I love your site. You are very funny and entertaining. My girlfriends and I read it all the time. We have one request. Please tell us about your most embarrassing moment.
Thanks,
B. S. from Salt Lake City
What's up Salt Lake City? Utah representing! This is the first time I've had a reader write in from the "Beehive State." Thanks for your question, B.
Of all the things I've ever been asked, I think this might be the most difficult to answer. Not because there is a lack of instances that come to mind, but because there is just so much to pick from. There are various falls and faux pas that would easily qualify as a "most embarrassing moment" for most people. But I ain't most people, Internet.
Pretty much it breaks down into three categories:
There's what I like to call Vintage Momma Pug, which are pretty much stories about stupid stuff I've done that my friends and family never tire of telling. This includes crowd favorites such as the time I fell down 50 feet of stadium bleachers while strapped to a base drum (seventh grade) and when I broke my ankle prior to a football game in front of the entire student population while wearing a hideous spandex drill team outfit (college sophomore.)
Then there is Classic Momma Pug, these sort of things happen all the time, usually because I don't know when to shut up. Take for example the time I was telling a story to my former boss and tried to use the phrase "we got 86ed," which means "we got fired." But it was after-hours and I was in the process of unwinding from a long day (alcohol might have been involved), so when I spoke/slurred it came out, very loudly as "we got 69ed." This is the most common sort of blip I make. Such as getting my shirt caught in the elevator door and ripping the dress off rather than just thinking to hit the emergency stop button.
The final – and most rare category – is Epic Momma Pug. These are the sort of falls that would render anyone else paralyzed or slips of the tongue that would your average person fired. I'm not sure why this is the case with me. I've been told its my southern accent and friendly way of "disarming" those around me. I just think chalk it up to God being very forgiving and quite sorry for making me such an awkward klutz/moron.
I do so much embarrassingly horrible things that I've become somewhat immune to the emotions that usually accompany such actions. It takes a real doosie to make me self-conscious or truly humiliated. When I do find myself mortified by one of my oopsies, I'm usually more taken aback the fact that I've actually feel shamed rather than concerned about being ashamed. This happened to me most recently at Mount Vernon, the home of our first president of the United States, Gen. George Washington.
The whole episode actually started the day before when I fell off while getting off a tram in Arlington National Cemetery. My poor husband tried to catch me, but that didn't work out so well and I ended up knocking him down in the process of my falling anyway. To illustrate this particularly nasty fall, I have made a little drawing:
Notice, if you will, that the impact of the fall was concentrated on my ass. My ankle twisted somehow and my head also hit the ground, but those were both secondary to the force that my poor butt took. When I finally crawled over to the sidewalk and pulled myself up, I knew immediately something wasn't right. Pain radiated down my legs all the way to my ankles. I was pretty sure I'd broken my ass, but because it was my mother's first trip to Washington D.C. I didn't want to ruin it with my clumsiness. I tried my best to suck it up and go on, which worked surprisingly well, aside from the fact I wiped out three more times that day. (My legs just weren't working right after the fall.)
Finally we made it back to the hotel and settled in for the night. I was totally drained and in more pain than I can describe. I self-medicated myself and vowed to go on because following day was Mount Vernon and visiting that historical home was the one thing I really, really wanted to do. By the time I'd wrestled myself out of bed the next morning and made my way to the entrance of the home, I found that I was completely outmatched. There were hills. Hills! And sandy gravel. Great, I thought. Perfect. We'd already paid for the tickets, yet I wasn't sure if I could walk the 300 yards to the actual house.
While I sat on a bench and contemplated my plight, my mother and husband devised a plan of their own. The Aggie disappeared suddenly and Mamaw Pug patted me on the back. When he returned, the Hubs was pushing the ricketiest excuse for a wheelchair you had ever seen. It was so old I'm pretty sure George Washington himself rode in it. The structural integrity left much to be desired. The wheels bowed out and one of the footrests wouldn't come down all the way.
"You're chariot awaits, my lady," my husband said.
"No way, dude. I'm not doing that to you," I said.
"Please just get in the chair. I can't take it back until we leave. They took my drivers license. Its here, you need it and you might as well use it," he said.
Famous last words, husband.
After some coaxing from my mother, I was convinced it wasn't THAT embarrassing and I plopped down in the sad little wheelchair. The Aggie embarked on one of the most strenuous workouts of his life – pushing his fat wife up a cobblestoned 17th century hill in a broke down wheelchair. By the time we got to the top of the hill I'm pretty sure the Aggie needed hernia repair. Bless him, though, he just fought to catch his breath and patted me on the shoulder.
