My dearest (she hates the term "best") friend, Carol is the girl to instruct any new friends as to the possible situations they will find themselves in with me. Carol has tackled me after I came out of the Chucky Cheese with a bride's length train of toilet paper hanging out of my waistband. Yes, that's right, my waistband. I had just had a baby and my giant ass clamped on to the tp and wouldn't let go.
Carol is the first person I need to call when I have performed an embarrassing stunt with no one to witness. Which is often. As I lack some sort of censor which enables normal people to filter out potentially idiotic ideas. Case in point. I was lamenting to my husband that we were too poor-ass for me to get pedicures this summer. My heels are not pretty when they have not been tended to. He suggested that I slather on some lotion and put Jewel bags on my feet at night, to keep in the moisture. "Brilliant idea", I said! Clearly I was married to a genius.
So I buffed, creamed and put my feet into two Jewel plastic grocery carrier bags and covered them with socks. Again, let's revisit my inability to filter out bad ideas. The bags made it very difficult to walk. The lotion and plastic was a bad combo that worked like a personal SlipNSlide. Top that off with the fact that I had the handles of the bags hanging out of the sides of the socks. Walking down the stairs I put one foot INSIDE the handle loop of the bag on the opposite foot. Then proceeded to bite it since my feet were essentially bound together. That was the best laugh Carol and I had later that night over mini-Coronas.
Dating was not pretty for me either. I had gone out on a first date with a funny guy that I was digging quite a bit. The date was a disaster namely because my pratfalls increase a tenfold when I'm nervous and my verbal censor also takes a hike. At dinner he ordered a pink strawberry margarita and I blurted, "Wow, you’re drinking THAT, bold choice for a date." Yup, smooth talker I am. I like to emasculate them right off, and then it's easy pickings for the rest of the night.
At the end of the evening I came inside his place to use the bathroom. Fully realizing that this could be and no doubt was perceived as an act of desperation. But in all honesty I figured the night was blown already and I really had to pee. Of course there was a slight step down from the entry hall to the living room and do I really need to finish this sentence people? The point is I saw sympathy in his eyes. Clearly, this relationship just wasn't going to work.
My husband knew me when I was 14 and it doesn't get much dorkier than that. He also was not embarrassed to go into the delivery room with me knowing full well that I would be medicated and that the behavior to come would require putting a special rider on the disclaimer he had signed on our wedding night.
Sure enough, the epidural didn't work. Didn't work. Did I mention it didn't work? And worse than that the anesthesiologist who shall henceforth be known as evilbastard didn't believe me. Apparently, he thought I was keening and making small animal noises because it really got me into the birth experience. EVILBASTARD!
By the time (18 hours later) I was ready to push I hated everyone. After yelling for the "Goddamn vacume" to get this baby outta me the OB finally brought it out. Then PRETENDED to use it! After pushing for a round he said, "See, you didn't need it I didn't even really turn it on."
What? What? What, what?
From that point on for every time the vacume was “turned on” I would yell to my husband, “Is it really on, did the fucker turn it on?" before I would try to push. “Kick his ass if he doesn’t turn it on”. Husband would just assure me that the vacume was on. And it was sucking hard enough to pop out the baby like a bank canister in a pneumatic tube.
Somehow the man can still summon up looks of loving adoration for me after seven year of these kinds of experiences. I’m chalking it up to his being raised with two sisters who alternately knocked the crap out of him and loved him fiercely. Still do.
Carol is still willing to go to all manner of public places with me. Though, she has never invited me back to Chucky Cheese.