This is the saddle I use to ride Caspian:

It’s the best kind of saddle:

 It’s a loaner from my mom until I can save up for a saddle I really want.  After that I’ll sell it for what she paid for it:  $200.  Cordura saddles are kind of magical – they’re lightweight, never seem to get scuffed, or age, or anything.  Even better, the saddle mostly fits Caspian, and it doesn’t hurt me, and it’s not too small.  Win, win, win.

Unfortunately, it’s also the worst kind of saddle – something about the flat way it sits on his back makes me feel completely unbalanced, like I am about to fall off at any moment.  I’ve never ridden in a saddle that made me feel more unstable – I mean, even when you’re bareback, you can at least sink down into their back a little bit.  Not this saddle!  This saddle makes me feel like I’m balancing on top of a comfortable piece of plywood on top of his back.  It doesn’t hurt, but I feel off balance.

But…. but…. but

So, I use it, even though my very first “let’s see how fast he can stop” at the Mugwump Clinic resulted in me somersaulting over Caspian’s head.  The saddle keeps me honest – I always feel a little bit like I am about to fall off, so I don’t push things.  In other words, I don’t pick fights with Caspian I don’t feel like I can win.

On the one hand, it makes me feel like a wimp.

On the other hand, it has forced me to work on my basics.  And I need to be honest – after so many years of borrowing horses, I have a lot of basics that need to be worked on.

Here’s the thing I’m proud of:  after a year of riding in it… I finally feel steady and secure.  In fact, the other day when Caspian spooked at some invisible critter and tried to squirrel out from underneath me… I stayed on.  Easily.  It felt a little bit like the cheesy finale to a Hallmark movie – by golly, I finally had my seat back, and I had my crappy saddle to thank for it.

Still… that didn’t keep me from drooling over saddles every chance I got.  I mean, let’s all face it:  We all have a saddle or two (or three?) we’d love to own one day.

And then I turned 33…. and my favorite birthday gift this year was very boring in the grand scheme of things.  There was nothing to open.  There was nothing to touch.  My boys were not very impressed at the idea of a concept gift.  I think they thought I’d been duped.

And what was the gift?

My parents’ gift to me was to offer me an interest-free loan so I could pick out the saddle of my dreams.  I’ll be paying them back monthly.

I have to admit, when they offered me this gift, it felt a little bit like when I discovered I was going to own Caspian – wait.. What? Now?  This dream’s coming true now?  But… but I’m not ready yet!

I’m not very good with making big decisions like this – I tend to daydream about things forever, without actually taking any steps to achieve them.

And now I live in Oregon, with a nice vehicle, and a nice  house, and a sexy, sexy beast of a horse:

And now I’ll be getting the saddle I’ve always wanted.

You know, I just realized I need to come up with new aspirations, because I’m pretty sure I’ve achieved all of them.

Anyways, enough backstory.  Here are the details:

I’m ordering a Specialized Saddle – a 17 inch Eurolight.

Why Specialized?

I’m going with a Specialized because I hate saddle shopping.  The underside of Specialized saddles have removable shims which you can add or remove to adjust the saddle fit.  I figure I have the best chance of this saddle fitting Caspian, and eventually another horse if/when that time comes.
If you’re confused because you have no idea what I’m talking about, don’t owrry – I’m going to take tons of photographs and do a very boring “look at my saddle” blog post when I get it, so I’ll just show it to you then.

Anyways, Specialized has several different types of saddles, but as far as why I chose the Eurolight option, well….If all the cool people ride a Eurolight, then I want also!

I’m being serious.   I have quite a few internet friends who are riding in a Eurolight, and they do way more miles than I ever will, and if the saddle is holding up for them and they’re still happy….

And, well, if Funder and Aarene and Ruth and Llytha are gonna jump off a bridge, I wanna jump off that bridge, too.  After all – they’ve probably put a lot of thought and effort and hours of research into choosing the best bridge to jump off of.  I’m not following them out of a desire to be cool – I’m following them out of laziness.

I wish I wasn’t investing in a new saddle.  What I really wanted was a used 17 inch Eurolight… but either they don’t exist and I just gave a fake company a whole bunch of money, or nobody ever sells one. I know there are no used 17 inch Eurolights because I’ve been looking for one for two years – I’ve been searching Craigslist nationwide, and been stalking endurance sites, and looking on Facebook tack pages, and nope.  Nobody sells them.  EVER. I almost considered squeezing into a 16 inch.  It would almost fit at the weight I’m at right now, and who knows?  I  might get all trim and fit and one day wish my saddle was a 16 inch.  I used to ride in a 15, after all…..

But between you and me, if there’s anything more depressing than out-fatting your saddle, I don’t know what it is. Believe me.  I know.  I’d much rather get a 17 inch and have to use sheepskin and bucking rolls to make it smaller than get a 16 inch than to have it be too small on a day when I’m feeling fat and depressed.

So, I’m happy to tell you that after weeks of waiting, the saddle finally arrived in the mail the other day:

Yaaay.  A “saddle”.

Why is there only a weird saddle tree with only some unfinished leather stapled on it, instead of a saddle?  Well, the first answer is that Specialized really ought to consider going back to something other than staples cuz staples are kind of chintzy,  but that’s not really what we’re talking about,

The real answer is that I’ve decided to go a little crazy. 

You know how they tell you not to count your chickens before they hatch?

Well, I’ve counted my unhatched chickens.  In fact, I haven’t just counted them… I’ve named them, and sewed them little outfits, and built them little houses, and….

And you get the point.

Here’s where I decided to be very, very unwise.  Before I say how I’ve been unwise, and before you guys start rolling your eyes at how dumb I am to customize a saddle I’ve never even tried on my horse….

You need to look at these pictures:

1890s saddle that had been burned in a fire.

 “Burned” 1890s saddle, fully restored.

I have no idea what you can use a leather box for.  All I know is that I want one now.

Are spiky arm bracers “in” yet?  No?  Can someone let me know when they are?  

I feel like every trip to the grocery store would be made 200x more awesome if I could wear spiky arm bracers as I go up and down the aisles. 

I love that they can make the metal parts to match the scrollwork – the idea of getting custom conchos is a bit appealing.  

 (This is saddle is, I kid you not, 7 inches.  IT’S A LITTLE BITTY SEVEN INCH SADDLE.)

 Aarene – these are normal boots that had attachments sewn onto them to morph them into
 Kraaken pirate boots. I’m not even into pirate paraphernalia, and I wanted a pair.  What a cool concept – get the boots you find comfortable, and then just add an attachment to make them neat.

” ‘I love you Sorsha?’ I don’t love her, she kicked me in the face! I hate her… Don’t I?'” 
Okay, I know it’s not REALLY Madmartigan’s helmet… but I love it all the same.  

For the record if you don’t love Willow, then you’re not a friend of mine.

