Myrt’s Blurts. Embarrassing Moments: The Catalog

September 13, 2007 at 3:35 pm 9 comments

Those of you who know me understand the relationship I have with jackassery. For those who don’t, you’ll be there at the end of what I’m about to share. There is a certain amount of opportunity cost I take in making this information pseudo-public, but for some unknown reason, I’m willing to underwrite that risk. Two caveats: one, some of these stories may be a rerun to a few of you; and two, I appreciate and apologize for the Ayn Rand-ish length.  

Let’s inaugurate this posting with the recent occurrence that started me thinking about my precarious flirtation with humiliation. A couple weeks ago, a friend-of-a-friend sent me an invitation to shelfari – an online book club. After three reminders, I got tired of it and thought, “I’ll just sign up, so they’ll leave me alone.” In the rush to get it done, I failed to take the time to figure out why they were asking me for my gmail password. As I clicked on the button to add the friend who invited me, I realized why: Shelfari sent a bloomin’ email to every person I have ever emailed. Ex-boyfriends, people I hoped would never contact me again, coworkers, my vice-president, my CFO, my old boss, potential employers, my bishop, the entire Sunday school and relief society. EVERYONE. All now invited by spam to join my on-line book club.  

Flashback to my awkward adolescence when one afternoon, my sister, friend and I decided to go skinny dipping in our neighborhood pond. As I slipped off the suit, it slipped away. Fifteen minutes and several deep dives to the bottom later, it was gone for good. My nefarious companions refused to fetch my towel, forcing me to run out of the water and across the beach naked. That story spread through the middle school faster than coke through Lindsay Lohan. 

Frustrated that my boss had answered only one of my five questions, I forwarded his email to my coworker, complaining about his lack of response. Trouble was, I hit reply and not forward. It was a long walk of shame into his office that day my friends. 

On the long ride up the ski lift at Sundance, I grew tired of the discomfort the dangling skis were causing on my poor knees and ankles. But then, it occurred to me: Take them off! Sitting there with my feet swinging weight-free and the skis and poles laying over my lap, I relished in the genius that was. But alas, it was not to last. As the lift skirted over the drop-off for the bunny hill, the toe of my boot clipped the top of the hill, propelling me, the skis, and the poles into mid air and down the slope. The teenaged lift operator stopped the lift and waited impatiently for me to detangle, redress with my skis on again, and reboard (a good two minutes). As if it needed to be said at that point (not that it should have in the first place), the operator smugly lectured me on why it’s imperative I keep my skis on.   

Sorry for the somewhat, um, unsavory subject matter in this next one. In preparation for an IVP, a medical test in which they shoot iodine into the veins to watch it stream through the kidneys and bladder, I had to have my system “cleaned out” with the assistance of laxatives. At the local CVS, I hurried to the aisle, grabbed my product and a few others as camouflage, purchased, and went home. Only to discover that I had bought the wrong type. So I went back. As I headed to the checkout for the second time, now with the proper product in one hand and the old product to return in the other, I thought I was in the clear – no one in line. Just as I stepped up to the counter, however, the other checkout closed, and the three good looking guys in that line file in behind me. No big deal. Until, as it turned out, my checkout asst was new and didn’t know how to return an item. She called for the manager, and as we waited, she kept trying to figure it out – the machine started beeping incessantly, the guys got impatient, and I stood there dumbfounded. After five minutes of this, the manager finally came over to help, held up both items for the entire line to see and asked which one I wanted returned and which one I wanted to buy. I finally finished paying and took what little dignity I had left home with me. 

One last one. On our way to an Illini basketball game, I got out a couple of quarters to feed the meter, realized it was late enough I didn’t need to, and put the two quarters in my pocket. During the game, I went to the bathroom, and while squatting in my stall, I heard a quarter drop and land between me and the stall next to mine. Yes it was a bathroom floor, but hey, it was a quarter. So I reached down, grabbed the quarter, finished my business, and left. As I emptied my pockets that night, I pulled out three quarters. That’s right, three quarters. Now imagine you’re in a stall, you accidentally drop a quarter, and before you can reach down and fetch it, a hand pops out from under the wall and snatches it without a word.


Entry filed under: Embarrassing Moments, Myrt's Blurts.

Skeletons in my bed Men on a Mission to Mortify Joe Miller

9 Comments Add your own

  • 1. lemare  |  September 13, 2007 at 4:03 pm

    Myrt. I tell your ski lift story every time I hit the slopes… It is funnier than the time I blew out my knee at the Canyons and thought, “THIS…. IS….. IT!!!”

    Your laxative story sounds just like an episode of the Golden Girsl!!! The one before their cruise!

  • 2. Jdon  |  September 13, 2007 at 4:25 pm

    Wow, and I thought Larry Craig had some interesting bathroom stories!

  • 3. Joey  |  September 13, 2007 at 4:30 pm

    I was wondering how long it would take until someone made the obligatory Larry Craig joke.

  • 4. Lindsay  |  September 13, 2007 at 5:53 pm

    LeMare probably would have stepped on your hand and insulted your shoes. Tell us you weren’t singing in the stall throughout this whole ordeal.

  • 5. lemare  |  September 13, 2007 at 5:58 pm

    Help me, Rhonda!

  • 6. JL  |  September 13, 2007 at 8:12 pm

    Welcome back, Myrt’s Blurts! Loved this line up of stories from the life of Mel. When I was a senior in high school and new to emailing, I hit “reply all” instead of properly forwarding it to my friend. I believe the message intended for my friend said something like, “Can you believe [name of sender] still talks to our slutty mortal enemy?” Something very mature, very bright… It was hard to get out of that one.

  • 7. Lowdogg  |  September 14, 2007 at 11:21 am

    That last story was awesome.

    And now that you know that the 3rd quarter wasn’t yours, who know’s where it had been?


    This isn’t embarassing (for me). One time in a busy rest stop bathroom on the Florida turnpike, I realized that my brother had entered the stall next to mine (without realizing it). I stuck my foot into his stall and rubbed the top of his shoe. He yelped, ran out of the stall and said, “Dad, someone touched my foot.” He heard me laughing. I still love that story and his instant, horrified reaction. This was at least 10 years ago.

  • 8. Dave Hanley  |  September 14, 2007 at 2:07 pm

    Hi Myrt,

    Dave from Shelfari here. I’m still laughing about the ski lift.

    Great blog post, but sad that Shelfari prompted it. After you imported your gmail contacts you have the ability to choose which ones you want to send to before you invite.

    At any rate shoot me an email so I can stop the one (not two!) follow up emails that will go out in a few days. We have even less interest than you in having your old boyfriends sign up. Truly.

  • 9. lemare  |  September 14, 2007 at 4:09 pm

    Welcome to IRF, Dave. Your customer service is really remarkable!

    I was one of those spammed by Myrtle and I was a little flattered that someone so well-read wanted to know what I was reading. Come to find out she didn’t mean to…


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