I say stupid things all the time. I do stupid things all the time. When I allow myself to remember all the stupid things I’ve said and done in my life, my whole body cringes. I can only stand to remember these things for a few seconds, and then I have to shut my eyes, plug my ears, and start singing “Deck the Halls” at the top of my lungs to purge all the embarrassment from my body. Today I started thinking there have got to be better ways of dealing with all this shame I’m carrying around, so I decided to write this post. I’ve picked 3 of my most embarrassing moments from the last 15 years to talk about, and I beg you to tell me yours in the comment section. Maybe your mortifying moments can cancel out mine, and vice versa. Now let’s get this purge party started!
Mortifying Moment #3: The Chicken Cutlets
I am not now and never have been chesty, unless you count the time my knockers blew up to 38Ds while I was pregnant with twins. Way before I even got pregnant or married, though, when I was 27 years old and living the life of a newly single girl in the big city, I was surviving on a post-breakup diet of wine and Power Bars, and therefore skinny and flat as a flapjack. I had to boost my marketing appeal to all of the superficial, club-going dipshidiots I was trying to attract, so I called upon the help of “chicken cutlets.” No, I’m not talking about something sold at KFC – I’m talking about boob-shaped and textured inserts that you stuff into your bra so that you look like you have juggernauts.
One night, fully loaded on Red Bulls and vodka, and my bra fully loaded with cutlets, I ventured out to one of the cheesiest bars in the metropolitan area with two of my girlfriends. The night started off great. They were playing old-school hits like “Humpty Dance,” so I was busy doing my signature dance moves like the Card Dealer, the Dirt Digger, and the Sprinkler Head (to name a few). When the DJ took a break, my friends and I headed to the bar to get a drink. Waiting for the bartender’s attention, I noticed a group of guys staring at me with their eyes popping out and mouths wide open. Damn, I thought. I am lookin’ HOT tonight. Feast your eyes, fellas! I pretended not to notice their adulation, but the staring was so blatant, it soon became impossible to resist glancing back over at them. Catching my eye, one of them gestured to his chest with cupped hands and starting mouthing something to me. Of all the dick-move-come-ons, I thought. This jerk is objectifying me for my ample bosom! Well I’ll show him! I looked him squarely in the eye, smiled, and lifted my middle finger. He just shook his head and went back to talking, and now laughing, with his friends.
I turned around to tell my girlfriends, who were waiting right beside me for their shot at the bartender, and one of them grabbed me, shrieking, “Oh my God, Ashley! Your cutlet popped out!”
And, sure enough, my cutlet was half out of my low-cut shirt, almost up to my clavicle. The guy I thought was being a jerk was actually trying to prevent me from making a complete ass out of myself, though I think it’s pretty clear no one can stop me from that free-fall when I’ve set my mind to it. I stuffed my cutlet back into my shirt, covered my face, and basically moonwalked myself out of there.
Mortifying Moment #2: The Toilet Paper Tail
Now, I know everyone at some time or another has gotten some toilet paper on their shoe and trailed it out of the bathroom in a public place. If that has ever happened to you, yeah I get it, it’s kind of embarrassing and more than a little gross. My story can go you one better. Three years ago, I was on a weekend girls’ getaway to a local beach. This is after two pregnancies, one being a twin pregnancy, so needless to say, I do NOT wear bikinis anymore. I wear board shorts or Mom Swim Skirts, and that’s non-negotiable. So, the girls were all relaxing on the beach, and I needed to use the public beach restroom, which was two blocks away. No one else had to go, so I made the trek solo.
When I was a little kid, I’d go on road trips with my dad, and we had to hit a lot of public restrooms. I couldn’t squat over the potty, so my dad made sure I always coated the seat with toilet paper before resting my little tushy. Today, I am much more capable of squatting but I am far too lazy, so I do the TP coat before resting my BIG tushy. The process in the public beach restroom was no different than any other, so I did my business, walked out of the restroom, down the two blocks, down the boardwalk, and across the beach to where my friends were lying on their beach towels. Did I mention the beach was crowded? No? Well it was. Crowded. As. Fuck.
