Saturday, September 30, 2017
Ahem. (Cough cough)
Parenting teen and young adult males: Part 2
This week son #4 used a term for which I have been searching for years. I didn't know I was looking for this term until he used it. A term that encompasses what it means to live in a world of constant discussion -- and performance -- of bodily functions. See, as one of five girls, I most assuredly did not grow up in a house where discussions of fecal matter, expectoration, or flatulence were allowed, let alone common. We had acceptable terms for bodily waste that only vaguely alluded to that actual matter involved. I genuinely never gave the matter any amount of significant consideration beyond "Poop is gross. Let's talk about something else." Years later when my own children were potty training, I used the term "tinkle" in a conversation with another mother who was a native of Israel. She gave me a blank look.
"She did . . . what?" She asked.
"You know, she tinkled." I responded, caught a bit unprepared to define this term. Discussing urine with causal acquaintances was new to me at this point in my parenting experiences. (Later I would discover the joy of discussing all matter of human waste with complete strangers. This is what raising boys brings you to.)
"She was sparkly?"
"No, um, you know, she peed."
She looked at me again, completely devoid of both expression and comprehension. "Why do you call it that?"
"Because of the sound it makes?" Truthfully I had never given it a thought. We had just always called it tinkle. But now I had images of sparkly little rainbow pools in the toilet. Both intriguing and disturbing.
She gave a hesitant nod and we moved on with the conversation, which was obviously so stunning that now, twenty five years later, I can only remember the portion that had to do with urine. Stellar.
Tinkle was the only acceptable term for urine in the home I grew up in. "Pee" was along the lines of a four-letter word. This should give you an idea of the level of allowable phrases for other bodily functions. Poop was only ever called a "BM" (bowel movement, for those who missed out on this bit of 1960-70's vocabulistics) but for some reason, a fart was when someone needed to make a "poopy." Now, maybe it's just me, but when I really give a moment to thinking about the term BM, it's really soooooo much grosser than the term poop. Which, now I think about it, is along the onomatopoeic lines of tinkle. And let's not even start with farting being "needing to make a poopy." Because that's just a shart, which is waaaaaay worse than plain old flatulence. The 70's really don't make a lot of sense on so many levels.
At any rate, I was more than unprepared on the vocabulary front to raise boys. (The list of areas on which I was unprepared to raise boys would look not unlike a chart of our galaxy. In this case, ignorance seriously saved my sanity. Except I'm not really sane. So, maybe not. Blissfully nuts? I can go with that.). I had no and I mean NO idea of the amount of brain space the male of our species gives to bodily functions. Happily and enthusiastically so. Like, shopping-for-shoes-at-an-amazing-sale-and-a-fab-coupon level of enthusiasm. For the better of part of three decades I have been dropped in to this world earthy glee.
I. Do. Not. Get. It.
So when Jonathan used this term the other day, it caught my attention. I looked at him, mildly confused. Random fecal words are now a common and largely unnoticed part of my day. This one was new and unknown to me.
Jonathan grins. "Turdsalot. You know, like Camelot."
Please allow a moment of contemplation here. . . . This moment needs to be noted and recorded for posterity. This moment is when I finally have a word to describe the world I live in.
Oh how I wish I was musical. I could whip up some fantastic parodies of the musical with new poo-inspired lyrics and with some slick home videos shot on the throne. (Get it? Throne? Cause it's Turdsalot? Like Camelot has a real throne but in my world it's the ceramic type? Get it? Get it?) It would need to be pretty awesome with super elementary school-era costumes and bad acting, with an off-key piano for accompaniment. It's all so real in my head. Because it's so real in my real. Here are some of the nobility who live in my kingdom.
Sir TMI -- Color, content, quantity. After every visit to the WC. Please don't. We don't want to know. Ever. And yet we get thrice-daily reports. And after eating an entire box of Cap'n Crunch, the descriptive enthusiasm brings to mind religious fervor. But more smelly. Cheap fruit snacks can go neon. One has to wonder what early food scientists thought when these unexpected side affects began cropping (crapping?) up.
