Category Archives: curves

We’re talkin’ panties. No boys allowed…

unless you are a cross dresser, transvestite or drag queen.  Although, I would imagine the latter two would already know these tricks.  For some reason, drag queens know more about undergarments than the average biological woman does.

In that case, this article is for you, Frump a Dump.  We’re talking bras and panties here.  Sit back, take notes and then, go evaluate your lingerie drawer.  There will be a quiz at the end of this lecture, Bitches…so absorb!

Those of you who read regularly or know me “in real life” know I am a pretty fashionable chick.  I love fashion. I live for fashion.  I eat, breathe and sleep fashion. The only thing I don’t do is fuck fashion.  I save that kind of love for the Hotband exclusively.  Though, I do make sure to be fashionable WHILE fucking, if that accounts for any thing.  Bra and panties must not necessarily match…but they must be attractive.  Alluring.  Eye candy.

I am a big advocate that sexy starts from the inside out and that goes for clothes too.  If you start with a base of sexy lingerie, your “feel good” will shine through.  It’s always a sexy start to a great outfit.  When you throw on your basic frump a dump white sports bra and a pair of your big ol’ granny panties, you are starting with a canvas that just screams “I am going to feel shitty for the rest of the day.” If you start with a sweet lacy bra and a cute tanga panty or a flirty pair of boy short panties, you are going to have a sexy secret with you all day long.  Plus, you never know when your partner is going to grab hold of you for a “nooner” or a “quickie”.

Do you really wanna be caught out there in a pair of your oldest “Hanes Her Way”, with the tiny hole that lets two or three pubes escape?  The ones with the saggy, worn out elastic around the crotch?  Or, worse still…the ones that you wear during “that time of the month” that have the dark, shadowy remnants of all the times your pad didn’t do its job appropriately?

Don’t look at me like that. You know what I am talking about.  We all have a pair of those.

You should be ashamed of yourself.  Truly.

Once I had my hysterectomy, I threw out every single pair of underwear that qualified as “dust rags”.  Dumped them all.  Any thing that I purchased that came in a five pack?  Gone.  I figured, I am never going to destroy another pair of underwear ever again, ergo, I am going to invest in some of the prettiest panties I have ever owned.  I have tangas, boy shorts, T backs, bikini’s, high waist, french cut…some lacy, some in cotton, some patterned, some solid…but the one thing they all have in common?

They are all sexy.  All of them.  There will never be a time that I will be caught with my “pants down” (pun blatantly obvious) in the underwear department.  Same thing with the bras.  Girls, dump the bras that have twisted wires, an underwire poking through, the one that you pinned together because it’s your favorite.  Get rid of them.  All you need are two basic white bras, four basic nude bras and about four basic black bras.  Those are your staples.  After that, the rest of your bras should look like a circus threw up in your lingerie drawer.  Colors!  Lots and lots of colors!  Sure, with sheer blouses, these don’t work…but how often do you wear sheer blouses?  That’s where your basic colors come in.

And while we are on the subject of basics…here’s a tip for you, Sugar Tits.  White bras should only be worn under white blouses.  That’s it.  End of story.  Any other sheer blouses you own should have a NUDE bra underneath it.  You can even do a nude bra under a white blouse.  Same thing goes for your panties, doll faces.  Do not wear white panties under white pants.  It shows right through and draws a whole lot of attention to spots you don’t want attention drawn to.  Keep it nude.  Nude bras work under everything.  Don’t try to match your bras to your blouses.  For example…if you are wearing a sheer yellow blouse, don’t think you should wear a yellow bra beneath it.  It looks “udderly” ridiculous.  NUDE bras, girls.  Also, please…be mindful of your nipples.  If you have prominent nipples, do not wear a see through bra under your sheer blouses.  In the dim lighting of your bedroom as you dress in the morning, you won’t necessarily be seeing what all your co-workers will be seeing under the fluorescent lighting of your office.

The nude rule under sheer does not apply to black sheer blouses.  One would think this is common sense, but alas, it is not.  Black sheer needs a black bra.  Let me explain why.  We are living in a digital age, girls.  People are snapping photos all the time.  There is a horrible phenomenon called “headlights” and it is no longer the catchphrase for a pair of hardened nipples.  When a camera flash flashes…suddenly, whatever you are wearing beneath the sheer is going to become blatantly apparent.  Worse than your titties showing through your blouse is your bra being too light for the blouse you are wearing.  It makes these two “round disks” of light where your breasts should be.  This will end up on your friends and co-workers Facebook pages with all sorts of ridicule ranging from “nice high beams” to “look into the liiiiiight, Carolann…walk into the light!”

