Showing posts with label Victoria's Secret. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Victoria's Secret. Show all posts

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Go With The Flow

What's more hip right now than vampires? Tampons, obviously. Let's talk about vaginas, shall we?

I'll admit it-- I'm a bit of a brand whore, and I'm as loyal as the Labrador Retriever you grew up with when I find a product I like. I've worn the same American Eagle jeans since I was in middle school, because they're the cuts that fit me best. I've washed my hair with Garnier Fructis since I was a senior in high school. I only ride in Dansko paddock boots, and Ariat tall boots. I buy Barilla pasta (if it's good enough for the supermarkets in Italy, it's good enough for me). I pitched an ungodly fit when my local pharmacy changed my straight-from-the-brand Ortho Tri-Cyclin Lo to the generic birth control alternative, and had it promptly changed back. (Part of that may have been because the generic pills looked like they had been pressed by some enterprising young meth-head in his back-country trailer park, and also the fact that I am NOT willing to risk my fertility on the cheap shit, because babies are HELLA expensive.) And I have always, ALWAYS used Playtex Gentle Glide tampons (fresh scent,) for as long as...well, for as long as I've been cursing being born female and fertile.

However, this is not to say that I can't occasionally be lured away from a specific product by the seductive siren song of another. While I may be very, very loyal and monogamous in my relationships with people, my relationships with products have a tendency to sometimes end up polygamous. Take, for instance, the last time I found myself journeying down the "feminine care" aisle of my local Rite-Aid on a last-minute "Dear god, like the three bears, my bathroom cupboards are bare and Goldilocks (Little Red Riding Hood would possibly be more apt?) has come to town!" mission. There they were, right in front of me-- the pink box with the familiar script, the reassuringly large "S", the vague floral scent wafting out of the box already. But, three boxes to my right, something caught my eye. It was black. It was colorful. It was modern. It was aggressive! It was a box that said, "Hey, cool lady, let's kick this period's ass like it's past 4 AM at Bungalow 8 and you're on Andy Warhol's arm!" Someone had obviously done enough market research to pick up on the fact that a black background with bright color accents just pops off the shelf (can't express to you how many books I have mysteriously ended up owning based on the fact that my brain sees bright pink on a black cover and instantly equates it with the next Great American Novel and NYT best-seller...which never, in fact, ends up happening), because after some hemming and hawing over the comfort of the familiar versus this bright new interloper, the box of regular-weight U by Kotex Click tampons had popped right into my basket. Women will endlessly be attracted to the shiny and new.

After two trials of "Why could I not have been born a Brandon?" use, here's the list of pros and cons that I've compiled for this new product in regards to how they stand up/fill out/carry their (water) weight against my beloved Gentle Glides. As always, every woman (and her flow) is different, so just because I found it a certain way doesn't mean that you necessarily will, too. Just keep that in mind. Now that we've got that across, here are my VERY opinionated views:

From an aesthetic point of view, the box and packaging of U have it allllllll over Playtex. The tampon cartridges themselves are much smaller, which is convenient because trying to fit a super-weight Playtex tamp in the pocket of a pair of girl's jeans is pretty much like trying to shove an atomic missile into hiding inside of a lycra catsuit. You know something is in there. The U's small cartridge, ever so tiny enough to fit a handful in my summer clutch, also expands to click into place (hence the name, Kotex Click) rather neatly. I got the first box of U's when they offered blue, green, orange and yellow colors instead of the rather sickly purple they replaced the blues with, but hey. Still, they have much more personality than Gentle Glides. And I always thought a woman's tampons told you a lot about her personality.

The thinner plastic cartridge (I never understood why ANYONE, including my mother, would have ever used the cardboard cartridges; I mean, I get that they're more environmentally friendly, blah blah blah go hug a tree, but the sensation of trying to use one is like trying to insert the corner of the box of Annie's Organic Mac & Cheese you just ate for lunch into your down-undah. NO THANK YOU!) also equates to an interesting other plus for Kotex-- you know that phenomenon that happens as you get towards the end of your Time of Bleed when your vagina just kind of shuts down like a government building under attack and stops accepting any foreign bodies into it and is all, "PENIS OR BUST!" and for the life of you, you cannot plead, cajole, coerce, or force another tampon comfortably in there to save your life, or your new pair of underwear? Well, with the very slim plastic cartridge body, the U just kind of...slides by your vaj's defenses unnoticed, like Bond. No struggle, no teeth-gritting, and no more crying and pleading while in a public bathroom stall that distracts other people around you. Solid.