Sir Deadly -- You've heard the term "silent but deadly?" It was invented for the Davis boys. Literally, they have cleared classrooms. They thought it was hilarious. The teachers did not. ("Um, what are you feeding him?" Real question from a real teacher.)
Sir Boastful -- There is NO reason, I repeat NO reason to proudly Instagram the size of your leavings. You think I am kidding. I am not. And apparently, "mudding" on another person is an indication of claiming victory over them. This is something one declares loudly at the beginning of pretty much any sort of contest. Again, I have no idea. WhoWhatWhereWhenWhy = Nope.
Sir Descriptive -- Did you know you can replace about any noun in any song with a synonym for poop? And verb? And adjective? Frequently all in the same sentence. (I guess I should be happy they know their parts of speech but I'm having problems working up the energy to cheer.) And then sing about it for days on end? Did you know you can make up entirely new songs about pooping? Why would anyone want to, you ask? I have no earthly . . . I just . . . No.
Sir Constant -- Poop. Crap. Plop. Poo. Dump. Dookie. Float a log. Drop a load. Turd. Toilet muffin. Mud. Groundhogging. (When the poop is trying to come out but you aren't to the toilet yet.) Little turtle. (Constipation. As in "I gotta trick my poop into coming out so it doesn't stick out its little arms and stop itself. Like a little turtle.") Ok I gotta stop. I'm grossing myself out trying to remember every clever way they've come up with to refer to fecal matter. But somehow, they have a never-ending supply of vocabulary words in this category. Why on earth can they not turn their powers to broader horizons and knock the SAT out of the ballpark? Sigh.
On the one hand, I totally understand that voiding one's bowels is one of the great common equalizers of humanity. We all do it and there is absolutely no way to make it cool or suave. I don't care how large the cadre of handlers and estheticians a celebrity has, he or she poops the same as every last person on the planet and it ain't pretty. So I guess there is something unifying in that. But we all breathe and sleep and eat, so I would think that of the four options, pooping is the least desirable. Truly I would rather bond over the love of good food than of the satisfaction of a large BM. Yet I have heard way more conversations on the later in Turdsalot than the former among the knighthood. Waaaaay more.
So here I am. Queen of Turdsalot. Trying to kick each of the knights out as quickly as possible before my gag reflex is permanently stuck in the "on" position. They have this way of sneaking in the back door when I'm not looking. But I will get them all out in the end. And then, AND THEN, we will renovate and I will be . . .
QUEEN OF CHOCOTOPIA!!!
Thursday, September 14, 2017
You can hear crying. It sounds like . . . like a toddler or a child? It's coming from the wooded area across the field. The swampy area. You hate that area. There are snakes and crawling, slimy things over there. The mosquitos redefine "unbearable" over there. It's always either raining or about to rain. And there's no real ground. It's like mud that can't quite get its act together so it just sloshes around among the rocks and tree roots. It's the swamp. Nature's landfill. All the yuck settles here. People only go there when there is no other option. That appears to the be the case now.
You follow the sound across the field and into the swamp. You've brought your knee-high rubber boots and hope you won't have to go back and get the waist-high waders. But the crying continues and you solider on. It gets louder and . . . odder. The crying has overtones of screeching. Almost like nails on a blackboard? It both raises the level of alarm within you and also snags your curiosity. What on earth is going on in that swamp?!
Another minute slogging nearly knee-deep through what looks like moldy carpet brings the sound louder and clearer. There is a scraggly tree up ahead. At some point in the past lightning struck and killed off most of it, but a branch here and there hangs on. There, on one of the mostly-alive branches, draped with moss and alien-appearing lichen, is the source of the crying. It's not a toddler, which is good. Because how on earth would a baby get out here in the first place? It's a little monkey. Monkies belong in swamps, yes? Well, no. Not really. At least not in twenty-first century North America, last time you checked Google for . . . monkies. Ok, it's fair to say you have never done an internet search for North American monkies, but you'd be willing to bet your Sane Grown Up card monkies don't normally live here. You look closer. Especially not monkies with sparkly collars and name tags. This little guy belongs to someone.
