Oh! I'm sorry....

I wish I could find my original account of this story; my memory is surely distorted after twenty years. At the very least, some of the finer details are missing. I know I wrote it down, because I specifically remember drawing a tiny illustration of the incident in the midst of my serial-killer-scrawl, but I can't find it in my journal, and it isn't in the vast collection of letters Sarah saved, so I must have written it to someone else, though I doubt whoever it was would have saved the letter. Too bad.

____________________

This was France. Again. I have lots of stories from France, especially from my year studying abroad in Besançon. I could probably compose a lengthy anthology of my Gallic antics, but this is one that still makes me laugh when I think of it.

Setting the Scene

Four girls from our group were assigned to a dormitory building on one edge of town; Michelle and I were across the hall from each other on the fourth floor, while Chandler and Emily had rooms two floors below us. It was nice that all the dorm rooms were singles, but it was weird that the halls were coed, with two small bathrooms for the residents to share unisexily. There were two or three dozen rooms per floor and a total of four toilets and four showers. That many college men and women sharing so few toilets and showers would never fly on a U.S. campus! Granted, the stalls offered total privacy from the floor almost to the ceiling... but still. I don't think there was even a sink for washing your hands, since the individual rooms were each equipped with a small sink and mirror. Or maybe there was one sink, and I'm just remembering it worse than it actually was. Either way, the bathrooms were definitely unisex and seemed to be constantly occupied. I hated having to pee, poop, and shower knowing that some dude I didn't know might be in the stall next to me, pooping. Gross.

Side Story

This one time, after more than a week of finding the same shower stall locked but never hearing water running, I suspected that someone had pulled a rude prank by locking the door from the inside, meaning everyone on our floor had only three showers to share. Tired of the added inconvenience, I recruited Michelle to give me a boost over the stall so I could unlock the latch from the inside. Feat accomplished, my suspicion was confirmed: there was nothing wrong with the shower. I felt very heroic.

photo credit to Chandler for 
documenting my agile prowess

 

Back to the Main Story

Most of the guys from our group -- including Alex and Jeremy, who became our good friends that year -- lived in a different set of dormitories on a different edge of town, accessed by a different bus line. We did most of our socializing in town, but once in a while, we'd go hang out at each other's dorms for an evening. Everyone would bring something: wine, camembert, beer, baguette, wine, beer, wine....

Jeremy and Alex 
visiting us at our dormitory

 a typical evening hanging out
(Michelle covered her entire room with fabric
to hide the dreary paint and holes in the drywall)

a typical morning after hanging out
(this mess is in my room, unfortunately for me)

What Happened (the way I remember it)

So this one evening, Alex and Jeremy rode the bus to our dorm, and we hung out alternating between Michelle's room and mine. Other people were there, too: Chandler and Emily from downstairs, and probably Emily's new French boyfriend, and Les, the nice British guy that moved in down the hall, and maybe one or two others from our group... or maybe not. I don't remember. It doesn't matter.

What I do remember was being fairly drunk and needing to pee.

I remember sitting in the toilet stall, peeing, and hearing a trickle of water pattering on the floor of the shower stall next to me, and I remember my irritation that yet again, some careless dormmate hadn't shut the faucet completely off after showering. (I swear, someone would leave that shower dripping at least two or three times a week. Whenever I heard it, with a disdainful sigh I would reach into the stall to turn off the valve with a firm twist. It was not that hard, people!)

I remember my increasing irritation with the wasted water as I finished my business and stomped (staggered?) indignantly out of the toilet stall.

I remember grabbing the handle to the shower stall and flinging the door open with the dramatic flair of a drunk college girl on a mission to save the planet one leaky shower faucet at a time.

I clearly remember seeing a skinny, pale, bare ass in front of me, and then glancing up to see a guy's head whip around, his hair wet with shampoo and his eyes wide with surprise at being interrupted during his late-night shower.

I definitely remember yelling "OH, SHIT! SORRY!!!" as I slammed the shower door shut with a bang and ran out of the bathroom and down the hall.

"Oh my god, you guys...!!!" I burst into the room, mortified, and told my friends what had just happened.

All I remember after that is laughter and ridicule.

The Aftermath (the way most people heard it)

The laughter and ridicule did not end with the evening. After that night, those who were there found great delight in telling (and retelling) the story to anyone who hadn't yet heard it, and to anyone who wanted to hear it again, to the point that it became a recurring theme for the rest of the year.