There’s two pictures of this leather bracer because it’s the item that’s responsible for this whole foolish idea.  

 Now do you see?  Do you SEEEEE why I decided to be foolish and pay someone to tool a saddle that I’ve never even sat in, let alone placed on my horse?  I mean, when you’re dropping more money on a saddle than you’ve ever spent on a horse, what’s a couple more bucks, right?

  Leather Art and Design.  It’s a company based out of St. Helens, Oregon, and when I saw that picture of the bracer on my Facebook feed one day, something in my heart kind of went THUMP THUMP, and I realized… huh.  It’s not that I don’t like leather and leather tooling… it’s that I don’t really care for the traditional western florette stuff. 

So… I asked Specialized Saddle to ship me undyed, untreated leather, and they did.  Last week I dropped the box off at Leather Art and Design and asked them to come up with some kind of design to put on the saddle.

Well, I take that back – when I first approached them about the idea, they asked me to bring them some ideas of things I liked, so they could get a feel for what I was looking for.

I balked at first – it’s not that I have no taste.  It’s that I have too much taste.  If you took a Punky  Brewster outfit and then vomited a bunch of gypsy scarves and leather bracers and carhartt vests on it, I’d probably squeal like a schoolgirl and buy three, but only if it came with teal-colored leather high tops.  Planning the minutiae of a leather design is SO not my forte.  Still, both Laura and Erik from Leather Art and Design insisted, so like the dutiful woman that I am, I immediately created a Pinterest page and began pinning. 

And Pinning. 

AND PINNING.  

I was so proud of myself when I came in with my board full of colorful, swirly designs.  “Look!  I really like the look of this gypsy stuff – it’s so cool.  And there’s this steampunk stuff over here that’s totally awesome.  And then there was this kind of, I dunno… medieval looking stuff? I’ve got a bunch of pictures of that, and OH!  LOOK!  I loved this celtic type stuff…”

I looked up at Erik, who was looking a little horrified.  “Those are all very different designs.”

“Yeah, I know, but they’re all REALLY COOL, aren’t they?” 

“Well… I think you should pass on steampunk for a saddle, although it’s up to you….  How do you feel about baroque, or–“

“Yeah, but LOOK!  It’s got all these little gear shift thingies, and the swirly designs, and OH, look at this – it’s got a little “V” thingie that you could maybe put on the back of the saddle, the, uh, cantle?  Pommel?  I dunno.  And I love the swirly knots and the squiggles over here, and that border thingie with the lines over there?   Or whatever.  Oh!  Look at this elvish archer costume.  It’s so cool!  I love how it looks….AND LOOK AT THIS, IT’S A LITTLE BITTY STEAMPUNK R2D2.  If you get bored, you could always stamp one of those in somewhere, I don’t really care where.  He’d be my saddle friend.  And I could be all, ‘Hey R2D2… wanna canter?  Beeep beeep boop?  Yeah?  You do?  Well…”

I trailed off and looked at Erik, who by that point was no longer even looking at the screen.  In fact, he looked almost green as he stared down at the innocent little leather pieces he had in front of him, probably trying to avoid imagining the desecration I was describing.. 

I took one last look at the mismatch of disjointed items on my magical Pinterest board of ideas.

And then I looked at the classy, gorgeous items around the store, and the way the designs on everything just flowed together so nicely.

“Hey, Erik?  Why don’t we just go with our original plan?  Where you do whatever you think is cool, and I’m sure I’ll love it, no matter what it is.”

I swear, I’ve never seen anyone so relieved to not have to put a tiny little steampunk R2D2 on a saddle.

But guys, between you and me, it would have looked awesome.

Anyways, now I’m in a holding pattern – after they create a design, I will give them the “okay”.  They’ll stamp it into the saddle, at which point I will mail the saddle back with 400 types of insurance on the package, just in case… and then Specialized will finish the leather, assemble everything, and mail it back to me. 

It’s gonna look so awesome.  Of course, between the extra tooling and the shipping and the wait times, I probably won’t get the saddle until I’m 47, but I’m hoping it’s totally worth it.  And I swear, if the saddle doesn’t fit Caspian, I’m gonna have to sell him.

I think we all know I’m totally lying about selling him.  Also, yeeeees, no helmet, but… 
but John Norling Photography was there, and his daughter had a cape, and… 
and now I have a picture of me on a unicorn, and it was so worth it.

The hard drive on my laptop died.

Luckily I had backed up everything onto Google Drive.

Only… only I did it wrong.

I knew I did it wrong.  I knew I’d moved everything around to the wrong area, and I knew I needed to fix it, and I just kept putting it off.

And then the hard drive on my laptop died.

One book survived.  The other…. the other didn’t.  It’s gone.

It wasn’t finished – maybe only 3/4 done?  And let me just be honest – it wasn’t great.  It needed a ton of rewriting.

Still.  60,000 words gone, as if I never even typed them.  I feel a bit like I’m in mourning.

How he looked at home, versus how he looked at school.

Wait… you want me to put my nipple where?

You were cute, sure,  but I just wasn’t overwhelmed with this unbelievable love for you right from the start.  You were more like some kind of cute baby that someone had asked me to babysit… only they weren’t coming to pick you up.  Ever.  And holy crap, what was I supposed to do with you?

Sorry, kid.  Postpartum depression is a helluva thing.  But, you know, I didn’t leave you on anyone’s doorstep while I ran away to Montana, and that’s something, right?  And I eventually got better at the being a mom thing… and you got cuter:

And then one day I realized I did love you with all of my heart, even though you were never exactly an easy baby:

Albeit an angry little person.

And then we decided that since we’d done such a great ruining your life, we might as well get accidentally pregnant and ruin another kid’s life, too.

They don’t last long. And heck, nobody’s happy all the time.

You’re an awesome big brother.

And just a great little kid.

And when I dropped you off today, I may have shed a tear. Or three.

But now I’m headed to the barn to ride my horse, and when I get in the car I’m gonna blast some Jim Croce, or maybe some Jack Johnson, and as I drive I’m gonna sing at the top of my lungs because YOU AND ME, KID, WE SURVIVED EACH OTHER.

And if that doesn’t deserve some celebration, I don’t know what does.

Dear handsome man in the tight pants at Winco,

I’m sorry.

I really am.

In retrospect, I don’t blame you for shooting me a weird look and walking away.  I would have walked away, too.  I even feel a little sorry for you.  I mean, you were obviously about to buy some kind of meat.  I noticed you pondering the choices out of the corner of my eye as I walked up to stand beside you.

I wonder, were you going to buy a steak?  Maybe you were going to enjoy one of the dwindling days of summer and grill it up on your BBQ? Maybe you were going to buy some stew meat, and make something in your crockpot the next day?

I’ll never know, and I guess neither will you, since I chased you away.

It wasn’t my intention at all.  Really.  I’m doing so much better than I used to.  Please, you gotta believe me.  It’s just….

