Category Archives: Embarrassing moments

Awkward Moments Day


First, my thanks to Jannine Gallant for pointing out that March 18 is actually  Awkward Moments Day!

See, I think this is a day meant for me. Named for me. A day in celebration of…me!

Yeah, dude, getting stuck in one of these is pretty freaking awkward. But I can top that.

See, I am very familiar with awkward moments. That moment when you tell a joke and all you hear is crickets? Yeah, I’ve been there, done that. Many times.

I broke my nose slow dancing at my senior prom. I asked a guy out once and got turned down with the excuse, “I’m gay.” (Super awkward) I stood on my skirt in a shuttle crowded with football players, and the skirt hit the floor, leaving me standing there in nothing but my underwear and my cute boots.

I got stuck in a bounce house at my daughter’s second birthday party and I was eight months pregnant with my son. Getting out was like a bounce house giving birth to a beluga. I accidentally texted my boss with “I love you so much,” which was intended for my husband. The last time I went to the ER, my doctor was a man I went to high school with, and I threw up on him. Later that same night, after the drugs had kicked in, I made an outrageous, suggestive comment I thought was HI-larious that was really just crass. (Okay, I still think the comment was funny, but even I recognize the bad form in saying it to someone I haven’t seen in eighteen years)

That’s not so bad, except that I’ve run into him three times since then (after not seeing him for eighteen years, I run into him three times in six months? WTF, universe?). Each time is another awkward moment, as I pretend I don’t remember precisely what I said to him that night.

Yeah, my life is a series of those kind of awkward moments.

So today, as you nurse your post St. Paddy’s Day hangovers, partake of a little of the hair of the dog, and raise a pint in honor of me. After all, this is my day.

Happy Awkward Moments Day!


MCC and the No Good, Very Bad Day


Okay, so I’m being melodramatic. But seriously.

It all started at 6:00AM. I woke up late, groggy from my foray into the land of NyQuil at 11:30. Discover I have nothing clean that doesn’t need to be ironed, so I set up the iron and the ironing board and got in the shower.

Ahhh, a shower. So nice.

I get all soapy and I hear a crash. The cat has knocked over the ironing board, the iron, and my clothes, and the shirt I was planning on wearing is in heap on the floor, and looks to have a new stain on it that looks suspiciously like cat barf.

Super.

So, I get out of the shower and right everything. Get back in.

Once again, I get all soapy, only to realize that Thing One has stolen my conditioner–you know, the expensive stuff I save for my more advanced tresses. So I have to hop out of the shower and run down hall in nothing but a towel to retrieve my conditioner from her bathroom. During my trek, I discover that my largely incontinent 14-year-old Jack Russell terrier has, uh, left her mark on the top of my stairs.

By stepping in it.

Yowling an angry protest, I get my conditioner and run back to my bathroom, and step in the same puddle of pee on my way back. Super.

I get back out of the shower, and I hear Thing One and Thing Two having a very loud argument downstairs. Whatever. I’m already running late for work, and I desperately need some coffee. It’s Lord of the Flies parenting at its finest. I’ve got hair to dry.

I get dressed in a new outfit that also needs to be ironed, and put on my face (well, most of it. I couldn’t figure out why everyone kept saying I looked so tired until I realized that I put on lipstick and foundation, but forgot blush and mascara. No wonder my contacts felt so much better today). I put on my socks and head downstairs.

And four steps down, I discover that said incontinent dog has left a trail to follow. By stepping in that, too.

Muttering something that must have sounded like, “Goddamn dog,” under my breath, I go upstairs to wash my feet and change my socks. Step in the puddle at the top of the stairs that I had forgotten about.

After getting new socks, I take some DayQuil, pull out the carpet cleaner spray stuff, and try to clean up my dog’s various messes, reminding myself that she’s old. And, probably, doing this just to spite me.

Now suitably hopped up on DayQuil and chemical fumes, I finally make it downstairs. I make the kids lunches, pour myself some coffee (because what’s a decongestant/chemical high without a little caffeine thrown on top of that?), and call the kids over.

Thing Two: Monk pinched me!

Thing One: Yeah, but he was going to pinch me first.

This went on and on until I finally just told everyone to be quiet. I hand both children their lunches, and we walk to the door.