It is important to pay attention to your skin tone when dressing.  And while I am not normally one to endorse products I have not personally used, THIS website, called “My Skins”, offers you the opportunity to either download (not recommended) their color chart or order one by snail mail.  The reason I don’t suggest downloading the skin color chart is because if your computer does not have the right ink or the correct color settings, you are going to get skewed colors.  This chart will help you find the right color undergarment that best matches your skin tone.  If you choose to buy from this site, I will say, they ARE reasonably priced undergarments.  Their panties run to about a 44 inch hip (the XL is too small for me, but might fit some of you chicks with less endowed asses than mine).  Their bras run to a 38D…again, too small for me, but perfect for all of you who can shop Victoria’s Secret.  (You know what her secret is?  She has nothing in my size, that’s her secret.  Bitch.)  But, even if you don’t shop there…you can still use the color chart (free) to be able to match it to undergarments where you do shop.  I personally wear “Cappucino”…which is perfect for my olive skin tone.  Your skin color may vary. 

However, I have truly digressed.

The staples are the staples.  Every girl should have a base undergarment wardrobe that consists of neutrals that always work under the spring and summer lighter colors.  Where the colors come in are under things like tank tops, summer dresses with spaghetti or narrow straps or loose, flowing tunic tops.  There is nothing tackier than your bra straps hanging out from under any of the aforementioned things.  However, the way to go from tasteless to tactful is by using color.  If you are wearing a tank top with narrow straps and you are not a member of the itty bitty titty committee and can’t get away with a tiny bra, no bra or a strapless bra…you want to put on a bra with color in it!  Fun colors!  Wearing an orange tank?  Throw on a yellow bra so that if the shoulder slides away, you are looking at a pretty pop of color, not a dingy white bra strap.  If you make it look like you MEANT to make that sexy little fashion faux pas, it will be interpreted that way.

And, as everyone knows, perception IS reality.

PS:  The “pop of color” undergarment rule applies to casual wear. If you are wearing a chic little black dress or a formal white dress, keep your black undergarments with the LBD and a nude/white undergarment with the white dressy wear.  Do I need to explain this?  From the looks of what I see out there in the world, apparently, I do.

Wearing a black tank top?  Sure, you can grab your basic black bra.  But, if it slides to one side, everyone now sees that your tank doesn’t fit and you are not fooling any one with the black bra on.  Instead, have a hot pink bra on!  Pop of color!  Fun! Flirty!  A hint of color is sexy.  Trying to conceal a tank that is too big on you or doesn’t fit you correctly with a bra of the same color looks exactly that way.  If you have a tank that isn’t fitting you correctly, the correct remedy is…BUY THE RIGHT SIZE, Dumbass.  But, if you insist on wearing an ill fitting ANY thing…let me let you in on a little secret.

Camisoles.  And no, we ain’t talkin’ about your granmama’s camisole.  Not some lacy, slinky thing from the 40’s.  We’re talking a basic, cotton, thin strapped camisole.  Yes, it means layering your bra, your cami and then your tank…but at least you look appropriately dressed and not like you are trying to fit into something that you bought when you were 20 pounds lighter. Use them.  Have them in every color of the rainbow.  They cost barely more than $10 at Old Navy in all size from size 0 all the way up to a size 28. No excuses, girls.  Get them.  Use them.  Please.

The point is, if you start with a sexy base, you will feel good in what you wear all day long.  There is a lot of truth to the adage that beauty comes from the inside.  That applies to your clothing as well.  If you have a sweet little secret under your clothes, you will have a sly smile on your face all day long.  You will have this gorgeous air of confidence and radiance that will make you look tremendously better the whole day through.  When you feel better about what you are wearing, you will walk with an air of confidence that is immediately apparent to others.

You’ll know you’re doing it right if men ask you for your phone number and bitches talk about you behind your back.  And for those of you who are already happily paired off…if your significant other decides to treat you to a little “afternoon delight”, you will already have the right gear for hittin’ the rear, ya know what I’m sayin’? Hm?

Remember, the right ‘tude will put you in the right mood.

And, remember what you’re mama always told you…you want to have on clean underwear if you are ever in an accident…or want to snag yourself a hot paramedic.  Either one works for me.

Stay sexy, bitches.

CP.

It’s all in the attitude, Baby.

It took me time to understand. Admittedly, at times, I still don’t.

