“Of cabbages and kings” – Cont'd

Where was I when I so rudely interrupted myself? Oh yes, up to nectarines—you know, my alternative list was “of shoes and kids and transit tracks, of nectarines and titslings.”

Nectarines
This next anecdote again harkens back to Monday. (Monday was a very eventful day!) On that particular afternoon, as on many afternoons ’round about three o’clock when I realize I am suffering from a lack of ideas as to what to make for supper and I search for inspiration, I decided to go grocery shopping. Loeb is, as I think I’ve mentioned before, conveniently located down the (curving) street, through the gate, and around the corner.



With me I had a list of three things: milk, Romaine lettuce, breaded chicken strips (the Buffalo seasoned kind). Now, nowhere on that list do I see nectarines. Yet since the kind marketing folks at Loeb strategically place tables of fresh baked goods and fresh fruit directly inside the front entrance (maybe they are meant to counterbalance each other), I was forced to pass by the display of nectarines to get to the Romaine. [Blatant aside: I recently found out that Rebecca Romijn—Jerry O’Connell’s current spouse, John Stamos’s ex—pronounces her surname “like the lettuce.” Honest. Check it out for yourself at IMDB if you don’t believe me. OK, back to the nectarines.]

The 3L baskets were $2.99 apiece. Great price—but a lot of nectarines for just two people. Far too many, I rationalized. I brushed past the nectarines—until, that is, I caught a glimpse of the name stamped in the red plastic handle. I did a double-take: “Epp Nectarines,” it read. And printed on the end: “Grown and packed by Abe Epp & Family Inc., RR3 Lakeshore Rd., Niagara-on-the-Lake, Ontario, Canada.” How could I, in good conscience as a fellow Menno, resist buying those nectarines? Think of Abe and his family of Epps in their orchards. They’re just “makin’ their way, the only way they know how” (like them Dukes), and after all, as the TV commercials that have been broadcast an awful lot lately say, “Good things gro-o-ow in On-tar-i-o.” I’m supporting local producers. Kind of. I’ve only had to throw away two nectarines so far; I’m happy to report that the ones I’ve eaten have greatly surpassed any of the others of regular supermarket variety I’ve bought previously this summer.

Titslings
R-Rated (adult themes, may appeal to sympathetic women only)
Welcome to the final section of this series of installments. This is the one in which things head south, namely anatomical parts and my choice of topics. I’ll try to employ as many euphemisms as I can in order not to offend anyone’s sensibilities too profoundly. Let’s just say that more often than not in recent days, the following lyrics from “Otto Titsling,” that unforgettable Bette Midler song from Beaches, have found their way into my waking consciousness:

The result of this swindle is pointedly clear:
Do you buy a titsling or do you buy a brassiere?

I’m thinking definitely the former. It was a year and a half ago or so when I underwent the undergarment fitting at Sears. I left feeling truly uplifted. I do wish I had bought two of the same product, or that some shrewd representative would have warned me that never again would I find 4419 in my precise size. I have searched high and low, at Sears, Wal-Mart, Zellers. I even inquired at The Bay, only to be told by a snooty salesclerk, “The Bay does not carry Playtex; that’s Zellers.” Evidently, as sister stores go, Zellers is The Bay’s pesky, tag-along younger sibling, the ’tween who’s still in a training bra.

Obviously, the 4419 that accommodates my girls is now as elusive as a pair of size seven shoes at a sidewalk sale at the mall. Maybe I’ll have to start taking James shopping with me for intimate apparel, too (cf. "shoes," previous post). Ultimately, I had to settle for an alternative product. The euphoric novelty of the relationship quickly wore off after a couple of weeks, a *fortnight*, if you will (that one’s for Tannis); now it’s characterized by uneasiness on both sides.

In honor of this post, I consulted Merriam Webster Online and the Urban Dictionary for insight into the etymology and contemporary use of the word bra. Merriam Webster revealed that brassiere comes “from Old French braciere arm protector.” Didn’t realize my arms needed protecting. The Urban Dictionary offers up three definitions, one lifted from Midler’s Beaches song: over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder. (What a far-reaching impact that movie had.) Personally, I can identify more closely with the second Urban offering: “a device to encage one's titties” and its accompanying example of how to use it in an utterance: “this bra is too small my titties are popping out.” (Let’s be big enough to overlook the lack of proper punctuation in the foregoing phrase in light of the truths contained therein.)

All of which brings me to the point: Were the bra-burners of the ‘60s on to something? Take a closer look at the “Otto Titsling” lyrics. Note that it’s a man who decides that something must be done about the Aida’s endowments; she doesn’t seem fazed by her predicament. Yet I’m not convinced that a philosophy shunning commodification and male control of the female form, no matter how valid the criticism, would receive the support due it given our current culture’s emphasis on porn-star perkiness.

So that’s my two…cents. Care to comment? It’ll be tit for tat.