Do I Embarrass Myself in Front of Celebrities? Why Yes, Yes I Do!

Backstage Bungle -- funny & embarrassing story!  @SoThenStories

So then…I confess that I neglected to share a rather embarrassing tale from my recent trip to Vegas with my two teen kids and their three pals.

Oh sure, I shared our shenanigans and hypnotized hilarity – but of course, no trip is complete without my own personal embarrassment…

THE BACKSTAGE BUNGLE
Our friend arranges for us to see a comedian friend of his, so the teens and I get awesome free seats and an opportunity to meet the comedian backstage afterwards.

The show’s hilarious! We love it!

Afterwards, an usher brings us to an attractive guy named Jim who’s the comedian’s assistant or road manager or something. He takes us backstage to a waiting room, then into the comedian’s dressing room.

The kids and I greet the comedian and thank him for the seats.

While the kids are talking to the comedian, I go off to the side with Jim. I gesture toward the kids with my Iphone and whisper to him, “Do you think it’s OK if I take a picture?”

“Sure!” he says, “That’s flattering!”

“Oh, OK,” I say shyly. “I never know. I don’t want to ask a celeb for a photo if it’s too pushy or something.”

“Not at all!” says Jim, smiling. “I’m happy to take a photo with them. They probably won’t know who I am though!”

Huh?

I look at him strangely. They won’t know who you are? I don’t know who you are, either!

So I’m looking at this Jim guy totally confused, when suddenly –

LIGHTBULB!

Oh, damn. Now I remember! The comedian mentioned during the show that his friend was in the audience – a singer from a popular boy band in the late 90’s.

Oh, damn, damn, damn. Jim’s not the comedian’s assistant! He’s the friend – who’s also a celeb! And he thinks I’m asking for HIS picture!

I quickly try to recover gracefully, nodding my head enthusiastically, like yes yes that’s exactly what I intended all along please by all means get in this photo you delicious little former boy-bander you!

So then follows a horribly awkward photo shoot where I’m directing my kids and their friends to all smush together in pics with the comedian and the hottie 90’s singer-dancer.

Argh!

Could I just make it through ONE WEEK without embarrassing myself?

Nope.

As we leave the theater, walking along, I stop dead in my tracks and gasp!

Because now I remember something that makes me wince with fresh new embarrassment.

Before we went to the comedian’s dressing room, about 10 of us were squeezed into a tiny waiting room — me, the 5 teens with me, a few friends of the comedian, and Jim.

Jim was standing and the rest of us were sitting on two benches facing each other – smashed in so close, our knees were touching the people seated opposite us!

After awhile, conversation petered out a bit, so one of the adults said, “We need some entertainment while we’re waiting” and someone said something to Jim like, “Are you humming over there?”

He grinned — so I asked, “Oh, do you sing?” in that tone of voice you use when you discover someone who has one job — has just been revealed to have another talent.

Like the tone of voice I’d use if my plumber glanced longingly at my piano and I said with a tinge of surprise, “Oh, do you play?”

I was thinking, “Oh, Jim the assistant also happens to sing.  That’s cool.”

And when I asked “Oh, do you sing?” — Jim and the others laughed which I took to mean “Good God, no!” which is the same response I’d give – because I’m a dreadful singer (even the nuns say so).

Just then, the door opened and we filed out to the comedian’s dressing room.  One of the women smiled at me and murmured, “That’s a good one.”

NOW it all makes sense. She and the others thought I KNEW Jim was a famous former boy bander so they interpreted my question to be “faux innocent” – like I was ribbing him or teasing him!

Like batting my eyelashes and asking Kobe Bryant, “Oh, do you play ball?”
Or asking Meryl Streep, “Oh, do you act?”
Asking Miley Cyrus, “Oh, do you twerk?”
Asking that old Vatican guy with the funny hat, “Oh, are you religious?”

So Jim and the other adults all thought I was being clever and coy and maybe even flirtatious!

But I was just being completely clueless – which, I suppose, is its own special talent.

Embarrassing myself being yet another special talent I possess.

So, former boy bander, if you ever read this post – just know that you’re still smokin’ hot and I’d love to hear you croon anytime, baby!

— Darcy Perdu

PS I changed his name for this post so as not to embarrass him – or myself – any further!

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(Ever embarrassed yourself in front of a celeb? Do you know all the 90’s boy banders by sight?)

For hilarious tales from the front lines of parenting — and my story of the most embarrassing thing I’ve EVER done — buy this rockin’ new book, I STILL Just Want to Pee Alone!
I Still Just Want To Pee Alone at Amazon.com




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WHAT in the WORLD…?

Not sure what's the MOST embarrassing thing in this post - but ALL of it has me in giggles! @sothenstories

So then…I clarify that this post is not intended to make fun of the people mentioned in the post.

Which I’d never do.

It IS intended to make fun of my teen daughter Chloe.

Which I do all the time.

In fact, it’s my life’s work.

But let’s face it, she’s an accomplice to that. She just makes it so easy.

For the purposes of today’s tale, you should know that Mr. V is a very smart, skilled science teacher with grey hair – and an accent from a country whose surnames have so many vowels, everyone just calls him Mr. V.

And now our tale:

As I’m laying down on Chloe’s bed while she puts on her pajamas, I tell her about a vendor’s new employee I met today. “She’s very sharp, capable, professional – dresses beautifully – really very impressive—”

“But…?” asks Chloe, as she climbs into the bed.

“But she ends every sentence with ‘and everything,’” I say. “It’s the oddest thing. I’m used to people saying ‘ya know’ or ‘ok’ repetitively, but I’ve never met anyone who said that. And she kinds of slurs it, like ‘an’ errrthing.’”

“She says it a lot?” asks Chloe.

“Yes! She’ll say, ‘We’ll send you the spreadsheets an’ errrthing, then you can review the figures an’ errrthing so we can get together for a meeting an’ errrthing.’”

“No way!”

“Yes, really! But she’s so professional in every other way, she may not even know she’s doing it. We’re going to be working together a lot — I’m wondering if I could discreetly mention it to her, as a helpful—”

“NO!” says Chloe.

“Just a friendly word of advice? She might appreciate it.”

“No, Mom, you cannot do that! I hate when people tell me I use the word “like” all the time! I know I use it, but I’m like a Valley Girl – I can’t help it!”

‘Like’ a Valley Girl?” I grin. She laughs.

“Well,” I say authoritatively, “Sometimes in business it’s OK to advise people—”

“No, no, no!” She shakes her head vehemently.

I laugh and say, “Yes, it IS OK – hey, don’t you remember that time my friend Carol had to tell her employee that people complained about him stinking? Remember? And she had to tell him to take showers? He was from a different country where they don’t shower that much so—”

“OMIGOD! Like Mr. V!!” she exclaims.

“Oh really? Does he smell a bit—?”

“OH!” she says fervently, “It’s in-TOX-icating!”

Bwahahahahahahaha!

I die laughing.

“In-TOX-icating? The smell is in-TOX-icating?” I ask.

She blushes and blurts, “Yes! Wait! Is that the right word?”

“Chloe, that means you find his scent powerful and exhilarating! Appealing and captivating! Like you’re drunk on his aroma! Like you’re swooning!”

She buries her head in the pillow – mortified!

“Did you mean the smell is ‘in-TOL-erable” instead of ‘in-TOX-icating?’ Maybe? Just maybe?”

She pulls the covers over her head.

I impersonate her voice and add a flirtatious lilt. “Oh Mr. V, come closer, come closer. Your smell is so in-TOX-icating!”

She’s shouting “STOP STOP STOP!” from under the covers — and the bed’s shaking ‘cause we’re laughing so hard.

And you can bet that ever since then, whenever she least suspects it – (and often when we’re in the company of others) – I interrupt the conversation to passionately blurt, “Oh! It’s so in-TOX-icating!”

She always turns bright red and shoots me a fierce look – and I just laugh and laugh and laugh!

— Darcy Perdu
PS I changed his initial to further protect the teacher’s anonymity!

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(What words do YOUR kids mix up? Have you ever had to give constructive feedback on an awkward issue to an employee/coworker?)

