I’m So Embarrassed…Sort Of
BY: Tirzah L. Goodwin
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Copyright 2008-2010 Tirzah L. Goodwin
License: All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
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Story Number 1
Goats, Milk Bombs & Blame
I blame my mother; she blames my brother, he blames the goat. For my twelfth birthday, I asked my mother for a computer. I would have settled for a typewriter. My mother, being my mother, bought me a nanny goat at a yard sale. Yes, a goat at a yard sale. It was a helluva deal, they threw the chain in for free.
Goats, by definition, are nasty animals. They eat anything, knock over garbage, climb on the cars and they are hell to leash break. This brown nanny goat was particularly destructive. She killed my Dad's two prize peach trees, destroyed our wooden door, and the paint job on a classic Camero. I am pretty sure the neighbors had a shoot on sight order out on her. I don't blame them.
After the nanny goat demolished the car, my mother decided that the animal should probably be in a fenced area, a free roaming goat seem to attract trouble for some reason. I can't figure out why. Realizing that I'm dangerous with a hammer, my mother put my brother in charge of stringing barb-wire to keep the goat contained and I was sent to the store for milk.
Thinking back, I should have felt the impending doom. I'm walking home on the trail from the store, gallon of milk in hand. Since the trail heads downhill, I'm picking up speed at an alarming pace. Just as my house comes into view, I realize my brother has strung one roll of wire at ankle level at the bottom of the trail and, as usual, wandered off. I start wind-milling my arms, trying to slow down but there is no hope of stopping now.
I trip over the wire; the milk jug flies high into the air. As I collide with the ground, I manage to kick the goat. The goat screams and runs. Only she is chained to a tree and she is yanked off her feet. The milk jug hits the ground like a bomb. Milk sprays everywhere, the goat screams again, and I am dripping wet.
Our spotted mix breed terrier runs off the back porch and starts licking up the milk. The enraged goat attacks the dog. The goat has horns; the dog is losing. I try to pull the dog away and get bit. I have a sprained ankle, a rabidly mad goat, a squirming dog, and I'm sitting in a milk pond with a bleeding hand.
I hear the back door open, I turn, expecting sympathy, and my mother says, "I hope you're going to clean up this mess. I'm not the maid."
I still blame my mother. She bought the darn goat. All I wanted was a typewriter.
Story Number 2
Tits Up: Stories of the BlackDog
This is a memorial tribute to the BlackDog, I thought I'd share some of a humorous story about her evil little doggie life.
A few years ago, my little town got an unexpected icy snowstorm. The streets were covered in a foot of freezing, icy white stuff. A normal teeth-chattering winter morning.
I take the three dogs out to pee and then bring them in and shut the door. I jump in the shower to warm up. I'm under the near boiling water, enjoying the heat when I hear a banging noise.
I ignore it.
Then, I hear barking.
The barking is moving AWAY from the house. AH!
I sigh and climb out of the shower. I take a second to throw on granny panties, a robe, and wrap my hair in a towel, basically what's left in the drier and run down the hall. The front door's wide open. My white dogs are huddled together on the heated dog bed.
The evil BlackDog is gone, like the wicked snow troll that she is.
I call her name as a chilly breeze billows up my robe to caress bare legs. No little black dog. Nothing but piles of white snow and icy black streets. Yikes. You see, BlackDog suffers from congestive heart disease and bad hips. A hike in the snow is a bad idea.
I stuff my feet into tennis shoes and run out to search for her. Yes, I'm staggering up and down the street in my robe, a towel and shoes, screaming "Katie"..."Katie"..."You little bitch". Finally..."BlackDog!"
The neighbors love me.
No answer. No little black dog. Twenty minutes later, I'm still looking for her. I can't feel anything below my knees. My fingers are numb.
