In the spirit of Mompetition’s videos, which kept me cracking up all evening (and also because I followed the link at the end of the video and had a lot of fun playing around with the free software), today’s Awkward Becky moment will be brought to you in a full-color, stereophonic, cinematic event!
The following conversation took place yesterday morning. So far I’ve avoided returning to the kitchen/break room, since I’m pretty sure I never want to see this guy again.
Ever, ever again.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: My life would be so much simpler if I could learn to filter what comes out of my mouth. Being a victim of verbal diarrhea really sucks.
Here are some recent work-related examples:
Me (upon learning that my boss was placing an order for flowers for his wife, just because): Awww, that’s sweet of you.
My Boss: Well, thank you, but I’m very lucky to have K as my wife. Sometimes I take her for granted, and I try to take time out of my day remind myself of the reasons why I am so lucky to have her.
What I SHOULD have said: “K is a beautiful, kind, wonderful woman who is an incredible cook and the two of you are blessed to be married to each other.
Verbal Diarrhea Becky: “Are you kidding me? The way that woman cooks, she could be pockmarked and oozing puss, talking in grunts and slithering along the ground while pulling herself forward with her one good arm, and she still would have been a catch!
My Boss: Silent, creeped-out stare.
And then there was last Tuesday, when one of my coworkers wore a gorgeous, white dress that showed off her toned surfing muscles and beautiful tan (keep in mind I work for a Christian company.)
What I SHOULD have said: “Greetings, my coworker. That dress is very beautiful and you look very elegant. I applaud your taste in clothing.”
Verbal Diarrhea Becky: Giiiiiirrrl, look at those legs! If you’re ever wondering what dress you should wear to go out trolling for men, that’s the one! I married AND I don’t swing that way, and even I am wishing I could ask you out for a drink.
Coworker: Ummm. Well. I don’t really “troll for men”…. But. Uh. Thanks?
Verbal Diarrhea Becky: Oh, I didn’t really mean “troll for men”. I mean, I didn’t mean to imply that you look trashy or desperate…. You don’t! You look really pretty! Trolling makes it sound like I’m implying you’re some kind of street walker. I totally wasn’t. I mean, I know that’s not you. A hooker. I mean, I know you’re not like that… I mean, I didn’t mean to say “troll” or “hooker” at all. I don’t even know why I brought it up. I was just saying you’ve got great legs… but now that I think about it, that’s kind of weird, since we don’t even know each other that well. So, uh, yeah. Um. I guess I just meant to say you had a nice dress.
Coworker: Silent, creeped-out stare.
Ah, yes. Verbal Diarrhea. It’s not that I intend to be creepy or inappropriate… it’s just that it makes so much more sense in my head. There’s usually a lot of thought that gets put into each comment. The problem is, I edit most of the pre-thought, so the person who is left staring at me in creeped-out confusion doesn’t really understand where I’m coming from.
Here’s a good example:
This morning I met with my boss. As an executive assistant in a fast-paced environment, I get paid good money to juggle a lot of balls at the same. Some days it’s a lot of fun, some days it’s a little overwhelming, but one thing is that it’s never slow and I never have any downtime. This morning was definitely one of the overwhelming times. After typing out seventeen (yes, I said SEVENTEEN!) pages of emails and letters between 7:30 and noon, I walked in to our daily meeting feeling a little stressed. When my boss handed me a stack of additional work about 10 miles high, and then handed me two dictation devices chock-full of uber-important emails that needed to get out immediately, it was all I could not to cry.
I mean, I only had two hands.
But wouldn’t it be cool if I had more than two hands? I could get so much more accomplished.
On the other hand, I’d need additional arms to put the hands on, otherwise they wouldn’t be all that helpful.
Come to think of it, having extra arms would probably be frustrating, since I could never buy clothes at the store. I’d have to make my own shirts, with their own extra armholes, and that would just defeat the time-saving purpose of having additional arms in the first place.
And you know, it’d probably kind of weird/gross looking. I doubt the Bean fantasizes about coming home a stressed-out wife, waving strange tentacle-arms in every direction, going on and on about needing to go to the fabric store to buy more cloth for her arm-holes….
On the other hand, what if I could make the arms appear and disappear at will, like Stitch off of Lilo and Stitch?
Eww… what if I had to look like that in order to make it happen? No… no. The Bean’s an understanding guy, but I don’t think he would really appreciate me morphing into a squat, bug-eyed blue thing just to get stuff done. That’s not sexy at all.
OOOoh! What if I were like Inspector Gadget?
He was pretty normal-looking. He had a really cool hat, too. I could make my extra arms come out of my awesome hat, and then just retract them at will, and it would be…
My Boss: “Becky, did you get all that? It’s important that these emails get out before three.”
Verbal Diarrhea Becky: “Go, go, Gadget hands!”
Boss: Blank stare.
Verbal Diarrhea Becky: “Gadget hands! Like Inspector Gadget? You know, from Nickelodeon?”
Boss: Blank stare.
Verbal Diarrhea Becky: “He had all those hands that came out of his cool hat…. Don’t you remember the theme song? Doo-doo-doo-doo-DOOT, Inspector GADget… Dooo-doo-doo-doo-doot-DOOOO-dooo…”
Boss: Blank stare. Raised eyebrow.
Awkward silence.
Verbal Diarrhea Becky: “Uh, yes sir. I’ll get right on these.”
SIGH.
It always makes so much more sense in my head.
I bought a new pair of pants. They fit comfortably, were on sale, and look nice.
There’s only one problem—I keep forgetting to cut off the electronic tag the store left on them.
It doesn’t bother me when I’m wearing them, and the only time I remember it’s even there is when I walk through the sensors on the way in or out of a store and set off the shoplifting alarm.
You’d think after the second or third time I’d remember.
Heck, you’d think after the first or second MONTH I’d remember.
Sadly, no.
Every time I set off the alarm, I vow that TODAY! will be the day I finally rid those pants of that stupid shoplifting tag. I mean, it says “REMOVE BEFORE WASHING OR WEARING” on it in huge letters. You’d think I’d be able to remember that.
Again… sadly, no.
Aarenex? This one’s for you.
Last Friday I decided to man up and make my way over to the library to pay off my library fines. I had a long drive ahead of me, and there’s nothing better than listening to a book on tape to make a long drive seem short.