The drive to work was a series of, “MOM! Chewy hurt me!”

“No, I didn’t! Mom, Monk’s being bossy!” (of course she’s being bossy. She’s an older sister)

“Stop pinching!” says the child who is busy pinching her younger brother.

“You stop pinching!” says the child who is busy pinching his older sister.

“MO-OM!”

I was sorely tempted to pull a move that the men in my mother’s family have pulled for generations now: Call M and say, “Honey, I’m going out for a loaf of bread!” and call home four days later from a Mexican prison, spinning an interesting yarn and asking for bail money and a bus ticket home.

What, that’s not a story in everyone’s family? Huh.

Anyway, I digress.

So we get to Thing Two’s preschool, and we find out together that, somewhere in that minute and a half between the time I handed him his lunch box and our getting in the car, he put down his lunch box and didn’t pick it back up.

After the car ride, I literally thought my head might explode.

The director takes a look at me and says, “I think you need a hug.”

True enough. I’m hopped on caffeine, DayQuil, chemical fumes and adrenaline, and I’m late for work. And now I have to go home and get Thing Two’s lunch box for him.

At which point, Thing One starts complaining because she wants to ride the bus to school.

Honestly?

There really are days when I think I would have been better off raising tomato plants. Saner, anyway.

Long story…a little shorter… we handle the lunch deal and I wander in to work. Work goes okay, except for the stomach cramping that occurs because of the caffeine/chemical fumes/adrenaline/DayQuil/ cough drops I had for breakfast.

The day…goes.

Then, while I’m in a meeting, Monk asks if she can go to the bathroom. She’s not even all the way out the door when I hear screaming.

Now, she can be melodramatic (don’t know where that comes from), but this screaming is different.

She comes back into the room, and blood is gushing from her mouth. And it’s everywhere–all over her, all over her shirt, and it’s dripping from her little fingers onto the floor.

Turns out it was just a puncture wound from crashing into a cart, but it took at good 10 minutes to get it to stop bleeding, and I thought I’d have to get her to the ER for stitches. And then there was the clean up. By the time everything was said and done, my favorite white shirt, the second white shirt of the day, had biologic stains on it, and I’m now running late to pick up Thing Two. Awesome.

So now, Monk is holding ice to her face, has a shirt that has bloodstains on it, and looks like she may have lost a bar fight. Great.

We go and get Thing Two, and come home.

Whereupon I discover that the dog–probably the big one–has decided to not only eat a coffee cup, but also knock down the fence, and the little one has left her incontinent trail all over the downstairs. I swear, I am going to get that dog a diaper.

Sweet mother of god, I think I’m going insane.

So when M comes home, he decides to take us out to dinner. I now am wearing a bloody shirt, and peeved because I’m cleaning up pee for the THIRD time today, the kids have been fighting, and everyone is complaining.

We go out to dinner, and it was fine. But gads, I’m exhausted.

I sit down in the booth and promptly sit in something wet.

You know what? I don’t even want to know what it is. I think it’s better for everyone concerned if I don’t.

I need another shower.

Technology Rocks… When It Doesn’t Suck


My thanks to Ann Montclair, whose post on this same topic inspired this one. Go check it out!

We’ve all had them…technology errors.

I’m not talking about when there’s a power failure and your Master’s thesis gets erased when you’re on page 168 (yes, that happened to me… M could hear me screaming down the street. Luckily for me, he’d just taken a forensic data recovery class and got all but one page back for me). I’m not talking about the emails that never make it to their destination through no fault of yours.

I’m talking about the stuff you do accidentally.

For instance, I’m addicted to texting. I love it. But I learned this lesson the hard way: always know precisely to whom you are talking. Check to make sure you know who you’re texting. For instance, after a disagreement with the hubster, I texted, “I love you so much. I don’t know what I’d do without you,” to him by way of an apology.

Only I sent that text to my boss.

No kidding. I’ve accidentally sent that text to friends, too, which was embarrassing but not that bad. You’d think I’d have learned. Alas, I am apparently not that smart. I had to text it to my boss before it got through my thick skull that I need to check to see who I’m texting.

Whoops.

I’ve also gotten the accidental texts. Once, I got a message from one of my coworkers, talking about what he wanted to do to his girlfriend’s…uh…naughty bits. And he didn’t use the term “naughty bits” either.

