The other day I was getting dressed, and I opened my lingerie drawer and realized that all my clean underwear was in the dryer. Where it was CLEARLY not of much use to my naked self. Now that we live on a golf course, and there is a steady stream of golfers lollygagging their way past our back yard and getting fairly close to our iron fence (depending on how bad they are), the naked dryer-dash is a thing of the past. So I did what any sensible naked pregnant woman would do: I turned to my husband.
"Honey, would you go out to the dryer and get me a pair of underwear? I need a maternity pair."
Good-natured and ever-willing as always, he answered, "Sure. How will I know which are the maternity pair?"
"Just grab the biggest pair of panties you've ever seen."
He chuckled and trotted out. When he returned, he sported a half-sheepish, half-amused look that made me go, "What?"
"Well, let's just say you weren't kidding."
"Well, you know what else you weren't? WRONG."
Seriously. Maternity underwear are not LINGERIE. I should stop calling my skivvies drawer by that name, and just call it what it is: the place where I keep granny panties you could also use as sails.