I mean, have you ever seen ground beef packaged like that?  I haven’t. Usually you only see it in those three pound sausage-casings of ground beef, you know?  But this was, like, the mother of all ground beef packages.  It was crazy.  I can’t remember the exact weight, but it was, like, somewhere between 10 and 20 pounds of ground beef.  I didn’t even realize that they could sell that much ground beef at one time.

And have you noticed that the price of beef skyrocketed this year?  It’s crazy, isn’t it?  When I inquired about price-per-pound at my local fair, did you know I found out that all the beef had already been sold ahead of time?  People were getting the same price for their beef cattle without “dressing them out” on grain as they did for “finished beef” last year.  I wonder why it’s so expensive this year?

But you know, I’ll never know how you feel about that, because I chased you away from the meat section of Winco.  I chased you away, and you left empty-handed, and for that I’m really sorry.

It’s just… dude.  Had you ever seen a tube of ground beef that was so big?  It was insane!  It was, like, almost too big for me to carry with two hands.  Like, I couldn’t even wrap both hands around it, and the packaging had to have been about 2 feet long.  Who needs that much ground beef at one time?

And the price was discounted!  They’d dropped the price from $31 to $21!  At that price, it was almost cheaper than chicken.  What the heck happens to ground beef to make it that cheap?  Would I give us all food poisoning if I bought it?  Was it worth it?

And so, mesmerized by the price per pound, I approached the meat display area beside you. And at first… you know, it was okay.  You were standing there, doing your thing.  I was standing there, doing my thing…

And then I started talking out loud.  To myself.  I know, I know.  It’s a horrible habit, and I really need to quit it.

“Wow.  That is just a really impressive tube of meat.  It’s just so… so thick!  Look at it.  Wow, it’s so big. That’s a lot of meat.  Wow.  Look at the… circumference?  What an impressive tube of meat – just a big, huge, hunk of impressive meat.  I bet I couldn’t even wrap my hands around it, it’s so thick.  That is just really impressive.”

And I don’t blame you for the look you gave me before you walked away.  I really don’t.  I know there are a lot of off-color stereotype jokes about black Americans, but I assure you, I really was just looking at the ground beef.  I mean, I would hope that if I were actually flirting with you I’d do a better job than that… but yeah, I get it.

Just… can I ask you a favor?

Can you never go to that particular Winco, ever again?  I think it’s best if we never see each other, ever again.

And again… sorry 🙁

Anyways.

Porn for 19-year-olds:

And then McStudface Handsomepants pulled Falina BigBosom into his strongly muscled arms, sliding a hand down the taut curve of her waist as his mouth trapped hers.  Desire exploded between them, passion igniting their flesh as they molded their bodies together. Despite the fact they dangled from harnesses hundreds of feet in the air and wind tore at their clothes as the rescue helicopter flew them to safety, they were so caught up in the feel of each other they were unaware of anything else. Neither of them noticed as last of the bombs exploded in the distance,  decimating the entire village of evil politicians and complacent, materialistic adults.

Falina BigBosom had always known she was born for something special, but she’d never dreamed she would single-handedly cure cancer by ridding the world of every bad guy ever born… there would be peace on earth now.  The word was finally saved, not that she was thinking about her heroism right then… all that mattered was the feel of the McStudFace Handomepants pressed against her and the way his touch lit her body on  fire….




Porn for 25-year-olds:

And then I found a one bedroom apartment for the same price as my old studio, and it allows pets with no deposit… oh, yeah…. no deposits, and no breed or size restrictions.  Yeah, baby, that’s right… this means I can work less hours and still have savings.

I’m gonna take it even further….the apartment comes with a parking space and a built-in washer and dryer, right there in the house… Mmmmm, No parking tickets, and dat washer/dryer right in the house….. any time I need to, I can just wash my clothes in the comfort and safety of my own apartment… oh, yeah.    I’m gonna wash them… I’m gonna wash those dirty clothes so hard….




Porn for 35-year-olds:

Wait… what?  You’re switching our insurance plan over to government benefits?  $10 emergency room copays, and that’s all it will ever cost us?   WHAT?  The benefits include a vision, dental, and one of those sweet retirement plans where they force you to retire early but keep paying you a salary anyways? AND you’re giving me a promotion and a raise?  AND you’re going to pay for me and the whole family to do a 6 month tour of South America, Europe and Asia, just to get a better feel for the international side of the business?  




Porn for Moms:

The afternoon breeze lifts the sheer curtains, bringing with it the scent of salt and sea.  The french doors are open, the veranda overlooking an empty stretch of beach – deserted stretches of sand, sea and the occasional palm tree, as far as the eye could see.  The island is empty, and it should have been lonely, but the dull crash of the crystalline waves against the sandy shore is soothing in the near silence. 

I step back into my room, my body aching from the hours of early morning swimming, my skin tingling from the hours I spent in the sun – hours that magically tanned my skin without giving me any wrinkles or skin cancer.  I’m clean – scrubbed with expensive bath products I’ve never used before, so my hair is doing that soft, frizzless thing that it only does when I take a shower at someone else’s house.  Silky strands slip around my bare shoulders as I pull on a comfortable tank top… a tank top that doesn’t need a bra but still manages to hold up my boobs so they don’t sag and make me feel gross . Despite the heat of the day the room is cool – minimalist in nature, yet still opulent.  The floors are clean, the walls are clean, everything is clean, and I didn’t have to lift a single finger to make it that way.   A wide-bladed fan rotates lazily over a giant, double king size bed with cool, white sheets and a cool white comforter.  There must be an air conditioner, not that I can hear it over the steady sound of the waves and soothing silence – how else would the room be so cold?

I slip into bed, goose bumps dancing over my arms at the initial chill as I huddle beneath the blankets. What time is it?  What day is it?  I don’t know.  I can sleep as late, and as long as I want, because somewhere, in some magical laboratory, some scientist has linked how much I rest with with how intelligent and well-behaved my children will be.  How many days in a row have I napped?  I have no idea, but at this rate, my boys are going to be the Mother Theresas of the Mensa Society.  And as my eyelids close and I slip into sleep, my last thought is of nothing – nothing at all.  There is only the dim, clean room, the afternoon breeze, and the sound of the sea in my dreams.

I love you, Bean.

You’re very handsome.

And sexy.

I don’t tell you that nearly enough.  Seriously.  You’re really handsome, and really sexy, and my favorite thing about you is how your eyes manage to be soft and intelligent at the same time.  It’s a rare thing.  Usually, when people are extremely intelligent, you can see it snapping and crackling behind their eyes, like they’re lit by an internal fire.

Yours do that.

But for some reason, when people are very, very smart, the ferocity of the intelligence in their eyes burns away all the warmth.

Your eyes are not like that.  They’re just… they’re just warm.  And kind.  And intelligent.  All at once.  It’s amazing how kind your eyes are, especially when you consider some of the people you’ve encountered after 10+ years selling cars.

