Well, HELLOOOO all you glorious people out there that have stuck with me while I nursed my hands back to health. That’s why I haven’t posted in a while, I had a rare hand disease that prohibited me from blogging. It’s called IALWE, otherwise known as, I Am Lazy Without an Excuse. It’s very rare. I almost died. I’m okay now. I was actually cured by Dr. Sonia Taitz. Okay, she’s not a doctor, but a remarkably talented and successful author. I was given the opportunity to collaborate with her which immediately brought me back from the blogging dead.

ENOUGH about me.  I am truly excited about today’s post. I want to thank, Sonia Taitz, for this beautifully written description of how most of us once felt about our parents. We have all been embarrassed by our parents at one time or another, but as we grow older, we realize the importance and true beauty of their being. Sonia has recently come out with a new book, IN THE KING’S ARMS, and if you haven’t bought a copy yet, click on the book title or come back tomorrow for a chance to win one! I won’t keep you with my ramble any longer, read on for Sonia’s story!

I think I know a thing or two about embarrassment. I was born into a small and peculiar class of people: children of immigrants from war-torn Europe. My parents were Holocaust survivors, and I guess by the time they came here, they had many more things to think about than fitting in – things like learning the language and making a living from scratch. Things like forgetting everything about where they came from and starting life anew.

Still, their style spoke of nothing more than where they came from. My father wore a suit every day, in an age where most Dads sported “leisure wear” – T-shirts, polo shirts, khakis, jeans and sneakers.  He wore a starched white shirt under his suit, and a tie which was tacked to the shirt with a bar or circular pin. On his head, whenever he left the house, was perched a hat – straw in for the summer, felt in the winter. A real hat, the kind that Frank Sinatra would wear. With a ribbon band, and often a little feather.

When I went off to camp, I thought other kids would have parents like mine. After all, it was a Jewish camp, and I’d thought that most Jews had parents who had survived the Holocaust. They did, in my poor immigrant’s neighborhood, but my parents had splurged so that I could have a season of fresh mountain air, and among the middle class parents on Visiting Day, they were the only ones who looked different. My father in his suit. The feather on his grey straw hat. My mother in sandals, with socks. Socks!! That look was stylish where she had grown up, in Kaunas, Lithuania. It was not as stylish that summer at camp, in the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania.

Years later, due to my parents’ constant nurturance and support, I was able to go to Yale Law School.  Graduation day was bittersweet. It was, of course, a huge and unique accomplishment for my family (due to the war, neither of my parents had even been able to finish high school), but a source of ambivalence for me. On the outside, I fit in with the other graduates. We were all smart and savvy, newly-hatched professionals.  But on the inside, I was different.  When I looked at their parents, I saw tall men with full heads of silver hair (my father, though well-built and handsome, was 5’7”, and bald under his hat).  The mothers were elegant, soigne women, with blond, smooth hair and hairbands.  I saw grosgrain hairbands. Plaid hairbands. Velvet hairbands. My mother’s hair, unbanded, blew around in the wind. She was not wearing sandals and socks that day, but her dress was flowery in a way that only the late Queen Mother would understand. And she was talking to me:

“Sonia’le!” I saw her hand waving a little cotton handkerchief. She always had these in her purse; they were always white, with little embroidered flowers on the corners. “Yoo hoo! Sonia’le!” She was using an old endearment for me, the “le” on the end of my name a caress.

From amidst my peers, I answered, “what, Ma?” We were about to march forward and receive our degrees. I wanted to blend in with the others.

“Are you hungry, Sonia’le? I brought you a nice banana!”

Reaching into her bag, she brought out and flourished a soft, sad fruit. She had probably carried it from home and brought it on the train trip to New Haven. In her past, people had died of starvation. Here, at the Yale Law graduation, no one was starving. Everyone, graduates and their parents, seemed rich and complete and sophisticated. The banana did not fit in, nor did my doting, unself-conscious mother.

I spotted a Kennedy kid, one who would later become a reporter, filming us graduates. Her brother was in my class, and as her camera panned the crowd it must have captured me, looking at my parents, caught between shame and love.

