Naps Are Good

Today I made the mistake of trying to get by without a nap for Trent.  It wasn't a huge mistake - it fell in between cutting my own bangs about a year ago and telling my kid to go take a shower because he stinks, but then realizing it was me.  

Anyway, Trent usually takes a nap at about 1:00, and today we breezed right past it with no problems.  Until I called him to the dinner table and when he didn't come, (he sort of loves food), I went looking.  He was asleep on the couch.  At 5:30.

But I knew better than to wake him up, because my kids are beasts when they are awoken against their will.  Waking him up would have meant holding him and reassuring him that he was OK for at least an hour before he calmed down.  So I left him.

At 9:30 he woke up.  It sucked big time.  He was grumpy, (no dinner), and I was already tired...  So I fed him dinner, and then we watched two episodes of Gilmore Girls while we knocked out a bag of Twizzlers.  Then we played cars.  Then we changed into our jammies and watched one more Gilmore Girls.  Finally I talked him into going back to sleep.

Now I'm super exhausted and he's had a lot more sleep than usual, so he'll be up with that obnoxious woodpecker that has a thing for the tree outside my bedroom window.  (AKA 4:30 AM)  I'm going to be so beat tomorrow.

So why am I still up?  Too many Twizzlers, I think.

Ten Lessons Learned On My First Black Friday

1.  If you don't like waiting in two hour lines, Toys R Us is not the best idea on Black Friday.

2.  Toys R Us hates their customers.  They demonstrate this by only letting 50 people in their store at a time (when the maximum capacity is much higher than that) and leaving their other patrons out in the nine degree weather.

3.  People who stand in nine degree weather for two hours in order to save twenty-five dollars are pathetic.  (Hand raised.)

4.  If you're going to be standing outside for a while in that nine degree weather, you really ought to wear more than a hoodie, a light coat, jeans, and tennis shoes.  Wool socks and blankets would be a wise choice.  As well as a head examination.

5.  Old Navy cashiers are either super slow, or everyone but me bought at least thirty things.

6.  Regret does not fully describe the emotion you feel when you realize that you waited in the cold in an Old Navy line for half an hour, and then waited in the check-out line for another hour only to return the items you bought the next day.  Except for the socks - those we're keeping.

7.  McDonalds and Burger King serve burgers and fries until four in the morning on Black Friday.  Who eats cheeseburgers at four in the morning?  So when you're really craving a hash brown and a bacon and cheese Croissanwich with a side of O.J. at three fifteen in the morning after standing in the nine degree weather for an eternity, you'll be stuck going to a gas station for a breakfast sandwich, even though your mother taught you better.  And you'll be so hungry that that sandwich will taste awesome...until you have to get out of the car to get behind a thousand people in line at Target and the chill of the air instantly zaps all the heat from your sandwich.  Then it tastes like tainted egg product.

8.  After all that time standing in line in nine degree weather wearing no gloves, tennis shoes, jeans, and a light coat, you'll only be able to stare at your feet while you pray that your toes don't break off.  And you'll wonder what possessed your little sister to bring her ice cold Dr. Pepper with her into the Target line.  But you won't be able to ask her, because your lips are frozen together.

9.  Target loves their customers much more than Toys R Us.  They don't make anyone stand in the cold while idiot women debate the merits of two different Bratz Dolls.  They let everyone in all at once.  It made me want to kiss the first clerk I saw.   And I would have, if I hadn't been busy snatching a Toy Story 3 DVD while trying not to run to the stack of Eyeclops Night Vision Binoculars for $25.

10.  I was pleasantly surprised to find that Target had adequately stocked their shelves and most things were easy to find.  I got everything on my list, and for the first time in the history of the world, every single check-out station was open.  And even though I cursed my stupidity for getting into this Black Friday mess, and wished a thousand times that I had never opened that newspaper full of ads, and wished even harder for the painful death of whatever idiot at Toys R Us came up with the fifty people at a time rule...I got in the car with Kellie when we were all finished, and we turned to look at each other, and we smiled.  And we high-fived each other.  And then we told each other that we were so glad we had done it because that five pack of Andy's Toys from Toy Story 3 for thirty bucks was totally worth it.  So what if I have frost bite on my nose?

Impatience and Metro-Sexuality. Almost.

Of all my flaws, impatience is likely the worst.  It rears it's ugly head at the most detrimental times.

