So, again, I thank you. And I thank you in advance for your contributions to my upcoming second installment of the Fatass Blog Reader Mailbag. There were some gems which will be making an appearance there soon.
Aside from feeling the love, there was another overwhelming sentiment which I suppose I am going to have to address today. Seems a great many of ya’ll are wondering about my most embarrassing moment. I alluded to it here, and even offered it to Jenn for her TMI Thursday feature if she were ever out of material. Because it’s kind of a good one, if you define ‘good’ as being full of nudity, partial nudity, several bodily functions, and a marriage proposal.
And since it’s usually my game to follow up something pathetic with something funny? Today is the day. My most embarrassing moment. Which was actually several embarrassing moments throughout the 24 hour period leading up to the moment that my then Trophy Boyfriend got on bended knee, popped the question, and moved up the ranks to become Trophy Fiancee. So pull up a chair, grab us a beer (but not a Bush Light in a can – anything but that) and let me spin you a tale.
My Most Embarassing Moment, Part One
Now, the story of our meeting – Trophy Husband and I – is a different post for a different day, because that story of course has its own beer-goggle laden charm about it, too. But for now suffice it to say that from the night we met (the second time) we were pretty much, um, an item.
One year after that second meeting, which we can now refer to as The Great Coupling of ‘98, much to the surprise of many of our friends, we were still dating. And in love. I was living in Ann Arbor working for The Man, and he was living in Mt. Pleasant finishing his Junior year of college. Because I’m a cougar. Rawr.
And together we planned a little weekend getaway to celebrate the momentous occasion. One year together. Mimosas. Golf. A little Bed and Breakfast. Dinner at a waterfront restaurant. The works.
Our plan was for him to come to my place Friday night, and together we would leave on Saturday morning.
So. Thursday nights were big bar nights among my group of friends, and best I can remember that particular Thursday involved a very small town bar whose only drink special for the evening came in the form of dollar beers in a can. Bush Light in a can to be exact.
And lots of ‘em.
Couple those gazillion beers with mass amounts of fried bar food? And an after closing- time run to Taco Bell? Well, let’s just call that whole scenario The Gift That Keeps On Giving. In the form of a bad hangover and a very upset tummy the next day.
Trophy Boyfriend usually arrived in Ann Arbor about the time I pulled in from work, and this Friday was no exception. There he was, standing on the sidewalk, all shaved and scrubbed and drowning in CK One, wearing something Frat Boy Chic and ready to get his love on with his girl of one year. Now, being that we were all new at this, and because I was still trying to be the absolute most attractive and wonderful sex kitten girlfriend EVAH, we were still pretty much keeping all things bathroom related private. Yep. We weren’t yet peeing with the door open, passing gas while watching Party of Five, or telling the other they might want to light a match before using the bathroom. (TH would like it noted that he only watched Party of Five because he, too, was trying to be the absolute most attractive and wonderful sex kitten boyfriend EVAH, otherwise he would not be caught dead watching that show. So noted).
After the gazillion dollar beers, fried bar food, and 99 cent bean burritos all banding together to create the subsequent gaseous emissions I was left with the entire day after, I quickly realized that my last chance to pass was upon me because there he stood on the sidewalk waiting for me to hop out of my car and run over to smother him in kisses.
So, as I leaned over to the passenger side to grab my briefcase, I went ahead and, well, farted. Only, unbeknownst to me, it wasn’t gas I needed to pass. Not gas alone. Not that time. Nope. This Last Chance Gas Passing also included a fair amount of poo. That’s right, sports fans. I sharted. Right there in the car as my hotass boyfriend looked on, waiting for me. So he could commence with Anniversary Business Time.
I freaking sharted. I mean, come ON!
So, what’s a girl to do, you ask? A girl on the eve of the celebration of the One Year Anniversary of The Great Coupling of ’98? Well, I did what any self-respecting girl who just crapped her pants would do. I simultaneously burst into hysterical laughter and hysterical tears all at the same time.
And I locked my car door and wouldn’t come out.
Are you sorry you asked?
(Taking a cue from this hot ass, who suggested this subject matter might require more than one post, I will refrain from further comment at this time and simply invite you to return for future installments).