It was actually quite vile. Funny (because I have a sick sense of humor), but vile.

So, being who I am, I had to respond. I texted simply, “Uh, what?”

His response ran something along these lines: “OMG! So sorry! I didn’t mean to send that to you. OMG! I’m so sorry.”

I don’t think he ever looked me in the eyes again. Luckily, I didn’t last too much longer in that job. Because that would have been…awkward.

Do you have an embarrassing technology story, and would you care to share? Because I’d love to hear them. It’s always fun to know you’re not the only one.

–Meggan

Fun Food Sundays


I’ve decided to add my culinary exploits to the blog, because, even though I can barely eat food, I do really enjoy it (long story, poor me, you don’t want to hear it).

So my latest foray into food started today with candy making.

I attempted peppermint bark (bless my little heart. So precious!) (This is teacher code for OH SWEET MOTHER OF GOD! WHAT THE HELL!)

My peppermint bark does not, let me reiterate, DOES NOT look like other people’s. Let’s just say, the moment I took at look at it, I knew that shizzle was wrong.

This is why I don’t bake. I am not a baker by nature, and, for some reason, even though I can make fudge, today I couldn’t even melt chocolate.

What I created today was something like a cross between peppermint bark and toffee, and has the consistency of super dense fudge on top (the toffee part) and a chocolate bar on the bottom. Topped with peppermint. Yeah, I know.

Luckily, the kids don’t know any better, so they thought it was awesome.

Here’s a picture of my latest culinary adventure:

It looks… okay. Wrong, but okay.

It doesn’t taste like peppermint bark, though. That much is for certain. Monk’s assessment, “Huh. It actually tastes pretty good, Mom. All things considered.”

Oh, my firstborn child, aren’t you just precious? (sic)

So, while I had this brilliant idea this afternoon I would post my recipe, I’ve decided against that. No one needs to recreate this. Yes, I know I burned the white chocolate, but the darn stuff wouldn’t melt. I know I burned the dark chocolate, because, well, I also managed to scorch my pan. Though how I did this with the heat on low is seriously beyond me. In my defense, the recipe didn’t call for a double boiler.

As I stood in the kitchen, burning chocolate and muttering angrily under my breath, Chewey says, “Hey, Mom, what are you making?”

And husband says, “Memories. She’s making memories.”

And Chewey says, “Memories? What’s memories? It smells like burning marshmallows.”

They both got an eyeful of bless his heart.

Meggan


I am such a girl (and not in a good way)


Yesterday, my husband took me out shooting.

This was my idea, because I thought it would be fun for us to go on some sort of “date” where we did something he likes for a change. And he likes guns.

Now, he’s in law enforcement, and we have guns in our house (it’s an occupational hazard). They’re all locked up, always have been, so it’s not like I have to worry about the kids getting into them. We have more gun safes in this house than… well, anyone else I know.

But for all that, I DO NOT like guns. Never have. Ergo, I am a giant pansy, and I have accepted this about myself.

Top 5 things that happened at the gun range:

1. When the people in the bay next to ours began firing automatic weapons, I just about crapped my pants. No, seriously. It was a good thing I didn’t eat that morning.

2. My husband’s gun scared me. So much so that once he told me to holster it, I wouldn’t even take it off, because I didn’t want to touch it again. Oddly, the bigger gun, the .45, I liked better. It reminded me of how I used to flirt with M when we started dating.

3. Six cups of coffee before going out to the gun range that’s out in the middle of the freaking desert? Not a good idea. Just believe me on this one.

4. I think I was meant to live in the Old West, because honestly, revolvers are cool. At least I can shoot those.

5. M doesn’t always buy the “But I’m a girl!” excuse. Most of the time he does, but this time he retorted, “Many women like guns, and are better shots than men.”

My response? “Yeah, but they’re badasses.”

Which, clearly, I am not.

The Legendary Soccer Mom


Well, okay, I’m hardly legendary.

But I am a soccer mom.

Today I spent the day at soccer games. First at my daughter’s, where, for the first time, I actually just got to watch. It was glorious.

Then I took my son to his. He was so excited. It was his first game EVER, his first practice EVER, and… well… I was supposed to be his assistant coach.

