Tag Archives: musings

Wardrobe malfunction alert

Whaddya know–it’s Embarrassing Story Monday again! Funny how they keep rolling around.

Actually, this is only the second Embarrassing Story Monday, so the funny part is really how I keep avoiding them. For the first installment click here, but only if you want to writhe in pain on your seat. The only reason I decided to continue this horrific serial on this particular day is to buy me time as I prepare the 3rd installment of the Erica/Dave wedding saga. It will go up tomorrow, unless I don’t feel well . . . or feel too well to sit in front of my computer . . . or make the unprecedented decision to do some laundry. . . or if my coffee tastes kinda funny. I love setting up excuses a day in advance for myself.

For today, the tale of an innocent young dancer falling prey to a wardrobe malfunction. Oh, it’s a classic alright. I like to call it “1st Grade: The Very Enthusiastic Curtsy”, or “The Day This Dancer Danced Her Last.”

Will you be horrified? Morally appalled? Empathetic? Will you shun my blog forever? Weigh in … and please share or link me to any related stories that come to mind from your own dark pasts. I could use a few laughs/winces/squirms myself as I dive into the week.

I must add that I was blissfully unaware of this event’s existence until a few years ago when I was going through old pictures and suddenly I noticed … well, exactly what you will see in a moment. I’ll add the pictures leading up to it so that you can cringe with me over the earnest expression on that little 6-year-old face.

I hope the internet police aren’t upset about this picture. After all, they are there to safeguard human decency, etc., but I see this more as a Tale of Caution than a gratuitous breech of decency. Plus, it was all taking place within a bubble of innocence, in a land of pinafores, paisley-print dresses with smocking, and turquoise stirrup pants. We were dancing to the likes of “She’ll Be Comin’ Round the Mountain When She Comes”…

There I am, 2nd from the left . . .

Biting my lip with pure sincerity . . .

Swing your partner, do-se-do . . .

And there you have it.

I was a girl with zeal, and dang it, if I curtsied I was going to curtsy 100%. I was all in, baby—I was dedicated to the craft. Whatever is happening in this picture—it was happening wholeheartedly.

Oh me oh my. Look at the dress/sneakers combo! The big blue glasses I was so proud of! The skinny legs, the knobby knees! And the Hanes Her Way. I am posting it here so that you can suffer with me on this happy, happy summer morning. Plus, if I post all embarrassing material on myself preemptively, nobody will ever be able to blackmail me! And my friends, freedom from blackmail is freedom indeed.

I will be making further progress in my blackmail-free policy via this blog during the months to come. Beware.

My date with fate

About a month ago, my husband and I spent the weekend with his family, and since he went over yonder a day before me, I was left with a Thursday night all to myself.

A night to myself! Immediately, I thought of all the bad and decadent things I could do with no supervision: drink a smoothie! Try to get some appealing photographs of the smoothie! (harder than you may think) Upload my smoothie pictures to the Mac and play with them in Photoshop! Eat a big bowl of popcorn—in bed! Watch an inspirational episode of The Biggest Loser online! Fiddle with my hair to see if I want to cut it! Dig into the recesses of my closet and try on a bajillion different and new outfit combinations! Toss the reject outfits onto the futon and make a huge messy pile!!!!! I was practically hyperventilating with enthusiasm.

And then I thought—but I do these things when my husband’s around anyway.

And then I thought—but I’m going to do them all in one evening! I was riding a wave of excitement, and nothing was going to stop me. Nothing except … but I’m getting ahead of myself.

At this point I should explain that since last winter, I’ve had this imaginary story playing in my head about a lonely Chicago career girl who goes home every night to a dark apartment and gets Chinese takeout on her way back from work. When she calls in her order she just has to say “Hi, it’s me. The usual please. I’ll be by in 15,” because they know her that well. She’s a melancholy figure who reads romance novels on the El, wears a ponytail every day, and falls asleep with the TV on for company. She may or may not have an overweight cat named “Diddlykins” who eats out of her bowl and relentlessly sheds fur all over her couch. You get the idea. Thursday night, I decided to briefly align my life with that of my imaginary friend, so as I left the office at 5pm I called in my order for some serious Chinese takeout. I wanted variety as well as decadence, so I recklessly ordered 3 different things, reasoning that the leftovers would keep us going for months, if not years. I picked up the Chinese on my way home. I felt soooo big city. “Going home to Diddlykins for another lonesome evening“, I thought, delighted at my little game of pretend. Little did I know, it was going to be a Date with Fate.

Since I’m a big delayed-gratification girl (and have been pretty much since the day I was conceived—it’s like a sickness), I exercised and showered while my boxes of takeout waited. I was building anticipation. I packed for my trip, set my alarm for the next day, washed the dishes that were hanging out in the sink–the more I made myself wait, the more exponentially delicious it was going to be, I just knew it. Finally, after about an hour and a half, it was time: I opened the boxes. Strangely, all 3 were the exact same shade of dark, goopy brown. Hmmm, I thought. They’re cleverly disguising the delicious flavors by making them all look like they were made from the same mysterious sauce. How brilliantly cunning.

Not!

It was bad. Oh, it was bad.

I can’t talk about it anymore or I’ll start weeping. I’m especially mourning for my poor fantasy career-girl—because she has to eat this stuff every night, man. What will happen to her digestive system!? What kind of a monster have I created!?!???

I’ve been working through the letdown from this epic event in my life, and according to Freud I’m supposed to do something called “sublimate”? Which I think means turning your energies into something positive? So I’m sublimating the disappointment, depression, and despair caused by those 3 identical brown sauces and making my own stirfry. Hear me, oh Chinese takeout disenchantment: you’re not the boss of me! I am moving on with my life.

Thank you for listening to my inspiring story. I’m currently accepting bookings for my national speaking tour on the transformation I’ve undergone, and my calendar is filling up fast. It’s called:

HOW CHINESE TAKEOUT CHANGED MY LIFE

(How one gloopity-gloppity bite revolutionized the emotional path of one Chicago woman, and how it can revolutionize yours too!!)

I only charge 1 million dollars per hour. I mean, per minute.

But first—tomorrow there will be a recipe. A Chinese stirfry recipe. And it will be good. Here is a a little preview to whet your appetite: