My sister Mo left a message in the guestbook stating that she has a water-filled bra and it does not freeze when she goes outside. She then immediately sent me an email (we were at work) telling me to read my guestbook.
I replied “Did I really want to know that?”, meaning that my little sister feels the need to have porn star boobs or some such.
She wrote back that I had asked and also that if she puts the water bra into the dryer, it will explode.
Bwahahahaha!
Now that is funny. Exploding lingerie. Bringing new meaning to the phrase “Boy, she’s got a hot pair on her, don’t she?”
Argh. I’m talking about Mo’s boobs. Eek.
She then asked “Oh, great, this is going to be in your diary, isn’t it?”
I replied, “Yes. Yes it is.” Because how can I not write about a bra which explodes in the washing process?
Wait a second… I think I’m channeling Martha Stewart…
You should never put your underwire bras into the dryer. Line dry them on bleached birch drying hooks, available through Martha By Mail, and you and your bras will continue to have a wonderful supporting relationship for years to come. Now my mother, Martha Koystra, will show us the proper way to withhold her love from me…er…take an angel food cake from the pan.
(gasp!)
Sorry. That doesn’t happen often.
I’m going to Milwaukee this weekend, for another night of debauchery with Mary Kaye. We’re going to the midnight showing of Rocky Horror Picture show, featuring our waitress from Ed Debevics last weekend. And I am going to buy a giant clock at Eddie Bauer which I fell in love with last trip but was too cheap to purchase. Now the clock has haunted me, ticking at me madly during quiet moments, like some Tell-Tale Heart, only cute and with Eddie Bauer written across it in sophisticated script, ticking ticking incessantly ticking wanting to live on my dining room wall until I yell “Stop! Stop I say! Stop! Why won’t you go away!” and then fall sobbing into a fetal heap.
Or something.
So… I’m buying the clock.
And possibly a digital camera. Because I’d like to post pictures of various freaky happenings. Like, had I had a digital camera last time, you would have gotten looks at the strippers, and the people with the scary piercings and possibly a picture of me lapping up my Laffy Taffy martini like a kitten.
Possibly we should all be relieved I didn’t have a digital camera last weekend.
