Last week my ordered bras from Fig Leaves arrived. John sent me an IM notification of BRAS ARE HERE. Obviously due to his bolding and use of all caps, I don’t need to describe to you the joy in my heart that leapt as I read those words. So after skipping home in absolute glee, I opened the box, ripped off my shirt and unsnapped my too small bra calling it incompetent as I flung it across the room and tried on my new purchases. Happiness quickly ebbed, as my bras were ill fitting and not able to adequately hold the monstrosities my pregnancy has created. I think it is possible at this moment I had a minor conniption fit. Just a slight one. Sometimes I truly believe that my guardian angel is a drunken fat man named Sully with a mean streak. I can see him up there with his barroom mates, telling them all about me.

Bar Pal: So Sully, who you got to watch over?
Sully (wiping drool off his lower lip): Me? I gots this girl. Cassandra. She is nice and all but I like to toy with her for my own amusement. Like, poor kid is pregnant and her boobs are just enormous. And well, she order bras last week and well, just to fuck with her I made sure these bras won’t fit. She is getting them today, come over and we can watch together. Should be fun. Oh god, see her face. Hah. Poor kid, I don’t know why I like doing it but I do. Bartender, whiskey shots for all. The girl's gonna cry.

Anyway, I knew drastic action had to be taken. So on Friday evening after work I walked to Nordstroms to the lingerie department. Where I summoned a clerk and stated that I was pregnant, and I needed to be fitted for a new bra. Into the room we went wherein she stood with tape measurer, and I took off my jacket. She looked at me for a moment before saying, “You must take off your sweater and shirt as well.” Okay then. So, I stood in bra and pregnant belly being measured wherein she said - you are a 36. So I was right on that front. As for the boobs, she said you could be a DD or a DDD, let us check. I waited in the room when she came back with about 7 bras. She then asked the question, “May I assist you?” I have always had issue with being naked in front of other women. I hate it, and if necessary I can in fact get changed in about 3.2 seconds. But I was in a situation that required immediacy. MY NEW BRA MUST BE BOUGHT. So I said yes, and stripped off my bra and tried on bra, after bra, after bra, after bra. And when the Nordstrom’s lingerie sales clerk says assist. Well, they actually mean molest. Just an FYI. But I suffered through, and found a bra. The sales person saying to me - "This bra is perfect. As you are bit top heavy." Really? I am bit top heavy? Do you think? Considering my boobs are Triple DDDs at the moment and I could provide a shelter for a midget family and their dog in a hurricane? Thanks lady, I would have never guessed. But I have to say, she did a fantastic job and I am quite perky in my new purchases. Which is pretty great, since perky and I departed ways in 1999.

Well the answer to the phrase "What the fuck comes after Double Ds anyway" on Google seems to render no answer. However, I did find out by measuring myself that I am currently a 36F. Now this does not mean much really - just that I grew a cup size because I guess in the bra world 36F, 36DDD and 36E are pretty much the same thing. So basically my boobs have expanded an inch. No, an inch does not seem like much. But remember, I started out as a 36D. I have grown two cup sizes in 22 weeks of pregnancy bliss. And I can expect another cup size growth after the birth of Owen. I believe the next size up is G. As in God Damn. Actually I am thinking that the entire A, B, C, D naming of bras is long overdue for change, to which I submit the following:

A - Almost.
B - Boobs.
C - Ca-ching.
D - Damn.
DD - Dynamic Duo.
DDD - The Ds are for Delightful.
F - Freakshow.
G - God Damn.
H - Holy Hell.
I - I'd Consider Surgery.
J - Jerry Springer?
K - Kill Me.
L - Life Sucks.

I can't even imagine the prospect of M through Z. But if there is a poor soul out there, please let me know if you get a discount on wheelbarrows in order to cart those suckers around.

I don't know what is more disturbing, the fact my belly is finally growing, or the fact that each of my boobs suddenly has a jealous streak and want to compete for the prize of biggest round object on my person. My head easily has been beating out the competition for years now; however, Irish head your throne is in jeopardy. Honestly, delving into circus freakdom does not bother me. It happens. However, Victoria Secret stops making bras at Double D, and this for me is a huge problem. By nature, I am a creature of habit. I find something that works and I stick to it. My bra purchases over the years can be summed in 4 parts:

Stage One - Looky Me, I have Boobs. When I finally developed, I was given my mother's B cups. Basically I went flat to B cup in a span of 48 hours. Obviously, making up for the apparent development girls do gradually from 7th grade to sophomore year in high school. I did not mind the hand-me down bras, I really don't know why - probably the fact that I was painfully shy and going with my mother to purchase bras was a torture in which I'd rather not participate. But to my dismay and much gawking by men later, the b-cup and I were not meant to be, thus leading to . . .