Only, the actual coach didn’t show up. Which left everything up to me.

And, oh Lord, it was like herding cats.

I showed them the field, and thought I explained that the ball must remain inside the boundaries of the invisible box, which was marked by orange cones. I even had them walking the entire field to show them that the ball must stay in-bounds. I told them they couldn’t use their hands. I thought they got it.

Only, they didn’t.

Now, I have to bear in mind that they’re only four. Really. And many of them, my Chewey included, have never, not once, played soccer. Watched it, maybe. But played? Uh, not so much.

Kinda like their coach.

But I digress.

In any case, the game I ran was basically a travesty against soccer. I admit it. It wasn’t pretty.

They chased the ball all over the field. And by field, I don’t just mean our field. I mean, the field next to ours, the field behind ours, and the baseball diamond. I thought the fence right behind home plate might pose some sort of impediment, a physical reminder that this was not in bounds, but I was mistaken.

They ran around it.

Not only that, but Chewey seemed pretty convinced he was playing rugby. That whole “no hands” rule? Yeah, in his world, totally a guideline for the entire first quarter (he got it after that). If the ball was on the ground, he left it there. But the two times it hit him in the chest, my boy caught it and ran with it until someone would yell, “No hands!”

I have to say, both times were excellent catches. And to see him running like a little linebacker, carrying a soccer ball tucked under his arm while he blocks other players was classic. He might not be soccer material, but my boy is prepared to be a lineman. Good thing, too, because he’s got the body type for it.

Two of the kids started crying during the second half for reasons that eluded me. I had a walk-out akin to the NFL’s over snacks (Chewey and another kid decided to raid the snack cooler while they were supposed to be playing, leaving me with one kid who was actually participating). And let’s not forget the mass panic when a dragonfly flew by in the third quarter.

Or when every member of my team somehow managed to lose a shoe at the same time. So there I am, running from one end of the field to the other, while my team stands there and waits for “MOM!” to come and fix it (Mom being me, because did the other parents help? Uh, no).

But hey, I thought I was rocking it because I brought snacks for my team. I brought plenty for everyone, but I kind of thought maybe the other team might have made their own arrangements.

They did not, and so, took mine. And am I going to say, “No?” They’re four, and it’s 100 degrees out, and they’ve been running for over an hour. They were tired, hungry and hot. I’m not going to tell them to go away.

So here I was, tired and hot and burnt to crisp, and I gave away my last water.

Trust me, I am fried. In more ways than one.

First Kisses


My friend, Brooke Moss, has me thinking about first kisses.

There are a variety of first kisses. The first kiss behind the dumpster when you were in third grade. That first kiss, when, as a teenager, you knew what it really meant. The first time you kissed your first love. That first kiss with the person who would become your spouse.

Some of them are sweet and tender. Some are so brief you might actually wonder if you have been kissed. Some are so mind-numbingly passionate that your toes still curl years later just thinking about it.

This is not a story of any of those, because it’s the story of my first kiss, and with me… things don’t turn out the way I planned them. And no, I’m not talking about the one behind the dumpster in third grade with Alex. That was idle curiosity, and doesn’t count. Actually, this one probably shouldn’t either, but I count it anyway, because it was the kiss I really wanted that… wasn’t.

I was seventeen. A late bloomer, obviously, but that’s what happens when you’re pathologically shy and nerdy. And I really was pathologically shy. I know no one believes this now, but I was so shy I was terrified to order at McDonald’s. Not nervous. Terrified. I couldn’t do it. I made others do it for me all through high school.

So now that we’ve established that, let’s get into the context of the kiss that almost was.

Like I said, I was seventeen, and I was in Germany. Alone. Well, not necessarily alone, but I may as well have been. My host sister was somewhat more social than I was, and on the hunt for a new boyfriend, so I spent a lot of time alone at parties, where I knew no one and barely spoke the language. I probably would have done better had it not been for the pathological shyness, but let’s face it, I could barely speak in English to strangers, let alone members of the opposite sex. Forget about speaking in German. My mind would go blank and my eyes would roll back in my head and to the question, “How are you?” I’d stammer something insanely stupid like,

“Ich bin Maedchen.” I am a girl.

Brilliant.

