Pajamas…A Post For the Ladies.

Pajamas…A Post For the Ladies.

Hey Ladies,

Yeah, I said ladies. This is just a post for the ladies. 

You know what’s great? Telling your daughter the real names for her body parts. That’s right. Female empowerment and no shame and rah, rah, rah! Ya know what my daughter calls her vagina? Um, her vagina. I have no idea why this is a big deal to me for my family: it just is. I don’t even remember where I read it.

Please don’t hear me telling you that YOU should do that. In fact, as this little story is about to demonstrate, just go with some cutesy name, for goodness sake. Yeah, in fact, you definitely should not teach your daughter the real words.

See…the problem with Stella knowing the real words for her body parts is that she actually uses them. She has NO IDEA that the word vagina is any different than the word elbow. She just doesn’t.

Case in point: A few days ago we sat in a gymnasium and watched high school volleyball for four hours. There’s only so much laying on the bleachers a girl can do before she can gets restless.

IMG_6059Between games I took her into a corner beside the student section and we tossed a ball back and forth. Down my arm, over my head, behind the back and on and on. I got creative with the way I passed it to her. Her happy little voice shouted out at the top of her lungs ‘Mommy! Pass it under your vagina! Between your legs!”

Screech!!!!!!

Ahem, sweet thing, let’s have a little chat. There is such a thing as words that are private. Words we only say quietly. Words we never shout out next to a bleacher section full of teenagers.

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“Why did you teach me that word if you didn’t want me to use it.” 

I don’t know, child. I really don’t know.

You know it’s actually not the first time I’ve heard her say that word out loud. The thing is though she used to pronounce the word like pajama. As in…oh, you can imagine how it would be used.

You’re welcome for this, my 26th day of embarrassing moments. 

 

Explaining the Tweets, Part One

Explaining the Tweets, Part One

Dear Diary, On the twenty fifth of October I officially ran out of embarrassing moments to blog about during the Nester’s stupid Write 31 Days challenge.

Write 31 days…who the heck thought this was a good idea?

Let’s just break this down, shall we? I mean, I used to blog EVERY SINGLE DAY so in my mind blogging everyday again would be no big deal. The difference was that when I was blogging everyday I could choose my own topic.

The fact is I am SO sick of this stinking topic. I’m sure you are too, Mom. I’m addressing this to my Mom because I assume that’s the only person still reading. 

Well, we’re all in this together, right. Having said all that…let’s get back to it.

We’ve talked about the kind of embarrassment where you learn something, where you don’t, the kind that has a purpose and on and on. Today let’s talk about the kind you try to explain away – the kind you try to convince people doesn’t even exist. As in, ‘What? That wasn’t embarrassing at all! I totally stand by it’

 

As I looked thru the last few years of my Twitter posts in anticipation of this challenge I saw a lot of tweets that I felt the need to explain in order to avoid embarrassment.

For instance, my ‘advice’ for new moms that are struggling with breastfeeding:

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And even though I totally danced last night at the Allume party I do not appreciate most of what I hear on the radio. Get off my lawn. 

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Speaking of music…I’m sorry. I have no excuse for this. I should be embarrassed about it:

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Wait a minute. I just sang it in my head and I think I’m okay with it. That song is so dang catchy I STILL sing it on Fridays to get my kids out of bed. They LOVE it. That love usually takes the form of shoes being thrown at me but you see what I mean.

And it would be totally normal for me to side with Ivan Drago if he were to go up against Big AL.

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Come on! Any Auburn fan would agree with that retweet.

Now while some people may view getting your keys locked in your car repeatedly as a sign of  irresponsibility I view it how it should be viewed and that is, it’s the car’s fault.

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So see! Clearly I have good explanations for all these tweets.

Totally. Legit. Explanations.

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The Bird or the Statue…

The Bird or the Statue…

Ya know, some moments are just so good that you stop and think ‘wow, this is a great freaking moment.’ Sometimes that feeling ends gradually and sometimes it ends really abruptly.

Like, super abruptly. I’m sure Rose was thinking ‘best day ever’ when she met Jack on board the Titanic and then that prickly iceberg had to go and get in the way. You go from absolute elation to devastation pretty quickly and sometimes theres a pretty thin line between the two.

A lot of times those great moments that go bad do so in a fury of embarrassment. So, welcome to Day 24 of my Most Embarrassing Moments.

I’ve had several of these moments. Where to start, where to start? I mean, you know what I’m talking about right?

It’s kinda like when you’re seventeen and in love and in Paris with your boyfriend:

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You stroll down the sidewalks beside the Seine and he buys you flowers and you eat croissants and you don’t even feel guilty about it even though it’s your second of the day because you don’t even know what a calorie is yet. 

As you walk from the Eiffel Tower to the Louvre you think about how romantic it all is.

You reach your hand up to brush the hair that is softly flowing on to your face off, while you think ‘this is like something out of a movie’ but instead of touching hair you touch the huge gob of pigeon poop that has just landed on your cheek.

So, yeah. I got pooped on by a pigeon while waiting to get into the Louvre. For small birds, pigeon can produce a lot of poop. I mean, A LOT. Nothing says embarrassment quite like saying ‘yeah, it’s bird poop’ over and over again when people ask you ‘what’s that on your shirt.’

Isn’t that a saying? One minute you’re the bird and the next minute you’re the statue. Y’all know I don’t like to use the P word – let’s move on. 

A few years later I felt that way again. I was dating this guy in college and we were pretty horrible for each other. I’d blame it all on him but some of it’s on me, for sure. We’d been broken up over the Christmas holidays and somehow ended up deciding to try it again come January. It was our first date post breakup and everything was just going right.

We were in that stage where we were so happy to see each other and all those reasons we’d broken up had been stuffed in the back of our minds. A spontaneous rain broke out right as were leaving the movie theatre and we grabbed hands and began to run as fast as we could across the parking lot. Both of us were laughing and happy and I thought ‘see, this CAN work!’ 

Unfortunately, right at that moment his hand slipped away from mine and my new shoes slipped on the wet asphalt and I went sprawling to the ground in a fall of epic proportions. Now, you’ve seen romantic leads fall in movies, right? When you fall in real life that is NOT what the fall looks like. At least, it’s not what I looked like.

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You’re welcome for that little illustration. I worked ALL DAY on it. Or maybe just for a minute – one or the other. 

Both knees were bleeding plus a wrist. My outfit was torn and my shoes were never the same. I went home and put on pajamas and thought ‘well, that fall was kind of like a metaphor for this relationship.’

You don’t want to live your life waiting for the other shoe to drop but…sometimes it just drops.

And thank goodness or what would I have to blog about?