Big, but not so bouncy

Today, I bought a halter top.

For those of you that don’t know, a halter top is a shirt with straps that tie around the neck, instead of stretch over the shoulder. In other words, it’s a top that one cannot wear with a regular bra.

Seems like small news? Not for someone who’s been blessed/cursed with the chest that I have. For me, this is huge news. This is like 32DDD news. In fact, it was a 32DDD that made this incredible feat possible.

Susan Seligson’s new book, “Stacked: A 32DDD Reports from the Front,” is perfect for girls like me and Claire. Girls who both love and hate their ample bosoms. This book anecdotally examines "what breasts mean to their bearers as well as their beholders." But more importantly, this book brought to my attention one of the best and oldest lingerie shops in the country, which happened to be just a short subway ride away.

Yesterday after work, Claire, myself, and our four bouncy twins set off for Manhattan’s Upper West Side for our first visit to Town Shop. This small, overcrowded storefront prides itself on the “delicate art of fitting” lingerie. They should know, they’ve been doing it for over 100 years. 100 years of bra-fitting! This place was around before my grandma had breasts.

Upon entering the store, I was immediately overwhelmed. I was a vegetarian at a vegetarian restaurant. You mean I can order ANTYHING on the menu? I’m not restricted to the big, ugly bras that look more like construction equipment than underwear? The only thing more amazing than the selection of bras that were piled high on every shelf and hanging from every rack (pun not intended) was the amazing service.

It went like this – first the woman led me to the dressing room, eying me through my tank top. She then disappeared, quickly returning with three bras. Pretty bras. Bras that looked like a bra should look.

“Okay, try this one first,” she held it out like a chivalrous gentleman holds a lady’s overcoat – each sleeve poised for the approaching arm.

I paused for a moment. Was she really going to stand there in the small fitting room with me while I disrobed? Yes. Yes she was. Okay. Off came the tank and my old bra as she waited patiently. She then helped me into the new one, instructing me to lean forward while she jiggled and smoothed my breasts into place. This woman’s job was to jiggle other ladies’ boobs. Wild.

But this professional titty-jiggler knew exactly what she was doing. Between the vast array of bras and her expert fitting powers, my breasts suddenly looked pert. They looked pretty. They looked happy. And if there’s one thing (two things?) woman want out of life, it’s happy boobies.

Claire and I left that store one hour later. Each three bras richer, $200 poorer and two cup sizes happier. We went out for dinner to celebrate and toast our newly found freedom. Oh, the shirts we could wear! And wear we did.

That night we spent hours trying on various items in our closets – low-cut shirts that had been worn once and banished to the back of the drawer, spaghetti-strapped tops that inevitably showed ugly bra straps, dresses with necklines that plunged into the valley of our ample cleavage, never to return again.

But now all that has changed. Our breasts have been given a chance to thrive. And just in time for a muggy New York summer. A summer that will now be filled with halter tops and spaghetti straps. A summer I’ve been waiting for my whole life.

Special message

“So did that guy you like ever call you?”

“Yeah, he left me a voicemail, but it was kind of weird – he asked if I got his message. But, aside from that voicemail, I don’t remember getting any message from him.”

“When did he call?”

"Wednesday.”

“And when did you see that masturbater on the street?”

“I don’t know, Tuesday I think. What does that have to do with anything, Itamar?”

“Maybe that was his ‘message.’”

Can't get enough of those B-cell jokes!

The good news is that I’m back working at the same company. The bad news is that it’s for a different drug. A drug that has nothing to do with boners.

I know what your thinking, who in their right mind work accept a non-boner related job? Answer: someone who is unemployed.

Now I am writing for rheumatoid arthritis, which I thought would be boring. Boy was I wrong! Rheumatoid arthritis is a laugh a minute. Oh, the double entendres and funny B-cell jokes.

I’m lying. It’s not funny at all. If anything, it’s kinda sad.

Did somebody ask for a hot pirate on stilts?

It gives a whole new meaning to “peg leg.”



I wouldn’t mind this cap’n plundering my village.

The salty taste of Brooklyn culture

"I'm so happy to live in Brooklyn - the heart of America!" Marty Markowitz proclaimed proudly as scantly clad maidens surrounded him on the float parading through Coney Island. While I think the Brooklyn Borough President was being a tad generous with that declaration, I will admit that the Coney Island Mermaid Parade on Saturday was one of the most unique events I've been to.



Six-foot tall jellyfish, drunk lobsters, topless pirates on stilts and sexy mermaids a plenty gaily cavorted through the streets of the soon to be demolished Coney Island on Saturday. And I was there to watch and enjoy it all. Sure, I have a particular penchant for pirates, but I got the feeling that all 500,000 parade goers were having as much as I was. You really can't go wrong with a sunny day, a giant parade and a nautical theme.

