>Remember how George W. Bush said this at his little “Mission Accomplished” aircraft speech and stunt spectacular a few years ago regarding terrorists in Iraq? And the terrorists in Iraq responded by doing exactly that? I do, and I should have learned a very important lesson from good ol’ Uncle George, which is never do something that he does because he is an evil asshole.

Anyway, I did not learn. And when challenged by my friend to try wearing thongs and g-strings, I said, “Bring it on!” Now I have string in my ass. It’s not the string that is the most uncomfortable thing about the g-string that I purchased on Saturday for $2.99 at the Calvin Klein underwear store in Jersey Gardens, washed on Sunday, and am wearing this very instant. That part, surprisingly, is not bad at all, although it is strange to be wearing underwear and at the same time have my ass completely exposed. No, it is the snatch patch part that is the problem. It has extended itself into my ass. I feel like there is a ball of toilet paper wedged there. Sometimes, if I get my period unexpectedly and don’t have proper materials with me, I will jam some toilet paper in the area to prevent messy and embarrassing incidents. (Although the worst of all worlds is the potential for the toilet paper to dislodge and fall out my pants leg in front of people…) It feels sort of like that.

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>You may recognize CUSS’s thong and g-string model from his first appearance on this blog on a Dec. 6 post. Yes, please give it up for the Giant Stuffed Penis!

The Giant Stuffed Penis is a natural fit for the position of CUSS thong and g-string model. First, his furry balls are oddly shaped a bit like a butt, allowing for an excellent perspective on how a thong or g-string might wedge itself into my actual ass and make me horrendously uncomfortable. Second, Giant Stuffed Penis’s balls are a much better approximation of my hips, so it is a much more accurate depiction of my flab bulging out of the underwear (although, for the sake of full disclosure, my husband confirmed that they are actually slightly wider, making the indentation caused by the string a bit worse than it is on moi). Finally, Giant Stuffed Penis and I agreed that he needed a merkin (a pubic hair wig, to those who are not in the know – included Microsoft Word, which has indicated that merkin is not a word and suggested that I replace it with marking, jerkin, merino, marlin, or Merlin) to truly illustrate how god awful those of us who resist the wax, razor, depilatory, or other means of vagina hair removal look in such ridiculous “underwear.”

Anyway, it gives me great pleasure to present Giant Stuffed Penis wearing my latest purchase for the sake of research. As previously mentioned, I got this yesterday at the Calvin Klein underwear outlet store in Jersey Gardens. The sign said they were 7 for $21, so I was nervous that I would be unable to buy one pair for $3.00, but in fact they only cost me $2.99!

A close look reveals that the “underwear” wishes the reader to “have a fantastic day” and has some childish drawings of a rainbow, hearts, a lightning bolt, and what I think is an eyeless teddy bear and a faceless other critter. Looking at this while I wear it is actually going to give someone a scary nightmare, not a fantastic day, but I appreciate the sentiment. Maybe Calvin though that this message and the cave painting-quality drawings would to hypnotize the viewer into believing that this looks appealing on an actual woman. He was wrong.

I washed the g-string earlier tonight and will wear them myself tomorrow (although for the life of me I can’t think of what pants I might wear them with, as my ass will be completely fucking naked, sagging down and jiggling about if I actually have to move faster than a snail’s pace, and rubbing whatever pants I wear.) Does this picture look like I will be comfortable wearing this g-string tomorrow? No it does not. In fact, it makes me want to cry a little. Or laugh a lot. Maybe I will wind up doing both. I suspect the string will not smell very well at the end of the day.

I figure it is best to wear them tomorrow for fear of a transit strike on Tuesday. There is now way I want to be walking untold miles around the city without quality ass support, or so I suspect. (I am trying very hard to keep an open mind, but when I tried them on tonight quickly, I could already tell that we – that would be Calvin the g-string and I – are going to have problems.)

