Last night I went shopping for some new unmentionables. For as rarely as they’re seen by eyes other than mine, you wouldn’t think I could possibly be as picky about the whole process as I am. But you would be wrong. Oh, how you would be wrong!

In the course of events, I came up with a few suggestions for the manufacturers of funbag containers, over the shoulder boulder holders, titsacks, turret covers, “oh my god, I can’t believe this tiny piece of lace costs $60″, etc:

1)If a woman is 36 inches around, she’s probably going to have a cup size larger than an A or a B. It would be very helpful if you made bras to accommodate these needs. 36” around is not a specialty store size. Please stop treating it as such.

2)If you happen to actually make a bra with the requisite cup size, please make it the same style as the A and B cups. Cute, feminine, sparkly, lacy, whatever. I should not think of artillery when I look at your bra. I do not want to think of artillery when I take off my shirt unless I happen to have a gun strapped on under there or some sort of bitchin’ Howitzer tattoo.

3)Furthermore, if you happen to make a bra with the requisite cup size, please stop adding additional padding. If a lady is rocking a C or larger, she probably doesn’t need your foamy/gel/waterpack boost, as she’s got enough of her own material to work with. Also, foam/gels/waterpacks are totally cheating and smaller cup sizes shouldn’t get them, either.

As a side note (speaking of racks), I found some Pirates of the Caribbean pajamas on the clearance rack. What is better than waking up in the morning with Johnny Depp’s face on your crotch? NOTHING.

I had a fight with my pants yesterday.

Yes, pants.

I was at work, throwing away things that get shipped with games up to our office that we don’t use/can’t ship back because they don’t have a high enough dollar value. Most of these things have to toss in with my arms WAY up above my head, as dumpsters are highly discriminatory against the short. (See what I did there? Highly? Short? Har har!)

One of the items tossed yesterday was a coin hopper, which is a bucket with various metal mechanisms along the bottom, and a rather long metal arm coming out of the top with coin verification on it. I grabbed it by its long metal arm, and in a show of remarkable stupidity, lifted it above my head, with the bottom part behind me. I leaned back to get the maximum thrust to toss this thing up and into the dumpster, and while the hopper ended up where it was supposed to, something on the bottom also managed to scrape my leg. I didn’t think much of it as I’m pretty much the Queen of Unintentional Self-Injury until I noticed a breeze only hitting one thigh. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I had managed to slice my pants up the back of my thigh. My favorite jeans, no less!

I promptly scuttled back to my office and plopped down in my chair, and refused to move until everyone else was gone. “Melissa, want to come outside and stand in the sunshine with me for a few minutes?” “Oh, not today, I think I’m good here!” “Melissa, do you want to get some lunch with me?” “I’m not hungry today, thanks!”

Luckily for me, they’ve recently opened up a Kohl’s store in my area, so I was able to grab another pair of the exact same jeans, which is not only good because that means I don’t have to try anything on and can be in and out of the store in five minutes, but great because Gloria Vanderbilt jeans do wonderful things for my lower half and I’d be sad to have to try and find another brand/style that does the same things.

Gloria Vanderbilt, you love my rear end. And I love you. Let’s never fight again.

In retrospect, starting a very strict diet during the week when my ovaries are screaming “EAAAAAAAAAT BECAUSE YOU COULD BE HAVING A BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAABY SOON!!!” was an unwise decision.

I would also like to take a moment to announce that if any of my friends were hoping to have me as a bridesmaid at their wedding, you are pre-emptively DENIED. Life is too short to spend three-month stints at a time eating cabbage soup. DENIED!