Remember the whole recent bra issue at Boheme? Well, Dave came in a couple of days after Mother’s Day with the coda to the story.
The poor man. He was aghast at the prospect of overnighting the butterfly bra to his mom. His face literally went white at the retelling of his trip to UPS.
“What’s in the box?” the clerk asked.
“Uhm, well, it’s … well, it’s a bra.”
“Uh-huh. Is there any metal on the bra?”
Dave was dying.
“Well, yeah. I mean, I guess.”
“Okay. Open the box, please.”
So poor Dave was forced to open the box with the butterfly bra in front of evvverybody. Forced to watch as the clerk thoroughly “checked it out.” Finally, though, the box was shut and sent off to mom.
His mom who has Alzheimer’s, you see.
So a few days later, Dave’s phone rang. His mom, exclaiming, “Ohhh! Honey! I got the bra you sent me for Mother’s Day! I can’t believe it. Thank you! HOW did you know my size?”
“Mom, what — what do you mean?”
“The bra! It’s just my size!”
“Mom ….. it’s your bra.”
“It IS?”
“Yeaaah.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Mom, I swear. You left it here, you called me, I sent it back to you.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
There was a pause.
“Hm. Well, it’s real pretty.”
