You may as well turn back now. It doesn’t get any better than that title.

Indeed, there I was, on the wrong side of the Portland suburbs, all by my lonesome and with nothing better to do for an hour and a half, so I decided to go to a department store and shop for the items of apparel that are either unavailable or strangely elusive at the Target. Target is my usual shopping venue of choice–not only for the convenience, but also for the cheapness. I have standards.

So I was looking for a black slip, which, for some reason, they don’t sell at the Target. I know, somebody’s going to tell me that slips are passe, like pantyhose, and yet I find myself in want of one on occasion. The main reason I want one in black is that I have a lot of black skirts, and I like it to be less obvious when my slip is showing. That’s all.

Anyway, I found a black slip at the department store without any difficulty, and I figured as long as I was there by myself and had all this time, I may as well buy a new bra or two. The reason for buying a new bra or two is this: The last time I went bra-shopping, I bought three different kinds of bras, and I have come to depend on just one of the three because I like it far better than the other two, but just one bra is not enough, so I thought I should buy a couple more just like it. Does that seem practical to you? It did to me. I’ve had this plan for quite some time, but buying a new bra, even when you know exactly what kind you want, is not that easy when you have a relatively rare bra size, which I do.

The bra size in question is 36A. (Yes, I did just tell you my bra size; it’s not like it’s a Big Secret, if you catch my meaning.) Probably, once upon a time, someone tried to explain the bra-sizing system to you. I am here to tell you, after 25+ years of bra-wearing, that the bra-sizing “system” is meaningless. It doesn’t make a lick a sense in any direction. Doubtless, if you work for Nordstroms or have some advanced degree in bra engineering, you understand how it all works and you would like very much to explain it to me, but please don’t peddle your lingerie voodoo here. I’ve heard it all before, and more importantly, I didn’t get breasts yesterday. I know it’s all a scam to intimidate the masses and keep them ignorant and powerless. The truth is that they just assign numbers and letters randomly to various cup sizes and laugh at us behind our backs. But for the time being, I am a 36A, and that is all any of us needs to know for the purposes of this narrative.

So there aren’t many A-cup bras in the stores to begin with, but what A-cups there are tend to be 32 or 34. 36A is like the AB-negative of bras. It is the bra for flat-chested women who are neither petite nor Asian. I buy push-up bras, not because there is any hope of anything being pushed up by something else, but because they are the most heavily padded bras that aren’t made specifically for women whose breasts have been surgically removed. Among the selection of push-up bras you will find an astonishing number of C-cups and D-cups and a smattering of B-cups, but very, very few A-cups–because either they are perpetually sold out, or flat-chested women are disproportionately likely to embrace reality. I don’t know.

In a sea of approximately 400,000 bras, there will be roughly a dozen (+/-2) in size 36A. About half of them will be padded. Most of those will be black. Now, I have nothing against black bras, except that one only needs so many and I need even fewer than that, so there’s a good portion of my selection already reduced. So, there. I bought the only two padded 36A’s in the house that weren’t black. It’s like a vegetarian ordering dinner at the Sizzler; it is what it is.

I discovered something new, though, whilst I was scavenging for bras at the department store. They make something called a “full-coverage” bra in an A cup. I’m not sure what the meaning of this is, or if it’s some kind of joke. Full coverage of what, exactly? It is a mystery.

But onward and upward. Also on Saturday–did I mention that this was Saturday? well, it was–Sugar Daddy and I went to see St. Vincent at the Doug Fir lounge. This is not our usual genre of live music. The concerts we’ve been to in the last five years have all been some kind of metal or Lyle Lovett. My husband doesn’t like most indie rock music. (Do they still call it “indie rock”? I wouldn’t know. I’m old and I don’t care.) He calls it “hipster-douchebag music.” If you want to know what exactly “hipster-douchebag music” is, look at everything that is positively reviewed at the Onion’s AV Club, and you will have a working definition for the purposes of this narrative. Anyway. Against all odds SD discovered that while the AV Club loved St. Vincent, he didn’t hate St. Vincent, and this cosmic paradox so intrigued him that he decided to buy tickets to St. Vincent’s show, and we went to it.

I did not wear my fishnet gloves or my gun necklace. I just dressed like a regular person. SD was still a little self-conscious about the whole thing, but he didn’t want to stand out too much, so he wore some regular-person clothes, too. Just-douchey-enough, I think, was the look he was going for.

So we got to the Doug Fir lounge a little after 8 p.m. The show was supposed to start at 9 p.m., but it didn’t actually start until 9:30 or so, and by that time, as there was no place to sit, I was very, very sorry that I had worn such douchey shoes. But more on that later.

“This is a very different crowd than we’re used to,” SD said. “You see how they’re all douchebags? This is how douchebags act at concerts because it’s hip to be here but you have to act like it sucks to be here. That’s what douchebags do.”

“Yes,” I said, as if I would have the first idea what douchebags do or don’t do at hipster-douchebag concerts.

“It’s my goal to use the word ‘douchebag’ a hundred times tonight.”

“I believe you’ve already met that goal.”

So the opening act was Wildbirds and Peacedrums, which is a very interesting outfit from Sweden–a husband-wife team, I believe: she sings and they both play percussion instruments. That’s their act. Occasionally she sings and plays the harmonica simultaneously. (Yes, I said “simultaneously” and that is what I meant.) She has an amazing voice. She hardly needed a microphone. Anyway, it’s just her voice and the drums. It made for a very good live show, but I’m not sure how well it would wear for a whole CD. There were two songs they played that I thought were really good, but I’m combing through what’s available of their music on the YouTube and whatnot, and I can’t for the life of me figure out which songs are which. Like, I recognize a song here and there, but none of them jumps out and says, “This is the song you liked.” So that’s a bit frustrating, but I can certainly recommend their live show. It was cool.

I would have bought one of their t-shirts, but the design I liked–a whale with a sword sticking up out of its back and with a single tear rolling down the whale’s cheek, if a whale can be said to have cheeks (I mean, what’s not to like about that?)–was only available in a tote bag. I don’t use tote bags, so that seemed like a waste of merchandise-acquiring.

St. Vincent also put on a pretty awesome show. I mean, it was not the spectacle that a bunch of 7-foot folk-metal dudes from the Netherlands can put on, but still, it was fine by any standard. She has a nice stage presence, and I daresay she even rocked. Yes, I think I do. The only thing I didn’t like about the show was when some 6’3″ douchebag pushed his way in front of us and started swaying wildly to the music. For some reason that annoyed me. Additionally annoying was the drunken douchebag couple next to us who were dancing drunkenly and kept knocking into me. KNOCK… … KNOCK… … KNOCK… … … KNOCK. I didn’t care for that, but considering that I had to take my shoes off at the end of the Wildbirds and Peacedrums set in order to keep from dying of pain, I suppose I was lucky that no one stepped on my feet.

Unfortunately, once the show was over, it was way too crowded for me to engage in the gymnastics to force my swollen feet back into my hipster douchebag shoes, so I had to walk through people’s discarded drinks in my socks. That was wet and gross. Fortunately, I was able to overlook that particular discomfort and give the evening four and a half out of five stars.

Sorry this wasn’t more interesting, but I’ll make up for it by ending the blog HERE.

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