Wedding Crasher

I am not good at going to weddings. I have been in several and acquitted myself tolerably well but when it comes to being a guest I am hot garbage. Andy was a groomsman in a very fancy society wedding a couple years ago, and insisted that Charlie and I attend. I ended up sadly removing my torn pantyhose in Andy's Hyundai while young Charlie slept in a puddle of his own pee in his car seat behind me. And that was not the lowest point of the evening.

This weekend one of Andy's best friends is getting married and Andy is once again in the wedding. I couldn't be happier for the lovely couple but I could be a lot happier for me.

It started as we were in the hotel dressing for the rehearsal. I was about to put on my adorable gray flats when I realized that would be difficult since they were jauntily resting on the bench in our bedroom several hours away. So of course I couldn't wear the nice pants I'd brought with the scummy flip flops I'd worn in the car so I had to wear the jeans I'd been wearing to make the flip flops less obtrusive. After a small panic attack and an emergency phone call to Best Friend Nicole, I decided to go and see what the rest of the women attending the rehearsal were wearing and decide if I should inflict my farmer attire on them. We screeched to the church and Andy jumped out to go rehearse. I sat, stalker-like, in the church parking lot but apparently everyone had gone in already. So I figured the rehearsal itself wouldn't last too long so I'd just wait and see what everyone was wearing when it was over and they came out. 45 minutes of watching "Frasier" on Netflix later, Andy texted me and said the rehearsal was almost over and all the women in the very small group were wearing dresses. I couldn't go in. The janitor was dressed more nicely than I was. So I decided to take my offensive denim clad self back to the hotel and get a pizza on the way to make myself feel better. Toppings? Pepperoni and shame. I got my pizza and got back in the car and ate a slice while sitting in the car contemplating my own absurdity and then I realized Andy had our damn room key. And he was off merrily eating barbecue with the rest of the well-dressed people.

So here I sit, huddled in that same Hyundai, miserably stuffing my face with pizza and waiting for someone to call the police about a suspicious vehicle containing a chubby girl wearing inappropriate jeans and blubbering about tossed salad and scrambled eggs.

Happy wedding.

UPDATE: I made it back to the hotel and promptly locked myself out of the hotel room. But at least I was barefoot.

Car

My very first car was a teal 1998 Buick Skylark. It looked exactly as cool as it sounds. I accessorized it with attractive Spongebob seat covers and matching steering wheel cover. I was grateful to have wheels but not exactly overjoyed to be driving a car identical to that of the little old lady up the street; I named my Buick "Car" because it was basically that or something like "Mildred." Mom always insisted that Car was "sporty." The only sport that came to mind when picturing my Buick was shuffleboard. This was a serious retirement community vehicle. Car did have some neat features though. Sometimes her horn would start to blow for no reason and wouldn't stop until I beat frantically on the steering wheel. This usually happened when I was at a light beside a cop car or a bunch of teenage boys. There was also a strange rattle that periodically rang out from the area of the glove compartment. I would reassure my startled passenger by telling them the Glove Compartment Demon was harmless unless provoked. On one memorable occasion Car's brakes went out completely and I shot screaming through a stop sign. When I coasted, white-faced and shaking, into our driveway and told my parents, they immediately assumed that Silly Sam had forgotten how to operate the brake pedal and went for a test drive, whereupon they too experienced the terror of barreling through a stop sign to the soundtrack of a blaring car horn and the desperate rattling of the frightened Glove Compartment Demon. Dad immediately took Car to the shop after prying Mom out of the passenger seat with a spatula. One awesome day I managed to high-center Car on the curb of our driveway. I smacked the curb so hard the tire came off the rim and was destroyed.  Dad ended up having to lift Car off the curb. Then he threw an air compressor across the yard, probably because he was so proud of what a good driver I'd become and he wanted to celebrate. My little brother was the lucky recipient of many jaunts around town in Car. Once I drove him to a piano lesson and then home on what turned out to be a completely flat tire. I was actually driving on the rim, probably throwing off sparks as I trundled down the road with my horn sounding. I did learn a lot from Car and her sporty quirks; for example, the windshield washer fluid does not actually refill every time it rains, nor does the blinker require a special oil to function. Also it's best to not talk on one's Nokia cell phone (with the one inch screen and clip on cover) while piloting a boat like Car, because one will inevitably crash into the garage door and one's father will once again be forced to hurl heavy equipment across the front yard to vent his feelings.

