Awkward Elevator Moment — Me & 4 Stoned, Scantily-Clad Men

So then…I adjust the shoulder strap of my leather briefcase. I’m taking an empty elevator back to my 28th floor hotel room after my business meeting on a sunny afternoon in Las Vegas. Important negotiations with lawyers today — so I’m in my grey business suit, white blouse, stockings, and sensible black pumps. I’m even wearing pearls today, so the corporate-executive look is complete.

The elevator stops on the 5th floor, home of the pools and spa – and in tumble four college kids obviously enjoying Spring Break in Vegas.

These four tall guys are all in swim trunks, tanned and shirtless, wet hair, laughing — and definitely stoned.

It’s just them and me in the elevator.

As the elevator rises, they giggle and whisper and fidget. There’s a small lull of silence and one of them says, “Wow, it smells a little like weed in here.”

They exchange glances and stifle laughter, since the pot aroma is definitely emanating from them – and they’re certain that they’ve shocked me, an uptight corporate woman.

I turn to them and say sincerely, “Oh, I’m sorry, that’s me.”

Startled looks.

I shrug and say, “What’re you gonna do? Long client lunch.” I make the international gesture for toking a joint.

Ding. 28th floor.

I exit to whistles, whoops, and a “Damn — we should party with her!”

— Darcy Perdu

(Any funny elevator stories to share? Or perhaps a funny smokin’-weed story? (Ah, hell, ALL smokin’-weed stories are funny – especially if you ARE smokin’ weed!) Share a comment or story below!)

Her Bizarre Question about Makin’ Babies

Her ONLY Question about Makin' Babies  #funny #birdsand bees #kids #parenting #sextalk

So then…she says “huh” and looks a bit perplexed. We’re sitting on the couch, surrounded by big comfortable cushions.

We’ve just concluded “the talk.”

My daughter is young still, so this is not “THE TALK” with all the details and warnings and science.

This is just “the talk” with a very basic overview of how babies are made.

She’s been hounding me for weeks to tell her about S-E-X and I’ve successfully distracted her until now. So we plop on the couch and I give her a very non-threatening, easy-to-understand, BASIC overview.

“Remember there are no stupid questions. Ask whatever you want,” I say reassuringly.

Chloe thinks a minute. She’s just learned quite a bit of information. I can tell she wants to ask something but she’s shy about it.

“Come on, honey. No question is too strange. I promise I won’t laugh, no matter what.”

She concentrates a little more.

Then she asks, “Can pregnant women swim?”

I snort.


OK, not technically a laugh, but still not the reaction she was expecting.

And certainly not the question I was expecting! Out of all the stuff I told her, this is what she wants to know? “Can pregnant women swim?”

Has she not been to a public pool? Has she not seen pregnant women swimming? And why wouldn’t they be able to, anyway? The baby’s not gonna float away!

I compose myself and say casually, “Yes, honey, pregnant women can swim. Pregnant women can do just about anything regular women can do.”

She asks, “Is there anything pregnant women can’t do?”

I think hard, but nothing comes to mind. She looks at me expectantly. Finally I say:

“Well, you can’t get pregnant again while you’re pregnant – so that’s something.”

She nods sagely – satisfied she now knows everything there is to know about sex.

God help us all.

— Darcy Perdu

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(Any funny stories when you tried to explain the hibbity-jibbity to your kids? Or when someone explained it to you? Any odd misconceptions you had about this topic when you were younger?)

Honestly, Officer, This is an ACCIDENTAL Scalpel Stabbing…

So then…I stop at the light, yelp at a piercing pain in my leg, then feel my car gently bump the car in front of it. It’s just a tap — but jarring, nonetheless.

I look down at a tiny scalpel imbedded in my thigh. Was I trying to perform surgery while exiting an LA freeway? No.

I’ve merely forgotten that I had removed the scalpel from my grade school son’s Junior Science Kit and placed it on the arm rest in the car — you know, for safety reasons.

So when I stop the car on an incline, it slides backwards, right into my leg!

I pluck the offending blade from my thigh and jump out of the car. A man in his early 60’s is disembarking his vehicle too. The first thing he says to me is, “Oh, my back, my back!”

And because I’ve heard a million times that you should never admit fault or remorse at the scene of an accident, I wisely blurt out, “Oh, my God! I’m so sorry! Are you OK? It’s totally my fault! A knife punctured my leg!”

He smiles. A really big smile. A knowing smile.

I am such a rube.

