The writing prompt for today was "disclose a mortifying experience."
Living with me is difficult enough. You might say I am a challenge.
When asking Herman if I've ever done anything mortifying, he thought it would be better to list the times I've not been mortifying. That would take a shorter amount of time, he said.
C'mon, I said, it can't be that bad.
Well, he said, it started right after the wedding almost thirty years ago. As the only daughter and oldest child, my wedding had many of the same elements of today's Royal Wedding, well, except for the fact that we were hicks living in Indiana.
We had the Queen, my grandmother LeNore who always wore purple and large hats, and thought she was of noble birth from the Royal Estate of Tunker, Indiana. We had the various insundry oddball relatives who acted like idiots at the reception (today when Prince Harry stands on a chair and sings Hail Purdue you will know what I mean.)
We were carpooling from the "Day-After Wedding Brunch" to Louisville with two carloads of friends.
The Day After Wedding Brunch was an event we concocted for my grandmother so she could invite all her snooty friends to an event related to the Wedding Weekend ( we drew the line at FOG's -- friends of grandparents -- at the actual church as space was limited.)
The entire wedding party showed for the Day After brunch at a nice restaurant, mostly because it was free food. Most of them were fairly hung over, and trying to piece together what happened the previous night. Herman and I were not among the hung-over group as we had decided to stay sober for our wedding, except for my tea-totaller father and a handful of others, I think we were the only ones. (We won't discuss the large batch of homemade sangria we made arriving back in Florida, right before the Maid of Honor and her new husband arrived. I passed out before they arrived, but not in time for the bug-man to have me sing to him.)
That morning I was uncomfortable as I had forgotten to take a regular bra with me to the hotel on our wedding night. So I was stuck at the brunch in my uplift wedding dress bra, a metal structure that rivaled the struts of the Brooklyn Bridge in scope and structure. God, it was uncomfortable with my tasteful Day After Wedding suit. The Princess of Tunker should not have to suffer in such a way.
About two hours into the drive to Louisville I decided to take it off. Yes, I said TAKE IT OFF. No problem, okay.
But then I decided that I should hang it out the window and share its beauty with the occupants of the other two carloads of our friends. This is the part where the young Prince Consort (that would be Herman) was questioning WHY WHY WHY did I marry her, as he almost drove Queen LeNore's 1983 Oldsmobile 98 off the road. The 98 was the Royal Carriage in which we were driving back to our home in Florida, Queen LeNore was flying.
I took off the infernal boob holster. That thing flipped and blew in the breeze like the unfurling of the large flag over Fort McHenry. While it was a little later than the Dawn's Early Light, THE FLAG WAS STILL THERE.
What can I say? If you have a spectacular rack, you have a spectacular rack. So I'm not in the IBTC (Itty Bitty Titty Committee) and never will be.
That is horrifying mortifying story number 1. And for now, that's the only one I can share or I would have to kill you. There is a story about me at the French Quarter louding singing Black Betty with the band. We won't go there. Life is difficult enough for Herman.