Guest Post: Embarassing Story #3

I love this story. It makes me feel much, much better about Rowan spending all year in preschool being a dinosaur. Take it away Kira:

In third grade I was painfully dorky and I would always sit and read by myself before the bell rang. I also stayed inside during one of the recesses to  read in the library or write stories about these two kids named Derrick and Marsha who time-traveled. Who DOES that? Obviously the other kids made fun of me for being such a gigantic nerd, so I came up with a brilliant solution: I…made cat noises at them. Like, hissed and stuff. And I didn’t break character, not even if they told me to seriously stop because I was freaking them out. Yep. That’s what 8-year-old me came up with. It did wonders for my popularity.

Coming Up Next: The Horrors of Headgear. For more thoughts regarding cats, please click here.

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Guest Post: Embarrassing Story #2

So this story is one to be savored. And I don’t mean that literally. Thank you anonymous person whose identity only I know and will relish knowing for the rest of my life…thank you.

I don’t embarrass easily. In order to make this story work, I need to do this thing in two parts.

Before we begin, I should say that my significant other is embarrassed by this story and therefore I wish to remain anonymous. For his or her sake.

Part I

 

We once moved from one place to another. We stayed with some friends on our way out of town, and the day happened to be a holiday where Americans typically drink. So we drank. And as it turned out, the people that I was with were much less interested in drinking the HUGE bottle of wine we had than I was. So I drank it all.

Then I went to bed. In the middle of the night I got up to go to the bathroom. It was weird because I was in the bathroom before I had any idea why I was going there.

It soon became apparent that I was there in order to vomit profusely. Having never experienced food poisoning or the flu, I was unfamiliar with some of the side effects of violent chunk-blowing. As it turns out, a bowel release is a somewhat common occurrence, and one that I was in no way prepared for.

Yep, my pants were still on.

To make a long story short, there was some extensive clean up and we didn’t leave until 5 PM the next day.

Part II

 

Some time later, we visited some friends in a different city. We went out to a bar where they knew a bartender. Also, our friends were very good at drinking and very encouraging with regards to the drinking of others.

We sat at the bar and drank way too much. I also had such a variety of drinks that I still get nauseous when I think about it. I drank wine, beer, something with milk in it, shots, mixed drinks, etc. Disgusting.

The extravaganza was finished off by me doing three double shots of Jaegermeister in a row. (How am I still alive?)

I immediately went to the bathroom because I wanted to prepare for the inevitable. I went in and forced out as much poop as I could, because I knew vomiting was in my not-too-distant future.

As I left the bathroom area, I had to do an immediate U-turn around a partition to head back toward the bar and my people. This bathroom was in the now-closed restaurant section. I rounded the partition and the resulting spin was enough to send me reeling backward. I tried to catch myself, but all I did was send barstools – that were previously on top of tables – to the floor with me.

Since the alcohol affected my body before it affected my mind, I was fully aware of what had just happened, and all too aware that trying to get up by myself would be futile. So I just lay there and watched the horror on the faces of my other and my friends, as they knew they were about to take responsibility for me.

*PROUD MOMENT ALERT* I did not vomit on the ride home, which was especially important since it wasn’t my vehicle.

I made it into our hotel room somehow. I went to the bathroom to let the vomit out.

And somehow, some way, I still had feces in my bowels. Well, at least before the puking.

I may be the only non-elderly adult in history to poop his or her pants twice. And it’s not fair. I took precaution.

P.S. I do not get drunk anymore. But I have vomited since that day. Rest assured that I did so while sitting on the toilet. If I forget in the future, at least I’ll have another story to submit to this blog.

Coming Soon: An embarrassing story that hits close to home and features…um….meowing.

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Guest Post: Embarrasing Story #1.

Ladies and gentlemen! I am thrilled to share with you the first embarrassing story to land in my inbox. Thrilled because, well, somebody did what I asked them to do…AND because it takes a load off of me. And let’s face it. It’s ALL about me. Take it away, Jennifer!

Let me preface this by saying, Thank SIPNEL I was not on a date!

I was out to dinner with 2 friends when the waiter came to take our order. I went first and after I’d placed my order the waiter reached out his hand to take my menu. I, however, interpreted this as “I’d like to hold your hand.” I have absolutely no explanation whatsoever as to why I thought this. So, feeling a little awkward, I reached up and held his hand while placing my drink order.
Both my friends burst out laughing, and the waiter, clearly perplexed, said “O.K. Can I have your menu please.” At this point I realized…what? that I was an idiot? that I had forgotten I’d ever been in a restaurant before? that my brain had completely failed me? that this was the most embarrassed I’d ever been?

The waiter could not approach our table without laughing for the rest of the dinner. And I still get embarrassed when I tell this story. But it’s so damn funny that I have to tell it, at my own expense.

Coming up next: a saga involving poop.

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Tsk. Tsk.

So, I get it. You’re busy. You don’t have the time to write a short little blip about something that has embarrassed you. Writing doesn’t come naturally, or maybe you have lived a life free of embarrassment, which, if this is true, I hate you.