My Brooklyn cultural weekend continued on Sunday with the Smith Street fair. Once again, there was Marty Markovitz, our jolly Borough President. This time he was handing over the championship belt to the winner of the Stinky Brooklyn Cheese Eating Contest. After posing for multiple shots with the Borough President, the belt, the cheeseshop owners, and of course, the cheese, Oliver Butler, the contest winner made a memorable speech.

"This morning I woke up a regular Brooklynite like all of you," He declared humbly over the microphone feedback. "And now I'm standing here with Marty Markowitz and 6 ounces of cheese in my belly. And... I just couldn't be happier."

Well said, my friend. Well said.



(look in the back left to see Saro, me and Cate!)

Where it's okay to say "diaphragm" to the elderly

Every Thursday for the past eight weeks, I’ve joined a dozen senior citizens in song. It was my Performance Singing Class, and last night was our recital. It may seem odd that I’m the only person in the group under 70, but that’s just the way I like it. There is no one more supportive and encouraging than adopted grandparents.

Now you can watch the highlights and pretend like you were there, in that stuffy studio, sitting on an uncomfortable folding chair.

Wait till you get a load of Doris, the 92-year-old Manhattan native. She is a. dor. a. ble.

Wanker

One of the nice things about being around during the day is I get to see all the exciting things that happen in my neighborhood while everyone else is at work. Today there was a giant car accident on Atlantic Avenue. That was exciting. And yesterday morning I saw a man masturbating on my sidewalk.

Now, I don’t live in some sketchy neighborhood. I live on a nice tree-lined street in a relatively wealthy part of Brooklyn. Such a nice street, apparently, that it turns some people on. Oh, those sexy, sexy brownstones.

I consider myself a pretty open-minded person. I was raised to believe that masturbation is a healthy part of growing up and learning about your body. But when it comes to jerking off on a public sidewalk in broad daylight. That’s just kinda gross. And illegal.

I thought about calling the cops. But I figured that by the time they would’ve arrived, the masturbator would have already come and gone.

Between jobs

For some reason, when I’m unemployed, I just can’t think of anything to blog about. I’m too busy contemplating how useless my life is and how there’s really no point to anything. See, when I’m working I’m too distracted to have these depressing thoughts. That’s why I need a job.

But, the good news is that this is a very different unemployment than last time – no more sleeping till noon and staying in my underwear all day. I’ve been waking up early, going to the gym and drinking smoothies. Lots and lots of smoothies. Good god, how I love those smoothies.

And now, I’m off to play Frisbee in the park. That is what an unemployed person should be doing. That and looking for a job. Eh, I’ll do that tomorrow. Actually, I potentially have a gig hooked up for next week. It doesn’t involve boners, but will hopefully be fun none the less. As long as I can bring my smoothie.

"I would, but I need the eggs."

Annie Hall came out in theaters the year I was born. While I’m sure my father made me watch it at some point in my Woody-Allen-speckled childhood, I have no memory of seeing it since I was conscience enough to understand the jokes. So last night, I sat on the giant lawn of Bryant Park along with 10,000 other New Yorkers as we waited anxiously for the sun to go down and the classic romantic comedy to begin.



Three hours Claire and I waited in the overcrowded, noisy mob. The people to our left enjoyed their burritos and card game while those on our right had a full spread complete with champagne and candlelight. It was quite a scene.

But despite the waiting and the crowd, the helicopters overhead and the fire trucks drowning out the jokes, it was totally worth it. The Bryant Park Film Festival brings out a camaraderie in folks. Whether they’ve lived in New York their whole lives, moved here last year like me, or just arrived last month, we all laughed together at Woody Allen’s New York humor. A group guffaw erupted when Annie Hall complained that her studio apartment in Manhattan cost a whole $400 a month (!) And even I couldn’t help but grin when he referred to California as a place “where the only cultural advantage is that you can make a right turn on a red light.”

Misty water-colored

Memories of the way we were...

Just because the job is over, doesn’t mean the jokes have to stop...

Since I’m not getting paid to write about erections anymore, I’ll have to do the work Pro Boner.

So LONG. Goodbyes can be so HARD.

Alas, I’m sorry to report that today is my last day at the boner job.

I blame no one but myself. When they offered me a fulltime position, my response was essentially, “No one can tame the wild spirit that is Audrey the ‘free bird’ Freelancer.” Perhaps it’s true that no one can tame it, but they can run out of work for it and ask it to please leave the office.

