We all have them. Yeah, I know . . . some of us are smarter and don’t post them on the Internet so everyone and their gerbil can read about them. But that’s the problem with being a writer. We have this compulsive need to tell and share our stories. And as you may have noted over the past weeks by reading my blogs, I don’t always paint myself in the best light in these posts. Nope, I write about the cold, hard truth and sometimes (as my grandpa would say) “The doggone truth ain’t always purty.”
It’s not just me. All the Divas here at Killer Fiction have shared some . . . let’s call it personal insight about themselves . . . things that a normal non-writer might have felt obliged to keep to herself. But not so with your average author—if we live it, if it makes us feel, think, if it tickled our funny bones, ticked us off, or bored us silly, we must . . . MUST share said experience with the world.
So, I was thinking about what personal incident I wanted to share with you this week. Okay, it’s not like last week’s elephant story wasn’t humiliating enough, but hey…there are plenty more where that came from.
And the one that popped into my mind? The time I was on the way to the hospital to give birth to my son. Hubby and daughter hadn’t had lunch so hubby got this fine idea to pull over at a Burger King drive thru. (In case you haven’t noticed by now, Hubby’s fine ideas don’t always work out.) Luck would have it that as the exact moment the nose-pierced teenager peered at us through the window, I had the sudden urge to push. Now, I don’t know how many of you have had a baby, but let me tell you, when you push, there’s also this overwhelming need to . . . scream. Not those nice sweet ladylike screams either. I mean, it sounds like something from the prehistoric ages giving Mother Nature a come to Jesus talk.
Needless to say, all my efforts (the scream and the push) didn’t go unrewarded. Because that’s when my water broke. Or a better description would be . . . when my water burst. Beneath the ear piercing sound of my own scream, I heard the nose-pierced window attendant say over the loud speaker, “Well, hells bells, I’ll be dadburn it if she ain’t having a baby.” (Hey, I was in
Anyway, when I looked up, a complete 20-second contraction later, I saw a human pyramid, ten to fifteen bodies stacked on top of each other, stuffed into a space that only could fit two or three normal-sized nose-pierced attendants, all eyes and nose jewelry winking at me from behind the glass window of the drive thru.
My sweet, dear husband, knowing I was awfully embarrassed immediately took control. He reached for my hand and cleared his throat. Then in a very calm voice he inquired if they could put a rush on those whoppers and then (this is when things went downhill) he commenced to add a couple of milk shakes to the order, asked if they could leave off the onions, and then looking at the wet seat, politely requested a couple of extra napkins.
Are you at all surprised that less than a year later, I sent my dear, sweet husband in for a vasectomy—no pain meds required.
Anyway, I’m going to skip the vasectomy portion of this story and save myself the embarrassment until the next blog. Meanwhile, here’s what I like for all you to do. Step up to the plate, pretend you’re a writer, or maybe you are a writer, either way, I want you to share some of your embarrassing moments. (Who knows, they might even show up in one of our books.)
It simply isn’t fair for the Killer Fiction Divas to have all the fun.
And remember the contest, guys. I’m so jealous I can’t win Kathy’s prize that I could scream. Of course, it would be much more of a ladylike scream than the one I gave the Burger King employees.
Crime Scene Christie