Then I see her. She's on the neighbor's porch, chowing down on kitty food. The kitty the chow belonged to is hissing at dog. She ignores the kitty and me. I tromp up the stairs, bend over the bowl to grab BlackDog... just as she darts down the stairs and hides behind a bush.
However, right that second, the front door opens...the kitty's owner stares down at me. I'm hunched over the mostly empty cat bowl with her cat hissing at me. What am I suppose to do? Tell her I didn't eat the kibble?
All you can do is what I did.
I smile and wave as I back away slowly and pray they don't call the cops.
BlackDog is missing again. The white snow streets are empty. Little bitch.
Then I spot her fuzzy body sitting on my welcome mat back at my front door. I take off running, robe flapping around my chubby thighs. Just as I get to my car, I hit a patch of ice and fall.
I try to catch myself, arms wind-milling, and instead roll down the hood of my snow encrusted car and land on the ground in full view of the neighbors. My robe is open, my tits are out, my granny panties are showing. Snow slides down the inside of my panties.
I'm a bit dazed.
Several of my neighbors, male and female, stare down at me.
The skinny middle aged man married to woman next door asks, "Are you all right?"
How do I answer that?
I dunno.
Damn BlackDog.
By the way, one of the neighbors let that damn dog in the house while I was trying to get to my feet. She peed on my floor. Forty minutes outside and she waited until she came back in the house.
Damn BlackDog.
Story Number 3
DEAR DRIVE-THRU CHICK
Dear Drive-Thru Chick,
I write you this letter so I don't get out my crappy little car and yell obscenities into your static filled intercom. I know, I know, I should be a grown-up and not be irritated that you've messed my order up for the 100th time.
It's my fault. I should stop eating here. I know this.
But until then, do not ask me if I want cheese on my plain burger. If I wanted cheese on it, it would be a plain cheeseburger. See?
Don't make me repeat my order three times and then try to give me an iced coffee when I get to the window. I don't drink coffee, I didn't order one. Some pissy caffeine junkie either behind me or ahead of me is going to want that coffee. The only thing I want to do is throw it back at you.
I know. I have anger management problems when I'm hungry. You don't help.
And why won't you give me ketchup? Why? I ask at the intercom, you say yes. I ask at the window, you say yes. I ask, "Is there ketchup in the bag?" You say yes. You LIE. Again.
Oh by the way, do you work weekends at Lee's Chicken? The one by my house that is always out of chicken. That drive-thru chick never sees the irony of her statement. They are always out of chicken.
And Drive-Thru Chick, if the cash register is broken and you can't figure out how to process my order without the pictures on the screen, don't make me wait 15 minutes to tell me to go somewhere else. I might get mad.
Lastly, if I see you tongue kiss the cook while at the window and grope his teenage ass, wash your hand before handing me my food.
Thanks!
I appreciate it.
Really.
STORY NUMBER 4
If Marriage Were Like the Animal World
I was thinking (and that's always dangerous) about how odd/funny it would be if human weddings followed the rules of the animal kingdom.
Preying Mantis-- Bride and Groom say their vows, they get busy, Bride gets knocked up, Bride bites off Groom's head and deposit's her fertilized eggs in his warm corpse. Think of all the money saved on divorce lawyers. Plus, you'd never have to argue about silly stuff when he started to get on your nerves. Then again, I bet male vasectomies would be on the rise.
Dogs--Bride and Groom get married, more or less. Then, while everyone is watching, Groom bangs Bride. Actually, all intact Groomsmen bang Bride. Bride gets knocked up. Groom pretends not to know Bride and commits bigamy with each of the Bridesmaids. Good news is that in the dog world you don't need to be pretty, skinny, or popular to get laid. The bad news is that your house smells like puppy poo. Marriage repeats each year until Bride's ovaries fall out her hoohaa. Female tubals would go through the roof.
