Holy, Shitballs! Am I Elite?

The other day, I was doing some research at work. You know, going through some studies of what qualifies as qualifying as “affluent” in this American life. And upon reading some of the factoids, I realized, gulp, that maybe, could I? Have I joined the affluent ranks of America?

Well, according to one study, if your combined household income is over $150K, then yes, you are considered “affluent.” Yet another one said $200K. I don’t know about you, but having a combined household income over $150K may get you pretty far—you know, above-ground pool and a leased Beemer—in fucking Alabama, but it’s not going to get you very far in any place that anyone actually wants to live, like say, on a coast.

To help us all figure out where we land in this new economy—even with a jobs report reporting a slight uptick for September—I have compiled a quiz that will let you know if your small-dog pampering, summer-house sharing, yoga-taking ass is considered closer to the 1 percent that we all despise. Get comfortable with your income bracket and get ready to enjoy the ‘Holy Shitballs! Am I Elite?’ quiz:

  1. Do you pay other people to exercise?

A. My exercise is getting out of the car when the drive-thru is shut down.
B. No, but I go outside and walk around a lot, like smug French people, and feel very pleased with myself while I’m doing this.
C. Yes, my home gym has awesome stuff like a sauna and elliptical.
D. Yes, I have a personal trainer who comes to my home/office three times a week to yell at me and tell me what to do.

  1. Do you have a person of a different nationality coming to your home to take care of your children?

A. Hell, no. A bag of Doritos and a TLC “Honey Boo Boo” marathon is all they fucking need.
B. No, they go to daycare, where they roll around in a disgusting, snotty pit with at least 30 other children, licking on one another all day.
C. Yes, she’s a lovely Jamaican woman, and she just loves my little angel!
D. Yes, I have six of them, two alternates on speed dial. And I am Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt.

  1. Do you only eat organic and/or locally sourced produce and food?

A. Taco Bell has all the vegetables I need.
B. No, I buy what’s on sale, but I try to eat mostly vegetables.
C. Yes, Whole Foods and my local farmer’s market is my Lord and Savior.
D. I don’t eat.

  1. Do you regularly use/consume any of the following?

A. Pampers/Pepsi
B. Soy milk/Raisin Bran
C. Cocunut Water/Sushi
D. Cristal/Starbucks

  1. Who are you voting for in this presidential election?

A. Mitt Romney
B. Barack Obama
C. Do I vote?
D. Mitt Romney

  1. How do you get around?

A. 1996 Hyundai
B. 1986 Volvo
C. 2013 Beemer
D. Black Escalades

  1. The last time I was on a bike…

A. I never had no bike.
B. Within the last hour.
C. Last weekend’s Sonoma Wine Country ride, of course!
D. That is so cute.

  1. I tend to have sex with…

A. Cousins
B. My soulmate, who embodies every one of my hopes, wishes, dreams and desires. We even made an extended video of our tender relationship and put it on YouTube for the world to see and feel bad for you because you are not as in love as we are.
C. Secretaries, neighbors, wife’s best friend and her daughter.
D. Those I pay.

  1. The last splurge I spent money on was…

A. The soft toilet paper—Charmin!
B. An organic farm share with my friends.
C. An Omega watch, because I deserve it.
D. A Namibian orgy fuckfest.

  1. Do you consider yourself a 99-percenter? Or one-percenter?

A. Neither. That Occupy stuff was some pussy, liberal-arts college kid shit.
B. The 99 percent, of course, but you know, I can still feed myself and buy a six-pack of microbrews whenever I want.
C. 99 percent. I’m tired of Obama saying he’ll raise taxes on those who make more than $250K a year. I had to sell my second home last year!
D. One percent? Please. Try the .000001 percent.

Mostly A’s. If the thought of New York City’s over 16 ounces drink ban infuriates your very being and you consider it an infringement on your rights, then you are an A.

Mostly B’s. Eh, you are so middle class, toiling away in some supposed “professional” desk job with stagnant wages and shrinking benefits. Good luck paying back your student loans, asshole! Or, that’s what Mitt Romney’s brain is thinking as he stares out at you and your sad little protest sign.