Case in point - last night.  

I decided that I was bored with the plain locks atop my head and resolved to do something to liven them up.  I'd been debating for a while whether to chop them or grow them out.  I opted for the grow-out, because there are only so many years left in which I'll be able to get away with long hair; may as well make the most of them.

The only choice left was color change of some sort.

So I took my boring head out to the local discount store and picked up a box of do-it-yourself highlights.  Why would I do such a thing?

Because of the impatience.  

Once an idea is concocted in my brain, it must be carried out, post haste.  It was 8:00, and all the beauty salons were closed, so professional help was not available.  (Not that I would have used it, because I'm still terrified of going near a hair salon in Utah.)

I brought the box home and put on the little cap and began to pull strands of hair through the holes...  And then I realized that I would not be able to see the back or sides of my head in order to pull hair through those holes.

This is what we refer to as being "in a pickle".

I came out to the living room, where my dear husband was watching football in a very manly fashion.  I smiled at him and cooed, "Honey???"

He looked at me, holding out my little crochet hook tool, and said, "No way."

So thirty seconds later I was sitting in front of his manly recliner while he attempted to pull bits of my hair through the highlighting cap.

And all the while he muttered, "If you blog about this, I'll kill you."

(Grin)

And then, when I told Cameron to take a picture, Andrew got really ticked...

But even though he acted all miffed about having to perform girly tasks, I was really glad that he was man enough to help me out of my impatient pickle. 

(NOT) A Soccer Mom

I didn't choose this week's writing prompt from the list so much as it just fell into my lap. It was number three - Steppin' outside the box (describe a time when you went way out of your comfort zone).


You know what I never wanted to be when I grew up? A soccer mom. Literally. I very much wanted to me a mother, just not the kind who knew anything about soccer.

I have nothing against soccer, besides a deep-seated notion that it's hands-down the most boring sport ever. I don't deny that soccer takes talent, or even that it deserves to be wildly popular. I just find myself snoring over the very idea of it. I'm odd, I know.

So imagine my chagrin when Ethan decided that it was the only sport he wanted anything to do with. And then think of the distress I felt when I received an e-mail from the city not long ago stating that they needed two more volunteer coaches or they'd have to start refunding money, (kicking kids off the teams).

What could I do? I volunteered. With the specification that that they should use me only as a very last resort seeing as games are on Saturdays and I have a husband who works Saturdays and three kids who would then need a babysitter. Plus practices.

OH! AND THE FACT THAT I'VE NEVER PLAYED SOCCER IN MY LIFE AND HAVE NO CLUE WHAT THE RULES ARE OR HOW TO COACH OR PLAY IT!!!

Sorry. I needed to get that out.

So of course, they immediately plastered my name right on the list of willing volunteers and sent out an e-mail to all the player's parents stating that they had all the coaches they needed. Psh.

I'm freaking out just a tad. But if nothing else, at least I get a cool bag and a whistle out of it. That's crap I can use every day, people.

Inter-regional Vocabulary - It's Complicated.

I recently read this post on Dead Class Pets, and it brought back a rather embarrassing moment for me...

I was born here in Utah, but grew up pretty much all over the place. By the time I was 18 I had moved twenty times. Because of this, I adapt really easily to change, (in fact thrive on it), and I've experienced many different sub-cultures within our dear United States.

When I was 20, I was living back here in Utah for a spell and working at a telecom company. One day I was sitting in my cubicle entering addresses into a database, when a man who was in town for a conference popped his head over the wall of the cube and said, "Excuse me, can you tell me where I can get a pop?"

I just stared at him blankly. I knew I should know what he was talking about, but it was like he had spoken in a strange dialect which needed deciphering before I could respond. I think my mouth was hanging open, and I began to panic as more time passed in brain-freeze mode.

The man looked at me for a minute, and finally realized that I was having trouble understanding English. He raised his eyebrows and said, "I think you call it soda here?"

And then it all made sense. He wanted a Coke from the SODA machine!! I felt like such a dumb hick. My face filled with the red-hot blood of humiliation as I pointed to the hallway behind him and said, "It's the first door on the right." Also happened to be the only door on the right, but oh well, I was on a roll.

