No Disrespect Intended

I was eyeing my boobs a couple of nights ago, as I'm wont to do in this post-breastfeeding era of my life, mourning the loss the perky set I originally evolved into, when I came to a realization. I have Tori Spelling cleavage.

I don't know if you've viewed the enormous gulf that hovers between Ms. Spelling's breastisies (I know she's a Mrs. now, but I can't remember the new surname), but it's mammoth. You can't possibly even hold a lip gloss there to butter up your lips, ala Molly Ringwald in Breakfast Club. Not. Going. To. Happen.

And as I'm beginning to really get into the self-pity, to clearly go all moppy about the continental drift between my own girls, Barry steps up, in, what I like to think because I love him and I can't go any other way, is an attempt to console me in this only surgically revocable stage of Separate and Sag.

"No, Sarah. No. You don't have Tori Spelling cleavage. You have Loni Anderson cleavage (scroll)."

Loni Anderson cleavage?

Oh yes, you so know that helped. So much so that I immediately filled the bathtub and plunged my head into the water. And yes, my boobs hit the water first. My cleavage, though, trailed far enough behind to stay safe and amazingly dry.