Eventually Adam inherited Car. He spruced her up with "No Fear" stickers and renamed her "Club X-Static."

Damn, it feels good to be a gangster.

Look Mom! No Cavities!

I've had a horse since I was 10. I was always running to the barn after school to muck stalls and throw hay and groom my fat pony. Some days I wouldn't have time to change clothes so I'd just head out in whatever I was wearing for school. One day I ended up at the barn in my super fabulous Mudd clogs and got them pretty filthy and covered in horse poo and other interesting filth. When I got home I decided to thoroughly clean my fancy footwear so I could wear them the next day with my flare jeans and riveted belt. I figured an old toothbrush would work really well in the crevices of my shoes and I knew there'd been a random toothbrush in our bathroom for months so I used it with great success. My clogs were shining in all their pleather glory. It worked so well I thought I'd save the toothbrush for future cleanings and put it right back. Things were going well, Justin and Britney were a power couple, I was mastering the zigzag hair part, and then my little brother walked out of the bathroom BRUSHING HIS TEETH WITH MY HORSE POOP TOOTHBRUSH. I immediately started shrieking incoherently and he stood there drooling toothpaste until I finally gibbered out that he was brushing his teeth with shoe feces at which point he began retching uncontrollably and possibly cried but it might have just been his eyes watering from his violent gagging. There was much wailing and gnashing of teeth and apologizing and our parents laughed until they almost wet their pants. I blame myself for Adam being a germophobe today. I might as well have crammed that poo in his mouth with my own hands.

Tongue Tied

When I was about 4, we spent Christmas with my great grandparents in Wenatchee. I was a very bossy, independent little girl and I was convinced I could handle pretty much everything all by myself. While the grown-ups were talking about boring things I decided to get ready for bed. Mom had one of those fantastic 80's cosmetic roll-up things that hang on the back of a door and I could see the little tube of travel toothpaste in it. I climbed on a stool and retrieved the toothpaste and brushed my teeth all on my own. The toothpaste tasted terrible but then so did a lot of the food I'd been introduced to on that trip, such as prunes. I carried on with my preparations (i.e. Garfield nightgown and laying out my plastic jewelry for the next day) as my mouth slowly grew more and more numb. It finally got to the point where I had an impressive streamer of drool leaking from my mouth and I figured I should get help before I couldn't move my lips at all. I appeared in the living room and began attempting to relate my unfortunate circumstances to a fairly puzzled group of adults. Mom finally asked if something was wrong with my mouth, to which I replied, "VUH HOOPAY MAY MY MOUF FEE WEER." Mom somehow deciphered that and asked me what the hell kind of toothpaste I had used to turn me into a slobbering loon. I shambled to the bathroom and retrieved the tube; when Mom saw it she dissolved in laughter and almost wet herself in the hallway. Because I'd brushed my teeth with Vagisil. And I don't recommend it. Sure made for a fun visit with Grandma and Grandpa though, and the Poison Control people were awfully nice too.

Blades of Fury

When I was about 20 I came home from college for the weekend and my brother and I decided to play outside because we were bad at being adults. I put on my rollerblades and Adam got his scooter and we headed out into the neighborhood to show off our mad skillz. We were rolling along, knowing deep in our hearts that haters were gonna hate, and we came to an intersection. Adam wanted to turn and go down a pretty steep hill but I thought it was too perilous. As we were debating, gravity took over and I realized I was starting to roll down the hill, which had mountain goats and rock climbers clinging to it. I built up quite a head of steam and quickly resorted to my standard reaction to panic, which is to flail and scream. Adam, who had wisely remained at the top of Mt. Everest, kept yelling at me to turn and fall into the grass on the roadside. He is very helpful. I chose to disregard his advice and instead grabbed at a passing tree branch to stop myself. Unfortunately by this point I was breaking the sound barrier so I succeeded only in snapping off the branch. So now I was streaking down the Matterhorn shrieking and waving a tree branch while Adam continued to shout tips at me from the summit. The bottom of the precipice was an intersection and I realized as I plummeted with my tree branch that the cross street had no stop sign. Which means that when I hit the gravel patch at Mach 3 and went ass over teakettle and landed, broken and wailing, the car that was coming barely had enough time to swerve around my battered body before continuing on without bothering to check for a pulse. I laid in the gravel for a few minutes, still clutching my branch, until Adam came trotting up, having decided to play it safe and walk down the sheer cliff. His first words were, "Are you okay? That was really funny." He helped me out of the gravel patch and I took off my rollerblades and I limped home. I eventually went to the hospital and had a sprained wrist and bruised tailbone. I have not rollerbladed since, which I'm sure is a pity for the poor people who have houses there on Mount McKinley. You can't beat a screaming dork brandishing a tree branch while sparks shoot from her rollerblades for entertainment value.

