Dork Disclaimer

Pretty much anyone that is going to be friends with me has to sign a disclaimer at the start of the relationship. The disclaimer states that they will promise to find my dorky antics charming, not display any signs of sympathy when I embarrass myself and if they need to step away and pretend not to know me for a minute I'm down with that.

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.

16 comments:

Stephanie A. said...

I love the disclaimer idea! You don't sound like a dork, though- you just sound like LOADS of fun! :)

Lotta said...

Thanks. That's me. Fun dork!

jen said...

You should meet my friend Tina...the one who randomly falls off her office chair for no reason...walks into walls and cannot handle wooden steps whilst imbibing (hence broken hand two years ago and fractured ankle this past Memorial Day weekend)
You two would make a finnneee pair...or at least a really fun weekend! ;)

Lotta said...

LMAO!

I would love to party with your friend Tina. Clearly - we would need escorts.

Where are you?

And to anyone reading this check out Mommy Needs a Martini, Jen's very funny blog.

Angry Dad said...

You don't seem to have that much of a dork factor, try working with a bunch of engineers! (Now they're dorks).
I can't relate to your birth stories, my wife pops them out - all three within an hour of going into the ward! Your experience sounded insane!!

Lotta said...

Luckily the second baby was a piece o cake. I didn't even have time to finish reading my Star magazine.

I hear ya on the Enginerds. Husband is an architect and I worked with techies for the past 10 years. But that's a whole different category of dorkiness than plastic bags on your feet. :)

Thanks for checking me out!

Binkytown said...

Too funny! I thought the garbage bag was funny on its own but then you added socks?! Love the imagery. Thanks for your comments today- nice to meet you!

R said...

You are quite possibly my twin, separated at birth. I too have never met a staircase that I can manage. It's a wonder that I am here to type about it.

Be safe.

Lotta said...

It's not pretty. When I was pregnant I tottered like a weeble all damn day long.

Tuna Girl said...

I love this post!

And I also had an epidural that didn't work. And my evilbastard doctors didn't believe me either! I SO feel your pain.

Lotta said...

I'm sorry you joined the club.

My next OB was part of an all women practice. To be honest I went male in the first place hoping for a sweet chuckling grandpa doctor who wouldn't want his lil d'arlin to be feeling any unneccesary and icky pain. Turns out I got Mr. Natural.

In my next go round I was like "Hi, I'll be checking in and my epidural didn't work the first time.", "May I have a glass of water, did I mention my epidural didn't work the first time?". Till someone drugged me just to shut me up.

Nancy said...

Hi, I found you through Domestic Chicky. I'm a dork too so I think we'd get along famously. ;-)

Love your site, I'll be back to visit again!

J's Mommy said...

Hi, like Nancy, I found you through Domestic Chicky. What a great post! I think there's a dork in everyone of us ... some are just dorkier than others!!

Lotta said...

Join the club ladies! Thanks for stopping by, hope you come again soon!

shpprgrl said...

Loved this post! It cracked me up. I understand the epidural thing. (3 epidurals to do the job here! yes, you know when they don't work!!!) ;)

Lotta said...

Glad I made you laugh! Again, sorry you are a member of the epidural club. But glad I'm not alone!