Last weekend, I went shopping with my friend Megan, and by the end of the day I had in my possession a giant roll of purple carpet. In order for everyone to fit in Megan's small car, I had to ride on top of the carpet roll and getting out proved to be somewhat difficult. I attempted to make as graceful an exit as possible when crawling out of the Chevy Cavalier backwards, but being as this bitch they call Mother Nature really has it out for me, along came a breeze and up went my dress. Unfortunately, I happened to be wearing a g-string. I heard a loud whistle and turned to see a potbellied man sporting acidic denim cutoffs and the dreaded M-word (can you say Mullet?).

I turned to my friends and muttered, "I hate my life." And Megan said, "It was the woman who whistled." Sure enough, a woman sat on the porch ogling my derriere. Of the two, she was the least revolting. "Good," I said, only to hear Megan reply, "Actually she's a swinger."

HOW DO THESE THINGS HAPPEN TO ME? My life consists almost entirely of awkward situations and endless sexual innuendo. I made a mad dash for the backyard and thought I was safe until I heard a "Hey," coming from over the fence. Oh God. I pretended not to hear. And then it happened: the gate squeaked, the smell of generic cigarettes and Aqua Net wafted through the summer breeze, and I knew it was them. I was face to face with the swingers.

First, they went into the dreaded customary small talk, remarking on what great weather we had, blah, blah, blah All the while I am thinking, "Please God, Please make his flammable hairdo light up in flames." Instead, I got what I think was my first invite into Swingsterdom.

"Wanna beer?" the woman asked. Err, no. "We have a hottub in the back. You could borrow one of my suits." AAAGGHHH! The thought of my perfect pink pooter in her infested swimsuit! I was tempted to tell her I had a massive outbreak of oozing herpetic sores, but alas, I could not lie. "No, thank you," I said in my best I-think-you-are-disgusting-but-I-will-be-polite way, and she was gone.

Attention white trash, plague-ridden whores! Stay away! I do not want to kiss your smoky mouth or touch the sagging breasts beneath your Wal-Mart sports bras! Leave me alone! This girl belongs to the boys!