One of my always delightful colleagues told me about a small tem he read on Slate.com today about the increasing popularity of "virginity restoration surgery" and "vagina tightening." These charming procedures are undertaken by women to please their husbands, often as anniversary gifts. They cost anywhere between $2,000-$5,000, and doctors are happy to set up financing plans. I love the fact that thousands of low-income women who need surgery because of uterine, cervical, or breast cancer die every year because they can't afford it, but that our medical profession is always looking out for the best interests of all women by helping us have more pleasing twats.
It is actually quite ironic that this came up because I was just at my biannual appointment with the breast surgeon for a check up. (My mom had breast cancer when she was 33, so I gotta be extra careful.) Happily, the titties are fine. However, I was reading a magaine (Women's Health and Fitness) while I waited over an hour for the fuck ups at the radiology place to fax the correct paperwork to the doctor. (Paperwork they were supposed to give me when I picked up my films last night.) Anyway, there was a full page add for doctorssayyes.com, a website referring women who need plastic surgery of any type to kind, generous doctors who are willing to finance these utterly unnecessary procedures to "help" women live better lives. Again, I love that doctors won't fucking finance a life saving procedure, but god forbid you should have the curse of small boobs and not be able to cope with it like an adult and feel that your entirely life will literally change for the best if you get giant tits or lips, suck the fat off your ass or belly, or reshape your vagina, of course they will help. This type of surgery is for true emergencies. Especially for 16 year olds who are getting breast implants.
I want to know why doctors haven't come up with brain restoration surgery. Any woman who would have her vagina tightened or a fake hymen put into her to please a guy is clearly in medical need of thinking skills. As for the doctors (frequently, but not always, male) who prey upon these fucked up socially created insecurities, they should lose their medical licenses immediately. Since when does "do no harm" mean cutting people up and inserting crap into a healthy body for no medically necessary reason?
I can't wait to pack up my granny undies and Theo and move into a cave where I don't have to live in a society where I am considered strange and "judgmental" for objecting to this insanity.
Friday, December 16, 2005
My Worst Date Ever
My first year at NYU, I had a crappy work-study job at the student newspaper in the classifieds department. I was somewhat friendly with one of my co-workers, Paul Snatchco. (Seriously, that was his real name, although it might have been spelled Snatchko.) I think the only reason that I contemplated friendship with Paul at all was because his last name is so damn awesome, since he was a fat, horny, foaming at the mouth anti-choice Catholic. (One day at work he asked me to read what he earnestly described as an objective paper on abortion that he wrote for a class. The paper’s opening paragraph was about babies in the womb crying and screaming as they are mercilessly torn out by surgical tools wielded by evil doctors during abortions. I told him it was the most trashy bullshit that I’ve ever read, and that he needed to learn what the definition of objective really is.)
Anyway, one evening I went to hang out with Mr. Snatchco and his friends, whom I’d never met. I, for slightly inexplicable reasons, became interested in his arrogant/insecure friend Dan. I also became friendly with Dan and Paul’s other crew members, Peter and John, and often joined them for lunch or dinner in the dining hall. (My friend and I began calling Dan’s posse “the Disciples” since their names were Peter, John, and Paul. That still cracks me up.) To make a long story short, in early December, I asked Dan if he wanted to see a movie and was elated when he said yes.
Sadly, this turned out to be the worst date I ever went on, although at least far more amusing in retrospect to what had been the worst date I ever had prior to this date, at which my date spent a part of the evening calling cab drivers “turbanheads” and cursing them out as he sped along the Kennedy Expressway unsafely. (You’ll all be reassured to know that this fine gentleman is in the military in Iraq now, helping the “towelheads” get democracy.) Anyway, back to my worst date ever. I knew things would not go well when Dan showed up with Peter in tow. “Hmmm...” I thought, “Maybe he misunderstood my invitation.” We took the subway to Lincoln Center, which back then seemed worlds away to me, and bought tickets for “Immortal Beloved.” (Which I never would have chosen on my own, but I’m glad I saw it because it was great.)
