Embarrass Me[me] - Take THREE

So… in continuing with the humility… I give you:


3. Too much of Gramma is not a good thing


When I was younger, my Dad's family had a cabin on one of the abundant lakes in our area (hello, Minnesota!) and we'd frequent it often (aka whenever my Mom finally got sick of our never ending barrage of, "Mooooooooom, Mom, Mom, Mom…. Can we go to the cabin? Huh, huhhuhuhuh? Can we? Can we? Canweeeee?").

Around the ripe old age of nine, I was opted to spend a week there with my Great-Gramma in lieu of incessant trips "up north" (by all of 20 minutes, psh.).

You see, I am the "original" grandchild… (First born on both sides)

Looking back, I think this really meant guinea pig. 

Now, my Great-Gramma and I were never really all that close. She was a crotchety old bitty and I didn't know how well I would survive a week alone with her. She was, after all, the soul-sucking lady who wouldn't let me play with the shiny legos I'd acquired in my five-year-old Christmas Eve plunder four years earlier (not that I held a grudge, mind you…).

Was this worth it? I'm still not sure.

Anyhoo… as I stated, I was nine.
Matured a bit since that…um... tear filled night.

*sigh*

But a week at the cabin----> away from my two brothers<---- sounded like heaven. Even if I had to endure the crotchety old gal.

Besides, this was my view----------------------->

How bad could it be, right?

Surprisingly, the week flew by. I helped her clean up the yard, weed her gardens, swam from sun up to sun down and even got to pick strawberries at the U-Pick-Berry Farm down the road.

No problems.

It was blissfully uneventful.

In fact, I was surprised how much I enjoyed being there. Then, the last night before heading back home, things took a turn. We'd eaten supper and Gramma had turned in for the night. (She had this weird habit of going to bed at 7:30pm and getting up at 5am… Who does that?)

But I was packing… There were books and things… clothes needed to be folded and put in my suitcase. For the life of me, I could not find my swimsuit. I'd looked outside. I searched the outdoor shower thingy… Missing.

Where the heck did it go?

Since it was only 7:39pm, I decided to ask Gramma. She'd know. She knew everything. And no way was she asleep yet.

So, I walked down the hallway and knocked just outside her door.

There was a scuffle behind the curtain (Yes, curtain… Where was I, the Wizard of Oz?) and out emerged Gramma. Her hair was rolled up tight in curlers on the top of her head and she had a wild, crazy look in her eyes.

All of that would have been fine.

But that's not where my eyes went.

Instead, from the waist up, my old bitty Gramma was completely buckass nekkid and because of the step up to her room, I was right at… um… their level.

My eyes!

Great-Gramma BOOBIES!

As soon as my brain registered the horror, I diverted my eyes to the wall, trying to blink away the last five seconds of my life. (It didn't help.)

"Whatcha need?" Gramma muttered, not even making an attempt to move. (Didn't she know her boobs were touching her--- bloomers? HELLO!)

"I… er… uh… " What the heck was it again? Dang, I'd lost all train of thought-- what with my eyes on fire, and all.

"Spit it out, I ain't got all night." She put a hand on her hip (at least, I think that's what it was…) and I decided to abandon ship.

"I…er… nevermind." I spun around and bolted back to the guest bedroom, latching the door behind me.

You know, come to think of it, I never did find my swimsuit.

Instead, I carried home a memory that, to this day, is still burned behind my eyelids.

It's honestly not right.

Please, for the love, give me horny gramma! Wait… what?

I'd much rather have been privy to THIS---------->


Moral of the story: Things you never meant to witness will haunt you forever. Poke your eyes out now and save yourself.

• Up next Friday...

4. Tequila fan

Embarrass Me[me] - Take TWO

Oh, dammit. I guess it's that time again… 


As promised last week, I have another installment of Embarrass Me[me]. All thanks to the insanely talented Ms. Midnight. Can you go poke her for me? Hard. 


