The Twelfth Day of Christmas

Can you believe I haven't run out of embarrassing moments, yet?    Admittedly, it is getting harder to come up with those moments, because we are rapidly approaching the point at which the ones remaining in my memory are just too embarrassing to share.  In public.  Now that you've read the one about the gastroenterologist and my shirt, you probably wonder how it could get any worse.  It could, my friends, it really could.  But, like I said, we're not going to go there.  At least, not anytime soon.

I'll never forget one day, after a trip to the grocery store with all of my children, which had been particularly hair-raising, Endeavor said to me, "When did you stop feeling embarrassed?"

The Eleventh Day of Christmas

After yesterday, you may have thought that my store of embarrassing moments was dwindling.  You might have suspected that I'd shared them all.

My friends, I have only skimmed the surface.  I have not yet played my Germany Card.  Until now.

Innocents Abroad

For anyone new to this blog, I lived in Germany for a year.  Shortly after Endeavor was born, the Bionic Man's company sent us over to Munich, Germany for a year long work assignment.  While the Bionic Man was at work during the day, Baby Endeavor and I had fabulous and sometimes frightening adventures every time we stepped out of our apartment.  At home, Endeavor stayed busy running Motherhood Bootcamp, while I tried to keep up.  We also watched a lot of Teletubbies and Little House on the Prairie, dubbed into German for television.  

Oktoberfest

The Tenth Day of Christmas

Today's embarrassing moment occurred very recently.

I'm Not a Creepy Lady

So, I was visiting Endeavor at her middle school for lunch.  The middle school she goes to is very large, and--don't tell her this--I'm still not sure I know my way around it, yet.  Actually, I am sure I don't know my way around it.  But, I decided to go eat lunch with her anyway.

The only problem was, I really, really, had to go to the bathroom.  Since there were just a few minutes  to spare before Endeavor came to the lunch room, and the halls weren't swarming with kids yet, I quickly ducked into the first restroom I saw.  I had to go so badly that I dropped my purse and coat on the handy bench just inside the doorway.  (Obviously, the pressure on my bladder was so great that I wasn't able to clearly think through the possible consequences of leaving my purse unattended in a middle school bathroom.)

So, like I said, I dropped my purse and coat and dashed around the corner to find the first available stall, only to discover that there weren't any stalls in this particular restroom, except for one waaaaaay down at the other end of the room.

But there were urinals.

I had walked into the boys' restroom.


Luckily, no one was using the urinals, but I did startle two boys at the sink.  I gasped, and said in dismay, "I didn't see the sign!  I'm not a creepy lady!" then I whirled around and ran out of the restroom, leaving my coat and purse behind me.


Endeavor found me outside of the cafeteria, blushing furiously, without a purse or coat.  "Endeavor!"  I hissed.  "I just left my coat and purse in the boys' restroom over there!  I don't know what to do!  I'm afraid someone will take them!  I have to go back for them!"

Endeavor stared at me in horror.  "Mom!" she gasped.  "What were you doing in the boys' restroom?"

I felt like crying.  "I don't know, Endeavor, I didn't see the sign!  I thought it was the girls' restroom!  I'm not a creepy lady!"

"Well, you can't go back in there, Mom," Endeavor said sagely, "or you will be a creepy lady."

"I know, I know!" I wailed.  "Don't you know someone who could go in and get them, for me?"

Endeavor sighed.  "Mom, this is really embarrassing.  And I'm late for lunch.  I think you had better go find the janitor or the principle or somebody."

What could I do, but follow my eleven-year-olds' advice?  I walked into the cafeteria, and started to look around for the principal.  I finally saw him, a man in a pin-striped suit who looked strangely identical to my A.P. American History teacher, wearing a name tag that said, "Principal."

Somehow, I thought if I approached him casually, making a joke out of the whole situation, it would be better.  So, I went up, punched him on the arm, and said, "What's the deal with not having any signs on the restroom doors, dude?"

To which he replied, "Dude, are you dissing my school?" as he put me in a headlock and vigorously rubbed my scalp with his fist.

It was at this point that I realized I was dreaming and woke up.


Upon waking, my first conscious thought was, "Oh good, I can't wait to write about this on my blog!  I wasn't sure I could remember another embarrassing moment.  But luckily, I just had one, and I can use that one for Day 10!"  Then, I promptly fell back asleep, content that I had just found the subject for Day 10.