Pandas---Both Bride and Groom are fat and disinterested. You eat a lovely vegetarian meal, fart in front of each other, and scratch your private areas because, really, you have no interest in sex. If pressed, the Groom might lie on top of the Bride and take a nap. All children are conceived through IVF and the Bride has the right to sit on any of the ugly ones. Plus, if you ignore the ugly, squirmy things, human nannies come and raise it for you. Really, this is the way to go. No passion but no work.
Ants--Groom works like a dog to impress Bride. Bride has male harem but doesn't sleep with anyone. Finally, she picks a male, does the nasty, creates new males to groom and take care of her. Groom is quickly discarded and a new Groom is picked. More children are created. Groom's job is to take care of Bride and children and not get in the way. Most males would just stick their heads in mud hole and hope to suffocate. Internet porn bills go through the roof.
People---After a long negotiation or a lot of drinks in Vegas and a mutual exchange of gifts, the Groom and Bride decide they can stand each other well enough to cohabitate. This understanding means Groom and Bride must tolerate ex-Grooms, odd family members, and snotty bad-tempered children from previous weddings. If divorced, Bride and Groom both have the right to call each other foul names and flip each other off in traffic.
Now, who are the strange ones? I dunno but I do know one thing....I'm not getting married.
Story Number 5
A Public Shower
Once as a teenager, I was taking one of those marathon showers that pissed my mother off when I heard the horrifying sound of the door lock popping open.
The door swung inward and my elderly father (already in his late 70’s) wandered in wearing white long-johns. He blinked at the bright light but thankfully hadn't noticed me, naked, behind the clear glass shower doors.
Mortified, I started to call out to him to let him know that I was in the shower but what if he looked over and saw me, you know, naked?
Unfortunately, he whipped out his willy and started peeing. Gross, no fifteen year old girl needs her first look at a real penis to be her father’s ancient one. That’ll put a girl off sex for life.
Blushing furiously, I was deeply relieved when he closed his pant's flap and started to leave the bathroom. Then, he hesitated, leaned out the door and yelled, “George, do you hear water running?”
George, my mother, showed up at the door with two of my brothers, my uncle and one of my sisters. They all peer in and see me, in the shower, without clothes. God, I begged, please let me die now.
“Oval, can’t you see she’s taking a shower?”
I’m bright red and trying to cover myself with nothing but a wash cloth when my dad answers, “Who?”
From that day on, I could take a shower in under 3 minutes.
Story Number 6
I’m The Pickiest Eater In the World
Okay, perhaps pickiest eater in the world is pushing it but I'm definitely in the top ten. I'm a chubby girl who doesn't like food but who does love to eat. After hearing my daily rants on why something tastes bad over the years, my good friend, Heather, suggested I write a blog on what does and doesn't work for me food-wise.
Plus, she thought it hilarious when I started Weight Watchers, when I detested salads. I will never eat salad. I don't like salad. Salad is not a friggin' meal. I don't feel fulfilled when someone sends me a cheesy bowl of lettuce covered in drippy sauce and stale bread. Ugh, no thanks.
The first time I did Weight Watchers, I lost 90 pounds. Yes, 90 pounds and I didn't eat one salad, not one. I did fall off the wagon for a bit, went back to eating my favorite, potato chips, and gained a large portion of my weight back. Not all of it, thank God, but a chunk of it. So now I'm back in WW and the new leader is salad this, salad that. Carrots for a snack. What normal, non-anorexic person eats carrots for a snack?
My last leader told us to only make changes you can live with. That's my goal this time, changes I can live with. So, screw salads for lunch. Just the thought makes me want to start purging so I can get a chunk of nice, well-cooked meat.
Yes, meat.
I know the vegetarians are cringing. I have a few vegan friends; I understand the idea behind the thought. But have you ever met a chicken? A live chicken? There is nothing noble about an animal that walks on its own crap, poops in its own food, and will try to peck out your eyes with very little provocation. Geez, I only walked through the yard.
Not only are the mean and dirty, they are ever so slightly stupid. So while I don't relish the idea of killing one, I don't mind eating one as long as it was killed humanely, and massively disinfected.