The theater was packed, but we managed to find three seats together. Then right before the previews began, Dan said he had to do something and would be right back. The previews started to roll. No sign of Dan. I was fidgeting and worrying where he went. The movie began. No sign of Dan. Now I was really anxious. Peter told me to relax, that he’d be back. Dan never returned to his seat, and I again point out that it was an amazing movie because I enjoyed it despite the circumstances. When the movie ended, Peter and I got up to leave and I wondered if Dan had left before the film, when he popped up out of nowhere to go back with us. The asshole fucking sat somewhere else to watch the movie. I was highly annoyed. What the fuck was that all about?!?!
We talked about the movie on the subway trip back to Christopher Street. When our stop finally came, we all got up and moved toward the doors. I got off the train. Peter exited the train. Dan walked back to his seat and sat down. The train doors closed, and off he went to some mystery destination.
I was fuming. I ranted to Peter about what a fucking asshole Dan was and if he hadn’t wanted to go, he should have just said so instead of ditching me. What kind of dickhead does this to someone?!?! Peter was sympathetic. He said that Dan’s behavior was totally unacceptable and that I deserved someone who would treat me much better. A little alarm went off in my head: I was set up. It was true that Dan never intended to go on a date with me, but Peter did. Since they both knew that I was interested in Dan, and would turn Peter down if he asked me out, what better way to get me on a date with Peter than to have me go out with Dan and Peter and have Dan ditch us so it could turn into a date with Peter and he’d win me over by soothing my hurt feelings after being treated badly? Now I knew that Dan was the kind of dickhead who knew that his friend liked the girl who liked him, so he tried to help his friend, which is really sweet in a fucked up way. It’s some seriously fucked up logic and a fairly diabolical plan from my standpoint, but I have to admit that it was clever. Unfortunately for Peter, I still had no interest in him. I just had hurt feelings and, ultimately, a good story to tell about my worst date (or is it dates?) ever.
Anyway, one evening I went to hang out with Mr. Snatchco and his friends, whom I’d never met. I, for slightly inexplicable reasons, became interested in his arrogant/insecure friend Dan. I also became friendly with Dan and Paul’s other crew members, Peter and John, and often joined them for lunch or dinner in the dining hall. (My friend and I began calling Dan’s posse “the Disciples” since their names were Peter, John, and Paul. That still cracks me up.) To make a long story short, in early December, I asked Dan if he wanted to see a movie and was elated when he said yes.
Sadly, this turned out to be the worst date I ever went on, although at least far more amusing in retrospect to what had been the worst date I ever had prior to this date, at which my date spent a part of the evening calling cab drivers “turbanheads” and cursing them out as he sped along the Kennedy Expressway unsafely. (You’ll all be reassured to know that this fine gentleman is in the military in Iraq now, helping the “towelheads” get democracy.) Anyway, back to my worst date ever. I knew things would not go well when Dan showed up with Peter in tow. “Hmmm...” I thought, “Maybe he misunderstood my invitation.” We took the subway to Lincoln Center, which back then seemed worlds away to me, and bought tickets for “Immortal Beloved.” (Which I never would have chosen on my own, but I’m glad I saw it because it was great.)
The theater was packed, but we managed to find three seats together. Then right before the previews began, Dan said he had to do something and would be right back. The previews started to roll. No sign of Dan. I was fidgeting and worrying where he went. The movie began. No sign of Dan. Now I was really anxious. Peter told me to relax, that he’d be back. Dan never returned to his seat, and I again point out that it was an amazing movie because I enjoyed it despite the circumstances. When the movie ended, Peter and I got up to leave and I wondered if Dan had left before the film, when he popped up out of nowhere to go back with us. The asshole fucking sat somewhere else to watch the movie. I was highly annoyed. What the fuck was that all about?!?!
We talked about the movie on the subway trip back to Christopher Street. When our stop finally came, we all got up and moved toward the doors. I got off the train. Peter exited the train. Dan walked back to his seat and sat down. The train doors closed, and off he went to some mystery destination.
