Aloha,
Several friends and family members have asked if I could
anthologize my recent Victoria’s Secret “Panty Raid.”
(You see, I was in search of the perfect Mother’s Day gift – only I
was not alone…)
###
Gen, and I were talking last week, and I mentioned if she wanted
anything for Mother’s Day?
“Well, I don’t want flowers, jewelry
or stuffed animals, but oh! I would like some new undies.”
I was already thinking Ross or Wal-Mart when an icicle of
fear pierced my heart as she smiled and said where she wanted me to go.
“Victoria’s Secret.”
Beads of sweat popped out of my manly brow as my writer’s
mind offered an instant vision:
Me and the three kids working our
way past a row of colorful bras and other sexy lingerie things… then the
stroller hits a display holding a mannequin-ette… which topples over… as I
instinctively raise my hands, I find myself cupping a lace-covered,
voluptuously made plastic bosom… just as an elderly woman walks by. She shakes
her head, tsk tsks me and suggests we should rent a hotel room…
Shaking off this nightmare scenario, I turn to my wife with
a hopeful look.
“Hang on, my love. How about I buy you one of those pajama
combo things… the hoodie, footie things on TV, you know the ones that end in
“ie?”
 |
| Oh, la, la :) |
|
|
“It’s a Snuggie and, no, I just need
a few pairs of undies from Victoria’s Secret – but while you’re there you can
buy something for yourself, too.
Now we’re talking. (I love Mother’s DayJ)
OK. I have five business days to arrange for my
not-so-secret visit to Victoria’s Secret (VS.)
I'm a guy. I got this.
The first thing I do, (‘cos I’m as sharp as a stick) is to
have Gen tell me what type of panties she wants – and as she does…I Write. It.
Down.
With that precious info in hand, I now wait until Friday
morning to prepare for the rest of the mission. VS is an awesome national
brand, so there’s got to be a few around Oahu.
Right?
There’s only one – at least according to my manly GPS.
And it’s in downtown Waikiki.
Which meant, I imagined, horrible traffic, garage parking
and me having to decipher a "directory" to help find my way around a
huge, sprawling mall for this secret lingerie store.
OK, OK, no worries.
As long as I leave by 9:30 a.m. I can make it there in about
twenty minutes, find parking; walk to the store; peruse the panties; purchase
the panties; return to minivan and drive home by 11:30 a.m., which is when Gen
comes home to feed our infant boy.
For anyone new, I’m a stay-at-home Dad to three boys (aged
four, two and four months old.) I write a monthly series on parenting called “You Know You’re A Parent When...”
OK, so if we’re going downtown, that means we’re going on a
TRIP.
And a TRIP means, in no particular order that the following must be onboard the minivan:
Three Children.
Two Drinks.
One Snack Bag.
Other miscellaneous equipment needed for the TRIP include:
Diaper bag.
Stroller.
Car seat.
Shoes...
For some reason… (YOU’RE
GOING TO A LINGERIE STORE WITHOUT A FEMALE TO GUIDE YOU!!!)… I’m flustered,
and instead of leaving at 9:30 a.m. it’s more like 10:15.
I place the Mother's Day card on the hood of the van
while I arrange the boys.
Reversing out the driveway, I ask the buckled-in boys if
they’re “Ready for an adventure?”
Little did I know…
I switched on GPS, and double checked the address via Droid.
I was not getting lost on this panty
raid.
Driving away, a small, plastic bag blew off the side of the
windscreen.
Man, I hate litterers.
Freeway traffic was light, and I soon hit the final road
leading to Victoria’s Secret.
Not knowing if it was on the left or right, I did as many
males would – I cast away the physical address and looked for the physical attributes.
There must be a window-sized
lingerie model somewhere around here… and there she is… On the left!
Like a lacy beacon in a busty, er busy street, the store
entrance was at street level, which meant I wouldn’t have to waste time
traversing any strange malls.
Oh, happy days, this is easy.
“We did it, boys, we did it,” I shouted to the kids, (as if
we’d travelled nonstop from Boston to Los Angeles.)
“Papa, can I have the snack bag, please,” said No. 1 Son.
“Let me just find parking.”
I made the next left. It was all loading and unloading only.
OK.
Then I saw a parking garage offering two options: the flat
$9 rate, or $2 per thirty minutes.
“Boys… look sharp… if we rush, we can get there, and be back
here in thirty minutes, right?”
“Papa, can I have the snack bag, please?”
“Sure, sure, let me just park.”
I told the lady we were here for the $2 special. She smiled
and warned not to park in levels one to four, “‘cos you’ll get a ticket.”
No worries.