You slowly approach and get a better look at the creature. You're no zoologist, but the monkey seems particularly small and fuzzy. So, it's not a human baby, but it is a baby. Your heart melts a little. This poor tiny thing is just a baby and it's lost and trapped. It's a sure bet it got itself out here, probably jumping from tree to tree, not giving a single thought to where its going, just enjoying the freedom of motion and movement. And then all of a sudden it realized it was stuck on this raggedy tree, in the middle of yuck. Poor baby.
You reach up to the little monkey and it scampers higher up the tree, panicking because it's scared and freaking out. You can see its real terror and your heart breaks a little more for it. With a soft voice and gentle motions, you convince it to creep out on the limb to you. It hesitates and then scampers up your arm. And clamps on to the top of your head. Up until now, you have no personal experience with the term "death grip." Now you do. It means the type of grip where the gripee imbeds every possible attachment point in to the object of perceived safety. In this case, your scalp and neck. It's quite surprising how much pain can be sensed by the scalp. You remind yourself that this little creature is a just a baby and its terrified. And scalps heal.
With slow steps, you begin making your way back across the green murky stretch of swamp back to dry land. You're a bit shocked when you look up and realize you walked quite a bit farther than you thought you had. Of course, on the way out, you didn't have twenty tiny claws digging into your head. That probably affects perceived time. Like, when you're in the dentist's chair and, between the dentist and his assistant, there are probably elevent different foreign objects being jabbed into your sensitive gums and he says, "Almost done," and then you feel actual continental drift happen before he starts removing his tools from your face? That kind of perceived time.
Around the third step, the fuzzy baby monkey decides he needs to start serenading your travels together. It's a repetitive shriek that hits the required sound wave length to send a spike straight from your ear to your entire spine. Every 1.4 seconds. You coo and try to quiet the little creature but it just thinks you're joining in and it shrieks louder and adds a few hoots for added fun. But, the sounds seem to calm it and it relaxes its grip on your head. So, it's a win of sorts.
It relaxes a bit more and starts to bounce and hoot at the same time. While the sound and motion grate on your nerves, the monkey does pull out the rest of the claws. It also starts to swish its tail around. It discovers it can wrap its tail around you, in fact. Right around your face and over your eyes. It discovers this just as you are about to step over a dead log in the mud. With right leg lifted, you suddenly lose sight and inhale monkey fur seasoned with poo. Since not even Spider-Man could have maintained both his cool and his balance at this point, and you are quite certain you are not Spider-Man, you stumble. Your shin rediscovers the fallen log and you are pretty sure you're about to get a face full of mud when your fall is stopped by your knee collapsing on to the dead log. So, you've traded mud up the nose for probable below the knee paralysis. A draw, then?
The sudden altitude shift has caused your passenger to re-secure its position atop your cranium with all available attachment options, with the tail now being wrapped around your neck. But at least you can see. It occurs to you that you don't have to be doing this and that you outweigh the monkey by a factor of a thousand. Maybe a million. Math isn't your strong suit. One thing you do know is one grab and fling of your arm and this would be over with. You could probably be home and in a nice warm shower within the hour. Then a tiny little face lowers itself down over your eyes and looks at you. "Eep?" It asks in a little voice. And you make the deadly mistake of looking it in the eyes. There is real fright there. And confusion. It really is just a baby. It doesn't mean to be stabbing you with multiple implements of torture, causing you pain that will probably keep you up at nights for the next week. It just is. You sigh and pull yourself up.
