Men often say or do things without thinking first. For instance when I recently told my husband that despite working out at the gym for three straight weeks, my body hasn't changed at all, he replied, "Give it time." Umm wrong answer. The right answer (as we all know) would have been "You look great" or "Are you kidding me? I've totally noticed a change!"
When my husband Tom and I first started dating in the early nineties, his father bought him a brand new Ford Thunderbird. It was stark white with red velour seats and a red leather dashboard. That thing was gangsta before gansta was gansta.* The deal was Tom would sell his old Honda CRX and give his dad the proceeds to pay for some of the new new pimp mobile. The CRX just needed a new battery, so Tom placed the old one in the back seat of the T-Bird to be recycled at the Pep Boys. This happened to be the same day that I would be meeting his mom for the first time.
In preparation for the big night, I went to the mall and blew $68 on a Guess! cotton mini dress. (big bucks for me in 1991). We were taking her to a nice steakhouse for her birthday and I wanted to make a great impression (hence the ultra expensive, designer dress). Ever the polite girlfriend I quickly jumped the back seat where the car battery had been sitting all day. In. The. Hot. Sun. I slid the battery over and sat back, making idle chit chat with Tom and his mom. Within minutes, I noticed a tingling sensation, not unlike a thousand scorpions biting my ass. The whole "battery thing" never registered as I hot-potatoed back in forth on alternate butt cheeks until we got to the restaurant.
Dinner went great. The restaurant was packed and we sat at a table towards the center of the main room. Pleasantries were exchanged back and forth over Prime Rib and wine. My buns were still a tingling, but not quite so bad. It was sometime mid-cheesecake that I reached back for a quick scratch when I realized that, as far as my rear-end was concerned, the Guess dress was no more. Ok, now this was peculiar and bordering on horrific. My head did a quick 180 and looked down. My panties were still there, but barely. They were "hanging by a string." Literally. The dress had melted away on either butt cheek with a thin line of cloth left smack down the middle covering only my crack. Oh my god. I was wearing an assless dress. Brooke Hogan would have been proud.
I had no other recourse but to look at Tom and his mother and say, "Don't be alarmed but my dress is disintegrating and my butt is completely exposed." It took us Einsteins a while to put two and two together and deduct that my dress, panties and fleshy buttocks were slowly being eaten by battery acid. Tom's mother soon became my best pal and followed me (closely) to the bathroom. Since it was mid summer and no one had a sweater to "tie around" my waist we deducted that we needed to leave the restaurant before I was stark naked. We quickly paid the bill and walked out of there in a tight line like we were chain-ganged together. Back at the gansta car, the red velour seats had met the same fate as my Guess sundress. Tom's gansta mobile was know more of a ghetto mobile.
Aside from Tom and his mother, I can't say for sure how many poor souls were exposed to my fleshy butt cheeks that night. I wish I could have apologized for ruining their appetites. Tom learned a valuable lesson that night and I lost a dress, but all was forgiven and my butt survived. -VAL
* Note: we are sooo not Gansta