Stupid Hearts
One
Well, crap.
Got home from a long ass shoot in Virginia Beach at the ass crack of dawn after a terrible flight full of turbulence and a screaming baby. Made sure Dozer was all settled in, filled up his food and water bowls, fluffed his oversized bed in the living room, and made sure he was happily gnawing on a gigantic rawhide. Finally took a deep breath as I slipped off my favorite dark brown and black ostrich boots.
I slunk into my closet-sized bathroom and started running the water. It looked like Pepto-Bismol had puked all over the damn thing. From the tiles to the bathtub and even the toilet, it was saturated in the awful pink color. The old pipes complained loudly until steaming hot water bellowed from the faucet.
I stripped off my typical black loose fitting V-neck and skintight black skinny jeans, then stood staring at my tired eyes in the mirror. The curls had fallen out of my hair a while ago and the makeup I’d applied at four in the morning was smudged and faded. I looked like a freaking train wreck standing like a Looney Tune in my underwear. I peeled off my black lace bra and matching thong and sank into a much needed scalding hot bath to relax.
After toweling off, throwing my long dark brown locks into a messy dripping bun, and slipping into my pajamas at eleven o’clock in the morning, the only thing left to do was unpack my carry-on bag.
By far my least favorite part of the whole traveling for work thing was living out of a suitcase. Oh, and the never ending laundry once I finally got home.
It continued to be a typical Monday morning until I started to go through the zipped pocket of my suitcase where I normally stowed all of my intimates, including my pink bullet vibrator. What the hell did I find?
Nothing.
All of my favorite thongs were gone. All of my beautiful lace bras that matched those thongs were gone. Devastation set in fast when I realized my favorite vibrator—the one that had been on the road with me for the past three years—was gone.
Well crap!
After three hours of no luck with complaining about the travesty of my stolen intimates to anyone that picked up the phone, I slumped onto the couch to stew in a pissed off channel surfing escapade and mourn the loss of my battery powered o-maker.
My phone buzzed on the light wooden coffee table, next to where my socked feet were resting. The screen displayed an unknown eight-hundred number.
I answered, “This is Jolene.”
An automated voice came on the line. “Hello. It has come to our attention that you were dissatisfied with our customer service regarding luggage handling. Please hold for a customer service operator.”
Fester.
Fester.
Fester.
At that point my blood was boiling and I was ready to bite the head off of this customer service operator.
“Hello. This is Maureen. It appears that you placed a complaint call earlier today. Please confirm your name for me.”
“Jolene Abbott.”
“Thank you, Ms. Abbott. How are you doing today?”
She seemed so sweet. Her vanilla-coated voice cooed into the phone, but I didn’t give a rat’s ass. I seethed, “You want to know how the hell I am doing? I get home from my business trip to find that some pervert that works for y’all in baggage handling gets off on stealing women’s intimates. Now I am left with none of my nice underwear or my favorite vibrator! Yes, I did just say vibrator! And y’all won’t do a damn thing because there isn’t a record of anyone searching my bag. Of course the perv didn’t leave a damn record of his sick little game and of course y’all won’t help me. So I’m sorry, Maureen. I know you’re just doing your job, but I am freaking pissed and y’all either need to reimburse me for the personal property that was stolen from me or just leave me the heck alone.”
There was a brief pause.
Maybe I’d been too harsh?
Finally her sweet voice came back on the line, a little softer this time. “I’m very sorry to hear that ma’am. I can transfer you to my supervisor. He might be able to help you.”
“Fuck this.” Click.
I threw on a Lynyrd Skynyrd shirt and a pair of faded gray skinny jeans, slid my socked feet back into my boots, and applied a light layer of eyeliner and mascara to avoid looking completely dead.
Tossing my phone into my purse, I gave Dozer a few kisses on his egg-shaped head. “Be back in a bit, bud.” His whip-like tail thumped against the plush bed as I walked to the door. Right as I pulled my bag’s strap over my shoulder and opened the front door, he closed his eyes.
