Hum’s the Word

There’s something I believe every woman should have. No, it’s not one of the hardest minerals known to mankind that’s measured in carats and clarity. It’s hard, but it’s not a mineral. It’s battery operated.

Things of such nature can be difficult to discuss. One wants to spread the good word, while maintaining a delicate privacy about the matter. Boyfriends might be instructed to obtain one so that you might be spared unsavory storefronts. Gifts might be given to dear friends with the warning to open in private. Discretely wrapped catalogs in plain brown envelopes might arrive at the door with untold worlds inside. There are a surprising number of shapes, features, colors.

As for me, I’m rather traditional. Going old school suits me just fine. But you’d be surprised how difficult it can be to find a plain old Jane – er, John.

Years ago I found a decent piece of hardware with no frills save for several rather surprising attachments. One was a robust and veiny replica of an organ. The other had a long protuberance that reminded me of something aliens might use to conduct anal probes. (Take out the word “aliens” and I think that’s about right).

I removed the main attraction and left the sideshow slip-ons in the box, which I then carefully hid away in my room where they remained secret and hidden for many years.

Until…

You know that phase between living at your parents and striking out on your own? The phase where, even though you no longer live with your parents, most of your worldly possessions remain in their home because your crappy first apartment can’t even accommodate a desk and bed?

I was in that phase and these were hidden in my room – at my parents’ house.

You see, since it was their house, I couldn’t have put them in the trash. My parents would have undoubtedly discovered them and that would have been horrible. Caching them quietly away seemed like the best option. And it worked incredibly well, until my parents decided to have some remodeling work done in my room.

The contractors moved some of my furniture around to do the work and discovered Jimbo and Zorb (untouched and shrink-wrapped, I’d like to add). They could have had a chuckle, tucked them away in another corner of my room and moved on. But no.

They then showed them to my mother. After reclaiming her eyebrows from the top of her head, she could have had a chuckle and moved on. But no.

She then told my brother who could have shared a chuckle with my mother and moved on. But no.

They called me. Passing the phone back and forth, they gleefully shared their discovery with me. They got their chuckle all right, but I was unhappily on the other end of the line.

I could have been spared my mortification so many times throughout the chain of events that unfolded. I could have played it off as a joke. I could have moved to Siberia and never spoken of it again. I could have. But no.

Instead, I awkwardly got off the phone with what seemed like my entire family and withered.

At least Facebook did not exist. I did not have to see a photo pop up in my news feed reading “#discovery – with <Julie>.”

The phone call was bad enough.

So, in the same breath as I encourage every lady to add one of these devices to her arsenal, I’d also like to recommend that you hide your wrappings well.