Ruminations of a Red Dirt Hussy

July 1, 2014

And then they took my underwear, or things to know when your house is on fire

Filed under: General — Vadasmaker @ 11:52 am

First, “cute firefighter” is redundant. They’re all cute. At least those on urban fire departments are. I think it’s in their contracts. Small-town firemen, not so much. Small-town firemen are kind of like cheerleaders at small-town schools. Saying you dated a cheerleader from a rural school is not necessarily a bragging point. She might, and probably would be, a very nice girl, but we all know being a very nice girl has jack-shit to do with being a cheerleader.

I mean, if a school has, say, 100 students in grades 8-12, what are the chances of 4 or 6 or 8 being both cheerleader-pretty and able to be part of a human pyramid, or even perform a cartwheel? Slim to none. They may be sweet girls with great senses of humor, but face it. Being a cheerleader is all about looks. Which doesn’t explain George W. Bush, but you see my point.

Second, if you must have a disastrophe, fire is the best kind. I mean, not a bad, bad fire, not firey, just fire-ish. Fire-ish is always preferable. But in either case, you get firemen, whereas, if you were serial killed, or killed your spouse, not that I ever would, who would respond? Policemen. They work hard. They keep us safe. They’re overworked and under-paid. I know it. But they are not, shall we say, always as fit as they could be. Remember those firemen calendars? Tulsa’s actually received honorable mention at There are even lists for top female firefighter calendars. Seen one lately for policemen? I guess I really shouldn’t say there aren’t any to be found, because, you know, Google exists, but there are far fewer than for firemen, and police calendars lean more toward 8 x 10 glossies of K-9s and known criminals. Actually, members of both those groups can be pretty fit. Just not as often as firemen.

My firefighters—as they shall ever be known—were all adorable. Every last one of them, even the woman firefighter. I’m not saying I would want to see them in bowties and Speedos. I would never objectify them like that. But I might look at a firefighter who just chose to dress that way to come to my fire. Wouldn’t you? Look, I mean. Not come to my fire in a bowtie and a Speedo. Please don’t. But seriously, if I were to peek, it would be a sociological study. Academic. A public service, as it were. So, when we’re talking disastrophe, there’s that looky-loo factor. It’s a glass is half-full thing.

Third (and this is only for fire-ish, because if it’s a real fiery fire, you’d better haul your ass out of there), when said firefighters arrive and they tell you that you do, indeed, have a fire-ish thing and should remove prized possessions in case fire-ish becomes firey, you have to ask yourself, “Self, what shall I rescue?” I’m currently compiling a list of appropriate possessions, which I will box up and put close to the front door so I can find them quickly in case we suffer another fire-ish, or God forbid, a firey, event. This list has come about because I was told in no uncertain terms that the things I did rescue were completely inappropriate.

While I believe “prized” possessions, and the “appropriateness” of choices are in the eye of the beholder, I admit that in this case, I may have been a tad bit . . . um . . . self-involved. I know, I know. It was a total surprise to me, too. I did gather my wits enough to throw one of the cats into the exercise room and shut the door, which, I suppose, could have ended badly, since that room is an add-on and might not have been as well-ventilated as one would like. Still, in my defense, it was Clancy I threw in there, and he’s the cat most likely to terrify firemen. Plus he hates me and pees on my stuff. But that wasn’t a factor. At all.

So, I’ll bet you’re wondering what I elected to rescue instead of my wedding album or my granddaughters’ toddler pictures or the 300 year history of my mother’s family. I’m really not sure that information is pertinent, but Jim seems to think that what I took with me is indicative of my character, so he’ll probably blab it anyway. I’ll just tell you.

  • Four copies of my own book
  • My red cowboy boots.
  • A picture of me and James McMurtry.

What? The book is out of print, people, and I am never going to have the money to buy another pair of lipstick red Luccuese boots with a riding heel. I took the picture of me and James McMurtry because, you know, I figure I have a better chance with him than Jon Stewart. Plus Jon has that restraining order thingy. Well. In my imagination he probably does. In reality, he may not know I’ve been stalking him. Or that I exist. Or that a restraining order would have no effect on my pursuit.

And make no mistake. If I had a tiara, and it is beginning to look as if I never will, I would’ve been wearing it when the firemen arrived.

Fourth, and perhaps most important, the people who de-soot and de-smoke your house will take your underwear, and it is possible you’ll never see it again. I am not making this up. Along with your underwear, they will take the towels, curtains, drapes, and bedding. Although they say they’ll bring my underwear back, here it is 29 days later, and while they’re returned towels, curtain, drapes, and bedding, I have yet to see my underwear. I ask you, on what planet does one suppose that any household incidentals hold more importance than a woman’s underwear? Upon discovering this sacrilege, I had to lie down with a wet maxipad on my forehead. Having your underwear seized is, and I don’t think this is too strong a word, traumatic. If I didn’t already have PTSD, this action alone could induce it.

I mean, some of that stuff cannot be replaced. It’s old. And broken in. And some is, I don’t know, specialized. Like my back-fat bras. Back-fat bras don’t grow on trees. What am I supposed to do with my back fat now? Answer me that. And they took my pushup bras and my minimizing bras and my sports bras and my six-way convertible bras with the different colored straps and my t-shirt bras, not to mention the under-wires, the no-wires, the full coverage, the demi, and the ones that squeeze the bejesus out of me from my throat to my waist.

And then there are the panties. You have no idea what it’s like to lose your no-line panties. Truly no-line panties. With silicone. You know, to keep them where they ought to be. Panties that stay where they should be and don’t look like they’re there are a miracle. A Christmas miracle. And the granny panties. It took me years to get those broke in, and the safety pins holding some of them together are not easily come by. Plus, How do I know somebody’s not posting pictures of my underwear on Facebook? Long story short, every day I wake up worrying about where my underwear is and what they’re doing to it.

I hate to say it, but of all the things I might dwell on in the aftermath of a fire-ish event, losing my underwear tops the list. I am not kidding. I’d rather have a sooty hoo-hoo than panty lines, and don’t even get me started on not being pushed up and squeezed in and fully covered.

If you’re reading this and you have my underwear, please bring it home.



  1. It’s entirely possible you need therapy. Or MORE therapy. I don’t know that I’d even want the underwear back. I mean, what all have they been doing to it, all these long days they’ve had it in their possession? It may be the writer in me, or the fact that I, too, need massive amounts of therapy. Not that YOU need massive amounts of therapy. I mean that *I* need massive amounts…oh crap, forget it. But I envision said people doing all sorts of, well, sick, disgusting, vile things with and to your underwear. Now again, it may just be me…in fact, I’m pretty sure it IS just me but………….I’m going to quit while I’m ahead.


    Comment by Gloria Teague — July 1, 2014 @ 1:47 pm | Reply

  2. I believe your priorities are perfectly in order–of course you saved those items–but I could have lived the rest of my life without knowing you own that many specialized bras and panties. Hey, I’m practically single. Can you hook me up with one of those firefighters?


    Comment by Michelle — July 1, 2014 @ 3:17 pm | Reply

  3. Firefighters bring out the arsonist in me. Who needs stuff when you can get carried out “fireman-style” – 2, count ’em, two firefirghters at once! You seen my matches?


    Comment by Pony-tail girl — July 8, 2014 @ 10:55 am | Reply

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