Up My Own Ass

Now that we are all coming down off of the Halloween induced sugar high, we are officially entering the season to be thankful.  Thankful we haven’t been foreclosed on.  Thankful that our bank did not go tits-up under the cloak of night, swallowing our entire life savings.  Thankful that this Goddamn election will be OVER on TUESDAY… you name it.

That being said, Tuesday is going to be a sad day for a lot of people, no matter which direction it goes.

I began to wonder what I could do to make people feel better (I would like to say, “what I can do to make the McCain supporters feel better”, but it ain’t over til the fat lady sings, I suppose).

Then I started thinking about all of the really stupid and embarrassing things I have done in my life and thought, “THAT’S IT!!!  I will throw myself under the bus in an effort to bring a much needed distraction from this seemingly interminable election process…so here are a couple of THE MOST EMBARRASSING THINGS that I can recall doing (or being MADE to do):

What are you WEARING?

The first one takes me all the way back to fifth grade.  We had just moved to the wild west from back east, and I was finding it a bit awkward acclimating to new people and friends and things… and finally not living in a trailer.

I had already crashed and burned on the first day of fifth grade when I made the tactical error of wearing a t-shirt with a sparkly, iron-on image of the Pink Panther wearing a white disco leisure suit a la John Travolta, simply because the school mascot was the Pink Panther.  Huge mistake.  Turns out that doing stuff like that is totally gay.  What do you want?  I came from a TRAILER.

I managed to recover from that, and was merrily going about being a fifth grader, when my mom looked in my closet and saw some things that I hadn’t worn in a long time and launched into the speech that goes something like, “I buy you all these nice clothes and you NEVER wear them.  I don’t know why I even bother if you aren’t going to appreciate all the wonderful, magical things I do for you… I might as well just stop loving you and give you up for adoption.”  Or something like that…  Anyhoo, she was pissed because I didn’t wear clothes that were gonna get my ass kicked.  I looked in my closet at the offending garment…

*clears throat*

… a sky blue, satin, zip-up pant suit that had a winged roller skate on the back and the logo “Roller Boogie.”  I shot my mom the look of horror… “Seriously, mom?”

She took a long drag of her Virginia Slim and narrowed her eyes as she exhaled the foulness that would stay with me like an albatross around my neck until adulthood; I knew by her expression I was doomed.  She took the pant suit from the closet and placed it in my hands, then turned and quietly left my bedroom, taking another long drag of the poison that would eventually kill her…

The next morning, I cautiously and tentatively zipped closed the prized skating costume that I received for my 8th birthday, two years prior, closed around my neck.  I loved roller-skating, but hadn’t been in a long time.  This outfit was, at best, totally out of context and, at worst, a violent blue stylistic aberration that would surely end my social and academic career.

It was also too small.

The pantlegs stopped a full inch above my sockline, perhaps two or three inches from their intended location of resting loosely atop my shoe.  The inseam was also two or three inches too snug, causing a very obvious and uncomfortable wedgie that separated and highlighted my asscheeks in the same way the Berlin Wall separated a nation.  Again, this was satin we were dealing with.

No fifth-grader should have a cameltoe.  It’s just not right.

My mother shuffled me out the door to walk to school like a one-man circus act, the incongruity further exacerbated by the black and gold of my Pittsburgh Steelers backpack.  I stood for a moment at the gates of the schoolyard wondering if anyone would really notice if I didn’t go.

I went.

I must have blacked out at that point, because I don’t remember anything else that happened that day.  Yet another reason to be thankful.

Can I HELP YOU WITH SOMETHING?

This next story is one that withstands the test of time.  My mother (and her ubiquitous Virginia Slim) used to have her hair done by Sandy.  Sandy had done our hair for years, and was now coming to our home to cut our hair.  As my mother sat in the chair, getting her new ‘do, I sat on the couch because my non-resident sister had taken up residency in my room to talk on MY phone.  “Well,” I thought to myself, “what can I do to amuse myself while she prevents me from entering my own personal space?”  So, I grabbed her purse off the couch and started rummaging around in it while my mother was otherwise occupied.

I unzipped the canvas bag and carefully began removing objects and placing them on the couch in an orderly fashion: A hairbrush.  A changepurse.  An address book.

Each time I removed an object, I inspected it carefully.  I flipped through the pages of my sister’s address book and realized how popular she must be; she had so many friends listed that I wasn’t sure I recognized many of their names.  I had nearly emptied the bag, it’s contents lined tidily along the cushions of the couch, and I pulled out one final object.  The wallet.  I unsnapped the wallet and began examining its contents.  I counted the money.  I looked in all the compartments.  I was now flipping through the photos…”Why don’t I know any of these people?”…finally, in one last moment of incredulity I exclaimed in my head, “When the HELL did my sister get a VISA card???”

In that exact moment, I heard a very stern, “CAN I HELP YOU?” coming from the kitchen.  I looked up to see a very irritated Sandy (who had been quietly watching me), holding her comb and scissors in the same hand she now had placed on her hip, as she looked down at me, excavating the entirety of her life like some archaeological dig.

The gravity of the moment gripped my insides like flypaper.  I was forced to sit before her and replace all the items I had removed from her bag - maybe 20, or so.  My mother looked on in nearsighted horror.  “What are you DOING?” she asked of her seemingly intelligent teenage daughter whose only response was simply, “I thought it was my sister’s!!!” I knew that couldn’t excuse the activity, but I had hoped it would explain the motivation.

I fled the scene immediately and retreated to my room.  The sound of my sister laughing at me can sometimes still be heard under the right weather conditions, like some ghostly cackle hanging over the neighborhood.

I am pretty sure my mother had to find a new hairdresser after that.  Probably just as well.

Change is good.

Okay folks, now it’s your turn.  I want to know what is the most embarrassing thing you have ever done, and are now thankful you survived.

These stories are like cotton, they are the “factory seconds” fabric that weave the tapestry of our convaluted lives, and no lesson can be learned by the many, unless the brave few are willing to share their painful synaptical misfires.  I have a few more good ones, but I need to see a little return on my investment first.

Quid pro quo.