Jennifer's Bloggin': Embarrassing Stories Are Often Funny As Hell

Jennifer's Bloggin': Embarrassing Stories Are Often Funny As Hell: By Jennifer Lightburn Writing is therapeutic. I like that I can retrieve and print the thoughts that were wresting around in my mind… th...

Embarrassing Stories Are Often Funny As Hell

By Jennifer Lightburn

Writing is therapeutic.  I like that I can retrieve and print the thoughts that were wresting around in my mind… the good, the bad, and the ugly.  But even with the ugly, I can see the funny.  I can see humor in almost any situation.  Take this embarrassing story for example.  It’s probably one of the most humiliating moments in my life, but to me, it’s a funny story. 

I used to have severe intestinal issues.  (Yes, I have no shame J)  At any given moment I could drop a load, and I’m not talking about any load.  I’m talking about the kind that will make you walk like a cowboy. J 

I thank the good All Mighty that I don’t have those issues anymore, but I’ll tell you what, I damn near cleared out the Metro train when I let loose.  I quickly learned not to poot in public because there was no telling what would come out.  J

But that’s not even the embarrassing part of the story.  J  I’m at Macys trying to squeeze into a size twelve jeans, knowing a fourteen would be more appropriate and a sixteen would be comfortable.  And I feel a rumble.  I’d never felt a rumble before.  Typically, I’d blow without any warning at all, so I didn’t take this sign for granted.  J

I hauled it to the bathroom, pulled down my pants, bent over and let loose.  J  By the time I was done, I was saying, “Thank you Jesus.”  I turned around to grab the toilet paper and almost gagged.  There was (and there’s no more appropriate word) shit splattered everywhere.  Everywhere?  Everywhere!  On the floor.  On the toilet.  On the walls.  I actually looked up to the ceiling, there was so much shit.  And no damn toilet paper! J

And I couldn’t pull my pants up.  J  So, I opened the stall, made sure the coast was clear and wobbled to a stall a couple doors down.  My plan was to wipe my ass and then clean up the mess in the other bathroom. J

Then I hear the door open.  Damn!

I waited and waited for the person in the stall to leave.  After almost ten minutes of near silence, I decided to come out.  As I washed my hands, I looked in the mirror and noticed that the person who came in was in the stall that I’d blown up.

Out of all the stalls, this woman picks that one? I thought.

The stall door opens at the same time that the bathroom door opens. 

In the mirror I see a red-headed, thirty-something year old woman, and a toddler who is covered in poop. 

“What the hell happened to you!” the woman screamed at the top of her lungs, and the giggly boy who was standing there with poop in his hand, stared at her bewilderedly, and then started crying. 

I got the hell out of Dodge. J  I told my friend what happened, and he (being Italian) turned as red as the lipstick I was wearing.  Snorting and carrying on.  J

“I guess she learned that she needs to take her son to the bathroom,” he managed to get out between snorts.  J

After I asked the cashier to call maintenance, I LMAO too, as I thought about that poor kid!

You see, that’s a true and mortifying event in my life that is actually funny.  J 

Sometimes life can be emotionally draining, and that’s when you’ve got to laugh.  Writing and laughing (for me) is therapeutic.

Jennifer's Bloggin': Time To Quit Smoking

Jennifer's Bloggin': Time To Quit Smoking: I was outside smoking with the smoke group in the blasted cold. Though I smoked my entire Newport, I once again thought it was time to quit...

Time To Quit Smoking

I was outside smoking with the smoke group in the blasted cold.  Though I smoked my entire Newport, I once again thought it was time to quit smoking and I voiced my opinion.

A co-worker (and friend) told me about the last time she stopped smoking.  She was seventeen and her father had just learned that she smoked, so he invited her to partake with him, giving her a pack of Marlboros.  When she finished her cigarette, she got up to leave but her father told her to sit back down and smoke another.  (Tough love you could call it.  Though, today, they’d call it child abuse).

"I don't want to smoke another one, dad," she said.

"Nope, smoke it," he replied and so she did.

After that one, he made her smoke another and then another and another.  She had to smoke nearly the entire pack of cigarettes until she was so sick that she didn't want to smoke again. 