I was dreaming in German, I was reading Johanna Lindsey’s books in German, and it wasn’t like I didn’t understand the question. The problem was whenever I tried to speak, the words got all tangled up and I wound up sounding like the village idiot. So you can imagine how isolating that was. Or how very irritated the host sister was with me, because it’s hard to find a boyfriend when the girl you’re with is an utter nincompoop.

In any case, the host sister and I went to an outdoor movie, and I was relieved to find out the movie was in English: The Commitments. Fireflies danced, torches lit the way, the night was balmy. Sultry. It was the first night where I was actually having a good time. Maybe because I understood what was going on. Maybe because my illustrious companion was, for a change, not roaring drunk and blowing some guy in the backseat of the car. Maybe because, when she did run off, she didn’t leave me alone.

His name was Jan, and he was wearing a black t-shirt that said Iowa and faded black denim. He watched the host sister and his friend leave and then said, in beautiful, perfect English, “You’re pretty. Want to sit down?”

I did. Quietly. Because that’s how I did everything back then.

“So, where are you from?”

I told him. Sat in silence for awhile.

“So,” I said, casting around for something to talk about, and praying I didn’t choke on the words, “Iowa, huh?”

Yeah, yeah, my come-on lines were fabulous. Whatever. It worked.

“Yeah.”

“Why Iowa?” I pressed. “What’s there to do in Iowa?”

“What’s there to do in Nevada?”

“Point taken.”

He smiled, and it was lovely. He stood up and took my hand and we walked around the grounds. And I was instantly enamored, which probably had more to do with the fact that he was nice to me than anything else. I don’t remember him being especially attractive. But he was nice, and he said I was pretty, and I was watching a movie in English outside a freaking castle. There were torches and fireflies and twinkling stars.

What’s a girl not to love about that setting? It was breathtakingly romantic. I probably would’ve made out with an old shoe had it said a kind word to me and been remotely interested.

But, this isn’t about an old shoe.

In any case, we talked and we laughed as we wandered the castle grounds. When the movie came on, we watched it. Afterwards, we wandered some more.

If you had asked me at that moment, I would have sworn I’d found the one.

Eventually, the night wore on and we got back to our table to wait for our mutual friends.

And then it happened.

He leaned in, and my heart palpitated with the sudden knowledge that finally, I was going to be kissed. And oh, how I wanted it.

I took a step forward to get closer.

And tripped over a stick and went crashing into him.

Our mouths met, alright.

Only it was less about lips and tongues and hot stuff than it was about a chipped tooth (him) and a fat lip (me).

Yes, I really am the girl who came away from her first kiss looking like she’d just lost a bar fight.

But, to this day, I love, love, love the movie The Commitments.

Epic Fails


My friend, Brooke Moss (don’t know her? She’s awesome. Check her out) recently posted about her day of epic fails. We all have them. Hers, at least, were varied. Mine tend to revolve around tantruming children and inadvertently winding up half clothed.

This is about the latter (the third installment of “wardrobe malfunctions”).

My winding up with a malfunctioning wardrobe is unfortunate for two reasons. One: I am not a skinny chick. Two: It never happens in the cute underwear. Ever. And it’s always in public. You know that dream you have where you’re standing buck nekkid in front of everyone in your high school class? Yeah, that kind of stuff doesn’t happen in real life. Unless you’re me (granted, I’m not naked. But it’s bad.)

This particular incident occurred when I worked at the hospital. I’d been talking to a couple of doctors about a patient, and I was feeling pretty awesome. Dare I say it? I felt smart. I’d demonstrated some good knowledge on neuroanatomy (one of my favorite topics), and I’d totally gotten my point across about the necessity of speech therapy to address swallow function. I was freaking on top of it.

I should never get cocky. Because the Universe conspires against me every time I start to think I’m fabulous.

Anyway, we discussed this patient while I made my way downstairs so I could get back to the rehab hospital, where I had two evaluations waiting. I said goodbye to the doctors (nice guys, for specialists, who tend to be short with… everyone). Decided I would take the short cut through the ER. This is where we begin with  my fatal mistake.

I should have taken the employee exit. I would have been fine (or, if I hadn’t been, no one would have seen me).

In any case, I walked out the doors of the ER. Heard someone call my name. Turned, took a step and… fell off the curb.

Right in front of an ambulance.

I landed on my face.

