The Blog Formerly Known As

So, I decided to change the name of this blog. Crotch Talk is no more. You are now reading Panty For Your Thoughts, which is a far superior title anyway. I'm still patting myself on the back for thinking of it.

Why change, you ask? Well, the other day, bored with Googling my own name, I searched for the name of this blog to see if anything interesting would come up. This is something I probably should have done back when I started it, to make sure the title wasn't already taken. Well, turns out it was. Taken by a Denver area company that, according to them, sells

"Underwear and baby onesies that have cute graphics, hilarious sayings, and nifty reminders INSIDE the crotch! The crotch is talking... but are you listening? And we also have awesome hand bags and clutches made out of real underwear too!"

Now that's a sales pitch! They're right, how long have I been ignoring what my crotch is saying? I can't believe I've been so rude to my lady bits.

Here's a few examples of their "hilarious" product:


I can't stop my mind from mentally adding gross period stains to these pristine undies. If my cooter could talk back, it would say "Not for long, bitch!"


If you meet a guy who uses his tightie whiteys as a wing man, run for the fucking hills.

They also make onesies for babies, which I find extremely disturbing and I can't really articulate why.
Maybe because I don't really want to think about a baby's crotch in any context, and I especially don't want that crotch to talk to me if I have to change it's diapers or something.

Want a purse made out of American Apparel hipster undies? They've got that too.

This gives me a queasy feeling just looking at it.

Anyway, they own the Crotch Talk url and they even have a facebook page so I thought it would be better to change my blog to avoid confusion. Long live Panty For Your Thoughts!

Nice box

When my friend Whitney returned from a disheartening two year Peace Corp assignment in the West African nation of Mauritania, narrowly avoiding a military coup staged on the very day she was supposed to disembark, she brought home some remarkable souvenirs from the Islamic Republic, most notably a bar of Lady Diana Virginity Soap.

This product is fascinating. As a proud, liberated woman (although I would never burn a bra--my boobs need the support!) I am so deeply offended by the very idea of this soap that it makes me laugh. It is unfathomable to me that something this crazy actually exists, and some poor women are made to believe they need to use it. Fuck that.

Although thoroughly disgusted, I can't seem to curb my obsession with the packaging of this dirty little cleanser. There are so many questions: Is "Lady Diana" is a veiled reference to deceased English royal Princess Diana of Wales? Because I knew about her admirable work with landmine reform, but I was unfamiliar with this coochie tightening initiative. What is with the defiant body language of the headless lady in the demur gray nightgown? It doesn't seem to fit with the concept they are trying to sell. Her crossed arms and sassy hip stance seem to say, "Yeah, I have a loose cooter. You want to make something of it?" No, no I don't.

Printed on the side of the carton is a list of the purported benefits of the soap. This miracle product:

Tightens vaginal muscle
Washes away bacteria
Washes away infectious itching
Clears out normal accumulations
Refreshes skin during menstrual period
Reduces burning sensation
Reduces unpleasant odor
Keeps natural skin balance

The claims are pretty standard, except for the magical regrowth of the hymen, that is. The directions for use are where it truly goes off the rails. Through broken Engrish, the customer is told to:

"Uses of Lady Diana Virginity Soap to tighten vaginal muscle and clean your secret area free of unpleasant odor. Use regularly twice daily, in the morning and night or as often as needed for more confidence and great feeling like a virgin. It is mild and gentle and very effective."

Sorry, box, my secret area isn't buying this bullshit.

Shitty Blogger

Look, I know I've been pretty terrible at updating this blog. When I started this thing last year I barely managed a handful of posts before I stopped bothering with it entirely. My last entries weren't even in 2009, for goodness sakes. It's pathetic!

I have the same problem keeping up my correspondence. I check my email constantly at work (as does anyone with a boring desk job) and I'm always happy to receive something from a friend instead of the usual administrative crap. Actually, to be more accurate, I read personal emails at work. I don't respond to them. I file them away so I can write back later when I have more time to compose something witty and chuckle-inducing. And then I forget to write back. Weeks go by and I find the old email, like an albatross, in my inbox. I have even marked it as unread to remind myself of its existence, yet it remains unanswered. I stare at the bold text like I would look at a firing squad. The guilt overwhelms me. I feel horrible about failing at this simple social exchange. I vow to do better. I plan an email response of epic proportions to make up for my sin. And then I never do that either. At this point I probably just call the person.

So, this is me, vowing to do better. It probably won't happen, but it's an admirable goal. Please support it!

p.s. Am I the last person to have seen this crazy Japanese video about potty-training? Apparently it's up to almost 2 million views on YouTube. I can see why. I'm totally hypnotized by that song the parents sing while the kid is taking a shit.

Tell Him That I Love Him, Tell Him That I Care

I love the Shangri-las. They epitomize that cool clique of rough-and-tumble looking girls ubiquitous to every American high school. The girls who used to cut science class so they could smoke cigarettes and compare hickeys. The girls who cheated off of you but were still flunking and didn't seem to mind at all. The girls who each had some sort of awesome talent like they could draw really well or something but got all pissed off if you mentioned it. The type of girl Busy Phillips got so right with her portrayal of Kim Kelly in seminal gone-but-not-forgotten television show Freaks and Geeks.