He sizes me up quickly – a girl in her 30’s in a luxury car, readily admitting blame in a fender-bender. He motions me to pull over to a gas station to exchange info.

When we park, I confirm that he’s OK and doesn’t need to go to the hospital. He still murmurs about the back pain, but I can see he’s ready for a transaction.

His eyes glide over my car lustfully and he says wistfully, “Oh, you have a Jaaaaguar. I used to have one of those. I wish I had a Jaaaaguar.”

“Um, well, it’s an old model,” I say, trying not to appear wealthy for fear he’ll take advantage with some trumped-up medical claims. “Let’s call the police so we can get this all on the record.”

“Oh, no need for the police,” he says. “Let’s just exchange information.”

I hand him my insurance card and he says wistfully, “Oh, you have USAA insurance. That’s such a good company. I wish I had USAA insurance.”

Oh my God, this guy is totally creeping me out with his coveting! I almost expect him to say, “Oh, you’re wearing bluuue shorts. Those are so nice. I wish I had bluuue shorts.”

He gives me his insurance info and name and number.

I renew my suggestion to call the police.

He says, “It’ll take them forever to get here and they’ll just tell us to exchange information. Besides, we can avoid the whole insurance situation if you just give me $800 to get my car fixed.”

I peer closely at the bumper of his late model car. There is not a scratch or a dent.

“$800 for what?” I ask.

“Well, look what your car did to mine!” He points to the back side fender that has paint peeling all along the side.

“Huh?” (I don’t get it. This is my first car accident, so I don’t have a lot of experience – and I’m certainly not an automotive expert – but HUH?)

I want to shout “LIAR!” but he’s twice my age and I’m trying to be respectful. My mama didn’t raise me to cast aspersions on the elderly.

So instead I politely say, “I don’t think my car did that. We were both stopped at a stop light. How could a bump to the back of your car cause the paint to peel off on the whole side of your car? I think that paint was peeling off before we bumped.”

He confirms confidently, “Oh yes, your car did do that to mine. I didn’t have any peeling paint before.”

“Well, I’m going to call the police then, so we can all talk about this.”

“I’m not waiting for the police,” he says quickly. “My back’s really hurting me so I have to get home and rest. Tell your insurance company to call me as soon as possible. And by the way — my neck is really starting to hurt, too.”

And with that, he hops in his car and leaves. I’m still shaken up by the whole experience, but I quickly drive the last 7 minutes home and call my insurance company.

I start to divulge the details, but the insurance lady cuts me off – “Are you talking about the automotive incident that just occurred?”

“Yes!” I say. “How do you know about it?”

“The other party called us already.”

“Are you kidding me? He called you already? It only took me 7 minutes to get home and he’s already called you! I have to tell you I have my suspicions about this guy! He tried to shake me down for cash instead of calling the police or involving the insurance companies. I think he’s looking for a big payday!” I say.

She says, “Yes, I have that feeling too. He immediately talked about “pain and suffering” and used lots of terms common to insurance medical claims. I looked him up. He’s already been involved in two car accident lawsuits where he’s filed huge claims for back problems.”

“Oh My God! What are we going to do?!” I say in a panic.

She says reassuringly. “Don’t worry about a thing. We’ll handle everything. That’s why you have us.”

And that’s why I love USAA.

And why I no longer drive with loose scalpels in the car.

— Darcy Perdu

(Anybody try to take advantage of YOU – or any funny insurance stories to share? Feel free to post anything related to fender-benders, creepy old guys, cars, cops, Junior Science Kits, or scalpels!)

The One Thing Disneyland INSISTS You Do NOT Bring to Their Park

The ONE Thing Disneyland INSISTS You Do NOT Bring To Their Park  #funny #Disneyland #Disney World #humor #vacation

READ the story – or HEAR it by clicking the Play Button!

So then…I scroll through the FAQ on the Disneyland website to prep for our upcoming trip.

I notice that the section called “What items are not permitted in Disneyland Park” contains a few things you’d expect:
• Alcoholic beverages
• Illegal substances
• Weapons

BUT they also list:
• Items that may be disruptive (e.g. laser pointers, slingshots, stink bombs, air horns)

(Thank goodness. Can’t tell you how many times our enjoyment of It’s A Small World has been ruined by a nasty stink bomb. Although to be honest, some of those have been human-made by our own party.)

Disneyland’s list clarifies:
• Weapons of any kind (including guns, knives, billy clubs, brass knuckles, nunchucks, stars and other martial arts equipment)

(Nunchucks? Really? Are lethal Ninjas flinging nunchucks at unsuspecting Disneyland tourists?)