For the record, I *highly* recommend TH1RTEEN R3ASONS WHY . It’s a little raw and it’s definitely not a happy book, but it’s a beautiful, extremely well-written story. To top it off, the actors they chose for the audiobook were some of the best I’ve ever heard. Heck, it was so good that on the way home I missed my offramp off the freeway by, oh… six or seven cities.
Anyways, back to the library.
After making my selection from the audiobooks I made my way to the front counter to settle up and check out the items. The librarian was a courteous, somewhat reserved blue-haired lady and my attempts at small talk and self-deprecating humor fell completely flat. It quickly became obvious that she did not find overdue library books to be a laughing matter. At all.
At ALL.
We fell into an uneasy silence, and as she handed me my books she gave me a pointed look. “These are due on the TWENTY-SEVENTH.”
I nodded, blushing and properly chastised. And as I do whenever I’m feeling uncomfortable, I began babbling.
“Twenty-seventh. Yup! Definitely gonna have them back before then. I mean, it’d just be embarrassing to have to pay more fines. Nope. Not gonna happen!” I continued to edge my way to the exit. “ Twenty-seventh. Gotcha. I’ll write it on my calendar. Not gonna be late! Nope! Twenty-sev…”
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
I felt my face grow instantly beet-red as I set off the sensors with my STUPID pants tag, once again.
The librarian arched an eyebrow at me.
“It’s the, uh, tag. I’ve got, uh, a tag. I’m not stealing anything. Uh, why would anyone… I mean, that’s just silly. I mean, it’s just clothes… uh…. the tag’s fault…” I trailed off, desperately.
What is it about setting off those stupid sensors that makes me feel like I really DO have something to hide? I know perfectly well I’ve never shoplifted a day in my life, yet every time one of those shoplifting sensors goes off I feel like I’ve crammed an armload of merchandise down the front of my pants and have been caught trying to make a break for it.
I decided to try to explain my red face and stuttering one last time to the librarian.
What I intended on saying was, “Pardon me, Miss Librarian, but I have neglected to cut the tag off of this relatively new pair of pants. This tag, designed to be removed upon returning home has accidentally tripped your sensors. I am not attempting to hide anything from you, despite my blush and apparently guilty countenance. If you would like, I could return to the counter to prove my innocence. Thank you for your patience with my bumbling. I appreciate your courteous service, and I thoroughly respect you.”
Instead, I turned around, looked the blue-haired librarian straight in the eye, and loudly wailed, “I feel like I have something in my pants!”
The librarian stared at me in disdain, prim eyebrows hiking up slightly.
Horrified, I tried again.
“I mean, I feel like I have something DOWN my pants. I don’t. My pants are empty.” Oh, geez. C’mon, Becky. You can do this.
The library was silent. All eyes were on me— the babbling, red-faced woman. I had one last chance to set the record straight.
“I don’t have anything in my pants, but it feels like I do! But there isn’t. I’m not stealing. It’s a tag!” I finished, loudly.
I gave up. I turned around, strode through the sensors again (BEEP!BEEP!BEEP!BEEP!) and practically ran to my car.
Stupid library. Stupid librarian. I’m going to have to sneak back under the cover of darkness to return those audio books. They’ve probably got a restraining order against me now.
I really need to learn how to monitor what comes out of my mouth.
In most people, it seems like the pathway between their brain and their mouth is a small, narrow tube with several filters and checkpoints along the way.
I was not born with a small, narrow tube.
I was not born with filters or checkpoints.
I have a gigantic, 8-lane highway with no speed limit. Thoughts zoom past each other at hundreds of miles per hour, all jostling and crowding each other in an attempt to come out of my mouth first.
I am known for many things.
Tact and delicacy are not among them.
The other day I was having dinner with a couple of friends.
Actually, since I might as well be honest, I called up my friends and basically begged them to invite me to dinner. Even though they already had dinner plans with several couples I’ve never met, they still invited me over.
How dumb of them. They ought to know better by now.
I managed to keep my foot out of my mouth for most of the evening. I made bland, polite conversation with people, and laughed in all the right places.
That is, until dinner.
As the table conversation ebbed and flowed, eventually the topic turned to the pets. After a few funny stories, the conversation took a more depressing turn. Apparently, one of the couples at the table have a beloved pet rabbit. Apparently, this rabbit is one o fthose house-trained bunnies that runs around and has the use of the entire house and does his business in a litter box. And apparently, their pet bunny is the rabbit version of Houdini.
Unfortunately, no matter how they tried to keep him in the house, Mr. Nibbles kept escaping. The couple would leave for work and every day,without fail, they come home to find their beloved pet rabbit grazing in their front yard. After a couple of weeks of sleuthing, they finally found the bunny’s escape route.
High-fiving each other, they plugged the hole up tightly, and all was well.
That is, until about a week later, when they came home to find the bunny, YET AGAIN, laying on their lawn. Unfortunately, Mr. Nibbles wasn’t doing so well. They’re not sure what happened (car? Cat? Jump from a high window?), but somehow the Mr. Nibbles had become partially paralyzed. Although he seemed to be in no discomfort, Mr. Nibbles’ back end no longer works. He drags himself around the house with his little bunny paws, back end trailing uselessly behind him.
At this point in the story, everyone grew very somber. How sad. Poor Mr. Nibbles.
Except for me.
“If he’s paralyzed, how is he using the bathroom?” I asked in a chipper, your-poor-paralyzed-bunny-doesn’t-bother-me tone of voice. “How is he able to make it into the litter box if he can only drag himself by his front legs?”
Mr. Owner answered sadly, “He can’t make it. Poor Mr. Nibbles tries, but he can’t make it over the edge. It’s sad. We have to bathe him daily now.”
The entire table made sad noises, murmuring sympathy. Poor, poor, poor Mr. Nibbles. Poor Mr. Nibbles owners.
Except for me.
“So he’s got no bladder control? He’s just going whenever he feels like it, all over your house now? You guys aren’t keeping him in a cage? Rabbit pee is really hard to get out.” I shook my head somberly, taking a big bite of food. Poor, poor Mr. Carpet.
Mr. Owner’s mouth tightened slightly. “He can’t help himself. He’s paralyzed. We have to carry him to food and water, or he’d die.” He heaved a big sigh, and pushed his food away. Obviously Mr. Nibbles’ predicament was ruining his appetite. He reached over and grabbed his wife’s hand in a show of support. “We did some research, and we’re thinking of building him a little cart.”
From around the table, there was a general murmuring of positive support.
“We think it’s really going to help. We’ve done the research, and all we would need to do is build a tiny little sling for his back end. With the wheels, Mr. Nibbles could pull himself around the house, just like the old days.” He and his wife shared a quavering smile.
