One night while I was in college, my friend and I were talking about a guy she had dated in the recent past.  He had graduated the year before and had stayed on as the student activities director.  Yeah, we thought it was kind of lame, too.  Anyway, one of us, probably me, was reading a Glamour magazine, or something, and happened upon this offer from Hanes Her Way (or Jockey For Her or some other ladies underwear company) for a free pair of underpants if you sent in this business reply postcard.  So we filled out the card with this guy’s name and had ladies underwear sent to his office in Student Life.  Some people, while they’re in college, get drunk and do crazy things.  My friends and I didn’t drink–not enough to get drunk, anyway–so we would get bored and do things that just made absolutely no sense.  It might have been funny, at the time or in retrospect, if we’d been drunk–but instead it was just kind of stupid.

I don’t think my friend’s ex ever got his free ladies underwear.  I’m sure the folks at Hanes or wherever figured out that this was the work of two very bored college students who didn’t have enough sense to get drunk on the weekends.  (If we’d been drunk, the writing on the postcard would not have been as legible.)

While Sugar Daddy was serving his mission, he started getting mail from this 17-year-old girl he’d never met.  She had just converted to Mormonism and, I assume, was suddenly bored and wanted a pen pal, so some mutual acquaintance gave her SD’s address in the mission field, and they started exchanging letters.  At one point in their correspondence she sent him a pair of ladies underpants.  I’m not talking about
Victoria‘s Secret or Fredericks of
Hollywood underwear–that might have made more sense.  No, it was actually just some run-of-the-mill cotton briefs.  SD claims he doesn’t remember the context of this shipment.  What he does remember is that he and his missionary companion would take turns hiding the underwear in various indiscreet places so that when they were supposed to be sharing the gospel with some Honest Seeker Of Truth, one of them would reach into his coat pocket open his day-planner to get a brochure or a card, he would instead pull out a pair of ladies cotton briefs.  Apparently this went on for several weeks, until one of them was transferred to another area.  Ah, the secret lives of Mormon missionaries.  They don’t get drunk much, either.

The reason I’m thinking about this now is that while the sibs-in-law were here last month, one of my bros-in-law left his underwear behind.  I’m not especially comfortable with having another man’s underwear in my house, even if he is related to me by marriage.  It kind of gives me the creeps.  But I haven’t done anything with them yet because it just seems wrong to send them back in the mail.  I just envision him opening this package from his sister-in-law, and ta da, it’s underpants.  So what if it’s his underpants?  It just seems weird.  I feel like I should be sending something else along with them, like, I don’t know, a batch of cookies or something.  That would seem more wholesome.  But it’s too hot to bake, so the underpants sit folded some random place in our bedroom.  Yeah, that seems weird, too.  I realize I’m giving this way too much thought.  You’re probably going to advise me to have a drink and do something crazy.

With My Dreams Shall I Burden Thee

This is going to be a new, recurring feature in my blog, not because I think it will be interesting or entertaining, but because my dreams have been disturbing me as of late.  Because usually I don’t dream.  I don’t know if that’s possible, but I don’t usually remember dreaming.  But lately I’ve been having several bizarre dreams every night, and I wake up very confused.  So I need to get them off my chest, so to speak, and what better way to do that than to talk about them with strangers who couldn’t care less?

So last night I dreamt that I was visiting my dad and his wife, and while I was sitting in their living room, my dad’s wife walks in and hands me a sheet of paper, on which is written, “My baby died two weeks ago of a fever.  Life sucks.”  Or something like that.  I immediately started bawling my head off.  I was really embarrassed because I seemed to be a lot more upset about it than my step-mother was, but I couldn’t stop crying–I mean, I was wailing and sobbing with grief.  So when I finally calmed down a bit, I started asking her about the baby and how old she was (it was a girl, apparently), and while my step-mother was talking about her, I started thinking, “Wait–you’re like, fifty-something, and you had a hysterectomy 20 years ago.  Where did you get a baby from?”  And then I woke up, very relieved no had died and my father wasn’t reproducing this late in life.

In another dream I had a bathroom shower the size of my living room, and I was cleaning it with a mop.  Other people had left these blankets and quilts in there and they had gotten sopping wet, and I had no idea how or where I was going to move them so I could finish cleaning the shower.  Let me tell you, I was annoyed.  It wasn’t a happy dream, either.

So those are my dreams of Sunday night.  Do with them what you will.  B.S. dream analyses are always welcome.