The other two smokers listened in shock while I laughed because the same thing happened to me when I was about ten.  My grandmother found out that me and my cousin swiped a couple Winston’s.  (Guess she knew how many she had in her pack. :0)

So, grandmother tells my uncle when he picks us up in San Pablo.  On the way home (to San Jose) I notice he’s driving a little fast, but I trust that he knows what he’s doing.  That’s when he slammed on the breaks and we both flew forward.  And then we put our seatbelt on.

At the stop light, he pulls out a pack of Winstons, and I immediately know that we are being set up.  He gave us both a cigarette, and he said, "I hear you-all like to smoke, so smoke." 

"Uncle D, I don't want to smoke," I said.

"Oh, but you wanted to smoke earlier, so light up," he replied in an authoritative tone.

Because he was an ex-military drill instructor and one who would quickly set our butts on fire, I did what I was told.  Then he said his most famous line (or at least to me), "Don't start none.  Won't be none."

My cousin and I sat in the backseat of his car and smoked the entire pack.  Can you say, "Sick as a dog."  I didn't want to see another cigarette again for the rest of my life.

But, I guess my uncle's and my co-worker's father's lesson on smoking was only temporary because here I was today, shivering in my winter coat and gloves, taking quick puffs of smoke to calm my nerves.

Still, it’s days like today that I know I have got to quit smoking. 

Jennifer's Bloggin': Keeping It "Real" With Your Boss At Work

Jennifer's Bloggin': Keeping It "Real" With Your Boss At Work: A good friend of mine forgot she was talking to her boss and she got “real” with him at work. She was nearly in tears as she told me her s...

Keeping It "Real" With Your Boss At Work

A good friend of mine forgot she was talking to her boss and she got “real” with him at work. 

She was nearly in tears as she told me her story, and I immediately thought about the song, “Had A Bad Day,” the song that she played every time I came to visit, and which drove me up the wall, even though, it was a catchy tune some years back on American Idol. 

                So, her boss asked her to write a paragraph summarizing the status of each government contract for which he was responsible in order to prepare for a meeting this Monday. 
                “I went ahead and wrote a contract brief on one contract and gave it to him to review.  Of course, he wanted changes, so I modified the brief and gave it back to him.  He kept requesting more changes.  A couple hours later, he approved the page-long document.”
                “Well, good, that was smart,” I said.  “Now, you can use that document as a template.”
                “You would think,” she sarcastically replied.  “So, I finish all twenty-something contracts… takes me all day, and you know I’m stressing ‘cause I still have all kinds of pressing issues that I have to resolve by COB, and I have to leave on time to get my son.”
                At this point I’m wondering if she was driving on the beltway because I just walked in the door and didn’t feel like making a pilgrimage in rush-hour traffic, which prompted my question, “You left work?”
                “Yes, Jennifer, you’re off the hook,” she replied.  “So, I give him all the briefs.  He looks at them and starts red-lining, and then asks me why I put all this information in the brief and why I didn’t include X Y and Z. And why this and why that.  I was pissed because I knew I’d have to work all night long ‘cause he wants to meet in the morning. Girl, before I could even stop myself, I said, “Mother fucka, I did exactly what you told me to do. 

“Jennifer, his face turned from Casper white to beet red and he said, “Why don’t you tell me how you really feel?”  That’s when I realized what I’d said.  I was humiliated!  He was cool, though.  He knew I didn’t mean anything by it.  It was just a slip of the tongue.”

                My friend is one of the most professional people I know, so hearing her blunder had me in tears.  :0)
                Now, personally, I’ve had some slips of the tongue at work, but good googly moogly.  My girl kept it real... with her boss in this horrific economy.
                So, even though, I can’t stand the song, I sang it for her… 

Had A Bad Day – Daniel Powter

Because you had a bad day
You're taking one down
You sing a sad song just to turn it around
You say you don't know
You tell me don't lie
You work at a smile and you go for a ride
You had a bad day
The camera don't lie
You hurry back down and you really don't mind
You had a bad day
You had a bad day

                I hope she has a better day tomorrow. :0)

 

The Headless Man - Chapter 4 - (Originally Entitled - Finding His Head)

Chapter 4

The Town of Leesburg seemed faded and well… ancient.  The architecture was a mix of The Old West meets Colonial.  Though DC is a combination of the same, it boggled my mind how riding forty minutes east of town could make me feel as if I’d gone back in time a hundred and fifty years. 

