The life of a bra...

As I am roughly a week into a three week transcontinental trip, I have occasionally reflected on one specific item which got packed: a dainty red bra.

This specific red bra has a memory. It was early in what ended up being the last attempt of monogamy I presume to ever have. I was shopping with some girlfriends and came across this red bra and pantie set which was adorable and sexy, lacy and elegant; somewhat flirtatious, yet never overbearing. In my memory, this was the first lingerie set that was more classy than trashy, I suppose a coming-of-age in the life of a young woman. Between the three of us, it was the only thing purchased that evening, and I carried it in the bag as we finished the night with shrimp cocktails and mimosas, and later, decadent chocolate cake.

I remember the first time I wore these for this boy - our relationship was still relatively fresh and I was still attempting to seem "put together" and would often wear matching lingerie. (Oh, who am I kidding, deep down I'm a sucker for matching lingerie, and will wear it for no occasion at all - but lets just keep that our secret and let the boys believe it is to make them feel special) The first time I wore this was for our Christmas date - some time between Christmas and New Years - a good night of unwrapping presents and unwrapping each other.

Now I suppose it is obvious that things did not work out between the two of us. For a long time, this bra went into low circulation, and would only be worn when there was a need for a deep red undergarment. Gradually, the frequency of wear increased, but the memory always lingered, even to this day; each time I put it on, the memories of "the good times," and subsequently "the bad times," with this boy refresh in my mind. Mind you, these thoughts are merely fleeting, but they are there nonetheless.

No matter how many time I've worn it for however many subsequent bedfellows, the memory of him still lingers on the lace.

The Frugal Fannie in me just won't let it go - come on, I spent good money on this, and it still offers support in the right places, and really, a good red bra is always needed. Well in all honesty, it is not my only red bra, and the support isn't that great anymore. But I hold onto it, and occasionally wonder why I do. Is it the "what could have beens," or the frugality mentality?

Either way, I think I've decided that it is time to part with this little red bra. Consider this the epitaph of an old friend with a long and sorted history.

My Vanilla Fetish

Yeah, I know I don't really have to time write. Especially with finals knocking down my door, but I've had this blog brewing in the back of my head for a few days. I know, I really should be doing work right now-but I need a little calm before this storm rears its ugly head.

It was last week sometime that I first saw mention, on the twitter-vine, of the topic "vanilla fetish." I think, maybe, it was SliverDayDreams? (I think one thing I love most about twitter is that complete strangers can seep into my brain and mentally stimulate me when I least expect it) At the moment, I had all these witty comebacks that came to mind, but none of them were really me. Then I spent a few days traveling, and after much time on the road the vanilla fetish topic popped back in my head.

At first, I thought it was radio. Give me a few hours of Garrison Keillor's rich baritone, smooth talking me from antidote to antic. The stimulation of my mind and the titillation of my imagination. I'll admit it, when I can find good radio I will listen intently for hours. I’ll settle for the news, but it won’t arouse me like a good aural adventure. I have no desires for some chatty imbecile with an FX box and a CD player; you don't even want to get me started on how repugnant I find a majority of them. So yes, perhaps I fetishize good radio, but good radio is so rare that I eventually will have to spice it up with some good ol' fashioned kink.

As I kept contemplating this, it dawned on me that my true vanilla fetish is a tourist trap. I could go without actual sexual gratification for unknown amounts of times if you keep feeding me shiny lights and kitschy souvenirs until I collapse into a happy, exhausted, and content puddle on the floor. Keep dumping caffeine in me while I fill every hour with anything and everything I have ever been told about in a ten mile radius. MY GAWD! Give me a roadtrip with roadside attractions and I'll be content for a month. Well, maybe not a month, I mean really, I'm not dead. Tide me over with mystery spots and magical wonders - both natural and man-made - and if you can find me a cardboard cut-out where I can place my face where another's should be, be prepared to take control of my camera before you take your turn.

Now I fancy myself a bit of a wadering gypsy, and have been lucky to check so many tourist destinations off my list. But there are a few tourist daydreams that get my panties moist...

I want to walk through the Hollywood Walk of Fame and take pictures with the faux-stars (especially Superman!!). I want to go to Pikes Peak and sleep in the lodge that inspired Stephen King to write The Shining. I want to go to Florida and be up before the tide come in, so I can comb the beach for shells - especially the little ones with natural holes so I can make myself a bracelet. I want to visit the holy lands and all the ancient religious sites. I want to go to Moscow... the Great Wall... the Leaning Tower... And I will probably buy a tshirt, or a cheesy photo, or a snow globe... and I will place them next to the singing camel, the photo of a dino eating me, my mini Arc de Triumph, and all the other tourist kitsch I've collected through the years.

What can I say? I’m a sucker, and I’m ok with that.