On any typical day, I have no problem making an ass of myself. I have little to no shame, and actually find it quite fun to have others laughing at me (they don’t even have to be laughing with me, although usually I am too).
That’s what most of the stories in this very blog are; I always figure if someone else can laugh at things that may be deemed ‘bad’, then they must not be so bad after all.
It is not often that I find myself turning 10 shades of red and completely horrified and humiliated. It is HARD to embarrass me. Tell people I farted? Even if I didn’t, i’ll take the blame. Point out food in my teeth? Thanks for the heads up, bitch! Tease me? I’ll go along with it, I don’t mind. See the size tag on my pants or tell me a nipple is showing… well, then we might have a bit of an issue- but i’m pretty good about keeping those types of things hidden.
The point is, something has to be REALLY bad, REALLY embarrassing, SO awful that you want to move out of the country and change your name kind of humiliating to make me want to crawl under a rock.
That kind of humiliation happened to me on Monday.
On Sundays, we spend the first half of the day scrubbing the disgusting house down- of course only to have it destroyed 5 minutes later but that’s beside the point. Once we finished, I had to sit and ice my stupid back and put my face on so we could actually get the hell out of the house. I don’t get out much, so on the weekends i’m itching to break free before I go insane and start eating hairballs.
While I did this, Thomas took it upon himself to pick out everyone’s clothes for the day. I do not usually let him do this or the boys end up looking homeless; and he has NEVER picked out clothes for me, not one single time. I am picky about what I wear, what goes with what, what shirt can be worn with what pants in order to camouflage my muffin-top, typical woman shit.
Once I had completed making my face look good enough as to not terrify small children, I got up and walked into the kitchen where everyone was getting dressed and noticed his handpicked outfit for me sitting on the counter.
Go ahead and get your ooh’s and aah’s out of the way over what a nice husband I have, because that’s about to stop. He just HAD to be a smart-ass about the whole thing because the underwear he brought down to go with the outfit?
A purple lingerie-esque thong. COVERED in ruffles. Yes, ruffles. So many ruffles that it is clear they were never intended to wear under anything, if you catch my drift.
Why the hell do I have something like this? Good damn question. I bought it YEARS ago, y’know, before my ass was ravaged by children and I thought I was the cat’s fucking meow.
Why didn’t I throw it away? Good damn question. I guess because I spent money on it and don’t like throwing shit out that i’ve worn one time because it feels like a waste.
Watch for me on Hoarders in a couple of years y’all, I think I have a problem. I’ll be the one with all the frilly thongs.
Smart-ass had his ‘hardy har-har’ moment, knowing there was no way in HELL I would ever wear that underwear, he actually had brought me down some normal ones too.
In my desperation to get the hell out of the house, I threw the clothes on (well, not the shirt, it made me look fat) and ran out of the house, promptly forgetting all about the underwear until the next morning, about an hour from when Parker’s speech therapist would be showing up. I snatched them off of the counter and due to the fact that I am eternally lazy, I threw them up the stairwell, and then promptly forgot about them again.
During the appointment, of course, Holden had to be his usual “THE WORLD REVOLVES AROUND ME” attention-whoring self, so he got sent to his room. I should not have done this. Payback is a bitter bitch.
About 10 minutes pass and he calls to me asking if it’s ok if he comes back downstairs. I say yes; I also should not have done that.
He comes stomping down the stairs and emerges from the stair well, my back is turned to him. He announces in his loudest voice
“MOMMY! I THINK DADDY PICKED THESE OUT FOR YOU!”
What did he have in his hand? The frilly purple lingerie thong. Not just in his hand, but waving it around in the air like a flag.
I don’t think I have ever jumped up from a sitting position so quickly in my entire adult life. I shot over to him and snatched them out of his hands (and only barely resisted the urge to smack him in the back of the head) in a fleeting attempt to hide them from the woman sitting in our living room who has likely now seen them and wonders what the fuck kind of kink we get into that leaves purple frilly lingerie lying around where small hands can grab them, and chucked them back up the stairs.
It was one of those embarrassing moments in life where you can feel your ENTIRE body burn.
She didn’t bring it up, of course she didn’t bring it up, and I couldn’t bear to make eye contact with her to see if she was looking at me funny. Was I going to try to explain that I had NOT dressed up in lingerie but that it was a joke? Uhhhh no, if she didn’t see them, I wasn’t going to tell her about them! If she DID see them, what must she think??
Daddy picked them out for me? How would HOLDEN know if Thomas picked out lingerie for me to wear, WHY would he know. Oh dear sweet baby Jesus the horrifying possibilities are endless. I don’t even want to think anymore about what she must think.
I’m thinking of moving to another country and changing my name.
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