After a few moments of recovering his oxygen levels, the Aggie returned to his post behind me and began pushing me along the path that led to the historic home. Apparently there had been some rain the day before and in an attempt to keep the dirty paths from washing out into mud puddles the groundskeepers had spread a think layer of sandy gravel on top of the dirt road. While this kept tourists from slipping and sliding all over the place, it made for a rather shitty wheelchair-pushing surface. Not one to accept defeat, the Aggie just hunkered down and pushed onward. After about two feet, we jolted to a stop. The wheels on the chair seemed to be locking up. He reversed the motion and started again with some difficulty. After we'd gone several more yards, the Aggie stopped. My mother was laughing. The Aggie was not. When I finally saw what they were looking at, I broke out in hysterics. In my wake we had left two long ruts the entire length of the path. My poor husband had been pushing me through the rocks and sand and mud like I was on the worlds most poorly designed sled.
The Aggie did not see the humor in this. I, however, was hyperventilating with laughter. I had gone from being the mortified I have ever been in my life, to completely amused by the situation. God, my husband loves me, I thought. There I was – injured, crying, laughing in a broken wheelchair/sled -- and that sweet man just kept on going, determined to let me experience everything I wanted. I don't know what I'd do without such an amazing partner. He's never embarrassed by my antics and will always try and help after I'm neck deep. For that, I am ever grateful.
So there you have it. That's my most embarrassing moment in recent memory.
Lets recap, shall we: Me. My mom. My husband. Nation's capital. Fell off tram. Broke ass. Pushed uphill, through gravel in broken wheelchair. Before an audience of thousands.
The End.
Thanks,
B. S. from Salt Lake City
What's up Salt Lake City? Utah representing! This is the first time I've had a reader write in from the "Beehive State." Thanks for your question, B.
Of all the things I've ever been asked, I think this might be the most difficult to answer. Not because there is a lack of instances that come to mind, but because there is just so much to pick from. There are various falls and faux pas that would easily qualify as a "most embarrassing moment" for most people. But I ain't most people, Internet.
Pretty much it breaks down into three categories:
There's what I like to call Vintage Momma Pug, which are pretty much stories about stupid stuff I've done that my friends and family never tire of telling. This includes crowd favorites such as the time I fell down 50 feet of stadium bleachers while strapped to a base drum (seventh grade) and when I broke my ankle prior to a football game in front of the entire student population while wearing a hideous spandex drill team outfit (college sophomore.)
Then there is Classic Momma Pug, these sort of things happen all the time, usually because I don't know when to shut up. Take for example the time I was telling a story to my former boss and tried to use the phrase "we got 86ed," which means "we got fired." But it was after-hours and I was in the process of unwinding from a long day (alcohol might have been involved), so when I spoke/slurred it came out, very loudly as "we got 69ed." This is the most common sort of blip I make. Such as getting my shirt caught in the elevator door and ripping the dress off rather than just thinking to hit the emergency stop button.
The final – and most rare category – is Epic Momma Pug. These are the sort of falls that would render anyone else paralyzed or slips of the tongue that would your average person fired. I'm not sure why this is the case with me. I've been told its my southern accent and friendly way of "disarming" those around me. I just think chalk it up to God being very forgiving and quite sorry for making me such an awkward klutz/moron.
I do so much embarrassingly horrible things that I've become somewhat immune to the emotions that usually accompany such actions. It takes a real doosie to make me self-conscious or truly humiliated. When I do find myself mortified by one of my oopsies, I'm usually more taken aback the fact that I've actually feel shamed rather than concerned about being ashamed. This happened to me most recently at Mount Vernon, the home of our first president of the United States, Gen. George Washington.
The whole episode actually started the day before when I fell off while getting off a tram in Arlington National Cemetery. My poor husband tried to catch me, but that didn't work out so well and I ended up knocking him down in the process of my falling anyway. To illustrate this particularly nasty fall, I have made a little drawing:
Notice, if you will, that the impact of the fall was concentrated on my ass. My ankle twisted somehow and my head also hit the ground, but those were both secondary to the force that my poor butt took. When I finally crawled over to the sidewalk and pulled myself up, I knew immediately something wasn't right. Pain radiated down my legs all the way to my ankles. I was pretty sure I'd broken my ass, but because it was my mother's first trip to Washington D.C. I didn't want to ruin it with my clumsiness. I tried my best to suck it up and go on, which worked surprisingly well, aside from the fact I wiped out three more times that day. (My legs just weren't working right after the fall.)
Finally we made it back to the hotel and settled in for the night. I was totally drained and in more pain than I can describe. I self-medicated myself and vowed to go on because following day was Mount Vernon and visiting that historical home was the one thing I really, really wanted to do. By the time I'd wrestled myself out of bed the next morning and made my way to the entrance of the home, I found that I was completely outmatched. There were hills. Hills! And sandy gravel. Great, I thought. Perfect. We'd already paid for the tickets, yet I wasn't sure if I could walk the 300 yards to the actual house.