Also, your stubble is sexy.  I’ve always had a thing – a really, really big thing for guys that grow sexy 5 o’clock shadows.  And you do, every single day.  If you take two days off of shaving, you look like every “dangerous bad guy who is sexy” that Hollywood ever casts.  Have you ever noticed that I invent reasons to touch your face, whenever you get that sexy stubble going?  No?  Well, I do.

Anyways, I love you.

And you love me too, right?

Because I really, really, really meant to just go to the store and get apple juice, some baby powder, and some gloves.

For reals.  I did.

Except, except there was this sign, you see?  It was this big, creepy wooden sign, and somebody had spray painted on it, and it had a big arrow trying to lure innocent people down an alley.

And I thought to myself:  OMG.  Every single CSI or Law & Order show I’ve ever seen starts just like this.  Someone drives down the alley with the creepy wooden sign and the arrow luring them down, and then they die.

FREE KITTENS…, the sign said.  FREE KITTENS…. except there was no ellipsis.  Instead, the letters just kind of trailed off, like the font they use in spooky Halloween movies.

And as I looked at that creepy wooden sign with the spooky letters, my instincts surged inside me, and I thought, “Dude.  I’m either going to get raped and die, or I am going to end up with the coolest free kitten ever.”

So I turned down that gravel road, and there was a house at the end of it… and this guy kind of came out, and I thought… well, here goes nothing.

“So,” I said, as I stepped out of my car.  “So… do you have any free kittens?” Because, obviously, I have no survival skills, and I totally would have gotten into the windowless van that said “Free puppy” if I were a kid.  And I’m sorry that the mother of your children is so dumb, but at least she makes good mashed potatoes, right?

Anyways, there’s good news!  Bean, he totally had kittens.  It wasn’t a trap.  And he totally didn’t rape and kill me. And can’t we both agree that, really, doesn’t this story have the best possible ending?

Because, no lying, I really told myself I wasn’t going to take a free kitten unless it was some kind of amazing cat.  I had gone out for apple juice, and baby powder, and gloves.  There was no point in grabbing a kitten just because someone put the word “free” in front of it, no matter how much that makes my greedy little heart thump wildly.

But, Bean?  Bean, he scooted a box to the side with his foot, and right there crawling around beside a bunch of car parts just sitting down on the ground, there was a kitten or two.  And they were just mediocre-looking kittens, and you would have been so proud, because I wasn’t going to take them, even though I did like the look of them.

But then he moved this other box and he pulled out this one kitten, and I was like, “Yup.  Yup, this is why my instincts told me to come down this road.”

And I grabbed the kitten, flipped up the tail, and yup.  Yup, it was totally a boy.  It was a boy, and it was calm, and it was a kitten color I’ve never seen before in my entire life, and everything just kind of felt right.

And I was like, “Okay, thanks for the free kitten!”  and not raping and killing me.  “Have a great day!”… and I got in my car and drove out of their before anything worse could happen.

And… and I love you?  I’m sorry.  I really honestly never intend on bringing home animals every time I turn around.  But… but I have a good feeling about this kitty?  And I’m calling him Bad Decision, but you can totally name him when you come home.

And this is what he looks like now:

And this is possibly the color he’s going to grow up into (he’s more brown than he looks in the photos, so he looks like a chocolate smoke, but he could be a black smoke?)

(Black smoke cat)

(Chocolate smoke cat – although I think the kitten will probably be the color up above.)

Bean, you know that Coyote is lonely since Bubbles died.  And you know that Fat Cat isn’t going to live forever.  And I’m sorry that I once again just kind of added to our family without consulting you first.  Despite how it appears, I’m not  actually trying to turn us into a some kind of crazy animal circus .  It’s just… I just know you really want a cat that sleeps on your side of the bed, and Coyote only ever lays with me, and the house was just calmer and happier when Bubbles was here….

And my first thought when I drove away was, “Man, I really suck at this being an adult thing.”  But then I realized… actually, no.  No, I’m pretty sure this is adulting done right.

And I really am sorry I didn’t consult you first, but it was either untimely  death or kitten, and I chose kitten.

And….and I love you?

And you love me?  Right?

You know what?  Let’s fast forward past all of the unimportant parts.

Let’s fast forward past Sharon and I meeting weeks ahead of time and planning out which workshops we wanted to attend.

Well, I say “us meeting” and “planning out” – but I mean it in the sense that I agreed to meet her for a lunch she arranged, and even then she had to print out two schedules because I waited last minute and couldn’t get my printer to work.  Also, after we decided which ones suited us best, she slid the paperwork into a folder, put the folder in her little briefcase thingie, and then input the circled workshops on her smartphone calendar.

I, on the other hand, dropped the my paperwork on the floorboard of my car, stepped on them, spilled some coffee on them, shook them out, and then wadded them up into the glove box until the morning of the conference.

Let’s fast forward past me not saving a dime ahead of time, and borrowing money last-minute from my mom, because at 33 I still suck at being an adult.

Let’s also fast forward past Sharon arriving two minutes early to pick me up in beautiful, clean vehicle only to find me waving at her frantically from the porch, saying, “One moment please!” while I searched for a semi-clean bra in the wad of “sort-of-needs-to-be-washed-but-can-be-worn-last-minute” laundry that was stacked on the treadmill.

I mean, everyone keeps that mound of dirty laundry separate from the “dude-don’t-even-think-of-walking-on-this-barefoot-or-you’ll-get-foot-leprosy-or-something” laundry pile…..right?

Please don’t answer that.

Let’s fast forward past my realization that Sharon and I were essentially the Odd Couple, and why had this poor woman agreed to hang around me, and for that matter, if we were the Odd Couple then that made me me Walter Matthau, and it was only six in the morning, and that was just waaaaay too early to feel like Walter Matthau.

You know what?  Let’s just fast forward past all that stuff, and let’s just jump right to the best part…. or, maybe the worst part.  I haven’t quite decided yet.

Look, I know that there are some of you out there who don’t know who she is (COUGH.  THE BEAN.  COUGH.), so let me explain:

Diana Gabaldon wrote a book called Outlander, and that book has been my favorite book since I was 19 years old.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to hold the #1 book spot for 14 years straight?  I read two or so books a week – back before I had kids, that number was closer to 3 or 4 books a week.  Admittedly, sometimes I’m rereading a book I’ve already read, but still… fourteen years, and not one book has ever come close to knocking Outlander off of its perch.

I still vividly remember the first time I read it I was 19 years old.   My parents had taken me on a three day Mexican cruise – Puerto Vallarta, Mazatlan, and Cabo San Lucas, and invited me along.