The murmuring around the table grew in volume. Oh, yes. Yes. What a wonderful idea. How heartwarming. You know, someone had even seen a documentary about a poor, paralyzed Chihuahua who had lived many, happy years with a wheelchair sling of his very own. How sweet. How caring. What a lovely idea. What a lucky rabbit, Mr. Nibbles was.
And somewhere, in the middle of all that positive affirmation, my brain vomited out another random thought. Obediently, my mouth began to flap.
“You know, if you did that, you could probably find him a home on Craigslist. I’m sure there are plenty of people out there who would want a paralyzed rabbit with a cart. It’s got that whole tug-at-the-heartstrings aspect to it. Just take some cute photos of him wheeling himself around and you’d have tons of people calling. Heck, you could even sell him for a decent chunk of money, recoup the cart costs and get yourselves a healthy rabbit.”
From around the table there was a stunned silence, which gave me a disastrous few seconds to think up the real clincher:
“Heh. Just make sure you don’t sell him to any homes that have cats. Heh-heh. Meals on Wheels. Heh. Heh.”
I looked up from the steak I’d been cutting to find myself on the receiving end of 8 identical stares of disgust.
Oh. Hmmm. Maybe I should have kept that last part to myself?
Stupid brain. Stupid mouth. Stupid lack of tact. This is why I don’t leave the house anymore. I can’t be trusted in polite society.
I enter the room, leading with my hips. I don’t really walk across the office to my chair— I stalk. I prowl. I glide, with each movement promising a slow, torturous pleasure. Hot. Sensuous. I can feel the temperature in the chilly office rising by the second.
When I take my place in the chair across from his desk, I do so carefully, leaning back with an artful abandon and crossing my legs a la Sharon Stone in front of me. I throw my arms wide across the back of the seat, fingers toying playfully with the fabric.
“So,” I say, raising one hand to run my fingers through my hair, tousling it until it falls in sexy, messy waves around my shoulders. I glance at him from beneath my lashes, eyebrows raised. I give a sultry little laugh. “I bet you can’t guess what The Bean and I were doing two months ago.”
Yeah.
So.
Does anyone else have any better suggestions for breaking the news of my pregnancy to my boss?
I asked my stupid brain for ideas and that’s the only scenario it seems to come up with. I think it wants to torture me, because it knows how embarrassed I am about bringing up the subject. Seriously, how does one do this? There’s no polite way to lead into a conversation like that. “Oh, you want me to order you an extra box of pencils? Heh—- speaking of pencils…..”
Help me out guys. I’m drawing a complete blank here. I mean, it wouldn’t be so bad… except that no matter how I look at it, I am pretty much announcing to my conservative, Christian boss that The Bean and I were engaging in loud, sweaty hanky–panky last April. How the heck do I go about doing that?
Do I tell him face to face? Do I go into his office, go over to his side of the desk and elbow him in his side, saying, “I’m going to need some time off in January, if you know what I mean. Nudge, nudge. Wink, Wink.”
What if I take the chicken way out and leave a note? How the heck do I word it?
We need to talk.”
What if his wife finds that? I’m thinking it wouldn’t go over too well.
The whole idea of blurting out my pregnancy suddenly seems beyond embarrassing. You’d think I’d be better at it since this is my second time in the land of the knocked-up. The problem is, last time I was so embarrassed to bring it up to anyone that… well… I didn’t.
Nope.
I told one or two people whoI knew loved to gossip, and I let them do all the dirty work.
Of course, that little method didn’t work so well for me in the end, know that I think about it.
Do you know what the definition of awkward is? Having your own father call you three weeks before you are due and asking you if the rumors of your pregnancy and new husband are true.
Awwww–kwwwwaaaaard.
Yeah.
I am the queen of procrastination. Just try and beat that.
Wait. On second thought, don’t try to beat it. Use your creative tendencies to try and help me come up with professional ways of breaking the news of this pregnancy. I obviously need all the help I can get.
Duuuuuude.
I am SO sorry.
Look, there are people who can puke quietly, and there are people who can’t.
As I’m sure you’re all aware by now, I can’t.
I am not one of those quiet, dainty pukers.
I wish I was, though. Trust me, I’d much rather head into the bathroom and deposit my breakfast/lunch/snack/whatever into the toilet with nothing more than a delicate cough. It’d be awesome. I could be, like, a dainty little geisha of morning sickness.
But I’m not.
I’m so sorry. For both our sakes.
Look, I’m sorry that it sounds like I’m waging a great and epic battle. I’m really not. There’s no angry horde that I’m fighting against. There’s no bellowing minotaur attacking me in the bathroom stall.
It’s just me. Puking. And I know you don’t believe it, but I’m really trying to be quiet about it.
Sorry.
So now that I’ve explained myself, do you think it’s possible that you could stop crowding around the door of the bathroom, whispering in awe? It’s kind of embarrassing enough as it is.
Thanks!
Gross.
I’m sorry, guys. I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but I am.
So, this weekend I had a unique puking experience. I was sitting in front of the computer when I suddenly realized I had made the huge mistake of letting my stomach get slightly empty.
On a side note: Dear Squidgelet. You are the size of a kidney bean. Do you have any idea how pathetically small that is? I know you don’t want to hear this, but really. C’mon. Do you REALLY need me to eat every 45 minutes? You do realize that one bite of a hamburger would be enough calories to feed you for a week, right? If you’re really worried about our supply, have you even taken a moment to look around? Don’t you see that gigantic bubble butt Mama’s carting around with her? I assure you’ve I’ve packed away ample supplies for, oh, two pregnancies. And a small third-world nation. Seriously, kid. Lighten up. I’ve got this whole not-starving thing under control.
Anyways, like I was saying, I had committed the cardinal sin of not cramming food down my mouth for at least an hour. CRAP. Desperate, I lunged at the nearest bit of food I could find— which just so happened to be an opened bag of Skittles.
Cool. It’s not often that you can find uneaten candy lurking around the Bean household, so I definitely hit jackpot. I wolfed the package down rapidly, and sat sweating in front of the computer, trying to see if I had eaten in time.
I hadn’t.
Right about the time I felt that weird, prickly, cold sweat start on my upper lip, I knew. So, off to the bathroom I dashed, scrabbling to tie my hair back in a scrunchy. I made it, but just in time.
And do you know what?
Skittles puke is rather artistic. The colors mix together like a vibrant little easter egg, and it’s actually quite pretty.