However, the U does fall short of my beloved Gentle Glides in a few places: Namely, the fact that the regular-weight U's are about half the size and absorbency of the regular-weight Gentle Glides. They don't expand as well to fit and leak-proof your lady-bits quite as well as Gentle Glide's cotton protection does, either, probably due to the fact that Gentle Glide's cotton tamps are roughly the same softness and fluffiness that newborn baby kittens are, while U's tamps are made of something that feels suspiciously like yesterday's newspaper that's been lining your kid sister's hamster cage overnight. It's kind of stiff, kind of hard, and has this weird...well, this weird almost shell to the cotton, which acts as kind of like a primary defense system that your bodily fluid have to breach before the damn tamp will begin to absorb. Not, generally, the best thing that one looks for in a tampon.

All in all, this one's kind of a wash. While I continue to buy my Gentle Glides for their vastly superior protection, I've also started making sure that I always have a small box of the regular-weight U's kicking around for either those really light days when my vagina decides that it's on maximum security lockdown, or for those special occasion events like summer weddings, outings on boats, or barbecues when I need either my small clutch instead of a large purse, or don't want to look like I'm smuggling Cuban cigars back into the country in my denim short's pocket. So, U by Kotex Click-- worth the fancy-shamancy hip packaging, but not worth it to entrust any new pairs of underwear to provided that like Victoria, you should want to keep your little monthly visitor a secret.

XOXO

Friday, February 4, 2011

Bringing Sexy Back

I frequently spend downtime at my job chatting with the guy I'm seeing when there's no clients, no pressing inter-office business, and no other busy-work to be done while I'm sitting at the desk, awaiting inter-collegiate emails. However, work and play overlapped in a way I didn't see coming yesterday that left me feeling a little shook not only about how my job and interests bleed into my personal life, as well as how "comfortable" isn't always a good thing in a relationship, despite the connotations of warmth, bliss, and utter lethargy. The conversation that started it all (lightly edited for content, clarity, and privacy,) is as follows:

He: "My friend who you met at ____ has been in one of they're videos."
Me: "Really? And yo' grammar. It's outta control."
He: "You can bug me about it, but I don't give a shit."
Me: "Good grammar is sexy."
He: "If I thought I still had to make sure I was being "sexy" for you online then I would, but I REALLY don't feel obligated to go back over every sentence I type right now, especially since I'm doing a couple things at the moment."
Me: "Real romance never dies. Proof-read so I can think more about jumping your bones and less about proper usage."

I work in a writing center, and I'm a professional writer. I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about the English language (and occasionally, other languages, so holla to you, French and Italian), and it's something that's obviously important to me. The guy I'm seeing knows this. It's no secret to him that I decided to give him a chance after he used the word "microcosm" in a comment on my Facebook wall-- he literally had me at "the world in miniature." Which is why it was such a bummer for me to see the wrong "their/they're/there" in something he typed-- when he was still working on winning me over and wooing me, everything he wrote to me was flawlessly edited for maximum correctness, and if he slipped, he'd immediately correct it. He knew I have a hard-on about grammar, so he put the time in to make it all look appealing. It meant a lot. To me, good grammar is sexy. Words are sexy. Which brought up the question today-- At what time is it ok for the sexy to stop? Is it ever really ok?

Granted, he has a point in the fact that we've now been seeing each other more or less for three months, and together for two, and it's hard not to feel comfortable with someone when they're leaving their clothing, their beer, some food, and have a toothbrush in your apartment, but I would hope that someone would always want to be sexy for me, regardless if we've been together for two months, or two decades. When the sexy stops is when the taking-for-granted comes in, and no one likes to admit when sexy changes from something that you do inherently as a means to an end (getting laid), to something that falls by the wayside because you're now comfortable with someone (and now getting laid regularly). As Carrie said in "The Drought"-- "There's a moment in every relationship where romance gives way to reality." And it blows. But does it have to? Does the sexy really ever have to stop?

