Basement Files: Follow your dreams!

By NASA Astronaut Sheila Hammonds

Whenever I'm asked to speak at schools, I always like to leave the kids with something positive. I tell them, if you have a dream, don't give up on it. Ever. Just keep believing in your dream. And then one day, if you meet your dream, by all means let him touch your breasts. Even in public. In fact, let him do pretty much anything he wants to sexually. But if he asks to urinate on you, even in the shower, just say, "You know what? I'm a little uncomfortable with that." Because ladies, you have the right to set your own boundaries, even with your dream.

But don't set too many sexual boundaries. Dreams don't care for that. There are a lot of other girls out there who want your dream too. And a lot of them are willing to do filthy, nasty things to get him in their bed. They're what we call whores and you're in competition with them. I guess that's not a very girl powery thing to say, but we don't grow by hiding from the truth. Do we, girls? But, seriously, don't let him urinate on you.

But do try to make the dream feel good about himself. Afterward, tell him he was really good in bed. I mean, really good. Like the best you've ever had. Wow. And then when he gets up to go get you both a drink of water, roll over in bed and go through his nightstand drawer. Try to find something old and precious, like maybe his grandfather's old watch, and put it in your purse. That's my favorite part, slipping an heirloom into my purse while that stupid prick is in the kitchen thinking he's some kind of sex machine. Nobody gets away with manipulating Sheila Hammonds. And then I throw the watch out my car window and watch it shatter against the pavement on the way home. Trying to show me up with your fancy belongings. I don't need that shit.

And when my dream comes back to the bedroom and announces that he'd like to stay and cuddle but he's gotta go meet some buddies at the driving range, I like to take his hand in mine. I study it with love, tracing the lines in his palm with my finger. And then I say, all dreamy like, "You have the hands of an artist." Dreams are stupid like that. They'll believe anything you say while you're naked. And then I ask him if I can stay and shower and that I'll be happy to let myself out. But I'd never shower in that filthy little bathroom of his. Instead, I go through his stuff and look for pictures of his old girlfriends. Look at that little bitch with her stupid Jennifer Aniston hair. I can't stand to think of her touching my dream. And then I tear up the picture and make a mental note to track the little whore down over the Internet and fuck her life over somehow. Two-timing bitch.

Never lose sight of your dream. Always keep your eyes on the prize. When my dream wants to go out with the guys, I let him. I'm not one of those controlling women. But I do like to follow at a safe distance and watch him through the smoked glass of the bar. And I see the waitress come over and take my dream's order. And his lips move and I see her smile. And then he says something else and she laughs and touches his arm. And I think, why would he take this long to order a beer unless he was flirting or unless he wanted his truck keyed through the rally striping and the paint, and the primer and down to sheet metal. I have to think that's what he's talking to the waitress about--a good keying with a Phillips screwdriver--because Sheila Hammonds doesn't go for that boys-night-out shit.

Don't get me wrong, I like my dream's guy friends. Sometimes I'll go with my dream to watch football over at a buddy's house. I think the guys resented me a little at first because I'd kept my dream away from them for the last couple of months. Oh, they were nice enough, making small talk and all, but once the game started they just tuned me out. So I asked my dream if he thought he should be eating that guacamole, given his irritable bowel syndrome. Boy, the look he shot me. I guess I'd promised him never to mention it in front of his guy friends, but really, it's nothing to be ashamed of.

As I told the guys, the only thing about it that bothers me, apart from the ghastly smell, is the way it discolors his underwear to such a disagreeable extent. Oh, and the knowledge that you're dating such a nervous nelly of a boyfriend. After that, they really lit into my dream with a bunch of caustic remarks and crude jokes. He tried laughing it off, but I could tell he was pretty hurt. And that made me feel better, because Sheila Hammonds doesn't like being ignored.

On the way home, I told my dream that his best friend Mark had groped me in the hallway. Oh, and that Mark had said my dream wasn't "man enough" to do anything about it. I hope to God I didn't drive a wedge between them, because we never get together anymore. But that's okay. It's just more time we can spend together. As I tell the kids, it's not enough to get your dream. You have to keep it, too.