I was all geared up to write you a poem about the oncoming summer. It was something to do with the good Lord protecting us from the inevitable onslaught of boobly boobs and private unmentionables coming our way with the heat. Spring has been hot and muggy, and while prefer it to the bitter cold I am never quite prepared for how bare-ass naked other human beings can be in the wide open public with complete and total comfort.
But as it turns out, I’ve already done that one. It was called Strumpets in the Summertime and was one of my 365 musings in the 2011th year of our Lord. So here I am, getting all old and cranky with the same, repetitive complaints about humanity. I guess that sums up my life experience to date: I was simply born a cranky, old woman. I like to think I just matured at a terrifyingly rapid pace.
I should note that Dave caught me checking a girl out the other day (boobs are magnetic, I don’t care who you are) and said it’s a frequent observation he makes about me. So I guess I’m the one needing protection from The Almighty this hot, muggy spring.
May He be with us all.
Strumpets in the Summertime
Is it just me or are clothes being made smaller and sluttier?
That has to be the only reason it’s acceptable for all these body parts to be out on display. It’s not even summer and all the gals in the city are free-flying with their anatomy out in the sunlight for all to see. Tiny little short shorts, dresses with dangerously high hems, and low, low, low cut blouses.
How, exactly, am I supposed to compete with that?
I don’t really have any good ideas. I mean, I’ll put on a dress but I’m not about to approach looking like a lady of the night when I do it. Quite frankly, I was raised a tomboy and the fact that I’m willing to wear dresses or skirts of any kind should have everyone’s mouths agape. When I reach for a makeup brush, people should have near-heart attacks.
Or at least they would be if there weren’t five girls within a 50 foot radius at all times with their legs and arms and boobly-boobs on display.
It’s not really a matter of competition. After all, I’ve got a handsome guy by my side and I don’t really have any interest in attracting anyone’s attention but his. But holy cow if I were him I’d have a hard time paying attention to me.
Since I’m unwilling to go the way of sluttery, I’m going to have to think of something else. Maybe I could always smell like something nice. Not flowers or musk – I need something that competes with tittery. What’s a good scent to get a man’s attention? Bacon?
I don’t know that would help my cause to be associated with cooked pig.
Why isn’t there already some sort of scent out there to assist in these situations? Perhaps I should bottle something myself and label it as strumpet defense. The commercial could feature a bunch of strumpets (naturally) all dressed up in their strumpet clothes (of course) and a decent-looking-but-not-blow-your-socks-off woman in the midst of them with an aura of light around her and a man staring at her with rapt attention. And then some clever slogan.
I’m going to have to work on that. In the meantime, I’ll just have to keep making delicious food and being charmingly dorky. Because those are really my only two redeeming qualities and I’m not sure the last one even counts. I’m just trying to slip that in so I can make ‘redeeming qualities’ plural.
Maybe the bacon perfume isn’t such a bad idea after all. It might remind him of pig, but that will remind him of food and that will remind him of me. We can go from boob-gazing to food-grazing in 3 seconds flat and I can pull him out of the outside world of strumpetry and into our apartment where it’s safe and where I feed him and make him forget that there are attractive, young women absolutely everywhere.
Oh man- it’s only spring! I’m gonna need one helluva plan when summer hits. ♣