A challenging analysis of the difference between thongs and g-strings

I stumbled across this intellectual gem some time ago, and - since my last post was on the subject of knickers and other knick-kacks - the time seems right to share it with you. Pay attention because things get complicated. 

Weren't you thrilled to hear she'll blog later on writing and poetry, and might even read out a poem? Makes you glad to be alive in the digital age, doesn't it.

 

An open secret

At a loose end in Honolulu in March, I went along the road from the hotel to the Ala Moana Centre. Many of the stores in this consumer temple - Amani Exchange, Burberry, Betsey Johnson, Chanel Boutique and so on - were too pricey to even interest me. But I decided to try Victoria's Secret, where at least I might be able to afford a pair of knickers. As it turned out I got four pairs of these for $28.

And trying them on entitled me to the full benefit of the VS experience. A lusciously lit circular area off to the side of the large store gave onto six or eight individually named changing rooms. Here's the interior of mine, a pink and perfumed blend of nursery and boudoir that was nevertheless seductive, even to this sceptic.

I don't know where I had got the idea, though, that VS products were ... well, to use an old-fashioned word, tasteful. Cute? Of course, Pretty? Naturally. Sexy? Sure. But this?

Porn-wear. And this? 

A porn pose, just to ram home (sorry) the point.

What do little girls going into these stores with their mothers make of this stuff? What do their mothers tell them?

I can only sign off, Bewildered of Wellington.

Addendum: A young male informant says these two outfits are "no fun", "a bit cheap" and "too signposted".
Three cheers for chaps who like something left to the imagination! 

Man about town beside the sea

Spotted on Sunday at Days Bay. As far as I could tell, his teeshirt was an airy arrangement of mesh and fringe. And I'm fairly sure it didn't come from Hallensteins.

Nothing says I love you like deliberately induced ketosis

The Times told us recently that prospective brides - in the US; where else? - are opting to be fed by nasal tube to shed weight fast for The Big Day. Romantic or what?
Via their affianced nostril, a yummy blend of protein, fat and water drips into their stomach for up to 10 days. Because this stuff doesn't contain any carbs and amounts to a mere 800 calories a day, our happy brides-to-be, in effect, start eating their own bodies.
And in other news ...
In the kind of "research" that tends to prompt mocking belly laughs from non-social scientists, a Canterbury University student (yes, right here in New Zealand) has found that women threatened by female images in the media own more shoes and handbags, and shun trousers. Women who are insecure irrespective of media images, on the other hand, tend to avoid accessories too because these would draw unwelcome attention.
The threatened-by-media-images group, she speculates, use accessories to increase their physical attractiveness, but avoid trousers because these reveal their figures. The generally insecure who dodge accessories too, dress anonymously to avoid attention of any kind.
Gosh, we didn't know that, did we!
Fortunately, the report includeds no stats, so there's no point counting our shoes and handbags - not to mention our scarves, belts, gloves, hats and jewellery items - in an attempt to discover measure exactly how insecure we are.
And finally, French researchers - yes, you guessed it, sociologists -  tracked around 450 transactions on tips left for seven waitresses over two months. They discovered that waitresses who wore red lipstick were tipped half the time by male customers, whereas those who wore brown and pink lipstick, or none at all, were tipped less than a third of the time.
But - surprise! - waitresses' make up had no noticeable effect on tipping by women.
This discovery, the researchers portentously announce, has important implications for women in the hospitality industry, particulary those working in bars and restaurants frequented by men.

Woman in freak porridge accident

In spite of being plenty old enough to know better, I've been skipping breakfast for years. So, with the onset of the cold weather, I decided on a new regime. Just as I was plucking Harraways Rolled Oats from the supermarket shelf a few days ago, I bumped into A. Who, after the greetings, told me exactly how to make my breakfast porridge in the microwave. By morning two, I was really looking forward to the result.
Morning three and I was running late for a non-negotiable meeting time. I scuttled through the shower, threw on the sandy-coloured Topshop dress I bought from Karen Walker's Wellington shop, and topped it off with a long necklace comprised of three bronzey chains (the sort of bling you can pick up in Buenos Aires for a song).
I prepared my porridge as per A's excellent instructions, carried it steaming to the table and sat down.
Unfortunately, a whiplash effect ensued - I stopped moving forward but the chains did not. By the time my bottom hit the chair, the three long strands - now loaded with hot cereal - swung back to follow me. The result was a liberal coating of porridge down the front of the dress, not to mention my arms, the table and some of the floor.
Moral of the story? If you dress before you eat, dine in an inverted rubbish bag for your protection.
And look ... it's an idea that's already hit the catwalks. The hat is presumably designed to fend off overhead attacks by other people's porridge.

Shoes as art

These are my new shoes.
I'm seriously tempted to leave it at that and sign off. Because look at them! They speak for themselves, don't they. Yet I'm equally compelled to speak, not for them but about them. Or, rather, about me in relation to them. No, wait, not even that.
Sorry, I'll start again.
On Saturday I bought these shoes at Minx in Otaki. Because the sight of them made my blood race in the same way a wonderful photograh does, or the sound of the bandoneon in tango music. I haven't worn them outside the shop yet. The point is, I hardly need to wear them. I bought them so I could bring them home and look at them as often as I like. Like buying art. So there they've sat - on a stool in my bedroom, rather as on a pedastal - and each time I see them, I'm flushed with pleasure that they exist.
For the more practical minded, I'll add that they came within my purchasing power because they were reduced from $256 to $180. The blood-red element is wonderful hairy cowhide. And I'm not the only one to fall for its odd charm - Cheryl bought a dark green version, and Fern, ankle boots in cobalt blue.

Bagged!

A few days later, also in  Balaclava's Las Chicas, I met Monique. She was leafing through a pile of new glossies and, assuming they were supplied by the cafe, I asked if I could have one she'd finished with. In fact they were hers, but she was still happy to lend me a Marie Clare. The text turned out to be in Chinese, although the pics spoke a universal language. Before long I asked why.
Monique designs and sells handbags, which retail in Australia and New Zealand. She sources her leather in India and was combing the magazines for inspiration. She gave me a booklet, showing off her designs.
That's one of her bags on the table - a classy dark green leather. And here's another I'd love on my shoulder.

No, not him, silly. He's far too deep a thinker to be any fun.
This talk of accessories reminds me of one of the most famous lines in theatre - "A handbag?!", as spoken by Dame Edith Evans, playing Lady Bracknell in Oscar Wilde's The Importance of Being Earnest. A line my friend E (no, not that E, the other one) delivered in a school production, in a less OTT manner, but nevertheless freighted with aristocratic dismay. The high point of her acting career, she says, when she experienced all the power of holding an audience and making it laugh.