Tampon Bullet, Direct Hit
(An accounting of humiliations in no particular order)
Remember that time
when I ran outside to
catch the garbage truck as it
rumbled up the street and I realize
too late (of course)
that my nightie is tucked up
in the waistband of my big, white, granny panties?
I might not have realized at all,
but for the look on the garbage man's face
(surprise!)
and the sudden odd sensation
of cold air on my
backside as I drag the can
to the curb.
And then there was the time
I left my vibrator on the bathroom counter
(whoops)
and find my kid playing
with the buttons
fascinated:
Mom! It's a robot!
A neon pink robot
longer than it is wide
but otherwise not anatomically correct
thank heavens.
It's a back massager, I say.
A back massager FOR ADULTS ONLY!
And at his insistence,
demonstrate how I might reach up
over my shoulder
press the buzzing tip
to a sore muscle
like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Oh, now, who could forget the time
that a good-looking young fellow
shouted Hello!
over the rumble of the vacuum cleaner
at the Bright & Shiny Self Service Car Wash
and I pop up so fast that I
hit my head on the open trunk
OW
the vacuum cleaner begins to eat my shirt
and I hop around like a half-naked mad woman
OW OW OW OW
while he waits
to ask if I can break his $5 bill.
No change! I finally gasp,
my shirt still jammed halfway
up the tube.
And everyone likes to re-tell
that time I got so worked up
in the crowded restaurant
about the incorrect usage of the word
vagina.
(You can't SEE your vagina, it's
inside of you, after all;
Britney Spears did not
"flash her vagina"
but her vulva
and yes, there is a distinction,
words have specific meanings, you know!)
The whole table hushes me,
eyes rolling,
laughing in spite of themselves, embarrassed
at the comic prospect that I might
alarm the other diners
who are, I confess, looking our way
every time I shouted: but that's NOT
the vagina!
Which is, when you think of it,
a strange soundtrack to
baked goat cheese on crostini
and salmon filet
and garlic roasted nugget potatoes.
I blame the bellinis.
(But it doesn't the change the fact that I am,
after all, correct.)
Or that time in junior high
(a bastion of humiliations)
when I hide "feminine products" up my sleeve
to travel incognito
from locker to washroom.
Heading down the stairs, I spot
that cute guy from shop class
at the bottom, heading
in my direction
Oh, I think,
here's my chance! Don't
blow it, just say
hi, like a normal person.
I raise my arm to wave and
shout Hello!
and the cardboard tube
shoots out from my sleeve
through the air
slow motion
and bounces off his chest.
Tampon bullet, direct hit.
Or the time, just a few weeks back,
at the mobile phone shop
in the mall:
Can I just see the new model?
I want to compare it the one I have now,
which seems, to me, too small.
Gripping the phone,
I ponder its weight
hoist it up and down,
rapid fire,
chest level, like shaking a bottle of salad dressing,
and then announce:
Oh yes, much better.
I like something big
in my hand, you know?
The kid behind the counter
(23 years old at best)
stares, mouth open, frozen
as I realize
too late (of course)
what I've done.
I imagine him tweeting about it later:
Worst day ever,
a crazy woman
gave one of the phones
a handjob. OMG. Time to quit.
