Saturday I’m having a little shindig with a few of my favorite “local” bloggers. We’re calling it the AntiBlogHer. There will be less schmooze, more booze and NO sparkly unicorns. There will be one cheesy DJ since Adonis is DYING to show off his new sound system. Sorry folks.
So speaking of BlogHer and parties, I thought I’d finally share a story from last year. Sorry Surferwife, this isn’t in vlog form.
Before I get started, check out the visual aids: one of these things is not like the other, one of these things just doesn’t belong. (Come on, you know you sang along just now, didn’t you?)
Cute dress and purse, right? But that pic down there? Yeah, that’s a manual breast pump. Also, NOT a party accessory. See the iPod Touch…just to give you an idea of the size of things. And no, I won’t take a pic of it next to my butt.
Party stories: Saturday night there were cocktails followed by some serious rump shakin at the SparkleCorn party. And drinking. LOTS of drinking. Anyone know what beer does to milk production? Yeah.
I certainly wasn’t carrying all that crap in my tiny purse. So as needed I would head off to a powder room and hang up my purse, yank up my dress, adjust all my support-wear (I was NOT the only one suffering in Spanx, I promise you!) and give my jugs a good little handjob and express the boozy milk into the toilet.
Flash forward to 11pm and I’ve had a few more beers, sweaty from dancing and the boobs were SCREAMING: I’M FULL, Woman! So I dragged my drunk ass to a far off bathroom (seriously, could it have been any further away?) to find some relief. Off in a corner stall, I hung up my purse, yanked up my dress, stripped off what I could of the rest the of my attire and bent over the commode and gave a good squeeze. And a rub, and a tug, and massage, and grope and more squeezing. And nothing. My damn boobs, engorged beyond belief, heaving and full with milk would NOT give it up.
I banged my head against the stall, whimpered a little and started to pull myself together. Pulling up the Spanx, struggling back into the torture device known as my bra, straightened my dress, pushed my hair back and turned to grab my purse. Just then my neighbor finished her business too. And with the loud swoosh of the auto flush, down came my milk. ALL OVER ME!
Thank you SparkleCorn for the booze and thank you San Diego convention center for the exact pitch of your auto flush toilets.