Category Archives: AwkWORD (Humor)

A Real Slice

I am about to reveal what is easily one of the most mortifying moments of my adult life (we don’t have time to go into moments of my childhood.  That would take pages, books, endless inches of text).

I was living in my parents home during my sophomore year of college.  Scratch that.  I was living in my parents home precisely because I had just dropped out of my sophomore year of college (right now, in bewilderment, some of you are clicking on the “About Abby” tab to make sure you’re reading about the right Abby…but again, we don’t have the time for that adventure).  One of my best friends was visiting and we were prepping for a night on the town, and we were running late.  Impossibly late.  Get your shoes on your feet and MOVE kind of late.

Of course I hadn’t even showered yet, so I certainly wasn’t ready for shoes.  My friend sternly told me I had exactly two minutes to shower and get dressed or she would walk out the door without me.

“Not a problem,” I said breezily.  “I’m not one of those people who needs twenty minutes in the shower.”

I hopped into the shower while she paced outside the door, applying and reapplying her lip gloss.  I shampooed madly, scrubbed myself clean and was about to exit the shower and do the I-told-you-so dance to my friend when I realized what I would be wearing that night.  A skirt.  And a skirt only means one thing: the shaving of legs.  UGH.

This was going to take FOREVER and we were going to hit traffic and I just didn’t have time and I hate doing it.  But I had to; there is nothing good to say about female legs that haven’t seen a razor in several days.

It’s moments like these when I wonder how much time I would have saved by just doing it, rather than having a Hannity and Colmes-like debate with myself on the time it takes to shave versus the benefit of shaving.

So I grabbed the only razor in the shower, one that looks like the kind hotels provide for free:  orange and white, a single pathetic blade, no sign at all that it will grace my legs smoothly.  At least, being in the wrapper, it had never been used (thanks Mom!).

Naturally there wasn’t any shaving cream, just a bar of Dove and my hands to create the lather.  I started shaving as fast as possible, working that soap and blade like they were born for each other.  In order to keep my legs out of the stream of water from the shower head, I faced away from the faucet and put my leg on the side of the tub.  I slid the razor up my lathered leg, then held the razor behind my back to rinse it before the next swipe.  Things were going brilliantly — I was making good time.

All of a sudden, as I whipped my razor from my leg to behind my back, I felt a stab of stinging pain run up my backside.  “What in the world?” I thought.  Did something just BITE me?

I quickly stood up and strained to twist myself so I could see my back, and just as I turned my head I saw gushes of blood running down my leg.

I sliced my butt with the razor.

A huge, unbelievable four-inch gash was stamped across my butt cheek.  I was in shock, staring at the most grotesque example of poor skill ever exhibited in the shower.

I grabbed my cheek with one hand and tried to reach for a towel but I couldn’t go anywhere without blood dripping down my leg.  I couldn’t turn off the faucet, dry myself, and continually hold my butt cheek all at the same time.  They don’t teach this in Home Ec.

I had no choice.  What else could I do?  I had to call for backup.

In a state of sheer humiliation that I knew could only worsen, I yelled for my friend to get herself in the bathroom.  She opened the door and said, “What are you doing?  We need to GO.  Get dressed!”

And then she realized I was standing in front of her completely nude, one hand reaching for a towel and one hand holding my rear.

“I cut myself shaving my legs!” I cried.  “But I didn’t cut my leg…I cut my tuchis!”  Using Yiddish vocabulary always makes painful situations funnier, I apparently decided.  I could barely finish my sentence before shaking with laughter.

“What were you doing shaving your ass!?” she yelled.  Then I moved my hand and she saw the gash and screamed, and called for my mom.  This was going from bad to worse.

Now I had both of them standing next to stark naked me, laughing uncontrollably and trying to find a bandage big enough for this laceration.

“Oh my gosh,” my clever friend said.  “Aren’t you so em-BARE-ASSED?”   Cute, my friend, very cute.

Few times in your life do you ever imagine that you will have your friend holding your butt cheek while your mother applies a bandage.  Maybe when you’re four.  Maybe when you’re in a coma.  But most definitely not when you’re 20 years old.

At least it only left a scar in my mind, which I much prefer to a scar on my behind.

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Unbearable

In 2005 I attended a student retreat in Gettysburg, PA with a number of friends from the University of Washington.  Days earlier we attended events in Washington, DC (the “other” Washington, as it’s called around here) and then headed to rural Pennsylvania for leadership training with students from around the country.

