Of Course That Happened, You Clumsy, Cursed Child - Vol. I: The Proof is in the Pudding Pants

Do you ever have those days when you're like, OF COURSE  that happened. It's either a funny story - or pathetic - either way, it's a good read. | MissFunctional Money #savemoney #funny #humorme

Hello and welcome to another issue of Of Course That Happened, You Clumsy, Cursed Child.

Well, it’s technically a new issue on the blog, but a disturbingly regular series in my day-to-day life.

See, I frequently attract a certain sort of mishaps and misunderstandings. They are usually avoidable, always awkward and often take place in a public parking lot or professional meeting. That’s my sweet spot.

It’s like, I should be more embarrassed about my life but I’ve just accepted that these things happen to me — and usually in front of my boss, or the guy I had a crush on in 7th grade.

For me, though, this bumbling, accident-prone existence is a part of my inherent make-up. I can’t help it. Or maybe I could if I would get my head out of the clouds and feet off of anything resembling cobblestone. These trip-ups are the type where, when you relay the story later to your friends, they roll their eyes to the sky and say, “You WOULD do that.”

Know what I mean?

It’s the part of my personality that would seem “quirky” or “adorkable” in a romantic comedy, but wildly inappropriate in a real-life T.J. Maxx check-out line.

But, alas, I am one with the clunkiness, and the clunkiness is one with me.

So what does any of this have to do with a money blog?

Life is hard. Let’s laugh at it a little bit.

In all honesty, my life does not 100% revolve around personal finance. GASP!

Neither should yours.

What an incredibly boring and unfulfilling life that would be.

We all should have balance in our life — equal parts personal finance education and chia seed incidents. I’m pretty sure Aristotle said that.

I’m not obsessed with money, or even learning about money.

But I do think it’s a necessary and useful tool that we should make work for us, so that we aren’t a slave to it.

That’s why I started a blog. And also so that I could ramble on about my botched attempts at trying to function as a normal adult lady.

Mistakes are a part of any financial journey, and stumbling through adult life is a part of my day-to-day — so it makes sense to me to talk about both.

Besides, what if I hook you with some silly story about embarrassing myself in public and then before you know it, you’re elbow-deep in one of my other blog posts figuring out what the heck FICA is, and why it’s taking all your money.

Only then will you realize how deep I have sunk my nails, and it will be too late. You will NEEEEEDDDD to tune in every week to learn more about Roth IRAs and cringeworthy conversations I have with undeserving Scots.

We can all relate to those moments when you stop, look around and think, “Why me, God?!” — right?

(I’m kind of guessing on that last bit. I have 26 years of experience that tells me that my family, in particular, is a magnet for this kind of thing. Is it universal? Just us?)

To kick this series off, I’ll walk you through the rare and wonderful feeling of congealed chia seeds in the most intimate of crevices.
Because of course that happened to me.


(SETTING: Awkward and Tall Female [me] amidst a full conference room where an internal office meeting is wrapping up. Details of an upcoming happy hour commence.)

11:36 a.m.

“Ooh, better leave now if I want to make it to that noon Pure Barre class,” I think to myself.

I slip out of room seemingly unnoticed — that is until I am called back in from down the hall so that I can give my professional opinion on an incredibly weighty and debated decision.

Wine bar or brewery for the happy hour!!!!!????


Leaning in the doorway of the conference room, I break into a fine sweat because now, the clock is really ticking and only three minutes remain until my window to leave for class is closed forever. (Or, like, until later in the afternoon; maybe even right after work at the 5:30 class if traffic is OK? But still. WINDOW IS CLOSING, PEOPLE.)


Them: But what if parking is an iss—


Them: OK, we’ll send out an ema—

Me: *a cartoonish white cloud replaces my leaning figure when I dash away*

11:40 a.m.

I power-walk to my office and close my door quickly behind me, lock it, and then wheel around to start pulling exercise clothes out of my bag. I blindly reach in and put my fingers around something cold and tough. A snake? A clementine. Ahh. Yes. I flick my wrist this way and that, searching for the bottom of the bag where my gray leggings and neon sports top are buried. My knuckle firmly meets a Tupperware of salad. I accidentally side-swipe a torn legal pad and sustain a (very) small paper cut.