Anywho. I returned to my beach towel, and after a few minutes, started telling one of my long-winded stories (sort of like this one), and in the throes of the story’s dramatic climax, I stood up like I was starring in a one-man performance of MacBeth.
“Oh my God,” gasped one of my friends, laughing hysterically.
“No wait, I’m not done yet,” I snapped. How dare she interrupt my soliloquy?
“Oh yes, you are,” she sputtered, still choking on her laughter. “Sit down, dumbass, you have a toilet paper tail!”
I looked behind me, and sticking out of my Mom Swim Skirt, fluttering in the beachy breezes like a long, white kite, was indeed a TP tail that I’d displayed for two street blocks, one boardwalk, and one over-populated beach. I looked around and saw many, many people other than my friends staring and laughing at me, including all the little hot teenage girls that don’t have to wear Mom Swim Skirts! I dove back to my towel, removed the TP tail, shoved it under my beach bag, threw another towel over my head, and begged my friends to dig a hole deep enough to bury me AND my shame. (Instead, all those bitches did was laugh and laugh).
Mortifying Moment #1: The Donkey Punch
Ohhh, the Donkey Punch story. This is going to be painful because my cheeks are on fire right now, and I’m only two sentences in. Let me start with ABC’s “Bachelor Pad,” because that show is responsible for this mess. A few years ago, there was a contestant named “Blakely,” who had competed and lost on Ben Flajnik’s Bachelor season. She was a “hostess,” which probably just meant she was a stripper, and that should’ve been my red flag to never, ever quote her. In her solo interviews, when she’d get mad at a random guy contestant on “Bachelor Pad,” she would say she was going to “donkey punch him in the throat.”
Now, it’s known that I’m not a shrinking violet, and I’m not afraid of a juicy swear word, but I really am not familiar with weird colloquialisms regarding sexual depravity, so I had NO IDEA what a Donkey Punch was. (If you now have to Google it, go right ahead, but do so at the risk of the last meal you ate. It’s dumbfoundingly vile). When I heard the term on “Bachelor Pad,” I just thought it was a really funny way of describing how you were going to hurt someone, meanwhile envisioning donkeys doing back-kicks to people’s throats. I couldn’t wait to use this as a witty comeback, and tucked it away in my little arsenal of cool-sounding things to say.
Flash-forward to Halloween, a few months after I learned this term, and my husband, kids, and I are at our neighbor’s annual driveway party, where all the parents mill around drinking adult beverages while our costumed kids go nuts in the street. Some of the neighbors at this party we were very close to, some were just the neighbors we smiled, waved, and politely chit-chatted with in passing, and some were brand new to the neighborhood. After a couple of drinks, I found myself drawn into a conversation that my husband was having with some of the neighbor guys. He was telling them about my recent interest in taking boxing classes to work out some of my innate hostility. They all laughed.
“They used to call her Balboa in elementary school,” my husband adds. More laughter.
“She doesn’t look like she could do much damage, though, not even to a punching bag,” comments one of my husband’s close friends, pretending to size me up.
“You won’t be saying that after I DONKEY PUNCH you in the throat,” I announce triumphantly, all prepared to collect my Cool Points. My husband’s friend (let’s just call him Joe) spits out his last swig of beer, and a look of wide-eyed shock and confusion passes over his face. The other guys stop laughing and just stare at me. Nothing could be heard but the innocent children frolicking and cavorting all around us.
“I don’t think you even know what that means,” Joe finally answers quietly.
“Oh, really?” I challenge, not picking up the social cues and not ready to drop my bad-ass act. “Want me to SHOW you?”
Joe’s mouth drops wide open, and he looks like one of those weird alien toys that, when squeezed, pops its eyeballs way out. The guys are all clearing their throats, guzzling their beers, or wiping their brows. My husband grabs my arm before I can solidify my image in the neighborhood as a sexually deviant swinger and whispers in my ear the true meaning of the term “Donkey Punch.” I LITERALLY ran all the way home with my hands over my ears, screaming like a little girl, leaving my husband to collect our kids and the broken fragments of my ruined reputation.
So those are my Top 3 Mortifying Moments (only in the last 15 years, mind you), and now you know, I’m a colossal idiot. Please tell me you are too.
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