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Feb 1, 2003

Today I was busier than a cat covering crap on a tile floor. I finally informed everyone, “I MUST go to the Ladies Room!” “Fine,” Trey replied, but he still did not leave my space. So, I tried my best to be discreet and get a *ahem* feminine hygiene product from my bag whilst he was distracted. Digging around and trying to camouflage my maneuvers, I decided it would be a good disguise if I grabbed a hairbrush to conceal the offending item. With one swift and determined move, I yanked the brush from its cozy spot in the belly of my purse. Instead of being concealed, my desired object flung itself out seemingly objecting to being hidden like some cheap floozy.

My wide eyes followed its slow motion move as it flew through the air end over end over end, proudly announcing it’s name over and over and over, “TAMPAX, TAMPAX, TAMPAX!”

Sonofabitch.

Without word or hesitation, Trey’s catching arm flew into action. Suddenly he was Sandy Alomar and this was the World Series. The “ball” landed squarely in his trusty hand. He gingerly tossed it back to me and said, “I think this belongs to you.”

“Why, thank you. Indeed it does.” And off I was to the dugout.

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