A Peek Into Our Panty Drawer: From Sexy Panties to Crotchless Spanx

That $200 pair of sexy panties you bought yourself will be used once, then reserved to only be used in times of extreme desperation. You quickly learn to categorize your washables into specific tiers depending on your sex life and laundry load.

We categorize our lovely skivvies by comfort and probability of getting laid. Unless you're one of those girls who is overly fashionable and insists on doing up-do's every day and thinks it's normal outside of LA or NY, then you've probably only worn your sexy panties a handful of times. You convince yourself it's because they require hand washing, and the French lace can't handle too much wear and tear. While this is true, it's BS. The F-ing things are more uncomfortable than those high wasted G-strings from the early 2000s (Whales Tail? I'm good, thanks).

 Let's start with the most important and work our way down:

Spankies - These are the godsend briefs that are worn when we need a hug...or ass hug. This goes back to my FGP, they only feel right when they're over a true pair of Spankies. Just like my sweats, the majority of these I've had for many, many...many years. Unfortunately for us girls, they have panty lines, which is a flat out no-no in public, unless you're hungover or didn't care to get out of your sweats and desperately needed to go to the store for wine and chocolate (not just for PMSing). The male version is changing into a pair of white socks after being in their thin work socks all day. Unfortunately, this category get's a little muffled with the period panties. But that's just something we don't discuss. Like that Chick-lit (Hunger Games) you're thankful you're reading on your kindle so nobody see's the cover and realizes it's for teenagers. I guarantee we've all pulled the jam-and-cram trick and have tried fitting these under our tightest pair of jeans, out of pure desperation to give our cheeks a night off. Or we've already changed into our FGP, but have to go back out, and refuse to get back into a thong.

Period Panties - ...Since you brought it up. Each category has a pair of these, unless you're unbelievably good at managing your calendar. Others, count on their birth control pack to tell them what day of the week it is, and what time of the month it is. Let's just leave it at this: we don't have this down to an exact science.

HankyPanky's / Cosabellas - These are the thongs you wear every day. You have every color imaginable. No matter how careful you are with your wash, somehow every pair older than a couple months turn either into a blah-blue or muddled-salmon color. Those are designated for the workouts. While the newer, vibrant colors are your hot new Playboy Girlfriends that you strut around town with. Then of course there are the serious panties. These are the adult colors that you'd imagine Chelsea Clinton to wear if (god forbid) she had the same taste in dedicates as you. Typically stuffy colors like navy blue or hunter green.

Sexy Panties - It's possible a girl will wear these on a first date to make her feel good, but if she's worn them before, she knows that all night she'll be picking at herself like Al Bundy trying to position it correctly.

Realistically, she's wearing them on the ## date that she plans to put out. The only reason to wear these atrocious things is for someone to see them, take them off, and notice how delicate they are while laying on the floor. All in hopes that the sex-capade recipient realizes what a catch you are via a glance at your skivvies, and instantly asks for a deep, meaningful, exclusive relationship. <Insert whiny quote from Bridget Jones's Diary here>. Back on Earth, these panties are used in desperate situations (completely unrelated to sex). This is the phase after the workout panties and Spankies, but just before going Commando. I'm talkin laundry day.

Commando - I'm not a fan. So I am good about laundry. But this exists for casualties other than Paris Hilton and Britney Spears, or whichever young cracked out barely post pubescent celebrity girl is spreading it these days. Hannah Montana? Bieber?

Spanx - I was on a business trip a couple years ago with some of my work boys. They had never heard of Spanx (completely different from Spankies), let alone crotchless spanks. Probably one of the better conversations I've had. Definitely the best facial reaction's I've seen. Spanx are elastic cellophane that we use a shoe horn to shove our crevices, lumps, FUPAs and cellulite into. Acutally... they're the opposite of sexy panties. I promise she's not putting out if she's wearing these. If she does, then she shimmied out of them in the ladies room at the event you guys were at, and shoved them in her purse. Thankfully, the Crotch-Gods blessed us with crotchless Spanx. I'm not going into detail about this. But I can tell you...this is not something limited to younger girls. Mature women use these. I'll leave you with that image.

What I Fantasize About:

Do not. Ever. Get in the god damned way of me catapulting myself into my Fat Girl Pants (FGP). I rarely care if you're a guest in my house, I will be in my FGPs before my dog has finished face raping you. She's my decoy.