My mother pulled me toward the building so this woman with a stroller could get by. 

“The old charm is what gives this place character,” my mother said, pointing to the chrome light fixtures.

As we crossed the busy intersection, I said, “All this place needs is a good coat of paint.” 

“No, there’s lots of color.  Look at all these trees,” Jasmine said.

“We had trees in DC.  Lots of trees,” I replied. 

“Not this many trees,” my father said.

I felt outnumbered by trees. 

            Many of the trees had light bulbs on their limbs, and the chrome light fixtures gave the quaint town a shimmering glow when the sun went down, and the people strolling by had joyful expressions.  I felt as if I was an extra on a Christmas movie set. 

We stopped in this Italian restaurant.  There were only a few tables available on their small brick patio, and we were lucky enough to get one.  I wasn’t surprised that my mother ordered a glass of wine, but when my father ordered a bottle, I knew stay alert.  Sometimes I felt as if I knew my father’s habits better than he did.  He only drank wine when either one of my grandmothers came over for a visit. 

            “May I please have a Shirley Temple?” my sister asked the gum-smacking, red-headed waitress.

            “Make mine a double,” I replied. 

            “Grenadine?” the waitress asked.

            “No.  Cherries,” I replied. 

I looked at my mother and father, both of whom had worried expressions on their face, and I racked my brain trying to figure out how I could get some answers to my questions. 

Why won’t people come clean the house?

Why did Jasmine and I feel a force pushing at us when we’re inside that house?

And what is it with the foul odor?

            Just as I was about to take my chances of getting my mother’s look or my father’s thump by asking those questions and more, the realtor that sold my father this house came to our table. 

            “So, how’s it going?” he asked, sounding as if he needed a puff from an asthma inhaler.

            Now that’s not an unusual question.  We just moved into a new town and the sales agent sees us having dinner.  Of course, he’s going to ask how we’re doing.  But it wasn’t what he said that was alarming; it was how he said it. 

            “Great, Bob. Great.  Everything is going great,” my mother said.

            “Yeah, except the ghost in our house.  Aren’t you supposed to disclose paranormal activity,” my sister asked. 

“Jasmine, watch your tone when you talk to adults,” my mother said.

“Yeah, aren’t you,” I asked excitedly.

“This is an adult conversation, so both of you keep your childish mouths shut,” my father said to both of us and then he looked up to the agent.  “Now answer my daughter’s question, Bob,” he said.

The grey haired salesman didn’t look a day under seventy.  His face was so wrinkled it looked as if it just needed a good ironing.  His lips were so big they looked as if they needed to be popped by a needle.  It was hard to look at the man without making a displeasing expression.

“There’s nothing to tell,” Bob said.

My father raised his voice in the tone that made me grateful that I wasn’t the one he was speaking to.  “I’ll own my house and yours too if I find out any differently,” my father said.

“Ok.  Ok.  But this is rumor not fact, which is why I wasn’t obligated to report it.”

“Spill it,” my mother said in her soft southern voice.

Bob pulled up a chair and squeezed his large frame into it, and he said, “In 1812, the Union Army occupied Leesburg, VA and imposed marshal law after burning much of the country side.  One of the Confederate soldiers, Henry McKay, owned a house that the Union confiscated and used as a hospital for some of their wounded soldiers.  McKay decided to take matters into his own hands and he escaped out of a barn, in which the Union held many of the townspeople.  He clobbered a Union soldier standing guard alone with a horseshoe and then stole his uniform.  Next, he gathered as many dried branches and twigs as he could and placed them around his home.  He went into his home, unbeknown by the Union, and left with a lit candle.  Just as he set fire to a few branches, he was captured and the fire was stomped out by a Union soldier.  They hung McKay right in the courtyard, and the rope was tight enough to decapitate his head.  They buried McKay’s body but kept his head in the court yard until it rotted to give the townspeople a clear reminder of what would happen if they rebelled.  Many people believe that it’s McKay’s spirit that haunts that house, but like I said, there’s no evidence to substantiate that fact.”

