Pirate's booty.

Recently, Oprah had a show based on helping the masses with their fashion disasters. Granted, Oprah has had her fashion faux pas (see left), she's gotten herself together in the past few years. As an almost-but-not-quite fashion disaster, and very much a masochist, I watched. Essentially, everything I do is wrong and nothing short of a new wardrobe will fix me.
There was one tip, however, that I can adhere to. Oprah told me to cut the pockets out of my pants, at least the pockets that bunch and cause said pants to look “unsightly” around the personal area. Looking at myself, I realized, “I am That Girl: the girl with the bunchy pockets. Oh, Oprah, thank you for saving me!”
I grabbed my scissors, dropped trow and snipped away. It was much better although I must remember not to put lipgloss in my pockets lest it falls to the floor. How embarrassing.

Moving onward to my underoos. (I hate the word ‘panty’ and prefer the word ‘roos’.) When avoiding roo lines, I will often dismiss the roos altogether. Going commando, free-balling, call it what you will, I’m not the biggest thongaroos fan. I’ll wear them if necessary, but I’d rather go sans-roos.

The very same night I cut the pockets out of my pants, I was sans-roos. The Mister arrived home to find me at the kitchen sink washing dishes. Never has he ever put his hands in my pockets, but like a homing pigeon, he walked up behind me, kissed my neck, shoved his hands down my pockets straight through to Yours Truly.
I slid to my knees splashing soapy water everywhere, “Oh sweet jezuz! What are you doing?”
Eyes wide and sparkly, “I don’t know…but it’s great!!”
It was as if The Mister was a Pirate and stumbled unknowingly upon his treasure.
Shiver me timbers, indeed!