I decided after that incident that if I could no longer translate vocabulary from one region's traditions to another, then I'd been in one place too long. So we moved to Washington, where soda is called pop, and I'm proud to say that I can now interchange both words without any spasms of stupid fogging my brain.

Lessons At The Berry Farm

I have fond memories of berry picking with my mom and siblings every summer. We went to blueberry farms and plucked dozens of pounds of fruit from the heavy branches. Those outings were always one of my favorite parts of summer; I felt peaceful and happy.

Yesterday I took my boys plus Bryan to a local farm to pick strawberries in hopes that they would find the same simple joy in filling buckets that I had found in the task when I was young.

It almost went well.



I hadn't really taken into account that I was making this journey on my own with two one-year-olds, one three-year-old, and two school-age kids who were so anxious to fill their containers that they didn't bother to check that the berries were ripe before they plucked them from the vine. Grrr...



Add to that the babies who were stepping on the plants, taking bites out of green strawberries and then throwing them, and Drew who ... well, he pretty much did the same thing as the babes. There wasn't enough of me to keep up with them.



Then the wind kicked in and began to blow dirt into all of our eyes. My contacts were screaming in rebellion, while tears streamed down my cheeks.



I completely lost my cool and was chewing kids out for wandering off, picking unripe berries, and everything in between. I felt really bad for turning our outing into an unpleasant experience, but I decided to just fill the stinking boxes as fast as I could and get everyone back in the car before my eyes turned all that dirt to mud.



The day was not a total loss. I learned to never take toddlers to a u-pick berry farm without reinforcements, stay home if it's windy, and that no amount of squashed fruit or sticky hands is worth me becoming the uptight mom who rains on the parade. The kids still had fun, and we used those berries to make some killer smoothies.

But I can do a summersault!

Grace and coordination are not qualities that I am blessed with. Since childhood, I have been prone to accidents anytime I try to do something physically challenging or anything with lightening speed. I never outgrew that tendency toward catastrophe, as you might remember from reading about my ice-blocking adventure. A great number of my young years were spent limping and waiting for scabs to mature on my very disfigured knees. Regrettably, most of the injuries I sustained spawned from a complete lack of fear and poor judgment. But at least once, I had some company in the poor judgment club.

I was eight years old and living in Beaverton, Oregon. My parents were comfortable leaving us four kids alone during the day while they were out, but anything in the evening hours required a babysitter. On one particular evening, Mom and Dad had gone out on a date and we kids were left with a teenage girl to care for us. We adored having babysitters because therein lay a perfect audience for our imagined games and budding talents. Showing off was the perfect way to spend an evening.

My siblings and I were running around like a bunch of wild hyenas, giggling and tumbling and screeching with delight. Things began to escalate as we each tried to out-do one another in hopes of winning the prize of being the babysitter's favorite. Someone was doing cartwheels. In the living room. Absolutely one of the five cardinal sins of living in our house. (#1 - don't talk back to your mother, #2 - no food in the living room, #3 - do what you are asked the first time that you are asked, or prepare for death, #4 - do not stomp or slam doors, and #5 - do not attempt acrobatics indoors.) Well, if cartwheels were being done in the house, then I would take it one step, (or maybe it was one giant leap), further. I pulled all the seat cushions off of the couch and piled them into a fine replica of The Leaning Tower of Pisa, and then I climbed on top of it.

I stood there at the top of my tower and waited until I had the full attention of the babysitter. She sat there on the floor, grinning, and knowing full well what I was about to do. Her expectant smile was all the encouragement I needed - I cartwheeled off of that tower.

In my entire life, I had never been able to do a cartwheel, and so why I thought that it would be a good idea to try one from a starting point 3 or 4 feet off the ground is a mystery to me. A bigger mystery, however, is why the babysitter thought it was a good idea. She had plenty of time to stop me while I stacked the cushions, and more time to see the red flags while I carefully scaled the cushion tower, and one more chance to prevent catastrophe while I stood there with a ridiculous grin, ready to perform my stunt and emerge as the victorious champion of our living room circus performance.

But she just sat there and smiled at me! And I was either too stupid to realize that I was about to regret ever wishing for the sitter's favoritism, or too embarrassed to chicken out.

The next thing I knew, my hand was hitting the floor with tremendous force behind it, and something was very, very wrong. I was writhing on the floor, screaming and clutching my arm, and that babysitter, that stinking babysitter - it was all her fault, was hovered over me with panic oozing from her mouth and her hands as she tried to calm me, or at least quiet me.