No, no, really. It is.
No, REALLY. I’m being serious here.
I want you all to know that I came THIIIIIIIIIIS close to hollering at the Bean like an excited pre-schooler when I was done. “Bean! Come in here! Look what I made!”
What made the whole experience even a little more fun, was the entire time I was heaving into the toilet, I heard that darn girl’s voice whispering in my head. Sigh.
I’m such a victim of marketing campaigns.
It all started out so innocently.
Lately, eating has lost its appeal for me. Trust me— once you’ve shot Mint ice cream out your nose so hard that you had a nosebleed for an hour, food just doesn’t look all that edible.
On a side note— why can’t I vomit like a normal person? Seriously. This whole constant-vomit thing would be a lot easier if I could just find a way to make it come out my mouth, and not my nose.
Let’s all say it together: “EWWWWWWwwwwww.”
So, yeah. Moving on. Like I’ve said before, morning sickness sucks.
Nevertheless, life goes on. I’ve got a couple more weeks of this (C’mon, second trimester!). On Monday, after nibbling listlessly at stale Triscuit crackers for the better part of the morning, I took my lunch hour and went to the overly fancy, over-priced grocery store that’s near my work: Bristol Farms.
The difference between Bristol Farms and a regular grocery store is the same difference between Nordstroms and Walmart. Only classy people seem to shop at Bristol Farms (they’re probably the only people who can afford it), and the sales people fall all over themselves in an effort to ensure that your grocery shopping experience is all that you hope it can be. Seriously— I think if I asked them to bag my groceries in the hide of an endangered baby spotted seal, they’d probably do it. It’s a pretty neat store, with a great bakery, delicious fruits, and a ridiculously large selection of cheeses. Maybe I’m being a little dumb here, but how many different kinds of cheeses does this world need? It’s cheese. You put lots and lots of it on everything, and it makes things better. Seriously, people, it’s not rocket science.
My only complaint about Bristol Farms (aside from the price of everything) is that everyone who shops there looks like they just stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine. Do you think I’m exaggerating? I dare you: The next time you are in Southern California, go to the Newport Beach Bristol Farms and see if I’m lying. I’m not. It’s almost creepy how beautiful everyone is. Most of the people there during the lunch hour are upper-class executive types who have stopped by for their power lunch. All the men are over 5’11” and glowing with bronzed muscles, expensive clothing, and exuding an all-around aura of health and vitality. The only women who aren’t a size 1 or lower are one or two really gorgeously curved stay-at-home-moms in a size 3, dressed in running clothes and obviously on their way back down to a size 1. They fill their baskets with things like organic tofu and bean curd, and probably even find a way to buy diet fruit.
Insecure much? Me? Nah.
Anyways, last Monday I was walking around Bristol Farms, basket dangling from my arm, letting Squidgelet do some shopping. The Squidgelet method of grocery shopping entails me wandering up and down the aisles, staring at stuff, imagining eating it, and then letting Squidgelet increase or decrease the nausea to let me know whether he/she approves. I’ve tried eating healthy and forcing the angry little bean inside me to obey my salad-and-boiled-egg preferences, but I never win. Healthy food equals an immediate puking. Letting Squidgelet choose lunch usually means I’ll keep down at least half of it. I’ve learned not to argue.
The first thing that seemed like it might work was a piece of string cheese. I grabbed a piece and threw it in my basket… then realized that I might as well grab a couple and stock up for the week. So I grabbed a couple of string cheeses, and then threw in several individually wrapped cheddar slices just in case I got the urge for a couple later on in the week.
I wandered down the aisle a little further, and passed the soda section. Oooh! If I grabbed a Dr. Pepper, I might actually be able to mask the taste of my prenatal vitamin. Good thinking, Becky!
I wandered the rest of the store, but nothing looked good. I glanced down at my nearly-empty basket and sighed. A piece of string cheese was not going to hold me through the day. I needed something with substance, even if I would probably puke it back up later.
I wandered over to the Deli & Prepared food section and glanced around, but nothing seemed appealing. Still, I needed to eat something. I grabbed a little to-go tray and scooped a miniscule amount of macaroni and cheese into the corner. If Squidgelet wanted string cheese, maybe he/she would accept macaroni and cheese too? Grabbing the next spatula, I scooped a small amount of beef pasta into the other corner. The pregnancy books always say protein helps morning sickness, right?
I stared at the nearly empty tray in my hand, and at the lonely little bits of pasta in them. I couldn’t bring this up to the front. I’d look stupid if I bought a tray with only 2 spoonfuls of food. Grabbing at random, I snagged the spatula that belonged to the vegetable lasagna, and went to slice myself off a piece.
The spatula slipped.
Suddenly, instead of a tiny slice of lasagna, I had cut myself a WAD of lasagna. It was enormous. Gigantic. Cake-sized. Garfield would have been satisfied with this slice of lasagna.
I glanced around, and sure enough, there was a woman waiting in line behind me. I mean, I couldn’t put the slice back, right? She’d probably get all offended. Barely managing to balance the behemoth on the spatula, I put it in my to-go tray, where it almost didn’t fit.
Great. I was now the proud owner of 97 pounds of vegetable lasagna. Lucky me.
Tossing the container in my basket, I made my way to the checkout counter. It was there, standing beside the candy aisle, that I realized the entire reason for my visit: I wanted— no. I NEEDED a Twix.
I stared at the Twix.
The Twix stared back at me.
I began to drool slightly. In my entire life, I’ve never seen anything that looked tastier than that Twix.
The golden wrapper winked at me seductively. Hey baby. Headed my way?
Heck, YEAH, I’m headed your way!
I tossed one into my basket, then realized that one probably wouldn’t be enough. This was the first thing that had looked appealing in weeks. Surely this was an occasion to celebrate? I tossed in a second, gleefully. Two Twixes. Four little chocolately bars, all to my own. Ah, sweetness.
Standing there with my now-full basket, I realized that I was sandwiched in line between two outstandingly fit, good-looking people. The Asian woman in front was a vision of loveliness. Petite and beautiful in an expensive skirt business suit, she looked like she’d just wandered off the set of Ally McBeal. I mention her race because in my experience, certain Asian ethnicities take “petite” to a whole new level. While totally proportional, this woman was TINY. I tried to find some sort of reference for how tiny she was, and finally realized that her hips were the size of my thigh.
Let me emphasize that again: her entire hips were the size of my ONE thigh.
It was hard to believe we were even the same species.