I don't fantasize about sex-capades, I fantasize about the following:

• Fat Girl Pants (FGP)
• Spankies - basically granny panties, but a slightly less obvious version. They're still ugly, don't worry
• Burning my bra
• 2 couch cushions, under 3 large square pillows, under 2 smaller accent pillows, under a bed pillow under me
• Snuggling into my overweight dog's fat rolls
• Pasta (shells, rigatoni or something similar) that hide meat and veggies in its delightful pockets
• Tucking my FGPs into thick hideous socks
• The Grey Tuxedo - matching grey FGP and sweatshirt. Only to be used on special occasions
• NightNight -my childhood blanket I will never snuggle without
• Wine - this list clearly is not organized in chronological order
• Scrunchy - I don't actually own one. But one of these day's I'll grow a pair, and buy some at CVS. When you see me in public, I will recognize the utter jealousy on your face, and feel deep internal pride for my forethought. 
• Straws in my drink-  allows me drink while laying down.

As quickly as I'm out of my heels the second I walk in the door from work, I have already dropped my pants and have taken up shop in my Fatties. If I didn't have a 14 year old man-boy in my life or neighbors, they'd probably be off the second I hit the front porch. No need to wait for the front door. I also pull a little switcharoo with my panties, and opt for the spankies instead of a thong. Again, my theory on skiivies have warranted their own post, in due time. When I'm home, I intend on having no thong up my ass unless I've slithered so deep into the couch, and am so committed to not moving, I'll tolerate the wedgie.

Some food for thought on this Wednesday. Until next time...

Sex Hair, For Those Who Don't Put Out

It's this look for hair that us girls just adore. Some coked up model introduced it to us ages ago, and not only did the other models love the idea, but they wanted the hair to go with it.

While I don't have the same motives as those models, I do have strong aspirations to adjust my life in a manner that supports my laziness. Some call it Beach Hair, but I like being able to slip a little sex in the conversation, and why not my hair too? With this look comes ratty looking hair. Think Olsen skeletons. It's the ultimate reason to not wash your hair. God bless. I lean strongly on the excuse that it's best not to wash your hair every day. You're supposed to give it a day or so off, and let the natural oils (grease) hydrate it. Of all 'truths' I encounter in this world, this is one I cling to. But we all know we stretch that. That's like the Nestlee recipe for only 2 cups of chocolate chips, nobody in their right mind actually adds that little amount of chocolate.  I trust I'm not alone in this admittance?

I don't know how to explain it other than I am flat out, over the top, way too lazy to comb out my hair when I get out of the shower. That alone will keep me from getting these golden (obviously natural, no after market upgrades) locks wet. Combing it out isn't the end, now you have to apply all those ridiculous animal friendly products that you've convinced yourself make a difference, blow-dry with 3 different brushes, take a break because you're experiencing a glimpse into a menopausal hotflash, wrap the f-ing cord around blowdryer when finished (it truly seems like a lot of work, this step), add a little more product, then devise a prison-like plan to build an escape rope out of the hair you remove from the brush and drain. I'm over it. I'll save that work for when I'm in the mood to wear my sexy panties,hooker heels and skinny jeans edging dangerously close to the CT alert.

To give you boys some perspective, it's our version of our wallet distressing our jeans pocket. I know you secretly enjoy that you've made that indent, and no designer has done it for you. We get it, big boy. It's our turn. I don't want to brush my god damn hair! And if I can get away with it, I would love to take a body shower that takes 10 minutes. This obviously excludes when we have someone washing our hair for us and giving us that mind blowing scalp massage. I'd give a pair of abs to get one of those rub downs on a daily or even weekly basis. My hair girl, (bless her heart, I hope she's reading this) has the hands of gold.

I'm not the type to be all cutesy and do those at-home projects like scrap booking or collecting cats and potatoes. I'm into this gig for the sole purpose of laziness and saying 'sex hair' is fun. Whether I'm collecting cats or potatoes, I did have some free time on my hands recently, so figured I'd go for the gold. I read a damn how-to blog and did it. She calls it beach hair, she's wrong. It's called Sex Hair. That at-home project only took about half an hour. So I graduated to YouTube to brush up on my transvestite skills. No joke. I learned how to build hips for men dressing up in drag. I also discovered a version of pushup bra's for your butt cheeks. Moral of story, I'm not allowed on the internet or at home alone on a weekday.

The Potty Trot

There is a direct correlation with my drink of choice for the night, and where the restroom is. I daydream about how nice it would be to have an attachable catheter at times. Once that caught on, I'd patent a portable catheter that fits in a girls clutch. That's a gift from yours truly.

