At least someone got a cheap thrill.

After mulling the idea over for awhile, I finally decided to try the whole "Site 2 Store" shindig that Wal-Mart's rocking out. I hate Wal-Mart. I hate the parking lot. I hate the aisles. I hate being there. It ruins my entire day, and I actually arrange my entire week's schedule to arrange for a Wal-Mart visit at the lowest traffic time possible. (Which is now impossible thanks to Christmas.) So hey, if I can shop for shit online, pay for it, and make one quick in-and-out deal out of it, I'm game.

It's confusing. And embarrassing. And I think I gave the sad, lonely Wal-Mart worker a hard-on.

Okay, so those of you who have dogs understand that panty crotches are like a magnet to dogs. Bodhi somehow finds ways, ways that defy physics and logic, into the hamper, where he proceeds to violate my dirty underwear and chew out the crotch. Earlier this week he got into the hamper YET AGAIN and destroyed the last of my non-granny panty underwear. So I took a chance and I ordered Wal-Mart lace hipsters and thongs. Because hey, Mommy needs laid, kiddo.

It was later in the evening (read: empty) when I went to pick up the order. First, there was nobody at the counter. I rang the doorbell, and I waited. And waited. And waited. About the point I nearly decided, "Fuck this shit," a hefty, red-faced, and obviously overstressed and overworked assistant manager came shuffling to the counter. It's Christmas time, at Wal-Mart. Poor guy was probably damn near at his wit's end. I can jive, turkey. I told him the name on my order. He took forever to find it -- but I'm sure probably a ton of people took the route I have. So I can't get mad.

My frustration is not at the process at all. It's really a sanity saver as long as you don't order panties. And here's why.

He found the package. Which, despite the 12 items on the order slip, it was a really small package. (Obviously.) Note: in the time I was waiting for him to find my package, a kindly little old couple got in line behind me to pick up their own package. Cute as hell. So he comes out with the package, looking a little confused, and says, "I'm not sure it's all in there."

I was sure it was all in there because lace panties, thongs, and hipsters don't take up much space. But I didn't exactly want to blurt out, "It's my sexy time panties!" So I smiled tersely and despite feeling my face get red, muttered something along the lines of, "I'm sure everything is there. Really, it's okay. I trust you guys. (I don't.)"

Oh no. No, no, no, no, no. In the name of quality assurance and thoroughness, and much to my horror, he proceeded to cut the opaque shipping bag open. Out came the panties tumbling onto the counter. He then went on to pick them up one by one and shake them out, so as to separate them, and lay them out to count and make sure every. single. lace thong and panty was accounted for. I could hear the old lady behind me gasp and I felt every blood vessel on my face popping wide open as I sunk further and further into mortification.

Sure, it's just underwear. And hell, with my low-cut jeans that I still insist on waiting despite the fact that it is no longer 2002 (and yes, I still wear my jeans from high school, BOOYAH bitches!), my underwear is usually hanging an inch or two out the back anyway. But still. My sexy britches are not to be on wide display on the counter to the giddy glee of the Wal-Mart clientele.

I hope he enjoyed it, though. Maybe the little old guy did, too. I do what I can. Community service and such.