And because I was right outside of the ER on a slow day, everyone and their brother rushed to my aid. A couple of ER docs. Two paramedics. A triage nurse.

I was fine. A couple of scratches and bruises and a skinned knee, which was already bleeding through my unfortunately white pants.

What hadn’t survived my fall, you ask. Oh, my pants.

Yep, they’d split right up the center seam, from one end of my waistband to another. Basically, my fall had bisected my pants.

Awesome.

Because they’re used to blood and guts and vomit, my colleagues said nothing. Once I’d assured them that I was fine, that, no, I didn’t need any assistance, they started to go.

Clutching the tattered remnants of my pants together, I started the now-substantially-longer trek across the parking lot to my car.

“Um, do you maybe need… something?” One of the docs asked.

Pants might be a good thing, I thought. But I wasn’t going to voice that thought. “Uh… Yeah. Anyone got an extra set of scrubs? Or a lab coat?”

Let’s face it, a lab coat wasn’t going to cut it. There was no salvaging the remnants of my pants. None. It was heinous.

One of the nurses offered to get me a set of scrubs, and I went back into the ER. Past the two patients sitting in the lobby, a couple more EMTs, and so many CNAs that I started to think maybe crossing the parking lot wasn’t such a bad idea, after all.

Now, I may have mentioned, I am fat. I was fatter then. The scrubs she brought? A regular large. There was nothing regular about my largeness at the time. I was a big girl. Still am, but a smaller version of the big girl than I was then.

It was like six pounds of sugar in a four pound bag. Fat man in a little coat. The Hulk in Bruce Banner’s clothing. Awesome.

I asked for scrubs in a bigger size.

When the nurse returned about half an hour later, she said, “These are the biggest ones I could find. I got them from the waaayyy back.”

Super. Not only had I split my pants in half, but I’d just been told that the scrubs that might fit my fat ass are buried in the back. You know, in the dark corner we don’t speak of. The one with the cobwebs.

I checked the size. It was the same size my father wears. I wanted to die of shame. I’d demonstrated my gracefulness in front of people I work with, split my pants in half, and everyone had gotten a gander at my underwear, but I was also wearing scrubs the same size as my dad, who everyone acknowledges is enormous. And what was worse? They fit.

When I came out of the area I was in, the nurse came to see me before I left. Softly, she asked, “Do you want to be checked out by the OB?”

“What?”

“The OB says she’ll see you, if you want. It was a big fall.”

Oh. Oh, no. They thought I was pregnant. No wonder they had all rushed to my aid. I’d thought their concern seemed… excessive.

 I wasn’t pregnant. Just fat.

“Um, no, I think I’ll be OK. Just a little tumble.”

Thank Heaven she didn’t press it.

I got to my car to go to the rehab hospital. Drove there, even. Sat in the parking lot thinking of the epic failure that had been my day. Got on my cell phone, called my boss, told her (the basics of) what had happened, and explained I needed to go home.

Called my colleague who was covering outpatient and asked her to do my evaluations.

And I went home, drank some wine, and ate a pint of Ben and Jerry’s by myself (yes, yes, it’s a classic fat girl thing to do, and explains how my butt got to be the size it was, but you know why it’s a classic? Because it’s true). When my husband called that night (he was out of town for some reason), I don’t think I even mentioned it to him.

So, there you have one of my epic failures. Awesome, huh?

Tell me, what are yours?

The Boys


For those of you who know me IRL, this will not be a surprise. For those of you who know me mostly via the computer, this will probably… not come as a surprise.

I have a harem.

It started out in high school, when I made up a “boyfriend”. Now, before you go, “Oh, you poor dear,” I want to assure you it wasn’t as sad and pathetic as it sounds (and I admit, it really does sound pathetic). See, I was sharing my exploits (or rather, lack thereof. I am, admittedly, kinda geeky) in Europe with a friend of mine (the same friend from the “Points game” blog), and was telling her about the man I’d seen in Monaco. A man so seriously gorgeous that almost twenty years later, I still think of him as the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. He was a guard in Monte Carlo, and rather than admiring the scenery, which I remember very little of, I spent two hours admiring him. Yeah, go ahead, call me a creepy stalker. It’s probably true.