Stage Two - It is 1950 All Over Again. One day while shopping with my mother at Caldor I ventured into the woman's underwear section to audition alternatives to the now strangling hand-me downs. My girls, they needed a new home. I looked, and found nothing that offered the obvious support and comfort I desired until I found the Playtex underwire bra in size 36C. This bra was not for the dainty. It was huge. The back strap was 2 inches in width, the hooks and closures sinister, and the cups almost pointy. And the only color it was available in was stark white. Basically, it was a 1950-styled bra, purposeful and not pretty. But I loved it. It supported me, made me perky, the shoulder straps bearable and not digging grooves. And for four years or so, the Playtex "This is perfect for Nuns" Bra and I were happy. Until I started dating, which leads me to . . .

Stage Three - So Sassy, So Sexy. Every girl at some point in their lives has spent way too much on underwear that they consider sexy, and I was not immune. I figured no boy was going to be impressed with my Playtex Boob Prison in white, so I bought things that were pretty, lacy and 36 C. It should be noted however, that pretty 36C and 1950 36C are quite different, and none of these pretty bras ever fit me correctly. I had a lot of boob pop out - which I guess in hindsight was a great date conversation breaker. "Ooops, there goes my boob again, silly me. Let me just put that back in, did you want another drink?" Also it should be noted that no man cares about what the hell is covering your fat sacks of pleasure. And if they do, get out of bed immediately, because you are obviously not the right sex for him. So after a few years of this, I was fed-up and sensible, journeying into . . .

Stage Four - Victoria's Secret, Happiness Found. Eager to find a balance between ugly and too much money/ill-fitting, I bravely walked into Victoria's Secret. I explained my issues to the salesperson, was fitted and discovered the Body by Victoria Secret bra. A match made, and for the last 7 years, my sole destination for bras and underwear. Success, finally.

But, as we all know, my boobs victimized by pregnancy and hormones have grown to epic proportions, laying waste to the Victoria's Secret boob holders, and I am left with a frightening prospect - the hunt for new bras. With the pain in my shoulders massing, and the strain on my rib cage almost unbearable, again, my girls, need a new home. So, today, the hunt begins. I wonder if typing into Google "What the fuck comes after Double D Anyway?" will work. We shall see.

The other day on Muni a family of three comes on board. A teenager, a mom and a dad. The mother was dressed in a filmy tank top, and what looked like pajama bottoms. The dad has a huge pink fanny pack, and the teenager was well listening to her Ipod and looking otherwise depressed (typical teen). San Francisco is not warm in the summer and the Mom's outfit was probably too cool for Mexico. And I did not get it at all. Until of course I was getting off at the same stop, and heard that they had English accents. Oh, they are English, they don't know better. Amazing how a cockney accent cures all.

As for my boobs, you will have to wait until tomorrow. Sorry, I am such a bitch, I know.

Pregnancy is evil. No doubt about it. I mean, sure it is really good in the sense you get to mold a person (evil laugh), but in some ways it has to be one of the most devilish beings ever. I am beginning to think the old wives tale of how bad you treated your parents is what you can expect from your kid is a bunch of hooey. Instead, I believe how bad you treated your parents is directly proportional to the amount of hell that you will have to endure while knocked up. Luckily for me, I was good to my parents and my pregnancy has proven relatively easy. However, there are a few things that are darn right manipulative of the pregnant mind. Today after eating a rather healthful lunch of low fat spicy black bean chicken chili, I craved ice cream.

Ice cream and I have a long historic relationship which I think stems from my father's outright addiction. At any given time in my parents' house, if one looks in the freezer, there will be no less than two gallons of ice cream, and probably a few Ben and Jerry's pints for good measure sandwiched between pretty much an entire supermarket candy isle. Guess whose parents have a sweet tooth? Not that I am complaining, one of my favorites memories of my father are the ice cream sundaes that he made for my brother and me during episodes of Buck Rogers. Twiggy, Dr. Theopolis and ice cream sundaes basically equaled childhood bliss. And since being pregnant, my one craving other than jellybeans has been ice cream. So after my lunch, and being harassed by do-gooder teenagers about immigration rights - sorry guys, i don't need volunteer work for my college application - I decided to walk to Tully's and indulge in a vanilla and Oreo cookie frappe (milkshake for those reading not from Massachusetts). And when I was offered whip cream, I greedily accepted. Afterall, how could I have refused?

The first sip was incredible, as was the second to last. I cannot describe the joy received from a satisfied craving, but it is utter mouthwatering heaven. Mmmm, mmmmm, so freaking good. However, 90 minutes later, I am in hell - probably the 10th level of Pregnancy Backlash. My stomach is sick. It is pretty much the same nausea that I have had with eating pineapple. A lingering I am going to throw up, someone please kill me feeling. It pains me. But even more disturbing is the fact that I now believe that ice cream and its creamery goodness is banished as consumable food. So together with pineapple, I am forgoing ice cream for the remainder of this pregnancy. Of course, we all know this is a lie, for I will try it again, and probably be sick again and repledging my abstinence of it. But this, my friends, is the first plight of pregnancy that I am truly, and deeply sad about. Tonight I will bury a pint of vanilla and play Taps, and hopefully I can move past this horrid event.

Tomorrow, be prepared for "Boob Overhang in My Double Ds. What is next for the Breastzillas?"