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Say it — with socks!

 my pantiesWhen was the last time I cleaned my sock drawer? I’m going to say…1985. I found three pairs of big poofy velcro’d shoulder pads way in the back. (Gosh I loved shoulder pads. Football shoulders made my waist look tiny. Big hair, however, made my brain look tiny).

These preposterous cheap lacy panties? My mom gave them to me shortly after I took up with Uncle B. “These are for him,” she said. Eyebrow waggle.

And I’m, like, “that’s a really nice thought, Mother, but I’m pretty sure they’re too small for him.”

And she rolls her eyes and goes, “oh, they’re not for him to wear.” Living out in the boonies all those years, Mom kind of went native and lost her funnybone.

You know what else I realized? Uncle B has a history of pledging his devotion with novelty socks. Which I guess is more romantic than the stuffed bear that plays Rule Brittania and farts when you press his belly.

So now I’m like the Caesar of underthings. I decide who lives and who dies. I took all the socks and panties and I’m washing my way through them. One by one, I wear each pair and evaluate it for size, condition and general elasticity. The ones that pass muster are coming to England.

The ones that don’t? “Guards, seize her!” I say, flipping the offending garment into the bin, “this panty displeases Weasel!”

October 8, 2008 — 12:38 pm
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