There's nothing like...

...walking down Palm Canyon Boulevard with a man wearing red pleather hobbling along in a broken stilletto on a warm spring night.

Friday night I found myself beer mug in hand, donning lace lingerie and running shoes, trotting through downtown Palm Springs with about 150 similarly skantily clad imbibers. It was the Friday night lingerie run to kick off the annual Betty Ford Rehab Run for the Hash House Harriers.

After a seemingly endless 3.5 hour drive to Palm Springs, JP and I arrived about an hour before the run was to begin. He, being a man unwilling to wear a dress, donned see-throughish boxer shorts and a silk robe. I, a woman unwilling to wear men's underwear, primped a bit then slipped into a black lace teddy with just a smidge of red satin and some red and black lace panties underneath. My theory on the panties was that we would be sitting on numerous barstools throughout the evening and I just didn't want my cheeks getting contaminated. I am, as you know, quite the conservative.

The run was similar to the recent LA marathon except in lingerie and with beer stops along the way. Just imagine a throng of people in various states of undress jogging and walking from pub to pub in search of beer. The cool thing about Palm Springs as a venue is that although some folks vacation there, they are generally older folks and do not bring children with them. This means you are less likely to scare the kids, and the adults generally card-carrying members of AARP, get a big kick out of it. We even managed to pick up some tourists along the way.

After the run we converged upon a bar where food was catered, beer on tap, and a DJ spinning tunes. Blurred highlights from the evening were a runner from Arizona who recognized me from photos taken last year at a similar event in Mexico, which seemed a bit stalker-strange-like to me, and dancing with a tall man who soon announced he was "at half mast" from dancing with me (I thought I felt something on my thigh!) and then offered to move me to Pasadena to become his kept woman. What kind of kept woman would I be if I were kept in Pasadena? It sounded like the suburban rung of being kept so I politely declined. Had he said San Marino, I may have considered it.

The more clear highlights, the ones you boys will like, occurred first when O and her husband P came to meet me. As I leaned in to give P a kiss, O pulled my right breast out of my lingerie and began sucking the nipple. P just kept talking to me as if nothing was happening. Then O put the breast away and thanked me. Later in the evening, T and her man S approached me, commented on my stomach and outfit, and then T took out the very same breast and repeated O's maneuvers while S looked on with glee. S and T continued to follow me around all evening, even into the restroom at one point, I believe in hopes of a threesome or something. No, it didn't happen.

The hashers had taken over the local Comfort Inn for the weekend and most members could be found poolside the next morning. It's always a good thing to find a margarita machine and three kegs flowing at 8:30 on a Saturday morning. Even more rewarding is seeing the same folks you saw close down the bar the previous night availing themselves of the libations mere hours later. I abstained as I intended to actually do the run that afternoon. I was, however, highly entertained watching R and S, who had met met less than a week before, argue over whether or not he should reverse his vasectomy because she wanted children. I was amazed that five days into knowing someone such a topic would arise, and even more amazed when he almost agreed to it. Ninety days is my rule - it takes 90 days to know whether a person is worthy of invasive surgery. Keeps me out of all kinds of trouble.

Saturday afternoon's run ended up being a challenging 5.3 miles in the mountains. I didn't drink all day but did have a beer at the summit. It was a strange beer. It was a Budweiser in a pint-sized aluminum can shaped like a bottle. It looked like a bottle, but was aluminum. There are many things wrong with this product. First, a can is a can and a bottle is a bottle and never the two shall meet. Second, no one, and I mean no one, drinks Bud by the pint. In fact, there should be a law that you can't order beer in a pint glass unless the beer is darker than your own urine. I'm going to start drafting that legislation right now. Finally, you just shouldn't drink Bud.

After the run I went to the hotel, cleaned up, made myself a cocktail, and returned to the local American Legion hall, where our party for the evening was to take place. I don't know if you've ever been to an American Legion bar, but it usually consists of WWII, Korea and Vietnam vets who like to sit around telling war stories and grumbling about the plight of society and the good old days. Don't get me wrong, they are a lovable lot. And they loved having the hashers at their bar. Think about it, a couple hundred women in short skirts and tight shirts being as friendly as can be, dancing and having a good time. No wonder they invite the hashers back year after year.

The Saturday night activities include skits, awards, dinner, more beer, and a live band. I just remember being by the bar and seeing one of the vets, about 80 years old, suddenly shoot up from his barstool and yell "Damnit Jim, they are having sex up there!" while pointing at the lap dances going on on stage. His friend replied, "This is better than Viagra". Yes, Jim, it is.