While I sat on a bench and contemplated my plight, my mother and husband devised a plan of their own. The Aggie disappeared suddenly and Mamaw Pug patted me on the back. When he returned, the Hubs was pushing the ricketiest excuse for a wheelchair you had ever seen. It was so old I'm pretty sure George Washington himself rode in it. The structural integrity left much to be desired. The wheels bowed out and one of the footrests wouldn't come down all the way.
"You're chariot awaits, my lady," my husband said.
"No way, dude. I'm not doing that to you," I said.
"Please just get in the chair. I can't take it back until we leave. They took my drivers license. Its here, you need it and you might as well use it," he said.
Famous last words, husband.
After some coaxing from my mother, I was convinced it wasn't THAT embarrassing and I plopped down in the sad little wheelchair. The Aggie embarked on one of the most strenuous workouts of his life – pushing his fat wife up a cobblestoned 17th century hill in a broke down wheelchair. By the time we got to the top of the hill I'm pretty sure the Aggie needed hernia repair. Bless him, though, he just fought to catch his breath and patted me on the shoulder.
After a few moments of recovering his oxygen levels, the Aggie returned to his post behind me and began pushing me along the path that led to the historic home. Apparently there had been some rain the day before and in an attempt to keep the dirty paths from washing out into mud puddles the groundskeepers had spread a think layer of sandy gravel on top of the dirt road. While this kept tourists from slipping and sliding all over the place, it made for a rather shitty wheelchair-pushing surface. Not one to accept defeat, the Aggie just hunkered down and pushed onward. After about two feet, we jolted to a stop. The wheels on the chair seemed to be locking up. He reversed the motion and started again with some difficulty. After we'd gone several more yards, the Aggie stopped. My mother was laughing. The Aggie was not. When I finally saw what they were looking at, I broke out in hysterics. In my wake we had left two long ruts the entire length of the path. My poor husband had been pushing me through the rocks and sand and mud like I was on the worlds most poorly designed sled.
The Aggie did not see the humor in this. I, however, was hyperventilating with laughter. I had gone from being the mortified I have ever been in my life, to completely amused by the situation. God, my husband loves me, I thought. There I was – injured, crying, laughing in a broken wheelchair/sled -- and that sweet man just kept on going, determined to let me experience everything I wanted. I don't know what I'd do without such an amazing partner. He's never embarrassed by my antics and will always try and help after I'm neck deep. For that, I am ever grateful.
So there you have it. That's my most embarrassing moment in recent memory.
Lets recap, shall we: Me. My mom. My husband. Nation's capital. Fell off tram. Broke ass. Pushed uphill, through gravel in broken wheelchair. Before an audience of thousands.
The End.
11 comments:
What about the day I saved your life when you fell in the middle of Rice Blvd. on our way to Hungry's (an appropriately named restaurant for us)?
OH! That was a good one!
I truly appreciate the vintage MP. And your right- I never tire of the base drum story or the one where you walked off the stage.
There is also the one where you re-broke the leg and were forced to sleep in my bottom bunk because you had your bed so high on cinder blocks that we couldn't get your sedated butt into it...
One of my more embarrassing moments was when I lost my pants at a Pearl Jam and Ramones concert.
what about the one when you flipped the four wheeler while wearing high heels which became impaled in a red clay bank when you stopped flipping end over in in your "Designer Dress"???? Ranks high with the family!!'Course you were just a kid when that happened and you have advanced so much since then.
Love,
Auntie
wow. there is no shortage of REMEMBER WHEN SHE TOTALLY BUSTED HER ASS stories. you guys make me so proud. What's your favorite?
AHHH....stories about MP....err..I'll have to refer to Catfish on this one. How about you being national..good job! Throw some blinky ads for viagra on your site and you might be all rolling in the green LOL - P
I particularly enjoy the one told about your falling down at Southern when your hands never left your backpack (didn't see that one), or the time you of all people found a breast implant to slip on in the Galleria (did see that one). And a quick percussion lesson. It's bass drum, but that's just the drummer in me being picky.
LORD! Who knew this topic list could be so broad! You all have a story! Ten points to the person who tells the best Momma Pug Busted Her Ass Story.
Please don't forget the A&W/Long John Silver saga...eating chili fries on police video.
That is a story that we will never live down.
I seem to remember a day when ample amounts of snow was involved- but to our credit, we had just run out of alcohol and cigarettes. Of course, there was the proud moment when we both tried to run from the porch and jump on the hammock in the front yard. We flipped and landed on our backs- winded but trying to laugh anyway.
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