Pain. That's all I could think about. Pain, pain, pain.

When I was finally able to stop howling and crying, fear overcame me. "Oh, no. When Mom and Dad come home and find out that I was doing cartwheels in the house, and off of the couch cushions too, I am dead. They are going to kill me." I think I cried some more after I realized that my life was about to end.

I went to bed shortly thereafter, and the baby sitter came into my room and said that she thought we should say a prayer. I wanted to tell her that she was an idiot, that some kind of horrific damage had already been done to my arm, (which I was still cradling, don't anybody touch me), and that it was pointless to pray over it because not only would it not be miraculously okay, but I was facing punishment to end all punishment for the way in which this crippling pain had come about. But I couldn't very well say that to her, and besides, I could tell that she was equally concerned for her own fate as she was for mine. I didn't know at the time that my elbow was fractured, but I knew enough to be sure that something was very wrong with my arm, as I couldn't move it. Surely if anyone found out that she had allowed me to pile all those stupid cushions and then cartwheel off of them, she would be in as much trouble as I. Feeling a little sorry for her, I told her to go ahead with her prayer. She then left me to my attempts at sleep.

The next morning, Mom woke me and told me to hurry and get ready for a wedding that we had to go to.

What? That's it? No, "How's your arm?" No, "What have I told you about cartwheels in the house?" No spanking? No lecture? I couldn't believe my luck! The babysitter hadn't told! I was going to live! Never mind that I still couldn't move my arm - who cares? I happily, though carefully and slowly, dressed myself for the wedding and presented myself in the kitchen. Still, no one said anything. Hurray!

A few hours later, we were sitting on the world's hardest benches in a Catholic church. I have only been to that one Catholic wedding, so I don't know if it's normal for them to last an eternity, but this one did. About five minutes into it, I could hardly stand the pain in my arm. I had had no Tylenol or Advil, no ice pack or even any pity, because to get any of that, I would have to fess up to what I had done. So I sat there on that bench, waiting for the end of the ceremony and trying to not to fidget. Sitting still while in such pain is a very difficult thing to do. I was still holding my arm at a perfectly still right angle, and cradling it with my right hand, but my legs were screaming to run from there. "Just get up and run!" they shouted.

About six days later the vows had been given, and the kiss and the music...and FINALLY, we got to get up and go. To the reception. Someone help me! However, the ability to move at will and consume food seemed to diminish the pain somewhat, and as I had gotten used to holding my left arm immobile with my right hand, I could run around and play with the other kids. I was nearly able to forget the pain. Mom asked me at some point why I was holding my arm. I told her that it hurt, but I must have just slept on it funny. Simple as that, or so I thought.

At home later that evening, I was trying to get out of my dress so I could take a bath, but my arm was stuck. I contorted myself into all sorts of positions in my efforts to peel the dress off of myself, but to no avail. I stood there, wondering what to do, and came up with no other option than to ask for help. I knew that I was as good as handing myself over to the enemy. I would certainly be getting my comeuppance.

Mom did her best with the dress, and after working at it for a good, long while, she was able to extricate me from the garment. Upon seeing my swollen arm, she knew that it was not a matter of having "slept on it funny", and asked me what had happened. I willingly outed myself at that point, because the pain had finally won me over. I told the story as succinctly as possible, and then put on a t-shirt and jeans and went off to the emergency room with my dad, almost a full 24 hours after the incident. Impressive that I lasted so long, don't you think?

I had a small fracture in my elbow, and for that received a cast to hold my arm in that tiresome right angle position for a few weeks. It felt better to be helped, and slightly medicated, and to have finally told my parents the truth. Dad figured that I had suffered enough and no punishment was given. After the hospital, he took me to Burgerville, where I remember sitting next to him in the car, sheepishly eating french fries as he asked me if I was ever going to do something like that again. Nope. Not me. Dad told me that I was never to attempt a cartwheel again, indoors or out. I agreed, and wondered while we drove home if the babysitter would be told to never again attempt to supervise children. I bet she got off scott free.

No Other Artificial Cherry Tastes Quite Like It

Two of my dad's favorite sayings when I was young were; "Don't touch that", (but he said it in French, so it sounded like "Na touche pa!"), and "I didn't raise a bunch of dogs to do my own barking". So we kept our hands off of anything that looked expensive, and we babysat.

