Dear Abby

HUMOR

Susan Wall

I

Being a girl at will has always been such a rewarding pastime to me so aesthetically and even socially fulfilling never did believe there's a man really alive who didn't adore, at times, at least in fantasy if not visually, enjoying the strength through joy of gamboling through the fields of femaledom. On lazy mornings, breaking into wakefulness, a fun-thing is to imagine I write the "Dear Abby" column. For instances.

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"DEAR ABBY, I found a half-empty bottle of Windsong in my husband's suit pocket. Should I be suspicious?”

"DEAR SUSPICIOUS: Buy him a full bottle of the provocative perfume and tell him coyly you love it on him. If he doesn't eargerly dash some on as a bedtime toiletry that night you can start to suspect there's Another Woman."

"DEAR ABBY, a girlfriend who works in a fur shoppe says my husband purchased a lovely chinchilla 3/4 coat and a terribly chic fur hat to match. Frankly, I hate the jealousy pangs I'm suffering.”

“DEAR MRS. PANGS: No need to be jealous; talk it over. I'm sure you can come to an agreement where it's your turn to wear it one night for every night he wears it."

DEAR ABBY, A number of times I've walked past my boyfriend's house, seen the shadow of a long-haired, terribly shapely girl on his closed blind- often in a flowing negligee and often dancing by herself. But never seen his shadow with her,

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