Things I Hate About Babies

At best babies are cartilaginous, but usually they are invertebrates. Try picking one up sometime, it feels like an 8 pound sea cucumber. I'm always afraid I'll snap part of it off and the baby pieces will regenerate (like starfish) and then there will be TWO babies. Like we really need that.

Babies have too much gravity. They may weigh about 8 pounds but it feels like 48. I try to hold them but my arms always fall asleep under the crushing forces they exert. Perhaps they would be more comfortable on the Moon.

Babies are stupid and I have proof. A friend and I came up with an idea to profit off their ignorance by getting babies to sign contracts stating they will give us money to dangle keys in front of them once a day. It would work because they are too stupid to know the value of money versus jingly, shiny objects. If people actually cared about babies they would pass laws to protect babies from themselves. But no one cares.

Every baby has the potential to grow up to be the Antichrist. Since bleeding heart liberals (Christian conservatives say the same thing contingent upon the baby is still in utero. I guess they figure babies can't do much damage in there.) argue against killing every baby, so learn how to protect yourselves, people! Babies are 10 times more likely to be the Antichrist if they are named Damien, have a 666 birthmark, are telepathic towheads, have a lifetime membership to the Illuminati and the NRA, and are like a leopard, and their feet are as the feet of a bear, and their mouth as the mouth of a lion: and the dragon gives them his power, and his seat, and great authority. Having the name Paris Hilton is a dead giveaway.

Hitler was once a baby. So were Nero, Pol Pot, Carrot Top, Paul Walker, Dick Cheney, Charles Manson, Ron Popeil, and David Berkowitz. I sense a pattern.

By the Power of Grayskull

I sort of have a list of people I want to have a drink with. Jack Black used to be number one, I figured he'd be hilarious when hammered. I have revised said list: Simon Pegg and Nick Frost are my first choices.

You can currently see them, as I did, in Hot Fuzz. You may remember them from Shaun of the Dead. If you don't, you either have poor taste in films (Remind me not to let you pick out a video next time, ok? I don't want you fucking things up. Retard.) or someone slipped you roofies. If you think you can escape my judgemental insults by claiming amnesia, let me refresh your brain:

Ed: "Purple Rain"?
Shaun: No.
Ed: "Sign o' the Times"?
Shaun: Definitely not.
Ed: The "Batman" soundtrack?
Shaun: Throw it.

"Hot Fuzz" rocked my world due to the quotableness and hilarity. It is a movie that gains more depth with each viewing (Like The Princess Bride. I watched it in elementary school and I'm still catching things. Last week I discovered a guilder and a florin are the same thing). A lot of scenes and quotes were lifted from other buddy cop movies, I don't think I'll be able to watch Point Break or Bad Boys II without thinking Nick Angel did it better (What am I talking about? I was never able to watch Point Break. I always fall asleep after 15 minutes. Or maybe that was just rohypnol.). In Shaun Simon Pegg portrayed a slacker very well so I was surprised that he could do just as well as a by-the-books supercop. He could actually act and stuff! There are many reasons to see this movie, but most importantly there is dialogue like this:

Danny Butterman: Where's the trolley boy?
Nicholas Angel: In the freezer.
Danny Butterman: Did you say anything like 'cool it'?
Nicholas Angel: Umm, no, not really.
Danny Butterman: Awww, shame.
Nicholas Angel: Well, you would have been proud of me before, when he attacked me in the hotel and I distracted him with the cuddly toy and I said, "Playtime's over" and hit him over the head with the plant pot.
Danny Butterman: Man, you're off the fuckin' chain!

Today's post is not very inspired. If you suspect I am distracted, you would be correct, sir. Mom went into the hospital Thursday and is scheduled for surgery tomorrow. This even overshadows the suck of my car getting sick. I am tempted to spend the evening eating phish food and watching movies. However, I will be shopping for birthday presents for MacGyver and F-bomb. Suck.

Be Honest. I Can Take It.

I can't think of anything to write for the "About Me" portion of this blog. I am completely uninspired. All I can think of is "I have brown hair! I hate Wal-Mart and iceberg lettuce! I fear rejection and grasshoppers!" Please nominate material for said entry. Perhaps you would like to suggest that I forgot my name that one time when I was 17, or that I have the upper body strength of a quadriplegic (except for these guys), or that I can hold a grudge like it's my job. Thank you for your support.

