I went to BlogU this weekend, one of my most favorite weekends of the year because I get to go hang out with other writers and bloggers who are off the chart weird like me.  It’s pretty fucking awesome.

During check-in, however, something embarrassing and downright hilarious happened that I’m going to try to tell you without crying laughing tears.  I had just had lunch with several of the women checking in, women I seriously respect. I definitely did not intend to ever traumatize with my weirdness, which is important to note, since that means it was definitely going to happen.  I wore this beautiful dress that I’ve been drooling over for months to lunch.  The dress was white, so I wore nude thongs as to not have panty lines or see through the dress.

You know how when you are dragging luggage, and you try to be balanced?  You know what I mean; big oversized purse on one shoulder, dragging your suitcase with the other.  Balanced.

Well, I wasn’t balanced at all, clearly, because I was dragging my suitcase up the stairs, and I fell up the stairs.  Yes, you read that correctly.  Up.  And scratched my back up in the process.

So, there I was, laying against this marble pillar, legs spread eagle, and my suitcase tumbling down the stairs.

Amy, from The Outnumbered Mother, and a fantastically crass woman from Long Island, who I had just met two hours prior, comes running towards me.

Let me tell you first that Amy thinks I am a ridiculously Southern lady.  I have her fooled.

She comes running over, hand out, trying to help me up, and all I could think about was that my vagina, covered in a skimpy, nude thong was staring straight at her, and because I was stunned beyond belief, I couldn’t even reach down to cover myself.  Yep, that bad.

“DON’T LOOK AT MY VAG!” I screamed, louder than I’ve ever screamed at anyone in my life.

“What?”  She asked confused, “How fucking Southern are you?  NO ONE IS LOOKING AT YOUR FAT.”

Yep, she thought I was screaming at her not to look at my fat, because I’m that fucking polite.

Sheer terror takes over and instead of covering up my crotch, I started screaming louder, “My VAG, MY FUCKING VAG, DON’T LOOK AT MY FUCKING VAG, NOT MY FAT.”

Right about that moment, around the corner comes a group of about fifteen women that I don’t know, and have never met in my life.  So of course, I continue to yell, ‘MY VAG’, because then I was flustered as fuck and couldn’t get control of myself.  She then asked if I was ‘concussed’.

Amy is now a lifelong friend. She has to be, or she might tell everyone about my ‘fat’.  Our hashtags are now #DontLookAtMyVag and #ImNotLookingAtYourFat .

Jen Mann also told me I should probably put a bikini wax on my to do list before coming next year in case I decide to ever wear a dress in their presence again.

I’ll probably plan to wear pants.