For hilarious tales from the front lines of parenting — and my story of the most embarrassing thing I’ve EVER done — buy this rockin’ new book, I STILL Just Want to Pee Alone!
I Still Just Want To Pee Alone at Amazon.com




Click the Buy Now button for an autographed copy mailed right to your door!

Hypnotism and Humiliation: Vegas-Style!

Hypnotism & Humiliation - Vegas Style
So then…I take my two teens and their three pals on an educational Spring Break trip to Washington DC to learn more about our nation’s politics.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Are you kidding me?

I take ‘em to Vegas!

You can click here for Part 1 of our shenanigans –

And now for Part 2 –

HYPNOTIST SHOW

My teens, Chloe and Tucker, and their pals want to see a Hypnotist Show, so we head over to the Marc Savard show at the V Theater.

I glance about skeptically as we file in and sit down.

The hypnotist starts speaking. I cross my arms.

I don’t believe in hypnotism.

The hypnotist tells the audience that lots of people think they don’t believe in hypnotism.

(Well, he’s psychic at least! That’s exactly what I’m thinking!)

The hypnotist says that’s like saying, “I don’t believe in gravity,” but it still exists. “Hypnotism exists whether you believe or not.”

I smirk. No such thing. His “volunteers” will obviously be plants – people he hired to pretend to be hypnotized.

He calls for volunteers from the audience. My son’s friend Marco stands up. WHAT!?

Marco goes on stage, gets hypnotized with the other volunteers — and starts following the commands of the hypnotist — tapping, standing, snoring, squirming, making funny faces, reacting to imaginary snakes, and RIVER DANCING!

Yes – RIVER DANCING! – 18-year-old tall, cool Marco is kicking his Irish Jig legs all akimbo, enthusiastically strutting and popping heel-toe-heel-toe, sideways kick!

So unless Marco is secretly on this hypnotist’s payroll, I guess hypnotism IS real?

Mind blown.

We’re all laughing hysterically at the antics on stage.

The hypnotist convinces one volunteer that she’s wildly in love with him – and convinces another that she’s repulsed by him.

He hypnotizes a huge muscular guy to respond to every shoulder tap by breaking down into sobs and hugging whoever’s closest to him!

He tells them all that a belt is a snake, so when he approaches with the belt and a hiss, they all flip the flip out!

Then the hypnotist brings out a STRIPPER POLE and invites the volunteers to AUDITION!

My son and I exchange a look. A look that says, “This is about to get REALLY awkward.”

Nothing like watching your guy friend attempt sultry stripper moves in front of your Mom. Not to mention the rest of the audience.

If he performs really badly – it’s embarrassing.

If he performs really well – it’s even more disturbing!

Should I storm the stage and rescue my teen charge? Should I just avert my eyes?

Who suggested this damn show? Why aren’t we doing something respectable like visiting the MGM lions?

Fortunately, the hypnotist is playing the scene for laughs – so he quickly taps the “strippers” if they start to take their audition a little too seriously.

And believe me, some of these volunteers tackle this task with a gusto and passion that’ll make your eyes bleed!

The audience is dying laughing – Marco’s looking like he’s having a great time – and yes OF COURSE we pay the $20 bucks for the DVD of tonight’s show so that we have Marco Blackmail Material for many years to come!

(Perfect wedding reception video, don’t ya think?)

All in all, we have an absolute blast swimming, sightseeing, dining, and enjoying shows. We love us some Vegas!

Of course, about 3 hours into the drive home to LA, Marco realizes that the $120 cash he put in the room safe for safekeeping was still safely IN the safe!!

As we call Lost & Found, I can’t help wondering if the hypnotist hypnotized Marco to leave the money there — and secretly extracted the safe code from Marco so he could recover the money himself!

Hmm…googling “How to become a hypnotist” right now!

— Darcy Perdu

UPDATE!  Because the internet is a miraculous place, my blogging friend Jessica Ziegler of hilarious Science of Parenthood saw this story and said she KNOWS hypnotist Marc Savard – then HE commented too!     Hypnotism (Facebook comments)

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(Do YOU believe in hypnotism? Can I BECOME a hypnotist so I can make business colleagues bend to my will & make my kids clean their rooms & make hot celebs fall in love with me? What would you do with YOUR hypnotism powers?)

For hilarious tales from the front lines of parenting — and my story of the most embarrassing thing I’ve EVER done — buy this rockin’ new book, I STILL Just Want to Pee Alone!
I Still Just Want To Pee Alone at Amazon.com




Click the Buy Now button for an autographed copy mailed right to your door!

My Daughter’s So Frikkin’ EMBARRASSING! (But It’s POSSIBLE She Inherited That Trait!)

So then…just as we exit the Stephen Hawking bio-pic, “The Theory of Everything,” I overhear this exchange between my teen kids:

Chloe:  He only wrote one book?  I thought he wrote TONS of books!

Tucker (facepalm):  That’s Stephen King.  This movie’s about Stephen HAWking.

Me (distancing myself from them, hoping no one thinks I’m related)

Much later, after the laughter subsides, I say to Chloe:

Me:  Did you really think the movie was going to be about Stephen King, the horror writer?

Chloe:  Yes!

Me:  Didn’t you think it was strange when the Stephen in the movie got so sick?

Chloe:  I thought maybe his illness is why his books are so dark!

Me:  What about all the physics stuff?

Chloe:  Yeah, that was confusing.

Me:  Chloe!  The movie said Stephen Hawking could only write 4 words a minute!  Stephen King has written a GAZILLION BOOKS!  Do you know how long that would take???

Chloe:  (pause)  Well, he seemed really determined.

I swear — for such a bright, clever, academically-gifted child, she’s an incredible knucklehead –

ALTHOUGH TO BE HONEST….

The apple does not fall far from the tree.

For many years – I’m talkin’ YEARS – I thought that the Warren Buffet guy who made all the brilliant investments was the same guy who sang “Margaritaville.”

Yep, I thought THIS guy –

Buffet Warren Fold Arms 300

Was the same as THIS guy!

Buffet with Hands Up 429

NOW HEAR ME OUT.

First of all, Buffet’s not a common name.  So first I heard about Jimmy Buffet, a singer-songwriter who sold millions of records and scored tons of cult fans who call themselves, “Parrotheads.”

Then I heard he opened chains of restaurants called “Margaritaville” and “Cheeseburger in Paradise” – AND hotels – AND casinos!  Years ago I read an article that he wrote books, flew his own plane, owned minor league teams, created internet games, and opened a record label – making over $100 million a year from all these business ventures!

I heard that he invested his money so well, and was so super-rich, that he lived on an island – or bought an island – or some shit about an island.

So I’m thinking – cool, this guy’s a musician AND he happens to have a head for business.  That’s pretty frikkin’ awesome.

So when I started seeing clever quotes about investing and finances attributed to some Buffet guy, I just figured — it’s the same guy.

“Someone is sitting in the shade today because someone planted a tree a long time ago.”

“It takes 20 years to build a reputation and five minutes to ruin it.  If you think about that, you’ll do things differently.”

Those Buffet quotes are so succinct and clever, they sound like a songwriter DID write them!

“Price is what you pay.  Value is what you get.”

“Risk comes from not knowing what you’re doing.”

Yo, dog, these could be song lyrics!

And you gotta admit – those balding old white dudes tend to look alike.

Buffet Lookalikes 360

Jimmy Buffet                       Warren Buffet

So EVERY TIME I heard something about one of those Buffet guys, I assumed it was the same person.

Until the party.

Yep, the party where my error was exposed in excruciating detail for all the world to see.

Picture the scene: Crowded party, noisy – several of us are chatting by the dessert table.

1st Man:  Warren Buffet said the best way to invest is (blah blah financial stuff).

2nd Man:  And he said next year, the interest rate is going to (blah blah financial stuff).

(I don’t really understand all the financial references, but I want to participate in the conversation.)

Me:  Yeah, that guy’s amazing.  SUPER talented.

Both men look at me quizzically.

Me:  You know – the singing.

Both men look confused.

Me (somewhat condescendingly):   Hello – Margaritaville?

Both men are stunned.

Time stops.  The air’s sucked out of the room.

All 5 of the men and women stare at me in utter disbelief.

1st Man:  Do you mean…

2nd Man:  …JIMMY Buffet?

Me:  Yeah, Jimmy Buffet.