He worships this body of mine, this body of breadth and depth. Certainly, he has a selection of waif-like goddesses, all dying to be a part of his harem, and yet, it is at my alter that he genuflects, night after satiated night. While I might get into bed feeling like the Michelin Man on some nights, I leave there a as a Playboy pictorial.

Attitude, baby. It’s all in the attitude.

I was prone to breaking out my old pictures from my former “thin” days. The days before the babies wore down my breasts in their battle to defy gravity. The days when my stomach was a “tummy” and I wore the word “voluptuous” like a crown. I would show him that, once upon a decade ago, I was slender and sleek. In showing ‘him’ these pictures, I was saying, “Look, I was once what every man desires.”

He dismisses my memories and dives for my mammaries.

It’s amazing how easily distracted I can be. I obsess over this body. I see every bump and bang along the way, appraising it like a recently wrecked Mercedes. When he touches me, I am the star of the showroom. I have no mileage and there are no dings or dents. I am an accidental goddess, and I blame him. When the touch is just right, my stomach, normally my nemesis, reacts like a third breast. It stiffens. It hardens. It wants to be kissed.

I have stretch marks from my bouts of birthing babies.

“Roadmaps. Reminders of where you have been in your life”, he states as his tongue maneuvers the dangerous curves of my highways and bi-ways. He drives onward; upward from the deepest valleys to my purple peaked mountains majesty. There are no stop signs on this road. There are no detours to drive him away. No reason to yield and everything is slippery when wet.

If I close my eyes, I am the autobahn, riding him, rather than the other way around.

I have learned to be on top and allow my landscape to be lingered upon. The sweet liberation in the realization that he is not assessing what is right and what is wrong. He is listening to my breathing in response to his. He is godlike, holding the whole world in his hands, being able to see all of me, from heaven to earth. He is not thinking that I weigh more than he, but how I glide so stealthily, so weightlessly upon him.

Moreover, he is filled with pride, while filling me.

He created this misfit, this accidental goddess by allowing me to remember I am more than a body. I am a mind that wanders. I am a soul that fulfills. I am a breath of fresh air and a heart of gold. I am the eyes of the compassionate and the laughter of a child. Astride him, I am patience being pushed to the limit and poetry in motion. When release is achieved, he never releases his hold. I smile. I smirk. I remind myself that I am beautiful in the dark and the light. I remind myself that he is panting helplessly beneath me and I was the cause. I was the cure. I put away my old photographs permanently. I never want to be her again, as he does not desire “that girl”, only this woman.

Attitude baby, it’s all in the attitude.

Okay. Enough of the depressive bullshit.

I am reading my own blog and discovering something about myself.

I have been, for the past two months, pretty fucking boring.

What the hell? Read my archives! I am so NOT boring, so what the hell is going on with me.

I have a few theories:

1) My husband is now working in California. This means I am not getting laid NEARLY as much as I used to. Since most of the stories in my archives revolves around the interesting things we did (read:stupid) sexually, I find myself with very little to say. As a matter of fact, my orgasms have been pretty mediocre as of late. Who do I speak to to rectify this situation?

2) My son has swine flu. It’s hard to be witty when your son has a potentially life threatening pig virus. He thinks it’s hysterical and refers to himself as a “Swiner”. He has been yelling it out in school as well, making his teacher think that Tourette’s is a side effect of swine flu. My child is one genetic marker away from retarded* as it is. He gets it from me.

(*Yes…I realize that this is politcally incorrect. I care not. Move on.)

3) Did I mention that I am not getting laid near enough?

4) Avitable’s Halloween party is coming up this weekend. Anything else will therefore pale in comparison. Basically, you have two things to look forward to this time of year. The first is anticipation of his party. And the second is the subsequent depression you will go through when it is over. The depression lasts about a full year until the next party. I am stockpiling Cymbalta for the aftermath.

5) I have come to the conclusion that I have gotten fat. Not voluptuous. Not “curvy” or all the other cute things I always referred to myself as. No. This is downright fucking fat. I always said if the day ever came that my stomach stuck out further than my tits, it would be time to diet. Guess what, Fuckers? Yeah. No time like the present.

6) Dieting depresses me. Depression makes for shitty blog posts. In order to serve you better, I shall refrain from dieting. I will take one for the team. I will get fat in order to preserve the sanctity and harmony of this blog. I will be 300 pounds…but you will be amused and frankly, that’s all that matters.

7) Yeah. I really need more sex. More sex=less dieting=happier blogposts. So, in essence, my entire blog existance rests firmly on my husbands penis. That’s a heavy burden to bear. Hope he’s up for the challenge.