I guess that's what the cannibals would say about the missionaries but it’s all I can give you. I like meat, so I eat meat.
Now, back to eating chicken. Grilled or baked chicken in restaurants is always a nightmare for me. Like pork, chicken absorbs the flavors of what you cook with it. So restaurants cover it in lemon, powder it with pepper, rub it in non-disclosed seasonings, or kill it with garlic.
I like chicken. I don't want to taste the seasonings. I didn't order a plate of garlic and pepper. I ordered chicken and that is what I want. Restaurants also want their chicken to be 'tender' and 'juicy'. I'm shuddering now. If I don't need a knife to cut it, then it isn't cooked long enough. Anyone who has had food poisoning and vomited from both ends, knows that tender meat is scary. If you cut into the chicken breast, and juice pops out like you stabbed a juice box, put the damn thing back on the grill.
So to get around this, I don't ordered grilled or baked chicken in restaurants. I save that for when I'm cooking at home and I can cut the meat into tiny pieces to inspect it for pinkness. I order my chicken in fingers. Tacky, I know. Classless even, but the great thing about chicken fingers is that a person can cut it up with their fork and see each piece of perfectly white meat.
Although, I will warn you, never, ever order chicken fingers off the kid's menu unless you've seen them first. Compressed meat is a favorite of kid's menus. Compressed meat is when the regular meat packing plant has scraped all the meat it can from the chicken bones. The bits it can't use are then scooped up, packed into patties or fingers, dipped in batter, and sold to kids everywhere. These are one of the foulest things you will ever eat. Some of them are GRAY inside. The meat is GRAY. This is not the chicken finger you want.
You want a finger that when you pull it apart, you see long strips of real chicken breast, beautifully white. The meat should tear in strips. This is real chicken breast. If it looks uniform inside, push your plate away or push out a couple of kids to eat it for you.
Another consideration of the chicken finger, over-breading. Some places feel that they have to make the chicken seem larger by dipping it in 4 pounds of beer batter. Ugh. I shouldn't need a chisel to get to the good stuff. Second, the batter should never stain the meat. If it turns your meat funny colors, just say no. Sorry Popeye's, the yellow is hard for me to look past.
Others get carried away with the pepper. Some pepper is good, just a dash of that and salt in the crunchy batter makes you go MMMM. Too much and that's all you taste.
Others have the opposite problem. Blandness. The batter has no flavor at all; the chicken is tasteless, almost rubbery.
Longhorn Steakhouse has good chicken fingers most of the time. Just enough seasoning for flavor, the chicken is from the breast, and they have a hearty portion that will fill you up. Those of you on WW, they are about 3pts a finger so eat carefully, okay?
Another bonus is that Longhorns has a decent baked potato. I hate a shitty potato. But I will talk about that next week.
So the pickiest eater in the world is signing out.
Good luck and good eating and remember...don't take a finger from just anyone.
Story Number 7
The Yellow Sweater and Other Crimes
The following is a family crime that at turns annoys me and makes me laugh hysterically.
My sisters are all much older than me, much, much older. Now, I hope they finally read my book so they can complain about that terminology. Due to some crafty math, good genes, and a little plastic surgery in one case, they've manage to slow aging to a crawl.
In real life, all of them are fifty plus this year and I'm stilling hanging on the ass end of my thirties with a death grip. That's life. You get old or you die. Both smell pretty bad.
Because of the age difference, I missed out on the sisterly bickering, fights, back-stabbings, and the yellow sweater. The three kids before me were boys. My testostone buffer so to speak.
I don't believe all three of my sisters have lived in the same house together since the 1970's.
Yet occasionally one of them brings up the yellow sweater. Over the years, the details have gotten ragged, the story complicated, but the bitterness has never faded. As far as I can tell, this is what happened.