I’m sure they thought it would be terribly romantic, that their college-age daughter would be able to interact with others and maybe make a few friends, but instead, I trailed after them like a lost puppy dog the entire time.  Oh, sure – the food was delicious…. but if I am socially inept now, it was even worse when I was younger.  For the first day and a half, I just trailed along after my mom, eyeballing the laughing, relaxed people, eating copious amounts of ice cream, and feeling desperately out of place.

Eventually, after more than 24 hours of my constant shadowing, my parents kicked me out of our shared cruise room suite.

“Get out, Becky.  Go meet some people.”

“I’m fine,” I said, sinking down onto my cot to look at them- the little cot which faced their bed and gave them zero privacy.

“No, really,” said my mom, with a very pointed stare…. a very pointed stare which went right over my head, because I was dense like that.  “We are just going to take a nap, so you should head out – it’s too early for you to go to bed.  Go out, make some friends – I don’t want to see you back here before 11 tonight.”  And then she essentially had to shove me out of the room and lock the door behind me.

In retrospect – dude.  I’m sorry, Mom.  I think it’s a teensy bit possible you didn’t actually want to just nap at 8:30 in the evening, and I’m sorry I suck at hints.

So… I left.  I wandered around the cruise ship for nearly an hour, trying to figure out what to do with myself.  I was never one to party, I was stuffed to the gills on food, and my bathing suit was back in the cabin.  So, I just meandered around, past the all-you can eat buffet and the magician with the bawdy jokes, past the dancing couples grinding together to the beat of the bass, past the  flirting 30-somethings, and the late night musicians, and the slot machines, and the library, and the…

Wait.  THE LIBRARY?  I threw on the brakes and back-tracked so hard it was amazing I didn’t leave burned-out skid marks on the ornate carpeting.

The library was a work of art – all gleaming wood, and backlit bookcases and curving couches.  As soon as I walked through the doorway I felt at home, despite how empty it was… or maybe because it was so empty? The scent of book pages mixed with the scent of wood cleaner, and I felt a smile spread over my face.  Something about the lateness of the hour made it feel like my own, personal library. I walked along the shelves for a long time, running my fingertips over the tops of the books, trying to figure out what I wanted to read.  Having no responsibilities and a bookcase full of unread books is one of life’s greatest pleasures, and even at 19 I understood this kind of opportunity wouldn’t repeat itself very often. I wanted a good book – one I hadn’t read before, and with as many books as I read, that was starting to be tough.

On impulse, I tilted back a thick book to better look at it – the front looked interesting, so I pulled it all the way off the shelf.  Also, for the record, if you think you can’t judge a book by its cover… well, then I say you haven’t read enough books:

I ran my fingers over the embossed jacket, and then flipped it open and read the synopsis on the inside.

And that was it.  I was gone.

I don’t remember much about the rest of the cruise.  I remember opening the book and reading the first few pages as I stood by the bookcase.

After about twenty-five minutes I realized, very dimly, that my legs hurt and I needed to sit down.  I felt my way over to the couch by the window with my toes, staggering with the roll of the ship but unwilling to drag my eyes away from the pages long enough to walk a straight path.  I collapsed on the crushed velvet seating, kicking off my shoes and tucking one leg under the other, and let myself be sucked under completely.

Several hours later a full bladder forced me to surface back to reality.  When I glanced at the clock, I was horrified.  3:30 am?  Holy crap.  I glanced around, looking for a way to check out the book, but I couldn’t see one.  Was I allowed to bring it back?  What if I put it on the shelf, and then someone got up early the next morning and started reading it?   I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to take a book back to my room or not… but I sure as heck wasn’t putting it down.  Glancing around to make sure nobody saw me, I shoved the book down the front of my pants and hunched my shoulders so the front of the shirt hung loose.  There.  Perfect. Nobody could see the outline of the book.

Feeling pleased with myself, I waddled back to the room, stepping pigeon-toed so the book didn’t jostle loose and fall down my pants leg.  I hated when that happened.  At the time, I felt pretty smug with my ingenuity.

In retrospect…

Great job, 19 year old Becky.  Great job.  I’m sure you looked totally normal, shuffle-stepping down that hallway, practically bent in half, arms dangling forward lest your shirt pull tight across your stomach and show the outline of the book.

Oh, yeah. That’s much less conspicuous than, you know, just holding the book in your hand and walking back to your room.  You rock, you criminal mastermind, you.

Anyways, I remember sneaking into the cabin, feeling relief that my parents weren’t upset that I had stayed out so late, and then hiding in that ridiculously tiny bathroom until 4am because it was the only source of light I had.

I remember my parents waking up at 7 or 8, and whispering to each other.

“She’s still asleep – how late was she out?”
“I don’t know… it was really late, though.  Two?  Three?  I wonder where she went?”
“Dancing?  Probably not the bar – she’s too young.”
“That’s wonderful – she must have met some people.  I’m glad she finally got out.”

I remember waiting for the door to close and then pouncing on the book I’d hidden under my pillow, and delving right back into the world of Jamie and Claire.

I remember moving from the cabin to the top of the ship around 1pm, and being annoyed when I had to put down the book for dinner that night.

I remember finishing it about four hours before the cruise was over, and spending those next few hours, walking around in a daze.  Where was I?  Who was I?  What country was I in?  I felt awkwardly uncomfortable, trapped in my body, instead of living in Claire’s head.

Once I was back on land it took me almost a week to track down a used copy of the book…. but it was just as good the second time through.

And the third.

And the fourteenth.

And, well, let’s just say that one of the reasons I was excited to finally got a Nook was because, just like Shogun and Lonesome Dove, I was sick of buying new copies of the paperback book because the spine kept breaking in the middle every couple of years.

It’s hard to say how many times I’ve read that book, because I know it so well I tend to just leaf through it and read my favorite parts when I’m in the mood.  I bought each new book the moment they came out.  Heck, when I lived in the mountains I once drove five hours roundtrip to the nearest bookstore, just so I could get the next book in the series.

AND THEN I WENT TO A CONFERENCE, AND DIANA GABALDON WAS THE MAIN SPEAKER.

Guys, this was hands-down the most humiliating experience of my life.  Well, if I’m being honest, it probably wasn’t… but it’s the most humiliating experience I can think of right now.

It was Saturday evening at the conference, and I had just gotten out of a workshop, and I turned around, and THERE SHE WAS.  DIANA GABALDON.  THE WOMAN WHO WROTE OUTLANDER.  AND SHE LOOKED JUST LIKE SHE DOES ON HER PICTURES ON THE INTERNET, EXCEPT MAYBE PRETTIER, AND SHE WAS WEARING THIS GORGEOUS FLOWING SKIRT, AND…

And I got so overwhelmed I ducked behind a doorway and hid from her.

I wish I was joking.  I really, really wish I was just over-exaggerating at this point.  I’m not.  I got so overwhelmed at seeing the author of my favorite book that I literally darted behind a solid object so I could stare at her without her seeing me.