The next morning, I woke up, and realized that I had just dreamed an embarrassing moment to write in my blog.  As if what happens in real life isn't enough, I have my subconscious working overtime to make sure that I have plenty of subject matter.  And you know what?

That's embarrassing.

Just to make sure we are all clear on this:  I did not actually walk into the boys' restroom at Endeavor's middle school at any time, nor did Endeavor's middle school principle ever put me in a headlock.  Furthermore, Endeavor wishes me to state, for the record, that I should never join her for lunch at her middle school.  It was all a dream.  An embarrassing dream, but a dream, nonetheless.  Also for the record, I'm really not a creepy lady.

The Ninth Day of Christmas

Today's embarrassing moment wasn't embarrassing when it happened.  Only in retrospect.  When I look at the pictures.  Which I'm about to show you.

Remember how the Bionic Man and I recently celebrated an anniversary?  I found some old wedding pictures that the Bionic Man scanned into our files, and they sent me on a trip down memory lane.

Photogenic

The story of how these pictures came to be begins before our wedding.  The Bionic Man's sister, Kristine, got married a few weeks before we did.  Now a professional photographer, Kris was a photography student back when she got married.  She had all her wedding photography done by a photographer that she chose very carefully.  The images that he produced were everything Kristine and her mother dreamed of.  The portraits of Kristine and her groom were so breathtaking, that her mother had visions of creating a "wedding wall" in her home, where she planned to hang gorgeous, matching, professional portraits of her six children on their wedding days.

There was only one problem with that dream:  the Bionic Man and I had not planned to hire a professional photographer for our wedding.

We were budget-minded do-it-yourselfers even before we got married, and we just weren't planning to spend much money on photography for the wedding.  We figured we'd just have a few friends and family members snap pictures throughout the day, get duplicates of the prints, and call it good!

But snapshots were not part of The Wedding Wall vision.  Not only was my future-mother-in-law planning on something professional, she was planning for a portrait done by the same photographer who did Kristine's wedding.  The photographer who would charge extra for traveling the 80+ miles from his studio to our wedding location.

So we compromised.  The Bionic Man and I agreed to put the tux and dress back on after we came back from our honeymoon, and have the professional photo shoot that my mother-in-law wanted.

On the appointed day, the Bionic Man and I showed up at the designated location, a beautiful, old building in downtown Salt Lake City, popular with wedding photographers.  We made my sister and her husband come along, so that my sister could help me get into the rather complicated wedding dress once we arrived.  Poor Lorene and David did not know what they were getting into.

The photo shoot went well.  The photographer knew exactly where he wanted us to pose for the portraits, and quickly went through various poses.  All in the same spot of the building.  Unfortunately, the Bionic Man had envisioned a little more variety than that.  It was a large building, with many points of architectural interest.  The Bionic Man was less concerned about consistency in light and composition than he was about variety and fitting several Feats of Engineering into the background of our portraits.  He was able to convince the photographer to take a couple of pictures of me next to a piano (my mother's only request from the session), but after that, the photographer made it very clear that he was not going to follow us all over the building snapping photos.  He was done.

But the Bionic Man and I weren't!  We were going to get all the mileage out of that white tux and nine foot veil that we possibly could!  So, after the photographer left, we dragged David and Lorene all over for our own, personal photo shoot.  (You didn't have anything better to do that day, did you, David and Lorene?)  David manned the camera, and the Bionic Man and I picked all the backgrounds.  The results are nothing short of hilarious.

It was a productive day, photographically.  We got a portrait for The Wedding Wall out of it, a couple of pictures to hang on our own wall that depict us in all our wedded glory, and then we got a stack of dark, grainy prints that depict us as we really were that day: imperfect, goofy, and more than a little in love.  Enjoy!

The Eighth Day of Christmas

I'm seriously questioning the wisdom of sharing with you a solid twelve days of my most embarrassing moments.  Do you really want to get to know me this well?  I have to admit, though, recording them for posterity is cathartic.  Another positive benefit is that, after reading my blog, Endeavor has decided that accidentally tripping in front of her locker isn't that embarrassing.

Speaking of children learning about embarrassment....

