The last time I peed my pants I was 23 years old.

I was not drunk. I was not high. I wasn’t even asleep. I was standing beside an old truck in the beautiful rolling hills wine country of Northern California, miserably watching cars fly by as the pee travelled down my legs, soaked my jeans, and even filled my mud boots.

I’ll have you know that human urine is a very good catalyst for introspective moments. Why am I here? What am I doing with my life? What is the meaning of truth? Do I wait for the pee to stop before emptying my boots, or should I see if I can overflow them?

Like I said, I was 23 years old and living in Northern California. I was working part time as the livestock manager of a Morgan/Warmblood breeding farm situated in the hills/mountains between Santa Rosa and Calistoga. It was beautiful, the horses were beautiful, the land was beautiful… LIFE was beautiful. It was my first Christmas far enough away from my family that I wasn’t obligated to attend. Rather than suffering from homesickness or depression, I was absolutely THRILLED. I determined that this was going to be the first Christmas of my life without family squabbling, stress, or name-calling. I printed off a homemade flyer and pinned it up on the employee wall at Olive Garden, where I was also a server.

I pinned it up on the wall at work, stared at it for a moment, then as an afterthought I scrawled on the bottom, “Sorry guys, but no pot allowed in my home.”

I was, after all, living in Northern California. My coworkers at Olive Garden seemed to consider cigarettes and joints completely interchangeable. I’ve never been anywhere that was more lax in their drug usage policies. For instance, when I asked one of my coworkers if she was going to join me at my Lonely Desperate People Christmas party, she tipped her head to the side, thought for a moment, and then said in her tiny, sweet little voice, “No, no. I don’t think I should. I’m going to be dropping acid the day before, and I may not be good for company yet.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “You know how it takes a couple of days to find your rhythm again.” Uh… No? No I didn’t? “Thanks for the invite though!” She swirled around, and bounced off, blonde ponytail with its little blue ribbon swinging in a perky rhythm. I stood their gaping at her. Did she just say “dropping acid”? The day before Christmas? Wasn’t that something only angry, twitchy drug addicts did? My co-worker was 19 years old and extremely petite, with a smattering of freckles across her nose that made her look about twelve years old. She looked like should be out there playing with puppy dogs and giggling about stinky boys, not planning in advance to “drop acid”. I felt naïve, gauche, and had the sudden overwhelming urge to call up her parents.

At any rate, back to me peeing my pants.

My note generated some interest, and Christmas Day found my tiny living room decorated with a couple of coworkers, all of us determined to have a Merry Christmas despite (or perhaps because of) the lack of our families. For the first time in a long time, Christmas was fun. We watched Elf and The Christmas Story, we drank eggnog, and we laughed hysterically. We chased the horses out of my garden on more than one occasion (danged 2 year olds and their ability to push through fences!) and had a rousing good time.

The morning of the 26th I waved goodbye to the last of them, and then set about to go feed. Not surprisingly, we were getting low on hay. With 60+ horses, a couple of donkeys and some oversized pigs, hay goes fast. I counted the bales, sighed, and realized that I wasn’t going to be able to make it stretch to the next day’s big delivery. Besides, if the delivery was late were late… No, no. It was better to play it safe and head down the mountain to pick up a couple of bales. The feed shop might be closed, but they knew us well enough that I could just add it to the tab.

With a disgruntled sigh, I headed over to The Ball Scratchin’ Truck.

I wish I had a picture to show you The Ball Scratchin’ Truck. The Ball Scratchin’ Truck was a big, patchwork-colored truck, lifted to a ridiculous height on oversized monster-truck wheels. It was the kind of truck you usually saw big ol’ redneck boys driving—the kind that you rolled your eyes at when it passed you on the road, and made jokes about the driver’s genitalia size and obvious need to compensate. The panels had been replaced here and there with panels from other vehicles, the paint was mud-encrusted and rusty, and getting in and out of the darn thing was such an ordeal I occasionally wished I had a rappelling rope and harness. The ranch owner had purchased it dirt-cheap as a ranch-only vehicle, but ever since our hay truck’s brakes had failed (shooting it halfway down the mountainside before it crashed into a tree) it was the only truck we had capable of making the drive down the mountain. Even that was questionable, because in addition to lifting the truck to a stupid height, some idiot in the past had decided that a truck that size needed an itty-bitty little racecar steering wheel— you know the tiny little metal doughnuts you occasionally see on a barely-street legal Civic or Miata? Yeah, it had one of those. To make matters worse, the power steering had failed.

I don’t know how many of you out there have ever driven a vehicle without power steering, but let me tell you— power steering is important. Turning the wheel of a car that doesn’t have power steering requires a lot of muscle. Turning the pathetically tiny wheel of a gigantic, lifted truck that doesn’t have power steering… well, let’s just say that it was more than borderline dangerous unless I took the turns very , veeeery sloooooowly. Rounding one mountain curve in the Big Ball-Scratchin’ truck required me to make approximately 8-10 complete revolutions on that ridiculously tiny steering-wheel, and each revolution was a true test of my strength in a time of my life when I was used to tossing hay bales and carrying huge serving trays. Usually, after just one trip up and down the mountain, I was ruined for the rest of the day. My triceps would be burning and the muscles on my forearms would be trembling and exhausted.

