My List of Shame – Face Palm!
If you’re reading this, I thank you! From the bottom of my heart, actually.
I’ve given blogging a go for 7 months now. My test period was 6 months but I somehow couldn’t bear to stop at that point. While I have a small, solid group of loyal readers, you included, the analytics of my blog and lack of reader interaction sadly don’t seem to support continuing on.
I’ll be posting a couple more articles that I’ve already completed, and then I’ll be done.
It’s been a fun ride! I’ve enjoyed having a chance to post my thoughts, share my recipes, reconnect with old friends, and get my creative juices flowing once more.
I hope some of my posts have made you smile, made you think, and made you create some delicious dishes from time to time!
My cousin, whom I hadn’t spoken to in years, called me a few weeks ago. For some reason, my family doesn’t regularly stay in touch with aunts and uncles and cousins, so the fact that she took the time to call was fantastic.
Until, that is, I was saying goodbye and called her by the WRONG DANG NAME!
And, you know what? That slip up will bother me for a month of Sundays.
Do you ever do things like that, or is it just me?
I have a running list of times where I’ve been a dweeb that surfaces in my mind occcasionally to haunt my very existence.
I call it my “List of Shame.” This cousin name shame doozy will certainly make it to the list.
Here are others items on the list that plague me regularly.
- Accidental Ass Flaunting
I had just been assigned to an important task force at work that was destined to save the world, or at the very least, slightly increase revenue.
The second day on the job, I threw out my back in such a severe way that it rendered me immobile for the next three days. Determined to rejoin my task force compadres, I inched out of bed the fourth day, dragged myself through the motions of getting ready for work, and headed on in for a day of back-to-back meetings.
Shuffling over to the washroom during a much-needed break, I used the facilities, and then downed 4 extra-strength Advil, sweat covering my brow from the pain and effort of it all.
I was halfway down the football field length hallway, hunched over like Quasimodo, when I heard my new manager persistently calling my name from behind. I slowly and painfully turned around only to see her frantically motioning to my bottom.
Yep, turns out I had tucked my flowing “Look at me, I’m such a professional” skirt way up high into the waistband of my control top panty hose, flaunting my rear end for all the world to see.
Despite my pain, I whipped around and frantically began tugging my voluminous skirt out of my hose with inventively nimble moves, further wrenching my beleaguered back.
Can you see me cringing at this even now?
Trust me. I am.
- Bowling Embarrassment to Spare
We had just joined a new local couples bowling group in order to mingle and get to know the neighbors in our new subdivision.
As luck would have it, someone had created a list of oh-so-fun “special” bowling techniques that each new bowler had to pick out of a hat and then demonstrate. Mine was the old “hop on one foot and then throw the ball” approach.
Here’s something to remember. When you read the little warning on the side of the lane about it being slippery beyond the line, heed it! It is not an idle threat. Past that innocent looking line, the lane is oiled within an inch of its life and is as slippery as the dickens, that is assuming that dickens are indeed incredibly slippery, whatever they may be.
Anyway, I hopped that 12-lb. ball up to and beyond the dreaded red line like an overachieving bowling bunny, only to slip and crash land onto the wooden floor with a monumental thud.
Adding insult to injury, my ball bounced out of my hand, loped down the lane with all of the snap and muscle of a wet paper towel, and resigned itself to the gutter a few inches from the pins.
You may think that bowling is so simple that it’s foolproof, but nothing is foolproof to a sufficiently talented fool.
- Deep Sea Cleavage Diving
Once, I was in a heated meeting at work with three male counterparts. As I shook my head emphatically to disagree with the course our planning session was taking, my earring flew off and dove into the depths of my cleavage where it remained, much to the dismay of my coworkers, I imagine, for the rest of the meeting since I wasn’t about to go fishing it out.
Three pairs of eyes had watched its wayward trajectory from my ear to the bottom of my bosom. Yet, not sure what to do, I sat staring straight ahead, cloaked in denial, wearing only one earring for the next 40 minutes like Michael Jackson during his ‘80s “Thriller” phase.
(That earring was a vindictive son of a gun, too, pricking and poking every time I moved an inch to show its dissatisfaction with having been buried in a giant boob cave. But still, I ask you, who told it to take the dive in the first place? Not I.)
- Bushwhacked Biking
When I was a college student, I rode my bike round trip to work 25 miles a day during the summer down Milwaukee Avenue, a busy 4-lane thoroughfare. I rode up giant hills and under overpasses where I once accidentally Ba-Bump, Ba-Bump, Ba-Bump, Ba-bumped my way over the legs of a dead deer on the side of the road without skidding even a little. Thank God! Suffice it to say, I was very comfortable with bikes. Bikes were my buddies.
Until, that is, they weren’t.
In my thirties, I was working about 60 hours a week, had a toddler to cuddle and feed when I got home, a house to care for, supper to make, and a husband to high five as we passed each other in the hall on occasion.
My bike was basically dead last on my list of things that received my attention. Therefore, it had been quite a few years since my seat had sat on its seat. No sweat though, right? Because the old adage says that you can’t unlearn to ride a bike. And I wholly believe in old adages. New ones, however, are somewhat suspect.
Having found a spare moment, I finally pulled my bike out of the garage feeling an odd sense of foreboding. This was my old friend, right? We’d spent countless hours together, and yet, it felt like a stranger in my hands.
Not one to be easily deterred, I brushed off the cobwebs, pumped the tires, and swung my leg over the saddle in one grandiose move that somehow sent me and the bike flying smack dab into the nearby boxwoods.
I was up in a flash, though skewered and scratched as I was, hoping upon hope no one had witnessed my bucking biking scene.
And that’s all you’re going to get. I could go on and on reciting bullet points from my list of shame, but I won’t. My psyche couldn’t take it.
Plus, I’m finding it rather difficult to type with my face resting on my palm.
Cover photo courtesy of: Silicon Angle