Alex and Jeremy were particularly fond of telling the tale, and since there were no witnesses to claim otherwise, they came up their own version of how things went down.

"Su-u-ure, it was an accident...." Alex would coo at me knowingly, and Jeremy would chime in,

"Of course you thought the stall was empty...."

Then their knees would go soft, their hips would start to sway, and they'd rub their hands slowly up and down their torsos. With tipped chins and mocking kissy-faces, they would gyrate around me, all sexy-like, chanting in their smoothest voices,

"Oh-h-h... I'm sorry... I didn't kno-o-ow you were in here...."

Turning to caress their undulating backsides in my direction, they would murmur,

"M-m-m-m... don't mind me-e-e... I believe that's my soap on the floor...."

Best buddies, Alex and Jeremy were constantly coming up with ways to crack themselves up (letting out a colossal fart just before getting off the city bus was a favorite), but their Sexy-Kristin-Dance became a staple comic routine, and I never knew when they would unleash it on me.

On the bus.
In a bar.
After class.
At the student office, waiting for the mail to arrive.
In the town square, with dozens of people walking by.
Outside the Château de Chambord, during a tour of the Loire Valley.

Another Side Story

While touring one of the castles of the Loire on a special Easter weekend excursion, our group followed the guide into a small tunnel where everyone had to duck to pass through. Alex, near the front of the line, suddenly stopped at the end of the tunnel. He extended his arms to keep us from passing, as if protecting us from danger ahead. Seconds later, without explanation, he dropped his arms and continued on, forcing us to walk through his flatulent stench as we exited the tunnel. These are the little details I remember about my time in France.

 

touring Les Châteaux de la Loire

(me, Michelle, Alex, and Jeremy)

The End

That was pretty much it re: the shower incident. It happened so fast (not to mention my inebriated state), I didn't know which of my dormmates I'd walked in on. For the rest of the year, I simply made a point not to make eye contact with any of the guys on our floor. Meanwhile, my friends made it their mission never to let me live it down, and the Sexy Dance is still one of my favorite memories of our year "studying" abroad.

an old-fashioned 35mm selfie

My Mouse Story (which is also my snake story)

I have discovered that almost everyone has some kind of mouse story to tell. Here's mine:

For my daughter's fourth birthday, we got her a baby rock python. She named him Snakey. I'd always thought a pet snake would be cool, and Snakey really was. He was about eighteen inches long and had beautiful markings.

Here they are, adorably watching TV together.

For reasons unnecessary to the story, my daughter and I were temporarily living with my parents at the time we got Snakey. My parents warily consented to having the snake at their house, and we were, of course, extremely careful when opening and closing the screen that covered Snakey's terrarium.

But then, one afternoon, Snakey was not in his cage when I came home. My heart sank when I realized that the screen wasn't properly in place. I couldn't understand how it was possible until I learned that my (ex-)sister-in-law had come over with her son earlier in the day, and they had taken Snakey out to play. She thought she had put the cover back on right, but in fact, she had not, and Snakey got out.

I was very upset, both because I had to tell my daughter her pet was missing only a few months after she got it, and also because I had to tell my parents that a python was loose somewhere in their house.

After hours of fruitless searching, I figured that Snakey had most likely slithered into a floor vent and was irretrievably lost under the house. Much less likely, yet still possible, there was a large storage closet off the living room in which Snakey could be hiding. It was getting late, though, and emptying and restocking the closet was an overly daunting project; instead, I got the bright idea of trying to lure Snakey back to his cage by baiting it with food and leaving it in the closet.

The thing about snakes is that they only eat live food, which in little Snakey's case consisted of "pinkies," baby mice that are so young, they haven't yet grown fur to cover their pink skin. They can only lie helpless in the bottom of the cage until the snake finds and eats them. They also don't live very long, so if one dies before the snake feeds, you have to go get another one.

I went to the pet store that night, came home with a pinkie, and left it in the open cage on the floor of the storage closet overnight. My hope was that Snakey would find his way into the cage, eat the pinkie, and then feel so full and comfy that he'd just curl up to sleep under his log, and that's where I'd find him in the morning.

What I found in the morning was a dead pinkie.

I tried again with a new pinkie the next night, with the same result the following morning.