When out, I immediately assess the situation about distance to the restroom and terrain to get there in heels. When out at a club - please don't let me misrepresent myself here, I do NOT dance, but I do 'bar' (to be used as a verb like the east coast says 'summer') - I refuse to order a beer, for the pure fact that I know I'm going to have to wait an awkward 30 minutes engulfed in a sea of future The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills cast memebers. I don't care that Johnny slept with So-and-so, but I do care that you just mentioned crabs, and now I'm aware to not use that toilet after you. On top of that, I had to walk my ass all the way over here. Then over there and back again. And again. Unless our outfit permitted, we are certainly not in wedges, we are in the sharpest stilettos we can find. You hit one brick out of place, or one slippery tile, and you're about to have that famous Woohoo Wink moment (panties or no panties, nobody falls with their legs closed). 

Girls call it 'breaking the seal,' it's after we've peed for the first time after a few drinks. Once you start, you've broken the seal, and you're never going to stop. Then you have that internal conflict about waiting for all of Niagara Falls to finish, or to pinch it so you don't make the double doosey of peeing constantly and taking forever. I waffle between this. Then we get to the hover. Every girl knows the hover. The key is to wedge your stiletto into the grout between the tiles or between the wood planks. I personally go for the handicapped horizonal bar. God. Bless. As we all are clear, I'm lazy. And I'm F-ing hovering. I'm using the handicapped bar. Otherwise you have to do the UBER tilt and change your squat angle from 45 degrees to 15 degrees. Boys: if you walked into a girls bathroom at the club, you will see that every single seat looks like your frat house. If one is clean, then you know damn well that someone was either beyond lazy or full blown trashed and didn't care, and is probably the one crying about Johnny with Crabs. 

While I'll do the hover, I'd rather not. So I'll stick with a drink that wont cause me to do the Potty Trot every 10 mins. I love you drunk girls, you're amazing to 'people watch' but I'm too lazy tiptoe my ass over there and hover over an already short seat just to realize the toilet paper is gone.

This Camel Toe Epidemic We Call Fashion and Fitness

I haven't decided if a Camel Toe carries the same social rules as food in your teeth or a boogie in your nose. I, personally am awful about pointing those things out. But I do feel bad when I don't. So that counts for something. I feel strongly about not correcting someone when they can't do anything about it. What if you point out a Camel Toe to someone in the morning, and they have to walk around all day adjusting their...pair, or carying their purse awkardly. Now what? What have a society of ladies (some men, somebody please tell me if there is a term for this) walking around entombed in an invisible pencil skirt, or worse, bow legged.

The truly fortunate ones in this scenario are the kids. They probably don't know what a Camel Toe, or god forbid, what a Moose Knuckle is; even if it is staring them right in the eye. But we know. It creates that halting moment when we accidently glance down and there's that scream from the Maze Game. Now you're clearly using all concentration you posses to stair only at her right eye, or are jotting your eye's all over the room in an attempt to sneak in one more glance. Reasons unbeknownst to you.

Each decade has had its epidemic, unfortunately for us, not only are leggings in style, but so are jeggings and wearing fitness pants for 8 days straight. I do Pilates a couple times a week, which has turned in to the breeding ground for affluent, Calista Flockhart-looking, Camel Toe Moose Knuckle supporting cougars. While LuluLemon is easily a girls favorite designer to wear working out or on every errand they could possibly think of, the one detail the designers failed to address is the CT. I think their solution was stealing the push-up bra/top from Victoria's Secret and pushing our cleavage out as much as possible. A Moose Knuckle located more north-bound that is welcomed by all.

Fortunately for us, the legging trend has subdued unless you're preggo or can't tuck your FUPA into a pair of jeans. We are plagued with the jeggings, while not as anatomically correct as the Lulu workout  pants, these provide a seam....which also provides a...divide. I have a pair of jeggings that I just can't bring myself to wear unless I have a longer top. I'd like to entertain the thought that I am immune to this epidemic, but I feel denial may be worse. That's like the overweight girlfriend of the group that insists she is a size 2 as well, when clearly her clothes disagree. Yet another exmample of when you need to pull said person aside and have The Talk: "Stacy-We-Love-You, but..." I actually have no clue how that conversation would go. I'm either an asshole, or just straight chicken shit. I'll go with the latter. Besides, girl-talk is not a 'qualification' I'd list on my resume.

In an attempt to correct my lack of girl-talk skills. I will provide a map for all of us lost souls. Somebody not only has The Talk down, but truly knows the stress of the CT/MK. Clearly this was composed by a gay man.

You Want Happy Ending?

I do, in fact. Thank you for asking. 

Of all places girls avoid (dark alleys, parking lots, construction sites, the pasta section of the grocery store), shady ‘touch your feet’ places is not one of them. We’ll go into the most disgusting pedicure spot just to slap a little lipstick on our piggies. God forbid we’re desperate for a wax.