Several millennia later, you reach the . . . well, "shore" doesn't really work when you're talking about a swamp, so we'll say more solid sludge, and you shake off the excess ick from your legs. Little monkey has once again calmed down and has returned to adding its own sound track to your journey. Your progress on to solidity causes it to take notice of its surroundings and it spots a tree not far away with ripe fruit. Without a backward glance, it springs from your head, taking great care to anchor itself securely to your hair follicles before leaping. You watch it bound away, trailing significant locks of your hair as it goes. In another moment, it is sitting up in a branch bouncing happily and munching fruit. You walk over to it and look up.
What are you expecting? Well, you don't know. It's a swamp monkey, after all. They don't talk, so it's not going to sing weeping praises of your bravery in saving it. They don't shop at Godiva, so you can be pretty certain not to expect a thank you gift. And if it could write, you're quite certain any thank you note it might send would be written in an "ink" you would not prefer. But something, dang it. That little beast literally drew blood from your body and used you as a ferry. Ok, yes, you offered yourself as a ferry because it was tiny and small and scared. You sigh and look up once more at it. It blows a raspberry at you. You give it a frown and move to turn. But just before you do, it leaps down from the branch, wraps its little arms around you and smooshes its little face into your cheek. You pat it on its little head and then it hops back up into the tree. A warm happy feeling floods your being and you know for a moment what joy is. You smile and turn away, feeling the depth of happiness all humans feel when they know they have done good. Your chest still feels warm and you wonder at the lingering emotion. You look down. The swamp monkey has crapped on you.
And that, my friends, is life with a middle schooler.
Sunday, September 10, 2017
There was, on the dashboard, a full water bottle with a pencil in it. It had been there all summer. I had seen it every time I had walked by the Kid Car on the way to the mailbox. I cringed every time I saw it and told myself to unlock the car and remove the nasty looking water bottle. Sadly, the lengthy journey across the driveway was much too long for my brain to remember a one-item to-do list and thus the Water Bottle au Pencil remained.
As we were driving, we could not immediately throw it away. It was therefore duly inspected. The winner of Shot Gun gave it a look before the Back Seat claimed it.
"What the heck?" A reasonable question.
"I have no idea, ask Jacob." I answer.
Sunday, August 20, 2017
Yet, I still feel I owe it to my awesome and super comfortable hiking sandals (yes, HIKING, even though they do have a teensy-weensy bit of heel to them) to demonstrate how adequate they are for the casual hike (a REAL casual hike, not the trail of torture the last hike proved to be). And so I proudly donned them as we set out to hike up Diamond Head.
For those of you unfamiliar with this hike, here are the spec's: it is a 1.6 mile loop, with a 560 foot elevation gain. In real words, this hike goes straight up hill for almost a mile then straight back down, via switchbacks ala Lombard Street. So it's short, but it's kind of a killer. There are about 374 steps to climb over two stretches. I am not making that up. (But I am using creative liberty.) And it's Hawaii, with no shade, but a decent breeze. So, hot and muggy, but some decent air movement.
Here's how it went down. I. Did. Not. Quit. Ta-Da!! Did my son and his friends stop a couple times to make sure I hadn't fallen off the hillside? Sure. Was I sweating like I'd sprung a leak through every square inch of my skin? You betcha. Did more than one (read: FOUR) hiker in a row look at me with concern and assure me I was "almost there!"? Indeed they did. But I made it! And guess what? So did my sandals. Thus I repeat, TA-DA!!
They did a great job. Portions of this hike are, in fact, paved. But most of it is not. Most of it is the rock hillside, carved or blasted or simply worn down, formed into a trail of sorts. It is anything but level and there are loose rocks everywhere. And my sandals handled all of it. Even the wretched staircases that went on forever. I mean really, how hard would it have been to add a couple "viewing platforms," even without any actual view to, um, view? It's not like I'm asking for an elevator, sheesh.
Yep, totally happy with my Mommy Hiking Sandals. And we have no need to mention the dozens of tiny little Japanese women who also hiked it successfully in every sort of non-hiking footwear including zipper-back gladiator sandals, strappy kitten heels, fur-lined bedroom slippers, or 3" bedazzled wedges while wearing a georgette dress and carrying a parasol. (You think I'm kidding. I have pictures.) Me and my sandals made it and that's all that matters.
