At a baseball game recently, a mom friend and I were having a bout of witty banter that went terribly, horribly, irrefutably awry.
We were discussing the penchant some women have to bedazzle everything. Frankly, I don't know how every word on their t-shirts is bedecked and bejeweled or how they have so many extra gem-filled grommets and studs on their jeans, their sweats, their shoes, their handbags, their cellphones -- and their children. I do know that the glare makes it hard to look in their direction for fear of burning a retina.
Here's how our conversation -- just some regular mom-banter -- went...
Amy: Jenny, why don't YOU have anything bedazzled?
Me: Oh, I do, you just can't see it.
Amy: Where is it?
Me: My belly-button. I have one of those sticky diamond tattoos in the shape of a baseball. It helps me get into the games.
Amy: You could tie your t-shirt southern style to show your support for your team. The dads would love that.
Me: No, I like to take the shirt from the bottom and pull it up through the neck hole. You know, camp-style? The dads will definitely enjoy that one because a boob inevitably falls out.
Amy: And then your hubby could bedazzle something for the moms.
Me: Done.
Amy: Noooo?
Me: Yes, his penis is bedazzled to look like a bat... and when Jack's up, Mark runs over and slaps me on the stomach with it and we all scream "Go Jack, whack that ball."
Amy: Nuh uh?
Me: Yuh huh.
Oh, it went there.
There was no stopping this tacky repartee train, but what happened next turned said train into a locomotive careening off the tracks. I turned towards my hubby who was sitting on the other set of bleachers and screamed, "Mark, come on over here and show Amy your penis."
Before you start writing comments about what a horrible person I am, let me tell you two things in my defense: 1. I meant to say "bat. Mark, come over here and show Amy your BAT." You know, joke joke, wink wink, snicker snicker? No harm done. No children traumatized for life. 2. There were about 10 kids all aged 9 a row in front of us on the bleachers. ALL of which turned around and stared me right in the eye! (Okay, number 2. doesn't work so much in my defense.)
Amy looked at me, mouth agape.
Me: Did I just say what I think I said?
Amy: Oh.. .my... G-d, you did.
Kid on bleachers: Did you just say penis?
Amy's son: Why do you want my mom to look at Jack's dad's penis?
That is perhaps one of the most horrifying questions I've ever been asked. I can still hear it my head as if said in slow motion through a Darth Vader mask.
Amy's son continuing without pause: Why would you say that? (Which was asked in the sad and confused way you might say, "Why did you kill our puppy?")
Oh G-d, a question worse than the first, which was punctuated by 10 sets of impressionable eyes trying to stare the answer out of me.
I looked to Amy who was giggling so uncontrollably she could barely stop long enough to say this: "Yeah, why would you say that?"
But she did.
After what felt like an eternity. I replied, "Did I say penis?"
Ten 9-year-olds in perfect unison: Yep.
Me: Hee hee hee (fake laugh with snort added for good measure) Nooooo, I meant peanuts. Your mom was hungry and I wanted Mark to come share his peanuts. I can't believe it sounded like that. That's so funny, right? Hee hee ha ha ho ho snort. Right?
"Ohhhhhh well it sounded like penis," said the spokesperson for the inquisitive kids who enjoy nothing more than the mention of genitalia, diarrhea or farts.
Me: Just me crazy accent. Dunt chew knaw?
Yes, that was supposed to be "Don't you know" and it was said in a desperate mix of Jamaican, Irish and Bostonian with a dash of Katherine Hepburn.
Amy looked at me sideways, as if I was having some weird speech seizure, and ten disinterested kids turned back to watch the game.
Thank goodness for easily bored, quickly distracted children. Not everyone recovers from such a racy and totally inappropriate Freudian slip. Boot eye deed.
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