. . . . . entries for 2.7.04 . . . . .
Right. So I'm back from Canada.
I have an interesting tale to tell you all. It is the tale of the thong. Yes, of the thong. I write it now so I don't have to write it ten thousand times on AIM.
A few days before we left for Montreal and Quebec I informed my mother that I was in need of new pajamas for CTY. We were going to go to Crossgates or something to get said pajamas, but it occurred to mother dear that she could get me my pajamas in Montreal or Quebec - FRENCH pajamas. Mom remarked repeatedly on the Frenchness of our lodgings, food, the mode of dress of those around us, et cetera.
And so, we were in the market for pajamas when we went to Chateau Frontenac in Quebec.
The Chateau is a medieval castle, converted to a hotel on the waterfront of Old Quebec. My parents stayed there around twenty years ago, but it's switched ownership since then and is somewhat less quaint now. There are lots of gift shops in it.
We were snooping around the shops for pajamas, and we found them, incarnated in the form of a black "yoga set" in a black bag with a glittery red heart on it. There was a little tag on the bag. It had sillhouettes of the contents of this package on it. There was, of course, the bag itself, long pants and a tank top. And a thong. This is, I remind you, the tale of the thong.
So we got them. Once we had stepped out of the store, Mom remarked how very French it was to have such a risque little item in a pajama set.
Somewhat amused that I now owned a thong, a few days shy of fifteen years of age, I looked through the black bag with the glittery red heart in order to find it. I wrinkled my nose a bit when it didn't appear to be present in the bag, but didn't mention its absence until Dad had popped out of the car to ask for directions. We were lost on our way back to our hotel. Go figure, right?
Mom informed Dad that my thong was absent. In spite of, er, the thonglike nature of the item that was missing, Dad insisted that for the kind of prices the place charges they could at least give me my damn thong.
And I, of course, was amused by the idea of having a thong, so I decided to pursue getting my money's worth. (Or my parents' money's worth, as it were.)
It was decided by general (i.e. Mom's) consensus that we'd call the hotel from the town and get it shipped or something. Mom actually didn't plan on pursuing it. I don't think she had any idea how far this little joke would go.
At the hotel, we had an amusing argument over calling the hotel over the thong. Dad was very determined to have it done, but would be damned if *he* were the one to do it. A guy calling a hotel about his fifteen-year-old daughter's thong. . . neh. Not exactly socially acceptable.
Mother dear agreed to call if Dad and I went swimming. We did, and eventually she came down. By that time I was bloody aggrivated by the couples making out in the pool and by an Asian guy oggling me, so I just wanted to go back up to the room. Mom had fabricated an elaborate lie about how she had called and called and called but hadn't been able to get through for several different reasons. We'd call tomorrow, she said.
Obviously no one wanted to discuss this thong. Thongs are things that most people contend with but no one talks about, it seems. I was quietly laughing my ass off most of the time, but the punchline hadn't come yet.
You will know when the punchline comes. I sure as hell did.
In any case, Mom eventually did call about it. The manager of the damn shop was going to call us at home about shipping it.
Pfft. Shipping a thong. Express mail, anyone? But that will not be necessary, and I'm prepared to have a final laugh when and if the poor sucker calls us.
It will not be necessary because we had to go back to Chateau Frontenac anyway. The reason for this will be denoted in a more brief blog about the general Canadian experience. In any case, we went back and got another thong with relatively little fuss. Everyone was very polite and understanding about it. I expect the two young ladies we dealt with in getting the damn thing gathered and stared at us as we left and, as soon as we were out of earshot, burst out laughing.
As they should have. The punchline was almost afoot, after all.
When I got back to the car, I laughed silently at my newly acquired thong. As I sat there pondering the silliness of it all, my hand slipped into the well between the seat and the door. There was something cottony down there.
I removed it. It was a black thong, which had apparently fallen out of the bag without my noticing.
I made a point of not laughing.
And my parents still do not know that I found the first thong.
come home?
.:people:.
{ting}
she looks like the real thing
{mari}
out and about
[kelsey]
THIS IS AMERICA
{yianni}
stop being depressed
{alisa}
other
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close and far
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islands where no islands should go
[cassie]
eating knowledge
{colin}
my dm
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industry insider
{elle}
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are you reading this?
[olga]
distracted
[messiah dan]
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{max}
approach focus
[natalie]
wait a minute
[susan]
solitude
{greg}
manbeargreg
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.:skin:.
turtles! turtles! by araglas
(heavily modified by yours truly)