Nudie Rudy Cont'd...

I finally got the guts to open the door with one hand while hoping the other would pull the sweater down enough to cover the edge of the chaps, and... "bling!" there were the keys, back on the floor -- yes, it was that bad...  I peeked inside the cracked entrance doors to make sure no one was near, thus piquing the curiousity of men further away.  Like a flash (no pun) I dipped down and got the keys before anyone could ask if I needed help. I finally made it past the humongous salesroom, reaching the target counter and thought the nightmare was close to an end.  I was greeted by the Honda Key Master who promptly asked me for cash (which I didn't have) or a credit card (which I really didn't have) or a check (well...) to pay for the blessed metal instrument to my safety and freedom.  I swear that for a split second I thought maybe if I flashed him he would just give me the damn key and let me be on my way, as quite obviously something in my day had gone very, very awry...

Calling on my husband (who had stopped grinning *long* ago) helped as he promised the Key Master he would pay for the key (the car is in his name) soon after his meeting.  The Key Master told me that it would take him a good twenty minutes to cut said Key to my freedom.  I was a prisoner of my own freedom - or at least of my free privates...

Sweat, tears and twenty minutes later I picked up the key, obviously thankful but painfully reminded that there is a reason I was never *that* woman, the Samantha, the Temptress that makes good sex seem so easy, the one that make us forget the reality of how silly sex can be and how much time we invest/waste on it.

And that's not even talking about the money we spend on it...