Under where?

I went to work without underwear on today.

Not for any reason in particular... I really did mean to stop by the laundry basket and pick some up on my way out. Somewhere along the way through my morning routine, I forgot altogether that I wasn't wearing any, and wound up leaving without them.

I also happened to be wearing a rather flowy cotton skirt, so as I walked around cubby-land I got little whooshes of air curling up and tickling the insides of my thighs. It was quite pleasant.


And, of course, it got me to thinking - as these things so often do:

Are underwear just a formality?

I mean, why do we even wear them? It isn't for coverage... Especially not given the way they're cut nowadays. Is it a hygiene issue? Is one layer of clothing not enough to keep the bacteria at bay? Am I going to die of bubonic plague for going commando? Will I be accosted by the Panty Police for forgoing my Huggies in favor of a cool breeze?

It isn't that I don't like underwear... I've got my share of pretty, frilly, lacey, see-through numbers... Granted, I typically bypass these and go straight for the classic cotton thong, but I do have them. I've noticed, though, when I wear them, it isn't typically because I'm going to visit the boytoy, or that any one at all will see them... There's just something that makes you feel pretty when you're wearing girly panties.

Is that it, then? Maybe underwear are designed to be a secret giggle during the day. My boss is being a raving bitch, but because I have on the pink polka-dot g-string, I'm still smiling?

Hardly.

Maybe I'll start a Panty Protest. I could round up some other folks who like the little chafe of denim. We could picket outside Victoria's Secret. Talk about giving the Angels a scare.

"Under-wearers are going to Hell!
Repent! The end is near!"

Okay, maybe not. I guess I'll keep my anti-panties mentality to myself, for now, but if you see me walking down the street and I'm smiling like I've got a secret... well... I probably do.

Naked is a State of Mine

--You going camping with us this weekend?-- Mitch IM'd.

I was supposed to spend a woodland weekend with another friend out in the middle of nowhere, but that turned out to be way more trouble than it was worth, and the plans fell through at the last minute.

--You really should come. It's gonna be a good time.--

The "good time" he was referring to was a three-day weekend at a 145 acre, clothing optional retreat out in the rural reaches of the city. The campout, which ran $25 a night, came with demos and games, swimming and community-style meals at a banquet table with 25 of the nicest friends I'd never met. After about an hour-long Q&A session, Mitch finally convinced me that I'd be just fine lounging in the brush with the rest of the group, and I was welcome to wear as much or as little clothing as I liked.

See, as open and liberal as I am about sex, and as comfortable as I am with my body, I'm still a bit modest about baring my big white ass to a field full of strangers.

When I pulled into the campsite, I smiled inwardly. Less than half the group wore any type of clothing at all, but those that were in the buff seemed comfortable and happy. The trees overhead filtered the midday sun, and all the faces that turned towards me as I approached were smiling. It was a good feeling... a comfortable feeling...

... maybe a little too comfortable?

One of the demo's for the weekend was a photography how-to. They'd hired a professional photographer to come in with his camera and explain lighting, filter, and poses.

"Will you model for us?" he'd asked. I laughed. Surely he was joking. Me?

"You should," said Mitch. He smiled. He knew I wanted to, but I was being tugged under by a river of trepidation.

Then I heard a voice in my head: a deep, strong voice that resonates in that barrel chest of his. "You know, that's one of the things I like the most about you. It's not that you're fearless; you have fear just like every one else, but when you come up against it, you grit your teeth, take a deep breath, and dive in head-first. Damn the fear - full speed ahead."

I thought about that as my jeans hit the ground beneath me and the shutter of the camera winked.

---------------------------------------

"Wearing nothing is divine.  Naked is a state of mind.
I take things off to clear my head, to say the things
I haven't said." (Naked Eye by Luscious Jackson)

---------------------------------------------

The Beautiful People

My boss, Lonnie, her boss, Daphne, and three of my co-workers (Kristie, Jo, and Amy) are the blonde, blue, and beautiful wolf-pack of my personal daily hell in cubicle-land.

They call themselves The Plastics, which they got from some teeny-bopper film that was in theaters a few years back. They're cliquish, snotty, and very, very shallow. They all have pictures of Jessica Simpson as the backdrops on their computers. They all gather around in the morning and discuss what happened the night before on their favorite show, American Idol, and what they saw in the latest fashion rag they thumbed through the night before (keep in mind they were talking on the phone with one another while paging through said magazine). They get together on the weekends and have "beauty parties" and sleep-overs. It's like High School all over again.

This was my work-week... Pity me?