My Very First Embarrassing Moment

Mary Cassatt, Ellen Mary Cassatt in a White Coat

I was in third grade.  In an effort to bring music and art appreciation to our low-budget elementary schools, the PTA sponsored monthly classes taught by parent volunteers.  Once a month, we had visits from our "Art Mother" and our "Music Mother", who helped us learn about a famous composer or artist.  We viewed great art or listened to great music, learned more about what led (Or is it lead?  There goes my left eye) each artist to create such a body of work, and then had a special activity to help us apply our new-found knowledge.

Looking back, I'm quite impressed with what the local PTA was able to accomplish!

My mother was the Art Mother for my third grade classroom.  

One day, I was busy finishing my math worksheet, innocent of all that was about to bring misery to my young life.  Suddenly, the classroom door was thrown open, and a woman, bedecked in a ridiculous flowered hat, entered the room, trilling in a sing-song voice, "I'm here, children, I'm here!  And I'm wearing my beautiful spring hat!"

The woman was my mother.

She wasn't just wearing any spring hat.  She was wearing a pink-gingham pillbox with a large bow that sprouted prolific blooms of purple plastic lilacs.  She had made it herself.

The room erupted in gasps and giggles as my mother pranced into the room, ready to give the monthly Art Appreciation Lesson.  I had no idea she was planning to visit that day, and I certainly had no idea that she'd make her visit wearing a spring hat!  I put my head down on my desk and covered it with my arms, hoping that this was just a very, very bad nightmare.  

It wasn't.  It was real life.  Mom proceeded to tell us all about the artist Mary Cassatt, known for her primary subjects of children and women in hats.  A gifted teacher, my mother had our third grade class in the palm of her hand, unable to do anything but listen with rapt attention to the woman in the silly hat.  The lesson went exactly as she had planned.  

Only, I don't think she'd planned on her own daughter being quite so mortified.  I'm sure she and my father enjoyed a few laughs over the re-telling of the horrified expression on their daughter's face when Mom made her grand entrance.  Mom got a lot of mileage out of that hat, threatening to wear it again in public if she ever needed to "motivate" me.  

And that moment, when my mother danced into my third grade classroom with purple lilacs bouncing from a bright-pink-gingham brim, remains my earliest memory of embarrassment.

Aren't I lucky?

The Seventh Day of Christmas

I'm in the process of giving you twelve days of laughs at my expense.  Generous, aren't I?  Well, I can afford to be this generous, thanks to all the ridiculous situations I've got myself into over the last 34 years.  Carry on!

Today, I'm going to repeat part of a previous post, because the following embarrassing moments are just too good not to share again.   You can read the full post here, if you'd like.

Two Embarrassing Moments: Doctor's Office Edition

#1.  Lily was our most prenatally photographed baby.  Every time we went to see the perinatologist, they took lots and lots of pictures.  When I was pregnant with the other babies, we'd always made a big deal about letting the siblings come along to an appointment, especially if it was an ultrasound.  We were more cautious about that with Lily, considering the circumstances.  


Then one week, I decided to take all three siblings along with me; the baby had been moving a lot, I wasn't scheduled to have extra tests at that appointment, and it seemed like a good day to let them tag along.  (Ignorance can be soooo bliss.)  Unfortunately, we ended up waiting in the waiting room for over an hour--first time I'd ever had to wait more than 10 minutes at this particular office.  I hadn't brought toys or snacks, since it was supposed to be a "quick" appointment.  We were finally escorted to the exam room, where we waited an additional 30 minutes.  


If you have children, you can imagine how things were at this point.  The children were all over the place....over the table, under the sink, inside the bathroom, outside the bathroom, around the expensive 3-D ultrasound machine.  The classic, never-to-be-forgotten moment of that appointment was when I realized Justone was staring, completely transfixed, at the back of the bathroom door.  


"Mom, what is this?" he asked in a tone of hushed wonder.  


"This" was the very helpful poster demonstrating how to do a monthly self breast exam.   I somehow found the fortitude to explain what a monthly breast exam was to my six year old son and his equally curious sisters.  


Thus, I became the only woman on the planet whose six year old son reminds her to do her monthly breast exam.


