Livin' On The Edge

I used to be a risk taker. An adrenaline junkie. A fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants-who-cares-if-they're-on-fire-I'll-put-it-out-when-it-rains type of person. I grew up in the deserts of Arizona, so obviously I ran around with my pants on fire a LOT.

What?

You don't believe me? You say, the content of this blog doesn't support the statement "that I used to be just like Patrick Swayze in Point Break." Um, I'm pretty sure I told you guys that I once dyed my hair with purple Kool-Aide, AND, once in high school, when my parents were out of town and a friend was staying over at my house with me, we ordered a pizza and got it delivered. Dude, we could have been murdered before the weekend even started! But we took that risk. Because we were young and careless and... other stuff. And, in college I used to walk from South to Central Campus after my night class. By myself. In the dark. (But that was mostly because I didn't want to ride the campus bus with my creepy English professor. He used to stare. And smirk. Dude. Either stalk me or belittle me. You can't do both. CrrrreeeeEEEEeeeepyyyyy!) So obviously I used to flirt with danger like Amelia Earhart used to flirt with aviation. Meaning, she didn't because she was totally out flying in the face of it!

But lately I'd been wondering if I'd lost that dare-devil in me. Had it been drowned with copious amounts of coffee, strangled through a lack of restful nights, smothered with a plethora of "whys"? So, I sat down this morning, butterfly coffee cup in hand and made a list of some of my daring ways:

1. I drink my coffee out of a cup that has "Not For Use in Microwave and Dishwasher" stamped on the bottom. I totally pulled it out of the dishwasher this morning too.

2. I routinely teach Sunday School without giving the kids candy. Even at Halloween and Christmas.

3. I run each morning wearing all black. Even in fog and early morning darkness. Without one of those blinky red lights either. (OK, this one might actually prove my stupidity rather than my audacious nature.)

4. I iron my shirts with my hair straightener. While I'm wearing them.

5. I brew espresso beans in my full size coffee pot.

6. I mow the grass when it's wet. With my electric lawn mower. (OK, I don't actually do this anymore since Jon found out and explained to me that "the weird feeling I get in my hands" was actually me electrocuting myself. Over and over and over, eh hem, again. He then Craig's Listed the mower and bought me a reel mower. Because it doesn't plug in. Even though I had already scrounged up a pair of plastic dish washing gloves and wrote "ELECTROCUTION GLOVES" on them in Sharpie. It's like he doesn't trust my understanding of basic science or something.)

You know what? I think I'm done listing things out. Because it's totally obvious I haven't lost that madcap part of me. I mean, sure my days running from men with smirking facial expressions is gone, but my days writing on the internet about other stupid stuff I've done have only just begun. So, excuse me, because I have to go make a tornado in a bottle with my kids. Now where did I put that jar of glitter?

I Stole A Baby. What Did You Do This Week?

I don't want to alarm anyone. But, a kidnapper was seen wandering around our local Fred Meyer grocery store just yesterday. I even have a picture:

Yeah. That's me. And, true, it's not the most flattering picture-but considering I'm a kidnapper and all, I figured I should, you know, gritty up my image a bit.

You see, there I was, wandering Fred Meyer, in my kidnapping costume (which obviously consists of jeans and a t-shirt, because when you're kidnapping babies, knee high boots with six inch heels and a cute flippy vintage dress just aren't practical, ya know? Mostly because babies will smear just about anything on you. And I'll stop there, because I have my boundaries, you have a wonderfully developed olfactory imagination, and I'm a kidnapper, so obviously I'm very busy stealing babies and I don't have time to be describing the ins and (hem hem) outs of babies shmear.) Anyway, there I was, doing my weekly grocery shopping at Fred Meyer. I had stuck Ellie in the cart so she could happily bounce on her little diapered rear while pointing at all the grocery items on the shelves. And that was my Rookie Kidnapper Mistake #1: Being Seen With A Baby.

Next, I naively pushed my cart to the check-out lane and proceeded to unload all my kidnapper food: tofu, wheat germ, Braggs Liquid Aminos, baby wipes, quart sized Ziploc bags, Halloween candy (in which to lure more unsuspecting sugar needy kids, obviously) and other such items while giving the older gentleman in the next lane a friendly smile as he gave my cart a weird look. (Which, naively again, I took to be a what-is-she-some-freaky-vegetarian look, rather than a oh-my-goodness-she's-stolen-somebody's-baby look. This is why I don't buy candy.) And that's when I made my Rookie Kidnapper Mistake #2: Making Eye Contact.

Quicker than I can say "I drive a Honda Civic, not a scary kidnapper Honda Odyssey!" I was being circled intimidatingly while having menacing questions thrown at my head by the, now, rude old guy from the next lane. "Where did you get that baby?" "Did you get that baby in Kansas?" "How old is she?" "Is that the baby from Kansas?" Bewildered, it took me a minute or two to figure out what the guy was talking about, before I could even try to assure the man that Ellie was indeed mine! Luckily the nice lady in line behind me threw in her support of my non-kidnapper status, or I think the guy might have actually called the police!

Lessons learned. So, next week, when I head to Fred Meyer to do my grocery shopping, Ellie's totally going in disguise:

Because I've never been accused of shoplifting either.

I Used To Dream In Technicolor

I dreamed I was a crouton the other night.

Oh no! You read that correctly.