Annoyed that I was going to have to make the trip down the day after Christmas, I didn’t even bother dressing nicely. I threw on the pair of mud-encrusted jeans I’d fed in the day before, a pair of mud-encrusted galoshes, and wiggled my way into a stained sweatshirt. Nobody was around to see me, but somehow dressing like a slob made me feel liked I’d made my point about how I felt about the trip. At the last second, I realized I was going to be heading by a Starbucks on the way down. I brightened, and grabbed the new Starbucks card that I’d received as a Christmas gift the day before (bless you, Doug. Bless you.)

It was a foggy day, and not many people were out on the road. As I suspected, the feed barn was deserted. I backed my truck up to the stack, grabbed my hay hooks, and loaded about 15 bales in the back of the truck. Lest you think I’m some kind of superwoman, the process took almost an hour, included a lot of swear words and sweat, and I rudely stole all the bales from the top of the stack.

I slipped a note under the manager’s door to let him know who the mysterious thief was, then headed over to the gas station to fill up. Not surprisingly, the Ball Scratchin’ Truck got about 7 miles to the gallon… downhill and BEFORE it was loaded down with hay. I was already low on gas, and there was no way I was going to be able to make it back up the mountain without filling up.

I hopped from my ridiculously high driver’s seat to the ground, unscrewed the gas cap, reached into my back pocket….

And realized I had forgotten my wallet on my kitchen table.

Crap.

I didn’t have a mirror around to check, but I’m pretty sure that my face “blanched” when I realized what I had done. I didn’t have my checkbook. I didn’t have my credit card. I didn’t have any way of getting back up the mountain (that’s the problem with living in the sticks—you can’t hitchhike home even if you wanted to). The ranch owner was a doctor who was in the middle of a 48 hour shift in the emergency room, so she wouldn’t be home for over a day. All of the friends that I knew well enough to call in a situation like this were hundreds of miles away— I just hadn’t lived there long enough to develop those kinds of friends.

Crap. Crappity, crapcrap.

I stood beside the truck, brainstorming. What to do, what to do… I glanced around, and there, in the distance, I saw it.

Starbucks, thy coffee and thy proximity have saved me! I reached into my pocket, and pulled out my gift card, and gave a huge whoop of relief.

In my muddy coveralls and stained sweatshirt, I half-jogged, half-galumphed my way down the block. Pausing in the parking lot, I took a moment to perform the Get-the-Mud-off-Sacred-Indian-Dance-Stomp. A few of the clean, well-dressed customers heading back to their cars took a moment to stare at me getting all jiggy in the parking lot, but I was past caring. By the time I finished, a sizeable pile of mud and dried manure was scattered all around me. I stepped gingerly over the pile, gathered up my confidence and took my place in line. It was a surprisingly long line for the morning after Christmas, so it took a bit before I reached the counter.

“Welcome to Starbucks. Would you like to try a Peppermint Soy Latte today?”
“Uh, no. No, thanks. Actually, I have kind of a weird question. I have this gift card here. Can you tell me how much is on it?”
“Of course! My pleasure. Let’s see… it has $15 of available credit. What would you like to order?”
“Well, uhm,” I stood there for a moment, feeling my face get red. “Actually, see, the problem is that I’ve run out of gas, and, uh..” I fidgeted. “I forgot my wallet, and this is the only thing I have, so I was wondering if I could just get cash.”

The barista gave me a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry, I can’t do that. I wish I could, but it’s against company policy.” I gave her a pleading look, but she seemed immune to my desperate situation. “So.. Are you going to order anything?” She glanced behind me at the line that was stretched nearly to the door.

“Oh, uh. No. No thanks.” I stepped out of line, and leaned against the wall. What now?

I sat there for a moment, and then my only option was to try to get someone to buy it off of me. Glancing down at my dirty, hobo-looking outfit, I sighed. Figures. I’d obviously brought this on myself. If I’d cleaned up, worn something cute and actually brushed my hair, I would have remembered my wallet and the Starbucks would have been deserted.

Stupid wallet. Stupid me. Crap. Crappity, crapcrap.

I stood there for a moment, eyeballing the line and trying to decide who seemed like the most approachable person. I didn’t want to get kicked out of Starbucks for harassing their clientele, so I wanted to make this work on the first try. After a few moments deciding, I opted on a woman in her mid-40s who had a sweet, approachable expression.

Swallowing my nervousness, I stepped forward.

“Hi!” I said brightly.

“Uh, hello,” she said, eyebrows suddenly lowering as her expression became guarded and distrustful.