It’s 10 a.m. on a Friday, there’ll
be spots on level five. Surely.
At level three, we pass ROSS, (a clothing store.)
Momentarily, I muse and wonder if they
sell Victoria’s Secrets panties. They might be cheaper, too??
But then you won’t get the little
pink bag thing…
Right, right.
By the time we reached level eight, the older boys were
playing “what’s the next number!” game, and I was getting dizzy.
We parked (on eight) and Operation
Buy Panties was a GO!
Stroller out – wheels locked. CHECK.
No. 3 Son in car seat – attached to stroller. CHECK
No. 2 Son unbuckled and removed from van. Placed next to
left hip. CHECK.
Reach in cramped space for No. 1 Son’s shoes (he always removes them.)CHECK.
Continue searching for shoes like I’m bobbing for apples. OH,
Check.
A just-before-leaving-the-house memory hits me with the
force of a Wonderbra.
“Don’t forget his blue shoes…”
“Son... Where. Are. Your. Shoes?”
“In the new house. Papa. Can I have the snack bag, please?”
“Oh, yeah, Sure. Here, take this.”
Let me think, let me think.
OK, No. 1 Son can’t walk with no
shoes…oh my gosh, he’ll cut himself… get an infection, and we’ll have to take
him to the ER – probably on Mother’s Day. No, no, no, no.
But what to do?
Go home?
Give in –let the panties win?
What would I tell my wife?
I looked at the kids… No. 1 Son was happy with his snack
bag, No. 2 was playing with the front tire and waiting for further orders,
while No. 3 son chilled out atop the stroller.
Atop the stroller.
Kids can sit on those.
Kids without shoes.
I had a great idea….
Releasing the car seat (with baby) I placed both next to the
hood – where I now remember was where
I’d left the Mother’s Day card… That was
the “litter” blowing off the windscreen earlier...
Seriously.
Never mind the card, don’t forget
the baby.
Oh,
yeah…
With No. 1 Son locked in stroller, I
grabbed the baby harness my wife wears with
ease.
Licensed by a car company, it was a
bloody straitjacket… I couldn’t figure what was up or down – even when I held
the logo out in front like a hood ornament.
I tried one hand here, unsnapping
this and grabbing that…but whatever, dude… that thing wouldn’t hold air, let
alone No. 3 Son.
Wiping sweat off my brow, I threw
the harness back and said to heck with it.
I’ll
carry baby, roll the stroller and No. 2 Son will follow my sharply given
commands.
Doors locked.
Off
we go.
Ten steps later… after weaving
stroller somewhat toward the
elevator, I called halt, which three of us did (considering I was holding
one and pushing the other.)
No. 2 Son however... he kept on
trucking like he was freeeee.
“Catck me, Papa. Papa. Catck me…”
Stroller wheels locked, baby
bouncing, I catch up with the Runaway Son as he turns for level seven...
Bloody
Nora, this ain’t gonna work.
Change permutations.
Baby in stroller – pull straps
TIGHT.
(Remember
to scootch him back to center as needed.)
Hold No. 2 Son in manly arms; hunker
down for serious eye contact moment with No. 1 Son, (who looks at me in awe for arranging such a great adventure.)
“OK, you’re walking to the store
without any shoe–”
“COOL!”
“Watch for glass or rocks. If the
ground is too hot, let me know.”
He gets my most serious glare.
“And, whatever happens, don’t. Tell. Your. Mother!”
“But,
Papa…?”
“Yes, son.”
“Mama
will find out when she reads this…”
“She
already knows… plus you didn’t really say the last few lines – I’m using
‘artistic license.’”
Stopping by the elevator, I lower
No. 2 Son, and catching my breath, I relax.
Nothing could go wrong…
Ding!
“Ok, guys c’mon, c’mon,” I said
nodding thanks to the man already inside as he threw an arm to hold the door.
I looked to my right as No. 1 Son
pressed NINE and TEN.
“No, no. ‘G’, we need ‘G.”
I turned to see what No. 2 was doing
as our unlucky companion pressed into a corner.
OK,
good. This elevator has only one bank of buttons. Nothing for No. 2 to press…
Except the emergency call button…
“NOoooooo!!!”
Too
late…
“Light. Papa. Light. On.”
Ring…
Ring…
“Hello, Emergency Services. Is there
an emergency,” said A Stern Voice from the speaker, set about eighteen inches
off the ground.
Who
puts the emergency thingy on the other side of the buttons???
I’m six-two, so my arse stuck up in
the air as I shushed No. 2 Son and talked to Stern Voice.
“No, sorry, it was my son; he
pressed the button by mistake…”
“Hello? Can you hear me? IS there an
emergency?”
