So we do the show-and-tell yesterday (re-christened as Internet Syphilis by John “Jack” Hornor, which is the perfect name for this whole exercise) and suddenly I got ungrateful progeny threatening to expose chancre sores I hadn’t gotten around to on account of I only had room for five outrageous truths, and also my memory ain’t what it once was, what with the virtual spirochetes chomping on my brainmeat.
Which can only mean the daughter is threatening me yet again with the Leopard Spotted Bra story. All I can do is get out in front of it, ala David Letterman, and cop to my creepiness.
So back up the time wagon maybe five or six years. The daughter is just developing, well, Joelle Charbonneau would say “a voice,” so we’ll leave it at that. Anyway, “the voice” has gotten to the point where it needs an A-cup choir loft to park itself in. We are at the local Target store en famille, and, as we pass the unmentionables section, the wife points out that you can’t get through life with just one choir loft, and that perhaps the daughter should get another.
The daughter, surmising that I had, somehow, reached my advanced age and bred repeatedly without ever once having seen a bra or even having heard the word, retreats into a quivering rictus of peri-adolescent embarassment, certain that her future was now a scorched post-apocalyptic wasteland of shame. As a loving father, I had to do something to lighten the mood and allay her unease.
The queen-size rack rack was right behind me, featuring a colorful variety of plus-sized boulder bungees, so I grabbed a leopard-spotted number in something like a 48 Double G (which is why I’m frequently known as Lord GaGa, Lady G’s opposite number) strapped that puppy on over my Sponge Bob t-shirt, and, as the pièce de résistance (or was it the coup de grace – hey, you Francophiles awake yet?) sang a few bars of “I Love Being a Girl” and, yeah, maybe there was a pirouette.
And, in that simple flash of parental brilliance, I eliminated my daughter’s bra-shopping trauma, or at least threw it so far back in the shade of her new cross-dressing father trauma that she’s now able to shop for bras and even feminine hygiene products in my presence.
Wow, feels good to have that off my chest. Shannon, looks like you’ll have to find something else to hold over my head. Maybe the French-Kissing Dog story . . .