#2.  Superkid was just over a year old when she and Justone and I went to see her gastroenterologist.  We had a long wait, which never bodes well for the rest of the appointment.  When the doctor came in, I had several concerns that I needed him to address about Sariah's g-tube feedings, comfort, etc.  I even had a video for him to watch so that he could see a behavior we were concerned about.  It was going to be a long appointment.


Superkid was cranky and tired.   Justone was cranky and bored.  The doctor and his assistant were very patient.  They tried to address my concerns over the ever-increasing din of attention-seeking children.  


Justone proceeded to become cranky and bored and hungry.  He was showing me that he was ready to leave in every way that a four-year-old can.  I wasn't done talking to the doctor.  So Justone grabbed my shirttail, and tugged it as he walked towards the door, whining, "Mom, let's GO!"  


The shirt I was wearing was one of those vintage-western types, with mother-of-pearl snaps up the front.....which quickly and easily popped undone at the first tug.  All of them.  Every stinkin' one of them.  And, since Justone was walking away--the hem of my shirtail in his hand--my shirt walked away with him.  


AAAAAA!  I'm still blushing!  The two doctors blushed, too, stammered unintelligibly, and quickly excused themselves from the room.  


Was it a coincidence that we soon moved across the country?  I think not!

The Sixth Day of Christmas

Happy Anniversary, to the Bionic Man and I!  As of 1 P.M. today, we've been married for 13 years.  Good for us!

Today's sharing of an embarrassing moment, like yesterday's, will commemorate the fact that 13 years ago, I became a wife.

The New Mr. and Mrs. Bionic Man

The Providence Inn, Providence, Utah

The Bionic Man and I were each in our last year of college when we got married.  Naturally, we enjoyed running into each other on campus while we were dating and engaged.  When possible, we tried to take classes together.  This was difficult--if not impossible--since he was majoring in Engineering and I was majoring in English.  But true love always finds a way....we signed up for a religion class together the semester before our wedding.

Our religion instructor, Brother Clark, took great delight in the fact that several of his students were engaged to be married.  He seemed to enjoy teasing the Bionic Man and I, and one other couple, about our upcoming nuptials.  The semester ended, and I didn't give Brother Clark a second thought, because I was too busy thinking about getting married to think about silly Brother Clark.

Until the morning after my wedding day.

Amazingly, the Bionic Man had been able to avoid all of the typical wedding moments that might cause a few blushes.  We had a gingerbread temple instead of a cake, so there was no cake smashing.  I thought the whole garter business was useless and degrading, so I didn't even put one on, effectively avoiding that humiliating display of....whatever.  (I still think it is an idiotic tradition, can you tell?)  And the Bionic Man was clever enough to hide our getaway vehicle really well, so aside from a little silly string, we had nothing to make us blush with that, either.  Off we went to our suite at a local bed and breakfast, to spend the night before we left to honeymoon in a warmer climate.

Since we had to leave the honeymoon suite early, to get to our next destination, we decided to forego breakfast in bed and went down to the dining room.

And who--who?--who would be the first person I saw upon exiting the bridal suite?

Brother Clark, that's who.

Apparently, he and his wife had just spent the night at the very same bed and breakfast.  And what did he do when he saw the Bionic Man enter the dining room, hand-in-hand?

He stood up, and said in his big, hearty voice, "Well, if it isn't Bionic Man and Ruth!  Aren't you two supposed to be getting married sometime soon?"  He winked at the other diners as he grinned at us.

"Yesterday," the Bionic Man mumbled nervously,  "We got married yesterday."

"What's that?"  Brother Clark asked jovially, putting a hand to his ear.  "Did you say you got married JUST YESTERDAY?"

Every eye in the room was on us now, and the room was full of quiet laughter as we blushed furiously under the scrutiny.

"My goodness!"  Brother Clark exclaimed, grinning wickedly.  "That must mean you are on your honeymoon!"  He pulled out a chair from his table, offering it with a sweeping gesture.  "Please, join us for breakfast!  I'm sure you're hungry."  More winking.

"Um, no thanks!" The Bionic Man quickly replied.  "We'll just sit over here!"  (In the far corner of the room.)

Happy Anniversary, Bionic Man!  It still seems like JUST YESTERDAY.