81 days sober…and a now, a new challenge!

I am listing the things that I need to stop doing now that I am sober. Let me go have a cigarette first, and then, I shall explain. Please hold for a moment.

(Insert cheesy muzak here)

Okay. Back. Now, here’s the thing…

I need to stop:
Smoking.
Biting my nails.
Eating like a pig.
Keeping vampire hours.

Now, to think I can stop all of these, while maintaining my sobriety, is just sheer madness. I can’t do it all. So, I decided to analyze each of these and see which one I can possibly do right now.

SMOKING: I started to smoke February of last year. It happened when some cunt broke into my car, stole my Chanel bag and all my credit cards along with it. Sadly for said cunt, my cards were maxxed out, so all she was able to buy was a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Asshole. The police found my bag in a swamp behind a movie theater. It was not salvagable, so I had to trash a $500 bag. This did not please the princess at all. Anyway, for some reason, I felt the need to smoke a cigarette. First One Ever in 41 years of my life. I’ve been saying I will stop for the past year. My son doesn’t know I smoke because I go through great lengths to make sure not to do it around him. I go into my bathroom, topless, so my shirt doesn’t smell like smoke. I dangle out the window practically. Then, I spray my hair with hairspray, brush my teeth, douse myself in perfume (cheap stuff, I don’t use my good stuff for this) and then, put my shirt back on. Ridiculous. I don’t even enjoy smoking. I just need something to do with my hands…and there are only so many handjobs my hotband can endure before he feels like his dick is going to fall off. So, quitting smoking is definately something I want to do.

BITING MY NAILS: I have been a nail biter since birth. I started getting acrylics done when I was 15 years old and have been addicted to getting them done ever since. This means that my nailbeds are positively destroyed (but damn, do my hands look gorgeous with a new set of frenches on them). So, I stopped getting the acrylics done a couple of months ago (thank you, drug addicted CP for not wanting to get out of bed to have them done), but I went right back to biting them again. So, I have resorted to using press on nails. That way, the drilling of the acrylics don’t destroy my fingernails…and I can’t get to them to bite them. It’s not the ideal way to stop biting…but, it is working for now. The problem is they look so…*ugh* fake. But, it’s better than my ragged cuticles that I tear up and leave all bloody and nasty.

EATING LIKE A PIG: This is a side effect of getting sober. I have an appetite again. And man, am I making up for lost time! I don’t eat to satiate hunger. It’s more to keep my hands busy (see “smoking”/”handjobs”). Now, I have the opposite problem of most women. Most women, even the thinnest women, think they look fat. Me? I know I’m fat…and I’ve always embraced that. And, I am also one of those women who, no matter how fat she gets, still manages to think she is the hottest girl in the room. I have body dysmorphic disorder…but in the OPPOSITE of what it should be. I’m a fat girl who thinks she’s thin. *LOL* The problem is, I am so damn pretty that I feel it makes up for the excess 20 pounds (okay, 30). Here’s a recent pic of me at my high school reunion:

That’s me in the white floral dress (Yves Saint Laurent never looked better, I might add) See the girl in the black dress in front of me? Yeah. Size 2. Fuck her. *LOL* The girl next to me? The red head? Yeah. Size 12. Fuck her too. Me? A divine size somewhere between a 16 and an 18 depending on whether I am wearing the good stuff or a cheap knockoff. *gasp…yes, the princess does do knockoffs now and then. sh. our secret.) That’s the issue. I really don’t feel like I look bad. If I looked like shit, I might be more apt to lose some weight. *shrugs* This one might be a challenge. (See the hotband behind me? How cute is he??? And, in this pic is the guy I lost my virginity to back in junior high…but I’ll never tell which one…mwahahahaha).

Here’s another pic of me…just because I am that cute that I should be shared. I am on the right of Abby, my kindergarten best friend (middle) and another friend of 28 years (like you can’t tell which one is me, right?):

Yeah. Weight loss is probably not on the table for me right now.