(But seriously, I'd be willing to be you could get to the top of Mount Friggin' Everest and be all ready to pat yourself on the back for accomplishing one of the most challenging efforts humankind can make and there would be a pack of little Japanese women up at the top, in their kitten heels and sparkly flip flops, smiling and waving and wondering what all the fuss was about. Those women can do anything. And accessorize at the same time. Bring a brownie, dang it.)
Monday, July 24, 2017
Celestial Design Department
247365 Enlightenment Blvd
Nirvana, the Cosmos 77777-7777
To the Head of the Celestial Design Department:
Despite Your lack of response to my previous Letter of Concern, dated July 20, 2012 (precisely FIVE years ago, ahem), which I am certain must have been mis-filed, owing to Your ever-reaching and all-encompassing To Do list, I find I compelled to write to You again. I am most grieved to say this time I must file a full Letter of Complaint.
It has recently come to my attention that the potential auxiliary failures that can accompany the planned obsolescence of the Baby Factory System with its Plug & Play connectivity features are accurate, as written in the attached literature. I have no quarrel with the pre-programmed closure of my BF. In fact, this was a much-anticipated event that I looked forward to, at least once a month, for more than three decades.
I must say that I am fully satisfied with the cessation of my BF. Additionally, I must also include that while I have not actually enjoyed the attendant system malfunctions of Cooling System 1.0, which has caused Hot Flash (beta) to trigger, as well as Night Sweats 2.0, I was not unaware of these eventualities and fully expected these occurrences. Likewise, owing to the fact that Basic Headache 1.0 and Migraine 2.0 have long since been installed in my OS, I accepted the onset of Hormone Migraine 3.0 with, I believe, near-angelic patience. And a bulk-size bottle of Excedrin.
I will allow that I did not fully read the entire owner's manual regarding the shutdown of BF, although I was vaguely aware of the Fat Hoarding feature that switches on with the approaching programmed shutdown. I will say, however, that I did not expect this feature to work quite so well and with such astounding speed and efficiency. To that end, I would have to say "well done," except that I find the effectiveness of Your programming now requires me to purchase clothing with elastic waistbands and added spandex. This is not a desired outcome.
Despite my new-found rotundity, I admit that all of these features have been operating as advertised. They are not the cause of my complaint. My complaint is due entirely to the additional, reactive programs that were not made at all clear in the literature. Specifically, I am referring to the parallel obsolescence of Basic Cogitation 1.0. This is crap. On what planet (specifically, this one) would any Enlightened Designer plan to have Basic Cogitation malfunction at any time during the normal progress of human life, let alone have it grind to a messy halt during the Teen Formative Phase that any Maternal Unit of a Male (or MUM) WILL have to navigate! I specifically refer to Syracuse Male v.1999, Woodland Male v. 2002, and Woodland Male v. 2004.
As Your Eminence is abundantly aware, all six models You opted to send me are the "ByzantineComplexity with added Intensity" version, despite my request for the "Gentle Genius" models. To shut down the functioning of Basic Cogitation WHILE the last three models are STILL in the construction phase is pure madness! And while I am certain Your Great Omniscence is fully aware that the v. 2004 still has many years of construction yet to go, please allow me to emphasize this crucial fact. HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO COMPLETE ASSEMBLY WITHOUT A FUNCTIONAL OPERATING SYSTEM?!
My subsequent research has indicated that this so-called "Fuzzy Thinking" is, in fact, a common side program that often runs alongside the de-escalation of the Baby Factory System. My experiences with the parallel running of these two programs has frequently led me to make upwards of twenty-three trips up and down the staircase to remember I am looking for my glasses. It has led me to run across my house like my underwear is on fire to find a pencil so I can write down a crucial grocery item that I have so far forgotten at the store three times in a row. It has caused me to stare blankly into my confused son's eyes as I strive, mid-arugment, to remember what the rest of the sentence I am hollering at him was supposed to be about.
