Humiliation

So, I was reading this silly discussion thread at www.fark.com entitled "What is the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to you in front of someone you had a crush on?"...

... and I laughed at myself, because I remembered something I did when I was younger but certainly not smarter.

I couldn't have been but seven or eight years old. One day, I came home from school excited and worried. I told Mom that Amber -- my impossibly hot across-the-alley-neighbor** -- had related to me on the bus that her birthday was the next day.

Frantic, I asked my mom what I could possibly give her as a present, given the short notice. In turn, Mom helped me make a rose -- and dear God, I hope you believe me, because this is so funny I'm nearly peeing myself -- from TOILET PAPER.

We made a rose from rolled-up and folded-up toilet paper and even added some perfume to make it smell nice.

The next day, I sheepishly gave it to her on the bus. She took it, and said, "I was just kidding. Today is not my birthday. I lied. And this was made from toilet paper."

I was humiliated. I'm pretty sure I tried to pass it off, like "I knew that, it's a joke gift. I mean, come on, it's made of toilet paper."

FAIL.


** Amber, as I've come to learn, later became a Section-8-enjoying hussy with a clown car for a vagina. Hah!!

Part-Time Dad (Redux)

Despite having had my daughter for three consecutive weekends, still her absence haunts me.

This evening, I was putting away laundry in my room at my friend's house. The basket I've been using, pressed into temporary service when my relationship with S imploded and my home went into storage, has long contained at its bottom a draw-stringed violet cotton bag -- one that is rarely seen or remembered because it is usually hidden beneath a small pile of my uniforms to be washed.

As I finished putting away my clothes, I looked to the basket to see if I'd missed anything. I hadn't. But there was that purple sack, and it had become upset, My Little Pony panties and impossibly small white ankle socks and tank tops with glittery "Daddy's Girl" logos and elastic-banded jeans leaking out.

They are my daughter's. They are her soiled clothes from nearly nine months ago -- unwashed and unkempt and likely unfitting, now. I'm certain there's a metaphor there, somewhere...

Nonetheless, it was sad. Is sad.

Each of these last three weekends, because I've neither house nor home to which to bring my daughter, I've exercised even more 'part' in the 'part-time' daddyness. I've had her entire days, but not overnight. All of her belongings -- her bedroom furniture, her clothes, her toys, her pictures and paintings and jewelry boxes and books and figurines and bloody well everything that makes a home a home is in storage.

But for a small, tidy yet unkempt bag of grass-stained memories.

I just talked to her an hour ago, as I do every night. Yet I miss her so.

Funny how I can be homesick even when I'm home.