My sister, Natalie and I were, if I remember correctly, 8 and 9 years old when my parents first began to leave our younger siblings in our care on Saturdays while they ran errands and ate fast food without us. You may think that we were too young for such a responsibility, but rest assured that my parents are very smart people who would not have left their two favorite children with Natalie and I unless they were absolutely sure that they would be safe. We fed Kellie and Joel Ramen Noodles for lunch nearly every Saturday, we taught them how to eat without the use of silverware, we showed them how fun it can be to pretend that the carpet was hot lava and jump from couch cushion to coffee table to couch, and all kinds of other intelligent and healthy activities. We had many adventures.

One Saturday, about a year after Natalie and I officially became the Saturday babysitters, we were doing our chores after Mom and Dad had left, and Kellie got to feeling like Natalie and I were unfairly making her do all the work. I don't remember whether that was the case or not, but Kellie was convinced that we were mean and rotten - so she packed a suitcase that was almost the same size as her six-year-old body, and declared that she was going to stay with Grandma, who lived about 4 blocks away. Natalie and I decided that the best thing to do would be to let her get on with it and hope that she chickened out so that we wouldn't get in trouble for losing her. Kellie started down the sidewalk with that suitcase full of frilly dresses and shiny black shoes, and with tears in her eyes she stomped towards the corner. Natalie and I watched from the front door, giggling and wondering how far she would get before she came running back. She was halfway past the neighbor's house when Kellie got scared and came back, sobbing and feeling worse than ever. I don't know about Natalie, but I felt very grown-up for having handled the situation in such an adult way.

About a year after that, I was eleven and we had begun to babysit for our siblings after dark. Mom and Dad were out late one evening picking up all the things we needed to go on a road trip the next morning, and we kids had settled in to watch a movie until they returned. At some point towards the middle of the movie something moved in my peripheral vision, and I looked over to the living room window which was covered only by a sheer curtain. There was a man standing there, just outside the glow of the porch light. His silhouette was still as he peered into our front room, and I became as motionless as he. He was just standing there, watching us. I was completely paralyzed with fear, and wondering all the while how to alert the rest of my siblings without provoking the man to get a closer look. I'm not sure if Natalie eventually noticed the man as well or if I was able to finally whisper some kind of alarm, but we all eventually stood up very quickly and rushed into the hallway where there were no windows for him to peep through. We stayed there, pulses racing, breaths shallow, waiting for the man to leave. Once or twice we peeked around the corner back into the living room, but the fear of that experience has wiped my memory of whether or not we ever left the hallway until Mom and Dad got home. The man eventually moved off into the shadows, where he bode his time until he could break into our neighbor's house, which he did. See what smart sitters Natalie and I were? The man left on his own - there was no need to call 911, or our parents. The neighbor took care of that when he gave her cause to do so. Who was I to make trouble for a man who had, at the time, done nothing wrong?

As scary as that episode was, our scariest experiences in babysitting happened in broad daylight and were self-inflicted. On Saturday afternoons, our parents would head out to do whatever it was they did every week when they left us, and Natalie and I would wait a good fifteen minutes to make sure that they weren't coming back for some forgotten item, and then we began to argue in urgent whispers.

"It's your turn!"

"No, I did it last week. Remember? I barely made it back before they came home!"

"Oh, right. But you're so much faster than I am - you go!"

"No! I'm scared. You go."

"Fine. I'll go. But I'm taking your bike."

So much anxiety! You see, we usually had a dollar or two to our names, and we craved Jolly Rancher Sticks like heroine addicts who were desperate for a fix. Cherry and Watermelon and Fire flavors were our true vices. Not so much the Grape or Sour Apple, but in a pinch they would do. In order to feed our addictions, either Natalie or I would need to stay with Kellie and Joel while the other went after the candy on our bike. It had to have been at least a mile, but my eleven-year-old grasp of distance was probably a little off. It was, regardless of actual distance, quite a journey.

When it fell upon my shoulders to secure the booty, I would start off by letting my adrenaline force my feet to pedal past the park that lay behind our house. I tried not to think of the boys who walked through the park wearing dark trench coats and chains, or the marijuana smoke that sometimes wafted through the trees, across the creek and into our backyard. I even tried not to think about the crawdads that sat upon the rocks under the bridge with all their millions of babies clinging to their underbellies and crawling all over the rotting leaves and mud.