True, it's a lot of work to maintain, but that's what makes a relationship go from "work" to "magical." So what if you have to spend a few more minutes proof-reading something? I'm not going anywhere. And so what if you've woken up next to me with sex-hair, or seen me in the shower with mascara running all down my cheeks? Just because I'm comfortable enough with someone that they've seen me looking pretty bad doesn't mean I still don't bust hump applying make-up, choosing the right outfit, and doing my hair for a good hour before I see them, still. Right now, it's still all smooth legs and thongs. But what if I decided I was comfortable, and let the romance die? What if I stopped shaving my legs regularly and started wearing more cotton full-coverage bikini underwear? I'm pretty sure there'd be some protests, if not some full-on Egypt-scale riots. Because really, those are two things I definitely DON'T do to keep it sexy for him. And both take more time and effort than using spell check does.

I don't mean to gripe, and I think at this point, we all know how deliriously pleased I am most of the time with the new beau and consider myself a very lucky girl, but I just think that this example illustrates the differences in men' and women's ways of thinking better than nearly anything else. To me, the romance, the effort, the spark (if you will,) in a relationship is really important...nearly as important as the good grammar I get paid to look for. If that means that I'm going to have to put in a little more work to keep things fresh and exciting and sexy, then yes, I'm going to do it. To me, comfort is letting you use my laptop without hovering over your shoulder paranoid you're going to go through my search history, or leaving you the keys to my apartment, not burping in front of you and occasionally being caught wearing something from Vickie's cotton college dorm-wear PINK line instead their Sexy Little Things collection. So no...no, I don't think it's ever ok to think that comfort with someone equals the fact that they're a sure thing and let the sexy slip away, because if grammar is the first thing to go, it begs the question of what the next thing to slack will be. The sexy needs to be nurtured, in moments like the Hollywood Kiss that took me by surprise one random night when he grabbed me and dipped me for a kiss (in the Top 3 Most Romantic Moments Of My Life, for sure), or when you spontaneously reach for the whipped cream in the supermarket or the new pair of underwear he's never seen before, or that random moment at 2 AM last night when he texted me, just to say "hi" and ask how I was doing. The sexy is what takes a relationship from normal to fireworks, and you best believe that I'm a fireworks kind of gal. I love fireworks. Almost as much as I love the Oxford comma.

XOXO

Sunday, November 21, 2010

A Woman's Plea

Please take me on a date. Like, a real one. Not one that later I will question if it was a pseudo-date, or merely you making sure I actually have two ears and two legs and one nose. One where other people will see us and instantly be able to recognize between your look of sheer terror at the thought of not entertaining me enough, and my full face of make-up that we're both hoping at some point in the near future to wind up horizontal and We Are On A Date because of this. It doesn't really matter where you take me-- I mean, as long as they serve beer, you could take me to a cockfight (not a euphemism), and I would still try to make sparkling conversation and validate your choice of venue. The key to impressing me is to ask me out in the first place, because, let's be honest here, from there, it's all downhill. Even if we were to go on a second date, or a sixth date, or end up together for two years, sooner or later, you will discover how I always leave an inch of drink left in my cups in the fridge, which I never plan on finishing, and I will discover, at some point, your love for either 80's power ballads or anime porn. It will never be as new and exciting as that first real date, ever again.

Please take me on a date. If we go out to eat, please pay for my meal. It's not that I'm a gold-digger; it's just that I've run out of edible combinations for the pickles, peanut butter, and fiber crackers that make up the remains of my kitchen cupboards at home. If I plan the date, or suggest eating while we're out, it's because I'm hungry at that moment, and I promise that I will pay for whatever I get, be it Starbucks, or lo mien. But if you're the genius who came up with the idea of going to that crazy-expense new sushi place because it boasts aphrodisiac sea creatures and the "romantic atmosphere" you hope will get yourself laid, please pay for my meal. I signed on for a date, not a second mortgage.