1st Man:  But that’s not the same as WARREN Buffet.

Me:  Who’s Warren Buffet?

Time stands still again.  Everyone stares in horror.

My friend Megan quickly jumps in and says, “Ha!  Oh Darcy!  You and your sense of humor!  You’re pretending Warren Buffet is Jimmy Buffet!  Ha, ha, ha!”

I quickly join the cover-up and laugh weakly:  “Oh, yeah, heh heh heh.  Just jokin’ around with you guys.”

1st Man and 2nd Man do not look convinced.

I excuse myself to the bar, grab a glass of wine, and head into the bathroom with my Iphone.

“What the FUCK?” I mutter as I quickly Google those wily bastards, Jimmy and Warren.   “Sonofabitch!  They ARE two different guys!”

Here all this time, I thought the boozy, happy-go-lucky Margaritaville singer was giving financial advice to Presidents and Kings.

Don’t judge me.

It could happen.

(Saturday Night Live alum Al Franken of self-help guru “Stuart Smalley” fame is a U.S. SENATOR, for God’s sake!!)

So there you have it — 

It’s no wonder my daughter watched an entire movie about world-renowned physicist Stephen Hawking, thinking it was a bio-pic on horror writer Stephen King ——- because her own mother thought the billionaire investment magnate Warren Buffet was also the singing Parrothead guy Jimmy Buffet.

Buffet Warren Head Jimmy Body 429

The knuckleheaded apple does not fall far from the knuckleheaded tree!

So today, I ask you, what embarrassing misconception can YOU admit to?

It can be small, like my childhood assumption that people on TV could see me since I could see them, hence I always changed clothes BEHIND the couch.

It can be odd, like my childhood belief that everyone’s given a maximum number of words in a lifetime, so I was very quiet in my youth so I could save up my words for adulthood.

It can be embarrassing, like my voracious reading habit that made me attempt to use words I had no idea how to pronounce so I’d say things like, “Well, that’s the very ‘epi-TOME’ of greed!’ instead of the correct ‘i-ˈpi-tə-mē’ — thereby creating gales of laughter for those in the know.

So ‘fess up, friends!

What’s YOUR equivalent to my Buffet Blunder?

— Darcy Perdu

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(Let’s hear it! You must have SOMETHING to confess – a misconception, an assumption, a flat-out blunder! Share your hilarious humiliations!)

Argh!  My kid's SO embarrassing!  (but then again -- that apple doesn't fall far from the tree!)  Do you think it might be hereditary?  #funny SoThenStories.com

Insulting the Neighbor Who Saved My Ass

OH HOLY OOPS! How did I end up insulting the neighbor who saved my ass?  Neighbor Fail!  #funny #neighbor #internet #humor

So then…I panic.

I’d promised my daughter Chloe that I’d FaceTime her as soon as she returned from her first high school trip back home in California.

But my older sister Dawn and I are all the way in Florida, packing up our Mom’s old condo since she’s already moved to a new place.

And FaceTime’s not working because Mom had already cancelled the internet!

Panic!

We call Chloe to explain, who asks, mournfully, “Is there a Starbucks or Kinkos nearby so you can FaceTime me from there?”

Her sad little voice is like a million razor-sharp daggers in my heart.

I’m actually fortunate my 15-year-old WANTS to tell me every detail!

I know those days of mother-daughter closeness are numbered. One day I’ll call her at college and she’ll say, “I’m sorry, who is this?”

But Dawn and I have no idea where local internet cafes might be in this town.

And we don’t even HAVE internet to SEARCH for places that DO have internet!

Brainstorm!

“Karen!” I shout.

“What?” asks my sister.

I jump up. “Karen, Karen! Remember, we met her yesterday?” I grab my phone and my water bottle. “Mom’s neighbor Karen probably has internet; I’m going over there.”

So I skedaddle next door and knock.

“Karen! It’s me, Darcy! My mom introduced us yesterday? Do you have internet!? I’m trying to FaceTime my daughter but we don’t have internet anymore.”

She looks a little surprised but she lets me in and gives me one of the bedrooms.

“Thank you, Karen!”

I close the door and FaceTime my daughter who tells me every detail of the entire trip. We laugh, chat, and marvel at what a blast she had. And it makes a huge difference that we can see each other’s reactions and expressions. Hooray FaceTime!

Afterwards, I return to the living room, a little guilty for taking so long. So I do that thing where I effusively thank the person, using their first name a million times to feign some kind of familiarity and friendliness:

“Thank you SO much, Karen – you’re a lifesaver! My daughter would’ve been so sad if we couldn’t FaceTime. You’re such a doll, Karen. Honestly, I’m so relieved you were home. Thanks, Karen!”

She hands me a slip of paper and says, “In case your Mom needs me to forward her mail or anything, just give me a call.”

The paper has a phone number and the word “Diane.”

“Diane!?” I say, disbelievingly. “Why have I been calling you ‘Karen’ this whole time?”

I look at her with furrowed brow and annoyed expression as though it’s HER fault I’ve been calling her by the wrong name.

She looks at me with that perplexed expression that seems to say, “I don’t know, moron – why HAVE you been calling me by the wrong name this whole time, you internet-mooching knucklehead?”

(I might just be imagining that, since she seems like a really sweet person.)

I raise my eyebrows and shake my head as though I’m still not entirely convinced that her name is Diane – and perhaps she is mistaken. There are practically quotation marks around her name when I say, “Oh, OK, well thanks for the internet, “Diane,” and have a good night.”

I march back to my Mom’s place and say to my sister, “You’re not gonna believe this! The neighbor’s name is DIANE!

“Oh,” she says. “I wondered why you called her ‘Karen.’”

???

“WHAT!? You KNEW her name was Diane!? Why didn’t you correct me before I made a fool of myself?”

“I dunno,” she says. “I thought maybe you knew something I didn’t know.”

Like what?
Like she LEGALLY changed her name between yesterday and today?
Or she’s got multiple personality disorder and ‘Karen’s’ the one who knows the internet password?

Good grief!  How embarrassing!

So now I’m not sure who I’m more upset with –
me for my embarrassing error,
my sister for not correcting me BEFORE I went over there,
or Diane’s parents for not naming her Karen.

— Darcy Perdu

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(Who’s really to blame here: me, my sister, Diane’s parents, or someone else all together?  Have YOU called someone by the wrong name? Do your kids share the details of their adventures with you?)

Laptop & Shopping Cart Cropped

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When the Popular Chick Finds Out Your Secret!

When the Popular Chick Finds Out Your Secret!  #embarrassing #funny #school #bathroom #popular #humor

So then… I glance nervously at my watch as this bathroom line of high school girls inches its way slowly toward the stalls. Our Marching Squad Captain only gave us 15 minutes for a break before we need to perform our routine at halftime at the football game.

As a lowly freshman, I’m eager to follow the rules – especially since I’ve already received 3 demerits at past games – twice for being late and once for forgetting to wear my gold bloomers under my gold Marching Squad skirt. (Don’t worry — I wore UNDERWEAR, people! They just weren’t gold!)

This Louisiana stadium bathroom is hot and humid, filled with chattering girls, including the super hip and cool SENIORS on the squad. I try not to let my geeky awkwardness radiate beyond my personal space.

It’s so hot and time is so short, I almost abandon the mission, but I “gotta pee like a Russian racehorse,” as they say, so I hang in there until – THANK GOD – it’s my turn to enter a stall.

But as soon as I close the door behind me, I see that the toilet paper is not on a roll – it’s little tiny individual square sheets!

Senior Senior

Do you know the kind I mean? They’re almost like miniature tissues. You pull one out, but it’s just a tiny square, then you got to pull the next one out – and it takes FOREVER – especially since I have to encase the ENTIRE toilet seat with paper before I can sit down!

I know the other girls are also anxious to make it back before halftime, so I don’t want to be the annoying freshman that takes FOREVER.

But I can’t possibly let my virgin derriere touch that toilet seat because I’m certain I’ll end up pregnant – or I’ll contract some hideous disease that will necessitate a butt-amputation – and won’t THAT be awkward.