I was fuming. I ranted to Peter about what a fucking asshole Dan was and if he hadn’t wanted to go, he should have just said so instead of ditching me. What kind of dickhead does this to someone?!?! Peter was sympathetic. He said that Dan’s behavior was totally unacceptable and that I deserved someone who would treat me much better. A little alarm went off in my head: I was set up. It was true that Dan never intended to go on a date with me, but Peter did. Since they both knew that I was interested in Dan, and would turn Peter down if he asked me out, what better way to get me on a date with Peter than to have me go out with Dan and Peter and have Dan ditch us so it could turn into a date with Peter and he’d win me over by soothing my hurt feelings after being treated badly? Now I knew that Dan was the kind of dickhead who knew that his friend liked the girl who liked him, so he tried to help his friend, which is really sweet in a fucked up way. It’s some seriously fucked up logic and a fairly diabolical plan from my standpoint, but I have to admit that it was clever. Unfortunately for Peter, I still had no interest in him. I just had hurt feelings and, ultimately, a good story to tell about my worst date (or is it dates?) ever.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
This is a Public Service Announcement
Warning: I won my eBay auction and will soon be the proud owner of a bright orange thong with a sexy rhinestone letter B. I also realized that the letter B would be perfect as "B" is one of my friend's nicknames for me (short for Bitch, natch). Even better, I discovered that I have $3.50 in my paypal account from random online surveys I answered that paid me through paypal. So the thing only cost me $3.44 directly! I made out like a bandit, as I think this ridiculous purchase actually sells for over $20 in my gym shop.
My thong purchase reminded me, however, that people who suffer from any or all of the following conditions should not wear thongs or g-strings:
1. Extremely jiggly ass
2. Cellulite
3. Assne (ass acne)
4. Unshaved snatch
I am not saying this to be cruel. I am saying it as a public service. If you have a super jiggly ass, you need the support of underwear with a butt. A thong or g-string just increases the jiggle factor by letting it all hang free. Cellulite just looks like shit, so why would anyone want to frame you dimply cottage cheese heiny in a thong as if it we as smooth as a baby’s bottom? (I recognize that often goes hand in hand with #1, but some very toned folks are afflicted with cellulite.) Assne is a combination of problems that underwear solves for jiggly butt and cellulite. You want some good breathable undies (no nylon crap) to protect your ass (practical), as a naked ass rubbing against jeans or other materials is only going to make the situation worse. Believe me, you also want to hide the fact that you have assne. Finally, someone without routine pubic maintenance is going to look ridiculous in a thong, as they tend to be high cut and quite unforgiving.
I am afflicted with more than one of these conditions, which is why once the underwear challenge is over, I anticipate a quick return to nice cotton undies. In the meantime, this is a warning to the world that the thong experiment will soon commence.
My thong purchase reminded me, however, that people who suffer from any or all of the following conditions should not wear thongs or g-strings:
1. Extremely jiggly ass
2. Cellulite
3. Assne (ass acne)
4. Unshaved snatch
I am not saying this to be cruel. I am saying it as a public service. If you have a super jiggly ass, you need the support of underwear with a butt. A thong or g-string just increases the jiggle factor by letting it all hang free. Cellulite just looks like shit, so why would anyone want to frame you dimply cottage cheese heiny in a thong as if it we as smooth as a baby’s bottom? (I recognize that often goes hand in hand with #1, but some very toned folks are afflicted with cellulite.) Assne is a combination of problems that underwear solves for jiggly butt and cellulite. You want some good breathable undies (no nylon crap) to protect your ass (practical), as a naked ass rubbing against jeans or other materials is only going to make the situation worse. Believe me, you also want to hide the fact that you have assne. Finally, someone without routine pubic maintenance is going to look ridiculous in a thong, as they tend to be high cut and quite unforgiving.
I am afflicted with more than one of these conditions, which is why once the underwear challenge is over, I anticipate a quick return to nice cotton undies. In the meantime, this is a warning to the world that the thong experiment will soon commence.
Golden Shower
Who the hell remembers where I read about this (as you probably figured out by reading other posts, memory is not my strong suit), but a few years ago I learned that it is, in fact, possible for women to pee standing up. It is by no means as simple as it is for men (believe me, penis envy exists – but only when women walk into disgusting bathrooms), but it can be done. The technique is:
1. Spread labia and put finger at top of urethra;
2. Angle urethra up;
3. Pee.
It takes practice, and whatever article I read advised potential practitioners to perfect the technique in the shower before trying it elsewhere, or risk pissing all over yourself and your clothes. One woman in the article claimed that she got so good that she could just open her fly, pull her undies aside, and let go. Generally, I am a very good squatter, but you never know when that will not suffice, and it still requires me to get close to some nasty toilets. I became slightly obsessed for a few months with the concept of peeing standing up. Of course, this upset my husband greatly as it entailed me peeing in the shower a lot to practice, and as a newbie, sometimes missing the drain (my target). (He should be appreciative that all I did was pee, which is easily washed away, whereas some guy wrote into the sex column at Time Out New York earlier this year and said that his girlfriend shits in the shower and smooshes it down the drain with her feet. Now that is seriously nasty.) I got bored with it after a while, but I still think it is an awesome skill to acquire.