“I have a rather strange question to ask, and it’s okay if you want to say no.” I tried to give her what I thought was a winning smile, but she shrunk back as if I was snarling at her. “I work at a ranch up the road and, uh, well I’m kind of low on gas. I forgot my wallet on my table, and all I have is this Starbucks gift card. They won’t let me cash it in for money, so I was kind of hoping you could let me buy your drink with the card, and then maybe you could reimburse me with cash? Is that okay?”

She stared at me in guarded silence.

I stared back at her, and smiled nervously. “It’s okay if you don’t want to, but..” I trailed off, hopeful.

She stared at me in silence, then heaved a huge, exasperated sigh. “Fine,” she snapped, then heaved another put-upon sigh.

I couldn’t believe this. She was acting like I’d asked her to hide a bag of weed so the cops wouldn’t find it on me. “Look, if you’re uncomfortable,” (and it was obvious from her crossed arms and angry body language that she was), “I can ask someone else.”

“No, I’ll do it,” she snapped, previously friendly expression suddenly replaced by an angry watchfulness.

To this day, I have no idea why my request made her so angry. During the interminable wait in line, she ignored me angrily, only occasionally glancing at me with a distrusting expression. I tried (and failed) to make small talk with her, and I asked her twice more if she wanted to back out of the deal, but each time she snapped that she was comfortable doing it… which she obviously wasn’t.

We made it to the front of the line, she placed her order and I meekly handed over my card to the cashier. The woman spun around angrily and headed to the counter to wait for her drinks. I waited for my receipt, then followed her to the drink counter. She seemed surprised to see me, and gave me a rude look. Her body language all but screamed, “What are YOU still doing here?”

“Uh, I was, ummm…” I paused, nearly drowning in the stiff tension and uncomfortable feel of the situation, “Umm… my money?” I nearly choked on that last part. The woman stared at me, as if I were a distasteful beggar. “The refund? I bought your drinks, and in exchange, you were going to refund…” I stared at her in growing frustration. Seriously, was she going to make me beg? Reaching into her purse, she begrudgingly pulled out the refund, dropping it into my hands from a distance, as if I carried infectious leprosy.

“Thanks,” I snapped, irritated that she made it seem like I was stealing her money. I turned around and headed out of the Starbucks. Eight dollars might not buy me enough gas to get home, but I was willing to chance it rather than spend another minute in that particular Starbucks.

I was right about one thing— eight dollars didn’t buy me much in the way of gas, but I figured if I put the truck in neutral on the downhills, I just might make it home. I crawled up into the front seat, turned it on, maneuvered it onto the highway, and started for home.

I made it to the base of the mountain before the truck overheated.

I’d like to say that I reacted to the overheating in a positive, patient, Christian manner. Let’s just say that I didn’t, that it involved a lot of angry “Oh, COME ON!”s, and quite a bit of tire-kicking. Hey, at least they were big tires. They were able to handle the kicking.

Walking down the highway, I made it to a little rise where I was able to get cell phone reception. I called a few people, left a few messages, and sat down to wait.

It was then that I realized I really had to pee.

I glanced around, but the unfortunate fact was that the particular stretch of highway I was on was fairly open and flat and there were no bushes to squat behind. It was also semi-populated with large, expensive houses, so even if I was willing to pee in the open, I’d probably be peeing on someone’s front lawn. Hiding behind the truck was out of the question, as the ridiculously high lift made it impossible to use as cover. I was too far away from the nearest store to be able to walk, and while I even considered squatting by the side of the road in plain view (who cares if they saw my heiny? Nothing could be more embarrassing than abasing myself in front of that woman in the Starbucks), I figured that with my luck I would probably be seen by a police officer and be arrested as a sexual deviant. I’d probably be classified as a sex offender and have to spend the rest of my life knocking on people’s doors to warn them that I was moving into their neighborhood and to keep their children away from my large, shiny, white heiny lest they be scarred.

Besides, I’d finally gotten through to my friend, Doug (That’s Doug of the miraculous Starbucks card.. Bless you, Doug… Bless you) and he was on his way to give me a ride. How long would it take?

An hour later, I’d moved past the “Wow, I’ve got to pee” stage, well beyond the “bouncing-in-the-seat” stage and into the “crossed-legs- autistic-rocking, the-whole-world-looks-yellow-I’m-gonna-pee-my-pants-right-now” stage. I’d even broken down and walked over to the only house I could see and knocked on their front door, but nobody answered. I’m secretly glad that they didn’t. What would I have said?

“Hi! My name’s Becky! I’m a total stranger, dressed in smelly, stained clothing that’s covered in dried horse crap and I want to invade your home and piss in your toilet! Nice to meet you!”

No, no, it’s probably better that they didn’t answer.

I made my way slowly back to the truck, pausing every couple of steps to cross my legs and hunch forward in an attempt to keep the pee from escaping. I’m sure I looked ridiculous, but it worked.

Standing beside the Ball-Scratching truck, bouncing on my toes and crossing my knees, I realized I was out of time. It was either pee in public or pee in my pants.

With a sense of relief, I unbuttoned my jeans, reached for my zipper….

