My Sunday Gaffes Challenge should have started last Sunday, but I guess everyone is over at that novel writing challenge Nah No-Rhyme Oh… Nah? Got it wrong? Na—No—Wri—Mo—. Yes? Got it now. (*Aside* Way a miyit. Gatho unthwis my thong. I meant my tongue. What a terrible Acronym) :0 Just kidding, Nanos.
Fun aside, terrible timing too for me, right?
Anyway, for whatever the reason, since posting the Sunday Satires: O My Gaffe! Challenge earlier this month, no one has taken up the challenge. I had asked folks to sign up for the challenge in the comment box of the post. Nada. It won’t last forever either.
So hear what, we have a week to go before the Challenge closes, so send me those social gaffe posts. You’ve never put your foot (figuratively) in your mouth or seen someone else do so? (*scoff*) Of course you have. At one time or the other, we’ve all gaffed; or giggled, chuckled, snorted, snickered, or guffawed at someone who has.
To give you an example of what I expect you to write about, I’ve decided to share a post. It’s a recount of one of the most memorable, biggest and most embarrassing gaffes I’ve ever ‘committed’.
Warning to my gentlemen readers: It’s about to get very feminine around here, but stick around anyway; I won’t be too graphic.
My Big Gaffe: In the late 90’s I was working as a newspaper reporter. It so happened that I was investigating the dismissal of an employee at the country’s most popular resort group at that time.
Somehow word leaked to the resort owners that I was following the story and the editor of the society desk of the newspaper which I worked for called me and told me that the wife of the owners wanted to speak with me. I spoke with Mrs Bigwig (not her real name, of course) and almost immediately after the phone call, Society Editor conspicuously assigned me to cover an opening of said resort property which was being renovated in Montego Bay.
I was packed up and flown down in Bigwig Resorts corporate plane and then driven to their corporate offices. There, I was met by the son of the owners who then drove me to the city where the scheduled opening was to take place. He was quite nice and we had a friendly conversation on the ride down.
Soon after I returned though, I noticed I was being asked to do a cover feature on Mr Island’s Most Eligible Batchelor nominee for the magazine, and before I knew it I was getting day passes to their hotels and I was being assigned to cover anything related to the property that Society Editor wanted. We had struck up a friendship (in retrospect, it has become clear that all that was part of a big PR conspiracy in conjunction with my society editor to gain the resort free write ups, and I was young, pretty and gullible.)
My family lived in the resort parish, so on an occasional Friday evening when I wanted to beat the three hour commute by bus, it was not unusual to call him (he had offered) and ask if he was heading home as well, and I would join him on a flight down to the resort town. As I said, he was kind and never inappropriate, and I developed a massive (probably one-sided) crush on him.
I met the girlfriend eventually.
But back then, I was still under the influence of Mills and Boons millionaire-prince- marries- innocent- working class-girl romance stories, and it was easy to delude myself that a romance between him and myself was possible. Of course I was very shy and I never shared my feelings openly with him, but he was a playboy so he probably read my blushes when I was around him all too well.
So, one weekend I was invited to attend a jet ski conference that he and friends were hosting at one of their properties (My gut told me it was another free PR opp to squelch a government ban after a fatal jet-ski accident around the same time).
After an invigorating and scary jet across the sea, we stopped and parked on the beach of the hotel where the press conference was to be held.
A few of my reporter colleagues decided to lark and climb the low hanging trees that were on the beach.
I guess I was trying to get the attention of my ‘crush’ who had been flashing me killer smiles every time our eyes met. He and other staffers and jet skiiers were gathered around on the beach below. So, to show off my tree climbing skills, I clambered up amongst the branches. I was of course wearing my bikini bottom. My period had come from the Friday before and so I was wearing a tampon. I felt very secure in my tampon and the tv advertisements claim that ‘all day, all ways doesn’t stop a girl from having fun’.
Shortly after returning to my hotel room, I went to check my stuff. And what should I find, but my tampon cord hanging out of my bikini? Hmm, no biggie. Let’s fix that, I remember thinking.
But then (BIG GASP)…..my mind flipped back to my harmless little romp in the tree and it slowly dawned on me that my little wayward feminine cord may have gotten me attention from my ‘crush’ in the worst way a girl would ever want.
If embarrassment could kill, I would have tied a thousand deaths in that bathroom as the mortifying memory rushed at my consciousness like a speeding freight train. O. MY. GAFFE!! (Not these words exactly, but you know.)
Good thing he didn’t fly back with us to Kingston. I would have had a epileptic attack from blushing.
To this day, I still grimace in embarrassment when I think of the incident.
Moral of the Story: If you decide to wear a tampon and bikini bottoms and then go jet skiing, chances are something is going to get dislodged. Take my advice. Wear a shorts over your bikini. And never follow the crowd and climb a tree to get a guy’s attention. Murphy’s Law: anything that can go wrong will go wrong.
Note to Self: Don’t trust in feminine cords; they tend to pull unexpected stunts. May rain on my flirt parade.
Big Life Lesson: From that day, I have never tried to be coy with a guy unless I had checked in with my inner cord.
Have you have a similar feminine gaffe rain on your flirt parade? Would you like to share your story or another satirical post with my readers? Read the instructions in the link I posted above, and leave a comment indicating your interest in participating.
You can also sent me your post by email at firstname.lastname@example.org. I’m dying to hear your story.