I conveniently forgot that I brought in my Mary Poppins bag today because GOOD LORD WHERE ON EARTH JUST GIVE ME THE GODDA--

Me: Got ‘em!

I quickly take my pants off* and step into the gray leggings. About the time I have my work blouse all the way off and am reaching for my sports top, I notice that something in my pants feels — how can I put this as a lady? — wrong.

Me: That’s … not right.

Me: That’s … not right.

*If changing in my office is alarming to you … first of all, Dad, stop thinking how this is an HR nightmare just waiting to unfold. My little tiny office is not heavily trafficked, and the doors lock — we all change from gym clothes in there. NBD. (Probably.)

Immediately, my mind goes to where any logical mind would likely go: I AM HAVING A BABY AND MY WATER HAS BROKEN.

For a millisecond, even I believe it.

Then I remember that I’m 100% NOT with child, and — to my great relief — think, “I’ve wet my pants.”

To my great relief?

This is the point where I am in my life, apparently.

Through the duration of about ¾ of one second, a scene of light, pink-tinted Instagram posts and stories about #RealWomen play through my mind. Because, obviously, it’s become clear that I will become the face of UDepends, the yet-to-be-launched millennial arm of Depends Adult Diapers. Finally, my work and content will be sponsored! Finally, I can attend events for women who just want to prove that lack of bladder control is normal and we can be beautiful BECAUSE of our flaws, not despite them. Finally, I’ll meet Tina Fey!

My visions of #SponCon quickly disappear because I obviously didn’t wet my pants.


It’s now 11:42 a.m. I’m pushing it.

Begrudgingly, I pull the gray leggings around my knees and waddle over to my lamp to inspect.

It’s definitely damp.

What in the …

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of green lid. It’s just a sliver of a corner, but that’s all it took for it to register: The chia pudding that I’d excitedly and inadequately packed the night before had taken a tumble.

The culprit.

The culprit.

At this point, the chia pudding is tipped over in my work bag, dripping almond milk from the opening of the sippy-cup lid like a cheap pornographic film.

To top it off, I notice upon closer inspection that these little brown and gray beady chia bastards have smeared all along the main back seam of my pant seat.

Not along the side of my shin.

Not on the waistband.

No, no, not anywhere discreet, but approximately from below the belly button region around to where the tag is in the back of pants.

Because of COURSE it is.

Pudding Pants.

Pudding Pants.

A nice, ruddy brown combination of peanut butter, cinnamon, chia seeds and almond milk are gooooooood and smeared in there.



This is my reward for attempting a Clean Eating Journey.

11:46 a.m.

Attack the wet marks with a damp paper towel.

11:47 a.m.

Haphazardly lay pants on space heater in a way that is 100% a fire hazard. Hope that the stain has the staying power of a Vine star.

11:48 a.m.

It’s a 12-minute walk to barre AND I CAN STILL WIN THIS DAY.

11:48 a.m.

I give up.

There’s no way my pants dry in time to comfortably wear them, and I can’t bring myself to do a down dog in front of the sweet, sweet girl standing behind me in Pure Barre.

Friends, I am not a proud woman. But I will be damned if I knowingly squat a good two tablespoons of peanut butter chia butt pudding in the face of some poor, unsuspecting woman who is just trying to get a little lift, tone, burn in during her lunch hour.

She didn’t do anything to me.

She didn’t earn that.

So sit with my soggy bottoms I will, mourning today’s loss of my treasured lunchtime reprieve.

Submitting my application to the band today.

Submitting my application to the band today.

***************************END SCENE********************************

Today’s takeaway:

Slow down and screw your lid on tight. Moving too fast has consequences.

Or, just keep spare pants in your office drawer because who are we kidding, you’re not gonna change.

The proof is in the pudding pants.

RELATED READ: Oh My Quad: An Ode to Pure Barre

Alright, let me hear it: I *may* be the only person on Earth who has managed to smear chia seeds into my undercarriage, but am I the only one to have EVER had an embarrassing moment at work?? Please please make me feel better by commenting your soundbite in the comments below.

Thanks for reading. I’m not entirely sure why you did, but thanks for reading. I mean that.