Happy Wednesday, pals!
Welcome to the very first installment of the Oversharing: I Ain’t Scarrrred series! One of my very favorite writers agreed to Overshare a story with you to kick things off! How excited are you right now?! If you’re like me, you’re jumping up and down, mostly because that second cup of coffee really has you doing the potty dance, and because you, too, LOVE the brilliant Paaaaaaaaaige Kellermaaaaaaannnnnn (if you haven’t yelled that like Oprah, please go back and right your wrong. We’ll wait.)!!!
The Window Peeper
Before I jump right into my story, I’d like to make two things extremely clear.
First, Stephanie is kind and generous for letting me guest post, as there’s a seventy-three percent chance I might scare off all her readers. Thank you, Stephanie. Your heart is as big as that expensive hobo bag I dream about on and off. Secondly, this post was composed to a soundtrack of Rusted Root. That’s the folksy vibe you can’t quite place radiating off the screen.
Kinda makes you wanna dance, doesn’t it? Well, don’t. I’m about to tell a story.
Right, so, normally I don’t talk about things that embarrass me because humor writers are notoriously serious. That, and I blog, so I’m also obviously a very private person. But, let’s make an exception and make a statement.
I love looking at myself in the mirror.
I do. If there’s a reflective surface, I’m checking myself out. Admittedly, it’s really just to see if my greasy ponytail is still in place, but, in the days of yesteryear, I used to constantly do hair, makeup, crazy eyebrow checks. I peaked at twenty-one. My eyebrows will never be as smooth. But, the checks, the checks have stayed with me.
Have you heard the one about the mother who went to church? It’s hilarious. This mother, see, she only had five minutes to go see the Lord, so she pulled on a clean outfit, no makeup, and a brand new scent called, “The Baby Puked on Me Like Eight Times.”
(I think Viktor & Rolf released it right after Flower Bomb.)
So this mother (is me, but I’m not trying to ruin the joke) gets out of the van, and before she grabs the baby seat out of the back, she uses the driver’s side window of another car to open up her beady little eyes, stare grotesquely through the glass, and slick her ratty ponytail back in place.
Hair-free mole, check. Blood-shot eye, check. Eyes that may or may not be lidless due to lack of eyeshadow or mascara, check. All checks checked.
“You do realize someone’s sitting in that driver’s seat, right?”
My husband tends to ruin any delusions of grandeur I have. Here I am, trying to shake off humility like a hot sweat jacket, and he’s always there helping me slip right back into it, one pilled arm at a time.
I blanched. “There was?”
He nodded, grabbed the twins and turned towards the church.
I couldn’t look back at that car. Whoever was in there now knew how many broken hairs were on my hairline and how much eyeliner I didn’t have on my lash line. So, I did what any normal person would; I grabbed the baby and ran towards Jesus.
He, at least, knows I’m a freak. I didn’t have time to stick around and explain that to someone else.
Paige Kellerman is a writer/humorist whose hypochondria is exceeded only by her ability to change diapers. You can find her hiding out on her blog, There’s More Where That Came From, or crafting profoundly confusing one-liners on Facebook and Twitter.