I Pity the Fool!

Last night I called MacGyver, who is currently working on an out of town project. Sometimes I feel sorry for him for having to be the husband.

Me: Hey, MacGyver, I have a problem.
MG: What's up?
Me: I got some pants from a coworker today. I can put them on easily, but I can't tell if I look good in them.
MG: So?
Me: How are pants supposed to look? If they fit do they automatically look OK, or what? I don't know if I can go out in public in these.
MG: Do you realize what you are asking me?
Me: [Looooong pause] I'm asking you if these pants make me look fat.
MG: While I'm 220 miles away.
Me: And can't see me. You knew I was merciless when you married me. Can you just pretend I look OK?

Hunt for the Great White Sea Bunny

Sunblock? Check. Grapes? Check. Time tested approach blown to Hell at the last minute resulting in a mad dash to remedy the situation no matter the cost? Check. Behemoth canoe? Check. 45 year old map? Check. Vague sense of direction? Check. Three pound drill hammer? Check. Bike lock? Check. Time to rock.

My first canoe trip was spent sitting in the boat and not allowed to paddle. That was left to my sister and Mean Patrick. Yobahoo intermitently threw mating frogs into the canoe and that's about all I remember: frustration and frog sex. The second time I was actually allowed to paddle and my camp counselor and I beat a pair of boy-campers in a race. So she put me in the camp's grand finale relay race. I was supposed to go another time senior year, but due to a fractured vertebra I was thwarted. H, her friend, and velocibadgergirl took me to the Blue River when I was out of the brace to make up for it. Canoeing became my favorite hobby. For seven summers VBG and I have run the Blue and made it our bitch. We aren't the strongest chicks, but together we exceed the sum of our parts.

This year, the eighth run, was an unexpected test of our skills. Less than 48 hours before our trip we discovered the livery wasn't renting canoes until May. Not cool. She got a topo map from 1962 and some internet map-ishness, I arranged to haul my (and MacGyver's) canoe. I love having a canoe, but I am not so fond of this particular model. It will always have a special place in my heart because MacGyver presented it to me at our wedding reception and I have spent some wonderful afternoons in it, but GODDAMN! The motherfucker weighs nearly 80 lbs, is 3 feet wide, and 16 feet long. He tosses the thing around like a rag doll and I can barely manage to hold my end over my head. Anyway, we get to the general location of our put-in and the real roads do not match the map roads. We get some directions that involve only right turns (but no road names) and we're off. We find Rothrocks pretty easily after 3 right turns and lock the canoe to a sign. Finding the take-out was more of an adventure. After a few more right turns I know we are lost. I know because what should have been a highway is a road in BFE. We find a farmer who gives us directions to the bridge, and after 2 more right turns we're there. Then we just have to leave the her car and retrace our route, which is pretty simple since it is all left turns.

At the put-in we got some advice from a random kayaker and a hand with the green leviathon. I stop freaking out and rejoice, because the day is absolutely perfect. The water is fast and high (and wide), the sky is true blue, the squirrels are hanging upside down, and we don't see another person for hours. Usually we have to portage several times since the water gets so low. This year we flew through rapids, averaging 3 miles and hour and getting up to 14.3 on the sweetest rapid I've ever experienced. I was airborne, we almost hit a tree, I nearly lost an oar, the waves were two feet high, and it felt like flying. Canoeing with anyone is fun, but with VBG it goes to another level. I prefer sitting up front and paddling on the right, she likes to sit in the back and paddle on the left. She is the only person I've paddled with who moves right in time with me, after a while our thoughts start to sync up and one of us says just what the other is thinking. We saw wood ducks and mergansers but no otters. We saw an otter the first year and I have ached to see another.