On the third night, I had another, brighter idea: instead of a pinkie, I'd get a slightly more developed mouse that would live a little longer -- a baby just old enough to have a little fur and be somewhat mobile. At this stage, the pet store calls these mice "hoppers."

Hoppers, indeed.

What I found the next morning was an empty cage. No Snakey. No mouse.

So, either Snakey had crawled in, eaten the hopper, and crawled back out, or we now had a baby python and a baby mouse loose in the house. Either way, I couldn't bring myself to tell my parents.

I abandoned my plan to try to lure Snakey back to his cage. I could only hope for the best and continue periodic searches of the house, though my hopes faded as the weeks passed.

Then, one day, I came home to find my dad in the kitchen with a package of mouse traps on the counter.

"Hey, Dad, what'cha doing?" I asked innocently.

"I saw a mouse run across the floor this morning. I guess the cold weather is driving them in."

"Uh-oh.... Well, hopefully it's just the one...."

Damn.

My dad set out the traps, but as the days passed, the mouse remained at large (presumably growing larger).

Then, another day, it was just my dad and I in the house again when he saw the mouse crawl across the love seat and disappear under the cushion. Almost without thinking, I ran over, yanked off the seat cushion, and saw the tiny critter dart for a back corner. I lunged for it, but it was too fast, squeezing safely into the innards of the sofa. I should clarify: I am not a person who is afraid of mice,* but this is definitely not something I would do with a random wild rodent.

"Shoot." I stood back with a sigh of frustration. Then I noticed the incredulous expression on my dad's face.

"Uh.... I appreciate that you're trying to help, but I'm not sure you should try to catch the mouse with your bare hands like that."

"Well, Dad, actually...." I confessed what I'd done. Hearing the real story, my dad laughed himself to tears. However, we both agreed it was best not to tell mom just yet. A snake and a mouse. Yeah... no.

It wasn't much longer before the mouse met its demise, after all. It wasn't a mouse trap that got it, though. My dad was doing paperwork at the table in their home office, and when he pushed back the rolling chair to get up, somehow, he rolled right over the mouse and squished it dead into the carpet. A bizarre ending, but the whole story was pretty messed up from the beginning, anyway.

So, no more mouse, and we never did find Snakey. I'm certain he escaped through a floor vent into the crawl space via the old leaky duct work under the house, and I'm sure he didn't make it through the winter. Poor Snakey.

That's my mouse (and my snake) story.

I also have a rat story, but it isn't as good.

_____________________________________________

* Though I have no qualms about snakes or mice, wolf spiders and waterbugs are an entirely different matter. In fact, I feel squeamish from typing those words just now. My husband once came running from the other end of the house, thinking I was being stabbed to death by a murderous intruder, but it was just me shrieking in terror over a big scary bug.

This was college.

I just rediscovered this article from our college newspaper that I'd taped into a scrapbook years ago.

 

I'm pretty sure most people don't associate college with rampant nudity, but this is just a drop in the bucket of examples I could list from my years at Knox. There was the mass streaking of the Freshman Preceptorial Lecture in the fall of 1992, the '94 back-to-school moonlight celebration in the middle of the football field known as The Bowl (I remember vast piles of clothing scattered along the grassy ridge overlooking the field - you were only allowed down if you were naked), the annual Williston Run, and countless occasions when people would randomly drop trou and wander around parties.

I was too self-conscious to participate in any of it, but I envied my exhibitionist friends in their bare-assed revelry. I regretted that I couldn't overcome my inhibitions enough to join in the fun.

Except for this one night....

While most of our male friends were doing private fraternity things across campus, a large group of women assembled in the common area of our two-level dorm suite for our own party. After a while (and much imbibing), the whole lot of us decided to go for a walk. I don't recall whether we left the dorm with nudist intentions, or if the idea struck us once we were outside, but when we reached the section of lawn about halfway between Post Hall and the TKE and Beta houses, we formed a circle and began disrobing to varying degrees in preparation for the Naked Hokey Pokey. Because a) it was dark, b) I was among women, c) I was drunk, and d) I felt weird being the only fully clothed figure among two dozen, I took off my shirt and danced the Hokey Pokey with my friends.

It was fun... and that's what it's all about.

Misunderstanding

I was a church youth group advisor for the phenomenal class of 2010 from the time they were freshmen though their senior year. As graduation time loomed, we would meet on Sunday mornings to hang out, discuss their farewell mini-sermons for "Senior Sunday," and talk about how life was going for everyone.