Like this?  You can find the other embarrassingly funny days of my Christmas here:

First Day

Second Day

Third Day

Fourth Day

Fifth Day

I'm linking up this post to The Idea Room.

The Fifth Day of Christmas

Big news:  tomorrow will mark the 13th anniversary of the day the Bionic Man and I were married!  How about that?  So, in keeping with my promise to share 12 Days of Embarrassing Moments, it seems only fitting that I should share one from my wedding day, right?

Don't worry, this is a family friendly blog!  This embarrassing moment happened before the ceremony.

Child Bride

I admit, I was a fairly young bride.  I was just three-and-a-half months shy of my 22nd birthday when the Bionic Man and I got married.  In other words, I was 21.

The morning of my wedding day, I went to the neighborhood beauty salon to have my hair styled by Cindy, who had been cutting my hair since I was a little tyke.  Cindy put my hair in rollers and sent me to sit under the hair dryer for a while, as she put curlers in another lady's hair and gave that lady's husband a haircut.  The lady was under the dryer herself, and her husband had plopped down to wait in a nearby chair with the Reader's Digest when Cindy began styling my hair into a wedding-worthy updo.

As the elaborate hairstyle took shape, the older gentleman put down his Reader's Digest and watched Cindy work for a few moments.  Then he smiled congenially and asked, "Well, what are you gettin' all gussied up for, little lady?"

"Ruthie is getting married, today," Cindy answered for me.

"Married!" the man hooted, slapping his Reader's Digest against his knee.  "Married?  Why, you can't be more'n twelve years old!"

I blushed furiously while Cindy reassured her customer that I was old enough to get married.  I was horrified to think that I'd been mistaken for a pre-teen on my wedding day.

Looking back, though, can you blame the guy?  It's just a good thing he didn't have a chance to see my fifteen-year-old groom.

The Fourth Day of Christmas

If you are late for the party, I'm sharing some of my most memorable moments of abject humiliation for each of the twelve days following Christmas.  I am subjecting you to this because, um, I'm hoping it will make your days merry and bright?  It's therapeutic to share?  Who knows?

Today's tale of embarrassment takes me back to high school.

I Just Have to Get This Off My Chest

I was a sophomore in high school.  There were two boys at my school that I was crushing on.  One, like me, was a sophomore.  The other was a junior who was on the tennis team.  I planned my route from class to class with them in mind, hoping to get a sighting of at least one of them to tide my teenage heart over until the next class ended.

Looking back, I have to believe that if even 25% more of my teenage brain had been dedicated to more academic pursuits, I could be practicing nuclear law right now.

Anywho, Mrs. Johnson's third period Modern World Civilizations class was ideally situated for Boy Crush Sightings.  The junior had a locker nearby.  The sophomore had his fourth period class just across the hall.  It was my favorite time of day.

One day, we'd just finished a huge test in Modern World Civilizations.  I'd studied for it for days, crammed for it during the early morning hours.  I finished the last of the essay questions just before the ending bell rang, handing over my test to Mrs. Johnson.  My friends and I filed out of the classroom, heaving sighs of relief that we'd been able to get through the exam.

At that time in my life, I tended to speak in superlatives.  A couple of my friends teased me about being their Anne of Green Gables.  Let's just say I was slightly dramatic in my conversation.  (Imagine that.)  So, in my eagerness to express my gratitude at having completed a difficult test, I turned to my group of girlfriends with a flourish, intending to say, "Well, that is a load off my brow!"

Very Anne-esque, eh?  Unfortunately, what actually came out of my mouth, clear as a bell, was,

"Well, that is a load off my bra!"

For some inexplicable reason, my expression of relief was uttered at the exact instant that there was a momentary lull in the normal between-classes hallway noise.  So it wasn't just my friends who heard my odd little mis-spoken exclamation.  I clapped a hand over my mouth, blushing furiously, as my friends eyes widened and they began to giggle.  Whirling around, prepared to make a run for the stairway, I ran smack into BOTH my Junior Crush and my Sophomore Crush.

Yep.  To this day, I still cringe when I think about it. 

Guess what, though?  Later on, my sophomore crush was my senior prom date.  He gave me a wrist corsage. 

Third Day of Christmas

Here is another example of my goofy nature to bring you holiday cheer.

