Amaya Rain

Wife. Mother. Crazy woman.


 When I was taking some time off between high school and college, I lived with some friends in a college town. You couldn’t beat it with a lint brush – my rent was $87.50 a month with utilities divided four ways. And we even had a pool. Ahhh, bliss.

We lived on the third floor overlooking the pool. I had a bad habit of forgetting my keys, which normally wasn’t a huge problem, with three other roommates, and a party that was pretty constant for the six months I lived there. But on one bleak winter night, the party had moved to a bar, and none of my roommates were yet home, so we – we being a group of about 10 of us – tried to pass the time. We played Rock, Paper, Scissors. We tried to figure out who among us had the ugliest feet. Eventually, the guys started spitting into the pool. Now, this wasn’t environmentally hazardous, as the pool was shut down for the winter and, really, how many toxins can be in college guys’ mouths that can’t be killed with chlorine once the summer comes around? Don’t answer that.

It was my turn. Being a bit tipsy, my mouth was dry, so I had to think of things that would make it wet. Strawberries. Hot fudge sundaes. That guy coming home with us who I hadn’t met before but who had the sexiest pair of at-least-20-eyelets leather boots.

Yeah, my mouth watered, and I was ready.

I swished it around my mouth, placed it at just the right point on my tongue, leaned over the railing, and let loose.

Of course, it fell straight down. No air. No flight. No arching of the bodily fluids. Let me tell you, I was pissed.

And tonight, I think about that night, so very long ago. And I look at my sleeping son, under a year old, remembering vividly an episode earlier today…

where he’s already showing up his mommy. He got at least a foot and a half out.



July 8, 2006 Posted by | Reminiscing, Spit | 1 Comment