emma b. says

Monday, March 22, 2004

platitudes, vicissitudes, platypus, narcissus

or - which one of these kids is doing his own thing, which those of us of a certain age can attribute that little ditty to the Electric Company

We had meant, in all earnestness, to launch into a screed this evening into the Misdoings of Our Feckless Leader.

Alas, tonight was laundry night, and for those of you not in the know the laundry mat is in close proximity to Our Favorite Margarita Spot, now you do. And I am certain that you can surmise the rest. Ending up, quite accidentally, tipsy on a Monday night was not part of our master plan, but so it is and there it went.

my point, goddamit, I've lost my point again.

So not having television and all, sometimes one is forced to invent entertainment. Tonight, having laundered all of our knickers save the pair we are wearing, we decided, for shits and giggles to count them, we have fifty-four pair of clean knickers residing in our "panty drawer"

I would postulate that of those 54 pair about 25 are in full time circulation, then there are the granny panties (not hardly, wouldn't be caught dead, more like slightly ratty granny thongs) in reserve for when Aunt Flo comes a visitin' and then there are the special cases.
Those that are only trotted out with the matching set.
Those that are "slimmers" ie really big pants one wears when one has only the slimmest chance in hell of getting laid.
And those that for various and often extremely peculiar reasons we hold on to for sentimental reasons. I do not doubt that I might be the only freak out there who does this, afterall, I do not "scrapbook" and contrary to the filthy minded among you, to which I cop a card carrying membership, these elder statesmen panties are not affiliated with a sexual encounter or even a flirtation.

I still have the only two items I ever shoplifted, an old, old moldering tube of metallic peach shaded lip gloss (can we just say, oh soooo wrong) and a pair of silk "french styled" panties. I felt so poorly about stealing that I actually purchased three times the value of that which I thieved. I was fifteen, and my partners in crime ragged on me mercilessly.

the bottoms of the matching set I bought circa 1988, valentine's day to be precise, before I had any clear idea of how to buy a proper bra for my, then, burgeoning bosoms (crikey, shoot me for ever having written bosom, whaddam I, my grandma) anyways it was a red velvet number and only the bottoms survive.

the bottoms to the first proper matching set I bought in Aix-en-Provence in 1991, a cute little floral number. Was properly fitted, the works, spent (what seemed at the time) a fortune. Of course, I hadn't learned laundering techiniques and within a matter of weeks the bra was one shade and the panties were another...

Now we have it down to a science, and when we were at saks on sunday we were prepared to drop a dime. helas. we have specific demands of our undergarments, they should not in any way resemble your granny's bra, they should never mould a breast into a missile silo, they should not have any padding (that's nice and all, but we really don't need it)

We like a rounded demi cup and that is hard to find.

We read that there is an atelier in Paris that makes custom bras, as soon as we have won the lottery we are going to be fitted. shitfire, if I had six hundred extra sheckels lying about it would be an honor to have some lovely french lady of a certain age custom fit my glorious assets.

so, much for politics, in the end, it is the undergarment that makes the man, or the woman.


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