I’ve literally dodged cockroaches trying to shack up with (in) me. But that’s another story. Has a little something to do with my waxer staring at her job (we’re clear here, correct?) telling me how I look just like her daughter. 1- She was Vietnamese. 2- She didn’t mean my facial features. 3-  Even the cockroach was uncomfortable.

The only reason I’d ever contemplate not going in, is thinking of our beloved drunk, Paula Abdul, who’s clearly consumed enough alcohol and happy pills to ensure she’ll forever be 85 pounds and just loosey goosey enough to always be on television. Bless her heart. And pill cabinet. I just remember her judging on Idol with her obnoxious, bandaged finger jutting out while she flailed and slithered down her chair. Realistically though, we all know that never happens. Just like inside trading is a fib, and Martha Steward just needed a new angle for the media to take interest in her apple pies. There was a crisis in the She-community about the files and cuticle cutters not being sterilized. We’re fine with Anthrax and Swine Flu, but mess with our nail sanctuaries, and you’ll have us clucking about ourselves like someone just found Jesus on their fish-stick in the Mid-west. While we all love a good bitch session, it’s not enough to keep us out. Pedicures are recession proof. As are blond highlights. Fact.

Around the corner at work, a new…commodity opened up. Imagine the love child between a grimy pedicure spot and a hepatitis infested massage parlor. It’s not quite Amanda Knox crime scene (to soon?), but just enough to feel the necessity of extreme intoxication to venture in. I managed to liquor my boyfriend up enough to entertain the idea a couple weeks ago. My date rape attempt didn’t cut it. He backed out at the sight of The 650lb Virgin from the TLC channel allowing one lady to french braid his back-hair, while another sucked on his pinkie toe. I’m in.

I ended up having to ship in an unsuspecting victim. After forcing her to slap a fake smile on her face, strapping her arms and legs up into a machine, and telling her it was called Pilates, I had full control. Our goal was a massage at a beautiful spa next door, but the host scoffed at us and was tickled pink that we’d actually think we could get a walk in massage.  But two weeks from now at 4pm they had availability. No, Miss Blue-Contacts-with-Brown-Eyes. You fool no-one. We’ll take our business next door and pay this toothless person to karate chop our spinal cords for $30. I thank you very much.

To the credit of my victim, she had a great attitude and was 100% committed to this fully clothed* rubdown. We hunkered down next to a group of women who only shaved their legs up to their knees, and left their thighs aux natural. There are no rooms, curtains or dainty dividers that we typically rely on to ignore everything else in this world that we wish to not see. I have to admit, this was probably the best butt rub I’ve ever had. Granted, he was basically dry humping me, but he managed to get those feminine hands on each cheek and went with it. After an hour of hair pulling, dry humping and a little spanking, I felt a little too worn out to ask for the happy ending. Although, my victim might have gotten a little something-something, she insisted on giving them a 40% tip. Slut.

While a rub down is all good, I was feeling a little unfulfilled and went in for a mani-pedi today. As with all good friends that you just met 5 minutes ago, we spent the entire hour discussing the options women have with happy endings. As one lady put it, men are ‘dorks’ and like that kind of thing, where women don’t have a penis and proves it to be a more difficult task. I, for one, want to keep this lady with me at all times to hear her outlook on various daily conversations. Particularly for the ironic use of ‘dork,’ then following that up with a penis joke. She was 80. I’ve found my new idol.

Alas, I do not currently have a penis, and do not plan to have one in my near future. Happy endings might not be the thing for me. But give me a toothless man willing to shamelessly grab my Kardashian, and I’ll happily leave my dignity and modesty at the door.

 Our sex hair after an intimate rub down

*I’m assuming you’re visiting this asterisk to get a detailed account for what actually went on. Shame on you.

Prolonging My Final Chapter of Life in the Loony Bin

Welcome to the blog. I trust you're not interested in some thoughtful intro that will outline my mission statement explaining how I plan to conquer the world with my unique and Pulitzer worthy thought process. While my political views of the best Mac and Cheese in town, or the appropriate method of categorizing your socks in a parallel ranking system of panty priorities (sexy panties, period panties, spankies, commando, etc), my intentions here are simply to vent my obnoxious thoughts. I truly believe I am prolonging my inevitable destiny of landing in the Loony Bin through the simple acknowledgement that actually vocalizing my hatred for pickles and ants is a completely different level of crazy compared to just writing it in this shit show we call the Web.

In conclusion, I'd like to thank your bosses who are waiting on that spreadsheet you are procrastinating on to read this blog. If it weren't for them (insert any other relevant obstacle in your life that you'd prefer to avoid: in-laws, term paper, dog defecated in kitchen, wedding party obligations...to name a few), I can't imagine any other reason one would take the time to not only read, but attempt to comprehend the way I see the world. Bravo to you.