared of you, and you’re really fine with that because that means they’ll leave you alone. 
  • Sunday: Sunday is family day so on Sunday I wear an old lady bra. There are two types: one is the supportive old lady bra that looks terrific under a sweater but is basically a dealbreaker when your husband sees it. Wacoal makes the widest variety of this type of old lady bra. The other old lady bra is a Brigette Bardot-ish pointy balconet that gives you boobies reminiscient of Kim McAfee in Bye Bye Birdie or Sandy (before she gets super hot) in Grease. 

if you’ve got them, flaunt them. i’m talking about dimples. and breasts.

13 Apr

Tonight at the restaurant this really cute guy came in for dinner with his wife and 1-year-old daughter. A real family man. Except that he kept flashing his dimples at every girl in the room. First it was one of my waitresses. Then another. Then me. Then Charlie (just kidding, he’s still in Vegas). We all sat in the corner fluttering our lashes like giddy schoolgirls.

“He needs to put those things away in front of his wife. She’s starting to get pissed.”

But what’s a guy with dimples to do? Is it really hurting anyone to gaze into a girl’s eyes and make her feel like a million bucks? The fact that my waitresses felt so attractive to such a hottie made them work harder and more enthusiastically than I’ve seen in quite some time.

That’s why which bra I wear is so so so so important.

Some girls like the Victoria’s Secret cleavage, but not me. I think I’ve been shopping there for so long I consider them the “mom jeans” of bras. Every time I walk in all I can think about is the hunter green “2nd skin satin” sets me and my bunkmates bought on our trip to Montreal during sleepaway camp because the boys told us it was their favorite color. So I’m kinda done with VS. I’ve moved on to the far less mature nymph-haven, Gilly Hicks, which is literally Abercrombie & Fitch but with less fabric, if that is even humanly possible. I didn’t think that my Adele-ish body would work in an environment that is tailored towards 14-year-old America’s Next Top Model contestants (not the plus size ones, the regular ones) but this one gem I unearthed truly does the trick. I have it in 27 colors.

My Gilly Hicks underthings aren’t for everyday. They’re reserved for: days off when I’m wearing layered tank tops, nights out with Charlie or Harry and, most importantly, weekend nights at work. It is imperative that my boobs be pushed up and together, but without a hint of anything making that happen.

My weeknight work brassiere is far less romantic. It’s reserved for booking parties for ladies’ bowling teams, schmoozing with the regulars who are interested in the food more than me and running around doing liquor inventory. It’s usually paired with Spanx, control-top tights and a high-cut top. I feel lumpy and droopy in them, which is why my midweek blog posts are usually so bitter.

But tonight was a Gilly Hicks night, and let me tell you, my stories were sooooo interesting to sooooo many (male) customers. And Harry made me chocolate milk that was extra chocolatey.

The moral of the story is, if you’ve got adorable dimples, you can make a lot of people happy by letting them shine.

Sidebar: Tonight I was chatting up this guy at the bar (Did that make me  me sound like I was picking him up? I’m thinking it did, especially after this particular post, but let’s just be clear that it is my job to have conversations with men and occasionally women at bars). I confessed that I want Adele to play me in the sitcom version of my life because I really love the accent and think I deserve to be British (more Eliza Dolittle pre-Henry Higgins than post), he told me that she seems really angsty and that’s just not me. I spent the rest of the night crying under the desk in my old office in the basement playing Joni Mitchell and Bjork. Who the fuck is he to tell me I’m not angsty?