Years later, it is the love that remains. The realization that these people – with their tie-pins, hats, and hankies – were the richest treasures I’d ever have. Better than an Ivy league degree. Better than a million dollars or being famous. Better than anyone, or anything I’ve ever known in our status-conscious, style-conscious world.  And I am nothing but proud.

Sonia Taitz

I don’t have children and I’ve never birthed one. I don’t have the guts to do it just yet. I’m 34 and still trying to get up the nerve…… then I read Lindsey’s story below, it made me laugh hysterically then wet my pants with fear…. then laugh again… then sweat with panic…. but again I laughed. Wait.. am I pregnant?

You amazing women who have birthed a child will relate to Lindsey and laugh sans the fear! Lindsey, I heart you for bringing your nurse bottles of wine! Now.. on to Lindsey’s story:

As many of you know, child birth is a unique experience. Some will lie and say it doesn’t hurt or it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. If you are one of those people, what are you smoking? And may I have some, please? For the rest of us, we know it is a terrifying, yet rewarding experience with many ups and downs along the way. This is just one inkling of how my “labor” went.

In honor of keeping this short and sweet, I will not explain all the events leading up to my delivery; just know that my blood pressure was sky high (this I have to thank to a piece of crap boss and client that I was dealing with on that particular day). So, I was admitted to the hospital and on bed rest for 7 days when my doctor decided I needed to have a c-section. LONGER story short-all went well with the delivery aside from my daughter being 6 weeks premature; she is now a happy, healthy 3 year old which I attribute all my gray hair to. However, back to post-delivery: I had some trouble with clotting and was in A LOT of pain. I saw stars….literally, saw stars and had to be given a shot. Nurses exact words, “This will help your uterus contract BUT you will shit yourself without a moment’s notice.” WHAT?? “We have to give you this, but just know that you will have immediate diahrrea that you cannot control.” Well, flippin great. So, I get the shot and about 5 minutes later, I had this BURNING in my stomach. About that time, my husband opens the door to my room and says “Hi,honey. John and Jane are here to see you.” I, of course scream something unimaginable to let him know that no one was welcome, period. I let the nurse know I was about to “soil” myself and she grabbed a bed pan, and about that time, I let the LOUDEST, MOST POLLUTED fart that seriously blew that poor nurses hair back out of her face. Then nothing. I never did soil myself, but I could never look that nurse in the face again. EVER. I dropped off 3 bottles of wine as a thank you a few weeks later with an apology note. Jill, if you are reading this, you are an amazing nurse and I’d thank you in person if I didn’t think I’d drop dead of humiliation.

Ahh…. sigh…. if I had a dollar for every embarrassing moment I’ve heard that involves a bathroom or a cell phone, I would have enough money to pay Bravo to cancel “Real Housewives of Orange County” and save what’s left of my brain cells. The more I watch, the more they deplete, however, I continue to sit in front of the TV, watching in a trance….. salivating… I think the drool has to do with my dwindling brain cells.

Rambling…… MY POINT….. this particular story I received is a double dose of evil! A cellphone… in a bathroom. Oh Mary Tyler Moore, help us!  Take a gander at Aimee’s email below. Cheer up, Missy! You’ve lived through it and you’re not alone!

I had a company conference call and I decided to take it from my home office. The call went longer than I had anticipated. There I sat watching the clock while my bladder got fuller and fuller. I was about to explode. I decided that our Vice President wasn’t actually in the room so if it’s muted, what harm would using the bathroom during a call do? Keep in mind, the call involved our entire division which is 30 people. I put in the code for mute, heard the beep that indicated mute and took the phone (which was on speaker) with me to the toilet. I was afraid I would miss important information if I stepped away from the call.

While I was in mid-stream, with my phone on speaker, I heard the VP who was leading the call say, “Is someone washing their hands? Please put your phones on mute.” As I continued, I heard my direct Manager say, ” Everyone, please do not bring your phones in public places. Everyone on mute!” I didn’t realize they were talking about me until I flushed the toilet and the VP then dismissed the call because of the “inappropriate interruption.” I started to panic so I looked at the last numbers dialed on my phone, I didn’t mute because it was already muted, I unmuted the phone!! They heard everything I did in the bathroom. I was the reason it was dismissed!! I was horrified!!! We received various emails from our VP and Human Resources. My boss called everyone individually furious asking if we knew who it was. I lied because I thought I would get fired. I immediately started a job search. Thankfully, I found a job quickly and resigned from my position.  A former coworker told me there was a rumor going around that I was the one who used the bathroom during the conference call and left because I was embarrassed. Little does she know the rumor is true!

