Friday, January 20, 2012

The over the shoulder boulder holder




What do an egg cup, a tea cup, a coffee cup and a challenge cup have in common? 
They are the original cup sizes for bras.
Who knew? 

Having just experienced a female lingerie emergency, I thought I’d find out more about this garment that I either love or loathe.

I suppose I better own up to the nature of the emergency. Well, it wasn’t a 911, but it did draw blood. I was happily chatting away to my male colleagues when all of a sudden, the underwear on my, rather nice bra, stabbed me brutally in the boob.
 
“Are you okay?”
“Um… yes, I’m fine,” I replied breathlessly and a little desperately trying to find a way out of the conversation and into the sanctuary of the ladies’ room.
“Seriously, what happened? You look pale?”
“Really, I’m fine.”
“Why are you crossing your arms like that?”
“You want to know? Fine. I tell you. My bra just tried to stab me in the heart! OKAY!”

 Funny, how quickly they vacated my office and left me to try and extricate myself. Of course, it would be one of those days when you can’t take 20 minutes to run to the mall and buy a new one, so I had to resign myself to having one boob up one boob down for the day.


In fact, when asked about my most embarrassing moments, underwear malfunctions feature high on my list. But that is another story.

The bra is officially 115 years old. However, it has appeared in history all the way back to the ancient Romans, Greeks and Minoans. Then of course we had the corset. Now, I am not an advocate of wholesale whale slaughter, but I venture to suggest that whalebone might be more comfortable than the steel underwire that just almost gave me a mastectomy.

By 1900 several “emancipation garments” had been designed and patented. One rigid metal structure resembling a large dustbin was designed by Henry Lesher. Thank the Lord it didn’t catch on. Olivia Flynt had a “bust supporter” that sort of designated each boob into a pocket. Charles Moorhouse offered a “breast-enlarging garment” complete with BDSM rubber straps and cups.

In 1907, French Vogue coined the term brassiere or bra and voila here we are. Mary Phelps Jacobs is widely recognised as the architect of the bra. In a very Scarlet o’Hara fashion crisis she made a bra from two silk hankies and some ribbon. Not quite as impressive as the ballroom curtains, but functional nonetheless.

Credit for the first brassiere usually goes to Mary Phelps Jacob, a 19-year-old girl-about-Manhattan who, in 1910, bought a sheer evening gown for a party. The whalebone corset that was supposed to define her figure actually poked out of the plunging fabric. What was a girl to do? She and her maid dug two silk hankies out of a drawer, sewed them on to a length of pink ribbon, added some string and tucked her breasts in place. Girlfriends asked if she would make a similar device for them. Then somebody paid her a dollar to do so, and she took the hint.

Now corsets went out of style with the French Revolution, or started to, but really ended up on the trash heap of history with the advent of World War 1. Corsets were outlawed, apparently the steel was needed to build battleships. Who knew. By World War 2 women in the forces had to wear bra’s for “protection”? The advent of the bulletproof vest?

The only real blip on the sales horison of the bra came in the 1960s with the bra-burning Germaine Greer. When Ira Rosenthal, wife of William, the minds behind our current cup size conundrum and the Maidenform bra, was asked if she was worried, she replied that she had gravity on her side. Sure enough once the bra burning teens became breast-feeding baby boomers, they were back in Maidenforms.

Then along came Larry Nadler, the MBA behind the Wonderbra. It claimed to the first bra to empower woman rather than disempower them. I think that is a pretty lofty statement for a bra, but hey, its advertising.

What is more bizarre is what goes into making my Victoria’s Secret over the shoulder boulder holders. The Today Show says, “Even the simplest bra is composed of complex industrial parts that require the expertise of chemical engineers, biomechanics scientists, veteran seamstresses and color specialists. It takes hundreds of machines to produce…”
 
Did you know:
  • Caterpillar spit and crude oil are among the ingredients of some bras
  • Over 4,000,000 new bras are created on average every day
  • Women own an average of 6.5 bras (The half bra, is what I was reduced to with the underwire crisis – we keep these in the hope that we can fix them, which we can’t)
  • In the last 15 years, the average bust size has increased from 34B to 36C
  • How many ounces in a cup? An A cup – approximately 8 fluid ounces; B cup – 13 ounces; C cup – 21 ounces; and D cup – 27 ounces. They were originally known as egg cup, tea cup, coffee cup and challenge cup
  • Women spend around $16 billion a year on bras

(I found these on http://www.intimateguide.com/bras/bra-history-101-with-nifty-vintage-photos/)


Thursday, January 19, 2012

Mums and Dads




I had one of those illuminating discussions with my 5-year-old daughter and 7-year-old son this afternoon.

The topic - What do mums and dads do?