The forbidden list also includes:
• Restraining devices (e.g., handcuffs, zip ties) or any suspicious items (e.g., box cutters, razor blades, duct tape, wire)

(Um…duct tape – handcuffs – zip ties? So basically, don’t bring your Rape Kit to Disneyland.)

You also can’t bring:
• Masks (unless you are dressing up for a particular event)
(So is someone thinking: “Well, I WAS going to dress up for my Forced Sexual Abduction — but hell, if I can’t even bring my Rape Kit, there’s no point in bringing the Mask. Damn you, Disneyland, you take all the fun out of a day at the park!”)

But the item that really caught my eye on the list of items you cannot bring is:

Cremated remains (e.g., urns, vases, boxes)


This is completely true. Go to the FAQ on Disneyland’s website.

They list rolling devices (bikes/trikes/motorbikes) plus 19 other things, for a total of 20 forbidden items.

So does this mean that out of the 15 million people who visit Disneyland each year — enough of them brought HUMAN REMAINS to the park that it made the list of Top 20 Items You Cannot Bring To Disneyland?

Can that be right?

Are people sneaking in urns of cremated friends and family to simply SHARE THE EXPERIENCE? As in: “Grandma loved Disneyland. Didn’t seem right to make the trip without her. Kids, strap her in good – these teacups get a little wild!”

Or are people planning to arrive with their cremated loved ones – BUT DEPART WITHOUT THEM? As in: “OK kids, you know how much ol’ Uncle Ricky loved Space Mountain, so just before we start the 5-story drop, open the urn, spread those ashes, and let him loose!”

But if Disneyland IS the Happiest Place on Earth, why wouldn’t they allow people to lay their relatives to rest there?

In fact, I see a huge untapped market for Disneyland! Might I suggest some slogans?

Welcome to DisneyCrypt – the Happiest Resting Place in the After Life.
Come be a Forever Sleeping Beauty in our Magic Castle Coffins.
Blast into the great beyond with Buzz Lightyear’s fully-functioning Rocket Casket.
Enter Neverland in your own Peter Pan Pod.
Ashes to Ashes, Fairy Dust to Fairy Dust – Check out Tinkerbell’s Tomb.
Jump down the ultimate rabbit hole to a true Wonderland in our Mad Hatter Urn.
Enjoy your Eternal Rest in Belle’s Burial Chamber.
Two for One — This Week Only, at Mickey’s Mausoleum
Put the FUN back in FUNeral with Goofy’s Graves!

But then I suddenly realize that this crafty entertainment conglomerate already has the burial market covered! Check out their description of the Pirates of the Caribbean Ride:

“Drift into the Dead Man’s Grotto, where the skeletons of past pirates litter the…haunted ship whose crew drank themselves to death. Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate’s life for me!”

Yo ho, yo ho – a Disney burial’s the death for me!

— Darcy Perdu

(Of course, there was that one time we went to Disneyland that I was READY TO COMMIT MURDER BECAUSE…)

 to your Humor Board!

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(Any funny slogan ideas to promote Disneyland as a final resting place — or another park like Universal Studios Tour, Six Flags, Wizarding World of Harry Potter? Any puzzling DOs & DON’Ts at an amusement park, school, pool, restaurant, camp?)

Oh No, You Can’t Expense THAT

Apparently, it is not (I repeat, NOT) OK to expense THAT on your business expenses! Totally Mortified!  #funny #office #humor

So then… she utters those words that strike fear into every travelling businessperson: “I need to talk to you about your expense statement.”

My heart races just a bit – the Catholic school girl in me is guilty already, wondering, “Oh, hell, what does she know? What proof does she have?”

But the weary traveler in me is indignant, bristling at the potential accusation from an accountant who never leaves her desk and therefore has no knowledge of flight delays, lost luggage, boring transcontinental flights, mind-numbing client dinners, and noisy hotel room neighbors – all of which necessitate my extensive bar tabs.

I straighten up in my desk chair and speak as casually as I can into the phone, “Whatever do you mean?”

Margaret, who looks like a kindly grandmother but is actually a fierce stickler for rules, rustles some papers over the line and says, “It’s about your trip to Minneapolis to call on Target Headquarters.”

My mind races, trying to recall what questionable expense items I might have listed from that trip several weeks ago. My anxiety stems not so much from my own questionable creative accounting practices, but from Margaret’s apparent disdain for the travelling sales team.

