The Real Bums of Travis County

I am uninspired to write anything new, so I am forced to rely on some old Facebook notes...


I remember hearing on Oprah, once, that many people are a couple of paychecks away from being homeless. Without researching this alleged fact, I have spent the last year of my life putting away as much money into savings as I possibly can. This has given me a sense of security in knowing that should something unforeseen happen, I am covered. And though I feel ashamed to admit that my life savings could only get me through a month or two of unemployment, I am reassured, thanks to Oprah, that I'm not that different from the rest of the people in this country; I have company in being poor. 

Given the desperate times we are currently facing, I know that "unforeseen" events are becoming a reality for many people. Fortunately, I consider myself extremely lucky to have a job that is somewhat "depression" proof—depression, of course, referring to economic hardship, not the feelings one has while sitting in a closed garage and sniffing the fumes from an idling car. 

As a labor and delivery nurse, I know that people, regardless of the times, will always engage in sex. And sex, when practiced without elementary precautions, leads to babies. Despite the grim economic forecast, many people, even if unemployed and in debt, delightfully participate in this act of recreation without considering that it can lead to procreation. And though many financial critics consider this a huge strain on our economy, I selfishly look at it as job security. 

I am not tooting my own horn, for I know that my employment is based on social need and not one of merit. Knowing this makes me feel a little guilty and undeserving at a time when others are losing their jobs and, consequently, their homes. 

I often wonder if this guilt prevents me from making eye contact with all the homeless people who walk the streets of my city. Lately, it seems they are becoming more and more prevalent. I never notice them on my way to work, which makes me wonder if 0630 a.m. is too early for ANYONE to start their work day. On my way home, however, I see them standing on every corner, of every intersection, holding their cardboard signs while begging for any little handout they can get.

By looking at these guys, you can tell that some of them don't really belong on these corners. Their appearance, though shabby, does not always suggest "down and out." Heck, if some of these guys took a shower, got a haircut, shaved, and wore a decent outfit, I'd go so far as to say that I'd even be willing to date some them. 

These posers leave me with no choice but to believe that they stand on these corners out of pure laziness and with the potent belief that society owes them something. For this reason, it usually takes me a great deal of restraint from rolling down my window, making them think that I am about to give them money, and instead offer them advice on how to correctly spell one of the misspelled words on their cardboard resumes— words like "naybor" or "mony." If I didn't fear for my physical well-being, I would be happy to inform the "Homeless Vet" that Brodie Animal Hospital is currently taking applications. I never do this, though, because who am I to judge if someone is destitute enough to take out a lease on the corner of a major intersection? 

The pseudo-bums just piss me off. The real bums of Travis County, however, leave me feeling very uncomfortable... 

On my way home tonight, I came to screeching halt at a red light. This left me at the front of the pack. I always hate being the first car at a red light, especially when a legit bum is pacing outside my window. Doing everything possible to avoid his stare, I will lean over to change the radio station, or I will take a fake call on my cell phone. It takes more effort for me to avoid him than it would to roll down my window and just give him some money. 

Tonight was different. The pressure was unbearable because the guy standing outside my window wore tattered clothes, had not showered for what looked like a decade, and hopped around on one leg. Exhaustion resided in the deep crevices of his face, and his whole existence was washed over with a pain that many of us are lucky to never experience. His cardboard plea was simple: "I need help." All three words were spelled correctly. I decided to give in and...well...give. 

I rummaged through my purse to find all of $1.25. I felt cheap for giving so little, but it was all I had. I rolled down my window, held out my offering, and as he took the money from my hands, his eyes met mine. There it was; the eye contact I had been long avoiding. As we looked at each other, I realized the very reason I have always avoided such glances. In his eyes, behind the glazed-over numbness from years of pain, I saw a person staring back at me who was disturbingly too familiar; I saw myself. 

It wasn't just financial misfortunes that put this man on this corner. He stood there as a result of a long line of unfortunate circumstances—a history of a multitude of pains which leaves the mind no choice but to surrender its sanity.