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>Seriously, now that I purchased a g-string for my underwear experiment, SWoUR (Sensible Women’s Underwear Rules) has been tormenting my subconscious. I tried the artificial fabric patch-and-string concoction on last night over a regular pair of undies (the low rise maroon bikinis from Victoria’s Secret that Theo so attractively modeled for this site) and I looked like a balloon that was about to explode as some bratty kid squeezed it. No, not pretty. Then I went to sleep and had twisted dreams about g-strings, flab, and pubic hair. I woke up in a sweat. I can only hope that reality will not be as jiggly.

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>Now that my regrowing leg hair is well on its way to reclaiming my legs, they itch like hell. The subsequent absent minded scratching has led to little bruises and bloody pits. Inner thighs also itch like hell and have a gross-o rash. Only a few more days until Phase II of Operation Smooth Legs and Pits. Until then, agony. Then, in another week, agony returns. It is a vicious cycle, friends. Oh yes it is.

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>The world never ceases to surprise me. The tiny Hudson Newsstand outside of track 108 at Grand Central Station sells BUST, a feminist magazine. I no longer am an ardent BUSTie these days; too much focus on feminist make-up and crafts and being a “girlie feminist.” (If I want to read about make-up, I’ll read Glamour, thanks.) But it’s still awesome that they are being sold at tiny newsstands. Rock on, Hudson News!

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>Today I went to an outlet mall in New Jersey and was able to secure a pair of Calvin Klein g-string underwear for $2.99. They say “have a fantastic day” and have weird pictures on the snatch pouch. Very exciting. Soon I shall be able to begin the g-string and thong experiment, and a sexy stuffed animal will model them for this site.

Also, in doing some online research regarding g-strings, I came across this picture:

(Does this model guy not have the most fucking enormous dick ever? Or are his undies stuffed? I am quite curious.) Also, I learned that there are thongs and g-strings made for men. It just seems that women are bigger suckers and wear them more often. As my friend told me earlier tonight when I mentioned that I bought a g-string, you know it’s time to do the laundry when you are actually wearing a thong. How astute.

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>

I am going to visit my friend in the DR (Dominican Republic, for those of you who don’t live amongst Dominicans in NYC) for Xmas and my 30th (!) birthday. I asked her if I can wear jeans all the time, or if it will be too hot. She said I may wear jeans if I want but that I should also bring my bathing suit. I asked her if that meant I should shave. “Of course you should!!!!” she replied.

This posed a huge dilemma for me. I haven’t shaved my pits since Thanksgiving and my legs since I was in Israel in August, so shaving would be a time consuming task, as you can imagine. Plus I really don’t want to have to shave while I am there. That leaves me with the two-step process. First, I have to hack off the fur on my legs and in my pits with a regular razor. By regular razor, I am referring to men’s razors, which are generally much better than women’s razors. Women’s razors may have longer or wider handles, and come in pretty colors, which is totally why they cost much more than men’s razors, but the blades themselves are far worse. Men get sharper blades with better safety features so that they don’t hack their faces to pieces. Women’s razors tend to shave off large swaths of skin along with the hairs, although sadly I have noticed that despite the fact that I shaved off a big chunk of skin on accident, hair sometimes remains behind in the bloody pulp of my leg. I so hate shaving. Plus it has been fucking frigid in NYC lately, so I really need the fur for extra warmth. I swear it makes a difference.

Anyway, I began Phase I of Operation Smooth Legs and Pits on Tuesday night. Since I hadn’t shaved for so long, it took me about an hour to remove the appropriate amount of leg hair. I even had to shave my freaking inner thigh (the horror! the horror!) in case we went swimming. I feel naked. Pits were a bit faster, but still annoying.

Phase I needed to occur early enough so that little hairs could start sprouting again before I went on my trip. Thanks to my Eastern European Jewish heritage, this does not take more than a day or two. On Thursday night, Phase II will begin, which is when I use my special electric razor/torture device that will yank the little guys out by the root. Fortunately, these machines have improved greatly since Mossad invented the EpiLady and pretended it was actually created by three average Israeli women. I think mine is a Remington. If this is done well, I will be carefree during my trip and I will not embarrass my friend. It certainly involves a lot of planning and effort, though. Fortunately, I do not bother with this often.

