Angry Holiday Sunday

Just taking a few minutes out of my busy Labor Day 3-day holiday weekend Sunday afternoon to share a few thoughts about how pissed off I am. Corporate mismanagement, combined with incompetence and mismanagement on the part of our contract customer have come together in delicious synergy to fuck me out of the last 3-day weekend of the summer of 2005. The weather outsdie is stunning, cool and slightly breezy, crystal clear, with dazzling sunshine. Everyone is out, on foot, on their bikes, in the pool. It's a beautiful day, absolutely magnificent, and I'm stuck here in the office. And there's another day like today coming tomorrow, another day in the office to look forward to, editing and correcting the work of others which should have been done over a month ago.

I will never get this time back, and that pisses me off, a lot. The nature of the contract also will keep me from getting paid for the work I'm doing now. That, and asking just for the time off that I've expended here will make me look like a non-team player with the boss. He'll wonder why I don't just suck it up and make the best of it. So do I ask for next Monday off? Hell, he's not here today, and won't be tomorrow. I don't know yet.

Added to the pain was the fact that I had to drive 2 hours to get here, up from the family vacation house. And I have to go back down there this evening, with gas at about $3.20/gallon. No, I'm not getting paid for the mileage either.

Drove up here through Ignorant America Behind The Wheel. Up through a locally renowned county speedway, a 4-lane divided highway with a posted speed limit of 55mph where the flow of traffic is at 70mph. And the motorcylcle groups and clubs weave in and out at 80+mph. And the dumbass in his stupid tricked-out rice rocket, with the cheezy wing in the back and all of the extra dials on the dash, ripping in and out of traffic, incredibly dangerous to himself and others, all the while talking on his phone. And then who's too busy yapping on the phone at the stoplight to even notice that it's changed, and who gets mad at the driver behind him when that driver finally toots the horn just a bit to get his attention. This is the kind of crap going on all around us, every day. And it just saps my strength, little by little.

But it all got better, so much better on a brief stop at a local grocery store to buy some fruit and soda to have to eat in the office as I toil through the illustrious day. As I navigate the aisles, there's a middle-aged woman, maybe mid-40's, apparently come from Sunday church. Her face looks okay, but not really attractive. Tall and in-shape, blond hair, about mid-length. She could be attractive, I guess, but she just looks tired. Looks frazzled, but not just recently frazzled, but she looks like she's had a lifetime of frazzle, just a life full of surprises and rushing and deadlines and stresses, and not taking it easy. She looks beaten down, a little too wide-eyed, a little too skittish in her movements, older and worn out before her time. Not wrinkles, but just like she's been used too much, has done too much too fast.

But her body is nice, tall and well-proportioned. She looks pretty good, actually, And she's wearing a very nice pair of tightish white slacks . . . with her black lace thong showing so absolutely magnificently through. Not the skanky look of a thong riding up the hips and out of low-riding pants, but just a clear vision of them right through her very nice slacks. What an absolutely wonderful sight, and it made my shitty, angry holiday Sunday at work just a little bit better. No, this vision made it a lot better.

She looked lost in the supermarket (I can hear the Clash singing right now), holding some product and apparently unsure if she wanted it, maybe even wondering how it got into her hand. I just hung by the cut meats, watching her move a bit, watching her delightfully outfitted ass. She went down an aisle, and I followed at a discreet distance, just to watch that thong, with its plain-to-see scalloped lace edges and black lace detailing, move so wonderfully inside her slacks. I was in a bit of a hurry, but not so much so that I'd pass up an opportunity to indulge in two minutes of thong-watching. I followed her up the aisle, walked past, then followed her back down and then finished my shopping and headed out.

So, as always, I wondered: has she put these on for someone, or did she just do it on her own? Either way, I approve. If she did it for a man--or for a woman, for that matter--good on her, and I wish every woman in the world were that way, that confident, that imaginative, that sexy, and that considerate. And I envy the lucky person at home for whom that thong is worn. She may look frazzled for life, but just that act is enough to endear me to her.

And if she wore it just for herself, just to reduce her panty line, well that's okay, too. Any ladies reading this, take note: wearing a thong or a g-string doesn't reduce or eliminate your panty line, it only moves it to a different location. Even if she hadn't been wearing the black underneath white, the outline of the thong stood out plainly. Instead of the panty line around the cheek of the ass, it's simply moved right on up into the delightful vee of the ass. So, the panty line has gotten even more sexy and provocative with a thong over a traditional panty. If that's the intent--fantastic. If not, then I'll just take the happy coincidence.

But if she just wore it for herself, I again congratulate her on her confidence and her sexiness, even if no one notices and even if she goes home alone to her cat, Mr. Twinkies. I noticed, and I thought it looked wonderful. The fact that she went out and bought it, in black, and in scalloped lace, that's saying something positive right there. And she took it out of the drawer this morning and put it on, that's saying something in addition. I applaud both actions, most sincerely.

And did she just come from church? Who knows, but it's a distinct possibility. So what does God think of a woman putting on a black thong for church? And under white slacks, no less. Jerry Falwell and Jimmy Swaggart and the self-appointed hypocritical arbiters of morals and taste and governance would rail and scream and rant over this, in public. In private they'd pump up their sanctified erections (credit to Frank Zappa) to JO themselves into a froth over the randy, dirty, nasty little churchgoer they're encountering and want so, so badly to defile. If God allowed the thong to be invented, He created it, right? And why would He create it if not then to be worn? So she was just carrying out God's will in putting on some wicked-sexy underwear to go and to praise God in. Hell, if I were God I'd be a happy Guy about it all. How could He not be?

So I headed off to work with my apples and oranges and bananas a rejuvenated guy, still pissed off that I've got to work today, but reinvigorated by the confirmation that out there are 40-something women who still know how to get their sexy on, even on a Sunday morning.

Now if I can only get my wife to tune into this vibe.