Aruba & Breast Shells

Remember the birthday party I've been talking about this week?  Our theme was tropical.  Think 'Aruba'.  I'm so happy my sister happened to wear a flesh colored shirt to go beneath the breast shells I got her.  Did I say 'breast'?  Sorry.

I had a blast making a fist and knocking on the shells every time we passed each other.  It's a sister thing.  

Every birthday person embraced their grass skirt in their own way. 

My baby nephew got his own skirt for fun.  He never took it off.  

His mamma would adjust and tighten as needed for him.

My dad cooked steaks for those who wanted steaks.  Was that sentence redundant?  

Dinner was a family effort.

Again, please protect your eyes from my brother's appropriate t-shirt.  I'm sorry.  He's 28, going on 29 and like me.  Sometimes, he forgets to hide his crazy.  He's like me.

But with testosterone.

Never mind.

Try to hear 'The Circle Of Life' from The Lion King playing in your mind when you look at this picture of B-Lowe.

He's channeling his inner Simba.  Or Bob Marley.  Or both.  I think.

I couldn't remember the official name for these breast shells so I googled 'breast shells' and Image searched them in Google.  

I regret that decision.

Now, I have to get pregnant tonight, lest I die.  

Most torturous Google search I've ever, ever, ever done.

And the photos ended with creamy garlic shell pasta.  I'm in!

Oh dear, it's that baby lamb nephew again.

Wook at wose wittle cheeks.

Where's B-Lowe?