In that split second, I recalled all the painful situations I have encountered in my own life and how difficult it was, during those times, to cope. I, fortunately, got through. But my misfortunes probably paled in comparison to his, and I could tell that this man had suffered more in one week than I had suffered in a lifetime. If the tables were turned, where would I be standing? 
 
He took my money, unfazed by the little amount I had to offer, and with gratitude in his eyes and his voice, he said to me, "You are blessed." 

As I drove away, I realized that this was my first "epiphany." I feel ashamed to admit that I could profit off somebody else's misfortune, but it took this destitute man to make me realize something that has always been staring me in the face. "You are blessed." These were not words of gratitude. For a measly $1.25, he stated an invaluable fact. I am blessed. 

We may be a couple of paychecks away from losing our homes, but how many tragic events would it take to render us hopeless, leaving us with no other option but to take refuge on some corner while soliciting the help of complete strangers? I have no clue. But to safeguard my mental well-being, I have compiled a long list of all the things for which I am grateful, and I have stock-piled them into a mental savings account. This has given me a sense of security in knowing that when faced with that one horrible occurrence that threatens to push me over the threshold of sanity, I have way more than 30 days worth of gratitude to fall back on. I won't be covered for just a month; I will be covered for a lifetime. And for the first time in my life...


I am rich. 

Losing My Religion

Okay, I am sure this will piss a few people off. This is not an argument for, or against, religion. It was written light-heartedly... 

The beautiful Susan Gagne as Eve

I originally intended this post to be about P.M.S.. I had this great idea of blaming Eve for the painful menstrual cramps I suffer from on a monthly basis. Somewhere along the line, I remember hearing that painful menstruation was part of the punishment God gave to Eve for eating the forbidden fruit. Thank God for the Internet (turns out I don't own a Bible) because after researching this topic, I found out that painful periods weren't part of the deal. I don't know where I heard this, but I am pretty sure it was from someone who, I had assumed, knew what he was talking about (i.e. minister or Religious Studies professor). This just goes to show you how much of what is written in the Bible is up for interpretation. 

Allegedly, God punished Eve by ensuring she would have great pain while giving birth, not while menstruating. Now, this I can attest to—not personally, but from watching hundreds of women give birth. Suffice it to say, childbirth is no walk in the park. However, if it's up for interpretation, the line "I will multiply your sorrow," to me, refers to "that time of the month." This way, I can at least blame my P.M.S. on some gullible woman who was naive enough to listen to a serpent. What's worse is this serpent seduced her with an apple, for God's sake. I repeat, an apple! Not a piece of chocolate or a thick chunk of finely-aged cheese, but an APPLE. Now, in all fairness to Eve, I will admit that I, too, have been stupid enough, at one time or another, to fall for the empty promises of some back-stabbing snake (bitterness not intended), but I am pretty sure I was enticed with something other than a piece of fruit. 

As I continued reading Genesis, I was deeply disturbed by the line, "your desire shall be for your husband, and he shall rule over you." What the...? I know the dude gave her a rib, but c'mon, really? No wonder I have a fridge magnet that depicts a bride and groom walking down the aisle...underneath, the caption states, "One more thing I will never do." Not to sound like a raging feminist, but I think I might have to find myself a new religion. 

My ignorance surrounding the Original Sin lead me to research the Ten Commandments. I was curious to see how many of them I actually remembered from my religious upbringing as a child. I decided to write them down. Turns out, after Googling them (yes, Google is now listed in the dictionary as a verb), I had a few written down that aren't even on the list. Namely, Thou shalt not drink in excess, Thou shalt not have premarital sex, and Thou shalt not lie. Hmmm? This makes me wonder if maybe my parents had their own agenda when relaying biblical stories to us at bedtime. 

As I went down the real list to see how many of them I don't obey, I was shocked to learn that I am a very naughty girl. 

I really wish God would have given Moses a third tablet that stated a disclaimer. One that read something along the lines of, "If you commit greater than five of these, you are destined for hell." Better yet, I wish one's compliance for the Ten Commandments was graded on a learning curve. If this were the case, I would at least have a small chance of avoiding the nickname "Crispy-Fry" in my afterlife. 