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>One of my always delightful colleagues told me about a small tem he read on Slate.com today about the increasing popularity of “virginity restoration surgery” and “vagina tightening.” These charming procedures are undertaken by women to please their husbands, often as anniversary gifts. They cost anywhere between $2,000-$5,000, and doctors are happy to set up financing plans. I love the fact that thousands of low-income women who need surgery because of uterine, cervical, or breast cancer die every year because they can’t afford it, but that our medical profession is always looking out for the best interests of all women by helping us have more pleasing twats.

It is actually quite ironic that this came up because I was just at my biannual appointment with the breast surgeon for a check up. (My mom had breast cancer when she was 33, so I gotta be extra careful.) Happily, the titties are fine. However, I was reading a magaine (Women’s Health and Fitness) while I waited over an hour for the fuck ups at the radiology place to fax the correct paperwork to the doctor. (Paperwork they were supposed to give me when I picked up my films last night.) Anyway, there was a full page add for doctorssayyes.com, a website referring women who need plastic surgery of any type to kind, generous doctors who are willing to finance these utterly unnecessary procedures to “help” women live better lives. Again, I love that doctors won’t fucking finance a life saving procedure, but god forbid you should have the curse of small boobs and not be able to cope with it like an adult and feel that your entirely life will literally change for the best if you get giant tits or lips, suck the fat off your ass or belly, or reshape your vagina, of course they will help. This type of surgery is for true emergencies. Especially for 16 year olds who are getting breast implants.

I want to know why doctors haven’t come up with brain restoration surgery. Any woman who would have her vagina tightened or a fake hymen put into her to please a guy is clearly in medical need of thinking skills. As for the doctors (frequently, but not always, male) who prey upon these fucked up socially created insecurities, they should lose their medical licenses immediately. Since when does “do no harm” mean cutting people up and inserting crap into a healthy body for no medically necessary reason?

I can’t wait to pack up my granny undies and Theo and move into a cave where I don’t have to live in a society where I am considered strange and “judgmental” for objecting to this insanity.

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>My first year at NYU, I had a crappy work-study job at the student newspaper in the classifieds department. I was somewhat friendly with one of my co-workers, Paul Snatchco. (Seriously, that was his real name, although it might have been spelled Snatchko.) I think the only reason that I contemplated friendship with Paul at all was because his last name is so damn awesome, since he was a fat, horny, foaming at the mouth anti-choice Catholic. (One day at work he asked me to read what he earnestly described as an objective paper on abortion that he wrote for a class. The paper’s opening paragraph was about babies in the womb crying and screaming as they are mercilessly torn out by surgical tools wielded by evil doctors during abortions. I told him it was the most trashy bullshit that I’ve ever read, and that he needed to learn what the definition of objective really is.)

Anyway, one evening I went to hang out with Mr. Snatchco and his friends, whom I’d never met. I, for slightly inexplicable reasons, became interested in his arrogant/insecure friend Dan. I also became friendly with Dan and Paul’s other crew members, Peter and John, and often joined them for lunch or dinner in the dining hall. (My friend and I began calling Dan’s posse “the Disciples” since their names were Peter, John, and Paul. That still cracks me up.) To make a long story short, in early December, I asked Dan if he wanted to see a movie and was elated when he said yes.

Sadly, this turned out to be the worst date I ever went on, although at least far more amusing in retrospect to what had been the worst date I ever had prior to this date, at which my date spent a part of the evening calling cab drivers “turbanheads” and cursing them out as he sped along the Kennedy Expressway unsafely. (You’ll all be reassured to know that this fine gentleman is in the military in Iraq now, helping the “towelheads” get democracy.) Anyway, back to my worst date ever. I knew things would not go well when Dan showed up with Peter in tow. “Hmmm…” I thought, “Maybe he misunderstood my invitation.” We took the subway to Lincoln Center, which back then seemed worlds away to me, and bought tickets for “Immortal Beloved.” (Which I never would have chosen on my own, but I’m glad I saw it because it was great.)

