Moon Over My Hammy

We pull into the parking spaces at the foot of the mountain and prepare to hike. Phones, bottled water, sunscreen, sun glasses. We are ready. Candy turns to begin to hike up the hill…and in doing so, shouts over her shoulder, “Don’t be jealous that I have a great ass!”

I turn to respond only to see that Candy has mooned us again. This time she is showing off the tan lines from her recent spray on tan, and to emphasize the point, has begun to walk proudly away from us all, the waistband of her running shorts pulled down to expose both butt cheeks in their entirety. I am doubled over.

She stops to explain.

“My mother and I are mooners,” she says. Just as anyone else would say that they along with their mother, might be Republicans, or vegetarians, or Yankees fans. She goes on to say that what she means by that is that a good mooning is simply a way to make a point. Some people flip you the bird. Some people tell you to drop dead. Some people moon you. She further illustrates by telling me a story about having walked into her mother’s home recently to find her talking to her sister, who lives in another state, on Skype. And shortly having walked in, Candy observed her mother mooning the sister, again, all by the magic that is Skype. Taffy confirms the story. Mooning is a family affair.

I am about to say that I don’t know of anyone who moons anyone – and suddenly to my delight recall that my Dad did a little mooning in his day. He did a thing he and his buddies called a Pressed Ham. Their car (jammed with people like our car, no doubt) would pull up along side another car full of people, and someone would press their bare ass against that window glass. Voila! Pressed Ham.

Why this makes me giggle I am not sure. But suddenly mooning seems as normal as shaking hands. Only more fun.