As I was flipping through the Restricted Section of my mental library this week and pondering which juicy tidbit I should share with you all on LiLu's TMI Thursday, I realized that many of my stories fall into three categories:
Crazy things I've done while drunk
Amusing vomit stories
Dirty, dirty sex tales
I've already talked about the first two, and I told a story about gettin' jiggy wit' it last week, so I need to mix it up today if I want to keep things fresh, am I right?
Today I will tell you a tale from my childhood, and you will like it, goddamn it.
Today's tale: In which I scar my ass for life.
I was maybe 6 years old, and it was summer in Vermont. My grandmother and her friend Lilah were visiting from New Jersey, and I was all juiced up on excitement and Freeze Pops. My father owned a furniture company, and for some reason he had rented a U-Haul for the day; I suppose his delivery truck was otherwise occupied. He and his workmen were loading heavy furniture up into the truck via a big wooden ramp.
For some reason that now escapes my logical adult mind, I saw the wooden ramp and decided it looked like a... GULP... slide. While the men were inside getting another helping of back pain I crawled up the ramp and yelled out to Grandma and Lilah, "Hey! Watch this!"
I sat my previously-unblemished six-year-old ass down on the wooden ramp and slid.
Does that not just make you CRINGE to your very CORE?! Good lord!
As the 4" long wooden splinter embedded itself firmly into my right butt cheek, I proceeded to scream like a banshee. My grandmother came running to my aid, but there was clearly not much to be done right then and there.
Thus it came to pass that two white-haired little old ladies in their late seventies each took hold of one of my arms and together hauled a screaming, crying child half a mile down the street to our house.
Once at the house, my mother sent me to lie face down on her bed and arrived moments later armed with a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a pair of tweezers. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, closing her eyes for just a moment, before saying words that I'll never forget, "Well, Pookus (shut up), this is gonna hurt."
She wasn't lying. It did hurt, and if I had known swear words I'm sure I would have used them and no one would have blamed me for doing so. I cried and shrieked and she muttered and prayed until she had plucked every bit of wood from my little bum, cleaned the wound, and sent me whimpering away.
I don't remember what the scar looked like for many years; kids honestly don't think about stuff like that, and how often do you examine your own rear end? I do remember as a tween that the mark was still there, and was still slightly purplish and hard. Eventually the color faded and just left a thumb-sized indentation, which remains to this day.
And that, my friends, is how I ruined my chance of becoming a thong model. If it weren't for that one little mark.... Ooh, curses!