I'm really not supposed to write about my wife's new boobs, even
mere trivialities like hearing her in front of the bathroom
mirror muttering, "I don't think breasts are supposed to have
right angles," or "I feel like one of the Girls Next Door."
Weeks ago we might have been able to describe their girth and
density with common geological or astronomical terminology, but
they've become so exaggerated that we can only use the patois of
bad reality television. "I feel like the silicon skeleton in Dr.
90210's closet," she says.  "The guy who wears sleeveless scrub
tunics and practices Capoeira, the Brazilian art of dance
fighting?"   So instead of writing about her boobs, I'm only
allowed to write about her cabbages. She has gone through
several cabbages this past week, using their leaves in some
private mammary ritual to treat what she calls "engorgement" (a
word that brings back shiver-inducing memories of family
reunions at the Ye Olde Country Buffet). When I express some
concern that our son will develop an u