I can feel my toes curling all over again!

First off, I want to thank my wonderful, witty and intelligent literary agent, Holly Root, for taking time out of her crazy-busy day to visit us here at The Novel Girls! Thank you, Holly!

This week's topic should come easy to me. Not a week goes by that I don't embarrass myself. Really, it happens all the time. The foot goes in my mouth so often I have become as limber as a teenager. But I can't share all my horror stories, nor would I want to, so I've been searching my repertoire of killer toe-curlers for your on-line amusement. Here's a good 'un.

When my oldest son was seven or so, he joined his first machine-pitch baseball team. After the first practice, his coach came up to inform me that Michael would be catcher in the first game and that I should get him a cup.
"A cup?" I asked, just as he was turning away.
"Yeah," he said, and then darted his eyes away from mine.
"Oh, sure, no problem." I thought about his request for a moment and realized I had no idea what he was talking about. As he was walking away I called his name. "Excuse me. Coach Jim?"
He turned around with an eager first-day-on-the-job smile.
"You said Michael needs a cup," my face, puzzled.
"Yeah."
"A cup?" I asked again.
"That's right." His once smiling face was now expressionless.
"Is there a certain size or color up that all the boys use or will any old cup do?" I asked, oh so naively.
After Coach Jim's eyes bulged out as far as humanly possible, he gazed at me for a moment before saying, "You know . . . a cup." At that he cupped his hand.
No I didn't know. I had no earthly idea what kind of cup he was talking about. Keep in mind, I grew up in a family of four girls and had gone to an all-girls school for thirteen years. Dixie cups were the only cups introduced into our home.
Poor Coach Jim. The dude had no way out of this one. "It's a, it's a, (now he's waving his cupped hand in front of his crotch) It's a, you know, an athletic supporter!"
"Ohhhhh," I said and hit my forehead. "Of course. A cup!"
For a brief moment we both stood and stared at each other until the embarrassment was too much to take.
"Well, see you Saturday!" I managed a shy wave before scurrying back to my car.

Oh the joy, that comes with raising little boys. Here's one more quickie. And this one's worse.

I have no idea whatever possessed me to do this, but many years ago I fibbed about my youngest son's age so he could get into a local attraction for free. He had just turned six two weeks earlier and the cut-off age for free admission into The Hermitage was five. When the lady behind the ticket counter asked me how old he was, I - for some unknown, highly regrettable reason - said, "Five."

Will immediately screamed (for all of the thirty people in line AND the ticket lady to hear) "I - AM - NOT - FIVE! I'M SIX. YOU TELL HER RIGHT NOW THAT I AM SIX." Big ole crocodile tears streamed down his face.

Try to imagine yourself in that moment. First of all, I never do things like that. I'm standing there, nabbed, for the whole world to view as a big fat liar! All of that embarrassment just to save a measly $5.00.

Oh well, if nothing else, it makes for something fun to write about!! See you next week!