And look, when you’re a little kid doing something like that – hiding behind a door and peeking shyly around the corner, it’s cute.

But when you’re 5’8 in your bare feet, and have red hair, and are close to 200 pounds – it’s not cute.  It’s just weird.

AND THEN SHE WENT AROUND THE CORNER, AND I COULDN’T SEE HER ANYMORE…. and I snuck from my hiding place and followed her.  Literally.  I stayed about 20 feet away, and I followed her from hallway to hallway, because I obviously need medication and should not be allowed in public.

Diana, I’m sorry.  You really need to have bodyguards who follow you around and protect you from weirdos like me.  You should be able to go to a writer conference and not have giant red-haired women sneaking around corners and following you all over the place.  I understand you’re just a normal person.  You’re just a writer, the same as any other writer, and you’re just a normal woman, like me, except you have great hair and exceptional fashion sense.  I know this, on a cerebral level.

And yet…

And yet I totally followed you around for, like, ten minutes, and I was horrified while I was doing it, but I couldn’t help myself.

And then someone stopped you, and started talking to you, and you were just SO NICE TO THEM.  So I thought, DO IT, BECKY.  GO TALK TO HER.  DO IT.  YOU ARE GOING TO REGRET THIS IF YOU DON’T.

And so I went and waited in line behind the totally sane person who had the guts to approach Diana first.

And by waited in line I mean that I stood about five feet away from the two of them and bounced my weight from foot to foot, like a toddler that has to pee, trying to rehearse in my head what I was going to say.

“Diana,” I’d say,  “Diana, I know you’re busy, and I don’t want to take up your time.  I just wanted to say that Outlander has been my favorite book since I was 19 years old, and considering I read about 2-3 books a week, give or take,  fourteen years straight in the #1 position is really saying something.  I respect you as an author, and having followed your blog for some time, I respect you as a person, and I really appreciate your ability to create complex characters with real faults…. thank you so much for the joy your books have given me.”

That’s what I was going to say.  That’s exactly what I was going to say, guys.  I rehearsed it in my head.  And it sounded great, and it was going to be so perfect….

Except when the lady in front of me stopped talking, I jumped in before Diana could leave, and just as I opened my mouth to speak I realized – they weren’t done talking.  The lady was reaching for her camera, so they could take a selfie.  And I was interrupting this lady’s chance for a selfie with Diana, and wait, we could take pictures with her?  WHERE WAS MY CELL PHONE?  Did I leave it in my backpack?  Wait… where was my backpack?  And holy crap, focus Becky, because they are both staring at you, waiting for you to say something since you just leapt between them with all the grace of a hyperactive elephant, and….

“Diana I read your books. A lot.  And I still like them, which is something, considering since I first read your book sixteen.  Wait… I meant I was 19.  Wait, I don’t mean I still like them, I mean I’ve read two to three books and yours is still my favorite, and the joy and respect  you have for me.. I mean, I for you… I mean, I’ve read more than 3 books, I meant three a year… wait, a week.  Two to three books a week… and what I’m trying to say is you’re complex, and thank you.”

And then I turned around and pretty much literally ran away from them, because not only did my rehearsed speech not come out right, it wasn’t even English.

And as I left, with my face turning so red it was throbbing, I  heard her murmur something very gracious about, “Well thank you, very much,” which I’m sure meant, “Thank you very much for not asking to touch me, or lick me, or anything creepy like that, because that’s obviously the kind of crazy you seem to be.”

And then I spent the next five minutes wandering around, trying to erase the memory of just how embarrassing that interaction was.

Eventually I met up with Sharon, and it all came spilling out.  “Sharon, I saw Diana.  DIANA GABALDON.  And I tried to talk to her, but when I opened my mouth, it just came out gibberish, and I really don’t think I’ve ever been more embarrassed in my entire life…. and not only did I just make a fool of myself with my favorite author of all time, I didn’t even get a picture with her.”

“Well, why don’t you go back and ask her for a picture?”  Sharon’s a reasonable sort like that.

“I can’t.  I can’t.  I’m pretty sure she’s going to call the hotel cops on me if I approach her again.” Nobody has ever accused me of being reasonable.

“I’m sure it’s not a big deal – she probably gets asked all the time.”

“I can’t!  It’s too weird!”

“Nonsense- there’s someone taking a picture with her right now.  Just do it, Becky.”

“I caaaaaaaan’t.  I’ve ruined it, foreeeeeeever.  And now I’ll never have a picture with her, ever, and…”  And I spent the next five minutes forcing Sharon to listen to me whine about how I wanted a picture with Diana, but I couuuuuuldn’t…. because apparently the only difference between me and a screaming Justin Bieber fan is that Diana doesn’t have concerts I can attend.

Since the workshops were done for the day, Sharon and I decided to grab a bite to eat and socialize at the buffet table before heading home.

And that’s when it happened – I turned around to look for some water, and….

There.

She.

WAS.

“Quick!”  I hissed at Sharon.  “Get out your camera!  Take a picture!”

“What?”

“It’s Diana!  Quick!  Get out your cell phone!  Mine has a dead battery!  Get a picture of me with her!”

“Now?”  She asked.  “Don’t you want to ask her to turn around?  Or maybe let her finish filling her plate?”

“No! Don’t say anything!  Just… just quick!  Take a picture!”

And I’m here to tell you, you have never known fear until you’ve crept up behind someone you really, really, REALLY admire in order to take a picture of  their butt.

What this picture doesn’t capture is just how quickly I bolted the opposite direction as soon as Sharon snapped the photo – I was horrified that Diana was going to turn around and see me there.  I’m not sure how you explain something like that.  “Oh, don’t mind me.  I’m just deliberately approaching you while you’re vulnerable, so I can take pictures of your back end.”

But she didn’t turn around, and I got the photo, and so as horribly embarrassing as everything was, I now have a picture of me and Diana G., and that’s pretty awesome.

When I showed the picture to The Bean and tried to explain it he just looked at me in confusion and said, “Who is Diane?”

And you know what?  I don’t even care.  I mean, we all know Jamie wouldn’t say something like that… but who am I kidding?  Jamie Fraser may have said the perfect thing, but then again, Claire Randall wouldn’t have been skulking around hotel hallways to take pictures with people’s butt, so I guess it all works out.

And besides – it was all worth it.

Because now I have a photo of me.

Me and Diana’s shapely behind.

Eat your heart out, Internet.

“Who wants to rub my feet?”

“Not me.”

“Awwww, you’re never nice to me anymore.  Poor me.”

“Dude, have you even washed your feet since you were out working in the garden today?  That’s nasty.  Why would I want to touch them?”

“You know, you’re nicer when you’re pregnant.”

“WHAT?”

“I like you better when you’re pregnant.”

“EXCUSE ME??”

“I said like you better when you’re pregnant.  You’re nicer.  What?  Don’t look at me like that.  All your hormones get going, and it makes you nicer.”

