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.

Spellcheck is tricky. It only checks for incorrect spelling of words, not word placement. We all text and email in a hurry from our phones, the majority of us have accidentally sent things we shouldn’t…. it’s totally common… as common as Miley Cyrus’ bluejean rump-revealers and overly smudged eyeliner.  It’s not as common, though, to misspell a word that makes perfect sense in a sentence.  That mother of a spellchecker doesn’t pick up on that…. not as smart as you think, huh, Mr. Spellcheck??!! 

But, never fear, our friend Lyndsey here is NOT ALONE.  My favorite part is that we got a real-time panic email from the stall. We’ve done something like it, Lyndsey! Email us and tell us how it went!

I’m emailing you from the women’s bathroom of my client’s office. I’m late to a meeting because of crazy traffic so I meant to email my clients that I was going to “pop” in the bathroom very quickly then meet them in the conference room. Instead, my fingers pressed too many o’s and this is what I sent: “I’m so sorry for being late, traffic was a bear. I’m going to poop in the bathroom real quick and I’ll meet you in the conference room.”

I just told them I was going to “poop.” I know, the longer I stand here in the bathroom, the more they think I’m really pooping. I’m frozen. I no longer have to pee and I’m trying to think of something witty to say. The only thing I can think of is , “I really didn’t poop, but almost did in my pants once I realized what I sent.”  Oh sweet Jesus!!

GYNA GALS! How many times has this happened to you? You walk into the bathroom or past a mirror and see that Mr. Mucus has formed a little bungalo in your nose? Then you start to back-track all the people you’ve talked to and when you think all this business around your nose had formed. It’s so stressful… I think I might start a new trend… nose tents…. a little fabric shelter that covers your nose…. it would be available in a variety of fun fabulous colors to fit all genders and ages. Excuse me, I have to see a patent lawyer ASAP. No one take this idea!!! NO ONE! It’s mine!

I digress. Anyway, during the winter, the snot/muscas formation in my nostrils is a daily fear.  This morning, though, Christina, lived this fear. Read her story!

So, bloggy friends, I thought I would share a quick moment of embarrassment with you. This morning, just like every weekday morning, I bundled up and escorted the 10yr old and 8yr old to the bus stop. I always see my neighbor there. She walks up with her two darling little girls. And, as usual, after the kids board the bus and speed along to school, my neighbor and I chat for a moment. It is always a very nice chat. And, then I walk home.

As I entered my house this morning, I looked up at mirror in the entry hall. Oh My Goodness! Not only is my nose running (how did I not feel it?) there is also a very large frozen booger in my right nostril.

Do you think it developed as I walked home? No, I don’t think so either. I am thinking that unfortunately my neighbor was not staring at my flawless complexion as we chatted. I think she was staring at my booger! Oy Vey!

Look and learn, GYNA Gals. She makes falling look better than Jennifer Lopez’s eye makeup and I didn’t think that was possible. We all tumble, we just need to exercise Mariah’s art of rally!

Here I am at one of the best street fests in Chicago, Retro on Roscoe, with my younger brother and a couple of his friends.  Retro is great because it tends to be a little bit of an older crowd no 20 something’s getting under my feet.  Here we are, enjoying a few drinks having a great time, I’m checking out the scenery – very nice – when I turn to see my brother talking to a pretty good looking guy, we’ll call him random guy – RG.  I’m half eavesdrop, half paying attention to one of the girls with us when the friend turns to me. Wow, really cute, and he starts making the idle chit chat.  I think it’s going well and he looks a bit older than my brother, which is even better.  We’re having great conversation, laughing , witty banter and then it happens. “So are you Joe’s younger or older sister?” Now make no mistake, I look good for my age, but there should be no question that I am older than my brother.  ”I’m his older sister.” That should be it, right?  Move on, next question, right? NO!  “ Oh really,”  look of utter shock  ”by how much?”  I pause, partly because it’s difficult to do math after 4 drinks and partly never really paying attention to my brother’s age. “You don’t know?” he says getting anxious.  I look at my brother, “How old are you, again?” then back to RG,  “Oh, yea, there’s 6 years difference between us,” and before difference has left my lips, he has his back to me excusing himself to get another drink!  Nice! REAL NICE!!! Way to be subtle! 

It took me aback for a second, but like any smart 40 something , I promptly sprung back and yelled to him to,  ”You can get us all a drink… we’ll be right here.”  He brought back the drinks, but that’s the last contact we had that day. Upon discussing, and laughing about this incident with my brother, he said “he didn’t leave that fast….well, yea, I guess he did, but he’s like 33.”  And I thought Cougars were in… 

Ladies, let’s support Kelly… literally…read this in your push-up bras. I’m writing this with no shirt on and sporting some lacy lock and lift action.  Kelly, you now have the floor as my boobs have cleared it…

As I enjoy my late twenties, I have noticed my body beginning to change, things are starting to sag and move south.  Now, I have lost a significant amount of weight in the past year – probably about 15 of those pounds from my breasts. I’m not making excuses for my sagging breasts; only trying to justify a portion of their current position with my weight loss.  I’m a woman of good sense, so I know part of it is the gradual approach of the big 3-0.  To remedy this very physical and obvious maturation of my body, I decided to venture into the push-up bra sector of the world.  Mind you, I have had breasts since I was in the second grade.  I have very distinct memories of my mother crying as I tried on training bras.  Because of the longevity of the relationship between me and my breasts, they have had ample time to grow and have always been on the larger side.  My excitement to enter the land of push-up’s was heightened by the idea of thin pretty straps and beautiful lace details that the full-figured section could never quite offer.

I  had recruited my sister to join me on the breast relocation project.  We started at Victoria’s Secret because my sister loves their push-up bras.  We barrelled through the store, on a mission, scooping up every fit of push-up and headed to the fitting rooms.  So, if you have ever traveled to push-up land, you understand that there is a very fine line between beautifully elevated breasts and the dreaded double boob.  With the bras that we thought might work, I tried on a t-shirt over each for the ultimate test.  My assistant, my only sister, was of little help.  She purchased her breasts back in 2003 after the birth of her second son.  Hers are destined to always be a comfortable chin rest whether they are in a bra or not.  Confused as to how a push-up bra should fit a natural breast, my sister ran out and retrieved the nearest saleswoman to help us decipher the bra fit.  What my sister returned with was a snotty 21 year old who has yet to see the flip side of perky breasts and looked at me with a bit of disgust as we explained the situation.  She quickly suggested that I try a few of their fuller coverage bras since I seemed to have ample breasts.  I had to re-explain to this 21 year child that it was the height of my breasts that I was concerned about, not the fullness.  As we sat and discussed (my sister poked and prodded my chest to see if the bra actually fit correctly), a male voice chimed in.  In the midst of the already perplexing chaos, I hadn’t noticed that the fitting room door was completely open. In the reflection of the mirror across from the door was the image of a man in his early fifties sitting comfortably in the husband/boyfriend chair with a perfect view.  He assured me that my breasts were beautiful for a 30 year old and to enjoy them while they were at their current elevation.  His vote was for the bra I was currently wearing.  Stunned and in shock, I quickly shut to door, regrouped and yelled to him behind door, “Sir, I appreciate your compliment, but I am 28, not 30.”

Needless to say I left Victoria’s Secret without that particular bra, but with the two runner ups. Oh.. and with my sunglasses on so I wouldn’t have to make eye contact with the older male stranger that experienced the entire debacle with me.