1. Spread labia and put finger at top of urethra;
2. Angle urethra up;
3. Pee.
It takes practice, and whatever article I read advised potential practitioners to perfect the technique in the shower before trying it elsewhere, or risk pissing all over yourself and your clothes. One woman in the article claimed that she got so good that she could just open her fly, pull her undies aside, and let go. Generally, I am a very good squatter, but you never know when that will not suffice, and it still requires me to get close to some nasty toilets. I became slightly obsessed for a few months with the concept of peeing standing up. Of course, this upset my husband greatly as it entailed me peeing in the shower a lot to practice, and as a newbie, sometimes missing the drain (my target). (He should be appreciative that all I did was pee, which is easily washed away, whereas some guy wrote into the sex column at Time Out New York earlier this year and said that his girlfriend shits in the shower and smooshes it down the drain with her feet. Now that is seriously nasty.) I got bored with it after a while, but I still think it is an awesome skill to acquire.
Plushies, and Puppets, and Barbies - Oh My!
It seems that I am not the only one who has pushed plushie-dom onto people, albeit unintentionally in my case. (I can’t speak for the others.) Not long after I posted my request for more stuffed animal models on Dec. 2, someone posted a comment wondering what a plushie was. I emailed back to him directly with a definition (later posted on the blog), and his shocked response (reprinted with permission) was this:
Who would do such a thing? Although I do remember having these stuffed puppets (Goldilocks and the 3 Bears) and the hole that you stuck your hand in was different on Goldie - it was right where her pussy/sphincter should have been...omg...I could have been a plushie as a kid!
See? There are some really fucked up toy manufacturers out there.
I think that the perversion is not really limited to stuffed animals, either. I once read a short story in an anthology of stories “inspired by Barbie.” The book could have been totally obnoxious, but fortunately the writers were some fairly twisted individuals and it was a fun and disturbing read. One short story by A.M. Holmes, who is a seriously demented thinker, was about a boy whose sister’s Barbie comes onto him and he eventually succumbs to her wily plastic ways, and masturbates onto/fucks the doll in a climatic ending scene that was both nasty and hilarious. I’m sure that this has happened in real life, but I’ve never heard of a Barbie fucker fetish. I’ll have to do some research into that.
Who would do such a thing? Although I do remember having these stuffed puppets (Goldilocks and the 3 Bears) and the hole that you stuck your hand in was different on Goldie - it was right where her pussy/sphincter should have been...omg...I could have been a plushie as a kid!
See? There are some really fucked up toy manufacturers out there.
I think that the perversion is not really limited to stuffed animals, either. I once read a short story in an anthology of stories “inspired by Barbie.” The book could have been totally obnoxious, but fortunately the writers were some fairly twisted individuals and it was a fun and disturbing read. One short story by A.M. Holmes, who is a seriously demented thinker, was about a boy whose sister’s Barbie comes onto him and he eventually succumbs to her wily plastic ways, and masturbates onto/fucks the doll in a climatic ending scene that was both nasty and hilarious. I’m sure that this has happened in real life, but I’ve never heard of a Barbie fucker fetish. I’ll have to do some research into that.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Thwarted! The Quest for (Ass) Crack (Undies) on the Cheap
As I was entering the gym last night, I noticed a sign in the window of the gym shop that said “Holiday Sale, 30-50% Off.” I assumed that meant that everything was on sale since it did not say select items on sale, so I was excited. This might be a good chance to begin the thong/g-string challenge that I accepted from my friend. I ran 4.05 miles (yay!), then wandered into the shop sweaty and gross. I pointed to the small counter display of Cosabella thongs and g-strings (my friend told me these were a good kind to try, but of course they are outrageously expensive) and asked if they were on sale. I was hoping they’d be 50%, not 30%, off. Unfortunately, it seems that my assumption that everything was on sale was incorrect. “They are not on sale,” the lady informed me. So much for that plan.
