One of my several income-generating activities is to work in a shop on the UES that sells Mexican crafts, clothing, and jewelry to rich white ladies who vacationed in Mexico in 1953 and like to point out how they bought a necklace almost exactly like this one for seven dollars, so why is ours so much more expensive. (I'm an heiress, of course, but you know how it is, I like to work so I can go among the little people and all that.) So last week, a woman came in looking for a shirt. She was very small, birdlike, and going here and there and talking a mile a minute, very quietly. She wanted a shirt for a friend of hers with a very large chest, so we spent a while looking at the shirts (and the earrings and the scarves) and found one that seemed like it would fit her style and her boobs. But the woman was uncertain; she just didn't know if it would fit the humongous breasts of her friend. Finally she asked me for about the fourth time, "You think this would fit someone with a very large chest?" I said, "Yes, I think so. But what size is she?" "I don't know," said the woman. "I never met her."
It turns out this was an Internet friend in Argentina with whom this woman has spoken often about her ginormous breasts. Probably it's some pervy sixty year old guy in Oneonta who gets off on telling random women about his huge boobs and sniffing the things they send him in the mail. I'll leave you to marvel at the nuttiness of all humanity and get back to you tomorrow with more questionable building materials for the space shuttle.