“………Wow.”

“What?  I’m telling the truth.  You’re nicer when your pregnant – more laid back.  You just sit on the couch in the evenings and watch tv with me….  Maybe it’s because you can’t move as fast.  Also, the house is cleaner, too.”

Sorry, ladies.  I found him first.

Yes, yes, I know.  It’s totally fall now – but when I first wrote this a week or so ago, the weather hadn’t decided.

Here’s the thing:  I have the clinic mostly written up.  I’ve jotted down all my notes, and I’ve got the next post about 90% done (missing the photos), and am already working on post #3.

BUT:  As you will find out in one of the later posts, while we were there our tent was flooded during a summer storm.  My little Macbook Air tried to hang on, but it died a valiant death about three weeks ago…. and ALL of my post material is on it.

Oh, don’t get me wrong:  All the material is still on safe and sound on the computer, and it still boots up and runs nicely.  I just can’t use the mouse pad.  Or the keyboard.  But, you know, aside from not being able to use the mouse pad or keyboard, everything’s working great. Sure, the 11 inch screen has a giant crack in it, but that’s been there for months, so that doesn’t count.

Anyways.

I’m going to give it one last go later on this week – trying to get my post off of it… and if that fails, I’m going to have to sit down and rewrite everything from scratch. The reason I’ve been so quiet lately is that I’ve been in the middle of a huge sulk about it.  I hate rewriting things – I really do. 

So here’s the post that was supposed to go live a week ago, and then hiccuped for some strange reason:

********

Muggy, hot days melt into crisp, breezy nights.  Is it late summer?  Early fall?  The weather can’t seem to decide.  All around me the trees melt into autumn, green leaves slowly bleeding into red and gold.

Some trees don’t even bother going through the motions.  Hidden, here and there, are bare, spidery branches reaching up to the sky, their lonely trunk surrounded by greenish, fallen leaves. 

Summer is nearly over.

I’ve always wanted to live somewhere where there’s four seasons… and now I do.  It’s incredible – almost soul soothing.  There’s something peaceful in the gentle drift of one season to the next, but what I didn’t anticipate was the urgency I would feel.   

The rain is coming.  The rain is coming.  The rain is coming.

There’s nothing wrong with the rain, and life continues on just the same despite grey soggy weather, but frolicking with two children is just easier beneath the stare of a bright yellow sun. 

The rain is coming. 

The city feels like an animal before a storm – soaking up summer days and sunshine into its soul like a bear preparing for winter.  I find myself caught up in the urgency, running with the herd in a desperate effort to spend every dry moment outside before the grey envelopes once again.

I love the rain.  I’m not a big fan of the constant mud, but I am looking forward to the wind and rain.

Still.

This is the second summer in a row I’ve essentially abandoned this blog during the summer – I don’t know about you, but I think I see a pattern.

So.  What have I been up to in the month (plus) I’ve been quiet?

Writing.  I’ve been writing, writing, writing, WRITING.

And then writing some more.

At some point this summer, I realized that I needed to start making some money in the conceivable future.

I could either take on a full time job, working from home…. which would net us about $500-$600 a month after babysitting fees.

Or I could write.

So, I started writing.  And then writing.  And then I wrote some more.

Honestly, for as quiet as this blog has been you wouldn’t think I’ve been so busy, but I have been.  In fact, I’ve spent so many hours sitting on the couch, writing, that I’ve worn a Becky-butt depression in the cushion.

And if that doesn’t make you feel sexy, I don’t know what will.

I realized the other day that if I’m going to take this whole “career as an author” thing seriously, I ought to have a serious place to write.

So, in between The Bean never being home (it was accountant busy season back when I wrote that – he’s home on vacation now), taking care of the boys, the horse, the dog, the chickens, the cats, and everything else….

I decided to renovate an upstairs room into a writing/office/computer room.

I threw the extra bed into the boys’ toy room:

And then proceeded to spend a depressing amount of time choosing the perfect color paint.  I wanted something yellow – calm, bright, and clean.

I spent close to an hour gathering paint samples from several stores.

I then spent another hour choosing my favorites.

Then I went to Walmart and realized a can of paint was only $10 there, so I spent 45 minutes in the aisle, trying to select the best one. 

Mind you, that was 45 minutes with a DragonMonkey and a Squid in the cart…. I think the three of us were ready to eat each other by the time I finally made my selection.

I brought it home, opened it up, marveled at how perfect it was…..

And then put it on the wall.

I wanted yellow.

What I chose, instead, was YELLLOW!  OMG!  HI!  I’M YELLOW PAINT!

I tried to reconcile myself to it, but it wasn’t happening.

So the next morning, as the Bean was leaving for another 14 hour day at work, I begged him to stop by and pick me out a paint.

I know girls are supposed to be better at this sort of stuff, but, honestly, I suck at it.  Besides, The Bean has an uncanny, almost supernatural ability at picking out paint colors.

He spent less than 10 minutes at Walmart (and that included walking into the store and walking out), called me up, told me the color I wanted, and then headed out to work.

If I wasn’t so grateful I would have been annoyed. 

I spent all day painting, and by the next day I had myself an actual office. 

So now I have a writing office – like a gosh darned real writer.  It makes me feel a little smug.

Here’s the skinny on the other stuff that’s been going on in my life:

As far as Caspian is concerned – well, he’s as awesome and beautiful as ever.  He’s putting on weight and is getting very responsive under saddle. 

The boys are huge – can you believe Squid’s two and a half, and that DragonMonkey will be FIVE in less than a month?

Artemis turned one at the end of August- I plan on giving her her own post once I finish playing catch up.  She’s such an awesome dog.

Anyways, I know this is abrupt, but if I try to give this a fancy, pretty ending I’ll never get this off… and then I’ll never finish typing up the clinic, and then all of you guys will hunt me down with pitchforks.

Besides, the Bean’s on vacation right now, so we’re busy doing important stuff… like going down to the river, and stomping in mud puddles, and enjoying the local bowling alley.

 Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to clean the chicken coop…. because my life is awesome like that nowadays (five chickens, wonderful dog, loving husband, healthy kids, gorgeous horse, house in Oregon, burgeoning writing career…. don’t worry, though.  I’m still chubby, so you don’t have to hate me too much.)

All that time, trouble, effort, and researching choosing a new car that can fit the whole family:

And with that, the deal was done, and I got to enjoy the experience of shaking Mr. Finance’s flaccid hand all over again.

In between agreeing to a deal and actually driving away with it is a fun little thing I like to call “Sign 400,000 forms”.  That’s where being married to The Bean came in handy again.  Although the paperwork was handed directly to me, I waited for The Bean to give a discreet nod before I actually signed where they told me to sign.

Everything went nice and smooth until we came to an especially long piece of paper – a paper that The Bean grabbed out of my hand before I’d even checked for his nod. 