(When James, our Sales Manager, expensed a bottle of aspirin on a business trip because he had a headache, Margaret called him to ask him how many pills he took on the actual trip. When he asked why, she replied that he should only ask for reimbursement for the pills used on the trip, since he’d be using the remainder of the bottle on his own personal time. When he balked, she said then he should donate the rest of the bottle to the receptionist’s desk, so that the rest of the company could use the remaining pills when they have headaches. I’m pretty sure James took the rest of the pills right then and there.)

So I say, “OK, Margaret, what about the Minneapolis trip?”

She says, “Well, it appears that you went to a local Target to buy some competitor’s samples of our products…”

“Yeah, so I could show the Target buyer that our products are superior to his current vendor,” I say defensively.

“And you also bought a bag of Potato Chips and a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream…”

“Yes, that was my dinner,” is my churlish reply.

“And you also bought some feminine hygiene products?”


Damn! Had I really forgotten to buy those on a separate receipt? Hmmm, I don’t suppose there’s a rational reason that I would need to buy those for business purposes.

But that certainly does explain the salty chips and chocolate ice cream for dinner.

“Heh, heh,” I laugh weakly. “Oops! Sorry for that mistake, Margaret. That’s a little embarrassing! I’ll reimburse the company for those items.”

“OK, see that you do so by the end of the day, please,” she says primly.

As an end to our phone call, I try a little levity and say, “I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t try to expense condoms! Heh, heh.”

To which she replies, “Well, if it’s a sales call, that’s allowed as an ‘Entertainment Expense.’”

Touché, Margaret, touché.

— Darcy Perdu

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(Any questionable items you’ve claimed on your expense statements? How about a funny business trip story? Share your comments below. I love to read them!)

Is Your Kid “Clever” or “Criminal?”

Is Your Kid Clever or Criminal?  It's a fine line, people - a FINE line! #funny
So then…she says, “He’s a very bright boy.”

I beam.

She says, “And so creative!”

I glow.

“And I’m so impressed that he’s only 7 and he types his spelling homework! Everyone else just handwrites their words.”

Oh. Hmm. Now I have an ethical dilemma. I shift on the miniature chair in Tucker’s classroom and examine his Second Grade teacher.

Should I just graciously accept the compliment – or reveal the reason that Tucker types his spelling homework?

So far, the Parent-Teacher conference has been going very well. She’s very complimentary, focusing on his virtues – “bright, creative, funny.” We both know he can also be “fidgety, chatty, and tardy with homework,” but I can tell she’s the sort of teacher who likes to put a positive spin on things.

To ease my conscience, I say, “Well, about that. You know how you give them 12 spelling words a week to alphabetize? Then they’re supposed to write each word three times so they can learn how to spell the words?”

“Yes,” she nods encouragingly.

My chair makes a tiny squeak as I shift my weight. I need to tell her my 7-year-old has recently gained access to a laptop.

“Well, um, Tucker figured out how to type the words into an Excel spreadsheet. Then he copies and pastes them two more times in the column. Then he hits ‘Sort’ so the words are automatically sorted into alphabetical order. Then he copies the words into a Word document and submits it for his homework.”

As I speak, her cheerful smile wavers and slowly disappears.

“Oh.” She looks uncertain.

I look contrite, awaiting judgment.

She concentrates. I can tell she’s trying to decide whether or not this constitutes an “unauthorized shortcut” (i.e. cheating) – or if this demonstrates Tucker’s “clever resourcefulness with technology.”

After a pause, she takes the high road. Smiling brightly, she says, “Well, at least he’s learning to spell the words as he types them in, so that’s the point of the task!”

I look down. “Well, um, he does hit ‘Spell Check’ before he prints the sheet.”


Awkward pause.

“Yeah,” I say to fill the silence.

A moment passes.

She sighs, then girds herself up for the final spin. “Well, he is certainly handy with a computer, isn’t he? What a bright, creative boy!”

I smile gratefully and exit into the bright sunshine.

— Darcy Perdu

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(Any funny moments you’d like to share from your Parent-Teacher Conferences? Has your kid found some impressive and/or questionable shortcuts for schoolwork? Any examples of your kids being too clever for their own good? Do tell! Share a Story or Comment below! I love to read them!)

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How would YOU handle this Party Doomsayer chick?

Party Doomsayer
So then…she asks, “Do you have a lifeguard on duty?”

