The Thong Underwear Defense

Originally posted February 12 2011
 
 
 
 
3:00 a.m.   January 4, 2011.  I’ve either had a heart-stopping hot flash or I’ve had another disturbing nightmare about those creepy dancing midgets and strippers at the Motley Cru concert.  Either way I’m wide awake at an hour when the only people with their eyes open are the undead.  Ric slumbers beside me and I want to take the tweezers to his nose hairs so i’m not suffering.  Petey’s taking up most of my pillow and Tina Bell passes gas like she’s trying to tame a riot.  
My mind drifts to some big-league issues that need solving;
  •   Since I have to take Ric to work in the morning, should I shower before or after?
  •   Should I make 8 cups of coffee or 6?  
  •   If I wear jeggings will my bikini underwear show panty lines?  
4:30 a.m.  January 4, 2011.  I’ll shower before I take Ric for work and I’ll make 8 cups of coffee so I can have enough for an afternoon mocha but I’m still debating thong vs bikini.

6:30 a.m  January 4, 2011.  Alarm.  Pain.  Seriously, I have a mind-bending headache from all the heavy thinking.

7:30 a.m January 4, 2011.   I head off to drop Ric at work having finally decided on a cute pair of thong underwear under my jeggings.  Headache still sucks but 2 Advil and a Grande Soy Latte with a shot of Vodka or Clorox may be the trick.  

8:50 a.m.  January 4, 2011.  I’m 3/4 of the way thru my Latte and the headache is still hanging on.  I’m driving on fumes so I have to stop for gas and hopefully make it to my client’s house in time to let my install crew in the door.  The only thing that annoys me MORE than having to stop for gas when I’m running late is wearing thong underwear that is so twisted that it feels like I have a bath towel crammed between my cheeks.  Should have gone the bikini route.  

And so the adventure begins.  I pull into the Texaco, swipe my credit card and select the Regular button.  The gasoline is flowing and I run into the convenience store to grab some Altoids to combat the Latte breath.   Nice little Indian girl working the counter.  I remembered her well because she was uber-friendly and even I couldn’t find a good reason to be rude.  I select Cinnamon Altoids and we pump a little sunshine up each other’s butts by exchanging wishes for a great day.  

I jump into my 1987 BMW, affectionately named Audrey when she turned over 100,000 miles because she’s aged as gracefully as the  incomparable Audrey Hepburn.  And I head off on the  2-lane country road toward my client’s house 10 miles away.  

About 5 miles into my drive, a big black truck pulls up behind me and starts honking his horn and flashing his lights.  He must have an emergency.   But he’s not passing.  It looks like he’s pointing at me though and surprisingly he’s not using his middle finger so I must not have cut him off in traffic or run over his dog.  I ignore him at first.  Some nut who probably had a liquid breakfast.  

But he just keeps annoying me and now I’m about to do some pointing of my own!  Until I catch a glance in my right rear view mirror.  And I very nearly ran off the road thru a herd of cows when I saw a giant black hose hanging from my gas tank and flopping wildly in the wind.   No kidding.  I pulled out of the gas station, yanked the entire pump and hose contraption out of  its connection and brought them along on a joy ride!   

So now, I’m completely humiliated but I’m trying to look cool like this is really no big deal.  I very casually turn left at the next deserted side street like it was part of my plan.  I jump out of the car in my Spiderman stance, eyes darting in every direction making sure no no one sees me.  I yank the offending gas pump out of my now capless gas tank and throw it into the trunk.  I dive back into the car and turn right.  I’m about to floor it but I can’t catch a break.  

The drunk in the big black truck pulls up beside me.  He’s stone cold sober sober and is actually pretty nice and very apologetic for having startled me.  I made a lame joke about what I might now do as the proud owner of my own gas pump and of course the Teacher’s Pet says, “Well, they’d probably like to have it back.”   Wow!  You really ARE the best hall monitor ever Bobby Brady!  Why don’t you go find a cause!  Do a 3-day walk for something! 

At that moment there was only one thing I knew for certain . . . it would be a cold day in Hell when I walked back into a busy gas station and pulled a freakin pump and hose out of my car.  That’s the equivalent of announcing that I have no more sense than a Pet Rock.  