However, the need to buy these undies on the cheap (especially since I fully expect to never wear them again once the challenge is over) made me remember my old friend eBay. I can see how buying underwear on eBay might be skeevy, but let’s face it: Victoria’s Secret and other lingerie stores have been caught reselling underwear that was worn and returned. If I get something new with tags (NWT in eBay parlance) and wash it first, it is really no different than buying something in the store.
First I did some research and determined that Cosabella sizes run small (of course they do – they’re designer undies from Italy - I should have known), and that a size small/medium is supposed to fit a woman who wears anything from a size 2-8 and a large should fit ladies wearing sizes 8-14. To be on the safe side – the last thing I need is an ass string digging into my crack – I decided I should get a M/L.
An eBay search for Cosabella yielded some good options at major discounts, all NWT. Being the cheap bastard I am, I found this pair starting at 99 cents (originally $15!)
with shipping of $3.85. I entered my maximum bid of $1.15, figuring that $5 for the experiment would be a reasonable amount. Sadly, I was outbid by someone who was willing to pay a whopping $1.40.
I was forced to bid on this thong instead:
It is hard to see, but they sport a rhinestone initial B on the corner. And they are orange. I wish I could download a picture of the back because it has a special low cut string that I can't really explain, but I wasn't able to. (Supposedly, the style is Talco, but I also couldn't find any other pictures of the back online.) I bid $2.99 and the shipping is $3.95. I think $6.94 is a lot given that a) I never expect to wear them again and b) my initial is not B. They seriously crack me up though, and the fact that I’d have orange undies with the wrong initial and double butt cleavage only makes them more tempting. Bidding ends in 20 hours, so I will keep you posted...
However, the need to buy these undies on the cheap (especially since I fully expect to never wear them again once the challenge is over) made me remember my old friend eBay. I can see how buying underwear on eBay might be skeevy, but let’s face it: Victoria’s Secret and other lingerie stores have been caught reselling underwear that was worn and returned. If I get something new with tags (NWT in eBay parlance) and wash it first, it is really no different than buying something in the store.
First I did some research and determined that Cosabella sizes run small (of course they do – they’re designer undies from Italy - I should have known), and that a size small/medium is supposed to fit a woman who wears anything from a size 2-8 and a large should fit ladies wearing sizes 8-14. To be on the safe side – the last thing I need is an ass string digging into my crack – I decided I should get a M/L.
An eBay search for Cosabella yielded some good options at major discounts, all NWT. Being the cheap bastard I am, I found this pair starting at 99 cents (originally $15!)
with shipping of $3.85. I entered my maximum bid of $1.15, figuring that $5 for the experiment would be a reasonable amount. Sadly, I was outbid by someone who was willing to pay a whopping $1.40.
I was forced to bid on this thong instead:
It is hard to see, but they sport a rhinestone initial B on the corner. And they are orange. I wish I could download a picture of the back because it has a special low cut string that I can't really explain, but I wasn't able to. (Supposedly, the style is Talco, but I also couldn't find any other pictures of the back online.) I bid $2.99 and the shipping is $3.95. I think $6.94 is a lot given that a) I never expect to wear them again and b) my initial is not B. They seriously crack me up though, and the fact that I’d have orange undies with the wrong initial and double butt cleavage only makes them more tempting. Bidding ends in 20 hours, so I will keep you posted...
Something Borrowed Sounds to be the Right Price
I am ridiculously frugal at times. When I was in junior high - we’re talking late ‘80s - I decided that jeans should cost no more than $20. (The big trend back then was Z. Cavaricci’s, which were running a criminal $78 as pair and horrified me.) In my heart of hearts, I still believe that jeans should cost no more than $20, although I am prepared to pay up to $35 without bitching too much.
My desire to save money, however, has often led to situations that wind up costing me more in the end. For example, I didn’t want to spend a lot on my wedding dress when I got married over five years ago. While I know that my wedding special and it should be the happiest day of my life and all that shit, in theory, I will only wear my wedding dress once. Why would I spend hundreds of dollars (or worse, thousands) on a dress that I’ll wear once when I don’t even want to spend $20 on a pair of jeans that I wear zillions of times? I decided to buy my wedding dress eBay. I found one that I liked that came with a veil and got both for about $100, including shipping. The problem was that the dress was a size 16 - a real size 16, not a wedding dress size 16, which if you’ve ever shopped for wedding dresses, you will know if often a real size 8. I hate the bridal industry for so many reasons. I was about a size 6 or 8 and short, so I usually wear petites to compensate for my lack of a torso. As you might imagine, the dress was, uh, rather large on me. Having it taken in would be pointless it was so huge. So I put it back up on eBay, minus the veil, which I kept and used. The dress resold for maybe $50 to a very nice buyer who turned out to be a drag queen, which I found out when I went to her website and saw some unsettling pictures. (This was no RuPaul.) I would not have paid $50 for the veil I got with the dress (although I did like it and used it), so now I lost money and realized that I have the same taste as homely drag queens.