KEEPING VAMPIRE HOURS: For those of you that have known me since I started this blog in…Jesus, has it been four years already? Anyway, since the beginning…I keep the most unholy of hours. Right now, it is 5:30 am. I am blogging, playing Vampire Wars on Facebook, chatting with a friend, listening to music, smoking a cigarette, eating some cantaloupe and basically just doing my thing while the rest of the house is sound asleep. I do this for days straight, sometimes up to 4 days without sleep and then WHAM…crash. I sleep for about 6 hours and then I’m ready to do it all over again. Don’t suggest sleeping pills because 1) They go against my sobriety issues and 2) They don’t work on me anyway. I have tried to fuck my husband until I died of exhaustion. Sadly, he gets exhausted WAAAAAAAY before I do…and having sex with him is like eating a bag of Lays…can’t eat just one. So, while he is “recovering”, I am just winding up for round FIVE. Sex is too much of an adrenaline rush for me to knock me out. I read…but I don’t get bored. I can finish a full novel in one night. I try to watch old movies that I have seen a gazillion times thinking it will bore me, but I end up seeing things that I never noticed before and it makes it interesting for me all over again. For example, did you know that there is a Starbucks Coffee Cup in EVERY scene in Fight Club? Yep. Go watch it. (It’s truly the best movie ever made, so watch it anyway). I have been suffering (read:living) with insomnia since I am a little kid. My mom used to put me to bed at midnight, when the Tonight Show was on. She’d fall asleep…and I’d crawl out of bed and sit on her floor and watch it til they did the National Anthem at 4am. (Yes, they used to do that…WAY back in the days before internet and cable). So, these are the hours I am accustomed to keeping.

Now, out of all of these vices…the one I think I am having the easiest time with is the nail biting. However, that is also the one I am least concerned about. No pay off with that one. I know me…and I will eventually cave and get them done professionally again. Eating like a pig? Maybe…MAYBE I can tone it down. I have a $3,000 treadmill on my back porch. It’s the place I hang my throw rugs over when I wash them. A very expensive clothesline. Smoking? Yeah, I think I can see giving that one up…but the after dinner/after sex cigs are going to be really rough. And the vampire hours? That’s 42 years of undoing. I don’t know about that one.

So, I have 81 days under my belt of sobriety. Yay for me and all that shit…but, should I really pick another vice to start separating from right now?

Tell you what. Let me go do my nails, smoke a cigarette, eat a doughnut…and I’ll get back to you tomorrow at 5am with my decision.

What planet are these chicks from anyway?

I have insomnia. I stay up all night long and a good portion of the day as well. Sometimes, I do this for days at a time. I’ve gotten used to keeping vampire hours. My friends and family wonder how I survive on 5 hours sleep for 2 days, but it’s just what I am accustomed to.

Given that, I watch a lot of late night television.

There are always ads on for weight loss programs. Infomercials, if you will. All these women on TV who were 150 pounds heavier, but now are in bikinis showing off their weight loss.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I know it can be done. Thing is…these chicks always seem to have these rock hard bodies. Solid abs you could bounce a quarter on. An ass that is practically between their shoulder blades. Tits up to their throats…and it begs the question:

What fucking planet are these girls living on?

I have done a lot of plastic surgery in my years as a nurse. Breast augmentation, lipo, tummy tucks, arm tucks, ass lifts, breast lifts…you name it, I’ve pulled it, pushed it, tucked it or moved it around. I see women all the time who have lost 100-200 pounds of unwanted fat. And they all have ONE thing in common.

Their skin HANGS. HANGS. Literally drapes over their bodies.

Never once have I seen a woman lose that much weight and not have hanging skin on her body, surely not flat enough to end up in a bikini on National Television. Sure, you saw Kirstie Alley do it, but she also had lipo and a tummy tuck, something not readily available to us women who are financially challenged. But just some woman off the street? No. And it is in this belief that women always feel they are failing themselves. They figure they lose some weight and that their body should be bikini ready. I’m not talking about those of you who are a size 6 and are trying to get down to a 4. I am talking about us girls who are a size 16 and trying to get down to a 10. Hell, even a 12!

People marvel at my sister in law. She’s pushed out three kids and still is a tiny size 2 at 40 years old. Well, hello? She was a ZERO to start with! To throw 10 pounds on someone that tiny is barely enough to call her voluptuous now, ya know? If anything, it finally gave her a set of tits. Oh my, does God have a sense of humor or what?

I was never a tiny girl. Ever. Wasn’t obese as a teenager, but I definately always had a tummy on me. My girlfriends were size 2 and 4 while I was a curvier size 8. I always embraced my curves. Never had a problem with them…

until now.

I am so sick and tired of these commercials that show products for cellulite removal and then show a stick figure who probably never had a lump, bump or bulge her entire life, showing off the product! Come on, even my aforementioned sister in law has a little pucker or two on her ass.

So Ladies, embrace your puckers, lumps, bumps and bulges. Be brave enough to bare all and say, this is me! You don’t like it? Don’t look!

And they probably won’t.

Some chick in a thong who’s a size 2 will walk by…and your troubles will be over.