I want submissions. I want them so hard. I want to hear from other people about their lives, their cinematic blips. I want to laugh, relate to you, and quite freaking frankly, I want to try this submission thing because I have never tried it before.

I am extending the submission deadline because you have given me no other choice. You broke me. You have two more weeks. That means that for reals the deadline is no later than Friday the 24th. I will be open to any embarrassing moments that you will share with me, not just childhood memory ones. So, get cracking, or you’ll see this face in your nightmares for the rest of your life:

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Sugar Snap YOU! Submit Your Hiney Off!

So, I have the blog, see? And I love writing for it, see? But the thing is, I need some inspiration. And I can’t think of a better way to get inspired than by asking my readers to write. And so, Sugar Snap Me is asking for submissions*. Now, the dealio is that whatever you submit to me may or may not be published. If you are ok with that, then submit your little heart out. If you aren’t ok with that then, well, you’re weird.

I want to hear your most embarrassing childhood memory. Now, when I say childhood, what I mean is any memory that embarrasses you from before you were old enough to vote, because let’s face it, most of us were children until our mid-twenties anyway, but asking for your most embarrassing childhood memory requires some realistic boundaries.

I will read through all the submissions and select my favorite. If I just can’t choose (which is the reason I have 23 black tank tops-I love them ALL) then I will post the top 3. We’ll see how this whole thing goes. Ya dig? Who knows? Maybe I’ll love them all and it will be a smorgasbord of shame!

Two more things:

1) Share this with your “network”. This is a word I have most recently added to my arsenal of fancy words. So, post it to your Facebook wall and ask your friends/family to participate. I want to see a crap ton of submissions for my first ever submissions-fest.

2) I can only offer you one thing in return for your participation, and that is that when I die, you will be the last person I think of. Swear. Pinkie promise. For reals. Totes. No joke.

*Please submit to sarahcafiero@gmail.com – Deadline is 8/13/2012 – No word limit, but don’t be annoying. I’ve added the most obnoxious picture of me ever, just to add some spice.Image

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I’m Worried You Wont Like This.

Here’s something about me you may not know: I worry a lot. I’m a worrier. For example:

A few years ago I saw how a family took a wrong turn on a vacation in Oregon and ended up trapped in their car in a snow storm. They ran out of food and water and were so cold that they tried burning the tires of their car for heat. And eventually, the father went out on foot to find help*. He died of hypothermia, I believe. That story had a huge impact on me and is the reason that I wear edible and wood jewelry. Seriously. If there are seeds or beans in the bead shop? I buy that mess, string it and wear it every day. Just in case. And at times I wonder if perhaps the seed beads have been treated in some way, or lacquered, but then I realize that if worse comes to worse, I can soak them in my saliva, break them down and survive on the inside part. The wood I can burn for warmth.

Years ago, when I was a teen, I was walking into a shop and there was a woman standing by the door holding on to an empty plastic bag. In a split second, I imagined her taking the bag, shoving it over my head and suffocating me, so I ran into the store. She was gone when I came back out. And yes, I kept peeking until she was gone.

A couple of weeks ago, while I was with the boys at Buffalo Exchange, a girl came up to me and asked me where I had purchased my necklace. I told her that I had made it, and she asked if she could buy one from me. Since I have nothing but time**, I told her I would, and then silently cursed her for the next two days until I found the time to make it. She came to where I work to pick it up, and out of her back pocket she pulled a squished, wrapped, handmade brownie and gave it to me. After she left, I threw it in the garbage, so as not to die from the poison that she obviously put in it, but my office mate took it back out and ate it. I watched for signs of distress in him for the rest of the day. He thought I was crazy.

I can’t stand it when my kids get Ranger Rick in the mail and it has a giant spider on the front, because I swear to SIPNEL I am afraid that spider will suddenly turn real and, and . . . what? Attack me? What the fuck do I think is going to happen? But really, I only touch the very edge of the magazine and then sort of throw it down and away from my body when we get into the house.

I’ve lived in Arizona for 16 years now, and have still never been to the Grand Canyon. It’s one of those things that I usually hate admitting to, because everyone says the exact same thing to me about it, and I get annoyed at the lack of originality. Yes, I know that I should, and I know that I should be ashamed that I haven’t. Why do I know? Because everybody keeps telling me. Seriously, someday I will tell someone that I have never been and they will say to me, “Cool! I think that’s great and perfectly acceptable!” But for now, I will tell you why I have never gone to stand on the very edge of a giant fucking hole in the earth. Years ago, my sister and I were visiting my uncle for “Family Weekend” at SUNY Geneseo while he was a student there. After our first night, he and his girlfriend took us for a beautiful hike, which ended at a popular picnic spot near a small lake. On one side of the lake was a large cliff, and on the other was the picnic spot. The top of the cliff was a “scenic stop” and there were people at the top, looking down at us. After a little while, we heard a scream, and looked up just in time to see a small child fall off the cliff.