This is how I did: 

Thou shalt not have any Gods before me: I believe in one God. I just hope He isn't as mean and unforgiving as the one depicted in the Scriptures. 

Thou shalt not make onto thee any graven images: This one kind of goes with number one and basically says we should not worship any idols other than God. I believe this makes for a strong argument as to why that God-awful show American Idol should be taken off the air. That being said, I am the first to admit that I am guilty of worshiping any guy who stands behind a microphone with a guitar in his hands. 

Thou shalt not use the Lord's name in vain: Guilty. See above paragraph. 

Keep the Sabbath day Holy: I wonder what my manager would say if I went to her with this excuse as to why I can no longer work on Sundays. I would strengthen my argument by quoting the one song I remember from Sunday school, "for the Bible tells me so." Something tells me I'd still be working on Sundays. 

Honor thy Mother and Father: I have a long history of disobeying this rule. It started at a young age when I purposely locked my parents out of the house. Unbeknownst to me, the dead bolt would stick when in the locked position. This resulted in my mother having to climb through our kitchen window. My first mistake was overtly showing my amusement by laughing at her while she tried to contort her body to make it fit through a window that was one third her size. My second mistake was lying about it. I now know I should have received a "get out of jail free" card since the act of lying isn't listed as one of the Ten Commandments. I had blamed my younger brother, Cam, who, at the time, wasn't even tall enough to reach the dead bolt. Needless to say, I received my first of many spankings. Redemption came later in life, as a teenager, when I would honor my mother by emulating her as I copied her technique while getting in and out of my bedroom window late at night. And though my parents would disagree, I feel I showed them a great deal of respect by letting them get their well-deserved sleep; using our front door at two o'clock in the morning would have surely prevented this.

Thou shalt not kill: I really wish it would specify just what, exactly, we can not kill. Does it apply to insects, rodents, and plants? 'Cause if it does, I am screwed. 

Thou shalt not steal: Guilty. While some people may consider the act of taking toilet paper and cleaning supplies from their place of employment as theft, I consider it part of the employee benefit package. My experience with real stealing started, once again, at young age when I stole a toy fishing rod from my friend's sandbox. My father made me promptly return it with a lengthy apology that outlined why I took the rod, why it was wrong, and what I would do in the future to rectify my evil ways. Did I mention I was five? Apparently, this humiliating experience left a bad taste in my mouth because when all my friends were going through their shoplifting phase (all through high school), I could only conjure up the balls to shoplift on one occasion. While they were at the Bay stuffing the entire spring collection into their over-sized purses, I was at Shopper's Drug Mart, shaking uncontrollably as I tried to figure out a way to slide a small tube of lipstick up my sleeve. The incident sent me into a full-blown panic attack; I was looking over my shoulder for a whole month in fear that some undercover cop was going to nab me and whisk me off to jail. This was the first and last time I ever shoplifted. I am also proud to say that I now buy my own toilet paper and cleaning supplies (just to clarify for my current manager, who may very well read this). 

Thou shalt not commit adultery: Finally, a sound argument for the benefits of staying single. 

Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor: I wonder if this applies to passing gas and then blaming it on the person who is sitting next to you. If it does, I have a few friends who are in for some serious trouble. 

Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's house or wife: I can't say I have ever coveted my neighbor's wife, but then again, he's not married to Jessica Alba. I will admit, however, that I would do pretty much anything to have his green, plush lawn. I am also guilty for taking my dog on long walks in up-scale neighborhoods just so I can enviously peer into well-lit mansions. I have always been fascinated by how the other half lives, and my voyeuristic tendencies have provided me with a lot of great decorating ideas. 

So, there you have it. As you can see, my afterlife is looking pretty grim, which is why I am contemplating Buddhism. Judging by some of the pictures I found of Buddha (again, by way of google), I am quite confident that if he has commandments, one of them states..."thou shalt eat a rich diet and imbibe lots of alcohol to make for a well-rounded belly. After such gluttony, thou must rub thine belly with satisfaction to obtain good fortune." 

