::Waves hand:: Same here. The solution, in a pinch, is to wind the toiletpaper over the crotch of your underwear. Makes for a thicker wad of paper, but one that won’t run. It also prevents any leakage that already happened from staining your outerwear.
Of course, the real solution was carrying a Real Purse with me everywhere, and now I am never without pads, cap fare, safety pins, a small sewing set, band-aids, band-aids against blisters, wet towels in a foil package, the kind of Tylenol you can take without water, a miniature bottle of nail polish to stop pantyhose from running, spare make up (short butt ends of my eyebrow and eye pencils); and a little fold up mirror. I’ve become a female boy scout.
Oh, the toilet paper maxipad. One time I was caught without supplies while at Epcot with my family, so I “rolled my own”. When I got back to the hotel room and went to change it out for a real one, it was gone. No idea where I lost it. Could have been on a ride, could have slowly unwound as I walked in front of a gaggle of Belgian tourists. Thankfully I’ll never know.
After a large family event, some of us met at a relative’s house. The place mildly smelled like shit, but nobody said anything. The “hostess” was turning on the air conditioning and opening and closing some doors, but the place still smelled like shit. At one point I crossed my leg, and noticed the huge dog turd stuck to the bottom of my shoe.
My first day on the job at the college library was, thankfully, mere weeks after the famous picture of the then Lady Di pictured in a summer skirt with no slip. You know the one where the backlight of the sun revealed that she had (omg!) legs? With this, and my mother’s training in mind, I gave up all thought of comfort and wore a slip beneath my elasticised-waisted skirt.
So that, when I was kneeling to reshelve books on the bottom shelf, and the college president introduced himself, and I stepped on my hem as I stood up to shake hands . . . All I revealed was a slightly saucy length of black silk and lace. Slit up to the hip.
I pulled an old winter coat out of the closet and drove to the store noticing a very faint aroma. People at the store were giving me weirder looks than normal. I walked into my mom’s house and she says, “get that dead mouse off your shoulder!”
I had a silk shirt I was wearing to work. It was starting to get a bit old and thin, but had a pretty pattern and didn’t look ratty. That is, until someone pointed out that I had a 3 inch rip in the back below the shoulder.
One time I went to a strip club. I somehow missed something when I went to the restroom, because I went to sit with an attractive companion, and she pointed out that my fly was open. Dammit, that wasn’t intentional!
My daughter’s grade school orchestra was performing their winter concert. And they were terrible. Out of tune, not together, didn’t know the music. During one piece, the conductor, a stout old woman, veteran of some forty years of middle school music teaching, turned over the stage to a student teacher, and then returned to finish the concert. Afterwards, she berated the kids for their miserable performance. My daughter was quite downcast…until I informed her that the conductor returned to the stage with the back of her skirt tucked into her underwear, and finished the concert unknowingly flashing the audience.
And the concert, as most school events were, was taped and broadcast on the local access channel.
Not mine, but a fellow Marine’s. The Marines’ “Charlie” uniform consists of a short sleeved, open collar, button up khaki shirt and green trousers. Basically office wear. The shirt is with a white crew-neck t-shirt underneath. One day, running late for morning formation, my buddy couldn’t find a clean white undershirt, so he grabbed a clean, white T-shirt with Bugs Bunny printed on it.
You would not believe how well the Wabbit showed through his boot camp issue Charlie shirt. The platoon sergeant was laughing too hard to do anything other than send him back up to change.
I went to a meeting with my clients at their home and we spent an hour or so discussing their upcoming remodel or addition to their home. Upon arriving home I discovered the shirt I was wearing at the meeting had been inside-out. Seams and all exposed. I don’t know if they didn’t notice (!!!) or were too cool to mention it to me.
Other clients and another remodel project. They brought out a can of beer for me which I appreciated and proceeded to knock over on their kitchen table. Much embarassed laughter all around.
A few days later I met with them again and another beer was offered to me. I cheerfully accepted it and…knocked it over, too.
And yet…they used my designs to add a nice second story to their house…
So, in college I worked at the college radio station, and we had a nearby co-ed one-holer bathroom (tucked into an old janitor’s closet–not the lovely official bathroom, which was up two flights of stairs) that we used when we had a pressing need and a short song was playing. I’m just finishing up a tinkle and there was an imperative pounding at the door, usually a fellow 19-year-old DJ facing 45 seconds to the end of the current song. I had my jeans up and buttoned, so I reached for the zipper with one hand, and undid the slide lock on the door with the other hand. And there stood: U.S. Senior Senator Birch Bayh (D. Ill.). I’m not sure which of us was most embarrassed. And I cannot think what IDIOT told him to use that bathroom instead of sending him upstairs to the one with marble fixtures. But I’ll bet he got quite an education from the graffiti in there…
Weird one. I was shooting a Limp Bizkit music video called Nookie. As I walked down the ramp to the stage that was surrounded by the backs of apartment buildings, a pigeon flew by and shit on the shoulder of my Steadicam vest. The Director walking with me laughed and told me it was good luck. A good omen.
During a take with me in the crowd, I was sucker-punched in the ribs so hard I almost fell over. This was while I was filming. :mad:
And that’s my fleeting moments of fame exactly at 0:40 and 2:17, on stage shooting while the hand-held guy also shot. And at 4:23 when I back away from the police car.
Mine was a navy shoe and a dark green shoe - heels I’d bought in 3 colors b/c they were so comfy. Shouldn’t have left them in a jumble on the closet floor.
Happily this happened without any witnesses. I was getting dressed for work around six in the morning after not sleeping well the night before and feeling out of sorts because I couldn’t seem to get my dress shirt’s top button buttoned.
Closer examination revealed that I had already put on not only a shirt but a necktie as well.
I think I went back to bed, knowing the day wasn’t going to get any better.
I’ve done the skirt tucked into the back of the pantyhose thing a couple of times. Once in high school. Luckily, someone alerted me before I exited the bathroom. Second time, I was on stage, singing with my quartet when the piano player let me know that something was “wrong” with my skirt. It was a long and pretty full skirt so luckily my whole ass wasn’t showing but I did have to try to correct the problem on stage in front of a room full of people. That was awkward.
I had been running for about eight months, when I screwed up my courage to the sticking point and entered my first 10K. I finished, got the T-shirt, and was wandering about the finish area, slugging down water and snagging free Powerbars, when an EMT tapped me on the shoulder and asked me if I was all right. “Sure”, I said, “why do you ask?” He pointed at my white running shirt. I looked down to see red trails running down my shirt from two perfect representations of my nipples, done in fresh blood. That’s when they began to hurt, of course. Embarrassing and painful - I got a twofer.
I put Band-Aids or Aquafor over’em before a run nowadays.
Several years ago, I was on the Board of Directors for a major state-wide organization. As a board member, I arrived at our annual convention the day before the convention actually began. For various reasons, I was booked onto the super-fancy concierge floor of the convention hotel.
On the day the convention started, I chose to put on the hotel bathrobe and slippers and step into the concierge lobby to get a bit of breakfast. The breakfast was on another floor from where I was staying. Somehow, my roomkey had gotten erased. Not only could I not get back into my room, but I couldn’t even get back to the right floor because the elevator required a room key to operate.
Sooooo, I had to go down the twenty-something floors to the front desk. Where I arrived, in my bathrobe, slippers, unshaved face, and bedhead, to greet the hundreds of convention delegates checking into the hotel.
