Another Fashion Casualty

The Princess of Darkness just returned home, a little unexpectedly since I knew she was supposed to be at some Editorial Workshop.
"I just spent the last of my food money on a strapless bra. Because I really needed one."
"Um, do you have a function you're going to, and a dress that needs a strapless bra..."
"No, just, you know, shirts. Like what you're wearing. If I were you, I'd be fine. But I have this problem..."

Okay, point of contention. Princess of Darkness is always going on, well, she's always going on about something, but she's also always going on about how she has these double D boobs that are just another cross she must bear in the passion play that is her daily existence. Here's the rub: no way she's a double D. She's not bigger than me, not that I would take issue about this with any other person but, there you are. I'm Italian. I've got relatives with boobs so big they couldn't breast feed out of fear they would smother the baby. POD, you're fine. Maybe you only think your boobs are so big becuase you've haven't been naked since adolescence since you are Brittish and therefore oddly prudish. You're supposed to measure your bust with your bra off.

Thirty seconds of silence.

"Hey Nancy? Do want a Jack and Coke and to go to Barnes and Noble? Or does that only sound attractive to me?"
"Uh, no thanks." What I would really like is more quiet alone time.

One minute of silence.

"So, I'm totally slacking off right now, I'm supposed to be someplace."
"Yeah, your workshop, I know."
"But I walked all the way down there and looked in but compared to the other women there I looked like I was dressed like a homeless woman and I just couldn't handle it. So I turned around, bought a bottle of Jack Daniels and a bag of peanuts and got on the train."
"And a strapless bra."
"And a strapless bra."

I sigh out her name. "Don't let those women intimidate you. Just hold your head up and act like you belong there." Cupcakes, I'm tired of conceeding New York to them, the women SmartyCake calls "the girls with the pointy toed boots." They're stealing our men, they're stealing our hang-out spots, alumnae networking events, copy-editing workshops, paid internships and hell, they're even stealing Brooklyn. No more. I will not be drummed out of any more events or places because I'm feeling fashionably inadequate. (To say nothing of the pretty factor; compared to some of my Barbie Doll contemporaries in this city I feel like a Smurf. I want to chill in the Dream House, but I know I'll just be dragged out to back up He-Man in the siege at Skelator's Castle). Cupcakes, let's take back this city.

Two minutes of silence.

"Nancy, tell me a story before I go out?"
"No, I don't think so," I say through my closed bedroom door. At the moment I'd settle for taking back my personal space.