Every year around the holidays, we all re-hash the most embarrassing moment of my life.
It occurred on December 24, 2006.
We had been to celebrate Christmas with Michael's dad's family, and when we got home, we were still hungry. Not much is open on Christmas Eve besides Waffle House or pizza joints, so we decided to order pizza from Papa John's. Because others had the same craving on the holiday eve, when I ordered, I was told it would take approximately an hour and a half for our pizzas to be delivered. Fine.
I walked upstairs to go pee, and when I wiped, I found the most incredibly painful spot in my nether region. Of course, I got out a hand mirror and tried to examine the situation. The pain was coming from a massive zit-type growth between the two exit holes. Fantastic. I couldn't relieve myself of the pain while holding the mirror to see what I was doing, so I found a needle, sterilized it, and walked downstairs with no pants on. "Oh Michael? How much do you love me?"
Because really, if your husband doesn't love you enough to pop a massive zit near your butthole, why did you marry him?
I assumed the position on the couch in the den. By position, I mean I was sitting down with my legs in the air in a V. Michael assumed the position as well. By position, I mean he was on his knees on the floor in front of me prepared for battle.
It hurt. I screamed. He didn't get it all, so he poked it again. It hurt. I screamed.
I made eye contact with the Papa John's delivery boy at THE BACK DOOR. While I was screaming. While my girl parts were on display. The delivery boy saw my girl parts getting popped. He finally got up the gumption to knock on the door, so Michael got up and answered the door. The poor boy was traumatized. Michael shoved $30 at him and grabbed our pizza.
I should note that our house isn't situated so that people automatically come to the back door. All visitors typically go to the front door. Also, it had been 20 minutes since we'd ordered the pizza, not an hour and a half.
If that 1 minute exchange wasn't embarrassing enough, to this day, when I call Papa John's to order pizza, this is how the conversation goes:
PJ: Will this be for delivery or carry-out
PJ: What's your phone number?
A: --- --- ----
PJ: Hagaman? Okay, the delivery guy needs to go to the front door. Is that still correct?
ARGH! What did they put in the computer about my girl parts?!?!