Suddenly grossed out at my disgustingly large whiteness, I glanced behind me and saw Brad Pitt.
Okay, maybe it wasn’t Brad Pitt. I think it was his better-looking younger brother.
Red faced, nauseous, and feeling completely unattractive, I turned around to face forward, starting at Little-Miss-Tiny-and-Perfect in annoyance.
She placed one tiny package of sushi rolls on the conveyor, neatly arranging the singular package low-sodium soy sauce beside the chopsticks.
I glanced behind me at Mr. Pitt. In his hands he held (of course) a protein bar.
Sighing, I repositioned my basket and unloaded my oversized sugary soda, a several-pound plate of cheesy lasagna, several candy bars, and finally dumping the approximately 47 pieces of cheese in a large mound over the pile.
Behind me, Mr. Pitt carefully placed a divider bar between us before laying his lonely protein bar on the conveyor belt.
I swear, I’ve never felt so fat in my entire life.
Technically, it wasn’t skinny dipping.
We may have been mostly naked, but we weren’t completely naked. Obviously, if we still had some clothes on, it wasn’t skinny dipping.
That said, I’ve never had much luck with skinny dipping.
The first time I engaged in a mixed-gender skinny dipping fiasco (yes, sadly, there has been more than one fiasco) was when I was working as the wrangler up at the ranch. The day had been magical—it was one of those days that they show on movies or magazine ads—the kind that seem too perfect to be real and never really happen to you.
The morning’s rides had been perfect, and the weather surprisingly cool. The morning workload was wonderfully light, as we were mostly getting ready for the gymkhana the stable was going to be hosting that afternoon. The afternoon contests started out light and fun, but it soon became obvious that it wasn’t going to last. There was a tenseness in the afternoon breeze that signaled the approaching summer storm long before we saw any signs of it in the cloudless sky. When it finally did arrive, it slammed in with gusto. Within a few short minutes the sky disappeared behind dark, angry thunderheads that appeared out of nowhere. The earth shaking crack of thunder signaled a very abrupt end to the afternoon’s gymkhana. People scattered with their horses back to the barns, and the cooks struggled to cover the barbeque pits with tarps that snapped violently in the unpredictable gusts.
It should have been scary, unsaddling the horses that were panicky from the way the lightening cracked violently all around us, but somehow it wasn’t. Maybe it was stupidity, maybe it was youth, but the afternoon held an almost magical feel. Despite the danger of the electrical storm that swirled around us, it felt as if nothing could actually go wrong. It became a race to see if we could get it done before the obviously impending downpour. Laughing, we ducked and weaved around the fidgeting, frightened horses, stripping saddles with an impressive speed. The horses danced nervously, manes and tails twisting in the unpredictable storm wind. Even the most bombproof were threatening to set back against their rope halters, and the hurried motions of the other wranglers and I weren’t helping anything.
One of the other wranglers who was about my age, Jordan, grinned at me from over the back of a lanky thoroughbred cross named Parrot.
“Slow poke” he challenged.
“Oh yeah?” I shot back, sliding the half hitch of the latigo knot free, releasing the cinch with a speed that caused it to almost hiss in the air. “Then why do I have my saddle off already?”
With a grin, I slung the lightweight cordura over my hip and ran laughing to the barn, Jordan only steps behind me. Both of us tossed the lightweight Corduras on the nearest available rack, instead of hunting down the individual horse’s rack. We’d figure out the mess later. We ran neck and neck towards the nearest saddled horses, slowing down just enough to prevent panicking them.
I wish someone had a stop watch, because even hampered by laughter we must have set some sort of a record for unsaddling 20 head. Flinging wide the gates to the pasture and starting with the horses nearest the gate, we loosened the halters of each gelding, shooing them towards their freedom with their hands. We didn’t have to ask twice— each gelding set out towards their freedom in a long, swinging trot. By the time Jordan set the last one free, the hitching rail was dotted with abandoned halters that were twisting in the wind. I slammed the gate behind the last of gelding, latching it firmly, and right on cue the heavens opened up. Jordan and I were drenched in seconds, but that didn’t keep us from scurrying for the cover of the feedtruck, our progress hampered by the fact that we were both bent double from the force of our laughter.
We fed in record time. While the blue feed truck may have had four wheel drive, the sheer force of the rain had turned the dry pasture into a soupy mess within minutes, and we barely managed to slip and slide our way out of the muck. My best friend Angela had crawled inside the truck as we’d loaded it in the hay barn, and after we closed the pasture gate behind us, the three of us sat in the truck ,soaking wet but not really cold. We stared at the previously well-groomed arena, at the mudpit it had now become.
I cocked an eyebrow at Angela, grinned, and nodded my head in the direction of the arena. I’m not sure how she knew what I was thinking, but she caught my intentions immediately, nodded, and grinned back.
I glanced over at Jordan coolly. “Last one in has to load the feedtruck tomorrow!” I shouted, flinging the door wide as I sprinted for the arena.
Angela followed with a whoop of laughter, Jordan following a second later and three two of us slid between the pipe rails into the slimy, ankle-deep mud of the arena. If mud had a rating system, it would have been 5 star mud… slimy, slippery and oddly soft, it was the Hyatt Regency of mud, the Bloomingdale’s of mud, the…
Oh, whatever. It was mud, and it was fun.
The three of us engaged in belly-slides and mudball fights for the greater part of an hour as the heavens dumped a deluge of warm summer rain onto us. Eventually we exhausted ourselves, energy tapering off with the rain. Panting and grinning, we sat in the arena in our uniformly brown outfits. The moment felt oddly peaceful.
“This is going to be a bear to wash off,” Angela said slightly ruefully, staring at the muddy ends of the crusty ropes of hair that hung over her shoulder.
“Yeah,” I replied. “Maybe we should just jump into the pool and wash it off.” The ranch had a pristine swimming pool that was the beloved child of one of the maintenance workers. He pampered it like a woman does a newborn, and the thought of his reaction to us jumping into the clear waters in our currently filthy state made us all laugh.
“Well,” Jordan said thoughtfully as we quieted, “There is the lake.”
The “lake” on the property was a small, manmade affair. While you could rent paddleboats and fish in it, swimming and wading was strictly prohibited.
On the other hand…. Who wants to live near a lake and never go swimming in it? The rule had always chafed me slightly. Lakes are made of water. Water is made for swimming, right?
“We could wait until dark and do it,” I said, warming to the idea.
