With all the excitement and travel, I almost forgot to post this week's Gonzo Mama newspaper column! No worries, readers. Here it is:
If I’m ever involved in a tragic accident, I’m pretty sure I won’t be wearing the lacy black Victoria’s Secret panties that always find their way to the back of my drawer. Even worse, it will probably be Laundry Day, and I’ll be wearing some sort of faded cotton granny panty. The waistband, its elastic long popped and ineffective, will be held together with nothing but a prayer and maybe a safety pin or two.
I have a near-clinical fear of flying or riding in any vessel that travels at extreme speeds or altitudes. In ten hours, I will be boarding a plane to Japan, where I will embark on a journey that begins with a bullet train.
For precisely this reason, I’m packing only my best chonies.
Yesterday really was Laundry Day. Not only were we preparing to leave the country for a week, but we were also preparing for the housesitter who, under no circumstances, should be forced to live for a week with the mountain of laundry I should have done two weeks ago.
I was upstairs, cleaning the toddlers’ room (because our housesitter must also not be led to believe that we allow our children to raise livestock in their bedrooms) when my keen eye and excellent perception helped to discover the mountain of dirty clothes in the middle of the floor. I’m a great detective like that. With my arms full of pink textiles, I trotted down the stairs to the laundry room, where I saw Mr. Wright folding a load that had just finished in the dryer.
And that wasn’t all I saw.
There, in all his glory, was a naked Mr. Wright. Well, almost naked. A swath of powder blue cotton/Spandex® blend stretched over my husband’s nether region, and I couldn’t help but notice it was a small swath. I mean, bikini-small.
“What are you wearing?” I asked my strictly-boxer-brief man. “Are you wearing… bikini chonies?”
He looked at me, as if to say, “Clearly, I am. It’s Laundry Day,” but remained silent. Suddenly, I became extremely curious – okay, obsessed – about where the pale blue offenders had come from. Was Mr. Wright carrying on with some trollop who told him, during nights of steamy romance, that he would look mighty fine in a set of micro-shorts?
Well? Was he?
No. He assured me the chonies in question were circa 1988. Why he hadn’t tossed them by now is anyone’s guess. Maybe he hasn’t worn them often enough in the last 22 years to feel he’s really gotten his money out of them. Always the spendthrift, that husband of mine.
My main concern now is ensuring that the light blue bikinis don’t find their way into Mr. Wright’s luggage. They are precisely the type of chonies that invite disaster, and if our plane starts plummeting into the Pacific or the bullet train jumps the track at 200 miles per hour, I don’t want to have to check Mr. Wright’s pants to see if it’s his fault.
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