So I frantically start pulling out the little tiny sheets to cover the seat, often losing some in the bowl in my haste. I can just IMAGINE the Seniors are out there, all whispering about why it’s taking me so long – and I have half a mind to yell out, “I’m not pooping! I SWEAR I’m not pooping!”

FINALLY, I create an impressive criss-cross pattern of sheets to covering every inch of the entire seat, so I can safely sit. I pee quickly, flush, and pop out the door.

The line of waiting girls is still long, hot, and impatient.

As I walk to the sink, super popular Senior Claire Markam passes me to enter my stall.

At that precise moment, I realize that I forgot to push all those little toilet paper squares into the bowl before I flushed!

I freeze at the sink. My eyes wide, my heart thumping – OMIGOD, HOW EMBARRASSING! I need to RUN AWAY right now!

Just then, Claire opens her stall door and calls out, “Hey, Darcy!”

Time stands still. In slow motion, my head turns toward her.

Is she going to mock my toilet “shrine” in front of all these Seniors — and burden me with a humiliating nickname that will follow me all 4 years of my high school career?

She grins at me, gives a thumbs up, and says, “Thanks!”

What!?

I suddenly realize she’s GRATEFUL that I’d taken the time to create a paper seat cover that she could use too!

She wasn’t going to ridicule me for my hygiene habits – she was going to do the exact same thing! And I saved her time by doing it for her! I guess she didn’t mind sharing paper with my little bony ass as long as she avoided contact with a public toilet seat!

So now, instead of feeling mortified – I feel PROUD!  

That super cool Senior admired my toilet-seat-wrapping skills!

I beam as I wash my hands.

But then I glance at that line of girls who are all looking at me oddly. They have no idea what’s in that stall.

They only know that Claire walked in my stall, then poked her head out to say, “Hey, Darcy! Thanks!”

Now they’re all wondering what I left in that stall for Claire to see.

A note?

A gift?

An amazing poop sculpture?

As I exit, it takes every ounce of willpower for me not to shout, “I didn’t poop. I SWEAR I didn’t poop!”

(Of course, you guys might know I do have some amazing talent in that field, as evidenced hilariously right HERE.)

— Darcy Perdu

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(Are YOU a dedicated seat-coverer? Terrified to poop in public too?  Any funny stories from your high school days?)

Hungover in WHOSE Heels?

Hungover in WHOSE Heels?  #funny  #travel #flight #Boston #heels

So then…just as I settle in to sip my soda at 20,000 feet — I hear the passenger behind me ask the flight attendant, “What’s the weather like in Boston?”

WHAT THE HELL?

This flight’s going to Washington DC!

She says, “Oh, it’s nice in Boston tonight. A little cool.”

I pop up and tap her on the shoulder. “Um, where did you say this plane was going?”

“Boston,” she replies.

“No, Washington DC,” I say slowly.

“Noooo. Boston,” she says.

We stare at each other.

One of us is wrong.

And it’s possible the one who’s correct about where the airplane is going is the airplane employee.

Ah, dammit!

To be candid, I hadn’t wanted to go on this stupid business trip anyway. I love my New York job but what 24-year-old wants to cut their weekend short to fly to DC for a Monday morning conference?  Not me!

“I thought I was on the plane to DC?” I say hopefully. Maybe the pilot can make a U-turn?

Um no.

“Sorry,” she says. “We’re headed to Boston. But let’s see what we can do.”

Angel that she is, she radios down to the airline supervisor who hooks me up with a free flight to DC first thing tomorrow – and a free hotel room in Boston tonight!

SCORE! I’m thrilled I don’t have to pay for it myself — or miss the conference — or admit my blunder to my boss.

When I unpack my overnight bag in the hotel, I realize I brought my business suit, blouse, stockings – and NO SHOES!

I only have the sneakers I wore on the flight tonight!

I can’t possibly attend a professional business conference in a suit, stockings, and SNEAKERS! And of course they don’t sell high heels in the hotel gift shop! And certainly not in a size 10! (Yes, I have feet the size of surfboards!)

Brainstorm!

“Hello, Kim? Guess which of your favorite cousins just landed in Boston and desperately needs to borrow a pair of your size 10 heels? I’ll buy you massive amounts of cocktails in exchange for borrowing your shoes!”

So my big-hearted (and big-footed) cousin Kim drives over to the hotel and dumps 7 pairs of heels on my hotel bed! We pick a pair, then head to the lobby bar for libations.

We laugh, talk, cackle, eat, drink — and drink some more — and finally stumble back up to the room in the wee hours of the morning.

The next day, my head’s splitting as I slip on her shoes, hug her goodbye, and dash off to the airport for my early morning flight.

An hour later, I land in DC – hungover in borrowed heels.

I suffer through the conference – taking a few notes to share with my boss later.

Then I zip back to NY, so relieved that no one need know about my slight detour.

A week later, I receive a note from the accounting department saying, “Your receipts included an airline ticket stub from NY to Boston – and from DC to NY. Please advise how you got from Boston to DC.”

Ah dammit.

I wonder if I can say, “Hey, dudes, chill. It didn’t cost the company any extra money – and just never you mind how I got from Boston to DC. Just be cool, accountants, be cool.”

Probably not.

I figure I’d better “advise” my boss before I “advise” the accounting department.

I’m mortified, of course. At 24, I want to appear professional, well-prepared, and competent.

I hesitantly confess.

My boss bursts out laughing. “You got on the WRONG plane?”

She hops up and pokes her head out the door to yell: “Did you hear that? Darcy got on the wrong plane! She was supposed to go to DC but she went to BOSTON! Bwahahaha!”

My coworkers pop up from their cubicles to cheer, clap, and laugh.

I hang my head on the Walk of Shame back to my cubicle.

Henceforth, I’m mocked mercilessly whenever I go somewhere:
“Have a great trip to Denver, Darcy – or where ever you end up.”
“Need a map to your apartment?”
“Can I help you find the bathroom?”

And THAT’S how I earned the nickname, “Wrong Way Darcy!”

— Darcy Perdu

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(Ever end up in the wrong place? Take the wrong road – get lost – hop on the wrong plane/train/bus/boat? Any other delicate flowers out there with Sasquatch-size feet?)

Hungover Letter to President

Hungover Letter FROM President

Although I’m mercilessly mocked for my wayward ways, I have the good Southern manners to write a thank you note to the President of Eastern Airlines (as shown here).

I share the story of the free flight and hotel room, then write, “I was delighted with the kindness and concern of your employees. I salute your generosity and understanding. Should I ever wander on to the wrong plane again – I hope it’s one of yours!”

Yep, these are actual excerpts between me and the President of Eastern Airlines over the airplane snafu!

TOTALLY Embarrassed in Front of Dr. Fancypants

TOTALLY Embarrassed in Front of Dr. Fancypants! HILARIOUS True Tale #doctor #medical #embarrassing #funny #teens

So then…my daughter Chloe, age 14, and I enter the lush plush offices of Dr. Blake, dermatologist extraordinaire, with some trepidation.

Oh, don’t get me wrong – I LOVE Dr. Blake. He’s up on the latest techniques and buys the newest high-tech gadgets.

But Dr. Blake doesn’t take insurance so I know this visit will set me back a cool $200 bucks – which is why we only visit him when his trailblazing expertise is required.

As I sign in, Chloe sprawls on the reception area couch and whispers loudly, “Is it impolite if I lay down here and sleep a little?”

“Oh my God, yes, you slug! Sit up straight and play on your phone like a normal person!”

It’s Spring Break so she’d rather be sleeping in than visiting the doctor, but I’m concerned about a rash she developed on the front of her neck, just above her collar bone, a few weeks ago.

(We’d already visited our regular dermatologist TWICE, who prescribed TWO different ointments – which didn’t work.)

Four weeks later, it’s still there!  And NOW there’s a similar brown rash on her ankles!

So I’ve whipped myself into a frenzy because I’m convinced that this rash is merely the EXTERNAL manifestation of something very SERIOUSLY wrong with her INTERNAL organs.

Hence the visit to the expensive Dr. Blake. He ushers us into the inner sanctum of his high-tech Star Trek-like offices. He puts on his super-awesome magnifying laser goggles WITH lights – and leans in to examine the neck rash.

My heart’s pounding, eager to know the diagnosis.

He reaches toward the tray of silver gleaming equipment, each tool more modern and sleek than the next.