To be clear, You expect me to engineer the critical completion phase of Teen Boy Development WITHOUT allowing a JailTime Malfunction or an EducationExplusion Virus Cascade to occur, despite not having a fully functional Basic Cogitation Program--never mind that the HigherProfundity and EsotericReasoning slots have been empty for so long the dust bunnies in there have all applied for AARP. You must be kidding.
All I can conclude is that this engineering design work was done by a man.
Once again, thanking You in all your Eternalness for your attention to this matter. Praying for your continued omniscienceness and illustriousivity.
PS-- I'm not kidding. Fix this or there will be . . . consequences . . . Just as soon as I remember why I walked upstairs . . .
Monday, July 17, 2017
We get to the trailhead. I am wearing my hiking sandals. They are super comfy, designed for outdoor activity, and it's already 80 degrees at 8 in the morning. I think nothing about it. A group of college kids who are obviously well-trained runners, set off before us, running the trail. I think, well, if they're running it, it should at least be pretty level. We finally get all the shoes tied and all the water bottles located. We set off.
Everyone under thirty immediately zips ahead. Honestly, it's like they're walking on one of those airport moving sidewalks. Even my daughter, who is carrying her TWENTY-SEVEN POUND TODDLER on her back, just cruises along. But she works out and is used to carting Little Miss around, so I feel nothing but joy in seeing my family enjoying the outdoors. I notice, after the first thirty feet, that this trail seems to start off kinda steep, with a bunch of really large rocks in the way. I think to myself, "They really oughta re-grade this trailhead and get rid of the rocks." We hike on, but the steep part isn't ending. And since it rains in Utah in the summer about as often as my boys remember to lift the seat, it's super dusty and I now have dusty dirt and tiny rocks filling my sandals. I am annoyed but determined to let it go. I am a PNW Girl, dang it. A little dust does not bother me.
And the steep part STILL isn't ending. And there are more big rocks in the trail. Rocks you have to climb to get over. And no shade. And it's 5,000+ feet elevation on this trail. I live at 54. Not 54 hundred, 54 feet total. My new hiking sandals really aren't doing it for me anymore, since they did not come with the Oxygen Tank accessory pack. I do have water, which I am chugging. Then I remember the college kids. They must not be college kids, they must be, I don't know, Olympian Trail Runners in training. They aren't fully human, I know that.
A quarter of a mile in, we pass a gate post and enter a wooded area. SHADE. I have never been so appreciative of shade. Guess who else likes shade? The bees. And the horseflies. But I AM A PNW GIRL, DANG IT! I AM TOUGHER THAN THIS. I DO NOT WHINE. We hike on. We cross a little stream with a lovely little bridge. The moisture from the stream adds a greatly needed cooling effect to the nice little breeze running through the trees. I can almost forget the half-pound of gritty dirt-sand between my toes. And the trail is still going up. It's got to level out soon, I keep telling myself. A man and woman in their 60's or 70's pass us on their way back down. He is hiking with walking stick. They both have solidly gray hair and a lifetime of wrinkles. They are sweaty, but making nice progress on their decent. We make the appropriate pleasantries as they pass. The trail MUST level out soon, if those two hiked all the way up. As my FIL said, "easy, ok for kids." Maybe we are on the wrong trail? But no, we pass a marker. This is the right trail. I'm wondering what kids he meant? Then realize allllll the kids in our group are far, far ahead of me. Ah. Those kids. And the old people we passed are . . . former stuntmen? Gotta be.
We keep going up. The rocks get bigger. A few bona-fide rock slides are thrown, which require hands and feet scrambling. And because I have hiked all my life and occasionally torture myself with exercise, I know distances. I know we haven't even gone a mile, far short of the two and half miles each way on this trail of terror. I am sweating like my skin is made of soaker-hose, I am gasping for air, I am feeling a bit dizzy. And then, AND THEN, a friggin' bee stings me.