In all seriousness, I don't know what religion suits me best. But does it really matter? After all, don't all paths lead to God? I just hope I don't have P.M.S. when that path leads me to my final destination, otherwise, Eve and I are going to have a little sit-down. 

Ten Things You Should Know Before Asking Me to Babysit

Prelude

Shortly after my 13th birthday, I began babysitting for a number of families in my neighborhood. In addition to filling my pockets with a little extra spending money, this new vocation provided me with a means to learn everything I ever needed or wanted to know about sex; you'd be surprised at the types of things a curious adolescent can find while riffling through the night stands of the married couples who employ her.

What's even more surprising is how the Polaroid camera, despite its bulkiness, managed to maintain its popularity in the early 80s. As far as I could tell, every couple had one, and judging by some of the pictures I found, the only advantage of owning a Polaroid, as opposed to a more conventional camera, was the ability to discretely chronicle your sex life. Remember; this was well before digital cameras ever existed.

All I can say is thank God my babysitting career had ended long before the nanny camera hit the market. Otherwise, I'm sure the footage of my disgraceful behavior would have been aired as the feature story on Dateline or 60 Minutes.  

********

I figured my babysitting days were long over. However, over the last five years, a handful of my friends had decided that their genetic material was worthy of passing on to future generations, and thus, they've been procreating like rabbits. This small population spurt has renewed the need for my services, and against their better judgement, my friends, from time to time, have had me sit for their offspring. 

I'm intelligent enough to know that I have not been recruited to babysit based on the fact that I'm some sort of super-nanny who, through song and dance, can make children believe that putting away their toys is as much fun as playing with puppies and unicorns. Nor is it because I'm in any desperate need of money; I would never expect my friends to pay me for watching their children. I don't even know what a babysitter charges these days. 

It's $14 per hour — I just googled it on the chance my friends might be interested in knowing how much money I have saved them over the years.  

The real reason I still get asked to babysit is because I am single...and I don't have children...and I rarely go out. The sum of all these factors leaves my friends with the impression that I lack anything that resembles a life and, therefore, I would like nothing more than to babysit their children on a Saturday night. I don't intend to dispute this fact, but I would like to establish a few ground rules for future babysitting assignments (providing my friends will ever ask me to babysit again after they read this post).

1) I value my sleep like a crack-whore values her crack—and by crack, I mean the drug, in case you needed clarification—so please do not ask me to babysit before 11 a.m. or after 2 a.m..

2)When it comes to children, I have the attention span of an embryo. It's imperative you know this because it impacts how I will interact with your child. Be forewarned that your child and I will likely have about 15 minutes of interactive play before I am forced, out of boredom, to plop him down in front of the television. 

3) Because it's inevitable that your child will spend most of his time in front of the T.V., it is advisable that you have a suitable DVD on hand— unless, of course, you have no qualms about him being addicted to The Real Housewives or Jersey Shore. Otherwise, allow me to clarify what it is I mean by "suitable" and "on hand."

Suitable: A DVD that captivates both him and me.

Good choice: Team America—puppets for him; adult humor for me...we both win!

Bad choice: Dora the Explorer—he learns Spanish; I learn how to lie to a child..."Oh, oh, T.V.'s broken! Bedtime!"

On Hand: DVD is placed in DVR. DVR is turned on. Input source is switched to DVR. All I have to do is press play. This may seem rather remedial, but you know that remote control you have sitting on your coffee table? The one that's the size of an ipad and has more buttons than a sound board? Well, I totally get that this fancy gadget makes your husband feel like a tech-savvy man, but IT MAKES ME FEEL LIKE A FUCKING IMBECILE!! And I highly doubt you want an imbecile supervising your child, now do you? 

4)If you can't comply with #3, I request that the latest copies of US, People and Star be available for my perusal. And please don't mind if I use these magazines for bedtime stories.  From past experience, I know that children get very involved when asked to point to all the movie stars who "look like Auntie Rachel."