And it stuck. Seriously. No joking. It started to come down, and then it jammed. Completely, utterly, and permanently jammed (I actually ended up tossing those jeans because of the broken zipper). Dancing in a desperate circle, I tugged at it impotently. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, c’mon…. WORK! WORK! NO, nonononono…” I tried to peel my pants down over my hips, but I just wasn’t fast enough.

And that was it. Like a two year old child, I peed my pants.

I stood there in that beautiful, classy, wine-tasting, millionaire countryside and I let loose. For the first few seconds I fought it, but after I realized the damage was done, I decided I might as well enjoy the sensation. It was a cold morning, and I’ll tell you what— that pee warmed me up in no time.

I’m not recommending it as an alternate heat source, but I just thought you might like to know.

I thought you might also be interested in knowing that while peeing yourself as a child is embarrassing, peeing yourself as an adult is more than just humiliating… it’s educational! Did you know that when every time you pee you produce about 24 gallons of liquid? I didn’t get a chance to measure it as I stood there wetting my pants and filling my boots on the side of the road, but I’m pretty sure it was somewhere between 20 and 25 gallons. Whatever the exact amount, it was a LOT. By the time I was done, I had moved past embarrassment and into the realms of being impressed with myself. I really wish there’d been some way of measuring. I think I peed an Olympic World Record amount, if there actually was a Urine-Output summer event. At the very least, I should have received some sort of honorable mention in the Guinness Book of World Records.

Cleaning up was disgusting, so I’ll spare you the details. I lucked out when I found an abandoned old pair of jeans wadded behind the front seat of the car. By the time Doug pulled up in his late 80’s Buick, I was standing by the side of the road in a wrinkly, somewhat moldy pair of jeans, no shoes, and red-faced with frustration. He pulled over to the side of the road, his glance taking in the Ball-Scratching truck, my bare feet, obviously borrowed jeans and my steely expression.

“Merry Christmas?” he said with a smile.

“You have no idea,” I said, as I crawled gratefully into the passenger seat of his car.

I don’t know what it is about llamas, but they hate me. They’ve always hated me, even from the beginning.

The first time I met a llama I was a knock-kneed little 8-year-old dork at my first summer camp. I was skinny, serious, and a little arrogant about my obvious vastly superior intellect.

I also had no sense of humor, no sense of fashion, coke-bottle glasses the size of dinner plates, and a head full of unbrushed hair.

Is it any wonder the other girls were so mean to me?

At any rate, during our free time one day one of the counselors had haltered one of the friendly stable llamas and was allowing the children to pet her, one at a time. Mrs. Llama was clean, cute, and supposedly tame. She stood beside the counselor in an adorable little halter, patiently watching the noisy line of children with a pleasant expression. I waited in line for my chance to pet her, vibrating with excitement in my teal-colored high tops and my gigantic glasses. A llama! COOL! It seemed like forever, but it was finally my turn.

I stretched out my hand to pet her, smiling widely. “Hello, Mrs. Llama!” I said, reaching out to sink my fingers into her soft, thick coat.

The llama, who heretofore had been standing patiently on the end of a loose lead, took one look at me, made an angry, snake-like hissing sound, and lunged at my hand to bite it. I squeaked and bounced out of the way, and the llama handler begin trying to calm Mrs. Llama down.

“WHAT DID YOU DO?! Easy, girl… easy…. Did you pinch her? What did you do to her?”

I couldn’t convince the counselor that I hadn’t done a thing, and my llama-petting days came to a swift end. The rest of the week during my stay, every time I accidentally wandered too close to the pen, Mrs. Llama would pin her ears, glare at me malevolently, and make an threatening gurgle sound like a clogged toilet.

I may hate llamas, but it’s only because they hated me first.

Fast forward 15 years. It was during the time I was a wrangler on a dude ranch. One of the most popular attractions of the stables was our petting zoo, and two of its most popular inhabitants were our llamas: Tony Llama and Dolly Llama. Dolly was a little shy, but sweetly good-natured. Tony was friendly and outgoing, and loved being pet.

I stayed as far away from him as I could. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…. well, let’s just say I wasn’t about to fall for the whole “I’m a friendly llama! Come closer so I can bite you!” line again. Whenever it fell on me to clean their pen, I would throw down some fresh treats in the clean corner and do my best to pick up all the llama poo before they finished.

Just so you know, I think I may have actually set llama-poo-shoveling records, but I’m not one to brag.

We had an uneasy truce between the three of us. I ignored them, and they didn’t try to eat the skin off my face, which is something I’m deeply convinced that every llama wants to do to me. For all you llama-lovers out there, I don’t CARE that they don’t have any teeth on the top. I believe they are carnivorous, and there’s nothing you can do to change my mind. By keeping my distance from Tony and Dolly, I managed to maintain a cordial peace for many months.