When I got to the house the guys hadn’t yet arrived so I pulled out my phone and googled “drove off with gas pump”  and it brought up a plethora of comments on the subject.   This has to happen all the time and I was sure it wasn’t a big deal.

UNTIL . . . “They owner said it would cost me $500”  “I had to leave all of my contact info.”  “He said it would be filed against my insurance.”  “I gave the officer my home address and phone number.”   I hate Google!  Why is it always the first place I turn?  Ignorance IS bliss!
And then the cold front swept in and the temperature in Hell dropped to an icy 32 degrees Farenheit.  I knew then that I had to get that damned hose back without anyone knowing what I’d done.  I actually considered doing a drive-by and throwing it out my window so it landed at the side of the building and out of view.  
I pulled up the Yellow Pages app on my Iphone and could find every other Texaco in Georgia except the one I needed.  It took me 30 minutes and 4 phone calls to finally find the phone number of the Texaco I had violated.
I called the gal, explaining just how far away I was and what a hardship it would be for me to return.  I was hoping she’d tell me not to worry and to just send her a check, but no such luck.  She’d already discovered it missing and in order for her insurance to pay for it, she had to call the police within 1 hour.   And even better . . . they had a camera that would probably pinpoint the moment it was ripped from the womb . .  and the license plate of my car!  Geez! I was screwed.  And probably on my way to the Big House and into the open arms of a big gal named Wanda who would make me her love toy. 
At this point I just wanted my life on the run to end.  I was ready to turn myself in, accept the punishment, and pucker up for Big Wanda if that’s what it took.  I got the guys started working and headed out to the “drugstore”.  I was fully prepared to launch into a graphic discussion about menstrual cramps if they even looked at me with a questioning eye but these boys knew better.

When I finally pulled back into the parking lot I felt my butt cheeks relax a bit.  There was only one car and I could see the passengers were in the back of the store fixing plates of nachos and hot dogs.

I had worked out my strategy.  I raced in, completely out of breath and in a panic from having driven many miles to do this good deed.  I flashed a big smile and gave her my best “this has been such a hardship for me but my honest and giving nature wouldn’t allow me to put you to any unnecessary trouble so I sacrificed for your good” face.   And she remembered me from our earlier conversation.

And then a strange thing happened.  SHE apologized to ME!  I swear I am not making this up.  She apologized for making me drive so far to return the hose but her concern was for me.  She didn’t want me to pay the astronomical $750 to replace and repair the hose.  So now I’m feeling a lot like Chet at the end of “Weird Science” when he turns into a giant pile of dung.  
                                  
And it just kept getting worse!  I offered to pay for the repair and she said her husband thought it would cost $100.  No problem!  If that’s all it cost me to avoid spooning with Big Wanda, it was more than worth it!

And the dialog went something like this:
ME:  “I’m happy to write you  a check.”
HER:  “We don’t take checks.”
ME:  “I have a Visa, Mastercard, Amex.”
HER:  “We don’t take Credit Cards.  Only cash or Debit.”
ME:  “Oh no.  I only have $5.00 cash and no Debit card!”  (a big lie.  I had a debit card but I didn’t want to run that number thru a convenience store where there are too many stories of money disappearing from bank accounts by dishonest clerks)
        
HER:  “Well . . . . . Ok . . . I’ll make an exception and I’ll take your Credit Card.”
I swiped my card before she could change her mind and apologized sincerely. But then SHE apologized to ME again.  What?!?!?  Is she Canadian?!?!  

I raced back to my client’s house, gave the guys an evil eye, threatening with my icy stair to speak the words period, menstruation or vagina.  They never made a peep and to this day remain none the wiser to my clandestine escapade.  In fact, it took 3 weeks before my humiliation subsided enough to tell my husband.  So until the day this post goes live, no one knows just how lame I really am.   

And if you’re wondering what the moral to this story is,  I’ll have to leave you hanging.  I’m not sure there is a moral, but I do believe that a pair of thong underwear twisted sideways and inside out under a pair of skin-tight jeggings will mess with a girl’s judgement.  And that’s my defense.
                                             
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