The best worst thing about me is my inability to lie with a straight face. If I catch a good hand at poker, everybody else at the table folds immediately – I’m that easy to read.
So, today I’m overjoyed that I get to lie, and if I’m lucky, maybe even get away with it, because you can’t see the tell-tale feathers hanging from my mouth.
So, put on your game face. The game is called Obfuscation, and it comes to us via Patricia. It goes something like this: I’m going to tell two true stories and one lie, and you are supposed to guess which story is made up from what you’ve learned about me through reading my weblog.
I’ll tell the truth on Monday, whether I like it or not.
One more thing, if you are lucky enough to know me in real life, you aren’t allowed to play. Sorry.
When my daughter was five years old, we frequently played Hangman with her to help her learn to spell and read better. We’d drag a pen and paper wherever we went, and when we had to wait for a table or to get into a movie, we’d pull them out and have a little game to entertain ourselves.
One day we were waiting in a rather long line at the Museum of History and Science, and we decided to play Hangman.
Charlotte guessed letters for a while and the word looked something like this:
She only had two body parts left before she was hung, so she was taking her time. She thought and thought.
Finally, she asked us for a hint and Michael told her, “It’s what I call your mom.”
She looked thoughtful for a minute or two, then victory shone in her eyes and she proudly (and loudly) asked, “How do you spell ‘bitch’?!”
I went to a Catholic school when I was a kid, because my parents hated me. Or, to be fair, I guess it could have had something to do with the fact that they were Catholic themselves. Who knows.
Anyway, my stint in Catholic school was blessedly brief. But, I did have to survive one whole year at Most Blessed Sacrament.
Now, in first grade, I had the meanest, shortest nun in the whole world as my teacher. She managed somehow to be meaner than she was short, and when you consider that she towered over me and my classmates at a stocky 4′ 5″, you’ll understand what an accomplishment that was.
As to her credentials, I’m not sure if she was even certified to teach. But, if she ever gave up teaching, she could have had a fine career as a baseball player. The woman had a hell of a swing. Yet, the good Lord had called upon her to hit children, not baseballs, and that was how she spent her days in His service.
So, one morning, I was “acting up” by asking a friend if I might borrow an eraser, as mine had gone kaput during math. Where Sister James Albert was concerned, this was a serious offense.
I was told to bend over, and I did so, facing my classmates.
Sister James Albert wound back her arm, but just as she began her swing, my ass willed itself to move, and instead of hitting my posterior, she hit my best friend, Martha, in the face. Her nose started bleeding and we worried it was broken.
In the end, Sister James Albert got a talking to from the Mother Superior regarding the importance of accuracy when beating children, Martha got her nose taken care of, and I endured ten lashes with an unnaturally large paddle.
We used to have a gym membership at a place called Premier Fitness. We stopped going there for various reasons, one being mortifying embarrassment on my part.
You see, one day after Charlotte and I had finished a swim, we headed for the women’s locker room. Thing is, the lock
er rooms were not marked near the swimming area, and we accidentally walked into the wrong one.
Normally, this would be no big deal, as we could turn around and walk right back out. Not so in this case. As fate would have it, the men’s locker room that we had just pranced into, locked behind us from the outside.
So, I had no choice but to tell my daughter to cover her eyes and lead her through while keeping my own eyes pointed straight ahead or up.
In order to better facilitate my trip through potentially naked terrain, I shouted out, “Coming through! Hide it if ya got it!”
I got plenty of stares and glares upon leaving the locker room, because of course, the word “MEN” was painted in large white lettering on the door we were forced to exit through into the crowded lobby.
I flew out of there that day like the proverbial bat out of hell. It’s amazing the kid kept up with me.
On the drive home, she confessed to me that she hadn’t kept her eyes closed and saw more than she should have.
And that, my friends, is the story of my daughter’s first male anatomy lesson.