You wouldn’t think it if you met me, but I was once a criminal. Oh, yes I was. I have burglarized at least one home and I was once known as an expert gas station blower-upper. Honestly? I was once a wild child.
Well, sort of. Let’s put it this way. I was as wild a child as you would meet considering the fact that I was the product of an All-Catholic, All-The-Time education. Which, seriously, if you’ve met any parochial school girls? Yeah, we’re not exactly members of the Bad Girls Club. Mostly, we skipped confession and called ourselves badass. Occasionally, one of us would roll up our plaid skirt so that we showed some (gasp) knee.
Sadly, my wild child past and I have lost touch. The girl who once would do pretty much anything on a dare (mainly because Catholic school girl dares aren’t exactly daring) has become a suburban mom who tries desperately every day to not leave the house without her clothes sort of matching and her bed made. And that, my friends, can only mean one thing.
Yep, I have turned into my mother. Only her clothes always match.
Anyway, turning into my mother or not, I do have a few things in my past that are wild by some standards, assuming you have low expectations, of course. But as an example, I met my husband while burglarizing his home.
Okay, so like most things in my life, this sounds worse than it was. I mean, yes, I did steal a few things. And yes, my husband did catch me. And yes, he was annoyed when my accomplice stabbed him with a screwdriver when we were trying to escape.
But it only left a teeny scar, so there’s that.
Anyway, it happened one night when my friend, C, and I were bored. So we decided to spice up our life by going to a local fraternity and stealing stuff off their house. Seriously? Don’t be disappointed now. That’s all it was. My husband caught us. We tried to run away. C stabbed my husband—which honestly, really pissed him off. But after his wound healed we started dating.
And yes, the gas station explosion is kind of the same thing. I mean, I wasn’t stealing the gas station, but I was with C, which is pretty much who I was with each time I had a semi-wild adventure. She didn’t go to Catholic school, in case you were wondering.
Anyway, we were bored, which you know is trouble for us. So we were driving around and we needed gas. We stopped to get some, and the most adorable old guy (who at the time was probably 40, but we were very young) came out of the station and pumped our gas. And flirted a bit with us. Which is why he forgot to take the pump doo-hickey out of the gas tank. So when I drove off in my 4-wheel drive truck, I ripped the pump thingy out of the island.
And that caused the explosion and the fire.
Then, after the explosion rocked the truck, C and I both got the hell out while another customer yelled at us to run. And midway through our scary run, C turned around and headed back to the flaming truck.
Turns out she left her fake ID in the truck and didn’t want to lose it.
Needless to say, C didn’t get into any bars for a long time after that. The night wasn’t a total write-off though. My truck wasn’t too damaged. As I recall, it got a new gas tank and a paint job, but we never found C’s fake ID. And C met a hunky fireman and dated him for about a week—which was her longest relationship up to that time.
So there’s that.Add me to your rss reader | Become a Fan on Facebook!