Kelly in Colorado posted a contest on her blog a few days ago asking readers to post their most embarrassing stories, the most embarrassing eligible for a prize. I had every intent of entering, however with all the ruckus of not celebrating my birthday and New Year’s watching The Rose Bowl Game (GO USC!!), I didn’t get around to it until now.

If embarrassing stories were worth money, I’d be so goddamn rich. And here I go, opening the vault full-up of them all and selecting just one of many to make you feel better about being you.

Plumply pregnant with my third child, I went over-doing-it shopping with my two boys at one of those big box stores, not all that unlike Costco. (However, in an effort to maintain my membership at this similar warehouse, we will not call it Costco.)

Those who have been pregnant more than once are fully aware of the over-doing-it shopping. Perhaps it’s part of nesting, or perhaps it’s just knowing you won’t want to leave the house for a couple of weeks after the baby’s born, but either way, you tend to buy waaaay too much crap JUST.IN.CASE there’s not another person available in the whole universe to go out and grab you an extra car battery (in case yours should die… when you’re not going anywhere anyway) or in the instance that there isn’t anyone available anywhere to pick you up some Christmas wrapping paper (even though it’s only May).

Being plumply pregnant, I was heading to the warehouse store not unlike Costco to stock up on all the necessities like a 50-pack of toothbrushes and a couple 10 lb bags of sweet onions, just in case I ran out. I brought along my two boys, E-man only 3 at the time and L-Dub just 1 and 1/2.

The shopping itself was rather uneventful with the exception of the cold room where the smell was almost rancid. Now being pregnant and being overly sensitive to smells, I cringed and gagged and threw up in my mouth a little bit at the thought of rotting produce and the fragrant aroma it was producing. I went on with the rest of my shopping, unable to shake the smell that seemed to have permeated my clothes. Kinda in the way BBQ smells on your shirt after you’ve stood in front of the grill or the way a campfire seeps into your clothing or the way those nasty supposedly-potpourri spray thingies in public restrooms make you feel like you’re going to walk out there smelling like diarrhea and scented tampon all at once.

When I’m pregnant, smells knock me to my knees, and the slightest scent of anything less than godly, I just can’t handle. But other than my rotting vegetables encounter, I felt really put-together and in control as I wheeled my 3-ton cart to the register to pay. The boys sat there behaving (for some unknown reason) and I unloaded my groceries one by one onto the conveyor belt… milk, sweet onions, car battery, shredded cheese, 50-pack of toothbrushes, 52-pack disposable razors, 40-pack on chicken broth, 150-pack white towels…

I had to wait a few minutes to put the rest of my groceries up there on the conveyor belt as it was getting kinda crammed with all my stuff. As the gay man (yes it matters) began checking my groceries, I added the rest of my loot to the conveyor belt: Map of the world, 100-pack gummi bears, bananas — DAMN IT! As I went to add the bananas to the conveyor belt, I noticed they had dirt on them. Not just a little dirt that could be washed off, but like big clumps of dirt – dirt clods – that I hadn’t noticed when I first grabbed them. As I leaned into the cart to reach the god forsaken bananas in the corner of the cart, another clump joined the others. I turned my head just slightly to the left to see that the clumps of dirt were actually PILES OF POOP!! falling from the waistband of L-Dubs pants. HOLY SHIT! LITERALLY! CRAP!! LITERALLY!! [AND A LOT OF THE F WORD HERE]

I mean, it could have landed in my hair!

Forget my hair, WHAT DO I DO WITH THE BANANAS???

What do I do!!?? What do I do??!? I can’t explain myself to the MAN checking my groceries. OK, so maybe I could explain it to a man. BUT A GAY MAN? Uh, less likely to have kids and to understand my plight. WHAT DO I DO?! WHAT DO I DO?! [AND A LOT OF OTHER PANICKING HERE]

Now there’s come a time in everyone’s life when they have two paths to choose from. Or two roads, if you will. You could take the high road or the low road or the one less traveled?? Or, you can just hit the road. Um, hate to break it to you people, but I was NOT about to explain the dirt clods on the bananas to a gay man who wasn’t exactly exuding sensitivity and understanding. Besides, what exactly would I tell him? "Sorry Sir, but my son seems to have shit on these bananas. I don’t think I want them anymore."

And of course, he would no doubt reply with, "Not at all a problem, Miss. Happens all the time."

Yeah. It would go just like that. Now you share my sense of panic, don’t you?

So I did what any other person would do. (Oh, admit it.) I quickly, frantically and guiltily put those bananas just below the conveyor belt into one of the empty boxes they use to pack up your stuff, checked out quickly and guiltily and GOT THE HELL OUT OF DODGE.

And because I average being a good person most of the time, I’ll let tell you that I did wipe off the shopping cart and the remaining clumps of baby poop that were dripping from the bars. And I tell you this not out of humility but because, well, I feel it therefore exonerates me from all wrong doing because I admitted it to you and I mentioned the word "guiltily" several times.

I think that, to this day, if you were to re-visit that parking lot of that warehouse store not unlike Costco, there might still be some smoke from my tires that has not yet dissipated.

Also to this day, you’ll be happy to know that L-Dub is still quite regular. (OK, so maybe you didn’t need or want to know that, but what the hell? I already mentioned things like "piles of poop" – I couldn’t do any worse, right?)

So that’s one of my more embarrassing moments as a mother. God knows there are many more where that came from. But let’s pace ourselves, OK?