MONDAY:

Lonnie: "Is that the newest issue of In Touch?"
Daphne: "Yes."
Lonnie: "Does it have the new look in it?"
Daphne: "Yeah."
Lonnie: "That's not a new look. I've already had that look."
Amy: "You do need a new look though."
Lonnie: "Ugh! I know. This look is so tired."
Kristie: "I like your look."
Lonnie: "That's only because you copied it."

TUESDAY:

Me: "Tim's all dressed up today. What's that about?"
Co-worker: "He's got an interview with Daphne for that Supervisory position that just opened up."
Me: "Maybe I'll put in for one here in a few months."
Co-worker: "They'll never hire you, you know. You're not blonde enough."

WEDNESDAY:

Lonnie: "Mouth! Mouth! Come here! Look!" (insert twittery giggle here)
Me: "Yeah?"
Lonnie: "Look!"
She shows me this strange tie-on plastic belt with a bright red plastic crotch, which she happens to be wearing over her dress slacks.
Me: "It looks like one of those belt-on maxi pads like our mothers had to wear, before they started gluing the back of them and giving them wings."
She looks down at her strap-on underwear, nose wrinkled.
Lonnie: "They're edible panties.
Me: "My, aren't we classy?"
I snort and walk balk to my cubby-hole.

THURSDAY:

Heading down a ridiculously slow elevator shaft after a long day...
Daphne: "So, are you coming to Happy Hour this week?"
Me: "I might."
Lonnie: "You should! We'll be there."
Me: "I'll think about it."
Like their presence alone should be reason enough to inspire desire to attend.

FRIDAY:

Lonnie: "So are you coming to Happy Hour?"
Me: "Yeah, I think I will."
Lonnie: "Daphne doesn't want to go to the deck. She doesn't like it. We're gonna go down to the Market."
Me: "Alright. I'm heading out. I'll meet you there, I guess."
I met up with in the parking lot and we drove over to the Market. Typically, the whole office goes to Happy Hour Fridays. L and I were sitting at the table, sipping a cold one each, when Lonnie and Daphne strutted in; no one else came with them. Lonnie sat down and engaged L and I, while Daphne meandered around the bar, saying hello to people and completely ignoring us. After making small talk with a few acquaintances, each getting to the end of comfortable "How's your wife? How're the kids?" conversation and eventually turning back to the bar, she came and sat with us. She turned her most winning smile on L and laughed prettily at all his jokes.
Daphne: "I'm sorry we crashed your table. Do you want us to move?"
L: "What do you mean?"
Daphne: "Well, we just sort of came and sat at your table."
Me: "No you didn't. Lonnie invited us."
Daphne's brow creased, as if she couldn't quite figure out why Lonnie would have invited us. We're not office elite. I think L lost his fashion sense somewhere in the 70's, and I never had one. We stayed for half an hour, then I elbowed L.
Me: "You ready?"
L: "Yup. It was nice to meet you, ladies."
Daphne: "Aw, you're going already?" She batted her lashes at L.
Me: "Yeah, we both have things to do. See you Monday."
L and I walked out of the lounge and into the sunshine. We both breathed a huge sigh.
L: "Ah, freedom!"
He grinned. We drove home.

Intolerable Cruelty

Apparently, calling some one vain and relaying an unflattering (but true) story on the internet to a generic audience full of people the subject doesn't know is considered mean. Apparently, I hurt somebody's feelings. Apparently, because it doesn't deeply upset me that said feelings were bruised, I'm cold and uncaring. Apparently, things like that are demonstrative of one's character.

In case it wasn't clear before: I'm not always nice.

Does that mean I'm the walking definition of bitch? Nah. What it means is that I have a tendency to be sarcastic, blunt, and a bit caustic. Those traits are inherent in my personality. They're part of what make me who I am.

Blogging is a forum I use to relay stories of the happenings in my life... kind of like a live, public-access diary. Sometimes I'm going to write things you might not agree with, about subjects that might make you uncomfortable, and people who might be a little too close to home. That's just part of it.

I call 'em like I see 'em.

You're so Vain

I was in the middle of making pasta for dinner last Thursday when the phone
rang. It's Mike, a co-worker/friend of L's.

"I don't want to go home," he tells L.

"What do you mean you don't want to go home?"

"I just don't.  Ya'll wanna go out?"

L and I have been going out with Mike quite a bit in recent weeks.  L
asked if I minded, since I'd already started dinner.  I shrugged, stuck
the sauce in the fridge and put my shoes on.  I don't mind tagging along
so L can console his friend after what seemed to be a rough day,
and whatever I'd already done as far as dinner prep goes would keep
overnight.

Half an hour later, Mike swung by to pick us up, and the three of us
popped down to a little Irish joint we like.  The waitresses are cute
and perky, the food's good, and the drinks are cheap.  Can't beat that.