He grabs a cotton ball with alcohol and rubs her neck firmly – and the rash DISAPPEARS.

Let me say that again. He rubs alcohol on the rash – AND IT DISAPPEARS.

Now he rubs alcohol on her ankles and THOSE rashes disappear.

WHAT.THE.HELL?

He says, “With dry skin, it’s important to clean well with soap and water when showering.”

WHAT?

She didn’t have a flesh-eating bacterial virus inflammation?

She was just…DIRTY?

He has the good sense to look down discreetly to jot notes in the file, while I shoot a withering glare to my daughter that could melt ALL of her skin into a puddle on the floor.

“Are you kidding me, Chloe? We had to come all the way to the DOCTOR’S OFFICE to find out you don’t SHOWER properly?”

She has the good sense to look sheepish.

(And I assure you — she DOES shower, but evidently needs to apply a bit more enthusiasm to the task.  And to be fair, it was a patch of stubborn dirt, on very dry skin — but STILL.)

She stammers, “Well…I…um…I…”

I burst out laughing. “You don’t work in a coal mine, for God’s sake!”

I sigh dramatically and gather up our purses and sweaters, waiting for Dr. Blake to finish up the paperwork.

He frowns indecisively at the form and murmurs, “There doesn’t seem to be a code for ‘dirt.’”

“OH MY GOD! Do you hear that, Chloe? Do you hear that?” I ask, laughing. “He can’t even find a place on the medical form to code this visit! This is so EMBARRASSING!”

She’s giggling –

He’s chuckling –

And I’m laughing – while simultaneously dying of humiliation – knowing full well he’ll be talking about this at dinner tonight. “Oh, Mavis, you had to see this frantic mother worried her daughter had some disfiguring skin disease — but it turns out her daughter was just dirty!!  Hahaha!  Pass the Chablis.”

Good Lord! You’d think we were train hobos with no access to indoor plumbing.

I’m absolutely mortified, but every time I look at her, and her rash-free neck, I just crack up laughing!

So here is my PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT:

If YOUR child develops a rash –

You could follow MY brilliant plan to rack up THREE doctor visits, $200 plus two $30 co-pays, and FOUR weeks of medical anxiety –

or you could – you know, try a little SOAP AND WATER.

Your choice.

As for me, I might swing by the fire department for Chloe’s daily cleansing…

Totally Embarrassed (Firemen Hose 430)

— Darcy Perdu

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(PLEASE share an embarrassing story about your child so I’ll feel better about myself! Or perhaps a comical visit to the doctor? Something shower-related?)

Facepalm – Can’t BELIEVE I Said This to Coworker

Facepalm 433
So then…I round the corner of our uber-plush offices on my way to a staff meeting, still pinching myself that I made it all the way from down-home Louisiana to this Park Avenue job in New York City!

At 22 years old, with only a couple weeks on the job, I’m the very epitome of “bright-eyed and bushy-tailed!”

I shift my files to the other arm and hope I remember some of the names of the people I’ve met so far. As I head down the long hallway, a smiling woman approaches.

She stops in front of me and says, “Laura Ashley.”

I extend my hand and say, “Hi Laura, nice to meet you.”

She frowns at me and waves off my hand, repeating the name, this time with a question mark: “Laura Ashley?”

“No,” I say kindly, relieved I’m not the only one who can’t remember people’s names. “My name is Darcy Perdu. Nice to meet you.”

She “tsks” loudly and shakes her head. “No!” She points at me, up and down. “You! Laura Ashley!”

Omigod, what is with this woman and her insistence that I’m Laura Ashley?

And she seems quite perturbed about it. Does Laura owe her money or something? Did Laura steal her boyfriend?

I’m just about to pull out my ID to prove I’m not Laura, when the woman points at me again and says, “Your dress. Is your dress Laura Ashley?”

Ohhhh. Laura Ashley must be some kind of designer. I’m not familiar with the name so I have no idea if my dress has that label or not.

So I say, “Oh, I don’t know. Um, I’m not sure.” I fumble for the label in the back of my dress.

“Oh,” she says, “If it were Laura Ashley, you’d know. She waves her hand dismissively, continues on her way, and tosses over her shoulder, “I was just going to say it was pretty.”

I look down at my dress. It IS pretty. It’s covered with a pattern of colorful tiny flowers, which I later learn is similar to a typical style of Laura Ashley dresses.

But what puzzles me is how warm and friendly the woman was when she thought I was wearing an expensive name brand dress –

and how frustrated she became when I didn’t recognize that name –

and how she muttered impatiently that she WAS going to say it was pretty –

but almost implied that it was no longer pretty once it was revealed to be an off-brand imitation.

Well, guess what, lady?

I WAS going to say it was nice to meet you – but it wasn’t!

And now me and my off-brand flower-di-da dress are flouncing off la-di-da to the meeting!

— Darcy Perdu

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(Any awkward moments similar to my assumption that the lady was Laura Ashley? I love embarrassing stories, so do tell! And when did you first realize that clothing had names?)

Her Royal Thighness Ad

TRUMPETS BLARING!! Ladies and gentlemen, permit me to present Her Royal Thighness!

Yes, friends, we are amongst royalty – but the very best kind of royalty. Parri Sontag describes herself as the Everywoman ─ “a middle-aged, weight-challenged, chocolate cake-loving semi-professional dieter with a passion for musical theater.”

I first encountered Her Royal Thighness when I read her hilarious story Mom’s Helpful Hints Fall on Deaf Armpits about all the fabulous advice she tries to impart to her teenage daughter who doesn’t seem to recognize just how fabulous it is. When I read this line:

“Mom,” she stopped me. “I really don’t need any more of your deodorant wisdom.”

I completely cracked up because that sounds exactly like something MY daughter would say to ME when I’m trying to pass on MY brilliant bon mots of advice and guidance.

Then I saw that Parri had listed my So Then Stories blog on her link “Who Makes the Thighness Laugh” – and that she had purchased an ad on my site. Wow, I like her AND she likes me? How cool is this? THEN I met her in person at the Erma Bombeck Conference and found out that she’s just as bubbly, funny, and warm-hearted as she is in her posts.

So grab your royal scepter, settle in to your comfiest throne, and enjoy some of these hilarious posts from Parri Sontag of Her Royal Thighness:

Goodbye Jell-O Brick Road

The Year I Gave Dad a Real Humdinger!

Fatty Cat and Me: A Codependent Relationship

Like her Facebook Page: Her Royal Thighness

Follow her Twitter: Her Royal Thighness

And if you leave a comment, please tell her I sent you!
Enjoy! — Darcy Perdu

P.S. And please remember to share a comment below about any of your awkward encounters similar to my Laura Ashley identity crisis!

P Facepalm

SERIOUSLY? Lady, You’re Killin’ Me Here!

YIKES!  Playdate Disaster - My Fault or Hers?  "Seriously, Lady, You're Killin Me Here!"  #funny #playdate #mom #kids #humor #sothenstories.

So then…I toss a couple toys behind the couch and shove the countertop contents into the junk drawer, just as the doorbell rings.

“They’re here! They’re here!” I shout, racing for the door.

But I’m the only one dashing, since my 1st grader Tucker is engrossed in his Legos-Hot Wheels concoction and not nearly as excited about this playdate as I am.

I’m eager to make new friends at his new school, for him AND for me, so I took the plunge and invited Carla and her son Steven over this weekend for lunch and playtime.

I open the door and they spill into the house, Steven running over to Tucker and his toys – Carla trailing me to the kitchen.

We chat amiably while I putter around, taking out dishes, turning on the oven. I love hosting people at my house, but I’m always anxious about what to serve – I’m worried they may not like it or I didn’t cook it long enough.

But I know today will be a homerun because I served this same lunch to my family last week and they loved it!

I place ham and cheese on French bread wedges, then slide them into the oven to get all warm and toasty.

I turn around with a flourish and a smile – only to see Carla’s face fall.

Uh-oh. What’s up?

I’m talking FANCY DELUXE ham (no Oscar Mayer, people!)

and FANCY DELUXE cheese (no Velveeta slices, y’all!)

and FANCY DELUXE French bread (no Wonder bread sandwich slices, friends!)

