Let's Embarrass the Tuna Girl Again

I told this story, albeit very badly, to Patrick the other night. He laughed. He laughs at me a lot.

I thought I had told it before here on the blog, but I can't find it. If I'm repeating myself, well, maybe it's worth repeating.

In the first four years that we were in the military, we moved seven times. I got to be quite an expert at the packing and unpacking process.

One of the nice things about moving with the military is that they actually pay movers to pack your stuff. This horrifies my mother, who can't imagine a stranger touching her things. But if you move that often, it can become like a part time job, and you quickly lose any sense of privacy.

But there are some things that nobody should ever see. And those things always go into a special box. We pack these things up (the things you wouldn't ever want your kids to find) and stash it in one of our cars before the movers ever arrive. (I bet most of the Queer Eye victims do the same thing.)

Usually, they send women and old men to be packers. But on this one particular move, they sent three big, burly, scary guys. I was always glad to have my dogs on hand when I spent these days alone with the movers. I mean, I'm sure they are very nice people, but I was completely alone with them and all of my belongings.

Everything went fine on that move. Our things actually had to go into storage for a while because he was heading to a training course, and I was heading to my parents' house for a month or two. I carted that damn "private" box all over the country.

I was so looking forward to moving back together that I was even looking forward to the unpacking. I was overjoyed to have my own stuff back again.

I stashed the "private" box in the closet and got to work.

These packers had wrapped every little thing in paper. Think of all the stuff you have in your junk draw. And then think of it all individually wrapped in packing paper. That's the kind of stuff I was unwrapping when a box of condoms fell out.

Okay. I didn't realize those were in there, but condoms aren't so embarrassing. They are as common now-a-days as, um, lotion and tissue.

And out of the next paper fell a small vibrator. Okay. I was blushing then. But it was the type of "massager" that you could buy at Brookstones, so I wasn't completely mortified.

And out of the next paper fell a big ole' dildo.

Now I'm mortified. It was huge, red, with bumps and a "jelly" covering.

I quickly started thrashing through all that wrapping paper to see if I could possibly get any more embarrassed. I won't mention some of the other stuff, but the topper? A butt plug.

It's a good thing those three big, burly, scary guys are a few states away. Can you imagine what they were thinking? If I had ever run into them I would surely have expired on the spot.

If I ever move from Florida again, remind me to get a different moving company.