My oldest sister, J, graduated high school and purchased a lovely, brand new tags still on it, yellow sweater. In a family of eight kids, new was rare. Brand-new, well that was something to talk about.
Now in some versions of the legend, my second sister, R, bought the sweater. But I believe this to be a fallacy. First, she married at 18 and if she was still living at home, she was single and poor like everyone else.
J bought the sweater. R borrowed the sweater. R said she had permission, J said she didn't remember giving it but even if she had, she would never have agreed to let R loan it to the third sister, E.
The sweater came back stained and stretched out.
J had a hissy fit.
All my sisters are flat chested to certain degrees; an A, Double A, and Triple A in bra size. If you don't know what a Triple A is, look at a slice of bread out of the toaster. It has about as much boobage as a Triple A bra holds.
To this day, someone will occasionally bring up the yellow sweater. R claims E stained it and stretched it out. E, while admitting to wearing the sweater with R's permission claims there was no way she stretched it out (triple A) and she doesn't remember the stain.
Since she is usually smudged in some way when claiming this, we believe half her story.
R says she did nothing to the sweater.
J says no one had permission to wear her sweater to begin with.
This same argument has now gone on for more than twenty-five years.
The sweater is long since gone.
The sisters have worked their way through several wardrobes, styles, and husbands and still they discuss this 'crime' in their youth.
And to be honest, the whole family looks hideous in yellow. Liked curdled lemon peels.
So, right now, I'm confessing...I TOOK THE SWEATER. While I was toddling around the house in my diaper, I put on the sweater, stuffed the front with grapefruit and ate dinner.
Then I climbed into J's closet and hung it back on the rack even though I've never voluntarily hung anything up in my life.
Now can we all move on?
Nope, I probably owe 15.49 for an ugly mis-shappen yellow sweater.
Story Number 8
WHY I THINK SONIC SUCKS…
I rarely come out and say a restaurant sucks but I think I have to make an exception for Sonic. I keep giving them new chances but I think I'm done trying to 'make it work'.
If you've never been to a Sonic, it's a great idea that doesn't quite work in reality. You can pull up to one of the outdoor spots with an electronic menu and order from the window of your car. A person in roller blades brings your food out to your car.
If you want to be fancy, you can go through the drive-thru or sit on one of the patio tables.
Why does it suck?
First, the service is always terrible. The wait to get your food is always horrendously long. It's not usually the waiter/waitresses fault. They are almost notoriously understaffed at the one by where I work. I had a 30 minute lunch break and Sonic is less than two minutes away. It took 35 minutes to just get my food today (without eating).
Second, the credit card machine NEVER works. You are supposed to be able to pay with your card (debit or credit) but it's never possible. You usually have to send your card with the waiter/waitress into to the building; they'll bring it back in 10 to 15 minutes if they have time. And they NEVER offer to let you put the tip on your debit card so if you have no cash, expect to be digging under your seat for change. I hate that.
Third, the food isn't that good. Every time I get the popcorn chicken something new has been wrong with it. It has been extremely salty (and I like salt), stale, or hot and mushy when I've ordered it. I've heard the milkshakes are good but I'm lactose intolerant. You think if it took 20 minutes to make, it'd be decent. It isn't.
Fourth, it's expensive. For a small popcorn chicken and a regular milkshake, it's $5.19 without tip. I have no idea what that is in pounds, sorry.
Five, you never get condiments on the first try. You can ask for ketchup but expect to ask for it again and again and to WAIT for it.
Six, the waiter will never know what your order is. You'll usually see some confused waiter with a tray of food standing in roller skates, yelling out is, 'Is the Diet Cherry Coke and the Tots yours? Is it yours?'
Geez.
So if you get a chance, just say no to Sonic. I suppose if you just wanted a milkshake and you had all the time in the world, it might be okay. I hope the waiter finds you, listen for her to yell...'IS THIS YOURS?' and take CASH.