And I became an old woman. I do not care anymore. I don't care that I'm descended from women tough enough to pull their own wagons when the oxen dropped dead on the journey west. I don't care I will draw down disgrace upon the name of Camp Woman if I turn around. I don't care I might be in jeopardy of losing my PNW Girl Card if I turn around. I genuinely DO. NOT. CARE. what anyone in the world will think of me if I quit. THIS HIKE IS DONE.
In this moment, I take my first step on to that trail of Old Womanhood I predict I will hike spectacularly well. It is the trail of "NOPE." Being polite in the face of a rude teen working fast food? NOPE. Wearing the less-comfortable pants because they look more stylish and young than the stretchy waist, "breathable-fabric" pair? NOPE. Skipping a second helping of dessert because it was bad enough that I had a first helping of dessert? NOPE. Powering on to the end of this hike because my pride requires me to hike till I'm dead? N. O. P. E.
With every particle of understanding and full assurance from me that I don't need help back, my husband smiles and hikes on with his brother. I start down, with a great load off my back. It is ok to turn around when you know you are truly out of your depth. My legs are shaky and I actually do slip and fall on one vertical flat rock pretending to be part of the horizontal trail. But I catch myself and I'm still very much at peace with my decision. I don't even have to blame it on my footwear, which is now carrying between 2-4 pounds of dirt, depending on how often I stop to pry loose a rock. I don't have to blame it on the elevation, even though that's definitely a factor. I am simply out of shape. Do I make motivated and determined plans and goals to work out and being running when I get home? Nope. Right now, I am ok with being out of shape.
My new found enlightenment gets a few checks as I walk back to the parking lot. There's a bench in a small covered area near the start and I sit to rest. Other hikers making their way back down begin to pass by as I wallow in my small pond of sweat, sucking in oxygen and really wishing there was a nice cool bed, or even a nice cool coffin, to lay down in. I am OVER this hike. But I take note as other hikers pass me by, people who made it to the top and back successfully, unlike the tub of goo I have become: a cub scout troop of approximately 117 eight year-old boys. They are singing and laughing and waving their little troop flag. But that's ok, everyone knows kids run on atomic batteries. Another group of Olympic trail runners. Except they aren't Olympic trail runners. They are freakin' high schoolers. I know this because their coach keeps yelling out "Ogden High XC, this way!" They basically spring through the entrance and out through the parking lot like they haven't just jauntily jogged up the Matterhorn. But that's ok. Again, teens are fueled by jet fuel and energy drinks. A biker dude smoking a cigarette passes by with his floozy girlfriend. He's hiking in biker boots and black leather, while she's wearing a bikini top, short shorts, and flip flops. My new resolve not to care takes a serious hit here. Dude is a bad version of the Marlboro man, the one who totally died from lung cancer. But I let that pass on the grounds of "I'm choosing not to notice this."
And then a BLIND LADY passes me. An abso-friggin-lutely BLIND LADY, with her service dog and pole, has made it up and back. There is no possible way for me to overstate how truthful and serious I am being here. A BLIND LADY. And me with my two perfectly good eyes and unbroken legs didn't even make it half way. I'm not sure I have ever felt so completely and literally laaaaaame.
The moment passes and I knew I truly had become an Old Woman because just like that, I didn't care. Nope. It's a lovely trail to be on, unlike the Trail of Death that apparently even blind people can scramble up. The Old Woman Trail is flat, unpretentious, completely honest about bodily functions, and gives zero (bleeps). It's whatever you need it to be. I think I will greatly enjoy this hike.
And I also think I might have some oxygen deprivation happening. I didn't need those brain cells anyway.
Monday, July 3, 2017
My thoughts on being an American.
I love being American like I love my kids. They are everything, my whole world. And yet I fully acknowledge they can be world class turd burgers.
That's pretty much America. We are
And yet we are absolutely
Thursday, June 22, 2017
Me; Nope. Which is a good thing, too, because my brothers poop.