Yes, I'm back in working order after a week of waiting breathlessly for my equipment to arrive. More importantly, I learned I was sexy on Wednesday. (In case the nasty Tribune won't let you view that story, it's about this.)
Upon reading that story, I bounded joyfully downstairs to Dilf's home office, flung open his door with the article in my hand, and proceeded to waggle my magnificent posterior at him while chanting, "I'm sexy, I'm sexy, woo hoo, I'm sexy!"
Oblivious to the frenzied display of my ample charms, Dilf calmly kept typing away at his keyboard, then rather anticlimactically replied, "I knew that yesterday," and took another sip of coffee.
Well!
Someone should inform the garment industry, because obviously they are less familiar with the female form than Dilf. They don't allow for hips and butts in skirts or pants, nor breasts when designing blouses. It tends to make us buxom gals self-conscious, as I illustrated in my earlier self-denigrating shopping story.
I named myself Übermilf as a joke; but, until my fanny falls from favor, maybe it's the truth!
Nah.