Anyway, me and my stalkerish ways are not the point. At some point during this conversation, my friend, Red, says to me, “You should have brought him home with you.”

“Right. Because he’s my boyfriend.”

“Absolutely.”

“Don’t know his name, Red.”

“Armando. He speaks very little English.”

“Riiight. We speak the language of love. Or lust. Or whatever.”

“Fabulous! When do I get to meet him?”

And thus, my harem began. With Armando, a man who speaks very little English but, as I once joked, is so much cuter with his pants down and his mouth shut, anyway.

* As an aside, I once used that line with M. It didn’t go over quite as well as I thought it would. Apparently, he sometimes likes to talk to me, and doesn’t want me to think of him strictly as “man meat.” And to think, I thought he’d be flattered. Go figure. *

Anyway, Armando was swiftly followed by the Swedish bikini team, Sven, Bjorn, Thor.

For four years, my harem “lived in my basement.” Didn’t matter that I didn’t have a basement. That’s where I said I kept them. Long before M and I began dating, I’d told him about  my harem, Sven, Bjorn, Thor and Armando. Alcohol may have been involved, but that’s beside the point. The point is, he knew about them going in. So he was either so desperate he simply accepted my weirdness as his last chance to go steady, or he liked it. I like to think it’s the latter. Especially since he gets hit on by 22-year-old badge bunnies and I get hit on by meth heads on bicycles outside of Dairy Queen.

Don’t tell me I’m not awesome.

Anyway, I know for certain he knew about the harem, because he gave me the final member (no, not him, and get your mind out of the sewer! That’s where mine is!). He gave me Enrique after he’d failed to teach his brother’s parrot to say, “[R] loves Enrique.”

Mostly because my response was, “Oh, Enrique! That would go so well with my harem!”

M bequeathed me Enrique. So, Sven, Bjorn, Thor, Armando and Enrique. The Swedes, the man who speaks very little English (but doesn’t need to), and my latin lover.

Ah, the boys. Still living in my basement.

Yep, the one I don’t have.

Occupational Hazards


Every job has its occupational hazards. Here are mine.

1. I’m never clean. Today a little one wiped her nose on my shirt, and another one ran grubby hands (covered in mystery substance) on my nice clean capris. It was impossible to get off. I will never be clean again. It’s like when you first have a baby, and you go back to work with baby barf on your shoulder and you don’t notice. I rarely notice how dirty I am until I go somewhere where I’m expected to look like an adult… and not one who lives in a box under the bridge.

2. Carpal tunnel (from all the data I have to collect, and all the reports I have to write).

3. Being peed on (I’ve only been barfed on once, and since I know for a fact I’ve barfed more often at work than I’ve been barfed on, I won’t count that). Or accidentally sitting in pee (I’ve done both just this week… Bet you didn’t know that after eight years of University, you’d get out of school to get peed on and run lessons on why we don’t pick our noses. And yes, I do run month-long booger picking lessons, complete with social stories).

4. Parents who make you cry because they’re so mean.

5. Parents who make you cry because they’re so nice.

6. Falling in love with a kid just have them break your heart when they leave. Or you can’t fix them anymore. Or you’ve actually fixed them and have to dismiss them (though this one is a fun meeting).

7. Getting stuck in a preschool chair. When I was nine months pregnant with my son (just a couple of days before I had him), I was in a meeting with some parents in the preschool room. When the meeting ended, I tried to stand up to thank the parents for coming in and couldn’t get out of the chair. The principal had to help me up. I basically required a crane. It was awful and embarrassing. But not as bad as the time I got stuck in a bounce house.

8. A very sweet kid asking you, “You’re having a baby?” (No, no, honey. I’m just fat.) Or  asking, genuinely concerned, “You have pock?” (No, no, honey, those are freckles. Not chicken pox. I look like this naturally. Sad, but true. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I am a ravishing beauty. Honestly).

9. The Germ Factory. When you work with kids, for the first year, you get sick all the time. It’s not as bad after that, but I basically get exposed to EVERYTHING. I’m sick right now, in fact.

10. War wounds. I managed to get beaned in the eye by a flying shoes yesterday (I’m really not that fast, and by the time I realize something’s flying at my head, it is usually too late). So yeah, on top of being chunky and pocky, I also have a black eye.

Yeah, I really am a ravishing beauty.