Don't Sleep With A Bubba: Unless Your Eggs Are In Wheelchairs. Susan Reinhardt

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ frightening than securing the Lost Girls, a pet name for the old pair (since I used to have to fetch them from various locations), was the areola spreading like Oscar Mayer bologna. A lot of people don’t know the difference, especially men, between a nipple and an areola. I didn’t until I gave birth.

      A big sweet nurse came in and said, “You got to put the areola in that child’s mouth or his ass gone be starvin’ to death.” She was white but had a hip-hop accent and two gold teeth, one formed with a cutout star.

      “It’s in there. See? There’s my nipple in the baby’s mouth.”

      She reared back her head, those teeth blinding with a setting sun. “Girl, that’s yo nipple? That tiny, chewed-off piece a skin? Can’t no baby get a drop of milk lest you stick the whole wad up in their mouths. With a nipple that size, yo baby’s lucky to get his tongue wet, much less a meal. You need to stuff the areola up in there wid it.”

      Nipples. Areolas. I figured it was your basic nipple unit, an all-in-one package. The nurse bent in for a closer inspection of my feeding units.

      “Yo sweet, sore ass may not have a decent nipple, but, whoa, check out dem areolas!”

      “What?” I stared down at my achingly full, sagging boobies.

      “Honey, they big as flapjacks. They looked like satellite dishes wide enough to pick up the Al Jazeera Network.”

      And this is exactly why, upon learning I had this problem, I paid my handsome surgeon an extra thousand bucks to take my Oscar Mayer–sized discs and snip them around the edges as one might a Simplicity pattern until they were the perky size of a cheerleader’s, preferably a cheerleader who hadn’t given birth.

      My husband was livid upon seeing my itty-bitty areolas, wanting his satellite dishes back. But I had made a choice, paid for it and insured the suckers for the next ten years. It wasn’t as if I was planning to get a job as middle-aged stripper at the local VFW or Croaker’s Rest Home. Not any time soon, that is.

      That was three years ago. I figured by now they would have deflated, popped, leaked or sagged. Naturally, I paid the $100 for the warranty, thinking I’d at least own them as long as I did my Whirlpools. I thought one round of sex on the stairs would have done them in for sure. I guess these bags of saline are much harder to destroy than one may believe.

      It’s also a big myth that only hussies, divas, rednecks and insecure narcissists go in for hoo-hoo restoration. Plenty of women like me who resemble National Geographic pinups ask for the workup. I’ve had several mommy friends who got Up Grades because their babies had sucked the life and vitality out of their nack-nackers. I remember my own children pecking at my chest night and day as if I was roadkill, and the kinfolk horrified and asking, “When you gonna wean that child?” To which I responded ever so pleasantly:

      “When she can put four quarters in the Coke machine.”

      Those who are wondering what three years can do to a decent boob job, wonder no more.

      One morning, after gaining a few pounds from my late-night perimenopausal nacho-platter feasts, I realized my restoration had undergone a few unsavory changes, mainly in size and number. Yes, number. You read this correctly.

      First, you’ve got your base units—the smooth, round Mentors my handsome doc wedged underneath the chest muscle, kind of like cracking a giant oyster with a crowbar and sticking in a huge, inflatable pearl. Seeing it on TV, I was horrified that they use what resembles auto-mechanic tools to get the tit bags up under there. No wonder I was black and blue.

      Everything was great for a while until my uterus turned on me once again, deciding it would become my brain and continued ordering me to “eat, eat, eat!” and gain some weight, stimulating my appetite to the point I had nachos nightly and began to see a new set of cleavage atop the implanted and stationary base units.

      The problem was that my original set of natural breast tissue was growing from weight gain and the fibroids within as well as swelling from caffeine intake. Seems they decided to give in to gravity and take flight from the base unit. Perhaps they were upset and jealous, or maybe had turned into Earth Mamas wanting nothing but surroundings that were natural and organic, which saline and silicone are not.

      As long as I remained in a standing, upright position, everything looked fine, if not slightly lovely. One night as I rolled over in bed, my eyes caught a glimpse of something I can’t bear to ever see again as long as I draw air. I screamed a real bloodcurdler. My original boobs, which, as I mentioned, had suddenly grown and gained a good bit of weight and new tissue, had up and slid right off the Mentor 350s anchored to my rib cage.

      “Stuart!” I yelled. “Please come up here. Something horrible has happened.”

      “What now? Another fake heart attack?”

      He was referring to the winter I called 911 three times and went by ambulance to the ER swearing like Fred Sanford and saying, “This is it! This is the Big One,” convinced my palpitations were a heart attack.

      After about thirty minutes of hearing me moan and freak out, he finally trudged upstairs.

      “Come here,” I said. “You aren’t going to believe this.”

      He shook his head as if to say, “Great. Here we go again. Brown recluse bite this time? Ebola virus? Giant lumps on scalp indicating exterior brain tumors?”

      “What?” he asked.

      “Just wait a sec. I’m going to have to lay down to show you.” I climbed in bed and removed my shirt and bra. At first, his eyes lit up and ear tips glowed red with lust. “Get over here. You can’t see it until you come over toward this side of the bed.”

      He was clearly frustrated and wondering what his weird wife had done this time. I leaned over and let my original breasts roll right off the implanted Mentor 350s. Believe me, the saline rounds will stay put forever. I could go to the nursing home and they’d still be right up there even when my nipple and areola package hit my knees.

      “See? See this? These, rather?” I pointed to my udders.

      “No. I don’t see anything but a naked woman laying on her side acting crazy.”

      “Here. Are you blind? Put on my magnifying glasses.”

      He reluctantly slid them onto his ears, probably thinking that if he obliged he may get some later, and since I was already half naked…“Lean close and tell me what you see.”

      He bent toward my chest. “I see boobs. Big ones. Redneck titties is what I see.”

      “See? I told you. Boobs!!! Not a pair, not a set, not a couple…but boobs. Boobs galore! How many are you seeing?”

      He literally snorted, bull-like, and backed off as if an alien inhabited the Sealy. “And if I twist my body over the other way, same thing. Tell me the truth. HOW MANY DO YOU SEE?”

      He shook his head and turned on the TV.

      “I’m calling the doctor!” I cried out when he began cussing ESPN and not paying my udders a bit of mind.

      “You better call the shrink,” he mumbled.

      “Are you saying you don’t see four?”

      “Four СКАЧАТЬ