2009 BlogLuxe Awards

You totally want to vote for me again! It’s EASY! Because you can vote DAILY until July 6, at which point I will stop shamelessly begging you. Also: you can make me do shit for you if you vote for me. But not BJ’s. Because THAT would be weird and uncomfortable.

Many, many years ago, before I was Your Aunt Becky, before I was Mrs. The Daver, and before I was mother to my three crotch parasites, I was Super Student Becky Overachiever, Esq. One night, I packed up all my shit into my friend Scott’s purple Neon and we drove off into the sunset. Or, more accurately, to my new school.

Yes kids, that’s right: Aunt Becky Does College.

A sunny fall afternoon, I sat on a bench outside of the science building where I was catching a quick smoke while listening to my well loved copy of 40 Oz To Freedom on my discman (that’s what we had before we had iPods, kiddos), enjoying the cool breeze from Lake Michigan and wondering if I had enough cash to grab a bottle of vodka after class. Some things, they never change.

I’d noticed that a slim, neatly dressed guy had sat down while I smoked–this was also back in the days before people mandated smoke free benches–but hadn’t thought beyond that. I looked about, stubbing my butt out on the concrete, craning my neck to see if I could see what time it was.

I didn’t want to be late for Calculus as my raging bitch of a professor (her name was Dr. Funk. Which, honest to God, is the coolest name ever for the world’s least pleasant person. Let’s just say I’d still kill for that name.) hated me. Finally, as I realized that I was in the one spot at school WITHOUT a clock nearby, I noticed a large Swiss watch on my bench-mate.

I took off my headphones and asked the guy what time it was.

“It’s 2:45,” he informed me, with an accent of indiscriminate origin. He paused a moment as I nodded my thanks, “Or how would you say that? Quarter to three?”

“That works,” I smiled at him.

He stuck out his hand to me and introduced himself, “I’m Matthias, nice to meet you.”

I shook his hand and replied, “I’m Becky, nice to meet you.”

In that matter, Aunt Becky met Matthias.


Matthias, it turned out, was from Switzerland–my earlier snobby summation of his watch had been unfailingly spot-on–and was, just as I was, new in town. Although we had no classes together, we quickly fell in as fast friends, and were often in each other’s company.

One afternoon, Matthias had come up to my dorm floor, where I lived with Pashmina and my roommate Vanessa. Should you want to read The Vanessa Chronicles, I suggest here, here, here and here.

(As though you don’t have anything better to do)

Pashmina, her roommate, Matthias and I were all sitting in Pashmina’s room, eating shitty Chinese food from the place down the street that you could spend $5 and get food for a week (you’d also get acute GI distress for that $5 but hey, we were young) and Matthias started in on Why Europe Is Better Than The States. It wasn’t as though he didn’t care for the states–he did–but same way that I find the whole WC/sink-in-another-room thing odd, he found many of our customs equally strange.

Namely, the fact that our school, even with it’s billion and a half dollar tuition, didn’t have a Polo club. Matthias was outraged, and even mentioning that we were in the city where horses didn’t exactly roam free, could dissuade his bewilderment.

So, he the next thing he suggested was that we start our own Polo club.

I have to backtrack a bit, Dear Reader, so that you understand who he was talking to.

While I personally love a romp at the gym–hello endorphins–I don’t much care for competitive sports, especially ones that involve balls being thrown at my face. See, I don’t win, I’ll never win, and although I’m not a sore loser, being The Loser gets old after 20 or so years.

Pashmina is and was back then a swimmer by nature, which, like the elliptical, is a sport best enjoyed alone. Besides, even then (she’s still one of my best friends), I knew how frighteningly competitive she was and there was no way in hell I would compete with her for anything.

And honestly, the only sport we’d get picked to play on back then would have been a Competitive Smoke-A-Thon.

If that doesn’t clear it up for you, let me try this: remember The Wedding Singer? At the wedding when Adam Sandler mentions the “mutants at table 9” and the camera pans over so you see a table full of gangly weirdos?

We were the table 9 of sports. So the prospect of putting us on horses and doing whatever it is that you do in polo was absurd at best.

We each agreed immediately.

This was how I became Vice President of a polo club at age 19.

Part II will air tomorrow.

32 thoughts on “She Bet On One Horse To Win And I Bet On Another To Show

  1. I have this image of you on horse back, smoking a cig and wielding a bat because you were not sure exactly what equipment polo entailed

  2. Polo on city streets, in the middle of a college campus………only Aunt Becky could pull off that one…….
    Me,………… I’m still wondering if you were able to afford that bottle of vodka.

  3. Polo…hmmm…I’m thinking you didn’t go to the same college I did, as the concrete vistas there would hardly lead one to thoughts of polo. Prison? Yes. Polo? Not so much.

  4. Aunt Becky the Polo Captain. Hee.

    I have a hard time seeing you get excited about whacking a little ball with a wooden mallet while onboard an unpredictably moving equine.

    Maybe if the pony came equipped with a beverage holder and cocktail service while walking in a leisurely circle, sure. Hell, I’d sign up for that team.

  5. 1- I am not frighteningly competitive. I am APPROPRIATELY competitive. It’s not a bad thing.
    2- at that time, I hadn’t swam in four years and was more out of shape than I am now. That’s saying something. Also, I would have kicked your ass in competition smoking.
    3- I think there was more than Matthias’s convincing us involved in joining the polo team. I think there was Whiskey involved.

  6. Fabulous! Matthias is having you on about the Swiss and polo – 15 years there and never heard a whiff of a chukka. England on the other hand…

  7. Oh goodness!! I cannot wait for the next part!

    Oh, and I’m horribly competitive, but usually end up sucking. And then I get angry when it doesn’t go my way. Then I pout and my husband has to slap me upside the head (not really, don’t call the Spouse Abuse Hotline for me)…it’s not a pretty sight. Tis why we don’t ever play any board games just by ourselves anymore.

  8. Pingback: Mommy Wants Vodka ร‚ยป Blog Archive ร‚ยป She Bet On One Horse To Win And …
  9. You know, when I first read polo I was thinking the water sport. It all makes more sense now cause I was wondering what horses had to do with the whole thing.

  10. Riding a horse drunk is way better than driving drunk and infinately safer unless, of course, you fall off.
    Also, a great way to meet royalty. Look how well that worked out for Princess Di.

  11. If it’s any consolation, I was the captain of my college speech team (after succesfully, more or less, captaining my high school speech team) and managed, after a single year, to pretty much destroy it.

    That’s what you get for putting me in charge of something. And there weren’t even horses involved. I can’t wait to see how this one turned out!

  12. This may just be the oddest thing I’ve seen you write yet. Love ya though! ๐Ÿ™‚


    If I posted this 57 times already, I apologize and feel free to delete delete delete. My computer is being a total asshole.

  13. Dude, what’s up with that vote? Shouldn’t they be listed from most votes to least? You’re doing good, girl, but you’ve got some ground to cover to catch up with Bye Bye Pie. I wish I knew how to rig it for you. Maybe Badass can help…

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