“Why wait? Everyone’s going to be inside because of the storm. Besides, it’s almost sunset now. It’ll be dark in twenty minutes. Who’s gonna see us?” Jordan pushed himself up to a standing position, hand reaching behind him to dust the slime off his rear end in useless, automatic gesture.
I looked over at Angela, who glanced at me. We both nodded at the same time.
“Let’s cut behind through the woods and come out behind the reeds,” I said. “There’s no use being obvious about it. Security will have our heads if they catch us.”
We cut through the soggy woods, laughing as the drooping limbs of undergrowth drenched us and pulled at our clothes. We spilled out of the woods at the right spot, ducking low and peeking around before we darted to hide in the tall reeds that lined the edge of the pond.
I stared at the murky water, suddenly hesitant. The bottom of the lake was filled with long strands of algae and some kind of grass, and it looked eerily like the scene from the Lord of the Rings trilogy where the dead kings reach out skeletal hands and suck Frodo into the lake.
I promptly shared this out loud, causing Angela to snap at me, “SHUT UP! Don’t talk about that now.”
Jordan rolled his eyes. “Girls,” he muttered, kicking off his shoes before he strode firmly into the lake.
Not to be outdone, I followed behind him a second later, the water surprisingly warm. I did my best to ignore the unnerving feel of slimy plants grabbing at my toes, ducking low and immersing myself up to my neck. Angela followed slowly.
“Duck down,” I whispered to her. “Less chance of someone seeing you, and if you’re swimming you can’t feel the bottom with your toes.”
The three of us swam over to a secluded corner of the lake and splashed for about fifteen minutes, growing braver at the deserted ranch grounds as the sun sank behind the mountains. Because it was both the height of summer and also because of the way the mountains were situated, twilight seemed to last forever at the ranch. I breathed deep, floating on my back, filling my soul with the peace of the moment.
I’m not sure how the subject came up, but somehow in our whispered conversations, it turned out that Jordan had never skinny dipped. Never. Not by himself, not with other guys— never.
I don’t know, maybe because we were both total sluts when it came to skinny dipping (I lost my skinny-dipping-ginity at fourteen and have never looked back), but both Angela and I found Jordan’s inexperience in this area absolutely appalling. Through a series of winning arguments, threats against his manliness (complete with vague references to his cowardice and lack of genitalia) we talked him into the idea. After all, I reasoned, it’s not like we could see anything. The darkening sky had turned the water an almost inky black.
With hushed, embarrassed giggles, the three of us drifted away from each other, slowly shrugging out of our clothing. I laid my shirt on a tree branch, hung my bra on a broken reed and awkwardly peeled my way out of my pants, coughing and gagging slightly as I accidentally swallowed a gallon of lake water in the process. I paused before stripping off my underwear, glancing over at the other two. “Are you guys doing this too?” Angela nodded, wiggling beneath the water as she struggled with her heavy jeans.
Jordan nodded, then added, “I’m going to keep my boxers on, though. I don’t trust the mud here.”
Angela and I tripped over each other’s protestations in low tones, and the three of us began arguing.
“That’s cheating!”
“Then it’s not–“
“You’re being a wimp!”
“It’s the same thing, I’m just keeping my boxers on.”
“You have to take—”
“Not skinny dipping if you’re wearing—”
“It all a waste, otherwise—“
Suddenly, the three of us shrank down in the water, silent, the argument regarding the technicalities of skinny dipping instantly unimportant.
The sound of the security truck driving slowly along the lake had reached our ears.
“Yeah, I got reports that some kids was swimmin’ in the lake. Checkin’ it out now,” the security guard said, speaking into his radio. A staticky, garbled reply came back. “Yeah, 10-4. I’m on the east side now. I’m gonna circle round then check it out on foot. Send Jim on down to help me.”
There was no real crime to speak of on the ranch. The security guards here were usually bored out of their minds, and the excitement in the guard’s voice was evident. He just might actually get a chance to catch someone in wrongdoing– Hot damn!
Horrified, Jordan, Angela and I stared at each other. Not only was swimming not allowed, but as employees the three of us would probably be written up if we were caught. To make matters even worse, I was technically Jordan’s boss. It was a technicality we tended to ignore in the relaxed atmosphere of the stables, but I knew that management wouldn’t see it that way. I didn’t know the repercussions for breaking ranch rules and being caught naked in public with one of your employees, but I’m sure they weren’t good.
Immediately, Jordan and Angela began whispering furiously.
“We need to make a break for it! We need to run while the truck is on the far side of the lake!”
“Yeah, good plan! We’ll bolt for the bathrooms!”
“Toss me my shirt!”
Hissing at them, I swiped my hand across my neck in a furious “CUT IT OUT!” motion. The sound of their whispering sounded absurdly loud. Even the sound of the light movement of the water sounded like gunshots to me in the relative quiet of the evening. I mouthed at them, “SHUT UP”, then used my hands to motion to them, “LAY FLAT.”
With the dark of the evening I figured we could hide in the shallows of the lake. The corner we were swimming in had unusually thick foliage—willows and reeds providing a perfect cover. The density of the foliage of the shoreline made it impossible for any of the guards to peer directly into the area. I didn’t think the guards had it in them to make more than two or three rounds of the lake. We could out wait them. Time was on our side, after all. Every moment it was growing steadily darker. It just made sense to wait and hide. Once it was dark we could sneak out of the lake and then walk carefully to the bathrooms. Sprinting and running would only draw attention to us.
Jordan and Angela glanced at me as I motioned them to silence, then ignored me as if I hadn’t said a word. Technically, I hadn’t. After all, if you’re trying not to get caught, shouldn’t you be silent?
They continued arguing in loud whispers, and I decided I had a better chance of not getting caught on my own. I drifted closer to them, and hissed out, “If you guys run, fine. But I’m going to wait it out. Don’t you DARE rat on me if you get caught. You keep me out of this— I’m on my own.”
I pushed away from them and drifted silently back to my hiding spot in the reeds. I winced as the two of them splashed loudly as they struggled back into their clothing, loudly whispering the entire time. Amateurs.
They waited until the truck was on the opposite side of the lake before loudly crashing out of the water, bolting in the directions of the bathrooms. To my amazement, they actually made it.
The silence after they left was at first comforting, then oddly creepy. I could hear the sound of mosquitoes as they began to swarm around me and the occasional croak as the frogs began coming out for the night. The bats were also emerging from their daytime slumber, and had started swooping at the patches of bugs that hung around the lake. I tried to ignore the universal girl-fear that they might dive at the mosquitoes around me and get caught in my hair.