I look at my backyard. All the kids are on the sport court or grass. The pool cover is pulled tight over the pool, completely obscuring the water — and the pool itself is surrounded by a 5-foot-tall locked iron fence.

And it’s November.

“No,” I say to the concerned mom. “Tucker’s birthday party is really just on the sport court and patio. There won’t be any swimming today.”

“Well,” she says, with a little self-righteous cock of the head. “You never knooow with kids…”

Oh, but I do know. That’s why I locked the pool fence, ensured the pool cover completely encased the pool, and invited all the kids’ parents so they could enjoy lunch out on the patio while simultaneously keeping an eye on their kids.

Also, the kids aren’t 4. They’re in 4th grade.

But I calmly reassure the mom, Karen, that no one will be admitted to the pool. I’ve just met her today – and I’m committed to making friends with all the parents at Tucker’s new school. It’s why I invited the moms to attend the party in the first place.  I know 25 kids is a lot for a birthday party, but we wanted to include all his classmates.

Karen seems slightly mollified by my assurance and wanders off.

I greet more parents, stack birthday gifts, and snap photos of Tucker having a blast with the kids from his class.

Then Karen sidles up next to me and says in a loud whisper, “Some of the kids are riding scooters and bikes!”

I look over to see a few kids riding around on the sport court.

“Yeah, that’s great,” I say. “Some of Tucker’s and Chloe’s old bikes are a little small, but the kids seem to be having fun.”

“But you don’t have enough helmets for all the kids, do you?” she asks.

Um, no. I don’t keep 25 helmets at my house. I have 2 kids, for God’s sake. So I have 2 helmets. And a couple of their old smaller helmets. Was I supposed to buy 25 helmets for this backyard party? I want to say this, but instead, I say politely:

“Oh, it’s just a flat sport court; they’re not going very fast. We’re in the backyard, so we’re not near the street at all. I think it’ll be OK.” I find myself feeling a bit defensive.

I check out the kids – will they be OK? They’re 9 and 10 years old – they look pretty hale and hearty – I think they’ll be OK, right? Right? This chick is messing with my head.

Chloe, age 6, calls me over to refill the chip bowl. She’s so excited to be at her big brother’s birthday party hanging out with older kids.

I meet more moms; we laugh and talk; I keep an eye on the kids; all seems to be going well.

Karen approaches me with a determined look. “You’re going to let the kids jump on the trampoline?”

As opposed to what? Sleep on the trampoline? Eat the trampoline?

“Um, yeah, it’s ok. My kids and their friends jump on it all the time,” I say.

“Trampolines are so dangerous!” she exclaims. “Someone could be paralyzed for life!”

“Well, um, OK, but it’s completely enclosed by that netting that’s like 10 feet tall – and it’s on the grass.” I say. “Besides, everyone’s parents are here, so if they don’t want their kid on the trampoline, I’ll let them tell their kid.”

She stares at me.

“And the party entertainment will be here any minute, so the kids will do that soon anyway. I think it’s OK if they’re on the trampoline for just a few minutes,” I say cheerfully, biting my tongue.

She says, “OK” with that tone of voice where the “K” part goes up an octave – like OKaaaaay, it’s on your head…

Now I’m second-guessing myself. Should I have forbidden kids on the trampoline? Was it a bad idea to have a backyard party?

I know accidents do happen, and I try to take reasonable precautions — but I don’t want to live in a constant state of paranoid panic.

Someone asks me where the ice chest is, so I hustle over and start handling other party duties.

The doorbell rings and the Sports Coaches enter. Tucker’s so excited! These Coaches run the after-school sports programs in our district – and you can hire them to run different playground games. The Coaches set out cones, flags, and various-sized balls on the sport court. The kids are hopping around, eager to start playing.

I glance in Karen’s direction to see if she’s going to grill me on liability insurance waivers in case the kids are injured while playing Capture the Flag.

Thankfully, she’s engaged elsewhere – she’s skulking around the perimeter of the yard, no doubt hunting for other hazards – poisonous mushrooms or a perhaps a rusty nail.

Meanwhile, Tucker’s grinning from ear to ear, running around the backyard with his classmates and the Coaches. We’re cheering and laughing as the kids play the games. It’s a gorgeous crisp sunny day and I’m really happy everything is going smoothly.

I slip into the house to set out the lasagna, pizza, salad, and the rest of lunch, along with some cookies in case someone prefers those to birthday cake.

Just as I set the cookies on the dining table and I’m about to relax, Karen is at my elbow saying, “Is everything here nut-free? Some people have severe allergies, you know.”

