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I will admit to having bought a particularly sexy and filmy bra and panties set that I wear occasionally under my work clothes. These are intended for no one's eyes other than my own; it strangely makes me feel good and wicked about myself under my junior professor suit in which I try to pass for the real thing.
Interestingly, a recent issue of Shop Smart Magazine touched on this particular topic: Among the findings reported in the January issue (www.shopsmartmag.org) is that the typical woman above age 18 has about 21 pairs of panties. Also, 47% of women feel sexier and more confident while wearing a nice set of panties.
That's an easy psychological boost!
Also:
•27% say their mood is affected by wearing an ill-fitting or unattractive pair of undies.
•10% of women own 35 or more pairs.
65% buy neural colors, with white being the most popular, followed by black and beige.
•Overall, 46% of women say briefs are the style they wear the most often. But women age 18-34 are more likely to wear the bikini style.
•56% of women fold their panties; 27% just toss them in the drawer.
•1 in 10 women admit that they will venture out of the house without underwear.
•Half of women have complaints about the way their underwear fit, with "wedgies" (30%) topping that list, followed by "doesn't lay flat under clothes" (19%) and "not enough coverage in the rear" (14%).
Caseworker: "Good morning, Mr. Gator."
Al Gator: "Morning, Ma'am."
Caseworker: "I've been looking over your application for employment. First of all, what's your complete name?"
Al Gator: "Ma'am, do we have to go there?"
Caseworker: "Yes, Mr. Gator. We need that to have everything in order; and also because you need a Social Security number. Your FULL name is?"
Al Gator: "Alvin. Alvin, er. Alvin, er, er, er . . . . Hippolyte." [Even green saurians can blush.]
Caseworker: [suppresses giggle] "Okay, now, that wasn't so bad. Now let's see. You are indeed going to be difficult one to place; but I'll take this as a challenge since you obviously have made an effort to obtain employment." [Glances significantly at spit-shined shoes and Brooks Brother suit.]
"You have no education. That makes it hard. You declare that you can remain motionless for hours. You list your skills as being able to eat anything, laying around a pond while surrounded by slime, being able to drink a lot, and not be easily bored. You further assert that you have a strong jaw, and will swallow anything in the line of duty. Hmmm . . . . those are certainly skills; but they have a limited marketability. You report no experience with manual labor.
Al Gator: "No, but I knew his brother and sister, Miguel and Rosita."
Caseworker: "We might have a misconnection here. I urge you to be serious! The workplace is serious, and you have to be prompt and come reliably. Somehow, I don't see you in construction, or in office work, or in sales. Uh, you're a tough one!
"I know! This is the right job for you! You can be a lobbyist at the State Capital."
I hope that this holiday season, in whatever fashion you celebrate it, will be in occasion for peace, joy, love, and hope. I love you; and thanks for joining me in this blog occasionally.
Ahh, to consider those earnest, tried-and-true high school essay or speech topics: How I Spent My Summer, My Philosophy of Life, My Choice of Vocation in Life. The last one is particularly one that a student should choose with care for the paper or speech. The rule of thumb is: present yourself as idealistic, to assauge the Ya-Ya Sisterhood and Da Good Sistahs!. Saying that you want to be a doctor or nurse or social worker are good ones. Proposing that you want to be a lawyer is iffy, since the Learned Counselors often have slimy reputations and hang out with unsavory types like criminals and pols. Of course, if you say that you have a vocation to be a nun, then fate will smile on you for the remainder of your high school career. This can be parlayed into many excuses and out-of-room slips; and, as long as you do not appear to be boy-crazy or immodest, out of a lot of grief. An engineer? Well, that's not entirely lady-like; but Chem. E's or Pet. E's draw about 45 K when they leave the starting gate (thus Dear Ole Dads like that) and you get excused for a lot of bad taste in dress.
Did I go the safe route? No. Instead, I wrote that I would like to be a trophy wife. I was sent to three days' detention for having a 'bad attitude.' I thought that was standard equipment.
Later on, my poor mother got a phone call from the head nun. I overheard her explaining the difference between a trophy wife and a kept woman. Go figure.
Thud! Thud! Thud! The dreadful sound of machinery putting together fruitcake slabs assaulted the tender ears of Sakura, recently appointed as the Fruitcake Fairy by the Boss Fairy who found her deficient in more critical assignments of inducing sleep, hiding socks, and turning wine. She despaired, "Waaaaa! I should have applied myself in fairy school and more diligently performed my duties. Now I'm in this dead-end job until I'm eligible for my pension. And considering my salary, I will have to live under the bridge with the trolls!"
But then a glimmer of hope presented itself. Sakura remembered how humans loved alcohol so much; and wondered if she could, er, enhance the product a tad. This was just an idea until she was hanging out in Pepito's Lounge for relaxation, to get over her dispiritedness. There she met Bob, a guy who chatted her up. He seemed unprepossessing, and she first thought, "Oh great! Time to get hit on by another third-class loser!"
But her pessimism (and sheer snobbishness) was unfounded. It turned out that Bob was a Chem. E. major from L.S.U. and a wheeler-dealer on the side. Plus he had gorgeous blue eyes. They turned out to have a lot in common! Together, they found a way of walking on the wild side for fun and profit.
You see, Bob found an easy, inexpensive way of producing a supreme cognac; and melded it into the fruit cakes on stock. Sakura applied her marketing skills and knowledge of the customers. She designed provocative labels which attested to their strength of the cognac-laced fruitcakes, rating them as 100% octane V.S.O.P. and all of that.
Naturally, they had the usual market to draw on: the L.S.U. frat houses, the Acadian whiskey bars, the drive-in daiquiri stands, the New Orleans gin mills. And their business did tolerably well. But Sakura then discovered an unexpected outlet: The aristocratic old lady trade in Uptown New Orleans.
Now you must remember that these ladies are the upholders of severe community standards. While they like a libation now and then, they possessed a sentiment that drinking alcohol in mid-afternoon was just not done; it was not genteel, you know. Drinking before 8 P.M. implied that all was not right in the family; it was seen as overtly self-indulgent.
But what could be more harmless than an afternoon coffee and tea party with a fruitcake snack? Anyway, Sakura sold one to a hostess and promised to act as a server at the party. The fruitcake part of the party was a success: the first one ended with the entirety of the fruitcake consumed, and subsequent tea parties required more and more fruitcakes.
Sakura and Bob worked out a system of buying the fruitcakes and ingredients wholesale, and sold the "improved versions" at a 400% markup. The money started to roll in.
As one satisfied customer put it, "I never knew afternoon tea parties could be so fun."
Months went by, and things were going well. However, eventually, things began to come unraveled. The New Orleans Police Department's Vice Squad formed a Fruitcake Division, and there was several officers that worked full-time to suppress the illicit fruitcake trade. Fortunately for our heroes, they diversified their holdings, and vacated the business.
Bob is presently a casino kingpin on the Mississippi Gulf Coast. Sakura spends the day lounging around the swimming pool in a bikini and manages their portfolio. She occasionally drafts a report to the Fairy Office that the fruitcake trade is doing okay, but tries to keep a low profile. Things are going well; don't fix what ain't broken.
