It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 16

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word culture. Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws.

Today's topic: Telling Victoria's Secret.

Shopping for clothes for Oldest Daughter used to be so easy, mostly because I didn't have to do it at all.  Not only does she have three grandmothers, but she also has an aunt who is a mere two years older than her, so we were in Hand-Me-Down Heaven for a long time.  When she was about six we were in Von Maur (local awesome department store) and I saw a cute pair of girls jeans.  

ME:  "Do you like these, honey?" 
OD:  (looking confused) "Yes."  
ME:  "Would you like them?"
OD:  "What do you mean?"
ME:  "I'll buy them for you, but I won't if you don't like them."
OD:  "I don't get it." 
(I'm getting frustrated, my last coffee infusion is wearing off and I don't actually like shopping.  I know, I'm a freak.)
ME:  (speaking slowly and carefully) "DO. YOU. WANT. THESE. JEANS?" 
OD:  "Yes?"

And then it hit me.  I had never purchased clothing for her, at least not with her present and old enough to care about anything other than breast, bottle, or snack.  She didn't actually know what I was doing.  Ouch.  I've spent a lot of time since then trying to make up for that deficiency.

Now that she is nearly a bona fide teenager (March 2 she gets fitted for her chastity belt) shopping has changed.  Last Christmas, I got a lovely Victoria's Secret gift certificate from my mother-in-law (she thinks they quietly sell birth control) and I took OD to shop with me.  OD was absolutely mortified. 

OD:  "Oh no.  Not here.  You aren't buying BRAS, are you?"
ME:  "Yes.  And thongs.  And I need you to to fasten them for me."
OD:  (hiding behind a rack of sweatpants that say PINK on the butt) "I'm not going with you.  You can't make me go in the bra room."
ME:  "Fine.  You have your cell phone.  Go to the bath and body section and call me if you need to.  And don't leave with strangers."
OD:  "MOM!  You ARE the stranger!  Get this over with!"

And so OD crept into the bath and body room, crouching behind different displays, her shifty eyes darting around.  I watched her for a moment like one might watch a raccoon in the daylight to see if it has rabies.  I was concerned.  I grabbed a lacy DDD bra and yelled across the store, "HEY OD!!  How about this one?" and waved it at her.  She turned, gasped, and dove behind a cabinet covered in hot pants with PINK on the butt.  She was okay.

Can I just take a moment to address the PINK issue?  Maybe I'm alone here, but I just can't bring myself to wear anything with PINK across the ass.  Why?  Because for some reason every time I see someone's butt with PINK on it, I get a crystal clear anatomical picture of a clitoris in my head.  It's gross, I know, and I can't explain why "nether parts" and "pink" go together like "gynecological" and "exam" for me, but they do.  And I giggle every time, because it is Junior High Forever in Julietopia.  (To the friend with PINK on the butt of her VS sweats:  I just want you to know if you're reading this that I do not think about your clitoris when you wear them, and if I was a size 2 I might want to draw attention to my butt too. Smooches.)


I pick out some things and get in line for the fitting room, and my cell phone starts ringing.

ME:  "Hello?"
OD:  (whispering) "Mom!  Where are you!"
ME:  "In line for the fitting rooms.  Where are you?"
OD:  (whisper-shrieking) "FITTING ROOMS!  You're trying things on!?!"
ME:  "Yes.  It could be a while.  You can hide out in the fitting room if you want."

Surprisingly, she agrees.  She half-hides behind me.  We are in line behind three high school girls, who all look a like they're scheduled for a rainbow party (Urban Dictionary is the go-to reference guide on Whoreticulture Friday) in a couple of hours and need to get a move on.  They are all holding thongs and skimpy push-up bras (not that there's anything wrong with that), they all have Gucci or Chanel purses the size of a Yugo (because shouldn't ALL 16-year-olds be able to fit their possessions in a purse to hop a Greyhound if necessary?), and they are all talking like this:  "So I'm all I don't care what you do and he's all whatev and I'm all fine and he's all see ya and I know that bitch Hailey is halfway in his pants already..."

OD is not making eye contact with me.  She is visibly sweating and looking at the ceiling, the floor, underwear with PINK on the butt, anywhere but the trampy teens and me.  After nearly 13 years together, OD knows me well enough to know these girls might as well be dangling a Krispy Kreme in front of my face.  Sometimes, if I think I've got some really funny material, I might just feel compelled to say it.  Even if it's under my breath.  Or in the form of a song.  Right now "Gypsies Tramps and Thieves" by Cher and "Crazy Bitch" by Buckcherry are duking it out in my head.  I  bite my tongue.  This is supposed to be Girl Time with my daughter, and I should treasure it, because someday soon she could be one of these fake-Chanel-bag-thong-whatev hos.  Don't judge, Julie, don't judge.  We get in a fitting room.  Crisis averted.


In the room, I take my shirt off.  OD promptly faces the wall and starts rocking and moaning.  This has become her personal hell.  I take off my sad bra and put on the new spectacular bra.  It's a moment of personal triumph.

ME:  "Look, OD, isn't it great?"
OD:  (Sighs.  She is defeated.  She turns.)  "Actually Mom, that is a nice bra."
ME:  (Victory!  Hallmark moment!)  "I know!  I'm getting this one for sure."
(I unclasp the bra and release the hounds.  OD gasps.  I look around for a rat or a serial killer in the room.)
OD:  "Mom...why are your...you know...areas THERE so big?  Please tell me mine won't get that big..."
ME:  "What?  My boobs?  What do you mean?"
OD:  "You know...this..." Makes circular motion in the nipular region.
ME:  "Mine are probably the same size as Grandma Jan's."  (Sorry Mom.)
OD:  "Oh no.  I so do NOT want that."  She slumps down on the bench, sad.
ME:  "You are also getting our varicose veins and the family gobbler, so enjoy your youth."

We didn't say much else that day.  I bought her a Double Chocolate Chip Blended Creme from Starbucks to try and cheer her, but at that moment she could not be consoled.  Her future body was laid out in front of her, as clear as the silicone that would perhaps be necessary to fix her middle age issues and bad genes.  And really, it's not like the nips are salad plate-sized or anything - they are perfectly normal breasts, show some respect for the old girls!  They lured your father in and nursed three children and can still look reasonably respectable in the right bra.  They need to be revered like a Triple Crown-winning racehorse put to pasture for the rest of her days, or like Babe, the sheep-herding pig.  Well done, pig.  Well done.

What did we learn that day?  

1. Trampy teens like quality lingerie too.
2. PINK is plastered on a LOT of ass.  Pink.  Hee hee.  Admit it, you'll think of it.
3. There are no secrets in the Victoria's Secret fitting rooms.

Appreciate yourself as you are now - it can always get worse. Happy Whoreticulture Friday!