I’m a little worried I’m becoming a one trick pony here. This will be the third post I’ve written about my chest hams and I’m worried I’m starting to bore you. I’m concerned about that but I must tell you this.
I’ve been squeaking. I noticed it a few weeks ago. I’d move in my seat to type on my laptop or reach for something and hear a persistent squeal. “Eeeee. EE. Eeeee.”
I’d bend over to pick up a dropped pen at work and sure enough:
“Eeeeeeee. Ee….” I’d pause before standing up, ears perked. The I would rise slowly.
And then I realized what the sound was.
My brand new bra. The god damned new bra that cost about as much a a Faberge egg was squeaking like a suspension bridge under heavy rush hour traffic.
“What do I do about this?” I asked my mother when she was done having hysterics over the phone. I heard her take a last laughing breath. “I mean honestly, am I supposed to WD-40 the underwire?”
“Have you tried getting a wrench and adjusting the hydraulics?”
In the end I decided to just keep wearing the things because, come on, you don’t throw away two seventy five dollar bras just because it sounds like defective machinery. Not when it provides killer support and cleavage. No, You work that shit into your game, homegirl.
Imagine as I do, standing in a dark, smokey speakeasy, leaning against a mahogany piano with a handsome stranger. You are wearing the most elegant of satin evening gowns and your cleavage bursts forth seductively. You lean towards this gorgeous man with his high cheek bones, toffee skin, black slicked back hair and seductively sip your gin martini. The two of you are leaning close now and he moves to whisper in your ear over the tinkling of the piano.
“I say, do you by chance hear some sort of tinkling, my dear?”
And you’ll move closer to him, your ruby red lipstick leaving a sinful smudge against his snow white collar as you tilt your mouth up to the shell of his ear and murmur:
“It’s my bra. It’s full of mice. But don’t worry they are very friendly…”