Unfortunately, that peace was shattered the day that Dolly Llama caught her halter on a fence and slipped it around her neck. Removing Dolly’s halter had been on our list of stable to-do’s for quite some time. The problem was that the other cowboys didn’t think it was that big of a concern, and I didn’t actually want to touch the llamas. I kept warning them that Dolly would eventually get it snagged, and I was right. Naturally, it happened on a day when I was all alone by myself in the stables. After stalling for as long as I could (ha, ha, aren’t I punny), I squared my shoulders and slipped into their stall.

“Hey, Llama, llama, llama. Niiiiice, llama, llama, llama. Who’s a sweet llama? You are! Heeeeere, llama, llama, llama.” I approached them cautiously, slowly, as if they were wild mustangs.

The two llamas stared at me placidly.

I crept closer, holding out the coffee can of grain, rattling the contents of my offering to the angry-llama gods. “Want some grain? Want some sweet stuff? Huh?” Dolly and Tony perked up immediately, giant rabbit ears quivering in interest. I scattered a little on the ground beside me, and they immediately came forward to eat.

Dolly grabbed a mouthful, cheeks bulging and jaw waggling in sweeping motions as she chewed contentedly. Her head was about six inches from my shoulder. Well, it was now or never. Reaching out, I grabbed the halter that was circling her strange, ostrich-neck. Almost immediately, Dolly quit chewing and glared at me, sidling away nervously. My fingers scrabbled at the buckle, but of course the ancient nylon halter’s buckle wasn’t budging. When I didn’t immediately turn her loose, Dolly began trying to escape in earnest. Setting back, she began flopping back and forth, making a strange, guttural cry. Luckily I was able to hang on— llamas aren’t very strong when compared with horses.

“BWWWEEAOOONK!” Dolly moaned, split hooves scraping against the dirt of her stall. “BEWEEOOOAANK!”

You would have thought I was killing her, instead of gently trying to remove a halter from around her neck. “Almost got it, little girl. Aaaaalmost…”

“BEWEEEEOOOOAAANOOOOONKK!!!” Dolly tried to run in a circle around me, but I blocked her with my shoulder. In a strange way, I was actually starting to enjoy this. It felt good to be able to get something done with brute strength for once, instead of having to use sweet-talking, gentle training methods you use with horses. I almost had the buckle-free when I sensed it.

Or rather, I sensed him.

I’m not sure if he made a noise, or if I just felt his malevolent presence.

Tony. Tony Llama. A very, very, very angry Tony Llama. Pinning his ears flat against his skull, his eyes rolled around, exposing the whites in his sheer rage. He looked like the Demon Llama from Hell.

“Hey, hey, hey, boy. Hey, boy,” I started talking nervously, trying to calm him down. “Hey, Tony. Just trrying to help your wife. She needs help. Almost done. Almost done,” I said frantically. The sad thing is, I was almost done. If I had been able to ignore Tony, I probably could have slipped that buckle loose and been done in 2 or 3 seconds.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t bring myself to completely turn my back on the Demon Llama from Hell. Dolly, as if sensing that Tony was gaining the upper hand in his angry stare-down contest, began struggling even harder.

“BEEWWEEEEWWEWOOOOOOOONKKKKKK!!!!! BRAAAAAAANNNNNNNEEEOONK!!!!” Her cries were so frantic even I might have felt sorry for her, if I wasn’t already busy trying to de-halter the obviously dying, flopping llama while keeping an eye on Tony to make sure he didn’t try to kill me. Turning my back on the angry, male llama for a brief second, I finally managed to pull the latch out of the worn halter hole and was slipping the halter off of Dolly’s neck… when I heard something like a wet cough, and felt something fly past the side of my face.

What on earth?

My nose wrinkled as a sudden stench filled the air. I turned around just in time to see Tony give another disgusting, wet, vomity hack, and I found myself suddenly covered in llama spit.

For those of you who don’t know what llama spit is like, please allow me to edify you. Before Tony, I always thought that when llamas spit, it was like a human—they worked up a solid little loogie in their mouth, and then spit a little angry bullet at you. I figured if you were quick, you could probably dodge the loogie, and be none the worse for wear.

Alas, it is not so.

Llamas don’t really spit— they spray. Who out there has seen Jurassic Park (the first one)? Do you remember the scene where the fat guy is in the car with the little tiny dinosaur and it spits venomous, sticky goop all over his face?

Yeah. That’s exactly what it’s like.

Llama spit (spray) is about the consistency of thick snot, and it actually stings a little when it hits you. It comes flying out of their evil mouths so fast that you really don’t have any hope of avoiding it. It sticks to your clothing and your hands, and it is absolutely disgusting.

That’s not the worst part, though. The worst part is how it smells.

Oh, man. Don’t get me started on the smell. It smells like decaying bodies and boiled cabbage. It smells like rot, and filth, and HOW IN THE WORLD CAN SUCH A CUTE ANIMAL HAVE SUCH A WRETCHED STINK BOTTLED UP INSIDE OF THEM? Oh, man. It smells. It’s rancid. It’s disgusting. Please, for the love of all that is holy, don’t ever piss off a llama.

