Boob Job

Lest you thought this just another foodie blog, I bring you a tale from this past Thanksgiving when my 86 year old grandfather informed me it might be time I considered getting a boob job. 

Polish in bloodline, exquisite cheapness, and determination, William Cynewski is the Paul Bunyan of coastal Maine.  The joys of his life are shoveling piles of dirt around his yard, telling off waitresses who fail to bring him enough coffee creamer, and flirting with disaster in his leaky little motor boat with the faulty outboard motor.  This is a man who at age 85 fell off a 20 foot cliff, broke his neck, and pulled himself back UP the cliff face to get help.  The kicker?  Even with a broken neck he refused to go to his next door neighbor for help because he can't stand her.  He is an obstinate legend and I could not love him more.  Except for when he grills me on my dating life.

My lack of marriage proposals and progeny at 25 is one of the chief sorrows of his old age.  It's a puzzle he sighs over every time he sees me, shaking that big strong head in disappointment as he eyes my unadorned ring finger.  I've taken to sitting on my hands when around him just to keep the whole conversation at bay.  But this past Thanksgiving he had a whole new line of thought ready for our biannual battle.

"So grandaughtah, any nice young men in yuh life?"
"Mmm not really, Poppop."
"Oh Lawd, I don't know what men is thinkin today.  You'se so pretty and smaht and that's nawt gonna last fuhevah."

       It's not...?  

 I tried humor rather than a full on defensive.

"You know how it is Poppop.  I live in a yuppie town; the men want trophy wives, you know, anorexic, boob jobs, lots of makeup, the whole nine yards.  I'm not really interested in that."

He gave me a long slow once over.  Nodded sagely.  And then:
"Yeah, shuah.  I can see how thaht would work."

"Wait..wait..what?  You want me to get a boob job?!"

"Well yeah, I mean if good ain't good enough ya gotta bettah!"

With a firm nod and a satisfied grin he sat back in his recliner, content with the sheer simplicity of his brilliant solution to what he thought needed fixing.  His mind at peace, he turned his attention back to the John Wayne reruns perpetually looping on the television.

The rest of the Thanksgiving holiday he called me "Boobs".  I'm going up to visit him in another month and I'm seriously considering inventing a fake fiancee.  Or just buying a killer push up bra.