We’re talking PRIMO sandwich fixin’s! And I’m TOASTING them in the OVEN!

I even have regular mustard for the kids and FANCY DELUXE Grey Poupon for the moms.

GREY.POUPON.PEOPLE!

Carla says, “Uh…we’re Jewish so we don’t eat ham.”

Ack. Blunder #1.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” I blurt.

She blanches.

“Well, no, I mean…I’m not sorry you’re Jewish! I’m sorry I’m serving ham!” I say.

I quickly grab the remaining French bread. “How about just cheese then?” I ask brightly. “Kinda like a grilled cheese sandwich on French bread?”

Carla grimaces. “Well, it’s just that Steven is lactose-intolerant…”

Ack. Blunder #2.

Omigod. Now I’m panicking because my fridge and cupboards are not well-stocked, so I don’t have a lot of choices.

Lightbulb!

I fling open the pantry door and pull out every kid’s favorite: Peanut butter!

Carla’s expression says it all…

I sigh, resigned. “He’s allergic to peanuts, isn’t he?” I ask.

“Yep.”

Ack. Blunder #3.

“Oh, OK, heh, heh,” I say, laughing weakly. “I guess that leaves us with the French bread. So how does he feel about toast?

(If she says he has a gluten-free diet, I will commit hari-kari with this spatula right now.)

She smiles. “Toast is fine.”

I quickly scour the kitchen for side dishes and come up with grapes, baby carrots, and Oreos (which are a HUGE hit, by the way.)

And so, as I serve our first 1st-grade playdate toast, I cycle through these emotions:

1) I am the worst hostess in the world.

2) If her kid has this many dietary restrictions, couldn’t she maybe give me a heads up when accepting a lunch invitation? Come on, Carla, help a sister out! If my kid had these restrictions, I’m so obsessive, I’d probably travel with a constant supply of doctor-approved, rabbi-approved foods in individual hermetically-sealed packages, ready to whip out at a moment’s notice! Or at least I’d mention it when accepting an invitation to a meal!

3) What kind of rookie am I that I don’t have a few alternatives available like turkey or pasta, for Pete’s sake? And would it kill me to ASK guests if they have any dietary needs when I invite them to a meal? Get with the program, Darcy!

But as I watch Tucker and Steven laugh and talk and run and play – I realize what’s really important:

the “Day I Served My Guests Toast” is also the “Day Tucker Made a New Friend at His New School.” And that’s all that matters.

— Darcy Perdu

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(Any culinary catastrophes on your playdates? Or food-related faux pas with guests at your parties, BBQs, or dinners? One time I put BBQ sauce on chicken breasts and BAKED them – and they all came out a weird shade of PINK so all my guests skipped that dish on the buffet table! Share any funny moments from your parties or playdates!)

Super Bad? More like SUPER MAD!

Super Bad More Like SUPER MAD
So then…I shout, “Fine!”

And then he shouts, “FINE!” — slams the door, gets in his car, and drives to work.

I seethe.

We’re in the middle of a big argument and he bails just to go to work? Where are his priorities?

He works at night, so it’s already dark out. I head to the kitchen.

I’m so mad at him, I can barely eat dinner. But it’s pasta and chocolate chip cookies, so I suffer through. In fact, I’m such a martyr, I suffer through several helpings.

I replay the argument in my head.

I was being logical, reasonable, rational – raising excellent points and substantiating them with clear, concise examples.

He was being a jerkfacemonkeybutt.

Normally we get along fine – we’ve been living together awhile now – we’re in our 30’s with good jobs, a decent house, and a pretty chill lifestyle – we’re laidback and laugh a lot.

But when he’s being a jerkfacemonkeybutt, I find him to be insufferable and quickly catalog every tiny thing about him that drives me insane.

As I walk through the house putting away the laundry, I notice things like:

This is the stupidest shirt ever. Why does he wear this shirt?
Seriously, can he not put his dishes IN the dishwasher instead of the sink?
I suppose the trash can was just too far away for this soda can.
Why is his golf club IN the house? That’s stupid. He’s stupid.
Ugh, look at his shoes. His shoes are annoying me.

I watch TV. I note how all the boyfriends on TV are so much better, nicer, funnier, smarter, and sweeter than my boyfriend.

I do a little paperwork, polish off the last cookies, and head down the hallway to the bedroom.

Just then I hear a loud THUMP CRASH!

My heart stops. I freeze.

It’s close to midnight. He’s not due back til 2:00 am. I’m not expecting any visitors.

What the hell was that?

Is someone out there?

I had whirled around when I heard the noise, so my legs and arms are all akimbo in the hallway – but I’m literally frozen solid like a fossilized dinosaur mid-run when the glacial apocalypse hits.

Fight or flight? Fight or flight? My heart is hammering.

I muster up my courage and dart toward the sound. The front door is WIDE OPEN.

WIDE OPEN TO THE BIG BLACK SCARY NIGHT.

I rush to slam it shut and lock it.

I lean against it, breathing hard, arms spread out against the door to keep the bad guys out.

Oh shit, what if they are already inside and I just locked them in here with me?

Panic!

I run to the kitchen for a huge knife and the portable phone.

Do I search the house?
They might be hiding somewhere inside.
They’ll jump out and murder me.
Do I run to my car in the driveway?
There might be more of them outside.
They’ll jump out and murder me.
I’m surrounded!

I pause in the kitchen holding the knife in front of me — leaning forward, concentrating fiercely to try to hear where they are.

Outside, I hear rustling – are they trying to get in the house – or is the wind whipping the tree branches and leaves around?  Are coyotes out there?

Inside I hear creaking – are they walking around – or is this old house settling?

More rustling — more snapping, crackling – are those footsteps? Is someone banging on the window?

I’m seriously in a panic. I have no choice. I have to call 911.

“Hi um I’m really scared I think someone’s trying to get in my house or maybe they’re already IN my house and I’m all alone and it’s pitch black out there and I keep hearing them trying to get in the house! I don’t know any of my neighbors. I’m afraid to leave and afraid to stay. Can you please send someone just to check to make sure no one is here? I’m really scared. I’m all alone! Did I say that? Did I say I’m alone? I’m really freaked out!!”

The dispatcher takes my address, asks a few questions, and says she’ll send a squad car over to make sure nobody’s trying to break in.

I position myself halfway between the front door and the back door, so I can make a quick escape, depending on the direction I’m attacked. I brandish the butcher knife in one hand and the phone in the other, waiting for the police to arrive. I dare not move in any direction. I am frozen.

I wait and wait and wait.

I could be dead by now. Seriously dead. What the hell, police officers? It doesn’t take much time to murder someone – I could be long dead by the time you get here.

Out of desperation — I call jerkfacemonkeybutt. I wail into the phone about the people trying to murder me – and infuse my tale with an accusatory tone since clearly it’s HIS fault that I’m in this predicament. Not sure how exactly, but damn sure, nonetheless.

He tries to calm me down and says he’ll come right home from work.

About 20 minutes later, he comes in the front door.

I’m still standing in the same spot, eyes WIDE and WILD, knife hand thrust forward, phone hand near my ear.

He advances to give me a hug. My face recoils, my knife hand waves him off.

“Don’t touch me,” I hiss.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. He’s already forgotten all about our earlier argument. He’s like that.

He always says men are like microwaves – they get mad – then zap, it’s over. Women are like crockpots, simmering and stewing that anger all.day.long. He’s right – I’ve been simmering and stewing and sweating here in the same spot, my Safety Spot, literally terrified to go anywhere or do anything until the police come to verify no one’s breaking into my house!!

I don’t even deign to answer the question about what’s wrong.

He quickly searches the house and reports back that no one else is here.
He says it doesn’t look like anyone’s tampered with the doors or windows.

“The door was WIDE OPEN! WIDE.OPEN! Someone OPENED the door! And they’re out there still! They’ve been making noises and banging all night! ALL NIGHT! I want the COPS to check this whole place out!!! YOU don’t know what to look for! The COPS will find them!!”

Full-out high-pitched hysteria.

He knows well enough to quietly sit down and wait it out with me.

After a few tense moments, he asks, “When did you call the police?”

“Almost 45 minutes ago! And they’re still not here! I could be dead by now! DEAD!!”

