Dont Mince Words

I have short-term memory dreams now. Nothing vivid or grandeous and the plot is usually whatever happened within the last 72-hour period. So, I may be doing a Norma Rae at the office, or dreaming I met a nice, single emotionally adjusted guy at happy hour.

Now my dreams are going in scary, different directions. Last night, Jon Favreau, a writer/actor from Swingers, was the main character in my dream.

I was in Ralph’s getting my weekly supply of produce and whatnot when my Kenneth Cole bronze wedges hydroplaned on something and I fell into an end-cap tomato can pyramid. I got up, collected myself and looked around to see who saw my graceful move. Nobody, except Jon, half-way down the aisle.

But I didn’t know it was him because he gained some weight and had less hair. I assumed he was single (basket vs. cart), so I strolled up to him. He was contemplating getting the Italian-style whole tomatoes with basil.

“Those are great,” I said.

“Really?” he asked.

“Yeah, I just tried about three dozen of them at the end of the aisle,” I replied.

We both laughed and he asked if I was ok. The small talk continued and he handed me his card and asked me to call him. Oh my god, it’s Jon Favreau. Without hesitating, I turned his card over and wrote my name and number on the back.

“Why don’t you call me? And don’t wait three days,” I said walking away.

I woke up recalling the whole dream and just laughed at myself. Jon wouldn’t shop at the dirty Ralph’s on Lake in Pasadena. He seems like a Gelson’s or Whole Foods kind of guy to me. But I was excited to have my first grocery store pick-up. Too bad he’s married, and it was a dream.

To reaffirm that I am, indeed, 40 years old, my doctor wrote a referral for a mammogram. I’m probably one of the few people that enjoys them because I look forward to the conversations the technicians generate to try to distract you from the boob squishings.

My first mammo was in 1994. I was young and two months away from losing my insurance due to divorce. My male doctor felt a lump and sent me off to get screened. I was nervous and worried I might have a pre-existing condition that would preclude me from getting new insurance. The technician at Stuart Circle Hospital was almost a gray-haired little old lady. She prepped me for what I was about to experience, but the most comforting thing she said was, “don’t worry about it. It’s probably nothing. Male doctors don’t know how to examine cysty, large breasts and do this as a malpractice precaution.” She was right.

I saw a Brooklyn Heights doctor who decided to let me have a second mammogram when I was 35 because, “your insurance covers it. You need another baseline.” So I went to Doshi Diagnostic in SoHo and was manhandled by an Indian woman (slushee not casino variety) who didn’t speak to me outside of directions. A week later, I got the letter saying everything was fine. I returned to pick up my films because I knew I’d never go back.

Today was mammogram number three and it was the best one of all. I was greeted by a 30-something blond technician. After my right breast was slung up on the glass, she began the small talk. “So, I see you have films from New York. How do you like it out here?”

I decided to tread lightly, not knowing if she was a native, or someone I could commiserate with. “It’s kind of strange out here,” I replied.

“Hey, I’m from here and I don’t even like it,” she said. “I hear the difference is, people in New York will let you know if they like you or hate you immediately. You know where you stand.”

She then instructed me not to breathe as the image was taken. When my breast was released from captivity, I knew it was safe to reply.

“Yeah, that would pretty much sum it up. People out here can’t be straight with you and are worried about making nice-nice and keeping up appearances. I think most of them are bona fide pussies,” I told her.

She laughed and agreed and I said, “and don’t EVEN get me started about dating out here.”

She rolled her eyes and laughed harder and told me I’d have the results in a week. But I know the results: my tits are fabulous and LA is weird.

Every girl remembers her first bra. I wasn’t interested in getting one. Now, 31 years later, I still wish I didn’t have to wear one, but I’m thankful for the interesting bra shopping experiences that make the hassle worth it.

In 1975, I was an early bloomer in the fifth grade. I didn’t want to be the first one in my class to have to wear one. My mom insisted bra shopping would be “fun” and we’d go to lunch afterwards. Our destination was Lord & Taylor. In its day, it was similar to today’s Nordstrom’s. It was a rare, special treat for our lower-middle income family.

When we landed in the lingerie department, my mother went hunting for the woman with a tape measure. “Oh, so you’re here to get fitted for your first bra. Let me help you,” said the older, gray-headed lady. As I rolled my eyes, she measured below and above my sprouting breasts to compute my bra size and told me I really did need a bra, but it would be OK. I tried on several bras and walked away with a suitable young woman’s bra. It made my mom happy I wasn’t flopping around anymore. On Monday at school, my bra was visible through my white shirt. The bra snapping and teasing began.

Many years later when I was in New York, I was tiring of my bras and decided for the optimal retail experience, I needed a Jew since there was no tape measure lady in the Fifth Avenue Lord & Taylor. I wandered the lower east side and found a fabulous bra shop on Orchard. The store was 20-feet wide and had floor-to-ceiling containers of bras with a sliding ladder to reach all areas. I walked in and a black-hat Jew with the goldilocks dreads, beard, and dandruff looked at me.

“You need a bra” he said, surveying my sagging state of affairs.

Without hesitation he told me I was a 40dd. No tape measure. A Hasidic Jew with visual, pinpoint accuracy. He pulled several bras out of containers for me to try.

“Dis is Wacoal, Oprah’s favorite bra. I give to you for $30, but it tis $55 at Macy’s,” he said.

I went to the back, behind a curtain in the stock room, where his wife assisted me with bra installation. He was right. Perfect fit. I walked out with a bargain in the right size.

Recently, I realized my Bali’s were wearing thin. I needed another retail shopping experience but wasn’t sure, on the west coast, what could top a good, lower east side Jew or my Lord & Taylor lady. Two friends recommended “The Wizard of Bras.”

I made the mistake of going on a Saturday. There was a 65-minute wait for a fitter, but given the crowd of large-breasted women, this was going to be worth the wait. When my name was called, I followed a short, Hispanic woman to one of the curtained stalls. “Bra fitting or girdle?” she asked.

“Bra. The doctor just put me on the pill and I’m getting bigger. My bras are too small and I’ve got the four-boob syndrome right now.” I admitted.

She measured above, she measured below, and she measured across the middle and came back with a bra for me to test. I was asked to raise my hands above my head and discovered my left breast was bigger which forced me up another cup size. She came back with a bin of bras.

The bras fit great and looked great. Fabulous engineering until I looked at the actual bra size. I’d been several cup sizes off. Like in high school, I’d been forcibly shoving my boobs in smaller bras to hide and minimize the size. I paid for the discomfort.

The Wizard was right. Now my sport bra is a five-hooker and my day bras cost as much as a pair of Steve Madden’s or a nice, full keg of beer. While I’ve been carrying the load and enduring the teasing and the looks for more than 30 years, I still covet going braless undetected. Such freedom. Until then, I have my tape measure ladies and my retail Jews around to tell me “the proper foundation makes the woman.”