Pedal faster, faster, faster.

After a few turns there was a straightaway that climbed a very slight hill. The sun was sometimes beginning it's decent by this time, and that added to my sense of urgency. I would pedal past a house where, oftentimes, two black girls would be standing in their front yard with a boom box blasting Salt n' Peppa's "Let's Talk About Sex". They were dressed in their scandalously tight jeans and midriff shirts, hips swinging in suggestive circles, and they were making up their own dance moves to the song. I was sure that I would be in deep trouble just for unintentionally listening to the lyrics of that song, so I tried to avert my eyes and shut off my ears. But I couldn't help oogling at their lurid moves and natural rhythm. I pedaled faster and faster, trying to escape the music.

"Let's talk about sex, baby,
Let's talk about you and me,"

(No! Must go faster!)

"Let's talk about all the good things and the bad things
That may be. Let's talk about sex..."

Where was those girls' mother? Why did they have to make this even worse for me?

Pedal, pedal, pedal. Hurry! Before they catch sight of you and try to give you a make-over and a dancing lesson!

Next came the most frightening and dangerous part of the trip: crossing Murray Boulevard. Murray was a very busy road with cars whizzing along at about 200 miles an hour, one lane, I believe, in each direction, maybe two, with a turning lane in the middle. I knew at this point that it was time to take a deep breath and wait. This part of the journey could not be rushed. You don't take your time and you could be squashed flat before you even reached the middle of the first lane. Look both ways...car coming...look again...might be enough time, but don't risk it....look both ways...this could be it...yeah, that truck is a good ways off...look once more, just to be sure...GO! I don't recall ever coming close to being hit, nor was I ever honked at, to the best of my recollection. Once across, it was just a few yards to the parking lot of the Circle K Mini-Mart.

Inside the Mini-Mart was row after row of dazzling candy displays. I passed the Mambas and the Bonkers and the Whatchamacallits, the SweeTarts, the Nerds and even the Bubblicious. On the very bottom shelf were the boxes of Jolly Rancher Sticks, all for fifteen cents each. On a good day we had enough money to get eight or ten of them, and then it was up to the check-out counter, where I held my breath hoping that the clerk wouldn't ask me where my parents were, or if I had come alone. I was too naive to know that Mini-Mart clerks rarely care about that type of thing.

The trip home was all about speed. Clutching a little paper sack filled with our spoils, eyes focused on the road ahead. If Mom and Dad had gotten home before the Candy Runner, there would surely be blistered butts and groundings and extra chores and all kinds of unpleasantry. There was absolutely more concern about getting home before Mom and Dad than there was about getting to the Mini-Mart without being abducted by a freak in the park or squished by a car. In fact, had one of us ever ridden up to the house to find the family minivan already parked in the driveway, I would hope that we would have been smart enough to just keep riding and never look back.

As it was, we never did get caught making one of our Jolly Rancher runs. The runner would arrive home, the three lucky ones who had stayed behind would finally stop praying for the runner's safe and undetected return, and we would all greedily choose a stick and then stash the rest in our bedroom closets, hidden in their paper sack until the next time Mom and Dad went out.

Those were the good ol' days when I was ignorant to the dangers of the world and completely hooked on those cinnamon flavored Jolly Ranchers.

I really hope my kids aren't as dumb as I was.

I Am The World's Biggest Ignoramus - But The Pictures Are Sweet!

Two years ago, almost to the day, I was a youth leader for our church. I was responsible for teaching a lesson every other Sunday to the 14 and 15-year-old girls, and helping them plan and execute their mid-week activities. One particular week in August they had decided to go ice blocking. Now, for anyone who does not know what that is, I shall explain. You sit on a block of ice and slide down a grassy hill. That's about it. I had never been ice blocking before, so I was anxious to give it a try. I picked up a van full of girls, bought 6 blocks of ice at a gas station and we made our way to a park that featured a phenomenally steep hill.

It was a lovely summer evening, and I enjoyed watching the girls act like silly children while they whooshed down the hill on their giant cubes of ice. When everyone had had a few turns, I decided to take a ride myself. So I placed my towel atop the ice, sat my giant rear end on the block and scooted off. It was similar to one of those carousels outside shopping centers that you put your quarter in and slowly revolve in a circle for a lousy minute or so. The experience wasn't nearly as exhilarating as it looked, and I was left feeling a little jipped.