A Not-So-Silent Scream

The college careers of my older brother and I overlapped.  Bill wasn't just my big brother, he was one of my best friends.  Sometimes we would meet up on campus and eat lunch together, either just us or with some of our friends.  Bill even showed me one of the best-kept secrets of our campus.

The conference center.

I don't know if it was the mirrored exterior helping it blend into its surroundings, but our fellow students seemed to hardly even know that the conference center existed.  The building was used only for special events and academic/professional conferences, not classes.  So, perhaps most students hadn't had the opportunity to discover this hidden gem right in the center of our campus.

Lucky for me, Bill knew all about it.  Most days, the conferenced center was unlocked but abandoned, providing a very quiet, clean, and comfortable environment in which to study between classes.  Due to the nature of the building, the furniture in its lounge areas was newer and more upscale than anyplace else on campus.  And there was one other perk, besides the quiet and the comfy chairs.

Free food.

When a conference was in session, the lounge areas had tables of snacks, beverages, and even meals available for the attendees between workshops.  So, if you were there anyway quietly studying, no one stopped you from cleaning up after the conference participants left their snacks behind and went back into their workshops.  Bill and I considered cleaning up the leftovers a service that benefited the student employees of Campus Food Services.

One fine day, I was sitting in my favorite corner of the conference center, minding my own business.  A meeting of The Utah Society for Professional Economists was in progress behind closed doors.  A Campus Food Service student employee was quietly refreshing the lemonade and cookies on a nearby table.   Finals were approaching, and I was wading through Shakespeare's Hamlet, looking for hidden motifs.  Alas, the previous night of merriment befell me, and my head didst droop, so heavy were my leaden eyes.

(That's Shakespeare for "I fell asleep.")

Now, there is something about me you need to know if you are going to understand the rest of this story:  I talk in my sleep.  Sometimes I even yell or sing in my sleep;  particularly when I haven't been getting adequate rest, or I'm sleeping in an unfamiliar place.  All it takes is a really vivid dream, and I start talking.

There I was, drooped over a thick volume of Shakespeare, asleep in the conference center, dreaming of Hamlet.  He was chasing me, carrying the horrible skull of Yorick.  The prince of Denmark's eyes were wild and bloodshot, and I ran from him, crying and tripping over the headstones as he reached for me.  I tried to call for help, but I could not make a sound!  Gasping, I stumbled, my hair tangling into the leafless branches of a gnarled tree.  Hamlet's hand was reaching, reaching, and I knew my only hope was to scream for help, so I took a deep breath and

{{screamed}}

which woke me up.

It must have been a real blood-curdler, because the first thing of which I was conscious was that my throat felt dry and scratchy.  So I turned my head, thinking of the lemonade, towards the food tables, just to see if the Campus Food Services student employee was still there.

She was not.

The members of The Utah Society for Professional Economists were there, instead.  All fifty-two of them.  There they stood, quiet and staring, some with slack jaws or a cookie held frozen in mid-air.  Shocked.  Awed.  Stupefied.

I considered my options, as I surveyed the scene before me.  I had too many books to gather up, preventing the desirable hasty exit.  Trying to explain to Professional Economists that I'd just escaped the murderous grasp of Hamlet didn't seem like it would be the right thing to do, either.  So, I just smiled sweetly at the conference goers and turned in my comfy armchair so that my back was to them.  And continued to read Hamlet.  With my eyelids propped open.

Friends, as The Bard wrote, "The memory be green." 

Second Day of Christmas

I'm celebrating the Twelve Days of Christmas with a sleigh ride down memory lane, laughing (and blushing) all the way!

Grammar Star

Several years ago, I was part of a committee that put together a Christmas party for our church congregation's women's group, the Relief Society.  Besides the dinner, the decorations, and a program, our committee decided to make Christmas gifts for each of the women who attended the party.  

One of the committee members came up with a Christmas decor item we could make, which involved a black-line festive image on a background of gold and silver leaf, framed.  Somehow I got roped into re-creating and simplifying the chosen image so that it could be transferred onto the metallic backgrounds.  I was given a deadline to submit the modified image to another committee member, who would then take it and make dozens of copies that would be used in the making of our gifts.

On the day of the deadline, I had completed the black line drawing of Mary and Joseph approaching Bethlehem with a star shining brightly above them.  I was quite proud of it as an artistic achievement, considering it had been a long time since high school art.  