MUMS
       1.     Mums go to work
       2.     Mums take kids to school
       3.     Mums help clean the house
       4.     Mums put on movies for kids
       5.     Mums read stories
       6.     Mums give good cuddles
       7.     Mums help when you get hurt
       8.     Mums take you to the doctor
       9.     Mums make hot chocolate
       10.  Mums make ponytails for little girls
       11.  Mums put on makeup
       12.  Mums make kids have baths
       13.  Mums buy stuff for you
       14.  Mums take care of people who are scared
       15.  Mums are nice and not mean
       16.  Mums can kill monsters and trap bad guys

DADS
1.     Dads build Wendy houses for their daughters
2.     Dads fix cars
3.     Dads go to Builders Warehouse
4.     Dads buys tattoos
5.     Dads make swings
6.     Dads fix stuff
7.     Dads hold you upside down and tickle you
8.     Dads play with you
9.     Dads help you with homework
10.  Dads go to work
11.  Dads help you with computer games and the Wii
12.  Dads buy stuff for you on your birthday
13.  Dads take you sailing
14.  Dads ride bikes with you
15.  Dads make ice-cream and hot chocolate sauce
16.  Dads make midnight snacks
Dads sound like way more fun than Mums.

Mr Tickle and the Very Public Apology





Remember sleep overs? Back in the day with your pink jammies and your BFFs? 

Oh… and midnight snacks? 

Well, I never quite got the midnight snacks part. I remember waking up one morning and staring at my BFF in horror. “What happened to your cheek?” I asked shocked at the vast red handprint over her face. 
“You should know,” she said, “You did it.” 
Apparently, I don’t like being woken up from REM sleep very much.

I had hoped I had left this violent streak in my past, but this morning I find myself in the dog box for a similar discretion. I had on my earphones and was deep into White Light Guided Mediation from Dick Sutphen. My body was on the earthly plane, but the rest of me was floating happily somewhere in the ether.

Suddenly and without warning I was jolted back awake, sat bolt upright and began a frantic fight with the earphone wires while trying to make sense of the hell was going on.

My husband had touched my stomach - specifically that inch or two of skin just above my hip. The feeling is akin to having 2000 volts of electricity shot through my system. 

I have no idea why that little patch of nerve endings renders me insensible, but last night it sent me jackknifing across the bed. I ended up somehow throwing my elbow back just as my spouse lent forward, smashing his glasses into little bitty pieces and probably leaving him with a black eye.

Needless to say I slept alone last night. I maintain that although I landed the killing blow, it wasn’t pre-meditated and therefore falls in the realm of a horrible misunderstanding and terrible accident.

I then picked up a spade and began to dig myself a trench, or a final resting place. I just can’t help it, no matter what I say I make it worse, so I’m writing this blog knowing that as I’ll be sent to Coventry anyway, I may as well record it for prosperity.

I am so sorry I hit you last night. I really didn’t mean to, it was an accident. 
I hope you are alright. 

I love you, please forgive me. 


 
PS: The moral of the story



Wednesday, January 4, 2012

I survived Christmas and didn't kill anyone




“My mom’s has big boobs!” announced my 7-year-old son halfway through Christmas lunch with my in-laws. 

The proclamation was followed by piratical laughter and a quick exit.

I could have said: “Like father like son.”
Or: “He’s entered a new stage in Freudian development.”
Or: “He knows a good thing when he sees it.”

But I didn’t.

I hid my head in my hands and wept with laughter until the wildfire blush had cooled down to a mild glowing simmer.

Christmas time. Like many mothers it is a time that fills me with deep seeded panic and exhaustion.

What on earth am I supposed to do with three small children that is not going bankrupt me, yet occupy them and stop them killing each other, hating me or burning my house down? There are many wonderful places to go and things to do around this time of the year; unfortunately most of them need a level of financial liquidity I am a stranger to.

I am also haunted, not by the ghost of Christmas Past, but the far more chilling spectre of the Perfect Mom. 
 
The Perfect Mom doesn’t work all year round and then collapse during her 5 days off over Christmas into a semi-coma. The Perfect Mom can crochet blankets out of the fur of her perfectly trained German Shepherd. 

The Perfect Mom can whip up a Christmas feast for ten and design her own bloody sleigh. She doesn’t have a problem fitting down the chimney.

This year I refused to allow Perfect Mom to wag her perfectly French-manicured finger disapprovingly in my direction. 

This year I blew the Perfect Mom into the stratosphere. 

I made Christmas Crackers that turned out to be very pretty, but needed Arnold and The Rock to pull them apart. Tissue paper is a lot stronger than it seems. 

We made nougat, bath fizz bomb, a rainbow cake and a gingerbread house. We even recycled Coca Cola bottles into bird feeders and made a wreath out of plastic bags. 

We even refurbished the boys' trainer bike for our daughter thanks to some purple glitter metallic paint and a pink saddle.

Beat that Perfect Mom.

'Twas the day Christmas when I went out 
To buy a gift for my industrious spouse
I went to the bicycle shop down the road
And I bought a gizmo that bicycles stowed

That’s when it got weird.

I met up with my man and he said “Oh dear me.
We must go to the bike shop immediately”
There I stood a step or two behind
Making desperate cutting gestures with my hand

The bike salesmen started to jeer.

It was a very awkward situation. 
The fact that I got out of with gift intact and unknown was a miracle. 
But, then it was the season for it. 


We didn’t go to the French Riviera or catch a tan in Mauritius. 

We went sailing, we went to the zoo and we spent time with each other in a way we can’t during most of the year.

That time is what the holidays are about – not presents, but people.





 
Next Christmas, assuming the world doesn’t come to an end, 
I think I will bake a large cake and hide inside it.

I’ve always wanted to jump out of a cake.

Perfect Mom can go jump off a cliff.