OK: I've perfected the "eclectic" header and subtitle-catchphrase-slogan-one-liner-whatever thing. Yes, those are boobs. My boobs. Because they rock hard, even though they are more pendulous and cushy than actually, um, rock hard. Unless the baby sleeps chez grandies, in which case, at 7 a.m., they are definitively rock hard. Bu made a fabulous double D's breastfeeding joke the other day... can't remember it. Maybe vitamin DD or something.
So I bought this book when we had a small bit of disposable income: A History of the Breast. I was digging the cultural aspect of it, the feminist readings of nude art, the goddess statues and all that jazz. Hadn't really considered the lactation function of the boobs much then. And it arrived, unfortunately, with some juicy thick novel or other and ended up neglected on my shelves or the piles of overflow books which far outnumber the shelved ones.
So I dug it out when I cleaned the closet & studio, with even keener interest than when I bought it, for now boobs aren't just
they are also The Twin Fountains of Awesome Noursishment and Comfort Issuing Forth from My Very Body.
The punchline to this convoluted story of a book? Molly's obsessed with it. It's her favorite book in the house right now, and she flips from page to page. She likes the pictures of the Willendorf figurine the way Bu likes a steakhouse menu.
And speaking of Bu? Ergh: This is what he named my boobs: