Hope?

The very nice bra fitter who was unable to help me on Saturday recommended that I check out Title Nine, a retailer that caters to active women.

As their un-mission statement says, "We are evangelical about women's participation in sports and fitness activities."

It also says "Policies make us nervous." And "We're quirky!" And "We like dessert." What's not to like?

Title Nine mostly sells clothes, but they do have an extensive "Bras & Undies" section, not to mention a Bra Genie, a Bra Finder, and Bra Coaches(!).

Their closest retail stores are in the Bay Area, and I will be making a pilgrimage on my next SF business trip in a couple of weeks.

Because I think it's fair to say that I need a finder, a genie, and a coach!

Still Cooking . . .

I'm happy to report that my plan to try a new recipe every week is still going strong.

Tonight's dish:

Pork Tenderloin with Pears and Shallots
(with a side of roasted butternut-squash purée with sage)

Last week's:

Quinoa with Moroccan Winter Squash and Carrot Stew

Both are great winter dishes (especially if your winter features actual cold weather. . . .).

Bon appétit!

Great Dumplings, Anyway

Yesterday's professional bra fitting did not go well.

The fitter was lovely, and she brought lots of things for me to try, but she quickly realized that I'm a lot more challenging to fit than, as she put it, "the average bear."

A highlight of our exchange:

The fitter: You've got a real conundrum.

Me: I've got two of them.

Just to give you a sense of how extreme the situation is, here's what she said in a follow-up e-mail to me this morning:

"I feel very badly that I wasn't able to be of help. It's not often that I can't even get close to a solution."

Not even close is right. Ugh.

Maybe my reality-show idea has some merit after all. . . .

On the positive side, we took a slight detour on the trip to check out Din Tai Fung, a Chinese/Shanghainese restaurant featuring "little pillows of perfection"—aka "luscious," "handmade" soup dumplings—according to Zagat.

You don't often see a Zagat review where the food rating (26) outstrips the price ($21), and I'd been hearing about this place ever since we arrived in LA, so we went.

And the dumplings were divine.

My own not-so-little pillows of imperfection?

I don't want to know what Zagat would say about them.

Aaaah

After my second consecutive looong week at work, I treated myself to an hourlong foot massage/reflexology session that also included a neck-and-shoulder massage.

And a leg massage.

And an arm massage.

And a hip massage.

And a forehead/temple massage.

And a scalp massage.

The whole thing cost $25, and the only things I had to take off were my shoes and socks.

Not a bad way to end the week!

If at Fifth You Don't Succeed . . .

On Saturday, Zach and I are going to drive thirty-some-odd miles (up to an hour and a half in traffic, according to Google) so that I can try once again to find a bra that actually fits. (I have already stumped at least three professional fitters in New York and two in LA.)

My mom did a little poking around (thanks, Mom!) and found this fitter, who is actually based in the Bay Area but travels to Southern California one weekend a month. Hence our upcoming road trip.

In one of our e-mail exchanges, the fitter asked me, "What are you biggest problems/complaints with bras?"

Where to start???

I ended up sending her a long message that outlined (in seven bullet points) the various issues I've been dealing with for the past nine years. Apparently, it was detailed enough to obviate the need for me to fill out her standard form.

Here's what she said in response:

"[Y]ou've done an admirable job of providing all the information I need. I won't promise that I'm going to be your solution either, but I'm certainly willing to try."

I'm willing to try, too.

And I can only hope that the sixth time will be the charm. . . .

Tough Times

Tonight I am thinking of good friends going through tough times: the loss of a parent, a seriously ill child, a spouse suffering through chemo, a broken heart. Wishing you all comfort, peace, and better news tomorrow.

Normandy, 1991-2010

Normandy was part of our family for almost 19 years—more time than we had a right to expect, less than we hoped for.

Her favorite place was always somewhere high above—I have to think she's feeling right at home in cat heaven. And we know she's in good company.

Brittany and D'Artagnan, take good care of our girl.

Ladies' Comfort Breast Cushion

I had a much-needed deep-tissue massage this evening at a great local day spa called dtox.

I got a small holiday bonus this year and decided to spend it on massages. Between the car accident a year ago and all the scar tissue from my various surgeries, my back and neck seem to be perennially in knots. My left side is unquestionably worse, but my right side is pretty bad, too—from compensating, I imagine.

Deep-tissue massage definitely brings me some relief, although it takes a lot of deep breathing for me to get through it. One masseuse likened my back to concrete because of all the hard, rubble-like stuff that needed to be broken up.

The thing is—deep breathing aside—getting a massage is always a bit of a challenge for me.

First, I can't really lie flat on my stomach because I have what could pass for a small inflatable beach ball on one side and a regular old (emphasis on old) breast on the other. So I look like a car that's been jacked up to have a flat fixed. (Hmm . . . that metaphor is a bit too apt.)

Second, having someone press down hard on my back is not particularly comfortable for the beach ball. (Nor is it relaxing, because I'm convinced that too much pressure will cause the ball to burst, and I just lie there stressing about it.)

Every time I've been to this spa, whichever masseuse or masseur I get brings in a pillow or a couple of towels, and I spend a few minutes trying to fashion some kind of bolster that will make me comfortable.

Today's masseuse asked if I needed to use a breast pillow (she got points for reading the notes in my file), and I said I did. Then she went outside for a moment and came back something like this:


Who knew there was such a thing as a ladies' comfort breast cushion?

It took a minute to get used to it (and it reminded me a bit of the contraption they use for a breast MRI), but I have to say that it did the trick. The masseuse bore down hard, using everything from her elbows to hot stones, and although I had to breathe very deeply while all of that concrete was being jackhammered, I was as comfortable as could be for a full 50 minutes of really intense massage.

Oh, and I'm absolutely counting the massage as my exercise for today because I know how sore I'll be tomorrow. . . .

January 29, 2006: Gut check