Captain Underpants

Today's story is about me and how incredibly blonde I can be. 

Okay, so, I was rushing around getting ready this morning and I just pulled on the blue jeans I had worn yesterday, because I feel like blue jeans, much like bras, can be worn approximately 2 million times before you have to wash them. The jeans are really stretchy and comfortable. This is an important fact to keep in mind. 

I rushed through my hair and makeup and sprinted to church and was only a few minutes late. We ate lunch and talked to everybody and then took Charlie to the pumpkin patch down the road from our house. We wandered around and made friends with a family who had a little boy about Charlie's size.

Mom and I were standing near the bouncy house and she said, "Sam, where did Princie kick you that left scar tissue on your leg?" (My horse stomped on me when I was about 12 and left a raised area of scar tissue on the inside of my left knee.) I showed her where the spot is and she reached down and felt the area and said, "Is that what that is? You have a big lump there! What is that?" I too reached down and realized that, in my haste to dress, I had yanked on my jeans WITH MY DIRTY UNDERWEAR BALLED UP INSIDE THEM and had NOT NOTICED because the pants are so stretchy, and then I had TALKED TO EVERYONE AT CHURCH and MADE SOME NICE NEW FRIENDS with what appeared to be a LARGE SQUISHY TUMOR above my KNEE. I had to go hide behind the bouncy house and dig in my jeans and pull them out, and then hide them in Andy's cargo shorts pocket. It was almost as embarrassing as the time I got my finger stuck in a Lysol wipes container and ran through city hall screaming and I had to be cut out by a maintenance man. 

Phyllis gets a free pass on whatever ridiculous thing she does next. 

An Unintentionally Sensual Massage

So at lunch today, Andy and I were talking about our most embarrassing moments. Andy hesitated for a while; he had a story that he had never shared with anybody because it was too horrifying. After much hemming and hawing, he finally told me the Tale of the Back Massage.

Here's the back story (ha!): Andy, former football and basketball star, has a bad back and has been going to see a local chiropractor to try to get himself back in alignment. The chiropractor and his staff are excellent and very knowledgeable and friendly, in spite of the fact that one member of our family who shall remain nameless experienced an attack of flatulence while being manipulated on the table. Anyway, one day Andy's doctor recommended a deep tissue back massage from the on-staff masseuse. Andy had never had a professional massage, but the doctor assured him it would work wonders on the knots in his back.

The doctor left the room and told Andy the masseuse would be in soon.

And that's when things went downhill.

As I said, Andy has never had a professional massage. The only experience he's had with massages is watching Phoebe work on "Friends." So he stood there a minute as the panic set in because he had no idea whether he was supposed to take his clothes off or not.

Now, keep in mind, this is a BACK massage. The masseuse would only be massaging his BACK.

So of course Andy took off his shirt.

And his undershirt.

And his shoes.

And his pants.

Then he laid on the table with a towel covering his threadbare underpants, to which he has a much deeper attachment than he does to me, and he laid there feeling increasingly uncomfortable for several minutes.

He had just decided to put some clothes back on when the masseuse opened the door, brightly said hello, and then caught sight of my poor mostly naked husband crouched on the massage table like a half-hearted exhibitionist. Andy described the pause that followed as "tense." Too embarrassed to explain, Andy just laid back down and the masseuse found her train of thought and started to chat. About halfway through the Massage That Shall Remain In Infamy, Andy blurted out, "Was I supposed to take my clothes off?" The masseuse delicately responded that most people prefer to at least leave their pants on. I'm sure she could see the blush spreading from Andy's cheeks to his other cheeks.

So that's how we both ended up crying with laughter in Zaxby's. Andy has a dentist appointment in a few weeks. I must stress to him the importance of remaining clothed, or he's going to have quite a reputation in the doctor's offices of our town. God forbid he need an eye exam or he may end up in only a thong.