One such morning, Piper was bemoaning the workload at school, most of all a major science exam coming up that she was spending every spare moment studying for.

It had been 20 years since I'd taken a high school science class, but I found it hard to believe that the coursework had become that specialized. I felt compelled to interrupt.

"I'm sorry, Piper, but why do you have such an important test on Celery Production?"

Everyone looked at me funny for a few seconds until the youth director figured out what I was asking.

"No, Kristin, not 'Celery Production,'" she said to me from across the room.

"Cell Reproduction."

Waterskiing: Takes 1 & 2

TAKE 1

There I was, fifteen and fabulous, reclining on a chaise lounge in the sand at the beach by the ocean under the sun in The Bahamas. I was loving every minute of my week in paradise. Lying there in my new swimsuit, feeling my warm skin absorb the solar radiance, I pictured myself back home, showing off my glorious pigmentation to everyone's envy. Barely halfway through our vacation, I'd already crowned myself The Tan Queen Of Tulsa.

I turned my head to the side and cracked my eyelids open just enough to see whether my friend Monique, equally fifteen and fabulous, was bronzing as beautifully as I was. Close, I thought, but my skin was surely a shade darker than hers.

Monique looked up from her novel to check her watch. "It's almost two o'clock," she said. "We'd better get in line." She slid the book under her chair and swung her tanned legs around to stand up. I followed suit, and together we hopped several quick steps toward the water, where the wet sand was cooler on our bare feet.

"G!" I called out to my grandmother and her friend Frances, who were lounging with their paperbacks in the warm shade under a huge thatched umbrella a short distance from our chairs. The Jack Tar Village Resort on the island of Grand Bahama had been their favorite vacation spot for years, and this summer of 1988, my grandmother (I called her G) had invited me to bring a friend along for a week of tropical fun in the sun. G and Frances looked up and smiled at us from behind their enormous bifocal sunglasses. "We're going to ski," I told them. "Could you watch our stuff 'til we get back?" They both nodded and raised an arm high to wave us good-bye. Monique and I turned and made our way along the shoreline to the pier.

Making a concerted effort to appear casual, I sauntered alongside my friend in my black swimsuit with a plunging neckline, low back, and legs cut waist-high on the hips. It was as close as my mother would let me get to wearing a bikini. Monique was looking great in a navy blue-and-white striped suit that modestly complemented her curves. Friends since third grade, we had finally grown out of our pubescent awkwardness. We were both slightly taller than average, with dark blonde shoulder-length hair that took on what I considered a wild-sexy-tropical look after several days' exposure to the hot sun, humid air, and salty water. Feeling smug, I silently compared our youthful figures to the beached-whale shapes of the older women we passed on the beach. I then began to imagine cute boys checking us out as we walked by. Maybe the guy of my dreams was watching me right now, wondering how and when to introduce himself. Maybe he also had a hot friend for Monique. Maybe they they were sixteen or seventeen, and maybe they had British accents, or even Australian! Maybe they were getting up off their beach towels now, following us like sailors to the Sirens....

When we reached the pier, I glanced discreetly back the way we'd come, but saw no one fitting the young, rugged images I'd formed in my head. I set my fantasy aside for the time being as we stopped at the activity desk to sign up for waterskiing, then walked out on the pier to join a handful of like-minded fellow vacationers.

At the end of the pier, a ladder led down to a to a small floating dock covered in a synthetic grass-green carpet. The ski boat was tied to the dock, and the boat driver, a friendly local man, was preparing to take a young couple from the group ahead of us out for a ride. The woman had already put on the skis and a life vest and was seated on the edge of the dock with her legs dangling in the water. Her boyfriend passed her the handle of the ski rope and climbed into the boat as the driver unhooked the moor line. The boat drifted slowly away from the dock, taking up the slack of the ski rope. At the woman's signal, the driver hit the throttle, and the boat took off with a roar. Monique and I watched as the woman held firmly to the ski rope, letting it pull her off the dock and up onto the skis as she sped smoothly away towards the turquoise and cobalt swaths of the Caribbean waters.

"Wow!" We exclaimed. That was so cool. I wanted to be able to do that.