5)In reference to #4: your child's story time will be cut short if he points to someone like Prince or Mick Jagger. I may have full lips, but your child needs to learn how to make simple distinctions early on in life. Gender attribution should not be that difficult for a three-year-old to grasp.

6) I would prefer it if you did not ask me to bathe your child. Call me crazy, but I don't want his memory of my cleaning his private parts to be misconstrued later in life as "Auntie Rachel touched me down there." Not to mention, my short attention span for children can serve as a serious safety issue; I would hate for your child to inhale a tubful of water just because I'm too busy plucking my facial hair.

7) Given my earlier confession, I feel it necessary to assure you that you do not need to put a lock on your bedroom door. I am no longer curious, and I have no interest in knowing what the two of you do when you are behind closed doors. In fact, this mental image is very disturbing to me, and I would like very much to avoid it. It is almost as nauseating to me as the image of my paren—

Hhhugggh, Hhhuggh

Sorry, that was the sound of me almost puking. 

8)Speaking of puking...if your child has a certain proclivity for face-painting herself with her own feces, then it would be in her best interest if you disclosed this information before I change her diaper. Failing to do so will result in me almost puking on her while I frantically scrub her face (and quite possibly the inside of her mouth) with a whole package of WetOnes©!

9)If you are unable to provide me with dinner (e.g., Chinese takeout or cheese pizza with black olives and mushrooms), then I can not be held accountable for going to town on all the junk food you have in your pantry. In fact, if you do own a nanny cam, chances are you already have a video of me gorging myself on Baked Lays© and Chips O'hoy©. Should such a video exist, I trust your discretion in ensuring it doesn't get leaked onto YouTube. Did I mention that babysitters charge $14 dollars per hour? 

10) For the safety of your child, it is recommended that all alcohol be secured in a locked cabinet. Alcohol serves as a wonderful sleep aid for me...

                       and it works like a charm on the kiddos, too!

I don't want anyone to feel bad or to think, "God, she is really bitter about babysitting." I'm not. I'm just being forthright about how you can make my watching your kids an enjoyable experience. 


I realize that the tone of this post may seem a little acerbic, so if it's difficult to swallow, allow me to reference the greatest nanny of all time...




"A spoonful of sugar..."

♬♬♬☂☂☂☂☂☂☂☂♬♬♬

G-String Undies

When most people think back to the 80s, they remember MTV, the invention of video games, the fall of the Berlin Wall, or the demise of the Cold War. Not me. I remember the 80s for the birth of g-string underwear. 

Looking back at the styles, it is clear to see why the popularity of the g-string was inevitable. Everything we wore in the 80's was fashioned in such a way that our clothes appeared to be just another layer of our skin. When we went clubbing, we either wore tight-ass jeans (regrettably acid wash) or tube- skirts. When we worked out, we wore spandex. The tighter the garment, the better.

It was during this decade that we started to really appreciate the human form, and we didn't want to conceal it by wearing bell-bottoms or crinoline skirts. Instead, we spent hours on our mothers' sewing machines, taking in the bottoms of our jeans so we could easily tuck them into our white "come-f**k-me" boots. If we didn't have the means to a sewing machine, we would spend countless hours tightening, overlapping, tucking, and then rolling up the bottom of our pants so  they would fit tightly around our ankles. We were a generation who, through our fashions, announced, "Hey look at my Jane-Fonda-sculptured-ass," while hoping that our camel toes went unnoticed. 

Like any teenage girl of the time, I fell victim to the fashions of the decade. I remember loving Esprit, Ralph Lauren, and Calvin Klein, but since I was never rich enough to enjoy such fashions, I looked to the next best fashion icon of the time; Madonna. Her style I could afford. 

With the money I had earned from working at McDonalds, I would buy clothes that resembled the fashions she wore while prancing around in the videos "Borderline," "Lucky Star," and "Like a Virgin." I spent my measly paychecks on tube-skirts, lace tops, crucifixes, stilettos, leggings, and studded belts.