The image was supposed to have a line of text above it, reading, "A star led the way."  After finishing the drawing, I had used my computer to write the text in several different fonts, planning to print out the options in the appropriate size, and give them to my fellow committee member.  I thought she could decide which version of the text she'd like to use.  

There was only one problem.  My printer was experiencing technical difficulties.  I messed around with it for a while, then gave up, realizing my deadline was nigh.  Instead, I used my most artistic hand-writing before running out the door to quickly inscribe the chosen message, "A star led the way".  I delivered the completed drawing, and suggested to the other woman that she should use her computer to print out a computerized version of the text, and paste it on top of my handwritten version before she made copies of the image.

"Oh, absolutely not," she exclaimed at my suggestion.  "This is just exactly what I wanted.  Your handwriting is beautiful!  I'm just leaving it as it is, perfect."

Leaving the image behind, I was oddly uncomfortable.  Something about my handwriting....it just didn't seem right.  I shook it off, rationalizing that since I hadn't been able to get my printer to work, I should just live with it.  

On the night of the party, the gifts were complete.  As I helped decorate, I kept passing the table where the now gold-leafed images awaited their recipients, sparkling in their new frames.  The other committee members oohed and aahed over the lovely gifts we were going to give to our guests.  I just couldn't put my finger on it, but something about those pictures still bothered me.  It had to be the handwriting, I reasoned.  I really would have preferred the more finished look of printed text.

Several days after the party, I was on the phone with a friend who had been there.  She complimented the food, the decor, the program, the music, and then she said, "Everything was just lovely.  Except the gifts.  I just don't know what to do with mine.  I mean, I'm sure someone put a lot of time and effort into making them--not to mention the expense of the gold leafing--but really, how can I put it up in my home when it looks like it was written on by someone who doesn't speak English very well?" 

My eyes, now very large, focused on the small frame sitting on my mantle.  A simple line drawing of Mary and Joseph approaching Bethlehem, a star shining brightly above the walls of the city.  And, written above:

A star lead the way 

Not "led".  "Lead".

No wonder I hadn't been comfortable with the final product.  It wasn't my handwriting, it was my spelling!  My grammar!  My syntax!  My glaring mistreatment of the English language!  

The English major in me died a thousand shamefaced deaths that day.

Now, perhaps this could have served as a momentary dose of humility, which would be nice.  But no, it has become yearly pride smack-down.  Because, guess what?  Apparently not everyone who attended the Relief Society Christmas Party that year noticed my error.  Or cared about it, if they did.  Invariably, sometime after Thanksgiving, that darn gold-leafed picture shows up somewhere.  I walk into someone's home, and it is there.  It gets put in creche displays at our church.  It will be used as a display on a classroom table, when someone gives a lesson before Christmas.  

I cringe each and every time I see it.  

And too this day, if I have to use the words "led" or "lead" in a sentence--particularly if I have to write that sentence--my left eye begins to twitch.

Forget the figgy pudding, thanks to my grammatical faux pas, I get to eat humble pie every Christmas for the rest of my life.

First Day of Christmas

Merry Christmas!

Did you know that the twelve days of Christmas don't start before Christmas, but after?  They are the twelve days beginning with Christmas Day that lead up to Epiphany (January 5th), or Three Kings' Day.  When we lived in Germany, it was one long celebration.  How fun is that?

For the next twelve days, I thought I'd do something wacky to celebrate, inspired by my big sister, Lynne'.  The other day, when Lynne' and I were talking on the phone, she mentioned that my niece was going to her high school Christmas Dance that evening, with a date.  That reminded me of the time I'd gone to the very same Christmas Dance, and Lynne' and I had a good laugh over it.  Lynne' told me it was blog-worthy.....one thing led to another......and I've now decided to give you twelve days of laughs at my expense.  In other words, I'm going to be sharing some of my all-time favorite (?!?!?) embarrassing moments.  Twelve of them.

Cinderella and Her Teddy Bear Pajamas

Today's story requires a little background information.  My parents lived in one school district, but my father was a high school math and physics teacher in another school district.  After sending me to the schools within the local district through middle school, my parents grew disenchanted with some of the district policies.  They talked me into transferring out of the local school to the high school where my father taught.  Though shy and quiet through the primary grades, the move to a new school forced me out of my shell quite a bit, and I became considerably less shy and quiet.  One may say I even blossomed--academically and socially--in my new environment.

