[ Crack Attack ]*

We have a neighbor who is just about the nicest man you will ever meet.  He was born and raised in this small Georgia town and returned to his hometown to serve as an attorney.  He is old Southern through and through.  He has the most beautiful, refined accent.  He is always in a suit (except when he is headed to the gym).  He uses grammar precisely.  His home is decorated to the finest detail of Southern taste.  He is genteel and proper.  He is exactly what you would think of when you think of the old South.

And when I talk with him I get nervous. Every stinking time.  We have lived next door to him for a year.  I have talked to him almost daily.  And still I feel awkwardly aware of every word that I say, every subject matter that I bring up. He is not pretentious by any means.  It is in my head, but his properness makes me want to be proper too. Know what I mean?  I've never been more paranoid about the correctness of my grammar than when I speak with him.

Well, last fall, I was out working in the front yard.  It was an impromptu gardening session. I had walked to the mailbox and noticed the weeds that were taking over our ivy.  I bent over and started pulling those suckers out by their roots.  (Major stress reliever. It makes me feel like Godzilla or something reeking havoc on their little weed civilization.)

I faced the street as I pulled, so that my behind was facing our house.  Because, well, my pants are way too low. Indecently low. I think they were low-rise to begin with, then we bought an old house with an old dryer that shrunk our clothes until they literally look like they belong on Barbie and Ken. If I measured the length from the crotch of this particular pair to the waistband, it would probably be about 6 inches.  And when I bend over that material becomes more like 4 inches.  And heaven knows I need more than 4 inches of material to cover my rear end. Again, totally indecent.

I digress.  Basically, when I bend over, you get mooned.

So I am playing Godzilla with some pesky weeds, when I hear David walk up behind me.  I know he is going to say something about the fact that my entire rear-end is on display.

"Stephanie..", he begins.

I decide to beat him to the punch.

With my rear proudly hoisted in the chilly air, I begin to shake it dramatically back and forth in front of his face.

My pride swells as I think of how bad this is embarrassing him.

I keep going. The bolder, the higher the shock-value, the better.

With my butt still shaking I start shouting (at the top of my lungs) what I usually shout when David comments on my wardrobe malfunctions: "CRACK ATTACK!!"

Naked butt still shaking left and right.  My head down near my knees, screaming, "Crack Attack".

(Not one of my more mature moments.)

I begin to turn around to catch a glimpse of my husband's embarrassed face, when, to my horror, I see our proper, genteel neighbor standing within a few feet of my exposed behind.

He has been repeating my name this entire time, in his proper accent no doubt, but I was so transfixed by my "crack attack" mantra that I was oblivious to it.  

As I stare blankly at our neighbor, I can see David standing on our patio in the distance.  He had seen the whole situation unfold. He later said he could not figure out why in the world I would hear our neighbor say my name and moon him and then proceed to shake my booty in his face.

I could see why that would be confusing to him.

Our neighbor almost immediately excused himself and ran off to his house.  It was days before we saw him again.

When he did finally show his face again, I made sure my bottom was fully covered.

And I can assure you, I was not so concerned with my grammar.