And then what happens when you find another girl’s bra in your apartment.

[Setting: Twitter]

@pamelaribon — I just pulled a bra out of my drawer and put it on, only to realize… this isn’t mine. I don’t shop at Victoria’s Secret. (…is it yours?)

@Glark — Stop crowdtesting your new novel Pamie.

@Mjfrig — Yes, I have man-boobs, okay! Stop rubbing it in. #idontreally #onlyajokeiswear

@auriflamme — It’s mine, yo.

@matt_fuqua — How embarrassing. I’ll get it next time I see you.

@SaraMorrison — What does it look like?

@pamelaribon — @SaraMorrison Flesh-colored, “Biofit,” 34D. If it’s yours, you just saved three thousand hours of drilling @jasonwupton with questions. Continue reading

i am about to blind you with some serious fucking science.

I’m not a Fergie fan. To the point where when someone mentioned that Fergie had an album coming out, I was skeptical that Americans would be interested in listening to an album by British Weight Watchers royalty.

The first time someone told me about Fergie’s new song, that is exactly what I said back. “How did this happen? Is it a novelty song?”

After a five-second pause, the friend gave me some seriously sad eyebrows and said, “From the Black Eyed Peas?” Continue reading

well, it’s another entry about my boobs.

Just got back from seeing Inside Man, or The Inside Man, or whatever it is. It doesn’t matter. I wanted to see it because Clive Owen is amazing, and if the entire movie was him doing that first monologue straight to the camera I would have been much more entertained.

Consequently, about half an hour into the movie I started thinking about writing this entry.

There’s a scene that’s in the trailer, so I’m not spoiling anything, where the bad guys make everybody in the bank strip to their underwear. This taps into something I’ve never talked about here, mostly because it hasn’t come up. I recently confessed my this confession to a co-worker, and while he did give me the, “Every day I learn something weirder about you” look, he didn’t suggest I keep this neurotic fun fact to myself, so I’ll blame all of this on him.

The scene confirmed my fear, and let me know that it was a perfectly normal, rational thought to have each morning.

When I get dressed, I always think, “Is this what I want to be seen in when the bad guys bust into the building and force us to strip down to our underwear?” Continue reading

counter-point.

[readermail]
Dear Pam,

I read with interest your entry on sports bras for the, um, chestally blessed on Friday. I found it very entertaining, despite screaming at the computer, “Pam, Oprah is not the boss of you!” But more disappointing than that was the fact that you neglected what might be the most interesting aspect of the Enell Sports Bra website. Despite their slogan, “Any Woman, Any Lifestyle!”, the good folks at Enell have expanded their product line beyond the torture device of your jogging nightmares.

I’m talking about the Enell Male Support Vest. From the website: “Many men have the need for a good support vest. If you are visiting this page, you may be one of them.”

I am not. I swear. My man chest is self-supporting, thank you very much (I know protesting makes it seem worse, like, “I just read it for the articles,” or “Some of my best friends are black!” but I want to be clear on this point). After careful consideration, I have decided this is the worst product in history to ever to need. Worse than adult diapers. Worse than headgear. Why? When you ladies head to the gym and strap yourself into the Enell, you can look at the small chested girls who hold, from a practical standpoint, a momentary advantage over you and say, “Yeah, you’re more comfortable now, but as soon as I get out of here I’ll once again unleash these puppies on the world, twisting the minds of weak-minded men like Obi-Wan on Moss Isley.”

Should I, or any other man, ever be caught wearing a vest designed to minimize my “bounce,” it would be bullet in the brain time. You’re done. Finished. Locker room towel snaps to the ass and furious wedgies would be the least of your problems. That it’s available in three fashionable colors and is made from a high tech wicking fabric doesn’t change that.

So maybe you should consider yourself lucky that all you did from wearing your Enell is nearly suffocate to death (which, by the way, would have made me quite sad and inspired feelings of guilt for not promptly returning your copy of “Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs”). At least you weren’t committing social suicide. Remember, Pam, silver lining.

And Oprah is not the boss of you.

BK
[/readermail]

Bounce With Me, Bounce With Me.

I bought an Enell Sports Bra, because Oprah told me to. It arrived yesterday afternoon, and despite all better judgment, I decided to give it a test run. Literally.

It’s not a pretty bra, but with a little imagination, you can pretend you’re into some weird bondage stuff with it, because… well, because I’m pretty sure it’s an actual instrument of bondage. Twenty hook-and-eyes go along the front of it, which is easier said than done when you’re binding yourself into this Ace bandage with hooks, trying not to pinch your precious skin between your fingers, as you shove yourself into position. Once you’re all hooked up, it looks like you’re ready for some kind of cheesy Sci-Fi scene. The boobs are so flattened and frozen in position that you actually feel like the top half of a Barbie, only able to swivel from side to side at the waist. Continue reading

so early, so late

You don’t have to check the time of this post. I’ll tell you. It’s four in the morning.

I’ve learned an important lesson. When you decide to drink more Diet Coke than you have in about a year, it’s best not to do it at eleven at night. I’ve been trying to fall asleep for over four hours. Continue reading

Measure for Measure

A couple of months ago my friend Liz and I went shopping. She was looking for a camisole for an upcoming show, so we hit a few lingerie stores. This, of course, led us to Victoria’s Secret.

I felt conspicuous holding my Coffee Bean cup as I fingered lace tops, watching the salesladies watch me. Liz couldn’t decide between two different tops and I explained the difference between a top with a shelf bra and one without. She grabbed her own breasts. “I don’t need a shelf. I’m fine on my own.”

I told her about some tops at Banana Republic, and she decided to head over there to check them out. We headed down the spiral staircase and out the door, passing a saleswoman with a measuring tape around her neck. As we walked back into the bright sunlight, something made both of us stop walking.

“You know, I’ve always wanted to get measured at one of those places,” I said. “Just to see if I’m wearing the right bra.”

She smiled. “I was just about to say the same thing. Let’s go.”

Continue reading

Girl Talk

like, serious GIRL talk

There are a few things I think every woman should know, and I don’t know where the parenting chain breaks down, but some women don’t know about these things. And in college, it was somehow my job to teach these young girls things that their mothers and fathers assumed they knew, or I guess didn’t even know themselves.

I’m just going to get them out of the way here and now, and then we can move on. Perhaps you’ll have something to share when it’s all over, because you know a secret or two that should be common knowledge.

Continue reading