Slowly, silently, I began struggling into my pants. I’m here to let you know it’s not all that easy to pull on wet jeans, submerged in water, without making a sound.
Halfway through the long process I heard the sound of a second security truck drawing near, and I sank deep in the shallow water, spilling my hair over face in an attempt to blend in.
I was invisible.
I was silent.
I was One With the Reeds. I was Secret Ninja Becky. I was She Who Could Not be Seen. I was…
Still naked from the waist up, and SOMETHING WAS SQUIRMING UNDERNEATH ME AS I PRESSED MYSELF BELLY DOWN INTO THE MUD. I COULD FEEL ITS FRANTIC WIGGLES AS IT TRIED TO FREE ITSELF, CRAWLING SLOWLY OVER MY BARE STOMACH.
Stifling the urge to scream a ninny girl scream, I bit my lower lip, breath whistling through my nostrils in panicked little snorts. The security truck stopped and I heard the sound of the driver getting out of the car.
Of course he was getting out of the truck right by me.
Of course he was.
Of course, as he approached my hiding place to look down with a flashlight, he spooked a frog into jumping from the bank… right onto my shoulder.
Of course he did.
I felt it land on my shoulder, sliding off into the water with a soft little plop.
To this day, I still consider it one of my crowning achievements that I didn’t burst out of that lake, half-naked and screaming. I didn’t even move. I breathed through my mouth, motionless as the frog slid off my shoulder into the water, barely breathing as the guard inevitably shined the light directly at me.
I held my breath. Squirmy, my new belly friend, redoubled its efforts to escape as I tried to press down lower in the mud. I closed my eyes and tried pretend that this wasn’t happening…
I had actually left with Angela and Jordan, and I was back in the bathrooms laughing it up…
I wasn’t still trapped in the Lake of Doom… No, no…. I wasn’t there at all. I wasn’t trying to hide in shallow reeds while the guard’s flashlight swept restlessly right over me.
I wasn’t lying half naked in who-knows what, in a black lake that looked just like the swampland in the Lord of the Rings, where all the half-rotted kings with their soulless eyes tried to drag Frodo to his death, gaping mouths shouting worldless screams… necrotic skin probably squishy and pliable, just like the squirming finger-long thing that was sliding around beneath my stomach…
The guard’s radio squawked. He answered, moving his flashlight further down the willows. “Yeah, yeah, I just looked there. That’s where they saw ‘em? They ain’t there. I’m gonnna walk the lake and see if I can find them.”
I could have cried with relief. The second the guard had moved far enough away not to hear me, I pushed myself half up in the mud and Squirmy, whatever it was, darted free.
I figured if I was quick, I could finish pulling my pants on, throw on my shirt, grab my bra and run like hell for the bathrooms.
I managed phase one, wiggling the sodden jeans up over my hips.
I drifted slowly back to the place where my shirt was… and that’s exactly what I found. I found the place where my shirt WAS. I didn’t find my shirt. My bra was still hanging on the reed, but my shirt was gone. Gone. GONE, GONE, GONE. I pulled on my bra, and frantically felt around in the mud beneath the willow.
A shirt, a shirt… my kingdom for my shirt…. I had no luck. Try as I might, the shirt was nowhere to be found. Unbeknownst to me, Angela had seen it slipping off the branch and had moved it to another location before she exited the lake.
I glanced at the security truck, and then at the guard who was on the complete opposite end of the lake… and I decided to take my chances. There was no way I could survive another round of hiding in the Squirmy-infested mud while the guard tried to find me. I crawled up the bank of the lake, then decided to take my chances and cut through the area of the ranch that housed the owners’ trailers.
Trotting barefoot through the midst of the darkened trailers with my arms crossed over my itty bitty titties in their soggy bra wasn’t the most fun-filled adventure I’ve ever had, but at least I made it there without mishap. Pushing open the heavy door of the public showers, I darted into one of the shower stalls. I turned the nozzle to full blast, stripped my clothes off, then leaned back against the wall. I could hear someone else in the stall at the end.
“Angela?”
“Becky?” Angela’s voice sounded quavery, which surprised me. I would have thought she’d had plenty of time to get over her fear of being caught.
“Well, that plan couldn’t have gone ANY worse, could it?” I asked, half smiling as I shook my head.
Instead of an answer, I heard an ominous silence from Angela’s stall.
“Angela?”
“Uhh. Becky?”
I didn’t like her tone. I didn’t like her tone at all.
“What is it? Just say it, whatever it is, Angela.”
“Ummm. Is the mud coming off of you?” she sounded strangely quiet, as if she was doing her best to hold it together.
“I’ve got some stubborn specks but I’m mostly clean. Why?”
“Ummm. Look at the specks. I’m trying not to freak out here, but… are you sure it’s mud?”
I glanced down at tiny dots that clung to my skin and my belly. I picked at them with a finger, amazed at the how it clung to my skin.
I raised my arm, looking closer.
Leeches.
Oh, crap.
I was covered in tiny leeches.
“Angela?” I heard the horror in my voice. “Can you come give me a hand?”
You know, I’m sure that there’s a lot of dirty movies out there dedicated to two college girls taking a shower together. I’m willing to bet that there’s not a single one dedicated to two college girls taking a shower together… while pulling leeches off each other. It’s probably a good thing. Besides, it would have gotten a little monotonous after the first 20 or 30 leeches. Here is some sample dialogue:
“I found another one.”
“EWWW! Crap! Get it off! Get it off, get it off!”
“I’m trying… ewww! It’s stretching! Gross!”
“Getitoff, getitoff, getitoff, getitoff…EWW! Don’t drop it on my foot! Gross! Get it away fro me! EWWW! I see another one on your back!”
“EWWWW! Get it off of me! Now! Getitoff, getitoff, getitoff..”
And so on, and so forth.
So, there you go. That was my first co-ed “skinny dipping” event.
You’d think I might have learned my lesson and not tried for a round two.
*** BLOGGER ATE MY POST. I was trying to do some formatting (the numbers), and instead of ending up with neatly formatted numbers, IT ATE 90% OF MY POST. This was originally designed to go up on Thursday night. It has taken me that long to quit sulking like a teenager and sit back down to write it…. the problem is, I’ve never been good at revisions. I get really bored writing the same thing twice, so I’m sorry if this post lacks pizazz or whatever. It was hard to feel original when I was sitting in front of the computer thinking, “Wait… how did I say this before? I think I said it better the first time. What was that word again?” So, there. You’ve been warned.******
For the record— this is the first award I’ve ever won for my writing. Okay, I know it’s not a REAL award, but that didn’t stop me from hopping around my house like a hyperactive Chihuahua when I was first tagged… and then repeating the same hyperactive happiness when I was tagged again. So, thank you Oregon Sunshine and Ffyyahchild . You guys made my day!