…And there it was:  $400 of GAP insurance, hidden amongst a bunch of boring paragraphs.

The thing is, GAP insurance comes packaged standard with a lease (if you total your car it covers the difference between what your insurance pays and what you owe the dealership), so it was a redundant charge.

We declined the insurance, and voila – our payments dropped to exactly where we wanted them.

“You know, I’m pretty sure they’ve actually sent some people to jail for stunts like that,” murmured The Bean, while the guy went back to reprint out our paperwork with our new, lower payment. 

Eventually it came time to switch everything from the Civic over to the new Scion, and head off in my brand new vehicle to pick up the boys from Jame’s place.

The boys reacted pretty much how I figured they would:  upon finding out that we had a new car, they promptly burst into hysterical tears that we’d gotten rid of the Civic. 

They way they carried on, you would have thought I’d announced that I’d dragged Artemis out into the front yard and put a bullet in her head.

That pout isn’t nearly impressive enough, DragonMonkey.  Tell us how you really feel.

It burns us with its new car smell!  It burns!  You can’t make us stay in it, gollum, gollum! 

Anyways, it’s been a couple of days, and I love this Scion a little more every day.   There’s TONS of room for Artemis in the back, and the other day I actually had two adults, two kids, about $300 worth of groceries (maybe 20 bags?), a large stroller and a kids’ bike all stuffed into it and there was room to spare. 

Plus, it comes with Bluetooth so any time I want to talk to someone while I’m driving, I just push a button and speak straight to the car.  Whatever – I know that’s old technology to some of you.  I still get a kick out of it, though – I feel like I’ve traveled to the 1950’s version of the  future, as I sit there and talk to my car (or rather, the person’s voice coming through the speakers on my car.)

Also…. WOOHOO!  IT’S NOT A MINIVAN!

It used to be easy to bring Artemis with us places:

By the time she was 5 months old, that wasn’t quite as simple:

Now that she’s 7 months old and over 60 pounds, it’s getting downright impossible to stuff her in the back seat with the kids (she’s long outgrown the front seat). 

Since the lease is coming up on my Civic, The Bean and I started discussing about possibly trading it in for something that would still be in our price range, but actually fit everyone comfortably.

And that’s when we discovered that finding a car we both agreed on was going to be much more difficult than we originally anticipated.

“What about the Mazda 5?”

“Bean, we’ve been through this a million times.  Yes, it’s got great seating.  Yes, it’s affordable.  Yes, Artemis will fit nicely, which solves the problem we have with the Civic.  It’s perfect in every way except one…..”

“Becky, you’re being ridiculous.  It’s not a minivan.”

“Dude.  It’s a minivan.”

“It is NOT a minivan.”

“Well, look at this!  My friend Google seems to disagree with you.  It’s known as ‘Mazda’s Mini-Minivan’.”

“It’s not a minivan.  In fact, back when they first released it they used to have trouble with them catching on fire.  When they looked into why that was, it was because people were souping them up and using them for street racing.  Would people soup up and try to street race a minivan?  I don’t think so.”

“It has a sliding door, Bean.”

“It’s not a minivan!  It’s a very cool little car!”

“Excellent.  Then I think you should get it.  I’m sure all the ladies will be checking you out, in your totally sexy not-minivan.”

“You’re trying to joke, but it really is a sexy little car.  You’d look great it in it.  I think it suits you.”

“Stop trying to sell me on it, Mr. I-Used-To-Sell-Cars.  I’ll consider it, okay?  I do like the price and the seating.  It’s perfect… it’s just…. I just always promised myself I’d never drive a minivan, and I don’t care what you say.  It’s a minivan. Just… let me think about it.”

***later that day***

“So, have you thought about that one car?  That great looking 6 seater?”

“You mean the minivan?”

“It’s not a minivan.”

“Yes, it is.  Actually, I did think about it, but then I got distracted by the Nissan Cube.  HOW AWESOME IS THIS THING?  Look at it!  Look at all the window space!”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Well, actually, they don’t have a good lease on it, but I wish they did.”

“You’re kidding, right?  It’s hideous.  Nobody in their right mind could like that thing.”

“But it comes with a shag carpet toupee!  I’m dead serious – look!  For twenty-five dollars extra, you get a shag toupee to put on your dashboard.”

“You’re kidding.  Please tell me you’re joking, Becky.”

“No!  I mean, who wouldn’t want that?”

“……. This is what happens when you let women design cars.  You get asymmetrical toasters with shag toupees.”

“I swear, one of these days I’m gonna hit you with a rock.  It’s not a gender thing – it’s an awesome thing.  You’re just not awesome enough to appreciate it.”

“Yes.  I’m sure that’s what it is.”

“OMG, BEAN!  BEAN,  LOOK!  IT COMES IN ORANGE!  I COULD HAVE AN ORANGE TOUPEE-WEARING SUV.”

“…… You know, I always wondered who the heck actually bought cars like that.  Now I know.  And I’m married to one of them.”

“Whatever.  You spend all your time daydreaming about Porsches.  Will your Porsche come with a shag toupee?  No?  Well, then I pity you.”

****the next day****

“Hi, Bean.  Whatcha calling for?”

“Gooooood afternoon, Becky!  This is a complimentary call from the Mazda 5 Owners Association.  You have been pre-selected from a pool of applicants to be one of the lucky people who can drive the Mazda 5!  All you need to do is come down to your local Mazda dealership and fill out the paperwork on this sexy, zippy car with wonderful cargo space, and it’ll be yours!”

“Oh, well, lovely.  Does it come complimentary with a piece of shag carpeting for my dashboard?”

“Uh… no, but it does come with available seating for six, and it is available in a variety of beautiful colors.”

“What kind of minivan doesn’t come with shag carpeting?  What kind of ragtag organization is this?”

“Ah, well, that’s the beauty of it.  It’s not a minivan.”

“It’s a minivan, Bean.”

“This isn’t the Bean  – this is the Mazda 5 Owners Association.  And while your sexy new Mazda 5 doesn’t come with shag carpeting, we are offering a special, just for you – your new Mazda 5 will come pre-financed and will be paid for completely by the Bank of Bean – you won’t have to put down a penny.  Now tell me, can you beat a deal like that?”

“Well, no…. but on the other hand, I found another vehicle I really like – the Kia Soul?  DUDE.  HAVE YOU SEEN IT?  ITS AWESOME.  IT COMES IN ‘ALIEN GREEN’.  WHO DOESN’T WANT AN ALIEN GREEN SUV?!”

“………..”

“Their ad campaign seems to be focused on giant dancing ghetto gangster hamsters.  It’s surreal.  Bean, I want to be a part of this lifestyle.  I’m ready.  Let’s do this thing.”

He didn’t have anything to say to that – I’m thinking he was overwhelmed by how awesome and right this would be for our family.

In other news, The Bean has boring taste in cars.