it's said they can move mountains....

Having recently learned that my breasts have once again helped someone to achieve a long-held dream, I decided to write a little story of my past regarding the glorious beginnings of my love affair with the girls....after all, they're superheroes!

The Girls Sure Can Tote

A long, long time ago, I lived in the Dominican Republic. A little less long ago than that, Hurricane Georges came to visit. He was a terrible houseguest. He hit the island at 150 mph, stopped for 12 hours, and left after he'd eaten everything. My happy little village had been desecrated. While we all agreed that we'd never invite Georges over again, we still had cleanup to do.

As Americans, it was assumed we knew more about stuff than we did. Actually, we knew less. We were rather worthless. Couldn't even build a simple home out of tin cans. Really. I still can't. It's not in my American genetic code, I think. So - the Red Cross put us to work "assessing the damage"....or, in accurate terms, riding around in vehicles so we'd stay out of trouble and not die, thus invoking the wrath of the American CIA, who everyone believed had sent us there in the first place.

The only problem with the great riding around plan was that it left us little time to do the daily business of living - a task very difficult after a hurricane. With no electricity, washed out bridges, and increased levels of bacteria in the water and soil, obtaining water and food was no easy task. We had used up most of our money within the first week, so by the second week, we had to do for ourselves, just like the rest of the population.

It's important to note that *I* am a baby daughter. The first commandment to baby daughters is: Thou shalt do no labor if able to be done by anyone else. I was understandably disconcerted by the idea that I would have to walk the mile to the river several times a day to tote my own water, wash my own clothes, and beg for food from the passing relief trucks. What would my daddy think?! Would I be allowed home again?!

As I pushed a bucket onto my head to undertake the journey back to the house, I mentioned to one of my American friends that "several people seem to have cars taking 50-gallon buckets back to the village."

She scoffed. "Well, if you find a car, we'll take on that program."

I smiled. I owned better than a car. I owned breasts. Very, very nice breasts. I wonder what my breasts can do, I thought as I complained loudly about the uncomfortable trek up the hill to our house and how much water I was losing so it would take years and years to fill the 50-gallon bucket we had waiting at the house - a bucket, I reminded my friend, that could be easily carted in a car.

We got back to the house. My friend rejoiced in her fortitude. I changed my shirt into something much tighter. Then I quietly grabbed my bucket and led the trek back for more water.

I hadn't taken 5 steps when I heard a whistle. I turned, looking innocent as I pulled myself straighter, letting the shirt do my work for me. The car vrooomed up to us. "Chicas!" the man yelled.

I smiled shyly, "We can't stop and talk, gentleman. We have to tote water for a 50-gallon bucket."

I hadn't finished the phrase before 3 men were getting our bucket out of the house and into the car. My friend looked angry. "It's good for the people to see us be just like them!"

I rolled my eyes. It was good for this people to have water. Besides, I had a plan to help everyone else, too.

We got our bucket. I flirted outrageously in gratitude. Then I grabbed my little bucket and headed back down the hill.

"Chica!" came the yell. The car pulled up. "What are you doing? We just got water!"

I opened my eyes very wide. "Do you think I could leave my neighbors without water? I have to go and help them."

The car made runs for every house we could until nearly sundown. I leaned over the car door, allowing one last peek at the reward the generous men would never get. "I'll see you in a few days?" I suggested coyly.

They nodded.

We never toted another pail of water during the two weeks the power was out.

I got food, too. Same story. Different neighbors. Same shirt. Despite my friends' criticism, I never felt a moment's guilt. Work is a means to an end. Breasts are the same. Does it really matter as long as it served the people?