Fast forward to my senior year of high school.  I was busy with student government, show choir, the school musical, and AP classes.  Christmas was approaching, as were the local high school dances.  Despite the fact that I now attended Logan High, I still had friends at Sky View High.  So I wasn't completely shocked when I received an invitation to attend Sky View's Christmas Ball from one of the neighborhood boys.

On the contrary, I viewed it as a personal coup.  This was my big chance: to show former classmates who had known me as a geeky, shy girl with glasses and braces and funny hair the "new me."  The cooler version of me, without the glasses, braces, and funny hair.  It was like my own, personal Cinderella story: nerdy girl shows up at the ball totally transformed, to the astonishment of her [former junior high] peers!

Soon after extending his invitation, my date explained to me that we would all be wearing pajamas to this dance.  Christmas pajamas.  "How fun!" I replied to this information, thinking that this was a creative twist on the traditional Christmas Ball.  Kudos to the student government, for coming up with such a fresh idea!  My mother was so relieved she didn't have to come up with a dress for me, that she volunteered to buy my Christmas jammies.

Now, in the days prior to the Christmas Ball, I am not sure why it didn't occur to me to ask any of the girls in my neighborhood if they had picked out their pajamas for the Christmas Ball.  I guess I was too busy with term papers and practicing my jazz hands for the show choir's Christmas performance.  In fact, I was so busy that not only did I not discuss what I planned to wear with anyone, I let my mom pick out those pajamas without any input from me whatsoever.

They were flannel, with teddy bears wearing Santa hats, holding gifts and candy canes.  Absolutely, unquestionably Christmas pajamas, and since that was the whole theme of the Christmas Ball, I felt it should be embraced.  Right?

The night of the Sky View Christmas Ball arrived.  My date came to the door, full of Christmas spirit and festively wearing his Christmas pajamas.  (A red and white striped flannel nightshirt.)  Off we went, with with two other couples (also wearing their Christmas pajamas), dashing through the snow, laughing all the way.

And I laughed, all right.  Right up until the second course of dinner, which we were eating at my date's home.  I nearly choked upon my bite of chicken cordon bleu when one of the other girls said, "We all look, like, so totally awesome.  Everyone at the dance is just going to, like, die when we walk in wearing pajamas!"

"I know!" her date guffawed.  "People at our school are such dweebs.  They totally don't know how to have, like, a good time.  We're going to be having so much more fun than they are having, in, like, suits and ties and dresses."

The other couple high-fived each other.  "Yeah, baby!  We're doing this!  We're totally going to show them!" they chortled gleefully.

I paled, realizing that we were going to be the only six people at the Sky View Christmas Ball wearing pajamas.  My Cinderella dreams were ashes.  I was wearing teddy bear flannel Christmas pajamas to a semi-formal high school dance.

Fairy Godmother?  Fairy Godmother?  

FAIRY GODMOTHER!!!

If it was an entrance I wanted, I certainly got it.  I'm sure everyone at the ball knew that Ruthie was back.  In pajamas.  

I don't think any one can comprehend the magnitude of my mortification unless they have been seventeen.  And thought they were cool.  At least cooler than they were when they were thirteen and wore thick glasses and headgear and a sweatshirt decorated with animals wearing braces and headgear.  If you don't fit that description, you just can't comprehend the utter humiliation.  

I wanted to make my escape well before the stroke of midnight, but that wasn't possible.  My date seemed to be having the time of his life in that candy-cane striped nightshirt.  Luckily, I hadn't won a supporting role in the musical based upon my good looks alone.  I put on a good act.  I danced.  I said hello to all my old classmates.  I acted like I was delighted to  be crashing their dance in my teddy bear pajamas.  But I was less than delighted.  

I think eventually, maybe five or ten years later, I forgave my date.  I'm sure he meant well.  If my vanity had not been so mortally wounded, I probably would have been able to enjoy myself that night.  Instead, it became the stuff of legends, something my great-grandchildren will laugh over: the night Grandma wore pajamas to the ball.

The End