We're sitting around a small table, picking at appetizers and nursing
our respective drinks: Mike's a beer man, L likes his Jack and coke, and
I tend to go for a Long Island Tea.  The boys, of course, are oggling
every piece of girlflesh that walks through the door.  Nothing unusual
there.

Mike sets in to complaining (again) about how he can't find the  right girl.

"I'm at the point now that I'd even go for that," he tips his beer
towards a slightly busty brunette.  She's absolutely adorable: dark hair,
flashing eyes, bright smile.

"Well, what's wrong with her?"  L asks.

We already know the answer.  She isn't "perfect".

perfect: adj. five foot tall, blonde hair, blue eyes; weighs no more than
100 lbs.   (Definition by Mike)

I roll my eyes.  I really don't care if the guy's picky, I just wish he
wouldn't complain so much that he can't find a gal who's fun to hang
out with, smart, funny, and meets his outline for drop-dead gorgeous.  At
35 years old, he's still crushing on Barbie.

Mike's cel rings.

"Hello?... No, we said six... What do you mean six thirty? I was there at six, where were you? ... No, I left at six twenty. You were late... Now?!?" He looks at us, then away. "Sure, I'm on my way."

"What was that all about?" L asks, sucking a drummie dry.

"I was supposed to meet up with some people, to meet this girl, and she didn't show up."

"She didn't show up, or they didn't show up?"

"Well, none of them did."

"But they want you to go now..."

"Well, yeah," he says, upending his beer.

"You taking us with you, or dropping us off?" L's place is only a few blocks from the pub.

"Y'all can ride along. She's supposed to be hot."

Land I are sold.

The three of us pile into Mike's pickup and head to the city, to a little hole-in-the wall bar with a rooftop deck. Mike was right: the girl's amazing. Bright, funny, adorable, "perfect"... she's so put together, I can't imagine why a girl like her would let a friend hook her up.

Mike's falling all over himself. He's so nervous, he winds up ignoring her altogether. Eventually, the friend she came with and myself manage to shift around enough that the two young prospects wind up engaged in reasonably in-depth conversation. The entire time, she's got a glazed, bored-to-tears look. Maybe it was that third gin and tonic?

Finally, the friend stands up, brushes his hands down his trousers, and does the, "Oh, look at the time" bit. The group leaves, and it's back to the three of us.

"So," Mike says, eying me over the rim of his beer glass, "d'ya think she's out of my league?"

"How honest, exactly, do you want me to be, here?" I ask. We're all three drunker than we should be, given that we have work in the morning. I don't have a problem holding my tongue sober, but there's not even a slow-down when I'm sloshed. I figured I'd give him the chance to back out.

"As honest as possible, of course," he replies, diving head-first into a can of worms he didn't even appear to notice he was opening. He felt nervous, unsure. Obviously, not all of us are imbibed with confidence while searching for the bottom of a bottle.

"She's out of your league," I shrug and go back to nursing my Tea.

"What a bitch," he says to L.

"I told you, man," L says with a chuckle, "she's brutal!"

"Yeah, no kidding," Mike says, and goes back to sipping his beer. After a few seconds of thought, he turns back to me. "Yanno, I bet she wouldn't be out of my league if I got her to come to my place and showed her how much money I make."

He just doesn't get it...

"My Roommate's a Girl..."

I decided some time ago that I needed to move closer to the city. An hour one-way is entirely too long a drive if you want to have a life, too. I found some renters for my little house, and started looking for an apartment.

Apparently, one-bedroom apartments are hard to come by in the area I'm looking. Super-L to save the day (again).

"I wanna move to the city."

"City's expensive."

"I know. It won't cost me any more than it is right now to live out here and fill my tank up twice a week."

"If you say so."

"Suggestions?"

"Yeah. Don't move to the city."

"I'm doing it, L."

"Fine. So do it. But come stay with me for a few months, first... see how you like it, put a little money back in case something happens with the house."

So that's where we are. I've been camping out in suburbia for the past three weeks, occupying L's spare room and generally trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. Aside from the awkward, "You're living with him, but you two aren't dating?" questions I get grilled with from friends and co-workers, so far, so good (I think). The commute's a hell of a lot easier on me, and I can look at places at my leisure, which is a definite bonus.

After that concert a few weeks back, L's been playing the opening band pretty much non-stop. There isn't much funnier than watching a 40-something suburbanite rock out to indie-pop. Funniest part by far is that they have a song called "Girl Roommate". Say it with me, now:

Irony.

-----------------------------------------------------

"My roommate's a girl; she puts me through hell.
When I tripped on love, she never fell.
My roommate's a girl; I can tell you, the fun never ends.
My roommate's a girl; she's my very best friend."
(Girl Roommate, Anything but Joey)

--------------------------------------