No. I am not kidding.

We watched his body bounce off of every rock and every tree that he contacted the entire way down the cliff, until he reached the bottom, where he lay until the paramedics could hike in and carry him out. In the end, he was alright (my uncle was credited for being pretty heroic that day, and I distinctly remember him running across that lake to get to the child), but let me assure you that as a result of witnessing that? When I think about going to the Grand Canyon? All I want to do is vomit.

For some reason, whenever something frightens me, I get a sharp, shooting pain in my forehead. What’s that about? It’s weird.

We have a basement in the office building that I now work in, and it’s where the coffee pot is, so, let’s face it, I have to go into the basement a lot. But dude. It is pretty terrifying down there, especially if I am in said building completely alone. I got myself pretty worked up last week and convinced myself that even though the door to the building was locked, someone could have found a way in, and that I was going to be ambushed and raped (I know, I know, but it’s the truth!). So, I go into that basement for the love of coffee alone, and I have thought through my counter attack.

I’m convinced that one day a Palo Verde beetle will get into the house, climb in our bed, and touch me.

Lately, anytime my boss at my new job tells me that he needs to talk to me about something, I immediately begin to accept the fact that I’m about to be fired. OK. This one I blame on John.

But, you see what I’m trying to highlight here, right? I’m trying to highlight the crazy that lives inside me. And also, I would love to determine the cause of the shooting pain in the front of my head when something scares me, because it’s really weird. An added bonus would be to hear that I’m not actually crazy, and that many, many people experience the same thoughts. And if not, maybe don’t tell me.

Great. Something else to worry about.

 

 

*Don’t ever do that.

**Total sarcasm and resentment.

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Jealousy.

So, I’m sitting here, in front of my computer which may or may not be disgustingly dirty, and I may or may not be slightly tipsy from a margarita that I may or may not have put too much liquor in, and I’m listening to my husband be….well…fantastic. He’s been patiently paying attention to and listening to the kids for over an hour, which if added to the other couple of hours today that he’s done this is like, a lot of hours. Especially considering how much Rowan can talk. Seriously, if Rowan ever prefaces something to you with, “You know…” get comfy, y’all. Really fucking comfy.

Perhaps it’s because I am starting a full-time job tomorrow. One that has already consumed much of my time, albeit in a flurry of distracted, pieced-together, late night–early morning moments, hair-pullingly unorganized moments, but nonetheless, I will, for the first time since the kids were born, be leaving them in the care of, well, my husband. And I’m jealous.

In all fairness, John has been taking care of the kids a lot since they were born. He’s a hands-on parent, and genuine in his desire and interest in child-rearing and co-parenting. In fact, what happens tomorrow is something that he and I have been wanting to do for years. We’ve talked about that elusive job that would never turn up, allowing us to switch roles so that he could be with the kids, and bond with them the way I have. And TA-DA! Captain elusive job landed on my lap, and here we are: T minus 14 hours until we manage to reach a goal we never thought possible.

So why do I feel so shitty?

I don’t know, friends. I’m sitting here thinking that it’s not because of the job, but more because of the connection. Right now, in the other room, I can hear John shouting in a super-hero-announcer voice (seriously, there is a superhero-announcer-voice): “AH! Help! The SEA DRAGOOOOOOOOON!” and I think, “well, that’s it for me.” Because I will never, ever be a convincing enough super-hero announcer. And in the interest of keepin’ it real, I can assure you that I hate imaginary play. It’s so, like, fake.

And he’s so patient. And RIGHT! He’s right like, 98% of the time! He makes good decisions, and can answer the boys’ questions in a very succinct and not psychotic way, like I do! He’s loving, but firm and fun, too! Dear SIPNEL! I’ve married the perfect man! What was I thinking?

It seems really sudden to me, the change. And so I am frantic that it’s because I am working more. Will the boys only lean on me for comfort and softness? Can I still connect with them without annoying them? Why do I suddenly not know how to make them happy? I can hear the huff that will come in the next few years from Rowan. In fact, yesterday he actually said to me, “Oh, Mama. You bring nothing but trouble” when I accidentally broke his Lego car. And I swear to you, I felt us separating . . . and a part of me totally agreeing with him. I’m a total troublemaker.

I don’t want to be melodramatic, but I’m feeling inadequate as a mother after years of feeling pretty fucking adequate. Is it age? Natural distance? Gender? Or that John is just more awesome, and tolerant? Shouldn’t I be pleased to have a partner who is so loving with our kids? So interested? What the hell is wrong with me?

Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’ll pass. Maybe the foundation that I laid is perfectly aligned with what John is providing them with now. Maybe I’m just over-analyzing it all (no shit, Sherlock), and I should just trust that we know what we are doing, and that things are alright. That my kids will grow up knowing that gender doesn’t define roles. That women can do anything, and that men can, too. Maybe John will rise up out of this an even more amazing man, and finally for the first time in his life stop thinking that a piano will fall on his head if things go well. And let’s face it: maybe, just maybe, I’m drunk.

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