Strolling hand in hand down a cobblestone street with the geologist/hiker/camper guy (I can't just say geologist, that sounds water-torture drip drip drip painful) the other day.
Phone rings. It's my mother. I debate internally the pros and cons of answering, but finally give in, knowing that of I don't, she'll continue to call back until I answer.
"Hi, I'm over at WalMart. Do you need a new bra?"
There's just too many things wrong with that question for me to ennumerate.
I glance over at K, who is suddenly immensely fascinated by the pigeon waddling by and determinedly not listening to my very loud, New Yorker mother on the phone.
"Um, errr, no Mom. I don't." I sigh, knowing the conversation is not about to end there.
"Of course you do. Half the time I see you, you're not even wearing one and you look like a streetwalker standing on the corners." (Translation: prostitute picking up clients). "How are you ever going to meet a nice man and get married again if you look like a floozy?"
K is intently watching the pigeon go poop on the bench as though it's a wildlife documentary worthy of an Oscar.
I have no choice. "Ma. I. Do. Not. Need. A. Bra."
She continues on, as though I hadn't said a word.
"They're on sale for only 3 dollars, it's silly not buy one at that price. Do you want white or nude? How about white so you can bleach it. That's more practical."
I don't answer, as there's really no point. K has given up trying to pretend he's not listening, and I can see the laughter about to erupt.
"I have to go, Ma, the kids' school is on the other line. Bye."
K can't hold it in any longer. "Can't wait to meet her, " he says finally, after he subdues his laughter and tries to wipe the grin off his face. "Well, that and see the fantastic man-getting bra first-hand."