The boat followed an oblong route to the left of the pier and parallel to the beach so that spectators on shore could see the fun they were missing. After a second pass, the boat slowed to a stop out in the deeper water, and the couple traded places so the boyfriend could ski. The boat then took the same route, pulling the man in two long ovals before heading back to the pier. We watched from the dock as the boat sped towards us, then swerved away to open water. The skier let go of the rope and continued to race across the water in a straight line toward the dock. Then, seconds from crashing into us, he bent his knees and twisted his body sharply to the left while digging his skis in at the perfect angle to send up a magnificent spray of seawater that left his friends soaked and shrieking in protest.

Monique and I laughed at the sight. How cool. I wanted to be able to do that, too, but I had only been skiing twice before, during summer visits to my grandmother's lake house. Merely getting up on the skis was a huge accomplishment; I would need a lot more experience before I dared to attempt tricks like that.

Another couple from the group ahead of us took their turn on the ski boat. The girlfriend was not as skilled as the others. With help, she put on the skis and slid into the water, and it took her several tries and much coaching to get up, but she finally did. After two loops up and down the beach, she switched places with her boyfriend, and at the end of his turn, he pulled the same stunt as his friend, sending out an even bigger water spray that left all of us drenched and laughing.

"Monique and Kristin!" the boat driver called out. It was our turn. A more experienced skier, Monique prepared to go first while I stepped into the boat. Minutes later, she was up and skiing on the first try! I hooted and clapped for her, and the sound of encouraging cheers from the people on the dock faded as the boat zoomed away.

Watching Monique from the back of the boat, I pictured myself out there in her place, skimming effortlessly across the aquamarine water. I imagined myself cruising along behind the boat, smiling and raising a hand to wave at everyone on the beach. I was eager for my turn to ski. After about five minutes, the boat driver slowed down, and Monique sank gracefully into the water, a huge grin on her face.

"Nice job!" I called out as she swam to the boat.

"Thanks! That was awesome!" Monique replied. "You're up!" As she climbed out of the water, I strapped on a white ski jacket, fastened my skis on tight, then slid off the back of the boat into the salty sun-warmed sea. The driver tossed me the ski handle, and I got myself into starting position as the boat puttered away, taking up the slack of the rope until I felt a strong, gentle pull from the line.

Keenly aware of people watching from the pier and the beach, including my grandmother, Frances, and my fantasy boyfriend, I took a deep breath and yelled, "Okay!"

The engine roared, and the boat took off. The tremendous pull of the ski rope felt like it was going to separate my arms from my body. Resisting the instinct to let go of the handle, I tightened my grip and tensed the muscles of my shoulders and arms. The boat pulled my body forward as the waves dragged my feet backward, threatening to throw me face-first back into the sea. A moment later, I could see and feel nothing but a harsh spray of white foam shooting into my face, up my nose, and all around me. Then I felt the rush of air against my body as my legs steadied and my feet balanced on the two slender fiberglass planks skimming across the water beneath me. In the distance, I heard the cheers of the people watching from the dock, and a sense of elation washed over me. I was skiing... and I'd gotten up on the first try!

My excitement turned to nervous concentration as I spent a wobbly minute hunched over with knees bent and eyes focused on the water directly in front of me, afraid of hitting a big breaker that would send me flying wildly into the boat's foaming wake. When I felt secure enough in my balance, I straightened myself to a more upright position and raised my head to look up. Monique was smiling and waving at me from the back of the boat. I gave her a quick smile back, though letting go of the ski handle to wave was out of the question. Looking around to orient myself, I noted the beach to my left and caught a glimpse of the pier behind me when a large wave sent me wobbling again. Heeding it as a divine sign that screamed, "Pay attention, moron!" I kept my eyes on the water after that.

"Okay, Kristin," I coached myself in my head, "you're doing fine--good balance, good stance, skis parallel and close together.... Watch that posture! Okay, now, the first turn is coming up. True, you've never successfully completed a turn, but that doesn't mean you can't do it now. Bend those knees.... Whoops! Catch the balance, Kristin! Catch the balance! Kristin! The guys are watching! The guys...!!!"

I didn't fall.

With a sigh of relief and a shaky smile, I regained my composure on the skis, then looked up to see that we were heading toward the pier. The boat driver must have sensed my ineptitude and decided not to subject me to the second loop of the usual ski route. I began to prepare myself mentally for the final phase of the adventure: the boat would approach the dock, then swing to the left and zoom away, at which point I would let go of the ski rope and continue straight on, sinking smoothly into the water in front of the admiring spectators. Maybe then a cute boy would step forward and lean down with a strong, muscular arm to help me up onto the dock....

