I was in despair because I have no clean bras.
And I have a contractor coming over tomorrow to assess repairs on my house.
Like, I can't open the door to a contractor wearing a bra that smells like three-day-old boob sweat.
Aside: I don't mean that the contractor is wearing the bra. I've talked to him twice, and he sounds like a normal red-blooded male. If he likes to wear women's underwear I don't really care. But I don't mean to imply that he does, having never even met him. Or that, if he does, they are unclean and smelly.
I'm just doomed here, aren't I?
Contractors are in high demand right now. They don't need a reason to turn away work. They might take pity on my sad-ass house and my paltry repair budget. But if they suspect I don't have my act together sufficient to wear a clean (and not completely elastic-depleted) bra to our consultation, they will laugh me out of consideration and then blackball me on Angie's List as "the sad chick with malodorous undergarments."
As if I need that in my life.
It doesn't take much to stress me out these days.
But then I realized: My appointment with this contractor is at 2:30 tomorrow afternoon.
And I'm on vacation this week.
So I have plenty of time to wash every bra I own.
Can I just say: Thank you, Jesus, for watching over the state of my brassieres lest I offend the nice contractor who wants to charge me a lot of money to get my house ready to put up for sale.
I'll light a candle or burn some incense or some shit next time I'm in church.
Or, you know, if you want me to do something in less than 40 years, Jesus, just let me know. DM me or something. You know where to find me.
Follow the scent of sweaty cups.
Kmen.
And let's hope your contractor doesn't turn out to be Ed Wood. You really don't want someone who'd do a "Plan 9 From Outer Space" construction job. Admittedly I don't think Ed Wood ever wore anything that wasn't clean, but you can't really put an angora sweater in the wash. His dry cleaning bills must have been enormous.
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