Yes, it does seem boobs are a theme around here but it’s inevitable when you’ve grown up in a boob obsessed family. My grandfather was the grand boob-a (get it! Pooh-ba…….boob-ba…….) All through the 70′s, Dolly Parton greeted you at the door of his workshop. Even though I hadn’t grown to full height, I was quite sure that those glossy boobs were about eye level for a tall man. Hmmmm. It did give me something to look up to. Or shelter if a pipe burst.
As my mom’s blog mentioned (http://savanvleck.wordpress.com/2008/06/28/things-i-miss-by-clicking/), Grampa had a love affair with televisions. After his retirement, many of us were convinced he felt remote controls were an adult toy. At the push of a button you could summon boobs of all shapes and sizes. If boobs moved off the screen you need only to click to a new channel and another pair was waiting to entertain. I remember visiting one day and wondering why he was watching a program aired in Spanish until I realized boobs suffer no language barrier.
While Grampa was dedicating his life to freeing boobs from bondage, Gramma was spending hers trying to make them illegal. Everyone watching the battle of the boobs sympathized to some degree with both sides I believe. After all, when two polar opposites dig in their heels, the tassles are bound to fly. The situation was made all the more ironic when, due to medical reasons, Gramma ended up with more than one set of boobs. For Grampa it must have been like visiting Ben and Jerry’s and being told you were allergic to Chunky Monkey. Sweet revenge. Gramma now had eight boobs and Grampa wasn’t touching any of them.
Now in another twist of neurosis, Gramma was concerned she would be called to meet her maker and the family would fight over her posessions. Since editing a will on a daily basis is inconvenient, she reserved coveted items by placing post-it notes with names of their next owners on the them. (I learned this trick real early and would scan the room when I first arrived tagging things like a male dog at a campground.)
When my mother, grandmother, and I get together we tend to get a tad giggly. Grampa had chastized us for such outrageous behavior more than once. (It appears boob watching is less enjoyable if women are laughing behind your chair.) One visit our giggly conversation turned to Gramma’s spare boobs and the matter of inheritance.
Now for those of you who did not grow up during the Great Boob Wars, you may be surprised to find out that medical boobs come in many shapes, sizes, materials, and weights. Good dress boobs can cost upwards of $1000! (a pair, not each)
Since we were already giddy, and it was really irritating Grampa, Gramma helped the conversation along by retrieving her boob collection from its hiding place. What ensued was akin to a booberware party. We shook, jiggled, passed, and assessed the qualities of the various pairs while laughing until we cried. Three generations of women making such statements as, “What if I want to borrow the dress boobs on the same night you do? Should we draw bra straps to decide or do we each get one? (Which reminds me of the bag of bra straps Gramma gave me one year because she was sure I could use them in a craft for my Cub Scouts. NOT KIDDING) In the end, I believe my mother won inheritance rights to the boob collection on the condition that I then get them after her. I do have to wonder though if the post-it notes with mom’s name on them are visible through a pink sparkly evening gown.
While I have many many treasured memories of laughing with my mom and grandmother, I believe I may be the only one who can claim to have, as one of my favorite memories, the night we all fondled Gramma’s boobs.