“That fact,” my father said clearly disgusted.  If he wasn’t a law abiding citizen, there’d be no doubt in my mind that my father would have given him a piece of his mind and fist.  My father got that crazy look in his eyes.  The last time that I’d seen that look in his eyes was when he was hoodwinked into paying the bill at Dave and Busters for my cousin’s birthday party.  Bob must have felt slightly threatened after seeing the rage expressed on my father’s face because he quickly excused himself from the table. 

We all looked at my father. 

“There’s no ghost in the house,” he said so firmly that I almost believed him.  If it wasn’t for the force I felt in the house, the fact that all the maids in town refused to come inside to clean, the foul smell, the footsteps, and the look from all of the customers that now stared at us after eaves dropping on our conversation and learning that we were the new owners of 12060 Main Street, I just may have believed my father. 

We ordered dinner and made casual conversation.  My mother’s idea of casual conversation was getting all up in our business. 

“I hear you kissed Leslie today,” my mother said in an embarrassingly motherly way.

I looked at Jasmine who immediately retorted, “Don’t look at me.  I didn’t tell her.”

“So it’s true?” my father piped in.

“Jasmine!” I yelled.

“Wow,” they’re good.

“Spill it,” my mother said.

My father leaned back in his chair.  “On the lips or on the cheek?” he asked, smirking.

“Why are you dipping all up in my Kool Aid?”

“Spill it.”

“Uhhh,” I said smiling, remembering how great that kissed felt.  Thank goodness my boys were there because their presence forced me to prevent from acting slightly retarded.  I could feel my knees give way when she kissed me.  My heart rate sped.  I was light headed and I started feeling warm all over my body.  I’d never felt anything like that before, and didn’t feel comfortable talking about my feelings.  My mother always wanted to know how we felt, so I switched the conversation to Jasmine and the goofy nerd that she had a crush on.  Jasmine gave me the evil eye, but I didn’t care.  At least they weren’t drilling me. 

A few minutes later the food came, and Jasmine and I both kept food in our mouths because our mother hated for us to talk with our mouths full.  The foot tasted like home cooking.  It wasn’t southern, slap your momma because it’s so good, but it definitely hit the spot.  But it still wasn’t as good as the memories I rehashed of Leslie.

Throughout the meal and even when my father paid for the check, I couldn’t get Leslie out of my mind.  Ever since my mother brought up our kiss, I replayed Leslie putting her soft lips on mine over and over again in my mind to the point that I could barely see what was right in front of me when we exited the restaurant. 

            “What is wrong with you boy?” my mother said, as I nearly ran into a Beagle. The dog barked and continued barking even though its owner pulled it away, and I felt as if I’d just been cussed out – doggie style. 

            But even a dog’s disgust couldn’t penetrate my jovial spirit.  I could still smell the lotion on Leslie’s skin.  She smelt like coco butter and something from Bath and Body Works.  Unfortunately, my sister and I shared a bathroom, so I’m quite familiar with female products.  A little too familiar if you ask me.  But in our new place we’d have separate bathrooms, so my exposure would be limited. 

            I’ll miss her, I thought with the picture of Leslie’s face in my mind.

Leslie wore a long French braid down the length of her back.  She had eyes as deep brown as her skin and a smile that made my stomach feel queasy.  She was the only person that I could just sit with and talk to without outside influences like X-Box Live or television.  She made me laugh even when her jokes weren’t really that funny.  Just watching her snort and cackled made me bust a gut.

            In fact, the thought of her made me want to puke.  I started aching so bad that my stomach felt as if it would explode, but when I let loose I realized that it was actually the greasy French fries.  “I’ll miss you,” I said to myself just as this African princess caught my eye.  She filled out her blue skinny jeans, and her pink PINK shirt was cute too.  She looked as if she was from West Africa.  Yes, like a Liberian girl.

            “Take a picture.  It’ll last longer,” Jasmine said.

            “Get some business and stay out of mine,” I replied. 

            We walked down the brick sidewalk to our car, and I turned around, and I caught Miss African princess looking back at me before she whipped her head to the sky, and I smiled.  I need to find out her name, I thought as we stepped into my father’s Chrysler 300.  Oh, yeah, we gets down like that.

            Before my father could even pull out of the space, Jasmine said, “Remember, I get to pick the movie, daddy.”