Apr. 10, 2004 - 4:42 p.m.

Victoria's Secret Instructions

Wow, have I had a hectic week! None of it involved computers, as you may have noticed. Sorry if I didn't respond to your note. If I wasn't such a self-centered insensitive boor I'd actually feel bad about that.

One of the skills I developed during my long years of enforced bachelorhood was "laundry". I knew how to put quarters in the slot, add three times as much detergent as called for (believe me, it needed it), turn the temp dial to "boil / boil" and sit back with my copy of "Guns-n-Boobs" until the machine stopped rocking. I didn't bother with the dryers, since I had an oven at home. I ended up with the odd wrinkle here and there, but it wasn't like I was dating and needed to look desireable. I just imagined people saw me as the absentminded professor type, too absorbed in Quantum Theory calculations to notice that one of his pants legs was a topographical map of the Andes.

But at least the clothes were clean, and so when NewWifey(tm) and I set up shop together I assured her I could handle the laundry duties for both of us. Whether through hyper-sensitive feminine intuition, or from seeing a closet filled with shirts that looked sprayed with crinkle paint, she graciously refused and insisted on tackling that chore herself. And that's been our division of labor for the past two years: I soil the clothes, she washes them. We both play to our strengths.

Are there any Victoria's Secret stores in the Midwest? I ask this because when I was in Kansas City (for my initial hookup with NewWifey(tm)) it looked like the majority of females there were indistinguishable from the cows they were constanly milking. And I'm pretty sure that Victoria's Secret does not market anything larger than double digit sizes. It's probably not economically prudent for them to open stores just for the handfull who don't stomp right to the "Junior Moose Department" at WalMart.

NewWifey(tm), thankfully, was/is a more humanly proportioned size 6. Fortunate genetics coupled with a distaste for the locally omnipresent sausage gravy on everything, including ice cream, meant that her's was the only trailer not needing reinforced cinderblocks. It also helps that she races motorcycles, and if there's a better slimming agent than unrelenting fear, I'd like to know.

However, despite her gracile form, NewWifey(tm) insisted on girding her size 6 loins in undies only a step up the fashion ladder from Depends. Drawer after drawer of navel-high nylon and cotton bloomers in beige (or white with tiny flower print) greeted me when I snuck into her bedroom that first night to scope out her dainties. I couldn't figure it out - it wasn't like she only dressed in overalls or mu-mu's. In fact, after picking the lock on her armoir I saw she had some rather fashionable ensembles. Why the granny-cut panties to wear under them? I had to guess that, again, she was limited by what was offered there in the Land of Walking Spam.

Once she moved her kit to New Jersey, that was one of the first things I addressed. New Jersey mall chicks are everything the movies portray them to be: vain, hirsute, and not a size 12 in the bunch. As a result, we have more Victoria's Secret outlets than Starbucks. We hit the Willowbrook Mall 10 minutes after they opened the first morning after she arrived.

You gotta love old fashioned Midwestern values. NewWifey(tm) saw nothing degrading about being subservient to her new husband's underwear fetishes. In fact, her first trip to the Under Sanctum was a squeal fest on the order of the fat kid visiting Wonka's factory.

"Oh my god! They're making panties out of satin now? Look how low they're cut! Hey, they forgot to put material around this string on the back. TWENTY SEVEN DOLLARS?! Oooo, they have bras that MATCH!"

That sort of thing.

We exited with an armfull of tiny, tiny merchandise, and now at least once a year I drop a 50 dollar gift certificate on her to keep the supply of ass-floss updated. She's thrilled each and every time.

She's also very fastidious about them, making sure they're washed and folded *just so* in order to keep those beauties fresh and wrinkle free.

Fast forward to this past Friday (yesterday)....

Dangerspouse is playing Grand Tourismo-3 on the Playstation, using his new steering wheel/footpedal controller. The phone rings and NewWifey(tm) answers. After a few minutes of animated conversation she hangs up and says, "That was my sister in Indiana. Her husband's company just announced that they have to move to North Carolina - next week! She wants to know if I can drive out for a few days and help her pack. You don't mind, do you?"

I absently grunted approval as my car came screaming out of Laguna Seca's turn three in a full-lock powerslide. NewWifey(tm) continued: "Now listen, I have to get a lot of shopping done for this trip, which means I need to count on you to get some stuff done around here before I go. When you're finished with your game, could you make me a few sandwiches and grab the road atlas out of the drawer? That would really help. Also, and this is very important to me, I'm going to have to ask you to do some laundry. I'm wearing my last clean pair of panties, and I just don't have time now to do wash. They need to be seperated - only wash white with white, and colors with colors. And make sure you use only COLD water, then dry them on "Delicate", ok? Are you listening?"

Here's what I heard: "Now listen. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . make a sandwich . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . panties . . . . . . . . . . . . . .ok? . . . . ."

Like all men, I subconsciously know when to nod.

I nodded.

NewWifey(tm) grabbed the keys and bolted out the door, glancing back just once at her husband drooling and glaze eyed on the couch while maniacally grappling a plastic steering wheel. If she had any concerns, they didn't escape her gritted teeth.

I'm glad to say I finished first in that race and unlocked a new course. I hit the "Save" button and suddenly felt very hungry. For some reason I wanted a sandwich. But that's when my forebrain finally kicked in. I was supposed to make NewWifey(tm) a sandwich for her trip and...something about panties.