The theater was packed, but we managed to find three seats together. Then right before the previews began, Dan said he had to do something and would be right back. The previews started to roll. No sign of Dan. I was fidgeting and worrying where he went. The movie began. No sign of Dan. Now I was really anxious. Peter told me to relax, that he’d be back. Dan never returned to his seat, and I again point out that it was an amazing movie because I enjoyed it despite the circumstances. When the movie ended, Peter and I got up to leave and I wondered if Dan had left before the film, when he popped up out of nowhere to go back with us. The asshole fucking sat somewhere else to watch the movie. I was highly annoyed. What the fuck was that all about?!?!

We talked about the movie on the subway trip back to Christopher Street. When our stop finally came, we all got up and moved toward the doors. I got off the train. Peter exited the train. Dan walked back to his seat and sat down. The train doors closed, and off he went to some mystery destination.
I was fuming. I ranted to Peter about what a fucking asshole Dan was and if he hadn’t wanted to go, he should have just said so instead of ditching me. What kind of dickhead does this to someone?!?! Peter was sympathetic. He said that Dan’s behavior was totally unacceptable and that I deserved someone who would treat me much better. A little alarm went off in my head: I was set up. It was true that Dan never intended to go on a date with me, but Peter did. Since they both knew that I was interested in Dan, and would turn Peter down if he asked me out, what better way to get me on a date with Peter than to have me go out with Dan and Peter and have Dan ditch us so it could turn into a date with Peter and he’d win me over by soothing my hurt feelings after being treated badly? Now I knew that Dan was the kind of dickhead who knew that his friend liked the girl who liked him, so he tried to help his friend, which is really sweet in a fucked up way. It’s some seriously fucked up logic and a fairly diabolical plan from my standpoint, but I have to admit that it was clever. Unfortunately for Peter, I still had no interest in him. I just had hurt feelings and, ultimately, a good story to tell about my worst date (or is it dates?) ever.

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>Warning: I won my eBay auction and will soon be the proud owner of a bright orange thong with a sexy rhinestone letter B. I also realized that the letter B would be perfect as “B” is one of my friend’s nicknames for me (short for Bitch, natch). Even better, I discovered that I have $3.50 in my paypal account from random online surveys I answered that paid me through paypal. So the thing only cost me $3.44 directly! I made out like a bandit, as I think this ridiculous purchase actually sells for over $20 in my gym shop.

My thong purchase reminded me, however, that people who suffer from any or all of the following conditions should not wear thongs or g-strings:

1. Extremely jiggly ass
2. Cellulite
3. Assne (ass acne)
4. Unshaved snatch

I am not saying this to be cruel. I am saying it as a public service. If you have a super jiggly ass, you need the support of underwear with a butt. A thong or g-string just increases the jiggle factor by letting it all hang free. Cellulite just looks like shit, so why would anyone want to frame you dimply cottage cheese heiny in a thong as if it we as smooth as a baby’s bottom? (I recognize that often goes hand in hand with #1, but some very toned folks are afflicted with cellulite.) Assne is a combination of problems that underwear solves for jiggly butt and cellulite. You want some good breathable undies (no nylon crap) to protect your ass (practical), as a naked ass rubbing against jeans or other materials is only going to make the situation worse. Believe me, you also want to hide the fact that you have assne. Finally, someone without routine pubic maintenance is going to look ridiculous in a thong, as they tend to be high cut and quite unforgiving.

I am afflicted with more than one of these conditions, which is why once the underwear challenge is over, I anticipate a quick return to nice cotton undies. In the meantime, this is a warning to the world that the thong experiment will soon commence.

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