Anyway, my bubbe was increasingly mortified that her oldest grandchild was buying used schmattes on the internet for her wedding, and decided she’d buy a dress for me. Being an incompetent bride, I didn’t realize that shopping for your dress is a huge mother-daughter bonding event among normal women, so I went with my bubbe and sister while my mom was at work. (I still feel bad about that.) At the Jessica McClintock store in Woodfield Mall in Schaumberg, IL, I found a dress I liked and that bubbe adored. It cost $385, which was much more than the $250 I thought was a reasonable amount for a fancy dress, but I bought it anyway. The idea of spending almost $500 (after taxes and a minor alteration) on a dress that I would wear once continued to annoy me long after the wedding, so when our first anniversary rolled around, I decided that I would wear it out to dinner. My husband donned his tux, which he insisted on buying because he is too snobby to rent one, although I told him not to waste money on buying it. (Sure enough, it no longer fits him now that he lost 40 lbs. Harumph.) Now every year we dress up in our wedding finery, although my husband's pants look like fly fishing pants and are held on by suspenders and he is swimming in his coat, and go out to dinner. My dress is filthy from tromping around on the subway and buses. But it feels like I got my money’s worth, so I am happy.
My desire to save money, however, has often led to situations that wind up costing me more in the end. For example, I didn’t want to spend a lot on my wedding dress when I got married over five years ago. While I know that my wedding special and it should be the happiest day of my life and all that shit, in theory, I will only wear my wedding dress once. Why would I spend hundreds of dollars (or worse, thousands) on a dress that I’ll wear once when I don’t even want to spend $20 on a pair of jeans that I wear zillions of times? I decided to buy my wedding dress eBay. I found one that I liked that came with a veil and got both for about $100, including shipping. The problem was that the dress was a size 16 - a real size 16, not a wedding dress size 16, which if you’ve ever shopped for wedding dresses, you will know if often a real size 8. I hate the bridal industry for so many reasons. I was about a size 6 or 8 and short, so I usually wear petites to compensate for my lack of a torso. As you might imagine, the dress was, uh, rather large on me. Having it taken in would be pointless it was so huge. So I put it back up on eBay, minus the veil, which I kept and used. The dress resold for maybe $50 to a very nice buyer who turned out to be a drag queen, which I found out when I went to her website and saw some unsettling pictures. (This was no RuPaul.) I would not have paid $50 for the veil I got with the dress (although I did like it and used it), so now I lost money and realized that I have the same taste as homely drag queens.
Anyway, my bubbe was increasingly mortified that her oldest grandchild was buying used schmattes on the internet for her wedding, and decided she’d buy a dress for me. Being an incompetent bride, I didn’t realize that shopping for your dress is a huge mother-daughter bonding event among normal women, so I went with my bubbe and sister while my mom was at work. (I still feel bad about that.) At the Jessica McClintock store in Woodfield Mall in Schaumberg, IL, I found a dress I liked and that bubbe adored. It cost $385, which was much more than the $250 I thought was a reasonable amount for a fancy dress, but I bought it anyway. The idea of spending almost $500 (after taxes and a minor alteration) on a dress that I would wear once continued to annoy me long after the wedding, so when our first anniversary rolled around, I decided that I would wear it out to dinner. My husband donned his tux, which he insisted on buying because he is too snobby to rent one, although I told him not to waste money on buying it. (Sure enough, it no longer fits him now that he lost 40 lbs. Harumph.) Now every year we dress up in our wedding finery, although my husband's pants look like fly fishing pants and are held on by suspenders and he is swimming in his coat, and go out to dinner. My dress is filthy from tromping around on the subway and buses. But it feels like I got my money’s worth, so I am happy.
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