Back in a land far, far away, a space and time before husbands and children, there lived the former version of myself, Tracy Records. Just a single girl, designing t-shirts in a sweatshop, living paycheck to paycheck. With my overactive social life, my biggest worries were, “do I pay my gas and electric bill, or pick up the $50 bar tab?” With that said, I over slept a lot, from a hangover, and the lack of electricity to my alarm clock.
After a typical friday-happy-hour-that-soon-became-saturday-morning-and-birds-were-chirping night out, I was jolted out of my vodka-induced sleep coma to the sound of someone repeatedly knocking on my door and ringing my doorbell. What nerve, it was the crack of 11 am. In attempts to make them go away I covered my head with a stack of pillows, but they just wouldn’t stop. Fuckers.
I slowly got myself to a seated position and waited for the vertigo to subside before continuing the slow and painful ascent to a standing position. I had on boxer shorts, braless in my Bob Ross tee-shirt, sideways bed-head ponytail, mascara down to my jaw line, sheet imprints on my face, drool crust and breath that could melt your face off.
I staggered down the stairs, holding on to the railing for dear life and ready to kill whoever was STILL knocking on my door (with my breath). When I opened the door, much to my dismay stood 2 Mexican delivery men. In their broken English they told me they were with Sears Home Delivery and that they were here to deliver my new mattress/box spring and take away my old one. Dear God, what the fuck was I thinking scheduling a Saturday delivery “between the hours of 8am and 8pm”? Why the completely useless time window, btw? I’m no mathematician, but I think that means “Saturday.”
As I escorted the gentlemen, who I will call Pedro and Ramon, up the stairs to my bedroom, I was utterly mortified with how I must look (and smell) but completely unable and unwilling to do anything about it. I could only imagine what they thought. “Ma’am, you need to take the sheets off so that we can take this mattress away.” Crap, what a mess, so I started stripping off bedspreads, blankets and sheets, throwing them onto a heap on the floor, then clearing the way so they could remove the old mattress.
As soon as Pedro lifted the mattress off of the box-spring, he, Ramon, and myself, stood awkwardly frozen in time, all eyes affixed on the offending object…my vibrator.
It felt like an eternity. I simply did not know what to do, I couldn’t move, I was beyond embarrassed, and I was so hung over that I could barely remember my own name. The damage was done, there was no coming back from this one. I finally felt my legs moving beneath me, and I reached over and picked up the silver bullet. I then tossed it in the air from my right hand to my left, and said “well this is embarrassing!” I then excused myself very gracefully, like I had been taught in finishing school, to go properly hide my vibrator in the bathroom cabinet.
Up until that point, Pedro and Ramon had been speaking perfect broken English, but suddenly lapsed into extremely fast Spanish, avoiding any eye contact with me and working so fast that you would never have even believed they were Mexican.
The whole scene got even better as I watched them carry my old DNA masterpiece of a mattress, across the street in front of my neighbors who were productively mowing their yards and washing their cars.
I just had to stand and watch all of this in horror.
Swaying with a pounding headache of shame, in my boxers, and braless Bob Ross tee-shirt, sideways ponytail, mascara down to my jaw, drool crust and horrible breath I signed the delivery sheet. I feigned a smile as if to say, “Hey, we all get caught with a vibrator under our mattress by Mexican delivery men sometimes!” But my eye contact was not reciprocated.
With the sound of their fast speaking Spanish and laughter wafting through my window on the way to their truck, I curled up on my new mattress, still wrapped in packing plastic, and slept for a thousand days.
Categories: True Stories
tracy fulks 
The story they shared at the dinner table that night.
no shit!
Brilliant!
Brilliantly humiliating!
and written!
I will hence forth rename my bullet… bala de plata… in your honor. I will also play the song La Cucaracha the next time I use it, also in your honor!
That is excellent news, because I am renaming the silver bullet to bala de plata, because it’s much classier.
The best stories are always multicultural. Magnifico!
“they were working so fast you would never have believed they were Mexican?” call me old-fashioned and maybe HAVE a cigarette?
I stumbled at that phrase too – had been smiling along until I got to that point, and it wiped the smile off my face. Sorry to be all PC and uptight, but I was having a great time and then that bit took the fun out of it for me. Just sayin. Kat
it’s a joke. I take aim at myself most of the time, it’s just humour, relax.
just a joke. relax.
Nothing like a vibrator to break the ice.
Bala de Plata, sounds great!
That’s what I always say.
“I then excused myself very gracefully, like I had been taught in finishing school, to go properly hide my vibrator in the bathroom cabinet.”
I knew I was missing out on the good lessons by refusing to go to finishing school. Dammit. I would never have known what to do with mine in this situation.
I learned that right after I learned about what all of the different forks are for.
I thought I had deja vu – or was losing my mind. Fortunately, neither.
you’re sane. just a repost, this nicotine deprivation has robbed me of the ability to write at the moment.
lmao. . .BOB!!
You have so many great stories.
I think this one is very funny! But not sure why they would hurry and not linger, just saying… thanks for the smiles!
At least you had a vibrator. There’s nothing worse than a frigid drunk chick.
You were a sight in the morning, huh? Gas-mask required? (grin)