And because someone usually asks, I get them through Statcounter. It's a free service, and allows me to see the words/phrases people entered into search engines that then led them to my blog.
In some cases, their searches seem perfectly reasonable. For example, I am pretty certain that someone who entered "she just walks around with it" was indeed looking for this site.
In other cases, I have quite a time trying to imagine a. what people were really looking for in the first place, and b. why they thought that this blog would supply it.
I don't think a lot of commentary is really necessary here, although really? Someone really Googled "stop my ass is on fire"?
And also, I am starting to think I should create a special section of this blog specifically for providing information about the Hip Hugger in Kokomo, Indiana. I believe El_G mentioned it once in a comment, and since then, I seem to be the destination of choice for people wanting to know more about this strip club in the middle of nowhere. I'm also thinking maybe Indiana is under-represented on the Internet.
Dear People Who Are Here To Get Info About The Hip Hugger:
Hi, and welcome to my website! I am not a stripper.
(I have never been a stripper.)
This blog doesn't even have pictures of naked women (uh, unless you count the time I posted the picture of my naked and bruised ass, or the sad drawing I did of an ill-fitting sundress).
Sidenote To Those Who Come Here Looking For Pictures Of Sundresses:
Sorry, I know it's not what you wanted, either.
I have only been to Indiana a couple times, and I have never stepped foot inside the Hip Hugger. And while I'm sure it's a fine establishment, full of happy, confident women and polite men who have nothing but respect for the female form, I am probably not the authority you are seeking. In fact, as a typical liberal, gay-friendly San Francisan, I'm suspecting I'm about the opposite of what you were hoping to find. Might I suggest Google maps?
Finally: restaruant boobs?
* * * *
Ish went home to visit his family on Thanksgiving, and I spent the day and evening with my urban family.
There was, as there always is, an abundance of food and fun and champagne. And so after several hours of good old fashioned gluttony, one of the guests remembered she'd been given a goodie bag of clothes samples from a friend of hers who is starting a business. One of the samples was a bra. And when it was determined that I was the only one in the room who might actually *fit* the bra, it was only polite for me to put it on. So I did.
I went to the host's dressing room, put the bra on, and put my button-down shirt on over it. I then spent the remainder of the evening donning the new bra, with my shirt buttoned down far enough that everyone could see it, but still be somewhat covered up.
And at this point I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, Ah yes. Champagne and lingerie and partial nudity, just like the Pilgrims! Did you also make pasties out of cranberry sauce?
To which I am somewhat proud to answer, no, I did not. I may have woken the next morning with gravy in my hair, but that is an entirely separate thing.
You are also probably wondering why I'm bringing this up, but I'm nearly to the point now.
When I woke up the next morning, hungover and bleary and with gravy in my hair, I did not maybe immediately remember that I had switched bras halfway through the traditional Thanksgiving fete. I did not maybe immediately remember my name, either, though, so there you go.
I eventually managed to get vertical and to my kitchen, hoping I'd find something suitable for consuming. And since I had been cooking the day before, there existed the slight possibility that something nourishing might actually exist in my fridge.
But the fact remained that I had to get something non-champagne-y into my system. Which is when I decided to get dressed and go to the local mart for some Gatorade. Which is when I started looking for clothes to wear. Which is when I noticed that my clothes from the night before were strewn about my entire apartment, because (apparently) when I'd gotten home, I decided to disrobe in stages.
My jacket was in the hallway. My shoes were under the coffee table. My shirt was over by the computer. My pants? Those had made it to the hamper. My bra?
My bra's location was eluding me, and so began the unfortunate, morning-after game of trying to convince myself I'm a grown-up while also trying to remember where I've left my underwear.
It was then that I spotted my "new" bra hanging off my livingroom chair. Oh right, I changed my bra in the middle of the party. Right, right. Hurrah, adulthood!
But then I couldn't figure out where my "regular" bra was, since I'd surely worn that home.
Did I leave my new bra on all the way through the cab ride home? Did I leave my other bra at the hosts'? I thought hard and long, and pieced together having packed up stuff at the end of the night...
Yes! Leftovers! I forgot all about those! Hmmm...maybe they are a CLUE...
I had forgotten I'd packed leftovers, but I was pretty sure I'd remembered to bring them home. I was even pretty sure I'd managed to get them into the fridge, even though I hadn't noticed them in my first glance inside it.
My champagne-addled brain then attempted to do the math. If there are leftovers in my fridge...
I laughed and shook my head. I couldn't have, could I?
But of course I had.
I went to the fridge again, and this time I saw the bag that contained the tupperware of leftovers there in the back. So I grabbed it, opened it, and yep. There was my bra.
A bit chilly, but no worse for the wear. As it were.