Please take me on a date. I promise to act like a normal human being. I will not ask you if you can do the M.C Hammer dance, because I really want the groom at my wedding to be able to do it with his groomsmen while wearing Stormtrooper helmets. I promise to stay off hot-button issues like politics, my lack of religion, and your pants. I promise to at least smile at your jokes, if not laugh at them, and only discuss things that I'm passionate about, like living in Italy and the Impressionist art period, so I light up from the inside and come to life, not things I'm passionate about, like sticking it to my ex and how I loved Mark Wahlberg even when he was Marky Mark. Especially in those magical white boxer-briefs. I promise to hold my fork the etiquette-class way, and not like I'm getting ready to spear your hand if you reach across to steal one of my fries. I promise to order more than the salad.

Please take me on a date. Make the first move at the end of the evening. Unless I've been blatantly yawning at you or texting through the entirety of our time together, it's a pretty safe bet that I'm giving you the female air traffic control signs to align your lips with either my cheek, or if you're feeling particularly dangerous, my own. Even if we don't kiss goodbye because I am hacking up a lung and possibly my left kidney, and though you're willing to swap cigarettes with me, you're worried that your immune system will not be able to keep it's shit together if it meets with my saliva, just know that I am wearing nice underwear. Though the chances of you actually seeing them at this juncture are slimmer than the chances of Nixon ever admitting to being the mastermind behind not only Watergate, but the Snuggie, too, just know that were we to somehow trip over a storm drain and a freak gust of hurricane wind were to rip our clothes off on the way down, and I landed on top of you...yes, these are from Victoria's Secret.

XOXO

Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Why You Should Never Say "Panties" And Why Victoria's Secret Is The Best Kept One.

There are a few things in life I like to indulge in: alcohol, shirts, shoes, smoking, driving above the speed limit, cheese, fresh artisan bread, a good latte, women's magazines, lavender soap. And then there are a few things in life I just can't deny myself, no matter how bad it gets or how much it will cost me: books, men, chocolate, the perfect dress, a chance of a lifetime, and underwear. Oh, the underwear.

Usually much to the delight of my men, underwear is basically the crack cocaine of my life. I get flat-out withdrawls if a pair has not been purchased within a month. I would probably be willing to trade my car for a Vickies' credit card with no limit and a floorboard-low APR. I am a staunch Vickie's Girl. I cannot pass a Victoria's Secret without going in and at least scoping out the 'wears. The Semi-Annual Sale is like a religious holiday to me, or Christmas, and it happens TWICE A YEAR. I am on a first-name basis with the staff of all the Vickies in the area and I get frequent tip-offs on the best deals, dates of sales, and new orders. I may or may not have personally funded one of Heidi Klum or Gisele Bundchen's infamously outrageous outfits for the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show by now. I also may or may not own over 150 pairs of underwear. (The true number is a closely guarded secret like National Security or Kim Cattrall's real age.)

That is "underwear." Not, excuse me, "underpants." (I wore those when I was three.) Not "undergarments"-- those are like Spanx and the full-coverage deals. Not even "undies," "grunders," "knickers," or "drawers." "Skivvies" is acceptable. What is never, ever acceptable is the cringe-inducing "panties." Saying "panties," especially if you are a man, makes me think of you holding a pair of five-year-old's underwear. The only people who can say "panties" and get away with it is Victoria him/herself and your lady grandmother. (And probably the Queen of England. She strikes me as a "panties" person herself.)

If you want to get technical, than by all means, let me inform you. Women can wear hiphuggers, cheekies, briefs: high-rise briefs, mid-rise briefs, low-rise briefs, boyshorts, thongs, g-strings or v-strings, tangas, bikinis, string bikinis, Brazilians, and garter sets. These all come in cotton, lace, mesh, satin, silk, nylon/spandex, no-show, and every pattern or color imaginable. They can be trimmed with anything from lace, to ruffles, to rhinestones, to sequins, to ribbon. The combination choices are enough to make your head spin. Men out there, right now, I know what you are saying. You are saying "Thank you for the pictures, but What. The. Fuck? A tanga and a bikini look totally the same to me. What are you women thinking?!" Let me tell you, unlike your collection of plaid and striped boxers, out of my collection, no two pairs of underwear are exactly alike-- there is no repeating here. Why would you ever want to, given all these options?