Mostly C’s. Congratulations. You are a yuppie douche and probably have your own show on Bravo.

Mostly D’s. You are either the head of your own tech startup and make millions of dollars hand over fist. Or you are a celebrity. Or Mitt Romney. However you made your money, of course, is your business. But you are indeed elite and very much part of the problem.

My Boobs Are Awesome

So, a couple weeks ago, I became obsessed with replacing some bras. You know, out with the old, spring cleaning, all that crap. I ordered some from ye olde standby, Victoria’s Secret.

I am not a hard person to fit. I have been a 34B my entire life. Men, I’m told, have no idea what this means. Chicks do. Stay with me on this. The last time I was measured, however, was 2005 in Chicago. Then, I was a 34B.

Now, however, the bras I got from old Vicky S. felt like crap. They felt too tight, too small and cheap—even though they weren’t cheap at all.

My VS bras weren't as ugly as this. But felt just as uncomfortable as this looks. Also, Man Boobs! Always hilarious.

As usual, TV came to the rescue.

I was watching Bethenny Ever After on Bravo when she went bra shopping on the Upper East Side and some nice Jewish lady named Linda fitted her properly. Now, if you’ve ever watched Bethenny, holy shit is that a tiny woman with a huge rack. I, being of bigger body than Bethenny and smaller rack, figured if Linda could fit her, then I’d be no prob.

But before I put two and two together—I could totally go to the Upper East Side and have a nice Jewish lady feel me up and get me some bras—I hit the Internets, which also tell you nearly everything you need to know. Linda’s website had this neat calculator where you put in your measurements and it tells you your size. I did that. Holy shit, 34D? Are you fucking kidding me?

My boobs are not this big. Not even close.

See, my boobs go through cycles, much like the lunar cycle, and once or twice a year, they used to balloon up like an October Harvest Moon on a clear, crisp night. Sure, most of the time, they were just kind of average-ish size. But man, when the PMS hit, which is usually awful across the board, they were awesome, the one perk. So much so, that they inspired me to often call people I was fucking to tell them, “You better get over here. My boobs are awesome.”

In my world, Ds are huge, like I paid thousands of dollars to pump these up huge. No way I am a D. So I decided that I really needed to go see Linda now to figure out the Size of My Boobs mystery.

So, I made an appointment and schlepped to the UES, a neighborhood I never, ever go to for it is filled with blue hairs and their tiny, annoying dogs and shoe stores selling sensible, low-heeled shoes. Sure, enough I find Linda’s. The store is much smaller than it looked on Bethenny. In fact, it was real small, with just rows and rows of bras arranged by size. All told, pretty underwhelming, like going to a dry cleaner. I was told my appointment was with a nice young lady and to get in a booth and strip off my shirt.

If you’re modest and have problems with ladies feeling you up, perhaps this isn’t for you. However, it’s a walk in the park compared to the Ob/Gyn. My so-called bra consultant was crazy cute and nice, which made said feeling up a lot more pleasant.

Bra Confusion Briefly Takes Over.

She looks at me in my current bra. “This bra band is way too big for you.” Then she instructs me to take it off and she measures me. “Yep, 32. You’re a 32 C or D.”

We tried the C. Too small. Then the Ds. Holy crap. I am a D.

“Well, they changed the sizing,” she explained. Which makes some sense as my boobs really haven’t gotten that much bigger. Here’s the deal—and I swear I’m not making this up, but I have turned into a freak of nature. While my body has gotten smaller, my boobs have actually defied science by getting bigger because of the pill. So, there you have it. It is possible to tone up and get the rack going. Without surgery.

Anyway, she made great choices for me and didn’t bring me any old-lady looking bras, for which I was eternally thankful. In fact, I think every single damn bra I tried on was a winner. I bought this awesome lacey midnight blue one that makes my rack look so fucking great, I can’t believe it. It’s like a shelf I could balance a glass of whiskey on, which might come in real handy, I’m hoping, some day.

And now, my boobs are even more awesome.

Happy bra, happy boobs.