I have discovered Confessions of a Pioneer Woman, Ree, who seems to maybe live on a ranch, but otherwise to be quite normal. Anyway I haven’t come across any mention of outhouses yet. She also blogs (oh does she blog, with pictures) about her cooking. I’m starving.
Today she’s having a Wii (that’s dubya I I, right?) giveaway, and she only had two million entrants at one hour to closing, so naturally I felt bad for her and entered. As we (all two million and one of us) described in the comments section, here’s my most embarrassing moment that is relatively fit for public consumption:
When I was thirteen I went to math camp at the University of Utah.
I learned about the Fibonacci sequence, played my final piano recital (after that I gave it up as a dead-end talent-wise), switched from Pepsi to Coke (a new vending machine contract was negotiated mid-week), and snuck out with friends to swim in the fountains on campus.
Check a few off the old life to-do list.
Boys weren’t allowed in our dorm rooms, so we only snuck them in once, or maybe twice.
One morning my roommate (Andrea — don’t worry, I didn’t put her name in on the other blog; wanted to preserve her anonymity, you know) snuck some in while I was in the shower. It was really early, like 9:40 or something, so he lay down on her bed to snooze while the others left for breakfast.
I came back from the shower and dropped my towel, turned around, and . . . jumped in the closet.
Luckily it was the short sidekick boy rather than the tall hot one (Lincoln — didn’t list him by name either, same reason) who (years) later asked me out on my first date.
If only I’d known then what I know now — I had one fine body at 13!!
My favorite story was from a man named Aaron. I wish I could link to him and give him credit, but he didn’t leave a link. Maybe he doesn’t even have a blog of his own. Weird. Well, it’s on the internet, so that’s fair use, right? I’ll paraphrase a bit just to make sure (so if it sounds kinda choppy, don’t get mad at Aaron):
When I was young my mom would never buy me underwear with characters on it…only [tighty whities]. So, when a friend came over to spend the weekend . . . I . . . stole a few pairs of Snoopy underwear. And wore them for a few happy weeks.
Until my mom walked by me one day while I was wearing shorts and had my feet propped up on the coffee table. She saw my colorful underwear and knew it hadn’t come from her.
I had to knock on my friend’s door, tell his mom what I had done, and hand her a brown lunch sack with her son’s stolen underpants in it.
What a great mom to teach honesty like that.