But that is not all we did.

After the first meet-and-greet day, and all of the awkwardness that comes with it, everyone pretty much settled on with whom they would spend any voluntary time.  In fact, we were given four free hours the next morning to do whatever we wanted:  mistake number one.   We were also given a choice of steak or crab cakes for dinner that evening, and I chose crab cakes:  mistake number two, though I wouldn’t find that out until later.

The leaders suggested we invest in our country’s history and take a guided tour of Gettysburg.  I had already done it, and it’s something one needn’t do twice in a decade.  The rest of my crew hadn’t done it, but for some reason didn’t find it necessary to learn about the Civil War.  That left us perusing the brochure stand to find a viable alternative.

What a relief that the good people of the Carroll Valley Resort had included the brochures to every antique and quilt store in a 50 mile radius!  And look at the literature on the ten thousand museums on the Civil War — every college sophomore’s dream!

Skipping past those thrilling options, our eyes settled on a tourist’s heaven-on-earth: a brochure for Boyd’s Bear Country.

“Welcome to Boyd’s Bear Country!” it read.  “A picturesque country setting of the world’s largest teddy bear store, perfect for a family day trip or weekend destination.  Yer heart will melt as ya look at all the lil’ bear cubs.  Enjoy the day with those you luv!”

It was like all our minds together formed one thought bubble above our heads that read “WHAT THE…?”

We immediately got into the car.

Annie, Hunter, Casey and I were on our way to the most heinous tourist trap imaginable.  Who needed Gettysburg?

After a ten minute drive through winding roads lined with endless fields, we arrived to a parking lot that rivaled Costco’s in size.  We stared in wonder at the largest red barn any of us had ever seen (but really, how many red barns have we Seattleite’s encountered?).

We walked inside and were immediately visually assaulted by so many thousands of stuffed bears, even the Berenstain’s would have turned and run back to the car.

Hunter:  “This is like the mothership of bad taste.”

Annie:  “I don’t know whether to be horrified or amazed.”

Casey:  “Get me the HELL out of here.”

Abby:  (Stunned silence)

Allow me to paint a picture of just how insane the entire concept of Boyds Bear Country truly is.  As we walked from room to room, we saw bears in various human situations – at school, at a picnic, sitting around the Christmas tree at home.  Things went from appalling to creepy when we found the Boyd’s Teddy Bear Nursery.  It was built to look EXACTLY like a real nursery – one stands on one side of the glass looking into a room of infant incubators filled with STUFFED BABY BEARS.  The nurse on duty (yes, this is someone’s actual job) walks up to you and asks if you’d like to hold a bear to consider for adoption.  I briefly considered poking her in the face to see if she too, was stuffed.

However, the real low point came when we happened upon “Peeker Boo’s Folkus Pocus Portrait Studio” (I couldn’t make these names up).  We saw cute families getting their photos taken together against a typical brown backdrop.  The photographer was printing out some results so we walked over and took a look.

It pains me even to write this.

When the picture came out of the printer, the nice family’s bodies were gone, and their heads were superimposed onto STUFFED BEAR BODIES.  Bear, bear, bear – human face, human face, human face.  It was all I could do not to light my hair on fire.

We immediately signed up to be photographed.  How else would anyone back at Carroll Valley believe that we had seen such atrocities?

After wandering around with our eyes glazed over as we toured the FOUR FLOORS of bears, it was finally our turn to have our bodies replaced with bear fur.  There was serious debate as to who should get which kind of bear body, but given that we were all different in size, it quickly became obvious.  Hunter was stocky, Annie was shortest, I was average, and Casey had dark hair and eyes – obviously the kitten bear.

As I sat to have my picture taken, I realized this was one of those moments in life when I’m sure I have left Earth and entered an entirely different planet comprised of a wack-job species.  How else to explain that in some boardroom a group of people decided there needed to be a Wal-Mart sized barn full of bears and people who take pictures to look like them?

The resulting picture caused such a scene of laughter and hysteria between the four of us that you would have thought we had just won the lottery and discovered it was tax-exempt.  That’s right, we were all going to split $65 million and the government wasn’t getting a dime.  We were THAT ecstatic.

Except for the cashier.  The tears of laughter streaming down our faces probably caused her to feel somewhat suicidal due to her form of employment.

And to think we almost passed this up to tour Gettysburg.

Bear Country

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