It is with great regret that I leave this company. I’d like to throw one last headline out there that’s been swimming around in my head and yet I never got a chance to use.

SWELL. Viagra.

Search and ye shall find You Nork

I laughed out loud today while perusing statcounter to see my latest hits. This is the fun website that lets me see how many people are reading my blog each day. I can’t see who you are, but I can see what city you live in, how long you were on my site and how you got to You Nork.

Most often, people just type in the url. Other people do a google search for “You Nork” cause apparently the url is just too hard to remember. Others get here from links on other various sites.

Then there are my favorite – the people who randomly get a link to my blog through a completely unrelated google search, and then choose to click on on it. I can’t decide what’s funnier – the fact that people are searching for this stuff or the fact that You Nork shows up on the first page of these searches.

Someone apparently was looking for "fireman pajamas summer" and what appears half way down the page? You Nork.

Some slightly sick marine lover wanted to know "how to seduce a dolphin." Where can they learn how? Bottom of the page, You Nork. Hey, those dolphins are pretty sexy.

And then, my personal favorite, simple arithmetic: "A boner + job" = You Nork!

Grand Central

Grand Central Terminal is an exciting and dynamic place. Now that I work a block away, I’ve been spending lazy lunch hours under its luxurious chandeliers and afterwork strolls though its echoing halls.

I find that no matter which entrance I go in through – whether it’s 42nd or Lexington, I always seem to end up at the same spot inside the station. And no matter which way I try to exit, I always end up next to the New York Sports Club near 45th, which is great, because it’s caused me to work out more. But still, somewhat strange.

The only explanation I can come up with is that Grand Central Terminal must be constantly shifting, much like the palace in Labyrinth. I’m still expecting to see David Bowie with a crystal ball around every turn. As of yet, I have not encountered David Bowie, but I have seen some other strange things. And, conveniently, I caught them on tape.

Behold the magic of Grand Central Rush Hour:
(if the video's not loading yet, it's because I just uploaded it. Check back in a bit)



Yes, that is a giant Snoopy you see getting hassled by the cops at the end. I’m telling you, strange things happen at this place.

Vanished

I used to have a bike. A very expensive bike. A bike that I loved.

It was more than a bike, it was like a two-wheeled best friend. We’d go everywhere together, me and my BBF (Best Bike Forever). We’d climb hills, race down highways, cut through traffic, narrowly avoiding tragic accidents. Oh, the good times we had.

But alas, my bike is now gone. “Stolen” would be jumping to conclusions. It sort of just disappeared out of my garage. No one broke into the garage. And only my roommates and my landlady have the keys. (Secretly I think Claire took it).

The whole thing is very suspicious. I have no idea what happened to it. It almost looks as if I rode it somewhere, locked it up and then forgot about it. For weeks. I mean, I know I can be absent-minded sometimes. But that seems too insane for even me, I assured the cops last night as they inspected the scene of the crime. They didn’t seem particularly hopeful about retrieving it. I told them to look in Claire’s room.

Luckily for the world, I am still in possession of the neon yellow jacket.

28 Barbary Lane

When I was in high school, I dreamt of the day I would eventually live in San Francisco. This dream was kindled by the magical view of lights from across the Bay, the rare BART trips to Union Square and Chinatown, but most fervently by the Tales of the City books by Armistead Maupin. At age 16, I tore through each of the books in days, drinking them up like six pack of Dr. Pepper. All six were captivating, although the first one really captured for me what living in the City was all about. I wanted the lives of the fun and fascinating residents of Mrs. Madrigal’s building on Barbary Lane. One problem, the books take place in the 1970’s. It was a San Francisco I could never live in.

Still, when I finally moved to San Francisco at the end of 2003, ten years after I first read Maupin’s novels, I could still sense the feeling he described in his books. I had an interesting experience one evening, running with my running group down Macondray Lane in Russian Hill. I had moved to the city just a few weeks prior, had never spent anytime in Russian Hill and yet the place felt strangely familiar. I felt like I had visited the adorable, tree-covered narrow pedestrian lane sometime before.

“You know what’s interesting about this lane,” I overheard the girl next to me explaining to her friend. “This is the street that Barbary Lane in Tales of the City is based on.”

That is why I’m overjoyed to hear that Maupin just came out with a new novel. It’s from the point of view of my favorite character, Michael Tolliver. And what’s even more exciting is that Gavin Newsom has declared tomorrow, June 12 "Michael Tolliver Day in San Francisco." I’m not kidding. All the details are here in this article.

For those of you living in San Francisco, you can go see Armistead Maupin sign his new book tomorrow. If I were there, I would definitely go shake his hand.

