Handguns in Handbags and Other Stories

Okay. This is going way back, but I have to tell you a couple of stories about my dear, dear friend Lesley who was my "date" for my sis's wedding at the end of May. I knew I was going to forget this, and I don't know what prompted me to remember it (maybe something I just heard on Seinfeld?) but I'm sure glad I did.

If you are lucky enough to know Lesley, you know one gloriously Southern, unabashedly honest, beautifully funny, gorgeous, blunt Mississippi darling. She and I go way back. Way back. As in, we went to Headstart together at age 4. So I've known this precious gal for quite some time. And she is the subject of many a side-splitting story.

For starters, when she showed up at my apartment in Starkville, Mississippi, the day we were leaving for Orange Beach, she had so many bags (and for just a week, might I add!) that I feared the Honda would be dragging ass and causing sparks with the tailpipe the whole way to the Gulf coast. "This one's just shoes," she said as she heaved a massive cloth bag into the trunk. "Because I like to have options."

My favorite part of the trip, by far, happened at a gas station in Scooba. This old dude was looking at us funny when we pulled up, and after making some comment to Lesley about how I'd appreciate it if he'd stop staring, she said, and I quote, "Don't worry. I'm packing heat."

Now, it was funny enough that Lesley used the phrase "packing heat" in the first place. But what really put the icing on the cake was when this blonde-haired belle proceeded to reach into her designer purse and pull out a pistol. I wasn't sure whether to laugh or run like hell! She must have seen the look of terror on my face because she told me quickly, in her sweet Southern drawl, "Oh, but don't worry. I've got a permit."

Well, that certainly made me feel better...almost as good as it made me feel when she shared the gruesome details of what the hollowpoint bullets (of which she had more in her wallet) would do to a human body.

Then one night out at the Flora Bama, Lesley finds a handsome young gentleman who wants to dance. So I assume the position of wallflower and purse watcher - a title I hold often and very well - while Lesley heads toward the tiny dance floor to get her groove on. I'm looking around, watching the people, sending a text here and there and saying "No, thank you" to all the eager rednecks looking for a partner. Then I see it. I'm not sure I've seen it at first. But I have.

There's my dear Lesley in mid-air, ass up, her Victoria's Secret-bedecked booty shining, skirt flying and hair flailing. Someone on the dance floor has flipped her. Such a butt baring might have humiliated some. Not this girl. As a matter of fact, upon having her feet returned to the dirty dance floor, she shot a look of pure pride at me, yelling across the bar as her skirt fell back into place, "Did you see me? I got flipped!"

When we got back to the condo, Lesley explained what was running through her head during her bottoms-up boogie... "Well, I was just dancin' and this guy asked if he could flip me. I said yeah, hopin' he knew what he was doin', and before I knew it, I was up in the air. I didn't care that my panties were showing. All I could think was, 'Shit! I better stick this landin'!'"