THE WINTER OF MY DISCONTENT

(sigh)

Granted, a snow day once every six or seven years is nice; but for the most part, I despise winter. Know why? I'll tell ya. Here it is. Ready?

P A N T Y H O S E.

I could strangle the bastard who had the audacity to presume that women, in all their shapes and sizes, would find it necessary to contort themselves to "slip on" an ounce of nylon, pull it 3 feet upwards and then exhaust themselves trying to get the seams out of places where seams shouldn't be. I'm convinced that the divorce rate in this country is so high because husbands have inadvertently (no woman would PURPOSELY allow her man to watch her attempting to don a pair of these things) witnessed wives in the throes of this, which results in positions unbecoming a lady. By the time they're on, we're ready to fan ourselves and take a nap.

I dread hearing that someone I'm acquainted with has passed away because it means
THE PANTYHOSE HAVE TO BE RECKONED WITH YET AGAIN since it's still not proper to attend funerals in sweats. Damn the south.

When my daughter becomes perturbed with me she threatens at my demise to toss atop my ashes many, many pairs of pantyhose three sizes too small. It keeps me on my best behavior.

Whoever designed these things has to be a man who is laughing uncontrollably.

(sigh)