Fifty yards to go.

"But Kristin," a voice in my head countered, "that would be so boring... so expected. How about something more exciting to impress them? I know! Do that twisty-splashy move and spray 'em all with water! Yeah!"

The boat veered away to the left, and I felt a thrilling rush of speed and confidence as I released the handle of the rope and aimed for the dock, about thirty yards straight ahead.

"Wow! You're going so fast!" said the voice. "You could reach the dock at this speed! Forget the twisty-splashy move--just coast right up there and spin around to sit down on the edge! Your hair won't even get wet! Really, it'll work!" I didn't have time to talk myself out of it, and I truly had myself convinced that I could do it right up until the point where I slammed into the dock.

I don't recall the moment of impact; my next awareness was of being essentially bent in half around the edge of the floating dock, with my upper body sprawled across the Astroturf and my lower half hanging in the water, the residual current from the boat pushing my legs forward underneath the dock. A lone ski popped up on the other side.

"Oh, my god, are you okay?" I looked up to see a cluster of worried faces gathered around me. Slowly moving my arms and legs, I discovered that, except for having the breath knocked out of me, I was okay. "I think so," I replied with a sheepish grin. A couple of people stepped forward to help me out of the water, while someone else retrieved my runaway ski.

"Kristin! Oh, my god, are you okay?" Monique shouted from the boat as it returned to the dock.

"Ha! Yeah, I think so," I hollered back, grateful to see her familiar face. I had a minor reputation as a clumsy daredevil back home with my friends, but I wasn't accustomed to pulling such inane stunts in front of complete strangers. The boat came to a stop alongside the dock, and Monique hopped out.

"What were you thinking?" she voiced the question on everyone's mind, and I tried to explain myself, but Monique just shook her head. "You're such a dork."

Other than mild abrasions from the synthetic carpet on the undersides of my arms, I really was fine, I assured everyone. All the attention was embarrassing, so Monique and I left the dock and walked along the pier toward the beach.

Gone was the feeling of fabulousness; I wanted to be invisible. Scanning all the sunbathers, beachcombers, and swimmers along the shore, I wondered how many of them had witnessed my little mishap. Perhaps my distance from the beach plus the fact that I'd been wearing a ski jacket had rendered me unrecognizable to anyone who may have seen the crash. I dreaded the long trek back to our spot, and made Monique walk with me under the palm trees behind the rows of chairs, away from the water and the attention of the people on the beach.

Monique, however, wasn't nearly so concerned about being noticed. "Hey!" We were still several yards away when she called out to my grandmother and her friend, knowing full well that everyone around us could also hear. "Did you see Kristin? She hit the dock!"

More than a dozen heads turned to look at us, and my face flushed as applause broke out around us. They'd seen me, all right.

I promptly informed Monique of her imminent doom, as I planned to throttle her when we got back to our hotel room.


TAKE 2

After the sting of embarrassment had worn off, I decided I had to redeem myself. I didn't want my tale of skiing in The Bahamas to be so humiliating. "Let's go again tomorrow," I said to Monique (whom I hadn't throttled, after all).

"So we can watch you ski into the dock again?"

"Ha, ha," I deadpanned. "I'll ski like a normal person, don't worry."

"I'm still telling everyone we know what happened." Of course she would, but at least I could defend myself with a success story to follow the disaster.

The deal was sealed when we befriended a group of teenage boys at the discotheque that night. Monique didn't hesitate to tell them of my skiing misadventure, and we discovered that my reputation preceded me.

"No kidding! That was you?" The boys were impressed. I was already known as The Girl Who Skied Into The Dock.

This was not okay.

At 2pm the next day, we returned to the pier. Monique didn't want to ski again, so I signed up by myself. I was first on the list, and the boat driver was already waiting as we stepped out onto the floating dock.

"Monique! Kristin! Hey!" We turned to see the boys from the discotheque walking towards us. Somewhat on the pale-and-skinny side, they were hardly the brawny heartthrobs of the romance novels we'd left under our beach chairs, but they were nice, and they were fun, and they were guys.