One outfit that I was particularly proud of was this cute little number I had bought from Le Chateau. It consisted of a tight, orange, mini tube-skirt with a matching orange and white striped t-shirt. It was hot! 


However, there was one problem: the skirt was so tight, it outlined the seams of my underwear, including the gusset. This was unacceptable.

Luckily, Le Chateau had 2 for 1 undies on sale. As I sorted through the bin, I couldn't help but think what a total rip-off it was, considering the garment I was about to purchase consisted of three strings and a patch of fabric in the shape of a triangle. Basically, I was about to buy an eye patch and try to pass it off as underwear, so for all intents and purposes, we will just say that I purchased my first crotch patch. 


These g-string underwear were uncomfortable but necessary; I was willing to sacrifice comfort so I could wear my little tart-skirt while giving the impression that I was going commando. Panty lines, after all, were so 70s.

Like any girl who buys a brand new outfit, I wanted a place to wear it. As it so happened, all my underaged peeps were meeting at our favorite bar, Uncle Eddies. Uncle Eddies was a bar that thrived on underage drinkers. It was a seedy establishment that employed bouncers who had the math skills of ferrets. It never failed, while the bouncer was calculating the age of the person ahead of you, you and ten of your friends could sneak in behind him without his knowledge. If you were unable to do this, all you needed to do was borrow the license of a friend who was of legal drinking age. You didn't even have to look remotely like the picture on the license. Hell, you didn't even have to be the same race. Getting into Uncle Eddies was pretty much a given.

Because it was a hop, skip, and a jump away from where I lived, this bar served as the ideal oasis for me. All I had to do was walk through the gully, cross the Crowchild overpass, and climb through the man-made hole that was conveniently placed in the chain-link fence that stood right outside of Uncle Eddie's backdoor. From door-to-door, it probably took me about 15 minutes, depending on how much alcohol I had just consumed.

The night was proving to be everything that I had imagined for my cute little outfit.  My high school crush was there with some of his friends, and I knew there would be no way around him noticing me in this hot little get-up.

As we stood around waiting for the rum and cokes to kick in, we gossiped about school. And then, out of nowhere, the bass kicked out a familiar tune. Jess, one of my girlfriends, screamed, "I love this song!" She ran out to the dance floor as the beat picked up. I, for one, refused to be the first person out on the dance floor and required a few more drinks to let my guard down. 


We all stood around and watched Jess prance around the floor with a bunch of drunk guys. 2 Live Crew's song, "We Want Some Pussy," was playing, and every time the chorus played, there was Jess, with all those drunk pigs, emphatically claiming that she, too, wanted some pussy. Except, Jess thought the words to the song were, "We Want to Push It." Far be it from any of us to correct her, instead, we were all busting a gut laughing at her. This was years before girl-on-girl was popular; Basic Instinct had not been released yet.

The next couple of songs were good enough to entice all of us out onto the dance floor. With our alcohol-induced confidence, we sang and danced to Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar on Me" and AC-DC's "You Shook Me All Night Long." My g-string underwear were proving to be quite the good investment. I could shake, bump, and grind to any song without having to worry about any compromising position showing off my panty lines. I was on fire.

As sexy as I was on that dance floor, nothing could distract me from the fact that I really had to pee. The matter became one of urgency when I realized that my flimsy underwear could not withstand the challenge of absorbing anything should I accidentally piss myself.

I rushed to the bathroom and found myself a relatively clean stall. To bear my weight, I braced each arm against the walls of the stall, and I squatted down without touching the toilet seat in fear that I might catch crabs. This did not work for me. I was way too drunk. I resigned to sitting on the toilet seat, pissed off that the girl before me was more successful at squatting, and in doing so, had pissed all over the seat. 

My bladder must have been holding a gallon because the stream would not stop. Since I had a great deal of time to spare, I started reading the graffiti on the bathroom stall. I wondered what kind of person feels compelled to let everyone know that she was here. Who really gives a shit? "Kelsey, class of 85, was here." I also wondered what shitty thing James did to his girlfriend that made her write, "James has a small penis." I considered leaving my own little message but decided that I was above this.

