DDamn!

My cup runneth over. With sake.

They say that 80% of women are wearing the wrong bra size.

The last time I was fitted for a bra was three years ago in Paris, in the venerable Bon Marche department store on the Left Bank. A brisk, nimble grey-haired woman in a black dress with a starched white collar snapped a tape measure around my chest. After almost an hour of frenzied trying, browsing, musing, consideration, snapping on and snapping off, I ended up with three lacy confections costing more than a five course meal with wine and a post-prandial cognac.

Two scoops of gelato in Venice

But that was three years ago. Elastic sags, delicate mesh and lace tear, colors fade. It was time to re-stock my lingerie drawer, but before spending a lot of money, I wanted to make sure of my size. So this afternoon I went to Nordstrom, at Santa Monica Place.

Here, my salesgirl was a perky, dimpled blonde who must have been no more than 25 years old. Even so, she assured me she'd been put through Nordstrom's training as a lingerie fitter. She ushered me into a fitting room, wrapped her tape measure around my chest just as efficiently as Madame had - and to my surprise, I learned that I was no longer a 36C. I am a 36DD.

That's right. DD. The little girl who was taunted in high school as being flat as a pancake, at age 57 now has DD cup bazongas! Yikes.

The salesgirl brought me some bras to try on, and I liked a model by the French lingerie maker Chantelle. I asked her for one in nude and one in black. I also chose a model by Wacoal in deep brown with tawny detail. I went out on the floor and browsed the displays, but soon it became apparent to me that, while 36C is an easy size to buy off the shelf, 36DD is not.Plus, bras with enough support for a DD cup are typically higher priced items than smaller cups. Alas, I waved goodbye to the delicate and colorful La Perlas and Simone Pereles, and stuck with what I had. Three bras, plus three pairs of undies - well, let's just say it's another five-course meal with wine and cognac again.

I had plenty of headroom on my Nordstrom account - I haven't used the card in so long I had to search for it in my desk drawer before heading out. So sticker shock be damned - I won't do this again for another three years!

A little stunned I wandered out of the store with my Nordstrom shopping bag looped over my wrist and into  the cool serenity of Ozumo, a Japanese restaurant on the rooftop Dining Deck. Clearly I needed some sustenance.

Spicy pork and miso ramen

DDamn!

Parisian treats

One of the best treats tourists can get in Paris are the ice creams, or glaces, sold at the Berthillot stand on the Ile de France, where the cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris is located.

We visited, and had a couple of tasty ice cream cones. [The Man I Love] had pistache, while mine was caramel beurre a sel, or butter caramel with salt.

In summer, Parisians love their ice cream. At the Musee du Quaie Branly cafe, I had a taste of citron vert au gingembre confit, and chocolat noir.

I also went to Le Bon Marche, Paris's famous department store, and bought some lingerie on sale.

After I showed my purchases to [The Man I Love], he said that it was kinda like the ice cream only like getting double scoops.

Of chocolat, peche et citron.

Mrs. Smiling, 1 Mouse Place

Stella Gibbons' marvelous comic novel, "Cold Comfort Farm" is about Flora Poste and her attempt to civilize her rural cousins, the Starkadder family, of Howling, Dorset. Although the drama involving the Starkadders is the main focus of the novel, one of my favorite characters is a minor one, Flora's London friend, Mrs. Smiling. Mrs. Smiling is single - a widow - and well-off, and has a series of beaux she cultivates but never commits to. She lives in a little house with geraniums hanging in baskets. And she has a hobby.

Mrs. Smiling's ... interest was her collection of brassieres, and her search for a perfect one. She was reputed to have the largest and finest collection of these garments in the world. It was hoped that on her death it would be left to the nation.

She was an authority on the proper cut, fit, color, construction, and proper functioning of brassieres; and her friends had learned that her interest, even in moments of extreme emotional or physical distress, could be aroused and her composure restored, by the hasty utterance of the phrase:

"I saw a brassiere today, Mary, that would have interested you..."

Tootsie Farklepants recently posted about the frustrations of bra-shopping. A lot of commenters agreed.

Bra shopping is discouraging, demoralizing, and humiliating for most women. A garment so formidably engineered, with such a complex system of sizing, and such an exacting standard of proper fit is intimidating.

Back when I was a young mother, I wore plain and utilitarian bras - the kind of thing that springs to mind when you hear the phrase "durable goods" in the financial news. Equipped with triple-hook closures and wide shoulder straps designed to evenly distribute heavy loads, gusseted inserts for ease of movement, and snappable flaps to allow the rapid deployment of the assests they protect to fulfill their mission of infant nutrition. They came in colors like "toast"or "nude" or plain white. Their molded cups were as formidable and as enticing as shoulder pads or athletic gear.

In recent years, however, I've switched from wearing these dull and boring garments to wearing beautiful, lacy, sexy bras. It's like having a pretty secret beneath my everyday clothes.


I like brassieres from French lingerie-makers like Lejaby and Aubade and Simone Perele, classy and expensive looking - (not just looking; I can only afford them when they're on sale). I like their cheaper imitators, Felina, Jezebel, and Passionata, with their sluttish - but ever so sexy - bosom-revealing demi-bras, or "balconnette" syles. I love the exquisite detail in their garments.

And lace. Give me some lace.

It's often asserted - by lingerie retailers - that bras have a "shelf life" of only 3-6 months or so, and should be replaced when their elastic gets flabby, for fear they won't provide proper bosom support. When I wore workaday bras, this seemed unrealistic. As a friend of mine said the other day "Three months? That's when they finally get comfortable!"

For a lacy bra, unlike a more practical one, this is all too true. Like fresh flowers, beautiful lingerie is fragile. All it takes is [The Man I Love] tossing it into the washer and dryer with the blue jeans a couple of times, and that lovely pale pink La Perla confection becomes a torn and snaggled shred of lavender-grey netting.

So every six months or so I go online and check out what's on sale - at figleaves.com, or barenecessities.com, or - the Grand Dame of bra retailing - Nordstrom. Sometimes I get a little carried away. Apparently, I ordered some things from Nordstrom, and then forgot I did, and ordered some more from Figleaves.com. The other day two shipments landed on my doorstep with a bouquet of beautiful bras!


At this rate, I too will someday have the largest and finest collection of these garments in this world! Like Mrs. Smiling:

Mrs. Smiling then went away, her face lit by that remote expression that characterizes the collector when on the trail of a specimen.

She would have LOVED shopping for brassieres on the internet!

Morning laugh

Mrs. G over at Derfwad Manor has a very funny post about Spanx. Go read it!

I am reminded by a family legend that [The Man I Love]'s father once said while watching my mother-in-law put on her girdle:

"Just like stuffing marshmallows in a piggy bank!"


UPDATE:

It must be underwear day! JCK has an underwear post up too!