Lazy

The New York Sports Club near my office has a ridiculously long staircase that one must ascend before entering the gym. Hello, I came here to work out, not to work up a sweat climbing your infinite stairs. Have you not heard of an escalator?

Unwanted summer guest

Dear unwanted summer guest,

You are not on our lease. You do not contribute to the cable bill. And you certainly are not adding any thought-provoking film selections to our Netflix queue. You are not welcome.

I am not generally squeamish, as girls go. I love spiders, snakes, and many rodents. But you! You with your hairy legs and shiny brownish color. I cannot stand to be in the same room as you.

You managed to stay scarce all fall, winter and spring. Why this sudden return? I have no food for you. No enticing scent. No attractive lady waterbugs for you to mate with.

So please. Stay outside where you belong. And take your friends.

Kind regards

Audrey


This is what I woke up to yesterday morning. Check out the antennae, those things could poke an eye out. I know it's hard to see scale in this photo. Look at the one below of the fireman, it was basically about the same size as him.

Drama on Dean Street.

The other night, as Cate and I sat on the couch watching The Daily Show in our underwear* (what was the Daily Show doing in our underwear?)** we heard a commotion outside. First one siren, then another, then another. I peered out the window to see FIVE fire engines in front of our house. The street was full of cops, firemen and concerned neighbors all pointing and looking up at me. In the window. In my underwear (see below astrix once more).

My first thought was, “Shit, what did I do?” My second thought was, “Maybe
I should put on more clothing.” My third thought was, “Damn, I’m missing the Daily Show.” But before I could react to any of these thoughts, two firemen appeared at eye-level on a cherry-picker, heading up towards the roof. Then our doorbell sounded.

A young fireman needed access to our roof – someone had reported a burning odor coming from the top of our house. To get to the roof, one must enter Cate’s closet, climb up a rickety ladder and wiggle through a small hatch. The fireman couldn’t fit through the hatch with his giant reflective jacket, his oxygen tank, his gas mask, his axe, his strange metal pole and his fire hat.

“I guess you’ll have to take some of that stuff off,” I suggested. That’s when the sexy music queued, the lighting dimmed, and the three of us ignited a few flames of our own, if you know what I mean.

I’m just kidding. He took off some of his outer equipment, squeezed his way on to the roof and returned 50 seconds later announcing that it was a false alarm. He then returned to one of the many fire trucks lining our block, but not before I snapped a few pics. After all, it’s not everyday that we have firemen in Cate’s closet.



Here are the pics. Unfortunately, his reflective jacket was a little too reflective.



These are the firemen outside my window, although it's hard to see:



If you’re wondering where Claire was through this excitement. She was sleeping. Through all of it. Oh, if we could all sleep as soundly as Claire.

* Underwear is a bit of an exaggeration. We were wearing boxers and tanktops – our summer pajamas, if you will.

** Oh, if only… The day Jon Stewart shows up in my underwear (summer pajamas) will be a marvelous day indeed. On many, many levels.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY YOU NORK!

Like a proud parent, I’m very excited to announce that my little baby is growing up. You Nork is exactly one year old today. This also means I moved to New York exactly one year ago. I’m still waiting for the surprise cake at work… still waiting…

I can’t believe You Nork and I have been together for a whole year. I think back on all the times we’ve shared… the sad times, the happy times and of course, the penis times (of which there seem to be so many). Together, we’ve explored the five boroughs of this fine city (not to mention New England, North Carolina, Baltimore, Eastern Canada, Australian and New Zealand) with a uniquely Californian take. My, how we’ve grown.

As a birthday gift, I put together a little video retrospective. Just replace the word “babe” with “Nork.”

Completely hard and fully rigid

Sometimes I wonder if this is the right job for me.

Then I get an email from my boss asking if I can spend a few hours working on the "Hardness Scale," and I realize: yes. Yes, this is indeed the perfect job for me.


I think it's important to write about something you believe in.

Mr. November

It's amazing to me how six awkward white guys can be thrown up on stage together to create such a graceful and moving show. I guess it's due to their remarkable musical talent and their years of practice. The six guys I refer to are The National, a popular indie band that sold out five shows this week at the Bowery Ballroom. Through a remarkable twist of fate (thanks Gordon) I was able to attend the show last night.

I spent the entire two-hour set staring in awe at Matt, the lead singer. He's so nervous and jerky and weird, and yet so damn cute. At one point, he actually climbed down into the audience and sang for a good five minutes right next to where I stood in the front row. It was, perhaps, the best five minutes ever.

I took a number of movies on my phone last night, but they all turned out like crap. So instead, I'm borrowing one from you tube. This is actually from the show on Monday night, but the angle is about the same from where I was standing.