I figured I'd better find out what the undies instructions were first, so I wandered into the bedroom. Wait, wait! The dirty clothes hamper was fairly bursting with soiled thongs and wonderbras. It dawned on me that she was entrusting me to launder them! A red letter day in our marriage, indeed. I wouldn't let her down.

I dumped the entire load on the floor and stared at the cacophony of silk and elastic. That sure was a buttload of panties, so to speak. I knew I'd better fortify myself before tackling the pile, so I headed back to the kitchen for that sandwich.

Strangely enough, Casey the WonderCorgi did not try to climb my leg to get at the salami as I assembled the meal. In fact, he was nowhere to be seen. It didn't really strike me that anything was amiss about this until I swallowed the last of the sandwich and waddled back to the bedroom. There, poking up through the top of Mount Undies, was a Pembroke Welsh Corgi butt. Casey was nose down, burrowing for all he was worth, and eating as he went! Eating panties!!

Let's face it, domestication is a very tenuous thing. Even the most ribbon festooned Peekapoo will strain against his Hermes leash in an effort to roll in that fresh chipmunk carcass. Given the right prompts, every last one of them will remember they are of wolf stock and revert accordingly. So when Casey caught trace ammounts of menses hemaglobin wafting through the air from the bedroom, it was as irresistable as a slab of cat ribs.

I grabbed his nub of a tail and yanked. He emerged still chewing on an electric blue satin model...which no longer sported a crotch. Oh no! That was one of NewWifey(tm)'s favorites! I booted the Corgi down the hall and started sorting through the remainder.

Disaster!

Close to every third pair of panties was missing its center panel. How had he torn through them so quickly? It must take me a full 5 minutes to chomp down a pair of edible panties - these real ones are made of MUCH tougher material. Assessing the damage, my future suddenly looked grim.

The only plan I could come up - short of waiting for Casey to shit out the swatches, then stapling them back on - with was to toss the panties and bras into the washing machine and search the web for sewing tips while they agitated. Hurredly I gathered up the whole kit and kabooty. Whites, coloreds and mixed all got dumped together into the top-loader. Like the Corgi, my layer of domestication is barely skin deep: reverting to my primordial bachelor days, I set the water temp to "SCALD" then sprinted back to the computer. There had to be a way to repair panties somehow - fetish sites must deal with this sort of thing all the time.

The only nuggets I uncovered concerned the best way to unclog yourself if you've eaten the center panel and are now constipated. That didn't help my present predicament, but I bookmarked the site anyway. Never know when that might come in handy.

It was about this point I had my "Eureka!" moment. When I was a kid, my Mom had these iron-on denim patches that she used to plaster over the numerous holes we created in our jeans. After a few months there was more patch than jeans usually, considering how we "played". We went through so many patches that as we got older she would give us each a box in our Christmas stocking.

I still had the final box of patches she left me, nearly full. I dug 'em out from the back of the shoe closet and plugged in the iron. I was an old hand at this. Just cut to size, hold a hot iron of top for 15 seconds, and you're good to go. Piece of cheesecake.

The only problem, of course, would be NewWifey(tm)'s reaction. But I figured that by the time she discovered the tailoring, she'd be 840 miles away - almost out of earshot. As long as I made sure to be pig drunk upon her return (a safe bet regardless) I could probably emerge relatively unscathed.

When the washing machine stopped I careened downstairs with the laundry basket.

And pulled out an entire load of putty grey womens' underwear!

Uh-oh, this was gonna be bad. I thought I could *probably* survive the repercusions of having 1/3 of NewWifey(tm)'s panties aerated by an unattended dog, especially since I'd been considerate enough to affect repairs. But now...

Now, her entire collection of gaily colored underwear was rendered mute...and shrunken too, I discovered! Had it not been for cranking the temperature to the hottest setting, I still might have gotten away with it by breaking out the spray paint. But as it was, no amount of pulling was going to return those puppies to any size larger than might grace a Smurf. A short short Smurf.

I opened a beer and waited for the boom to be lowered.

It wasn't long coming. NewWifey(tm) returned from shopping a half hour later, by which time I'd already plowed through two 40 oz. Malt buzzbombs. It definitely helped soften the blow.

I'll spare you the details of her vitriolic tirade...mostly because I was so ossified I don't recall most of it now. I have the feeling that the phrase "brains god gave geese" was tossed out a few times, but otherwise it's just a haze of high volume screeching.

Needless to say, I am expected to rectify matters today. So on my way home I'm stopping once again at Willowbrook Mall. There I'll fight crowds of guys looking to suprise their wives on Easter by stuffing a satin g-string (which she'll despise but wear for him once a year anyway) into a plastic egg. I'll pick out 400 dollars worth of matching bra and panties sets, in the size that NewWifey(tm) has scrawled in 250 point font with a Sharpie down my left forearm. Then I'll come home, make her a few sandwiches for the trip, and wave goodbye as she pulls out of the driveway. And never go near the washing machine again as long as I live.

After which - woo hoo! - the veneer of domestication gets stripped off for a week, baby!

I wonder if the dog has eaten the rest of those grey panties yet. I should see what he finds so tasty about them....

Woof!

Happy Easter, and a Zeesen Pesach, kids!

And make sure you're wearing clean underwear. What if you're hit by a truck, god forbid? A dog might come along and eat the crotch panel while you're laying there.

Ciao!