We liked the attention, of course, but having the boys there to watch me ski made me self-conscious. My audience grew as a few more people joined us on the dock to wait for their turn to ski. I strengthened my resolve to reclaim my dignity as I put on the life vest and secured my feet in the skis, trying to look like an old pro.

I hopped into the water. The boat driver tossed me the ski rope and put the boat into gear. I got into position and gave a wish-me-luck smile to my friends on the dock. When the rope became taut, I yelled, "Okay!" and the boat took off. I held onto the rope, and moments later, I was skiing. My audience was cheering. The boat driver was smiling at me with an encouraging thumbs-up. I smiled back. I could do this.

I felt my confidence return as I raced across the water, the beach a blur on my left. I bent my knees and kept my balance through the first turn, then cruised in the opposite direction. The driver looked back to check on me, and I gave a nod to signal that I was good for a second loop. I had never felt so comfortable on skis before; maybe I could master this sport, after all. On the next pass, I leaned slightly to the right and ventured out of the boat's wake. Success! The waves were too choppy, though, so I guided my skis back to the smoother water behind the boat. I sailed easily through the third and final turn. The beach was now on my right as the boat headed for the dock, and I felt calm, steady, and strong when the driver veered away. There stood Monique, the boys, and a handful of others, rooting me home. I released the handle of the ski rope and honed in on the bright green surface of the dock floating on the pale blue water, still thirty yards away.

And then that cursed voice in my head started up again.

"Woooo! This is even faster than yesterday! Do the twisty-splashy move!"

No!

Twenty yards and going strong.

"Turn and sit down! It'll work this time!"

NO!

Fifteen yards and no sign of stopping.

In an instant, I took in the scene ahead: weighed down by a dozen spectators, the little dock rose only a few inches out of the water; the small crowd had parted, moving instinctively out of the path of my trajectory; and there was nothing on the other side of the dock but open water.

"Oh! Look! The low dock! The clear path! The pretty water! Going so fast! Just bend the knees, and jump...!"

...except that that's not what happened.

My skis hit the dock, and I belly-flopped with a thud onto the Astroturf. My arms splayed out in front of me, Superman-style, and my bare feet hung off the edge of the dock; I must have popped out of the skis on impact. After reassuring myself that I was not dead, I became aware of an overall feeling of ouch.

Gingerly, I rolled over to look up. A circle of heads framed the bright blue sky above me. "Oh my god, are you okay?" Monique sang my theme song.

In response, I curled up into a fetal position on the dock, eyes shut tight, clutching at my chest and gasping for breath. It took the others a few horrified moments to realize that I was not writhing in agony, but laughing hysterically. Relieved, Monique and the boys started laughing, too. I eventually managed to heave myself up onto my feet so people could see that I was still in one piece. Several others around us were also chuckling and shaking their heads at me, although a few stood back, eyeing me with wary bemusement; even if I was physically okay after a trick like that, I must not be all that okay in the head.

I didn't try to ski again that week. What would be the use? There was no chance of redeeming myself or restoring my dignity. On the bright side, however, I scored extra coolness points with the guys for walking away from the crash--both crashes--with only minor scrapes and bruises. And now Monique had an even better story to tell.

I was not The Tan Queen Of Tulsa when I got home. It would have been a fleeting title, anyway--a temporary crown passing from one girl to the next, season after season, year after year. Instead, my bruised ankles, skinned knees, scraped chin, and carpet-burned arms were unique marks of distinction that no one else could claim, ever.

I'm The Girl Who Skied Into The Dock... Twice.

T-minus ten....

A little-known fact about scorpions.

Something I learned in Costa Rica:

Turns out, if you accidentally step barefoot on a scorpion just so, it can't sting you; instead, you both freak the fuck out and run away screaming.

(Yes, I'm sure the scorpion was also screaming--like in the old cartoons where critter scampers off yelping "yipe! yipe! yipe! yipe! yipe!")

a question for God when I die

My husband was bedridden most of today with a nasty intestinal bug, but dragged himself downtown this afternoon for an emergency call from a client whose internet was down.

As he drove along Denver Avenue, somewhere between the BOK Center and the Tulsa County Courthouse, Steve cruised past two police officers tackling a man to the ground on the sidewalk. All he saw of the man was his pants around his ankles, his bare ass in the air, and his ballsack swinging between his hairy thighs.

 

I would really like to know the beginning and end to that story.