“Huh. That’s a long time.” He grins. “You shoulda called Dominos Pizza. They’d be here in 30 minutes or less.”

I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL KILL HIM RIGHT NOW.
I WILL BASH HIS SKULL IN WITH THIS PHONE AND STAB HIM IN THE GROIN WITH THIS KNIFE.
THIS IS NOT A LAUGHING MATTER.

I glare at him with such pure loathing, that stupid grin slides right off his stupid face.

The doorbell rings.

The cops are here!

THANK GOD!

They’ll search the premises – and check the perimeter – and find evidence that vicious criminals were trying to break into my house – and secure the area so no one can ever harm us!!

I rush from my Safety Spot to open the door. “You’re finally here!” I exclaim.

Two weary cops stand there. One says, “Yeah, sorry it took us so long to get here. The winds are so strong in the Valley tonight, we’ve been answering calls all over the place about doors blowing open. So what’s your situation here?”

***
Oh.my.freaking.God.

I can FEEL my boyfriend behind me, laughing his ass off INTERNALLY. He’s not uttering a sound, but his shoulders are shaking that telltale sign of inner mirth.

And if these cops were not standing right in front of me, I swear I would stab him immediately and repeatedly. And I would not feel one tiny bit of remorse.

I’d just fling the bloody knife to the floor with a flourish – like a rock star hurls his microphone – then shout “Peace out” – and drive to the store for more cookies.

— Darcy Perdu

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(Have you ever scared yourself absolutely silly? Any funny or embarrassing cop stories to share? And can YOU catalog all the annoying things about your significant other right after you have an argument? Do share in the Comments section!)

That Lying Little #@%&!

That Lying Little
So then…my husband’s navigational system says: “Turn left here.” David looks at me smugly and smiles, proudly heeding the advice of his new car as he turns left with a flourish.

I admit: I am pretty impressed at this equipment that has talked us from our home all the way over the hills to the new house of our friends, Ted and Sara.

And before the system can say another word, we spot the valet parkers in front of our friends’ lovely new home.

The place is packed, indoors and out. Everyone seems to be having a good time and I can hear a jazz combo on the patio. David and I grab a couple crab puffs from a passing waiter.

I don’t see our hosts right away, but I see the gift table, so I add our offering to the pile of elegantly-wrapped gifts.

We have a couple drinks, chat a bit, and eat a few more appetizers. Then David says, “You know, I don’t recognize anybody here.”

I look around and, although these happy, animated couples could be friends of ours, I have to agree no one looks familiar.

Good grief, are we party crashers?

I ask a passing waiter, “Excuse me, have you seen…uh…the host?”

“Yeah, he’s in the back,” he says oh-so-helpfully and pushes through the crowd. (Argh — Couldn’t he have said the name of the host?)

David rolls his eyes at my failed investigative technique. He heads to the bartender with that “I’ll find out what’s going on here” strut, but I pull him back.

Discretion, David. Wait here.” I head up the stairs.

“OK, ‘Nancy Drew,’” he says in a tone that I could swear borders on sarcastic.

So I conduct a brief surveillance upstairs and report back: “I checked out the family photos and no one even remotely resembles Ted or Sara.”

“Hasty retreat,” David mumbles as we hustle outdoors, trying to escape detection.

As the valet pulls our car around – yes, the deceptive, devious little car that led us so sadly astray — David asks whose house this is.

The valet says, “Ruth and Roger Perlman — 25th Wedding Anniversary. Why? Where are you supposed to be?”

As the other valets giggle (yes, giggle), I realize my housewarming gift is still inside! So while David gets the car, I run back in to get it.

Just as I reach for my gift, I lock eyes with a woman in a stylish silver evening gown who looks more than a little surprised that I’m helping myself to the gift table. I smile tentatively, then dash out the door to the getaway car.

So we make it to Ted and Sara’s, a few blocks down, where we are teased for our tardiness. David begins to tell the charming story of our mix-up until my swift kick to his right shin changes his mind. Discretion, David.

I hug our hosts, give them the gift, and head to the nearest bar. We drink; we eat; we have a great time.

Just as we gather to watch Sara and Ted open the gifts, the doorbell rings.

My heart skips a beat. What if it’s the woman in the silver evening gown? What if I had accidentally taken someone else’s gift that was wrapped like mine? Maybe it’s Ruth Perlman demanding the return of her 25th Wedding Anniversary gift!

Fortunately it’s just another tardy party guest.

I sigh with relief and vow never to take directions from a talking car again.

— Darcy Perdu

(Ever end up at the wrong party? Or led astray by a talking car? Perhaps Mapquest or Google Maps duped you? Share in the Comments Section!)

That Lying Little P

My Business Outfit is Missing a LITTLE Something…

Funny - Slipping Stockings
So then…I pop open my suitcase to pull out my special outfit for the big client presentation on my four-day whirlwind trip to Hong Kong. I need to look my most professional for our clients and the executives at the Shenzhen manufacturing plant this morning.

I’ve brought a special black silk suit — and yes, even pearls and high heels. But when I open the brand new package of pantyhose, I discover that it actually contains…stockings.

You know, stockings. The kind that are just individual casings for the legs, that are supposed to clip into the special garter belt you wear around your waist. Only I didn’t bring a special garter belt. Because I don’t own one.

I only wear pantyhose. You know, the kind with legs connected into a nifty little casing for your butt and waist that you just pull up — and everything stays in place like it’s supposed to? Only I didn’t buy pantyhose. I bought stockings by mistake!

OK, no need to panic. I’m an intelligent woman. I’m staying in a sophisticated metropolis.

Surely I can solve this problem before meeting the client downstairs at 7:00 a.m.

I call the hotel operator. She says, “So sorry. Hotel gift shop not open until 9:00 a.m.”

I rifle through my suitcase. Two pairs of blue jeans. I had sent the business casual pants to the hotel dry cleaners yesterday.

I call the operator again. “So sorry. Hotel dry cleaner not open until 8:00 a.m.”

Back to the suitcase. Two pairs of black trouser socks that come mid-calf. I try on the black silk skirt, which comes mid-knee.

But maybe…if I can just pull down the skirt a bit…and stretch the socks up as far as they can go…and just sort of hunch through the day, maybe it will work. I look in the mirror. Uh…no.

OK, perhaps I’ll just wear the suit without pantyhose. How bad can that be? Yes, it’s January. Yes, it’s freezing. My legs are just a shade whiter than snow. And I haven’t shaved since Halloween. I look in the mirror. Uh…no.

OK, I know, I know! I can call my co-worker. He’s just down the hall. Perhaps he has some pantyhose. Maybe his wife accidentally packed some for him. Or maybe he just travels with pantyhose for his own personal reasons. Who am I to judge? (I decide it’s better not to know.)

Back to the suitcase. I pull on the stockings. They actually look great. I walk around the room. With each step, they slide down my thighs, closer to my ankles. If only I had something to keep them up. I rummage through the hotel bathroom amenities. Qtips, cotton, shower cap, mini nail file. Where’s MacGyver when you need him?

So that gives me a great idea. I call the front desk and ask if they happen to have pantyhose available for forgetful guests. “Pardon me?” she says.

“You know, like when guests forget toothpaste or hair dryers or whatnot, and you provide it for free? Well, I need pantyhose. Does the hotel provide complimentary pantyhose?”

“So sorry. We do not offer this to guests,” she replies.

“Oh. Um…well, do YOU have any pantyhose I could borrow? Or even a garter belt? Black would be best, but at this point, I’m pretty desper—”

Click.

OK, no problem. I can handle this. My eyes dart around the room frantically, looking for some device to keep the stockings safely mid-thigh. I see the desk, which gives me a brilliant idea.

I zip downstairs to the 24-hour hotel business center. Luckily, it’s deserted. I make a beeline for the complimentary office supplies and rummage through paperclips (too short to hook to my panties), glue (too messy), and staples (too painful).

Aha! Scotch Tape!
This Business Outfit Scotch Tape
I hike up my skirt as discreetly as possible and wrap the tape around the top of the stocking and my right thigh several times. I walk around. It seems to hold pretty well. I strap the other stocking to my left leg with layers of tape and I’m good to go. Excellent!

