Self-Inflicted Wounds: Heartwarming Tales of Epic Humiliation Read Online Free Page A

either. I was careful, I told myself. And more than that, my
     mom was just being controlling, overprotective, and a poo-poo face besides. She had
     no idea what she was talking about. I could fry just fine. I didn’t need supervision.
     And I wanted French fries. No one would stand in the way of me engaging in the heat-catalyzed
     sorcery that turned two small brown tubers into the most extraordinary and life-changing
     pile of crispy heaven sticks ever to be dipped into a tomato-based condiment. My mother
     and her admonitions were dream-killers, to be dismissed without regard. And I had
     done so, hundreds of times, to no ill effect. I made French fries, my mom remained
     blissfully ignorant, and the balance of power in the universe was maintained. Who
     was hurt in this transaction? No one. 5
    So on this particular day, I was flouting my mother’s wishes once again. But this
     day was different. This day I was in a hurry, because I was flouting not one rule,
     but two: 1) do not cook, and 2) do not wear your mother’s favorite white chiffon top. Ever . 6
    I was feeling fancy, 7 so I had gone into my mother’s closet with an eye to turning this morning into a
     solitary fashion statement. I first took care to check any pockets for forgotten change, 8 and then searched out her favorite top. Not coincidentally, as this was my favorite
     top, too. I was at the age where everything my mother liked, I liked. I was constantly
     trying to emulate her in every way. From adoring the Ohio Players (whose adult-themed
     music I did not even begin to understand) to cinching my belts so tightly they gave the impression, however
     painful, that I had hips, to copying the way my mom laughed—an adorable little scream-shriek
     of surprise followed by openmouthed peals of delight—I wanted to be like her, and
     I would stop at nothing. Nothing at all, including sneaking into her closet and wearing
     her clothes like some tiny, creepy serial killer. 9
    And on this morning, I went for the gold: her prettiest, most expensive top, one she
     saved for special occasions. It was white, layered chiffon, with flowing satin ribbons
     and a watercolor painting of cranes and irises on the front. It was the closest thing
     my mother had to a princess dress in her closet, and since I was a little kid, it
     pretty much was a dress on me, albeit short and a little slutty, as if I was going
     to a late night kegger for woodland faeries.
    Since I was circumspect and modest, even at that age, I decided to rock it tunic style.
     I pulled her mommy-sized white chiffon frock down over my seventies-era gauchos with
     the flowers on the butt pockets (don’t hate) and sauntered into the kitchen to prepare,
     then enjoy, a greasy platter of Idaho’s finest.
    Realizing that I was compounding my trespasses, I thought it would be smart to get
     all this criminal activity done and over with alacrity. My mother was running errands
     and had taken my little sister with her, but who knew how long they’d be gone? The
     worst possible arrangement of events would be for my mom to walk in while I was eating
     clandestinely produced French fries dressed in her date-night finest. So to move things
     along, I turned the oil up on high, the better to get it ready to fry quickly.
    In my head, this makes sense—medium heat, fun soon; maximum heat, fun now . So there I stood, hair in tiny afro-puffs, barefoot in gauchos and chiffon, perched
     daintily atop a perilously wobbly chair, waiting for a large pot dangerously full
     of grease to reach the proper temperature, which in my murky child mind was “volcanic.”
    When smoke started to rise from the pan, 10 I figured it was time to add the potatoes. Nice, wet, freshly sliced potatoes, cut
     in jagged hunks with a dull blade, and dropped into the oil in big, grubby, first-grader
     handfuls. Wet potatoes hit the hot grease, and did the thing that physics and chemistry
     demand. Sizzling droplets of grease sprayed angrily