so i re-did my granny panty- enjoy

If I was a panty…

They call me old faithful. It’s the kind of person that I am. My “friends” tuck me away in the back corner of the middle drawer —easily accessible and easily hidden. Clearly, they’re embarrassed of me or don’t think that much of me. I’m never there, or invited to be there, when they’re having fun, because they don’t need me then. At that point they are satisfied with who they have around them. Naturally, I have things to do and my other friends to hang out with, but I’d like to be there (sometimes). I am only dragged out, when no one else is willing to play. I’m stuck with the gross jobs. I am the “Granny Panty” of friends. I am worn on long flights, ugly days, as a last resort, and during the detestable period 

A granny panty is one Victoria calls every time someone tells her secret or the one Betsy calls every time she found a new johnson. We are pushed to the side and treated as second-rate friends, except in a moment of need. As a granny panty, I recognize my kind and thus, I bond with them. We form this friendship based on they fact that we are both pathetic. It is as if we hype our friendship up to such great heights that we actually look like the cool friends, the lacy thongs. This hyphi friendship creates an air of exclusivity that other people want to be a part of, and then the tables are turned. My gang of granny panties and I are able to choose who is a member of our, now, lacy thong band of sexy ladies.

Naturally, this doesn’t satisfy me, because in the back of my mind I know I’m still someone’s icky undergarments:

I’m tired of being the granny panty. I’m tired of being called only to pick up certain friends when they are skizzered on the corner Hollywood and Vine. I am so over being called to “hang out” only when her other friends have ditched her. I want to be invited to go clubbing and shopping. I want to be pulled out of the drawer first, with the pretty lacy things –not crinkled in the corner (waiting for her next menstrual cycle).

But at the very least, I can recognize myself as a granny panty; i’m not in denial. I recognize that my group of friends and I initially bonded over the fact that we frequently got ditched, or kicked to the curb. I’m not a naïve lady that looks blankly in the mirror trying to convince myself that they’d so be there for me, because they wouldn’t. So what’s a girl to do?

1) Acknowledge that people will use you, if you let them. 2) Acknowledge that it is ok to not be best friends with everyone. 3) Go through all (1200) of your FaceBook friends, and then ask yourself what makes each one of those people unique and beautiful. If you can’t think of a reason why they are unique, beautiful, or who they are either delete them or acknowledge that they are not your real friends (this method can also be applied to your contacts in your phone, Twitter, and MySpace).

My grandfather always told me that the best things about friends is, that you choose them. Thus, if you allow someone to be your friend and they treat you like a second rate citizen, let them go. Have the courage to find new friends, band together with people that love and respect you —who cares if you are all past granny panties, together you can be sexy, lacy, and fabulous.

an almost truthful account promoting evolution, survival of the fittest, and my not real adolescence.

People tell me that I am funny, but that only happened so that I could survive in the wild.  Humor was my defensive mechanism that I developed in order to survive elementary and middle school, similar to a chameleon’s camouflage. I fully believe in natural selection and modern adaptation only because I am a walking example of it. I was exceptionally hideous in elementary school and to survive my peers and neighborhoods, I had to develop one hell of a personality because I couldn’t rely on cute and pretty, well at least not until puberty.

I spent my elementary years being the only white girl in my class, but race isn’t an issue to children between the ages of five and ten; however, deformed teeth and pot - bellies are. Therefore, when I was told I needed glasses in first grade, I cried. The kids in my class made fun of me all the time in a language I never understood –glasses would only add fuel to the fire. It would be one more thing for small non-English speakers to gawk at.

My family eventually moved from gang-infested-inner-city Houston to the boonies of suburbia where all the richer drug dealers, rappers, and lower-upper class oil tycoons dwelled. I went through an interesting culture shock: my former instructors at Cimmeron Elementry did not care if everyone could see the board. They where more concerned if all the students fully understood the English alphabet and numbers. At my new school the teachers wanted everyone to see the board, so they insisted I wear my glasses. I had the mouth of an Orc, freckles like a pig, pale pasty skin, and thick glasses; I was the ugliest child in my whole elementary school. I was constantly made fun of and didn’t fit in with anyone, not even with the other misfit toys; the other ugly kids were over-weight and since I ran for Track Houston, I just wasn’t one of them (needless to say those bitches were the worst). 

A concept that perplexes me: if one person does not fit into any clique between the first and eighth grade the administration feels that there is something wrong with the outcast; there was nothing wrong with me, kids are just mean. My teachers would insist on me going to the counselor’s office during my recess to have some type of psychological analysis done to me, instead of enjoying the 110-degree heat with all the other kids. They would ask questions like, “Why do you think that the other children dislike you?” and, “why do you feel the need to not play with the other children?” All of that analysis business led to me fabricating to the counselors that I had friends in my youth group, as well as convincing my parents that I had friends at school. Here’s the thing, I was perfectly content flipping through the pages of my Frida Kahlo book and Vogue; I didn’t need all of those pretty children’s friendships. I figured if they didn’t want to be friends with me why would I waste my time and energy on them?

The lying eventually caught up with me. You know what they call children who make up friends? Not cute, they call them pathological liars. So because my sister had several near death experiences, my parents blamed my pathological lying on that; me trying to explain my actions and line of thought to the counselors and my parents was just futile. In order to appease the old folks I needed to have actual friendships. Well, that didn’t happen ‘till puberty –sweet, sweet puberty. The first stages of puberty commenced with my breast growing, then I artificially enhanced my appearance by getting contacts, and then having mouth surgery alongside braces. Needless to say by the time I was thirteen I was looking pretty good. Once I started looking normal, I started acquiring friends and not made up ones either, the real kind. And on top of that, boys started being quite nice to me.

