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Dear Dirty Diary,

Thanksgiving weekend all the Huntingdon stores started pushing their winter fashions, so Louise and I went shopping. Even with all the closet space in our new apartment, I had to do some fall-cleaning to make room. I dumped out my pantyhose and tights drawer on the bed beside my relaxing husband.

Each pair I got rid of, Doug would pick up, carefully examine, then like an old fart would ask, "What's wrong with these?"

I'd point out the runs in the expensive ones and the starchy feet and sags of the cheap ones. I hesitated for too long before tossing out one old beige pair at the bottom of the pile so he immediately picked them up and checked them out.

"These feel a lot nicer than the others," he observed.

I confessed they felt really sexy on, but pointed out their ripped open crotch and the frayed inner thighs (from being chafed so often by Louise's flailing locket).

"But they feel so nice," he repeated then pulled one silky stocking across my arm.

...

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