Posts Tagged ‘boobalicious’

It’s probably worth remembering this: never wear an op-shop top that you haven’t properly road-tested when you embark on a long car journey. Why? Well, your less-than-reliable vehicle might suddenly break down and you’ll end up having to hang out with three children at a country pub for hours and hours amidst the Friday Arvo drinking crowd with your breasts on the verge of popping out to join the revelry at any given minute. 

And yes, that’s what happened to me. Honestly, the hotted-up utes were pulling up thick and fast, as if one of the guys had sent a text around that said “Get your arse here. City housewife flashing tits at pub.”

My husband was, in the mean time, wrestling with his own demons. “Bacchus is testing me,” he said, referring to the God of Wine and All Alcohol-Related Fun whom he had foresaken for an entire month in the name of “Dry January”.  (For the record: my “Dry January” ended up being “Dry January Day” as I took much pleasure in star-jumping off that boring old wagon at my earliest convenience). It turns out that the pub we’d ultimately broken down in front of had its own micro-brewery and the roadside assistance company was on the phone was offering us free accommodation at the B&B next door.

“Be strong!” I urged, whilst secretly planning to order myself some tequila shooters at the earliest opportunity. After all, I’d been wrangling the kids in various locations (the car, a paddock, the pub) for many hours while he tried to fix the problem and sort things out with the roadside assistance people. And, let’s face it, there were more than a few men in the front bar who’d be willing to buy me and my potential wardrobe malfunction a drink or two. 

Anyway, in the end, nobody drank anything except water and I played “What’s the time Mr Wolf” with the kids on the verandah of the pub while those utes kept rolling in. And then the Mother of All Towtrucks came to take all five of us and our Love Bus those final 104 kilometres home. At over eight hours door to door, our original three hour tour had almost ventured into Gilligan Island territory – though, arguably, a coconut bra might have helped me out some.

As the tow-truck pulled up outside the house, some of our neighbours, upon hearing the commotion, came out to enjoy the show (the Love Bus being taken off the tow truck and not my breasts, apparently). “Yes, we’re home!” we announced to the neighbourhood at large. One neighbour was notable in his absence, however. The Mason across the road, who had sold us the Love Bus in gleaming new condition just three years ago, was no doubt watching from behind his lace curtains, looking at his beloved Tarago and saying “Oh, Mojo!! What have they done to you???” And if you didn’t get that reference, kindly take your eyes off my cleavage and go watch yourself some more Simpsons, please.

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At mothers’ group the other day, one of the mums showed us her breasts no less than four times. I don’t know why, but I chose to share this with my husband, which is exactly the kind of thing that makes him perk up a little and say “I should come to mothers’ group a bit more often”. But then, this is the man who always hopes the Girls Nights Outs I go on involve my friends and I romping around in our underwear hitting each other with pillows. Which is almost what happens, except it’s more like Bollywood-themed parties where we get drunk and dance a lot and where usually mild-mannered lawyers say things like “Man, my sari keeps getting in the way of my air guitar”.

Anyway, I quickly added that this exhibition of breasts at mothers’ group was strictly a one-off. You see, one of our ranks (MW) has surgically upgraded her A-Cup Peanuts to C-Cup Hooters and she’s very excited. And for very good reason: they look spectacular and they make her feel All Woman (with just a dash of silicon thrown in for good measure). 

Not surprisingly enough, my husband asked if anyone had touched them, though he hastened to add that this question was the result of an Inquiring Mind and not of a Perverted One. I sighed: No, no-one had touched them. However, I was hoping that, at the upcoming Christmas party, we might all get drunk enough to cop a feel, perhaps as part of a blind-fold test where we put her C cups next to another set of C cups to see if we could feel the difference. Except – of course – gravity would give the game away: one set would be up where we’d all like breasts to be and the other set would be more at waist level. Unless we did the test with both participants wearing the same type of bra, maybe with a little lace edging to enhance the whole “cop a feel” experience…

I suddenly realised I was thinking all this out loud and that my husband was hanging off my every word (for a change). “I think I’d better get [local dad] Matt-Guitar-Murphy in on this.” he said, somewhat dazed. “We can sit in the corner with a few bottles of his Home Brew and Just Watch. You won’t even know that we’re there.”

I think I then tried to change the whole topic of breasts, but he came back to it from another angle a while later. “What should I say when I see [MW]?” he asked. My advice was to keep quiet, unless she herself brought them up (no pun intended). And then, it was probably not a good idea for him to do what I did when I first saw them, which was to exclaim “Hello, boys!!!”.

We then workshopped some possible comments he might make, thinking he could give his remarks a financial slant since that’s his (albeit accidental) current area of expertise and that would keep them purely professional. For example, “I heard you’ve boosted your assets portfolio”. Or  “I hope your husband is getting a good return on his investment”. Or “That’s one investment which will guarantee a happy ending these-a-days”. Or…er…

And finally, we (rather sensibly) decided it was probably best for him to avoid her until the novelty wears off completely for everybody –  say in about twenty years. And in the meantime, if he thinks that I’m going to tell him the location of our Christmas Party, he’s very much mistaken. My lips and shirt buttons are completely and utterly sealed.

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