As the night went on, I became more intoxicated. Conversing with anyone was becoming more difficult, and dancing soon became out of the question. I looked across the bar, and I saw my fantasy boyfriend talking to another girl. "Okay, that's it," I thought. As with many drunk nights before and after this night, when I decide that I am done, I really mean that I am done.

Without saying goodbye to my friends, I stumbled towards the back of the bar and left through the back door. Two of my guy friends from school were out back smoking pot. After declining an invitation to join them, I found my way to the chain-link fence.

I was pacing back and forth, trying to find the hole in the fence through which I could climb. I kept thinking, "It was here just last weekend. Did they close it up?" As hard as I tried, I could not find it. This would not stop me...I had to get home. I took my purse and threw it over my shoulder. With both hands, I grabbed onto the fence and found my bearings as I dug the tip of my shoe into one of the tiny holes. I was able to gain enough leverage so I could pull myself up to start climbing the fence. This was the easy part. Hoisting my leg over the top of the fence, however, proved to be quite challenging.

There was a short moment in time that I was straddled over the top of the fence, trying to shift my weight so I could swing my other leg over. I don't know if many people have spent much time straddling a chain-link fence, but take my word when I say that they are uncomfortable and inappropriately invasive. Had my hymen still been intact, this would have made for one of those non-coital moments that would have surely broken it— like aggressive horseback riding, or wiping out while water skiing. 

It was during this Olympic straddle that my two friends started making cat calls. I had forgotten I had an audience. After a brief moment of being fence-raped, I was able to swing my other leg over the top and jump down. As I pulled myself together, I noticed that my purse was hanging upside down, and all its contents were on the ground before me. I picked up all my stuff, shoved it back into my purse, pulled down my skirt (which was up around my waist) and stumbled home.

The next morning, I awoke with the worst headache I had ever experienced in my 17 years. It felt as though my heart had migrated to my head, because every time it would beat, my brain would rattle. 


In my drunken state, I had passed out on top of my covers and was still wearing my clothes from the previous night. My cute little outfit had been ruined by coke stains and cigarette burns.  

I got out of bed and found my purse to see if I had lost anything. This has since become a tradition for me. Except, now, I rarely find anything missing. Back then, however, it was pretty much guaranteed that I would have lost money, lipstick, or my license. Sure enough, I could not find my license. Except it wasn't my license; it was my older sister's license. I had snuck it from her just in case I needed it to get into the bar. Shit, I had to find it.

I decided that I would go back to the fence to see if it fell out of my purse during my fearless climbing expedition. 


As I changed my clothes, I came to the grave realization that my sister's license wasn't the only thing I was missing. Somewhere between dancing at the bar and passing out in my bed, I had lost my panties. I racked my brain as I tried to remember if I had gotten together with some guy. My memories of the night before, though foggy, did not include a hook-up. I decided to stop worrying about it, for I had more pressing matters to attend to; I had to find my sister's I.D..

When I arrived at the fence, it didn't take me long to find Andrea's license. Thank God! I bent down to pick it up, and I noticed that the hole in the fence, for which I had been desperately searching, was less than five feet from where I stood. How did I miss it? As I surveyed the ground for anything else I may have lost, I couldn't help but notice, in the periphery of my vision, a small, white object on top of the fence that was swaying to-and-fro in the wind. Curious as to what it could be, I stepped towards the fence to get a better look. "Hmmm, what is that?" As I got closer, the object became horrifyingly clear to me. Mystery solved! 


My panties!  


There they were, flapping in the wind, as free as Nelson Mendela.

I contemplated retrieving them, but reconsidered this decision due to the fact that it was rush hour and Crowchild was bumper-to-bumper traffic. Besides, I had another pair at home that was just like them. Not to mention, leaving my panties stuck to that fence was just as symbolic as Neil Armstrong leaving the American flag on the moon. It suggested that I had conquered unmarked territory. It was my own personal way of saying, "Rachel Paul, class of '88, was here."


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