Cringe Worthy

I'm the type of girl that makes odd comments during the dramatic moments of movies. Like when Matthew Macfadyen (aka Mr Darcy) walks across the mist cloaked plain with his coat billowing, I said, “Yeah...every guy needs one of those,” loud enough for the whole theater to hear. 

I'm the girl who thinks it's appropriate to say random crap in front of complete strangers. I've announced that, “unlike half the other girls, I'm not nursing,” in front of fifty people. Things sound so much better in my head.

I'm the girl who does embarrassing things in front of strangers. Once, I leaned too hard on a shopping cart handle, popped a massive wheelie, and ended up making a mad dash after a runaway cart in front of everyone waiting to check out. (Meh, the bread only got squished a little.)

It's all really great fodder for a writer like me, right? However, there is one horribly, embarrassing, terribly awful moment that's too bizarre to use. I may as well share it with you.

* * *

He was adorable, spunky and cute with a stocky build, quick grin, and dark brown eyes. Plus he was a Yell Leader. You know, the dude on the college cheerleading team who tosses the skinny-minnie girls around like rag dolls. (I may have been smitten by those girl-tossing biceps...maybe.)

I arrived early to class and chose a seat between my girl friend (on the left) and Mr Muscles (on the right). My friend was busy chatting with someone else, so I put my notes and multicolored pens in order and doodled until the professor's arrival.

So, there I was in my built-for-a-righty desk when my purple pen slipped out of my hand and landed between the aforementioned Yell Leader's feet. Dashing knights are meant to come to a lady's aid in moments of duress, right? I gave him a half-smile, just to be sure he would play his part. He was deep in conversation and made note of neither me nor the pen. There was nothing to do but take matters into my own hands. 

It was simply a matter of leaning sideways and reaching far enough to lay a finger on the purple pen. The plan was sound, eloquent, uncomplicated. 

Except I couldn't quite reach the pen. I tried again.

I reached a bit too far. All my weight was thrown onto the bar--you know, the one that attaches the chair to the desk. Quicker than you can say, "Sarah is a big, dumb, idiot," I lost contact with the carpet. Feet flailing, if I'd been in petticoats you'd have seen my granny panties airborne. I would have landed on the floor, desk and all, if something hadn't broken my fall. I looked up. A pair of dark brown eyes glared back. 

Meanwhile, my friend was on the other side, frantically trying to pull me upright. The desk and I remained firmly stuck in the Yell Leader's lap. I hazarded another look. Nope. He was not pleased. Luckily, he put that rage (and those muscles) to good use and popped me back up.

A southern belle would have made good use of such a moment. One hand on her brow and a drawled “My hero,” would have set everything right. (Given my overacting tendencies, everyone would have laughed it off.) Likewise, if he had been the romantic lead a girl dreams about, our little interlude might have been the beginning of something wonderful. “When we're seventy, I'll tell our great-grandchildren that this is when I fell in love.” He might have said that. But he didn't. 

Before I could say anything clever or sink into the ground like I wanted to, Mr Muscles saved me the trouble. “Next time,” he said coldly, “just ask.” The lesson was clear, ladies, nice boys are only flattered when you fall for them, not on them.  

* * * 

My advice, ladies and gentlemen? Keep record of your mortifying moments for posterity. Or whoever reads your blog. Or in case you need to humiliate a character. Good luck!

Like to read a bit more about my ridiculous life? Try Adventures in Kindergarten, I'm Too Old For..., Panic City, Population: One, My Boyfriend, The BBC, or Geek Chic on for size! Thanks for stopping by, and as always, Happy reading!

Southern Belles: Words of Wisdom & Other Shenanigans

A writer should first be a reader.

There is nothing that makes my eye twitch more than someone claiming to be penning an epic, world-altering, cutting-edge series that's sure to fly off the shelves as soon as it's released, who says, "But, I really don't like reading."

The kindergarten teacher emerges as strongly as the writer in these instances. The poor oaf--who is after all only trying to share something original with humanity--is completely unaware that he's just committed the ultimate blunder. Until I fix him with the Teacher Look, that is.  

I've been informed by five-year-old that I have "scary eyes" (let's set aside the fact that these are the naughty, fidgety, and overly Chatty Patty type of kindergartners).  Perhaps you recall it from your days in grade school.  It's the combination of a raised eyebrow, the ever-so-slight squinting of the eyes, and the barest hint of a scowl. The whole expression reads, Really?

With adults, I do my best to stow away the Teacher Look (also known as the Mother, Father, or Evil Stepmother Look) as quickly as possible.  However, there are times when my ten+ years in education take over and transform the dimpled smile of politeness and good humor into something genuinely alarming.

Instead of unduly freaking out my fellow writers, the next time one of them claims membership in the Non-Reader League, I'm going to respond:

How do you know what people will want to read?

and furthermore:

What will be your inspiration?

No matter what, there will still be those blessed souls who pour their hearts into crafting stories they expect others to pick up, while refusing to lift someone else's off the shelf.  But I, for one, refuse to be numbered in their ranks.  My writing suffers when I don't engage with other's creative works and it becomes better, stronger, and clearer when I do so regularly.  

Luckily, in today's world of recorded books, actual reading isn't required.  That's exactly how I first became acquainted with the Sweet Potato Queens.  A sassy bunch of mid-lifers from the South, the Queens bring a whole new definition to the phrase Southern Belle.  Buried between side-splitters like: 

If you have that many cats, I don't know how you found a groom.  And if he knows about 'em and he's marrying you anyway, he has got to be gay.

Let's just say that's a rule from now on: Guys in necklaces and/or wife-beaters or tank tops do not get any.

are genuine Words of Wisdom.  Consider the gem at the beginning of this post.  Is there any situation in which is isn't applicable?  From men to microwave dinners, if it's a dud, there's another one on the market.  No need to deal with soggy personalities or Salisbury Steak, simply dispose of the unsatisfactory product and make a new selection.

I thank the Sweet Potato Queens for making me laugh, think, and aspire to be a better writer.  I leave you with The Best Advice Ever Given in the History of the Whole World:

Warning!  The Sweet Potato Queens are a wise, witty, and spirited bunch.  Jill Conner Browne's books are full of things your mother, my mother, and probably hers would blush over.  Proceed with caution and don't say I didn't warn you. Find out more about Jill, her books, and all the Tammies at SweetPotatoQueens.com