There is Nothing Wrong with Implants, But...

My family are not celebrities, unless you use a very liberal definition of the term. Maybe if you play 6 Degrees of Kevin Bacon. My dad met Omar Sharif once, who I'm sure acted with K.B., right? Regardless, even then, it would be a stretch. Though they are not celebs, my family was in Charleston today and because of one particularly interesting incident, it warrants a blog post. At least I think it does. But that's all that really matters, isn't it?

So. Jump back to early March, when I went on a vacay with my dad. He was going to an exotic southeast Asian country for work and I was bored so, you know, I went too. One day, I was minding my own business, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes after a between-wine-with-lunch-and-cocktails nap of the sort that only occurs on vacation and in Fitzgerald novels, when my dad hit me with a word-bomb: "So, your mom, um, got a, um, boob job."

Naturally my eyes about popped out of my head and any relaxation that the trip had provided was out the window quicker than you could say "collagen." (Background: my mother is the antithesis of someone who would purchase breasts. She sees absolutely no point in buying clothes because they are from a particular designer, and she regularly mocks me for the cost and variety of my handbags. You don't go from hating on Prada to getting a boob job. It's not done.)

I spent the remainder of the week trying to beat it out of him that he was lying, and even made a very expensive telephone call to my brother to get his take on things. He corroborated the story. I couldn't ask my mom, natch. That would be too awkward.

Upon my return to the U.S. I told basically everyone I know about the alleged boob job, of which I was now convinced. Flash forward to yesterday, when my parents sent me an e-photo of them in Saint Simons, which I promptly blew up as much as possible on my comp in order to examine my mother's breast status. Uncomfortable, but it was my only chance.

The fam arrived this a.m. in Charleston, and I quickly realized I had been punk'd. Ashton Kutcher, listen up, this is a good one. The breasts were as before. I confronted my mother, who was IN ON IT FROM THE START and everyone had a great laugh. Hilarious. Apparently they were calling it "Operation Lampshade."

And they wonder why I moved away.


This blog will return to celebrity coverage as soon as one surfaces.