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Mortification and Other Forms of Torture

Posted May 07 2013 12:00am

One of my shorties has a very, very good friend. This particular shortie doesn't have many friends – but with one really good one, you don't need a whole bunch.

This is the story of how these two shorties almost got me arrested.

The mother of my girl's friend invited her over to play. This is my girl's favorite activity. At least once a day, my girl asks if she can go to her friend's house. After all, they have dogs, they have a trampoline, they have more fun at her house than they do at ours. I'm okay with this fact. Not all of us can be the fun people – and I have more than my share of responsibilities lately, so if my girl wants to go to someone else's house to have a good time – well, I'm grateful for those people in my life.

Every single time my girl goes to her friend's house, she comes home in different clothing. Maybe she jumped on the trampoline, and it was wet. Maybe they rode bikes, and she got sweaty. Maybe she spilled a drink on herself, dropped some food on herself, or had a well-timed "accident". Whatever the reason, when I did laundry last week, I found three sets of her friend's clothing.

Inexplicably, along with the clothing and the shoes, there were three sets of girls underpants that most definitely weren't any that I'd bought. I returned the clothes, and realized over the weekend that I'd forgotten the underpants. I set them aside so that I would remember to give them to my friend. When I left the house late last week for school pick up, I stuck them into my jacket pocket. I knew I would see my friend at to pick up, and I planned to do a sneaky, quiet, private, "pass off the panties".

But my friend wasn't there.

I forgot about the panties.

Monday.

I needed to go to the grocery – there's a big surprise there, it was a day that ends in Y, after all – and it was rainy and cold. I grabbed my motorcycle jacket. My big, impressive, Harley Davidson jacket. The jacket I wear when I'm feeling down. The one that makes me feel like a bad ass. I wore it into the grocery store.I walked around, filling a cart, feeling like a cool and hip person wearing a motorcycle jacket.

Look at me.

When it was time to check out, I could not find my credit card. I'm in the habit of stuffing it in my jeans pocket, and so I did the mad "slap yourself all around until you find your card" shuffle. The card was nowhere to be found, and in my frustration, I shoved my hands into my motorcycle jacket pockets.

And pulled out three sets of little girls underwear.

Right at the register. Right in front of a confused and very bewildered 17-year-old male cashier.

I stared at him in shock, handful of panties in the air between us. How do you recover from that? Where do you go?

He said to me, "Um, are those underwear?"

For the longest second – it felt like six years – I had no idea what they were, how they got there, how my hand was holding them, or really, how I was going to get out of this. I mean, really - what do you say? "Why, yes, they are. I frequently carry them around in public!"

There's no explanation you can give, no details to share, that won't make you sound like Piper the Pedophile. Who else would carry around girls panties in their pocket???

I think it's a good time to mention that I decided to run for Parish Council at my church.

I can just see it now – the headlines on the TV. "Catholic parishioner, running for Parish Council, caught carrying little girl panties in her pockets."

My parents are SO proud of me right about now.

 

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