In the brief second after Tony sprayed me with his spit and the moment when that stench hit my nose, I tried to figure out if I should reprimand him. On the one hand, he was coming to the defense of his mate. But on the the other hand we probably didn’t want Tony thinking it was okay to spit at people.

In the end, it didn’t really matter, because the second the stench of that goopy, icky spray hit my nose, I started gagging too hard to even consider reprimanding.

You know what’s kind of interesting? I bet you didn’t know, but I’m going to share it anyways – the way a human convulses and the sounds they make when they gag… well, it looks and sound like a llama spitting. Yeah. So, there you go. There’s a bit of random information for you.

So, like I said, when the stench of Tony’s nuclear spit hit me, I began gagging. When I began gagging, Tony immediately decided that I looked for all the world like a strange, hairless llama trying to spit back at him.

Was he going to stand for that? Was he going to just sit there and let this ugly, pink, 2-legged llama come in here and mess with HIS woman, and then try to spit on him?

“No freakin’ way!” thought Tony Llama. “GAME ON!” And he proceeded to spit on me again.

Which caused me to gag again.

Which caused him to spit on me again.

Which caused me to… Well, you get the point. And so on, and so on.

Retching and on the point of puking, I stumbled my way out of the stall in complete defeat, Tony angrily spitting on me the entire way. I threw myself between the slats in the pipe corral, crawling on the grass until I was a safe distance away. When I had recovered enough to be able to see, I glanced back at the stalls.

Both llamas stood pressed against the fence, ears flat against their head, daring me to come closer. Wisely accepting my defeat, I radioed up to the head office that I needed to take a quick break and returned to my trailer to desperately scrub at myself with soap. For the record, Herbal Essences does nothing to cover the stench of llama spit.

Oh, and Dolly and Tony never forgave me. Elephants have nothing on llamas.

I really hate llamas. But like I said, it’s not really my fault. They hated me first.

I had another “Becky” moment today.

I as I previously mentioned in my Adventures in Nakedness post, my new job is centered smack-dab in the middle of one of the most disgustingly-snobby areas of the entire world: Fashion Island. There is something sinister about how addictive the lifestyle is. After less than a month of working there I found myself looking at Nordstrom ads and sighing after $175 pair of jeans. I wanted those jeans. I needed those jeans. My butt wasn’t complete without them.

And then I went up to visit my family near the Bakersfield area and realized that no, no I did not NEED a $175 pair of jeans. What I needed was a swift kick in the rear for being sucked into the stupidity in less than a month.

I returned to my work, marching proudly in my worn store-brand penny-loafers and my clearance-rack skirts.

Until today.

Today, about ten minutes before I was supposed to be done for the day, my boss called me up and asked me to pick up a package from the receptionist at a local legal firm.

I was vaguely annoyed at this request as it meant that I would probably going to miss my “Turbo Kick” class at 24 Hour Fitness (see? see? I went back! Aren’t you proud of me?). On the other hand, I figured if I hurried, with a little luck I just might make the class. I got into my vintage 1986 vehicle and drove over to the building. As I walked up to the front of the building, just like a cliche scene from a B movie, a huge gust of wind came up and blew my post-it note right out of my hand. Rather than float daintily about on the breeze, that little note took off like a ratdog out a front door. I’m sure if I listened really closely I might have heard the little, tiny sonic boom it made as it disappeared into the distance. I didn’t even have time to contemplate chasing it.

Oh, by the way, in case I didn’t mention it, the post-it note had which law firm and suite number jotted down in front of it. I was now standing in front of a building with no idea where I was supposed to go.

Oh, did I also forget to mention that the building was 18 stories tall? An 18 story tall building with about a BAZILLION lawyers working in it?

Too embarrassed to call my new boss up and ask him to repeat himself, I decided to try and figure it out. After all, I kind of remembered that the lawyer’s name was Wayne (names changed to protect my a**).

I walked into the building and looked at the directory. There were 4 Waynes. I picked one randomly off the “list”, took the elevator up to his floor, marched up to the receptionist and asked if they had a package waiting.

“No, was I supposed to?” she looked at me, panicky.

“No, no. You weren’t. I was just checking to see if you did. It’s okay, don’t worry about it.” I turned on my heel and strode out, mentally adding the fourth floor of the Gigantic Building of Lawyers to the list of “Places I Will Never Show My Face Again”. I took the elevator back down to the lobby, looked up the next “Wayne”, and repeated the process.

I can also no longer go to the ninth floor, in case you were wondering.

On the fourteenth floor I struck gold. Package secured firmly under my armpit (isn’t that where important, million-dollar deals are supposed to be carried?) I strode to the crowded elevator. I had persevered! I had conquered! I am Woman! HEAR ME ROAR!

Realizing that I was the last person in on the extremely crowded elevator dampened my spirits slightly. Wedging myself between an annoyed looking man in a suit and an extremely well-dressed, classy-looking woman, I stared straight ahead. I hate being in an elevator when there are other people on there. I always feel so cliche. I feel like I should say something to them, just to not fall into the stereotype that Hollywood always portrays. Unfortunately, if you don’t come up with something witty immediately, you’ve lost your window of opportunity. If you start talking halfway through a silent elevator ride, people start edging away and getting off at the wrong floor to take the stairs instead.

