Is MORTIFICATION a Word?

There is a rule for blogging. It isn't a widely known rule, its more like one I made up myself. In some ways its my Mission Statement for my blog. Here it is:

The Stretch Marks blog will be dedicated to real life. Yada, yada, yada and blah, blah, blah. But it will primarily focus on the pain and embarrassment of others. Let it be known that if I know you, your predicament is my amusement.

See? Its easy.

The only problem with a Mission Statement like this is that it lends itself to people hating me. Or people not wanting to get too close to me. Or people avoiding me altogether. But I've always been a loner so to each his own. Pointing out the pains of those closest to me is something I find endearing in my personality. Its kind of like the way I snort when I start laughing really hard. Or the way my fingers dig into your side until you bleed when I try to tickle someone. See? I'm endearing.

But today, my lovelies, I have chosen to turn over a new leaf. Today I will share a tale with you that, well, happened to me. Today I share with you - my pain.

It is what we in the literary world call "a bloggable moment." I didn't personally refer to this story as a bloggable moment, that would have been my mom, who after hearing the story wiped the tears from her eyes and said, "oh yeah...this is going on the blog. This is what obnoxious people like you call a 'bloggable moment.' "

If you were to come out to our compound on any given day you would meet Mr. Patrick. Mr. Patrick has worked out here "the hill" for many years now. He is a little bit of a Renaissance Man. If it needs mowing or moving or painting or plumbing, if it needs to be hauled or built or burnt or chopped, if someone needs something pushed, pulled, plowed or picked up - he's your man.

He hung up the Christmas lights on my house. And then he took them down. It was the only time all season that I saw The AG wipe tears from his eyes. We love Mr. Patrick.

But unfortunately Mr. Patrick will never be the same.

As I do every morning of my natural life I got up, took a shower and proceeded to style my hair as if God were coming back and I needed to look the part. I don't believe one can have a fair shake at a day if they're hair isn't in top form. But I digress...

So on this particular morning, like most mornings, I am standing in the bathroom drying my hair when Remi comes to the door and begins wailing about something I can make no sense of. I hear things like "SCHOOL" and "DOOR" and "ROCCO" and I think I heard something like "SCURVY" but I had the blow dryer in my ear so I can't be sure. But as usual, I replied with a "Remi, I'll be done in just a minute - go play."

And as usual, she doesn't go far. Instead, her and Rocco begin to fight over something just outside my bathroom door. Or at least I think they're fighting. They are both standing there. And there bodies are in motion. So I'm assuming they are fighting over something. So I lean out to tell them to "STOP! I'LL BE DONE IN A MINUTE!" When I see what it is they are fighting over.

Mr. Patrick has come into the house. He has a question to ask and Remi assured him it would be just fine to go see momma blow drying her hair.

And here is the part where I forgot to mention: Every day of my life I blow dry my hair.......................................................................................naked.

Naked. Okay? There. I said it. Naked. I'll say it again. Naked.

I can't help it. I get really really hot and the lights in there are scorching down on me. And the dryer only adds to the hotness. And whenever I sweat my make-up off it just makes me so mad. And plus I live in East Texas and so even the coldest day is pretty hot. And you know what? I don't have to explain myself. I don't. I have every right to blow dry naked. Every right. Naked. Naked. Blow dry naked.

I am not ashamed.

So there I was. In all my glory. When I leaned out of the bathroom door to check on my kids and saw Mr. Patrick face to face. Well, it wasn't so much face to face as it was face to Laverne and Shirley.

"Laverne, Shirley, this is Mr. Patrick. Mr. Patrick, meet Laverne and Shirley. I would wave but I don't find it necessary." (I didn't actually say this, mind you, I only imagined I did. Actually what I did was scream like Jamie Lee Curtis ala Halloween 1.)

To make matters worse - it that's even possible - is that my daughter found this whole exchange to be one of the most joyful moments of her short existance. Suddenly, it was as if she were 16 years old and knew exactly what had happened, she literally doubled over laughing and continued repeating "...oobies, oobies. Mr. Patrick and your oobies." And so I responded to her as if she was 16 by stating, "Remi Hope, I'm fixing to ball up my fist and punch you in the nose if you don't hush." But she couldn't - she was a goner. And after I swallowed a good heavy chunk of my pride I laughed too. Becuase in all honesty it was just like something I would have - and probably have - done to my mother.

The saddest part to this whole thing is that moments later Mr. Patrick lost his sight.

He also lost the ability to ever look at another woman the same way again. I mean honestly, who can measure up?

My family was all abuzz at this story. Not because I told them - I didn't. But because my mother called each one of them and told them, in detail, about my pain. She's kind like that. They are all hoping Mr. Patrick doesn't quit out of pure shock. (Shock and AWE more like it!) The Attorney General didn't find it one bit funny, however.

I asked him, "Aren't you the least bit mad that a grown man walked into our house because a three year old told him it was fine?"
To which he replied, "No. I'm just worried that there's a good chance he'll be asking for a significant raise. For both you and him."


Why do I stay with these people?