I carried the block of ice back up the hill, and as I crested the top, I saw It. The long, metal slide. And of course, I thought, "Oh, man! It would be so cool for someone to go down that on their block of ice." (I know - only a fool would do such a thing, but wait for it...)

Now this was no sissy kid slide. It was about 25 feet long from top to bottom and sloped with approximately a 35 degree angle. In the world of slides, it was steep and it went forever. (It has since been removed from the park, most likely due to it's insanely unsafe nature.) So really, what better way to take a lazy ride down a hill on an ice block and turn it into a thrilling show of ultimate awesomeness?? That's what I thought, anyway. So I took one of those darn blocks and put it at the top of the slide and sat on it. And then I waited to gather my nerve. All of the girls were standing at the top of the slide with me, as it began at the top of our grassy hill. One of them said, "Are you sure you want to do this?"

You'd think that a young, invincible girl questioning the wisdom of what I was about to do would make me think twice, but no. I was already sitting there, shorts getting a little wet from the melting ice, and if I chickened out then the girls might think me to be a wimp, and I was trying to be the cool leader - so that just wouldn't do.

I gave the block of ice a little forward thrust, and let go of the side rails.

And then two things happened simultaneously. I think I had time to mutter, "Oh shit!" and then I was launched off the bottom of the slide, flying through the air.

The actual descent from the slide happened so quickly that there would have been some kind of land speed record set, if we happened to have been timing it. Conversely, the part where I was flying through the air took so long that I had time to think, "What have I done?? This is going to hurt!" And then I landed, with excruciating pain, and slid across the sand for about 10 feet.

Immediately, I did what I could to avoid further humiliation. I sat up, pretended that my butt didn't feel like it had just been rear-ended by a MAC truck, and smiled. Yeah, I'm an idiot.

All six of the girls came running to my aid, inquiring as to my condition. I assured them that I was fine, and stood up to brush myself off. My feigned nonchalance seemed to have worked, until one of the girls said, "You're bleeding!"

Crap. Sure enough, that slight stinging I felt in my calf was the result of a gargantuan sand rash. I told her I was fine, that it didn't even hurt. (Which, when compared to the agonizing pain in my hiney, was completely true.)

We finished up the evening with a few more runs down the hill; sticking to the grass, of course. All the while I tried not to show how incapacitated I was, and the only thing I could think about was whether all these girls would rush home and tell their parents what a moron I was. That's exactly what I would have done, had I been in their shoes. As the sun began to set, we piled back into my car and headed home. I had to drop everyone off at their houses, and so I drove very quickly and tried to appear to be sitting on both sides of my butt, when in fact, I was only letting my left side come in contact with the seat.

Finally, everyone was safely in their homes, and I could head for mine. Unfortunately, we were living in an apartment at the time that was at the top of three flights of stairs. I managed the torturous climb and entered my front door. Andrew was sitting there on the couch and I just let it all out. I hobbled over to him and cried and told him how stupid I felt and how much my backside was killing me. He laughed. A lot. Then, I pulled my shorts down to have a look.

Here's what we found:


(This is a picture of a picture because my scanner won't work, but notice the nice lump on my upper thigh, just above my pant line? That's where my sorry butt landed, right on the edge of the ice block that nearly killed me. About 3 months ago, I finally got feeling back in that part of my leg. And yes, I just posted a picture of my arse on the internet.)

More of Andrew's laughing followed this discovery, but it was several days before I could see the humor in it. After all, I had to go to church 3 days later and pretend that everything was cool, and that I didn't have obscene scabs clear down my leg from sliding so far on the sand.



That made shaving quite impossible.

I do not recommend acting in such a reckless and idiotic manner, but if ever you do, be sure to take pictures, because once the pain and numbness and embarrassment fade, you might just be pretty darn proud of the size bruise you can give yourself.


I apologize for having failed to forewarn you that you would be looking at my big ol' white butt cheek. I just think it's a breathtaking picture!

Now, folks, the moral of the story. Do not try to impress 14-year-olds with any sort of physical skill or daring. It's much less humiliating to just bring awesome snacks. Also, ice blocking is no fun.