Like I said, I hate crowded elevators.

Do you know what I hate even worse than crowded elevators? I hate it when the doors are made of that really shiny metal and you have to sit there and the grainy reflection of yourself.

And do you know what’s even worse than that? Staring into that grainy reflection and realizing in horror that the gust of wind had not only blown your post it note away, it had also turned your pert little pony tail into a crazy, medusa-look-alike.

@!#&!*!

Staring at my reflection, standing next to that well-dressed, uber-classy woman, I had to resist the urge to lick my palms and flatten the snarls and straight-up strands that were poking out in every direction.

I am White Trash. Hear me Belch.

It was a long ride down from the forteenth floor, and that darned woman was beside me the whole time. It was a long enough ride that I had enough time to ponder my circumstance. Had discovering that my hair was all over the place made me any less of a person? I had entered that elevator brimming with confidence. Why would I allow a simple, grainy reflection to take that away from me?

Squaring my shoulders in their Target turtleneck, I tugged discreetly at my Kohl’s skirt. I stood tall in my Walmart shoes. I am confident. I am proud. I am a strong, alpha woman! The bell signalled that we had arrived, and the doors slid open. I grabbed my package with both hands, took a firm, long, powerful stride out into the lobby…

And nearly fell on my face. Only the guy behind me darting out to catch my arm kept me from sprawling.

I forgot I was wearing a skirt.

You can’t stride powerfully in a knee-length business skirt.

If you do, the skirt will trap your legs before you hit full-stride, slamming your knees into a locked position and you will probably fall. Please believe me. Please? I need this experience to benefit someone so I can feel like it was all worth it.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to go drown my sorrows in one of the TWELVE boxes of Girl Scout Cookies that are currently in this house. Let this experience also be a lesson to you: Communication in marriage is important. You can’t both decide to “surprise” the other person with a box (or six) of Girl Scout Cookies. Some things need to be planned in advance.

I have a job.

I have a job, and I’ve joined a gym.

I have a job, and I’ve joined a gym, I’ve started working out, and now I can never go back.

Why?

I can’t go back because I’m scared that I’m going to run into the lady that I bumped into butt-naked.

She wasn’t butt-naked— that might have made it okay.

Oh, no.

She was fully clothed, wearing a prim little turtleneck and a classy pair of pants and expensive-looking heels that probably cost more than I make in a week.

*I*, however, was not wearing a stitch, and I think the sight of my flabby bits swinging wildly about in the gym bathroom breeze has traumatized us both.

For those of you who don’t know, there is a place in California known as Newport Beach. Newport Beach is the one place that I know of that is JUST as bad as they show it in the movies. The men and women stroll around in disgustingly expensive clothes, complimenting each other on their recently botoxed faces and daydreaming about buying another new little BMW. After all, their BMW sedan is for the weekdays. They need a sexy little BMW roadster for the weekends… something that matches their eyes… Oooh! Is that a wrinkle? OMG. It is. Quick! Call up the dermatologist for an emergency facial!

The other day, while turning into the parking lot of my work, I made a mental note of the line of cars in front of and behind me (including mine.) It went like this:

Oh, you think I’m overexaggerating, don’t you? Well, how about this: I went to a bridal show in Newport Beach last weekend. They were giving away door prizes.

Do you know what one of the criteria for winning a door prize was?

You had to be carrying a Louis Vuitton purse (Not one of those cheesy knockoffs, sneered the man with the microphone) and within this Louis Vuitton purse you had to have your pink cell phone.

The reason they asked for a pink cell phone was because when they called out for someone in the audience who was carrying a Louis Vuitton purse, five heavily makeup-ed women all squealed in excitement and lifted their well-manicured hands. They all had makeup bags, and they all had cell phones.

Thankfully for my sanity, only one of them had a pink cell phone. I was getting ready to hock a loogie in the aisle, just to help balance things out. After all, Louis Vuitton purses + Big shiny glob of spit = Normalcy. I’m sure I read that somewhere.

Where was I?

Oh, yes. The gym.

So, anyways, I have a new job. I’m actually pretty happy with my new job, as far as jobs go. I’ll tell everyone all about it at a later date, because I want to talk about me and my naked, jiggly bits.

Less than a mile from this job is a 24 Hour Fitness. Now that we are no longer living hand-to-mouth, I immediately went over there and signed up for a trial membership.

Unfortunately, this gym is located in an area called Fashion Island.

It kind of sucks that the gym that’s closest to me is located there. When the gym guy took me on a tour there was not one single chubby person in the entire facilities. The people wh0 work out there are so in shape they do exercises to modify their exercises in order to make them burn more. I walked right by a skinny little blonde doing squats and lunges WHILE ON THE STAIRMASTER. YOU HEARD ME. SHE WAS ON THE STAIRMASTER, AND IT WASN’T HARD ENOUGH FOR HER, SO SHE WAS DOING SQUATS, LUNGES, AND KNEE BENDS WHILE CLIMBING THE STAIRS.