RECAP: Lynn tagged me to do this Embarrass Meme thing… Long story short, I talk too much and turned it into a weekly thing until I have all seven done. Sound good? Sure. Why not? This week has sucked so royally, laughing at myself might just be a good thing. ;)

Back to...

2. Cutting my hair long

Yes, you read that right.

Now, as a child… this was one of those humiliating things I did that lingered well into my teenage years. For some reason it's had a death grip that could make prying Leonardo DiCaprio off Kate Winslet seem like melted buttaaahhh.

The first thing you have to understand… In my defense, I have always been an analytical person. ALWAYS. You must make sense to me or I will blow you off.

Webster FTW.

Picture it: I was a scrawny little four year old with blonde hair and an intense desire to leave it right where it was. On my head. I was trying to grow my hair out and I didn't see how cutting it fit into that plan. Smart, right?

So the setting takes place on a sunny Saturday morning... I was peacefully minding my own business (aka, not torturing my younger brother) and watching my favorite show at the time: Webster. --------->

My mother musta caught a whiff of unguarded whimsy and pounced.

"Carissa," she cooed, "I know you don't want to cut your hair short. But did you know, when you cut your hair, it makes it grow faster."

"Mmmmmhmmmm. Okay, Mom." I nodded. Webster had just gone behind the neat-o grandfather clock thingy that was a secret passage. It was soooo cool. (Man, I still want one of those.)

"Excellent!" she exclaimed.

I lowered my eyebrows and turned to face her. "Wait… what you say?"

"You agreed to get your hair trimmed." she smiled.

A look of panic replaced my whimsy and I started doing flashy jazz hands out in front of me. "No… no…"

"Really, your hair will grow faster if we cut it. We'll just do a little bit… just a trim and you'll see."

"Just a little?" (I was curious now. Mistake number one.)

Yes, because of the promise my hair would grow longer faster, I allowed the heinous act to take place.

The next morning… while lying in bed scheming out my day... my wheels started turning.

Analytical, overachiever, four-year-old me thought:

If trimming your hair makes it grow faster… Then CUTTING your hair will make it grow faster yet!

BRILLIANT!

Of course I knew where the scissors were. My parents had placed them in the tiny nook above the highest cupboard because of the last time I tried to cut my brother's hair.

The sun had just risen… Lucky for me, I was a morning person. And a climber. ;)

Wouldn't my parents be surprised when they saw how loooooong my hair was?

Thirty-five seconds later: After flinging back the cupboard doors and scaling Mt. McSuperHighCupboard, I had my beloved prize.

★˙˚★★My magic scissors of hair growth.★★˚˙★

How had I not known about this before?? I will be Rapunzel in no time, now!

I pulled out the chair into the middle of the kitchen, as my mother had done it the day before. (I needed to be all professional-like, you know.) Needless to say, my brilliant idea ended with my parents walking in on me with the scissors held high and my (longish) hair all over the floor.

I believe the first words out of my mother's mouth were: "What the [expletive deleted] are you doing!?" (You have to forgive her, she's not a morning person.)

My dad snickered.

So, here's the fun part… turned out: It was Easter Morning. 


The push to trim my hair was really so I looked presentable and not like the ferrel tomboy I was. (That worked out well.)

My mother, now with a look of death in her eye (it was twitching), promptly snatched my magical instrument and whipped the hair sheers out. Then, much to my dismay, she buzzed my entire head.

Evidently, she didn't like my snazzy tuft-o-stylage.

This now meant going to my family's Catholic Church, in my frilly Easter gown with a big-ass bonnet on my head to cover up the fact I had no hair.

It didn't help. I was still teased for being a boy in a girl's dress.

To a little girl. It sucked. 

To a teenager who's heard the story umpteen-million times…

It made you want to burn photos.

Moral of the story: Information is dangerous in the minds of a child. Use it with caution.

Shut up. Pixie hair is awesome.
(At least I didn't have to wear a bonnet.)

• Up next Friday...

3. Too much of Gramma is not a good thing