Story Number 9
DEAR IDIOT ON THE INTERSTATE
Dear Idiot,
I thank you so much for trying to kill me on I-71N. I appreciate you a ramming your car into the 12 inch space behind me and then proceeding to ride my bumper.
I really liked it when you laid on the horn.
Mmm... I'm going 70MPH in the 65 lane. If you want to go 120 miles an a hour, become a cop and get a siren.
First, you are definitely a teen driving your Mom's Prism. Most men won't buy a Prism and the air-freshener dangling from the rear view mirror clued me in. It's a smiling kitty. Mmm...screams Mom or baby sister.
Since you are driving someone else's car with someone else's insurance paid by someone else's money, could you try not to be stupid?
Second, this interstate has two lanes of traffic going north. Guess what? The left hand lane, the fast passing lane is EMPTY. Go for it. Try not to kill yourself or better yet me.
Third, it's 75 sticky degrees out, why the hell are you wearing a wool cap on your head? Is your head cold? The Dum-Dum sucker in your mouth sort of summed up my opinion of the situation.
I wouldn't know any of this about you if you weren't trying to drive in my backseat.
Fourth, although I know you must be having an emergency (or why else would you drive so fast and recklessly) but did you know taking the exit ramp with the hard right turn in it at 75 miles an hour is idiotic. Maybe you don't need all four tires since two of yours were in the air for part of that turn.
Oh and thanks for giving me the finger and not killing me.
Say hi to your mom for me and tell her to keep your dumb ass off the road.
Story Number 10
MY SISTER MARRIED A YETI
What is a Yeti? A Yeti is a bigfoot, a sasquatch, a big hairy man beast from the woods.
And yes, my sister married one. This is my third sister, referred to as my Third Sister from now on to keep life simple and me out of small claims court.
Her hubby, the Yeti, is tall with a full beard. The beard extends around his neck and down his belly in a festive pelt to keep him warm in the winter months. I know from a horrifying experience that involved a shorty robe and a loose belt, the body hair extends everywhere. Absolutely everywhere.
But the Yeti can't help the body fur. That's just the nature of a Yeti.
What he can help is the sweaty rope sandals with the yellow toenails hanging over the edge. Click, click,click just like a dog on concrete when he walks. Those nails...click, click, click.
Shudder.
He could also be gainfully employed but my sisters rarely marry or date the employable. What's sad is that the Yeti has a law degree. Sis put him through real estate school, built him a laboratory to experiment in. Experiment on what I have no idea.
I don't want to know.
When the cops show up, I want plausible deniability.
So you think he spends all day at home, doing what he wants without even having to do housework, you think he'd at least be romantic. You know grease the marital wheels but no, not him.
He bought my sister floor mats for her birthday last year. Floor mats. How...wonderful?
This year he bought her a fixer-upper sports car. My sister is a tiny woman with a bad back, sniff knees. He loves working on cars. I wonder who that gift was for. Exactly.
I suggested she get him a body wax for his birthday. Sis thought I was kidding.
But no family member is perfect without a lobotomy and the drooling gets on my nerves so you learn to live with the occasional quirk in a relative. That's life.
What kills me is that on holidays, he brings a giant tome of some forgotten lore and spends the day with his nose buried in the book, ignoring the whole family.
Why can't I do that?
Brother-in-Laws!
You're probably wondering why I'm telling you all this. Well, who else can I tell? My family already knows. And I'm sure he loves me as much as I love him. Is my sarcasm showing? I hope not. I work so hard at being subtle...LOL.
Family is family.
But still when I hear the click, click, click of his nails on the floor, I do close my eyes, in case he has on the shortie robe.
No need for me to see the South Pole.
This Christmas I'm buying him a life time supply of boxers...and maybe a body brush.
Would that be rude? Probably.
HAH.
I do need to get started on my Christmas shopping and then my mother's. Geez. Did you hear a click? I thought so.
I'm out of here.