Once I got over my frustration and embarrassment at being the fattest person in a 10 mile radius, I realized I could wake up early and do the 6am workout class and still have time to get to work. It sounded fantastic.

So I did it. Day One was great. I hadn’t worked out in ages, and it felt fantastic to feel my muscles stretch.

Day Two was a physically harder because of all my sore muscles, but I felt like I was getting a rhythm down. I showered and went to work, feeling all smug. I worked out. TWO DAYS IN A ROW. I should be on the front of a fitness magazine!

Day Three, thankfully, was an easy class— yoga.

Now, yoga isn’t easy for most people, because they can actually do some of the poses. I, otherwise known as The-Least-Flexible-Woman-on-Earth, can’t even come close. So I don’t even really try. I mean, if I can’t touch my toes under normal circumstances, why should I bother struggling to wrap my leg twice around my head while feeling my inner chakra sink down to the ground, or whatever nonsense it is that they talk about?

Eh.

I just go along with the motions, and do my best to try and touch my toes now and again, and otherwise ruin the whole idea of Yoga. But it’s fun, and I figured that if I finished the class I could feel REALLY smug about myself for having worked out 3 days in a row.

Then, somewhere in the middle of “Downward Dog” (also known as “My Big Fat Butt is Pointing in the Air and I Am Staring Through My Bent Knees”) I felt it happen.

IT.

You know. It.

Taking Carrie to the Prom.

Rebooting the Old Ovarian System.

Yeah, THAT.

Sometimes Aunt Flo comes quietly and surprises you.

Sometimes she doesn’t.

Sometimes she bursts out of her little Uterus closet like she’s trying to impress you.

TA-DA!!!!! I’M HEEERE! HI! HIHIHIHI! LOOK WHAT I CAN DO! I CAN MAKE YOU LOOK LIKE YOU JUST SLAUGHTERED A RABBIT IN THE TOILET BOWL!

This was not one of Aunt Flo’s more bashful entrances.

Mortified, I did the best I could to get through the end of class, then dashed off to the locker room.

That’s when I realized I had forgotten my towel.

Oh, yes, Wonder Woman. I did.

Frustrated beyond belief, but unable to face the thought of an eight hour day without showering, I did what everyone self-respecting woman does.

I decided to figure it out when I got out of the shower. (This should prove, beyond all doubt, that I am the world’s best/worst procrastinator.)

Unfortunately, showers don’t last forever. I finally decided that what I could do was wait for the locker room to be somewhat empty, grab my clothes and dash into an empty bathroom stall and dry off with my sweatshirt. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but it was better than none.

And it would have worked, too, if I hadn’t rounded the corner too fast and slammed straight into Mrs. Classy Newport Woman.

I swear, if I deliberately threw everything that I had been carrying in my arms it couldn’t have gone any further. I didn’t just drop everything I was carrying. Nope. When I slammed into Mrs. Classy and almost knocked her off her feet, everything exploded out of my arms like it was mimicking an atomic reaction.

“Oh, I’m so sorr– OH!” Good breeding failed Mrs. Classy as she took stock of my very, very naked state. After all, naked people are supposed to stay in the Naked People section of the locker room. They’re not supposed to be crashing into people in the Fully Clothed section of the bathroom.

Naturally, in order to try to cover up the fact that I was completely naked, and on my period, and about 412 pounds fatter than this woman had ever been in her entire life, and also naked (did I mention I was naked?) I began to talk. I couldn’t seem to make myself shut up.

“Oh, hi! Hi, there. Oops! Sorry about that! Haha. And here, I am naked. Not wearing anything. Figures. Haha! I wouldn’t have bumped into you, except that I’m not wearing any clothes. Ha. Haha.” As I was rambling, I was desperately trying to gather up the 857 items that had exploded out of my arms. To her credit, Mrs. Classy was also helping me collect shoes, and bras, and tampons, and other embarassing items (probably in an attempt to avoid looking at my flapping boobies.)

“It’s Murphy’s law, you know. Haha. If you’re nude you have to bump into someone. Ha. I mean, I’m not wearing anything except for my birthday suit. Haha.”

I swear, in the course of that longest 15 seconds of my life, I said every single synonym for NAKED I possibly could. I mean, COME ON. Did I really have to say it that many times? I’m pretty sure she noticed that I was COMPLETELY AND UTTERLY NAKED.

The worst part was trying to figure out how to pick up the things on the floor. Do I bend forward and employ the Downward Dog technique? Do I squat? Which would be considered less vulgar? It kind of sucks that they don’t write Dear Abby columns to help out people like me. I mean, who cares which fork goes where? I have REAL ISSUES!

At any rate, I finally made it into the bathroom. I sat there for almost ten minutes, crouched on a toilet, miserably drying off and waiting for my blush to fade.

So you can see why I can’t go back, right?