I’m supposed to tag others, but I’m not sure who I am going to tag in response. I’ve been putting off responding to this until I can figure out who I am going to forward it to, but enough is enough! I’ll decide who I am going to poke a finger later.
So, for this award I am supposed to tell you seven things about myself that you do not know. So, let’s see…. I mean, I don’t know anyone out there all that well yet, so this should be easy! I want to make it interesting, though.
Alright, here goes!
1. I was twelve years old when I started reading romance novels. My mom thought I was too young to be reading the Sweet Valley High series— little did she know that I was staying up late at night to gawk at books with half-naked women and men with bulging loincloths on the cover. It’s not that I was particularly interested in romance— in fact, I was still in the stage where I thought boys were icky and would become angry when anyone ever told me I was going to get married one day (Hi, Bean! Love you, Bean! It’s not nearly as bad as I thought it was going to be!)
The problem was that my mom had been reading the books for years. Like me, she is a fast reader. Thankfully, there was a used book store just down the street. The used paperbacks were only .50 cents, and if you brought the books back in you could trade them in 2-for-1. About once a month my mom would throw together a box of already-read-books and head down to the store to switch them out. Usually she kept the books tightly locked up in her bedroom, but the day before the trip they would sit in a jumbled heap in our living room, calling me with their siren call. “I’m a boook,” they would sing. “An unread book… who knows what lives between my pages? Who knows what worlds you could discover?” Every month I’d try to resist their lure, but I would end up edging closer and closer to the box, finally sneaking one out of the box and studying the back cover.
“Put that down!” my mom would say, smacking it out of my hands. “You don’t need to fill your head with trash like that. I’ve told you to leave my books alone.”
Is it really any wonder that I snuck out late one night to steal one of the books?
It was the most terrifying/exhilarating thing I’d ever done, and by the time I’d finished inching my way back to my bedroom, I was almost sweating with fear. Armed with a flashlight, I threw the covers over my head and for the several hours over the next few nights, I read in gaping disbelief before stashing the book firmly beneath my mattress. Sure, I knew how babies were made, but this was on a whole new level. At one point, I remember reading a couple of lines, then peeking down my shirt, then reading a couple more lines doubtfully. My nipples were supposed to do WHAT? I poked a finger hesitantly at my nearly-flat chest, red-faced, waiting for the fiery torment of unrelenting passion to course through my body. It didn’t. Not only did I not feel the urge to fling myself with a longing cry on the nearest available man, I didn’t really feel anything at all. For years after that little experiment I hid the secret fear that had a pair of defective breasts.
3. Bruce Springstein. His name made no sense to me as a kid, and as a result I could never remember it. Spring BruceStein? Stein SpringBruce? Bruce SteinSpring? Spring SteinBruce?
4. Okay, this is next one is a doozy— this is one of my most closely guarded secret phobias, and I need you all to never, ever, EVER taking advantage of what I’m about to reveal. Promise? No, I mean do you PROMISE promise? I don’t want you just mouthing the words, I want your word that you won’t use this information against me. Okay? I have your word?
Imaginary sticky jump ropes.
No, I’m being serious here. Imaginary sticky jump ropes. They are my kryptonite. When I was 5 years old I couldn’t find a jump rope to play with during recess so I decided to just pretend that I had one. The only problem was, my imaginary jump rope wouldn’t work properly. Every time I tried to swing it in a loop over my head, I wasn’t able to get enough velocity and it would sag in the middle in a flaccid, useless pantomime of a jump rope. I tried several variations to make it work, but I never found the right way to make the imaginary jump rope swing properly. Even worse, if the jump rope touched my skin, it would immediately adhere to it. Apparently my imaginary jump rope was covered in a sticky, gooey, honey-like glue that would cause it to stick to whatever it touched.
If I grabbed it with my hand to take it off my forearm, it would stick to my hand.
If I tried to hold it down with my foot to peel my hand away, it would stick to the bottom of my shoe.
If I flipped my foot around to make it come off my shoe, the ends would waggle wildly and it would usually flip up and hit some other part of my body and adhere there.
If I could manage to make them stick to my shoe, I would usually quietly slip out of the shoe and abandon it in the house until I forgot that the imaginary sticky jump rope was supposed to be there. Sure, I looked a little silly hobbling around with one shoe on/one shoe off, but it was a small price to pay.
This may sound like just an amusing anecdote, but those imaginary sticky jump ropes plagued me for years. YEARS. I don’t know what this says about my psyche that my imagination became so real that I was unable to control it, but there you go. What made it even worse was that one day my sister saw me on the sofa, writhing around and picking at the “imaginary jump ropes” like some kind of meth addict. She asked me what was wrong with me, and in my stupidity I told her.
Older sisters are not known for their kind, loving natures.
She immediately told my dad, and the two of them proceeded to harass me endlessly. “STICKY JUMPROPES!” they’d cry out gaily, wadding a lump of the imaginary ropes in their hands before flinging it at me. “STOP IT!” I’d squeal, doing my best to dodge their throw. Sometimes it worked, and sometimes the jump ropes would hit me squarely in the chest. Long after they’d forgotten about their little trick and had returned to watching the television, I’d be stuck on the sofa, sweating and miserable, unsuccessfully trying to free myself from their sticky tendrils. And for the record, NO, I am not insane. I just had a little bit of an overactive imagination.
5. Speaking of overactive imaginations, I have CRAZY dreams. I know some people have dreams that flit about and make no sense— not mine! Not only do I remember my dreams every day, but they are epic in length, color, plot/storyline, and oftentimes have background music. When I have a particularly good dream, I have trouble figuring out if it’s a real memory or if it was something that I made up while I was sleeping. The only downside to my fantastic dream life is that I have some pretty terrible, bloody nightmares. Oh well. Par for the course, I guess.
6. I did not enjoy my childhood all that much, and think that the best years are still ahead of me. I look forward to the future.
7. I don’t like riding tall horses. I’m always worried that something will happen while I’m out on a flat trail and my saddle will magically disappear, and I won’t be able to mount bareback and will be stuck leading my horse back all the way back to the stables.
