The Gap Incident

This week, I’ve been thinking a lot about the fact that it’s been exactly one year since The September Sisters sold and since my grandfather died. (You can read my post about that week here.) And it’s fitting that I’ve also been trying to think of my most embarrassing moments at the same time, because I’d have to say the majority of my childhood embarrassments occurred in the presence of my grandfather.

My grandfather was the kind of person who did and said what he wanted, and didn’t ever worry about what other people thought of him. As he got older, people seemed to think it amusing, that he was just an eccentric old man, but according to my mom, he was always that way.

Growing up, I didn’t see my grandparents too much. They lived six hours away, so we only saw them a few times a year. Though these were some of my favorite times, I was also always a little leary of going out with my grandfather in public. Especially shopping. He enjoyed chatting animatedly with the salespeople and trying to talk his way into a discount or a free something or other (which he usually did) – something which I found to be utterly embarrassing as a child and teenager. My most embarrassing store memory with him is something that my sister and I now jokingly refer to only as “The Gap Incident.”

When I was 13 and she was 10, my grandfather insisted on taking my sister and me to The Gap so he could buy us something. We picked out a few things to try on, but the store was really crowded that day, and there was a line for the dressing room. So as my sister and I got in line, what did my grandfather do? He located the store manager, and asked the guy if my sister and I could try on our clothes in the stockroom instead. Then, after some persuasion, he actually got the manager to say yes! Neither my sister nor I can remember exactly what happened next, whether we actually tried on the clothes or ran from the store red-faced, probably because we blocked it out. But we do remember that it was years before we felt comfortable walking back into that store.

Flash forward 10 years, when my grandparents came to Arizona to visit me and my husband. The hotel my grandparents were supposed to stay at didn’t have their room ready on time, so they offered to give my grandparents a free meal at their restaurant. My grandfather decided that a free meal for them, really meant for all four of us, and really meant anything and everything that the restaurant had to offer, so he insisted that we all order multiple things off the menu and appetizers and desserts and drinks, until the bill was close to $300 and we had enough food for about 20 people in front of us. The bill was so enormous, that the restaurant couldn’t even figure out how to comp. it, so they had to call in the hotel manager. But in the end, my grandfather got them to give him all the food for free. Have my husband and I ever gone back to that restaurant? Nope.

There were other things too – my grandfather was always singing, even at oddly inappropriate times and in public. And forget going out to eat any time near your birthday -- he’d always want to get the waiters to sing (and bring free cake) even if your birthday wasn’t for six more weeks. There’s a spot in my wedding video when he doesn’t realize there’s a camera in front of him, and as my grandmother is giving her good wishes, he starts clapping, dancing, and singing right into the camera (which he clearly doesn’t notice). I love that that moment is there, because it captures everything about him, so perfectly.

Though I would absolutely never make my kids (or grandkids someday) change in a stockroom at The Gap – there was something to be said for my grandfather’s philosophy – this uncanny ability he had not to care what anybody else thought about him, to try to get away with things because they were fun, because he enjoyed it. I can’t tell you, as a kid, how many times I begged my grandfather not to embarrass me as he was about to do something utterly embarrassing. His response always was. “There’s no reason to be embarrassed.” And looking back now, I wish I could’ve taken just a little bit of that embarrassment back and spent more time enjoying what a completely unique person he was.

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!

Red-Faced Moments!

Everyone has an embarrassing story or two (or three) to share, and I'm no different. When contemplating this post, however, I realized that some of my moments (the ones that still make my cheeks turn pink to this day) are not ones I can really share here. Get me cornered and buy me a drink or two, though, and I'll spill all.

So, since I'm not cornered and have only consumed vast amounts of coffee today, I'll go with one of my, shall we say "appropriate" embarrassing moments.

This happened when I was a very new mother. My daughter was only a few weeks old. It was cold out...very cold, actually, and I was feeling a little too housebound. I decided to brave the cold, and the scariness of the unpredictable nature of my infant daughter, to escape the house and go to the mall.

Yes. The mall.

Remember, it was cold, so the park or any other outside activity was not an option. My mother-in-law phoned right before I left and I told her my plans. She did not think it was a good idea. She offered to come get me and my daughter and take us to the mall. Because I was stubborn (okay, I'm still stubborn), I refused her offer, and headed out with my little one all on my own.

Everything was fine. Really. We walked through the mall and I picked up a few odds and ends, a few books to read, and after a couple of hours I was more than ready to head back home. So here I was feeling all powerful because I'd done it! I'd taken this little baby out into the world and we'd survived!

I push the stroller to my car, settled my daughter into her carseat, and then locked the car door and shut her in...nice and tight. Walked around to my side to get in...and, as you've probably guessed by now...realized I'd locked my keys inside the car with my precious infant daughter. I could see them, taunting me, sitting right next to her.

This was before cell phones were common, and I didn't have one. It was cold out. I couldn't leave my daughter inside the car to go call for help. So I stood there, hoping someone would walk by that I could beg for help from. This is a good place to mention that at the time, I lived in a very, very small town and the "mall" was not one of those booming huge places filled with people seven days a week. No, this mall had a total of 10 stores in it. Maybe. I'm not making this up. Basically, it was a weekday morning and barely anyone was there.

So I stood there and worried, looking around the lot like a crazy person, when who should I see? My mother-in-law. Yep. I called her over, and the look she gave me...well, I'm sure you can imagine it. That I-know-better-than-you-so-why-didn't-you-listen-to-me type of look. Not that I cared THEN, all I wanted was to get into my car and take my daughter home. With my mother-in-law's help (she called the police to come jimmy the door open), I did...and we were all fine and safe.

But I listened to this story being told for years after it happened. How if I'd "just listened to her in the first place, it wouldn't have happened." I've suffered more than my fair share of embarrassment over this story! Of course, you can be sure I've never locked my keys in my car again.

Though, I'll admit my daughter (now a teenager) finds the telling of this moment absolutely hysterical...