I sit through most of the journey to the factory in the Chinese countryside, so all is well. I alternate between smiling at my little secret – and worrying that it might be discovered. But I’m determined to be professional regardless.

As we tour the factory, I’m surrounded by the manufacturer’s executives (all men) as well as my client’s team (also all men). As I walk, I hear little crinkly noises as the layers of tape on each thigh rub against each other. I glance around to see if anyone else notices. My key buyer has a furrowed brow – but is that because he’s examining the factory’s material testing process – or because he’s thinking “What the hell’s going on under Darcy’s skirt?”

As we progress through the factory, I can feel the tape losing the adhesive battle. It makes a valiant effort, but it can only withstand gravitational forces for so long.

The stockings start to slide. I start to panic. I can’t even imagine the shock on my colleagues’ faces if my stockings and wads of tape suddenly drop to my ankles. I’d be mortified.

I quickly excuse myself to the ladies room, just as the left stocking stutters to a halt at knee level. I rip off the stockings and limp tape, stashing them in the trash can.

When I rejoin the group, the men practically have to shield their eyes from the bright white of my pale legs. No one mentions the missing stockings. I pretend to be calm and confident as my white bare limbs blind passersby.

To be candid, I’m mightily disappointed in the product quality of Scotch Tape. As I hobble through the rest of the tour, I consider sending them a strongly-worded complaint about their inferior adhesiveness in relation to the human thigh on a typical Chinese winter day.

— Darcy Perdu

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(Ever forget a crucial item on a business trip or vacation? Any wardrobe malfunctions or clever fixes? Share in the Comments Section!)

This Business Outfit P

GOLDEN SIDEBOOB AWARD
Meanwhile, funny Mike Regione from Joe Floggers sent me the Golden Sideboob Award, which was created by awesome Lizzi Rogers at Considerings as a crazy award for people brazen enough to post the award to their blog!

The Golden Sideboob

Of course, when you brag to your friends about receiving this award — instead of applauding, they’ll look befuddled and say, “Who sent you a Golden What?” Winners get to nominate the next winner — someone funny, bold, and brazen enough to post it, so I award the Golden Sideboob to Liesl Testwuide at Hairpin Turns Ahead. Congrats, Liesl! Add THIS beauty to your resume! — Darcy Perdu

GOLDEN SIDEBOOB AWARD
More good news! Funny Fran Fischer from Fishducky, Finally! also bestowed an award that my blog is Fish Ducky approved!  She says it’s almost as good as a Nobel Prize for Literature!  I’ll take it!  Thanks, Fran!
Fishducky

Attempting to Save Face at this Business Lunch — But Ready to Stab Sheila with a Fork!

Trying to Save Face at this Business Lunch -- But ready to stab Sheila with a Fork!  Honestly, Sheila!  #funny #office #car #humor

So then…he asks me a question and 10 eyeballs stare straight at me – all 5 executives wait intently for my answer.

Now normally, I LOVE to be the center of attention! I’m happy to chitter-chatter away, non-stop, on all manner of topics.

But this is a BUSINESS lunch meeting – and Dan’s question is FINANCIAL – and I have NO BUSINESS answering a FINANCIAL question.

Oh, I got me some skills, yo – but Finance is not in my jurisdiction – (it’s not even in my solar system). And half the words he USED in his question aren’t even in my VOCABULARY.

But I’m the only one representing my company at the meeting and we’d really like to do business with this group, so I take a stab at answering.

Initially, my long-winded response elicits a furrowed brow of confusion from one of the women executives (come on, Sheila, give a sister a break!) – but then I toss in some buzz words and a couple insightful points, and everyone seems to nod in agreement.

I breathe an internal sigh of relief, spear a morsel of salmon, and secretly congratulate myself on my delicate menu choice. I’ve suffered enough disastrous business lunches to know NEVER to order
* the Goopy Sauce-Spewing Pasta
* the Crunchy Noisy-as-a-Wood-Chipper Salad
* the Mouth-Full-O’-Sandwich Conversation Blocker — or
* the Bean Burrito (no explanation required).

I’m even wearing my fancy work outfit today – the one that needs to be DRY CLEANED. That’s right, no washable poly-cotton blend for these execs – I’m rockin’ the DRY CLEAN ONLY blouse. Yes, I said it – BLOUSE, people. That’s how corporate I am today!

So the dialogue continues – I ask some intelligent questions – I nod thoughtfully at their answers – I appear professional, competent, and even – dare I say it – sophisticated. I’m making a great first impression!

Just then, the server comes over and asks, “Does anyone here own a blue car parked out front?”

I do.

I own a blue car parked out front.

“Um, why do you ask?” I say.

He says, “Someone just came in to report that the car is running and all the doors are unlocked.

***

So I mumble, “berjurmertalabrim,” bolt out of my seat, and dash to the parking area –

and sure enough, there is my car with engine running and doors unlocked – where it has been for a solid 30 minutes.

The electronic key is in the cup holder.

I must have forgotten to press the engine stop button.
And grab my key.
And lock my doors.

So now, I have to go back into the restaurant.

Or DO I?

What if I just drove away right now and never returned?

Would they finish my salmon and talk about that weird girl who disappeared so mysteriously?

Or do I return to the restaurant and…

1) Pretend that it was NOT my car:

“What? Huh? Nope. Not my car. I don’t even OWN a car. I WALKED here.”

Or

2) Just admit that I’m a doofus:

“I don’t even possess basic common sense to turn off a car, but you should totally trust your BUSINESS to me.”

(And by the way, who’s the guy who reported this occurrence to the restaurant in the first place — thereby causing my embarrassment!?)

(Oh, YOU may call him a Good Samaritan. I call him a Big Fat Tattle Tale!)

So I slink back into the restaurant and take my seat as Dan says, “Was it your car? What happened?”

I pick up my fork and say nonchalantly, “Oh, I like to keep the engine running and the doors unlocked to make it more convenient for car thieves. I’m a giver like that.”

They laugh.

Sheila says, “Oh my! So your car’s been running THIS WHOLE TIME?

Oh, shut up, Sheila! Mind your own beeswax! (I say in my head)

“Yep,” I say blithely. “Hey, if they’re not gonna recognize an easy score when they see it, they really don’t deserve to steal my car. Don’t you agree? So Dan – tell me more about your plans for next quarter.”

— Darcy Perdu

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Um…Is She HITTING on Me?

So then…my friend Lindsey follows me upstairs to my bedroom.

(Oh, git yer mind out da gutter! It ain’t THAT kinda story!)

I want to show her the 8 giant wine glasses in my closet in case she’d like to use them for centerpieces for a party she’s planning.

Funny - Is She Hitting on Me Crop Small
(OF COURSE I use these to drink my wine. All 8 glasses. Simultaneously.)

So as she follows me upstairs into my bedroom, over to the alcove closet, she says to me: “Hey, have you been working out?”

(Oh! Boom-chicka-wow-wow! Maybe this IS that kind of story!)

Has she been staring at my ass this whole time – and now she’s trying that classic pick-up line about working out?

I don’t happen to swing that way, but of course, I’m terribly flattered.

I blush, bat my eye lashes, smile, and purr: “Why no – (toss hair) – but why do you ask?”

She says, “Cuz of that” — and points to my treadmill.

Funny -- Is She Hitting on Me
Oh.

She laughs and says, “I figured it must be pretty hard to work out on your treadmill, what with all that stuff on it.”

Well! How dare she?

How does she know that I’m not just some incredibly talented gymnast-slash-piano-player who likes to belt out my own tunes while I’m treadmilling? Huh? It’s possible!

Instead of scoffing, she should be admiring my dexterity!

But of course she’s right. I haven’t used that treadmill in forever – and I guess at some point, it seemed to make good sense to store those things there for the “time being.”

And of course she’s happily married and has no intention of hitting on me – although that would have made a very interesting story – especially if we drank wine from those giant glasses and serenaded each other on my Karaoke-Piano-Treadmill (patent-pending).

So now, I MUST ask you:

What’s on YOUR treadmill?

— Darcy Perdu

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(Fess up – what’s on your treadmill right now?  I’d love to see that I’m not the only one storing something odd on my “exercise” equipment!)

Boom-Chicka-Wow-Wow!  Is She HITTING on Me?  #funny #treadmill #stairs #humor