Underwear can be tricky, those little bitches. They’re either super supportive or completely ornery. We’ve all had bad days with our fabric friends, which usually resulted in an embarrassing moment or awkward-looking stance. Our business below the belt functions differently than boys, they can just rock commando anytime they want, but for us, once a month, we have to call-in backup and secure the area…. and sometimes our operation can go awry and get very messy. PUN INTENDED! And WE’RE the ones who are suppose to be pretty all the time?!?

Anywho, ladies, say hello to my girl, Trace. You’ll find from her story below that, she, like many of us, faced the Battle of The Britches and lost. All together now, “GIRL, YOU’RE NOT ALONE!!”

It’s Sunday morning. As I get out of shower, I’m in the best mood. It’s the weekend, there is sun outside and my monthly cycle is basically over, cramps and all. I decide to look cute for my boyfriend; don a little faux glow,  where a white t-shirt and white fancy panties (white is his favorite color.) Just to be safe, I put on a panty liner.

I’m now in the kitchen cooking up breakfast, making coffee, eggs and dancing around the house, humming to the music. I’m in my own happy go lucky world. My lovely boyfriend is watching, smiling and hugging me – telling me how much he loves me and how cute I am. The world is perfect in that moment. All of a sudden, he looks down and starts flapping something on the outside of my underwear, right at the crotch area, laughing. I look down and realized that I had my cute little panties on inside out with the panty liner still attached and flapping between my legs. I practically died of embarrassment.

I know…. I’ve been M to the freakin I to the freakin mother of an A…. MIA… just in case you don’t understand the chaos I call writing. Anywho,  yes, I haven’t posted in ages and it’s not because I have lack of great stories from you gorgeous ladies or that I don’t embarrass myself daily…… because I certainly do. I just decided to do an Usher and disappear for dramatic effect then come back BETTER THAN EVER!! WOOOHOOOO!! This is my come back, baby!!! DIG?? That’s a big load of crap….. but, let’s just go with that. Because, I, indeed, am back.

Today, I was reminded of my lengthy absence with a jolt or more like a jolt then a rip. I’m in the airport… right now.  Wait, let me back-up about 10 minutes….. EVEN BETTER….. indulge me, please, in a third person play-by-play:

Lauren is worrying about making her flight

Lauren gets through security

Lauren starts running to the gate. She almost runs over a small child. She swerves.

Lauren then does a Lady Gaga in the airport hallway, but not from lack of shoe control, rather from falling over a stranger’s computer bag.

Lauren free falls to the ground.

Her purse spills all over the floor, lip gloss spiraling through the air and into random seating areas.

Her computer bag knocks her in the side of the face. Her face numbs.

Lauren then gets up after hearing gasps and various “Are you okay?”

She collects her bag’s contents from the floor……. She hears a rip. The arm of her jacket is ripped. No time.

She runs with a numb face, sore knee, bruised pride and a ripped jacket. She feels like a complete ass of a jack.

She gets to the gate to find her flight cancelled. Humilation rushes…rushes… oh yeah… it RUSHES in!

A man approaches her to tell her about the rip in the back arm of her jacket. No shit, buddy. Lauren ignores him from fear of losing emotional control.

Lauren then tries to find a plane to strap herself to and jump from.  No dice.

Lauren reverts to emotional eating. She goes to the airport Popeyes and buys enough fried chicken to feed the entire cast of “The Biggest Loser” before they lose a 1,000 lbs. Add a side of mashed potatoes swimming in cajun gravy, please.

GYNA Gals… I believe in signs, as I type this with the left side of my face throbbing, I realize, it throbs for a post.  Never again will I leave you. Never.  And never again will I dodge small children when running through the airport. They can take it…. they’re resilient.