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Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Word of the Day, XVI

Word of the Day: SCHOOL

I’m sort of cheating with this post. I’ve been wanting to fill you all in on my OTHER most embarrassing moments, both of which involved distinctly shoving my foot in my mouth. Conveniently, they also both occurred while I was in school, so just roll with it.

High school was tough. I moved from New York City to Cambria, California the summer before my freshman year started. (And, there is a reason you’ve never heard of that place. It’s tiny. And not really worth mentioning). But, I was the new kid and it took me a good year to feel settled with friends I liked. Still, it wasn’t the most fun four years ever. Of course, whose high school experience is?

I went to a few football games. Our team sucked. But one night, I was there with a bunch of friends, and one of them commented about the coach. How he was such a nice guy or some shit. And, suddenly, I had diarrhea of the mouth and was complaining about how arrogant he was. How much he thought he knew everything. I think he had recently substituted for one of my teachers and I had been frustrated again by how much smarter I felt I was compared to my teachers.

Several moments passed and suddenly I heard behind me, “Who was talking about Coach?” And felt a jab on my shoulder. I reluctantly turned around.

“This is his wife and this is his daughter.” This woman pointed out two totally lovely looking women who were sitting right behind me.


I apologized profusely and sat forward the rest of the game. His daughter said she’d hated him growing up too. But still.

Stupid small town.

The other incredibly tactless moment happened when I was very drunk, so you can’t really blame me. And it was my birthday.

Beckett’s is an Irish pub near Berkeley’s campus, and we ended up there late in the night on my…22nd? Birthday. I don’t even remember where else we were that night, but a big group of us piled into a booth and the waiter came over and asked a question I didn’t understand.


An awkward silence fell. And everyone pulled out their IDs, which is what he’d asked for, in his Irish brogue.


My friends were appalled. I was sure I was going to get kicked out of the bar, the big, bald, Irish waiter was so pissed.

“Are we gonna have a problem here?” he asked me.

I apologized profusely and explained I was drunk and it was my birthday.

He eventually came back with our drinks and sat next to me, needling me for another apology and a kiss on the cheek, and then all was good.

Moral of these stories is you can’t take me anywhere.

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