Today was a titty good day. As I mentioned earlier, I had a lot of luck with some bank and government authorities that most people NEVER have luck with. And then, we were able to talk with the priest, so now we have our official wedding location and date. Also, I ate some ice cream!
In any case, one other thing happened that is worth mentioning, even though it didn’t really make it the greatest day ever (although it didn’t hurt, either).
After my mini-triumphs with the Schlappschwanzes at the Banco de Costa Rica and the Registro Civil, I decided to celebrate with a slice of pizza at Pizza Cuba Tica, a joint near my house that I had always wanted to visit, but never had yet. It was about 2:00 pm, and there was only one person besides the cook in the restaurant. The customer was a rather large girl in her 20s, probably, and she was talking to the girl that was making the pizzas. I only glanced at her from the corner of my eye, but I saw that she wasn’t eating anything, so she must have been a friend of the pizza girl. Anyhow, I ordered my slice and a coke, and when the waitress asked if I wanted my order to go or to eat there, I said, “I’ll eat it here.” Literally one second later, I took a closer glance at the other customer at the counter, and saw that she wasn’t actually that fat; she was breastfeeding!
I don’t know if this is normal behavior here (or anywhere else, for that matter), but for some reason, it struck me as udderly odd. “Oh shit,” I thought. “Does that mean I have to leave now, to give her some peace and quiet?” My mind was flashing, but I figured that if she was comfortable enough to feed her baby in public, then she might take offense if I changed my order to go solely on her account…you know, I didn’t want to seem squeamish, or anything. On the other hand, I didn’t want to seem like a pervert that was staying just in hopes of catching a glimpse of a nipple (that’s the only way a boob sighting actually counts…let me explain in a separate, aside paragraph, to follow directly).
AN ASIDE PARAGRAPH TO EXPLAIN THE GUIDELINES FOR SPOTTING BOOBS:
First of all, me and some other Americans kinda came up with these loose rules over a few years spent living in Germany, where boobs are less of a body part and more of a marketing device. I remember seeing titties on advertisements for things as varied as shower heads, bar soap, condoms, and, of all things, margarine. And these were just the advertisements on public billboards and TV commercials. Seriously. In any case, it was determined that a partial boob is really not a boob, or at least you can’t say that you saw a boob if you only see the side, top, or bottom of a breast. You gotta see nipple for it to “count.” Although we came up with these guidelines fairly independently, they seem to be universally recognized to some degree or other by nearly all men. Back to my story about the girl breast-feeding her baby at the pizza joint.
Basically, I wasn’t sure how to react at the store. I had to rack my brain. I didn’t want to look, obviously, but at the same time, I didn’t want to not look, because I didn’t know if that would be insulting. If my mammary served me correctly, from the fleeting glance I got out of the corner of my eye, it wasn’t that nice of a boob, anyhow. It was kinda purple-ish and, of course, there was a baby hanging off of it. More awkward than erotic. Plus, as you know, I’m a legally married man, and even though men as a rule—married or not—will generally be happy to oblige if you ask them to look at a pair of naked boobs, I still didn’t want Angela to get pissed off at me, especially if I wasn’t trying to eye this particular set of funbags.
Anyhow, with the afternoon dragging on and the oven cooking pizzas, it was getting hooter and hooter in the little pizza place, so when the girl brought me my slice, I ate it in about two minutes, and drank the hell out of my coke. I just decided it’d be breast if I got out of the situation before it got even more gawkward. So, at the very moment when I turned to the side to ask the pizza girl if I could pay, the baby must have been done, too, because it unclamped from the mother’s breast at that instant. The girl made an effort to cover up what bore an uncanny resemblance to the pepperoni on the slice of pizza that I’d just consumed.
I needed to get out of that place, because it was starting to feel like a David Lynch movie for some reason, and I was afraid that I’d suddenly switch places with Billy Ray Cyrus or Robert Forrester or someone. I paid the pizza girl, tried to seem casual by asking how much time they needed to make a whole pizza, and left the store. It was a rather uncomfortable experience, but in the end, I guess I can at least say I saw a boobie. And it counted. Titally.
Sitzman
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