Maybe you have Victoria’s Secret stores where you live. Oh fine, gloat. They’re illegal here, or sumpin’, for lo, we have nothing so much as a dearth of Victoria’s Secret stores here in Canuckistan. What does this mean? It means that inhabitants of the Great White North, male and female, must make do with what they have and, in many cases it means that we must make do with such lingerie as is available from Lee Valley.

Victoria’s Secret supplies, in addition to reasonably-priced suiting lines and blog fodder, and as you may be aware, a diverse range of lingerie, including push up sports bras, strapless contraptions in sizes larger than you’d think prudent, and much more. And, frankly, however overpriced they may be, they all work.

But up here in Canuckistan, we are deprived. We can do the online thang. We can do the mailorder thang. But if we do not do the credit card thang we cannot do the Victoria’s Secret thang in any way, shape, or form.

Except…

Except in the most Canadian form of all. Let me tell you a twofer of tales that will tell you that, when it comes to continence or glamour, Canuckistan will take a back seat to no-one.

cut to Gilligan’s Theme music.

Once upon a time, like last night, mine hosts told a tale, a tale of a fateful shit. That started from their friends’ baby, and that was all of it. The baby knew the diaper was the way to own its’ parents, so nightly she’d divest herself of it’s malevolence. No way! No hope! The diaper shed, no matter what the ‘rents would do. Halfway through sleep they would awake and toss that fateful poo.

ENTER RED GREEN

So the baby took its diaper off for attention: solve the problem the Red Green way, by duct taping the diaper in place. Until baby can handle a switchblade, you’re good to go!

So ends Part the First.

Part the Second: I taped my tits for this?

Surely I can’t be the only woman who’s admired a photo of a fortysomething celeb whose boobs are still perky enough to put out an eye. The secret, as I learned from my in-the-know friend Sandy, is Duct Tape.

I am a fortysomething not-yet-celeb, and I have, as I may have mentioned, long since transcended human dignity. I was also a woman who had to attend an avante-garde art opening in a strapless bodysuit.

I used the duct tape.

Three days and six showers later I was unsticky. I think I have finally figured out the secret to Brandon Davis’ unique attraction: no matter how coated with adhesives you may be, you’ll slide right off his grease-streaming carcass.

Show me the luv, people: the Bloggie Awards: nominatez-moi!

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