EDITORIAL NOTE: We are not responsible. Yes. That’s a complete sentence.
EDITED EDITORIAL NOTE: The random travel posts from the owner of this Glob (aka moi) come to you as they move from my brain to the keyboard. I do not now nor will I ever claim to be an organized person. To clarify, [Phew! Right?] my travel journal posts will not post in
exact chronological any modicum of order.
Picture this: I am an innocent neophyte.
[Yes, I know it’s difficult, but it’s my imaginary world. Deal with it.]
Whoop! Where are my manners?
Please and Thank-you.
On with the tales.
Carole St-Laurent and I spent a lovely week at Sherry Isaac’s home near Toronto. During the course of that week, a topic
logically surfaced that induced a scene reminiscent of one from My Big Fat Greek Wedding.
The set up: Dressed for a day wandering the shops, I was concerned about my unmentionables. (I’ll call them panties, so as not to offend. Oh, all right. Knickers, then.) The skirt I wore was white. My knickers? Flesh tone.
Concerned my knickers showed through the skirt, I queried Carole, pulling the skirt tight against my derriere. “Well, yes. When you hold them like that, I can see them,” says Carole.
“You could wear a thong,” she says.
Here’s where My Big Fat Greek Wedding comes to mind. In the scene where Aunt Voula (of dead-twin-in-the-neck-bump fame) learns Ian is a vegetarian, she says, “What you mean you don’t eat no meat?” After which she says, “Ees okay. I make lamb.”
Carole: “What you mean you don’t own no thongs? Ees okay. We help you buy them.” (In truth, Carole speaks impeccable English even though her native language is French (Canadian). I took poetic license to make my point.)
Sherry pipes in with a warning that I should avoid the ones with lace in the thong thingie.
Curiosity compelled me to ask what it was like. Did it take a long time to get used to having a slip of fabric — you know — there?
FLASH SIDEWAYS: Carole recently invested in new make-up. Apparently, she thought I was asking about that when I asked if it would take long to get used to wearing one.
“Only when I do my hair,” she says.
I raised my arms, trying to determine why doing my hair would have an impact on a slip of fabric — you know — there. Fortunately, I have no shame, so I asked and received clarification.
Had I not, I would remain among the thong-less to this day.
SO! Too late for long story short, but…
I purchased my first pair of thongs while in Canada — under the helpful tutelage of Carole St-Laurent.
But, I was not the first one to wear those thongs.
FLASH BACK AND FORWARD
As regular followers know, Sherry and I each have writing mascots. Hers is a little pig named Shnorty.
If you look closely at the picture, you’ll see a rather long version of Sherry’s Shnorty at the PJ party they had on my bed last night.
Both Won-Key and Shnorty sit atop the long pig’s body. His feet extend beyond that.
Anything pig related must, by tradition, begin with the “sh” sound.
Sherry recalls (and will be appalled by public disclosure) the morning I posed a question to her on chat. I needed a name for the long Pig. An SH alliterative name.
My chat question to Sherry?
What’s the proper spelling? Schlong or Shlong? And, does it mean what I think it means?
Shtretch (or Shlong) apparently partied it up with the girls last night while we slept. I don’t know which of them wore my thongs when they settled in for the night. But, I have pictorial evidence someone was a naughty boy.
The kids saw more action that I did.
YIKES! I’m on a time limit. Post within an hour or die trying, Sherry said.
I know I’m supposed to close with prompts that invite comments, but my brain is stuck.
STUCK, I tell you!
What do I ask? Have you worn thongs? Do you have a writing mascot? Are you fond of embarrassing yourself and your friends in public? Do you know how to spell the long pig’s name (Is is “sh” or “sch?”) Have you ever taken an open-ended free-to-be-me road trip.
One with a return date that is “you’ll know when I know?” It’s a blast! Have fun. Until later…
Gotta run, guys. Thanks for the visit!