From behind my AP classes and college application bait extracurricular activities I always wanted to be included in this mangy lot of alley cats. Being not tough at all, I fantasized about loitering outside the movie theater with these alpha chicks as we goofed on the flocks of pubescent nerds not yet used to their gangly limbs. Maybe I could get caught for smoking weed out of a Pepsi can on the steps of the art building too! What mystique! Of course I never so much as offered a light to the Kim Kellys or even the Karen Scarfollis of my high school. I was too afraid of being beaten up. Listening to "Give Him a Great Big Kiss" by the Shangri-las I can rationalize my former meekness by concluding that this fear was not altogether unfounded. You see, tension can arise in a pack of girls when you share an affinity for the same type of guys. And boy do I have a boner for the guy this song describes.

Let's analyze the lyrics:

Here comes my guy walking down the street---Cars are overrated. They make you flabby.
Look how he walks with a dancing beat--Like early career John Travolta, struts are hot.
Thick wavy hair, a little too long----------That needs-a-haircut look makes me wet.
All day long he's singing his song---------Probably in a band. Might write a song about you. Hot.
And when I see him in the street
My heart takes a leap and skips a beat
Gonna walk right up to him
Give him a great big kiss
Tell him that I love him
Tell him that I care
Tell him that I'll always be there
(Spoken) Well what color are his eyes?
I don't know he's always wearing shades---I'd fuck him AND his RayBans
Is he tall? Well, I've got to look up----We're the same height when he slouches. Which is always.
Yeah? Well I hear he's bad
MM, he's good bad, but he's not evil---Has a switchblade but only uses it to defend my honor.
Tell me more, tell me more
Big bulky sweaters to match his eyes--Uhhh, sure.
Dirty fingernails-------------------------Too cool for a bar of soap.
Oh boy what a prize---------------------To fight for!
Tight tapered pants, high button shoes---Tough and stylish, like a teenage James Bond!
He's always looking like he's got the blues---Girls love this! Just ask Jordan Catalano.
And when I see him in the street
My heart takes a leap and skips a beat
Gonna walk right up to him
Give him a great big kiss
Tell him that I love him
Tell him that I care
Tell him that I'll always be there

Yeah, I wouldn't have a chance against the Shangri-las. They are from Queens. They'd slice me.

It's Halloween, You Betcha

People never get my Halloween costumes. I always choose something far too esoteric for the spirit of the holiday and end up spending the season exasperated from having to explain to the 100th drunk party goer I'm Pris from Blade Runner and not David Bowie from Labyrinth, but nice try though. Example: Last year, when the world experienced an unexpected shortage in temporary tattoos because of the vast amount of ladies dressing as Amy Winehouse, I decided to go as a completely different unlucky-in-love, drug-addled pop star, Stevie Nicks.
I even wasn't trying to be a contrarian or anything. I swear I didn't pick Stevie to serve as an antidote to all the Amys. I just wanted a reason to walk around all night with a fake cockatoo on my arm.

My favorite costume of all time was the year I went as Patty "Tania" Hearst. It was so easy! All I had to do was buy a plastic machine gun, don a beret and my dad's old army shirt and I was ready to go! It was also one of those rare great costumes that was warm enough to be worn outside for longer than ten seconds. Not very topical though. I don't even remember more than a handful of people even hazarding a guess.

As a change of pace, I think this year I might embrace the cultural zeitgeist and wear an instantly recognizable costume. I already have the machine gun. All I have to do is lay my hands on an American flag bikini and I can join the throngs of other Sarah Palins at the apple bob and hay ride.

The girl-next-door of your futuristic dreams

Why can't they make porn like this anymore?



Admittedly, I'm a huge sucker for sex in space (see: student loan money spent recklessly on a giant Barbarella tattoo) but doesn't this seem a lot more appealing than the boring ram-you-in-the-ass-cum-on-your-face stuff you find these days? I'm all for hardcore porn and everything but look at what you get with a little creativity and production value! The costumes, for one, are a revelation. Except for the weird people dressed as woodland animals, which are total boner-killers. Unless you are into that sort of thing.

Also, in case you didn't notice, it's a freaking musical! Fuck yeah, I say. What a welcome change from modern porn's treacly instrumental soundtracks. Fun Fact: Before Malcolm McLaren formed Bow Wow Wow he teamed up with a pair of French screenwriters to write what he described as "a soft-core rock n'roll costume musical for kids" called The Adventures of Melody, Lyric and Tune. Unfortunately, he never found any backers for the project. How many more porn musicals are out there? I must know!

The film also boosts it's fair share of pathos. Witness for yourself the lamentable plight of a sexually confused robot. Try as he might he just can't figure out where to "plug it in." Tragic! Especially since a side effect of his problem seems to be breaking into goofy dance routines.



Of course, I'm a girl and I rarely jack it to porn. I enjoy it mostly for the pure entertainment value. If I thought of porn as a functional means-to-an-end then I'd probably prefer Fuck Dolls #5 too.

I always use some milk and cream for you cause I think you're kinda sweet

Let's give a moment to revisit a classic: Alicia Keys's 2003 stalker-y masterpiece "You Don't Know My Name."



The best part is obviously the sultry Ms. Keys's velvety and extremely bizarre spoken word breakdown in the middle of the song where she pretends to talk on a cell phone. I mean, it's so fucking hilarious. She includes static interruptions! She uses a catch phrase! When comedienne Maria Bamford makes fun of it she doesn't even have to write a complete joke, she just recites the crazy monologue as written.

So, that's definitely the best part, right? Look a little closer. Yup, that's Mos Def steaming up the screen. For me, he's the best part of everything.