I
bent lower – arse goes higher –thinking it wouldn’t surprise me if the guy in
the corner jumps on five and walks…
“No emergency, my son pressed the
button,” I said – throwing my sweet, button-pressing son under the bus – again.
Great job, Papa…
CLICK!
OK,
fine. Be like that.
Arriving at “G”, our new friend
bolts.
I threw him a “sorry” as I regrouped
the troops.
My thirty minutes was dwindling, but
there was still hope.
“Ready, Son?”
“Ready, Papa!”
I moved No. 2 son to the lesser of
my two burning arms, unlocked the stroller and we lumbered off into the heart
of Honolulu.
Next stop: Victoria’s Secret.
The streets of Honolulu were hot and humid as I walked along
the upscale
of course it was
district
leading to Victoria’s Secret.
Stores like PRADA and COACH were here and I passed Armani
Exchange and its sandwich board advertising a special: Men’s Shorts: two for $88.
Holding
No. 2 son, while pushing baby, I kept a low profile so Hawaii 5-0 wouldn’t
arrest me for neglecting my shoeless son…
Bad parent! Bad parent!
And then, there she was.
Victoria,
and all her secrets.
I’ve
never been so happy to see a
half-naked, sexy woman in a window – even
after living in Amsterdam for three years.
I walked into the blessed relief of air conditioned bras.
And
panties.
I
looked around.
More
bras.
More
panties.
Good grief, where do I begin?
A lady in black caught my terror-struck eyes and immediately
asked if I needed any help?
“Look, Papa, it’s a construction
hat…”
“Oh,
yes, please can you help... Son, get your bloody head out of that bra…”
Curtailing the able-bodied boys, I fished out my wife’s wish
list.
“Do
you have these… please?” I blubbered.
“Ah
yes, sure, follow me upstairs.”
“There’s
a second floor… There’s more bras and panties?”
(I
own eight pairs of boxers – the extra one is for emergencies… I’m not
getting any younger, you see.)
“Yes,
sir. And, the elevator is right over here…”
A what?
No! Please not that…
“I can carry the stroller up the stairs, if you like?” I
asked hopefully.
She
shook her head, and we gathered outside the steel door.
It opened. The boys ran in and No. 2 Son looked for “Light!
Light!
I
stood guard over the few buttons and smiled at my guardian angel (who must have
left those big wing things at home.)
Exiting,
she brought me to one corner, where hundreds and hundreds of panties lay on
display.
Rows
and rows... it was like a rainbow of panties...
Finally,
I caught a break. The boys found a huge loveseat (of course) and were busy beating each other to a bloody pulp.
My sweet, well-behaved
(semi-shoeless) boys.
And,
then she bent to pull on a drawer.
My
eyes bugged, I mean literally, they
nearly popped out.
I
looked down, across… and then behind me.
There
were dozens of drawers, all full of
drawers.
I
stared at this one drawer though – my
holy grail of panties.
Imagining
a white light (and some Gregorian chanting) emanating from the back of the
drawer, I looked up at my Angel.
“Is
this it? Is this what I came for?”
“Yes.”
Thanking
her so very much for her wonderful help, I mustered the troops.
“Guys,
come here, quick!”
The
boys scooted over and No. 1 Son picked his five favorite colors.
As
I made our way to the cashier, a “buy something for yourself, too…”
memory hit me, but my internal battery was down to one flashing red bar.
I
had a headache.
We
paid – and after an uneventful walk of shame…
“Look Mama, that boy over there with
the bald man, he has no shoes.”
“Shh, dahling, don’t talk about poor
people like that – and besides, look at these two cheap pairs of shorts I
bought your father.”
…we
made it back to the van, drove home... and that’s the end.
NO WAY, dude that sucks… what really happened?
OK, OK…so there is a little more….
Suh-weet!
Encore, encore!
Ahh, thanks, I’ve never had a
writer’s encore before…
Fast
Forward to Mother’s Day. My wife is enjoying breakfast in bed as I share the
adventure of the previous Friday…
No.
1 Son decides it’s good to share.
“I had no shoes, Mama, I walked with
no shoes!”
Thank.
You. Son.
“You’re Welcome, Papa!”
Anyway, it is with immense pride that I watched my beloved
remove her five new undies – the spoils of my now infamous panty raid.
She
giggled.
Three
of the five panties were the wrong style.
Two
of the five were the wrong size.
###
Gentlemen, the moral of the story
is…
Don’t
let this happen to you.
Order online.
It’s safer.
 |
And, always have flowers in your back up plan :)
|
- Follow Me on Twitter!
- Join Me on Facebook!
- RSS
Contact