Look Mom! No Cavities!

I've had a horse since I was 10. I was always running to the barn after school to muck stalls and throw hay and groom my fat pony. Some days I wouldn't have time to change clothes so I'd just head out in whatever I was wearing for school. One day I ended up at the barn in my super fabulous Mudd clogs and got them pretty filthy and covered in horse poo and other interesting filth. When I got home I decided to thoroughly clean my fancy footwear so I could wear them the next day with my flare jeans and riveted belt. I figured an old toothbrush would work really well in the crevices of my shoes and I knew there'd been a random toothbrush in our bathroom for months so I used it with great success. My clogs were shining in all their pleather glory. It worked so well I thought I'd save the toothbrush for future cleanings and put it right back. Things were going well, Justin and Britney were a power couple, I was mastering the zigzag hair part, and then my little brother walked out of the bathroom BRUSHING HIS TEETH WITH MY HORSE POOP TOOTHBRUSH. I immediately started shrieking incoherently and he stood there drooling toothpaste until I finally gibbered out that he was brushing his teeth with shoe feces at which point he began retching uncontrollably and possibly cried but it might have just been his eyes watering from his violent gagging. There was much wailing and gnashing of teeth and apologizing and our parents laughed until they almost wet their pants. I blame myself for Adam being a germophobe today. I might as well have crammed that poo in his mouth with my own hands.

Tongue Tied

When I was about 4, we spent Christmas with my great grandparents in Wenatchee. I was a very bossy, independent little girl and I was convinced I could handle pretty much everything all by myself. While the grown-ups were talking about boring things I decided to get ready for bed. Mom had one of those fantastic 80's cosmetic roll-up things that hang on the back of a door and I could see the little tube of travel toothpaste in it. I climbed on a stool and retrieved the toothpaste and brushed my teeth all on my own. The toothpaste tasted terrible but then so did a lot of the food I'd been introduced to on that trip, such as prunes. I carried on with my preparations (i.e. Garfield nightgown and laying out my plastic jewelry for the next day) as my mouth slowly grew more and more numb. It finally got to the point where I had an impressive streamer of drool leaking from my mouth and I figured I should get help before I couldn't move my lips at all. I appeared in the living room and began attempting to relate my unfortunate circumstances to a fairly puzzled group of adults. Mom finally asked if something was wrong with my mouth, to which I replied, "VUH HOOPAY MAY MY MOUF FEE WEER." Mom somehow deciphered that and asked me what the hell kind of toothpaste I had used to turn me into a slobbering loon. I shambled to the bathroom and retrieved the tube; when Mom saw it she dissolved in laughter and almost wet herself in the hallway. Because I'd brushed my teeth with Vagisil. And I don't recommend it. Sure made for a fun visit with Grandma and Grandpa though, and the Poison Control people were awfully nice too.

Blades of Fury

When I was about 20 I came home from college for the weekend and my brother and I decided to play outside because we were bad at being adults. I put on my rollerblades and Adam got his scooter and we headed out into the neighborhood to show off our mad skillz. We were rolling along, knowing deep in our hearts that haters were gonna hate, and we came to an intersection. Adam wanted to turn and go down a pretty steep hill but I thought it was too perilous. As we were debating, gravity took over and I realized I was starting to roll down the hill, which had mountain goats and rock climbers clinging to it. I built up quite a head of steam and quickly resorted to my standard reaction to panic, which is to flail and scream. Adam, who had wisely remained at the top of Mt. Everest, kept yelling at me to turn and fall into the grass on the roadside. He is very helpful. I chose to disregard his advice and instead grabbed at a passing tree branch to stop myself. Unfortunately by this point I was breaking the sound barrier so I succeeded only in snapping off the branch. So now I was streaking down the Matterhorn shrieking and waving a tree branch while Adam continued to shout tips at me from the summit. The bottom of the precipice was an intersection and I realized as I plummeted with my tree branch that the cross street had no stop sign. Which means that when I hit the gravel patch at Mach 3 and went ass over teakettle and landed, broken and wailing, the car that was coming barely had enough time to swerve around my battered body before continuing on without bothering to check for a pulse. I laid in the gravel for a few minutes, still clutching my branch, until Adam came trotting up, having decided to play it safe and walk down the sheer cliff. His first words were, "Are you okay? That was really funny." He helped me out of the gravel patch and I took off my rollerblades and I limped home. I eventually went to the hospital and had a sprained wrist and bruised tailbone. I have not rollerbladed since, which I'm sure is a pity for the poor people who have houses there on Mount McKinley. You can't beat a screaming dork brandishing a tree branch while sparks shoot from her rollerblades for entertainment value.