The House of Tits

“We can sort of…close the band room door while I move stuff in, right?” I asked my boyfriend (we'll call him Ringo) as nicely as possible.

It was moving day, and my mom was going to be bringing some things over in her car that didn’t quite fit in mine.

“Sure, I guess," Ringo replied.

I breathed an inward sigh of relief. Best not to let my conservative Christian homeschooling (yes) mom in her denim dress see all of the Suicide Girls posters alongside the “Whore of Babylon” ones and all. It’s not that my mom would say anything – and that’s the problem. I’d just be treated to even more disapproving looks if she walked into the foyer of the house and saw not only the fake rubber bats hanging festively (in December) from the ceiling, but also a room full of naked girl pictures. It was bad enough that I was moving in with my boyfriend (little heathen that I was -- er, am), but moving into a house of tits was even worse.

I closed the band room door. And looked at the door. On the side facing out hung a huge poster of, well, mostly-naked Pussycat Dolls. That, too, would certainly not earn me any approval from Good Ol’ Mom.

I took it down. But inside, I had a sick feeling that if I ever wanted my parents to come visit for dinner, getting the house to Sensible Reasonable Nice People standards was going to take a valiant effort on my part.

For me, personally, I didn’t have any fears. Boobs, whatever! I could deal with a band room full of boobs! It wasn’t going to be that bad! Not bad at all! Nothin’ to it! Easy as pie! Flippant exclamation of carefree innocence!

Dun dun dun dunnnnn.