This is not a woe to me tale, it is a testament to hopefully convenience you of evolution. Had I not evolved an interesting personality and sense of humor, or at the very least the ability to amuse myself, maybe i would be crazy by now, or at least an introvert. But that’s not what happened. I made it to twenty with a decent personality, sense of humor, and moderately good looks. If it can happen to me, it can happen to anyone.

I want a choice

I'm currently working on a paper for one of my English classes: David Hwang's M. Butterfly and the protagonist's, Gallimard, castration complex.
What a unique idea. A man is insecure in his masculinity and so petrified at the thought of being emasculated that his metaphysical phallus doesn't exist and thus, he peruses an extra-marital affair to reaffirm his masculinity. Jokes on him, because his love of twenty years is actually a man.
----

Naturally, this made me think of my underware. 

The underwear I am wearing at this moment.

White, boy-short, with doodles of hearts, stars, and bells.

Not to sexy. More cute than sexy for sure, but that's my style. 

.Here's my point.

I recognize that even though my panty style is cute rather than sexy -it still appeals to someone.
Why can't a man recognize that his undergarment style is appealing to someone else as well.
----
I'm saying -> I put panties on, I look good, I know (that if anyone was lucky enough) they'd think I look good.
MY QUESTION IS:
Are the panties I choose reaffirming my femininity because I have low self-esteem? 
If you know me, you know that I have some issues with self-esteem -but i'm a firm believer in faking it till I feel it.
So the answer is NO, me choosing cute panties is not a reflection of my self-esteem.
It could be, but it's not.
I have a large ass and a small waste, boy-shorts are the only logical choice for underware.

SO

just because a man is pursing an extra-marital affair doesn't mean he has some tyoe of complex.
maybe, he is just a "weenie," a "penis," a "cock" (to quote Hwang's many terms for the phallus [found Act II scene VI)

I'm sorry Jacques Lacan, the castration complex is just a cop-out. 

In my opinion, all complexes are cop-out.
Let's be real (or at least Sav is gonna level with you on how she feels at this moment)

people make choices, some are good some are bad, some are well thought out others are impulsive. Let's not make excuses for others.

We are who we are. And some people are just pigs that cannot control themselves.

It all comes back to self-control, discipline, and morals. 

So maybe tomorrow I'll wear a black lacy thong, or a pair of high cut briefs, or maybe no panties at all. but ultimately that's up to me. I make the decisions, no one makes them for me. And I sure as hell don't think it's a reflection on psyche what skivvies I choose to cover my privates with.

Lydia's Lament

I want to be the

one

that grabs your

attention.

When you're surrounded

by all those

others

(it only, slightly, kinda bothers me)

When I walk up

let you

eyes & mind

feast on me.

Wrap your arms

around me

focus on me.

only think of me.

It might be selfish.

I don't

really

care.

If you think you're deserve

me.

If you think you're entitled

to my mind, body, soul.

Then I can have

stipulations.

That's just

the way it is.

Do & go wherever you want;

keep me in the loop.

Surrounded yourself with whores

-but relocate the focus

when I emerge.

respect me.

love me.

care for me.

it's nothing i wouldn't do for you.

it's nothing i don't do for you.

just a thought, really.

Big Butt and High Waist

Ol’ Faithful. That’s what I am.

Keep me tucked in the back drawer,

Clearly you’re embarrassed.

I’m never there when you’re having fun

-But I’d like to be.

You only drag me out, when no one else is

there.

I’m stuck with the gross jobs.

I am the Granny Panty. I’m worn on long flights, ugly days, as a last resort, and during the detestable period… yeah, I went there.

It seems like everyone I know has a “go-to” granny panty friend; you know, the one Victoria calls every time someone tells her secrets or the one Betsy calls every time she can’t find her Johnson.

Frankly, I’m tired of being the Granny Panty. I don’t want to be called just to pick your hott ass up -when you’re skizzered somewhere on Hollywood Blvd. I don’t want to be called to just “hang out” when it’s convenient for you because you’ve been ditched. I want to be invited to go clubbing. I want to be pulled out of the drawer first, with the pretty lacy things –not crinkled in the corner (waiting for your next menstrual cycle).

But at least I can recognize myself as a Granny Panty.

I’m not one of the naïve ladies looking blankly into the mirror trying to convince myself with a mental conversation/mantra/monologue of, “I’m such a good friend! They’d so be there for me.”

Ignorance is bliss right?  Cough, cough. 

Savvy Sue, Baby, What you up to?

Here’s my question: What was Eve Ensler thinking when she started writing the first monologue for The Vagina Monologues? I’m basically one hundred and twenty percent sure that she didn’t just wake up one sunny morning with her vagina speaking to her; I’m basing this off the fact that my vagina has never spoken to me. I reckon that what really happened was that she was moved to write about the plight of women today. But real talk, who other than the angry middle aged female would want to sit and soberly listen to that? When my girlfriends and I discuss our woes and those of other women in the world it involves wine and tequila. So home-girl got clever.

Mama Ensler inspired me.

I am only twenty, but I can do this. Not alone. But that’s what my friends are for, if I can’t fabricate a story via my panty tales than I’ll borrow from a friend’s real life experiences.  

So my goal: to take a whack at creative realism.

It’s going to be a comical, emotional, and naturally, crass ride.