It all seem very extravagant, to a Marie Antoinette-level. I feel as if I should be reclining somewhere on a chaise lounge popping truffles into my mouth and cackling, "Let them wear Hanes!" But let me explain to you the draw of underwear: No other garment can dress your more to fit your mood than underwear can. No one else ever has to know that under your worker-bee required uniform, you are sporting man-eating skivvies. No one needs to know that when you are depressed, you wear black underwear even if the rest of your outfit is bright and cheerful. If lace makes you feel dangerous, great. If ruffles make you feel angelic, wonderful. I personally have a lucky Sunday Football pair that has a helmet print on the ass (this is why you love me). Just knowing that it's there, hidden, has the ability to affect your entire mood. A good pair of deliciously sexy underwear puts a spring in my step, a gleam in my eye, and an agenda in my mind like nothing else can. It's the power of mood, in a tiny scrap of fabric that I probably pay way too much for(average price for a Very Sexy lace hiphugger or cheekie at Vickies: $16), but am willing to, just because I know what the idea means to me: confidence. When you cannot fake it, you dress for it, from your bottom, up. I throughly believe that the most important part of a woman's wardrobe resides in her underwear drawer. (Also, not a good idea to hide things in there, ladies. It's always found.) The good news vis-a-vis price vs. quality of a pair of Vickies undies that is, if treated right, they can last you four YEARS. Legitimately. I've owned numerous pairs since I was 16, including my pair of "lucky underwear", and you better bet your sweet ass I'm still wearing them. Now, that's CPW (Cost Per Wear) for you!

Underwear are a woman's best friend; not dogs, and not diamonds. All you single ladies, go invest in a few pairs that make you feel like you, not Adriana Lima, should be strutting down the catwalk clad in next to nothing, because you, lady, are too hot for clothing to handle. These are the secret Weapons Of Man Destruction for you to wear not only on dates, but whenever you so choose to feel like the cat's lack-of-pajamas. And for those of you lucky gals in relationships-- go buy something your S.O has never seen before; maybe, something a little different then you would normally wear. Variety is the spice of life, and of the boudoir. (I just said "boudoir." I feel as if I should be elegantly smoking a cigarette out of an ivory holder and pouting at my French lover while calling him "mon petit chou." And if there was ever any question, that term of endearment alone is proof the French are flipping crazy. Although, they give us La Perla, so I will cease and desist my complaining.)

And while we're wrapping up the topic, let me lightly touch on men's underwear options. They are significantly shorter, so this will be (haha--) brief. You have briefs (AKA: tightie-whities or tightie-whatever colors), boxers, and boxer-briefs. (If you are European, you may have speedos and trunks and bikinis.) This is what I have to say: Boxer-briefs. Amen. They are like the Wonderbra for the man world-- they lift everything up and put it where it should be, make everything nice and tight, and show everything off to its full advantage. However, there is a rule: if you've got some extra flesh around your waistband, boxers for you, my friend. No muffintop. And if you are a beanpole and look like an emaciated African child in boxer-briefs-- boxers for you, too. I don't want to be thinking "feed you!" when I should be thinking "maul you, you sexy man-beast!" And no spoofy boxers, (yes, American Eagle, I am talking to your merchandise of the hot dogs and crabs and glow-in-the-dark hot tamales.) (I am not kidding. Follow that link. If I woke up to a short's full of glowing hot tamales coming at me, I would be out of that bed and running so fast the hinges on your front door would never close the same again. It's just like colored or glow-in-the-dark condoms-- whatever is coming at me, I want to be as natural, non-threatening, and serious as possible. I am trying to have sex here, not get raped by a circus clown. Thank you.) No one ever went wrong with classic plaid or preppy striped boxers. I am particularly partial to both patterns in blue, myself.

And yes, to answer your question, I could feasibly go for over a third of year or five months without ever having to do laundry for a clean pair or go involuntarily commando. And also yes, a Victoria's Secret gift card would be the perfect gift for me if you ever felt so moved. (Oh please, oh please, oh please, oh, please!)

XOXO