OMIGOD! She’s like the Harbinger of Doom! Honestly!

I ask through clenched teeth, “Karen, is your child allergic to nuts?”

“No,” she says, “but other people might be. Some people can die from eating nuts.” She says helpfully.

“OK, well, all the parents are here, so if one of them has a kid with a FATAL nut allergy, then they probably would have mentioned it by now,” I say, with just a teeny bit of exasperation seeping into my voice.

I am trying so hard to remain friendly and cheerful – but I swear to God, every time I turn around today, she’s like the frikkin’ Grim Reaper telling me how everyone at my party is going to die!! I’ve never been so stressed at a party in my life.

She cocks her head, shrugs, and says smugly, “Well, you never knooow…”

I stare at her. I march over to the patio, with her trailing quickly behind me.

I loudly ask the parents, “DOES ANYONE HERE HAVE AN ALLERGY TO NUTS?”

People look at me and shake their heads.


Now they look bewildered, but they still shake their heads.


And you know what else has nuts? This party. And Nut Numero Uno is Karen.

And the only person in danger of meeting her maker at this party is Karen.

Because if she says one more thing to me about drowning, fatal allergies, being paralyzed, or head injuries – or starts yakking about asbestos, choking, rusty nails, snakes, or enemy insurgents suddenly appearing in my backyard to mow people down with AK-47s, I swear to God, I will kill her.  (In the pool. While wearing a helmet. And eating nuts.)

— Darcy Perdu

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(Know any parents like Karen? How would you have handled her? Any party guests who drove you crazy? Share your tales of parties, infuriating parents, or bizarre guests!)

How would YOU handle a mom like this at your kid's party? #funny

MY Red Lace Panties on HER Head?

Hilarious Story about how MY Red Lace Panties Ended Up on HER Head!  #funny  #bra  #panties  #shopping  #fashion

So then…she says, “Maybe black lace? Or something colorful? Purple?”

“I don’t know – maybe,” I respond. “But I do need a whole new wardrobe of unmentionables. It’s been so long since I’ve been bra and panty shopping – mine are falling apart!”

“Yeah,” says Melissa. “But I hate bra shopping. Such a pain.”

We’re in our 20s with fairly slim figures, but shopping for bras or swimsuits are always the worst excursions, regardless of your age or size. Too many options — and it’s a hassle to keep squeezing into tight garments for the right fit.

We walk the few short blocks from our Park Avenue office to the Lord & Taylor department store on Fifth Avenue and 39th. It’s a lovely store and soon we are knee-deep (tits-deep?) in bras of every shape, color, and size.

Melissa only needs a couple items, but my shopping bag is packed with several bras and even more panties. I’m stunned by the total cost. Why is it — the less the fabric, the higher the price?

We have just enough time to zip into the pizza place on the corner before returning to the office.

We order our slices and sodas at the counter, then join the throngs crammed together into the little tables and chairs. I pop up a couple times for napkins and soda refills.

When we’re done, I reach beneath the table for my Lord & Taylor shopping bag.

It’s gone.


We look everywhere but it’s clearly been nicked while we were eating.

How infuriating!

Not only did I spend a sizeable chunk of this week’s pay on the aforementioned unmentionables – but I wasted an hour trying on a million bras to find the exact right fit in a variety of styles and colors.

“I can’t believe I didn’t even notice anyone stealing my shopping bag! How could I not see someone walking off with it?” I ask.

Melissa says, “It’s New York! We’re all squished in here — plus there are bag ladies coming in and out of this place all the time. One of them probably just picked it up and added it to her other bags and kept walking.”

A bag lady?

This distresses me even more. At least a professional thief-junkie would return the undergarments to the store with the receipt — and get cash back for some crack or smack.

But a bag lady would probably just wear the expensive bras on the outside of her flak jacket – and my new red lace panties on her head.

From that point forward, as I’m walking in the city, I’m on high alert look-out for my bras and panties in case I see any of them gracing the outerwear of the city’s bag ladies – with price tags still attached.

I picture myself doling out dollars amongst the street dwellers, seeking intel: “Psst hey, have you seen anyone sporting a scoop neckline lavender lace bra with reinforced straps? How about zebra design panties with a black side bow? No? OK, keep your eyes open, doll. I’m on a mission here.”

— Darcy Perdu

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(Do you detest bra/panty/swimsuit shopping as much as I do? Ever have something stolen right out from under you? Any New York City stories?  I love to read your comments!)