True Story Tuesday - On being upstaged

That's right folks... time to lay out those family legends for the bloggy masses to say, “no way… that really happened?”  True Story Tuesday is here and there's no better place for those outrageous, amazing, hilarious, miraculous, and (mostly) true stories that have happened to you.

 

You know you've already blogged some of them - so if you're not brave enough to share your latest adventure yet, just link up an old post that contains a tale almost too good to be true. Grab the code under the TST button on the right sidebar, throw it in your post, and add your link for some comment love.

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On Being Upstaged

I realize this is the saga that is dying a slow and very painful death… but I promise – we’ll put this puppy to bed after this week.

Reluctantly, I’ll remind you that this started with an evil Kirby vacuum cleaner and an unplanned haircut.

Which led to the mysterious demise of our camper that I had been cleaning with the aforementioned Kirby.

And of course, led in sum total to a bout of panic after posting my confession online and realizing that my parents would see it.

Sooo… my little stinker who moved away sister came for a visit and I made dinner.  My mother sat down to catch up on some blog reading while I silently panicked and wondered just how the evening was going to end.

There were a few interesting “hmmmm… hmmmm’s” and I was dreading my father’s reaction.

As the story was read aloud, my sister’s face registered unawareness.  Would you believe she actually did not remember this?  Maybe my threats of not letting her borrow my LA Gear shoes or my Hypercolor shirt (hardy-har) actually were traumatic enough to cause amnesia.

In any case, she finished the story with equal parts amusement and amazement.  My mom was kinda chuckling before she got to the end.  Then she said,

“Yeah, I remember when the camper got wrecked.  I broke the vent thingie”.

WHAT?  You did?

Yes.

But I FELL THROUGH IT.

Oh.

Then I looked over at Dad.  Ooooh.  Not good.  He didn’t look amused or amazed or… well, anything except rather peeved.

I quickly moved on to other subjects.

(What, you thought that was it?  Oh no, this was just the prelude).

We sit down to dinner and my dad opens with, “Well, you almost killed your mother.”

Huh?

Yeah.

Then follows the story…

Why of course it was my fault.  We’d given my dad a giftcard for a nice dinner for his birthday that week.  Silly me.

He took my mother out and they enjoyed each other's company over some good food.

Then my father went to get something out of the car and returned to find my mother…

slumped over into the chair next to her.

She was nearly unconscious with other diners attempting to help her.

Now I know you’re thinking… shellfish allergies, right?

Oh no.  In a mighty effort to keep from passing out, my mother struggled to tell them:

I just gave blood.

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Seriously?

(Yes, I know I say “seriously” waaay too often.  I like it.)

Two calls from the doctor later, they determine that she might be a tad bit too petite to be donating.

(Which I would looove the blood bank to take into consideration… especially since they call up to TWELVE times a day because of her rare blood type).

Guess what?  When you take a portion of a petite person’s blood volume, you should warn them that a large meal might send their remaining blood to where the yummy meal is… which would leave their pretty head a bit, shall we say, unattended?

A new example of “giving ‘til it hurts”, eh?  Sorry Mom.  But I do have to say that I’m grateful that your story served as a timely distraction for my otherwise certain belated punishment for crimes against the camper.

 

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