The drive back was reasonably exciting, we decided to try a different road, one that may have been the road we saw on the topo map that would have made getting to the put-in easy. Soon the "road" turned into a one lane gravel...strip, there were uphill hairpin turns that nearly froze us in our tracks, and everything was pitch black. Since I didn't have a clue as to where we were or how to escape, we chose directions randomly. Eventually we found our way to the interstate and I had a horrible realization that if the metal part of the canoe carrier that I had been hammering failed, the canoe would fly off the truck and possibly kill my best friend. OR I could hit a deer while driving 75 mph. My brain is so sadistic sometimes.

There was never a bloody tragedy and my mind has been punished with Kahlua and a good scolding for fucking with me; rather, we drove a lot, ate more food at Denny's than is generally regarded as safe, and went far too long without a shower. Next year's trip has a lot to live up to, and then we'll have a tenth year trip to awesomize. Maybe a two day trip? Maybe a week in the boundary waters? Maybe coastal kayaking? Definitely another trip that proves we are not Danger and Adventure for nothing.

I Sing the Body Electric

Eight years ago today my life took a dramatic turn. I had been eighteen for two days and America was generally in shock over the Columbine shootings. I was ecstatic because the Ass-Fucks of the Honors Lane had completely stopped bullying me AND I had a rock climbing gym pass. You know what I'm talking about. I must have approached light speed because time slowed: I had enough time to enjoy the acceleration, realize what was happening, and calmly accept my impending death. My last thought was almost "So this is how I die." Then time returned to normal and the screaming began. I remember feeling embarrased because I had never been so loud and I couldn't make myself shut up. Someone asked me to wiggle my toes and I couldn't. I could see them but they wouldn't respond. Those bitches completely ignored me. Finally the left big toe waved "Yo." One of the EMTs happened to be my brother's friend that I had met days earlier. I did not see him again until the Anthrax/Rob Zombie concert last year and I was wearing the same pants. The X-ray technicians found a rock on the stretcher. I still have it, I named my rock Lucky and he lives in a tiny purse with the bloodstone ring MacGyver gave me the night I realized I would marry him.

April 24th is the one day a year when any body issues I have are completely moot. This is the day I feel deservedly shallow wishing I could be thinner or stronger or prettier or taller or an artist's model or a model for Mountain Gear catalogue. This is the day I wear sandals and watch my toes wiggle every chance I get. This is the day I am astounded that I can see and walk and swim and climb trees and jump-kick and shut up whenever I choose. This day I marvel all the more because I have studied anatomy and neuroscience and I know how complex and beautifully my body works. This day feels like a second birthday.

Sisyphean Labor of the Damned

The good news is that this week I signed up for Algebra! Third (squared) time was a charm :) After 10 phone calls to 7 people, a fax, and several hours on the computer, I went to the registrar and told her my sob story. Fifteen minutes later I had signed away every Tuesday and Thursday night for 8 weeks and owed the school $391. As much as I suck at math, I suspect the hard part is over.

Fortunately I will be able to read at lunch instead of trying to sign up for classes. I'm reading The Solace of Leaving Early by Haven Kimmel (That's my lunch book. In the bedroom I have Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, Sammy's Hill in the car, Lone Wolf and Cub in the sun room, and Hard Eight in my discman. I just finished Nickel and Dimed and Letter to a Christian Nation awaits me) which is absorbing and I wish it didn't have a last page. I wish it was infinite, which is the thing that looks like sunglasses. I read Kimmel's A Girl Named Zippy and She Got Up Off the Couch a few years ago, which are non-fiction, and I recommend the former for everybody. It made me laugh. Solace is fiction and it made me decide she expresesses my second most favorite style (Ray Bradbury's style is my favorite). The characters are fascinating, though I may not have found them realistic if I didn't know so many interesting, quirky living people. It is also a useful book: I had to write a note to a sick co-worker and lifted a couple of lines out of Solace. I will be very disappointed if the ending isn't as good as the beginning and middle. My expectations are pretty high and I fear it won't be a happy ending. The happiest way it could end is the most predictable ending, if she goes all literary on me I will probably be sad and mope around for a few days until I eat half a bag of Hershey Kisses and in a sugar-fueled rage I scribble her a scathing, critical letter demanding a rewrite that I never send because I secretly wish the author and I could be friends one day.

I made a double batch of flitter noodles this morning. I also had an adventure yesterday, but that is for another post.