Last night Mike and I experienced the sheer frenzy of dining at the Rainforest Cafe. I thought we could just stroll right by the throngs of parents and children in the store and get a seat, but just as I was ready to request a table for two and half, this park ranger-dressed teenager asked me, “Did you check in at the elephant?”
Puzzled, I asked, “We have to check in at the elephant?”
“Yes, you have to get a passport at the elephant in the front.” She pointed to a half-elephant purple platform (Too bad it was the front half of the elephant. I could have had fun with the tail end) where two identically-uniformed rainforest rangers with fancy microphones called out to the crowd, “Patricia, safari of five? Your adventure is about to begin!”
We received our “passport,” a slip of paper listing our 45-minute wait time. In most cases, Mike and I walk out if the wait time is unusually long, but this was Rainforest Cafe. We were at the mall with our love of the environment and rain forests! I have watched The Forbidden Dance enough times to know that seductive hip gyration can help the rain forest and curb corporate deforestation!
So Mike shuffled his tennis-balled walker to the bench while Nathan and I took a field trip.
While Nathan and I perused the racks (heh) of their new “Secret Embrace” line, I thought how many brainstorming meetings Victoria’s Secret execs had before someone came up with a title as ridiculous as “Secret Embrace.” If I spent upwards of $52 on an invisible lace push-up bra, it would sure as hell be a Public Embrace. For 52 bucks, I would be telling anyone within earshot how much money was on my puppies. And why “Secret Embrace”? They’re my breasts. How secret could an embrace be with my own body? Am I going to talk to Miss Universe and Miss International (the good one being Miss Universe) and schedule some rendezvous point?
And while on boobs, I figured out something else: I do not want breast implants. If I’m already unsatisfied with the state of my breasts, why would I want them in a larger size? It would just be more of boobs I don’t like. I don’t understand shelling out ten grand to stuff silicone into my paw patties. I would, however, pay that amount for something else: breast transplants.
After breastfeeding for almost a year, I don’t want to be on an episode of Pimp My Rack. I want to start over. I really think this could be achieved. I would be the first breast transplant patient. I would be a medical breakthrough in breast surgery. With all the advances in medicine and technology, I think it’s feasible to replace my breasts with, say, the breasts belonging to the woman I saw last night shopping for an IPEX bra top. Speaking from a reputation of staunch heterosexuality, if I had to choose a boob donor, it would be this woman, for she had the most symmetrical pair I have ever seen (again, in a heterosexual way). I don’t even think they carried her size, 38 J, J as in jelly on a string.
I wear a 26 Z. I wear a z-bra. Get it? If you do, when you stop laughing over my comic genius, could you tell that to Nathan, because he doesn’t get that joke.
EDIT: My husband just informed me that the breast transplant joke has already been done by George Carlin, who performed it the last time he was here in Seattle (a show Mike went to *without* me). But that z-bra/zebra joke? All mine.