In my dream I was a crusty stale crouton sitting on top of someones wilted salad greens. Then do you know what happened? I got picked out of the salad and put down on a napkin, before they poured all that boisterously fun salad dressing on top. Yeah. It's been kinda like that lately. I blame my kids*.

You see, it's hard to write on this blog when I'm all depressed. All those unfun type of emotions swim around in my nervous system and if I let them out they'd just plod around all scowly and weepy, half-heartedly kicking car-licking buffaloes in the head and making all my Twilight jokes soggy. Not cool. Plus, I'm not even sad about real stuff. (You know, like cancer, or global warming, or, um... the color gray.) I'm sad because I read a book. Well, three point zero two books, really. And I blame my kids. Yes. Again. But this time it really is their fault.

You see, Ellie and Katie pick out most of my books from the library. Something like twice a month, before I turn them loose in the children's section, I drag them over to the adult section. I'm not insane. I don't take them near the regular stacks. Oh no! I take them over to this section of our library where they put a lot of popular titles all mixed together on a couple shelves: fiction, non-fiction, biographies, self-help, whatever, all mixed together. Quick. Simple. Um, quick. Because usually after about 30 seconds Katie whines, "Can we go to the kid's section now? I'm booooorrrrrred!" and Ellie yells, "GOOOoooooo!" all long and drawn out while she toddles off pumping her arms in the air to keep herself upright. So, I let my kids hand me random books, which I dutifully put in our library bag to check out. I've been pleasantly surprised at times. Other times?

There are dead brothers, dead babies, a father who commits suicide, dead babies, dead baby ducks, more dead babies, and a mother who is murdered while carrying her baby on her head. And that last one was a picture book from Katie's pile! (Did you know Babar was that dark?) The only book I didn't read more than two pages of was entitled, A Gate at the Top of the Stairs, because after the previous three books I knew it was just going to be about a safety gate at the top of some stairway that goes on a baby killing spree. Obviously. It took me awhile, but eventually I caught onto the overarching theme there.

Now don't get me wrong. I get the whole deepen the main character by killing off some of the other characters in the story bit. Dude, I've read Harry Potter. But come on! Every single book this week? I can't handle it! I'm just not myself anymore. I even found these online:

And I was all, "eh...kinda...cute...(insert heart-wrenching tear jerking sigh here) maybe...."

Kinda cute? Kinda cute !?! They're BALLOON ANIMAL DOORSTOPS PEOPLE! Puppy balloon animal doorstops nonetheless! I should have been, I don't know, doing a Mary Poppins dance or, at the very least, belting out a slightly ribald Girl Scout camp song about my underwear!

But I didn't.

And, guys? Library day is coming again. Soon. (insert whimpering sigh with a sad puppy eye look here) Do you have any book recommendations for me?

*I figure I can keep blaming my kids, for just about anything, until they develop their own mad interneting skillz. Which, if they take after me should be around the age of 30. If they take after Jon, it should be next week.

This Is An Update From My Butt

Last weekend was the Tri Turtle Tri that I was training for this season. And by training I mean, regularly rolling out of bed to dunk myself in a cold and misty lake before the sunrise or to run circles around the track at the local high school, but not bike. NoooOOOooo. I dislike the biking the most, so why would I train for that leg of the race? That would be insane! So, instead I hauled my butt up on that little plastic seat about four times this season for a BRICK (bike ride immediately followed by a run), and then sweated in the danky basement on my bike trainer with the washing machine maaaayyybbbeeee three times. Obviously, good enough.

So, there I was, waist deep in slightly opaque lake water, crowded on all sides by goggled men and women, ready to dive in and sing my traditional triathlon swim song, "Boot to the Head". Two hours, one minute and 49.3 seconds later, me and my butt have crossed the finish line. The end.

Or you can read the more detailed account I typed up below. But...... I wrote it in second person, and, I'm pretty sure my use of such a literary technique will only exasperate your conviction of my weirdness. And if it doesn't, I'm pretty sure the flamingos will. (These last three sentences may not have made any sense.)

First, you get up extra butt crack of dawn early to, sure, pick up your race number, but more importantly, to stand in line for the chance to relieve some liquid pre-race jitters in the Honey Bucket.

Second, you stand waist deep in slightly opaque lake water, crowded on all sides by goggled men and women, ready to dive in.

Third, during your swim you flail energetically (because you're trying desperately to stay in front of the guy in board shorts and that lady who only uses her arms to swim) while singing "Boot to the Head", because you are literally, getting booted in the head.

Fourth, you somehow attach socks and bike shoes to your wet feet and pedal the course, grimacing and muttering "I remember this hill from last year. Yeah. I HATE THIS HILL!!" You do it a lot. Also, this leg doesn't have a cute theme song. Because it's the bike, and it doesn't deserve one.

Fifth, you chuck your bike at the rack, kick it once or twice because your butt is petty like that, then race off to the run course, free! FINALLY FREE!! while the theme song for Rocky plays in your head. Until you realize the repetitiveness is going to drive you insane, so you instead begin greeting each pink flamingo lining the route by name. "Charlie! Looking good! (jog a little, hop a little, skip a little, jog) Hello there, Edith! (jog a little, hop a little, skip a little, jog) BOB! (stumble a little) Geesh, Bob! Quit hiding behind the trees. This isn't the Halloween Spook Run! And put down those nunchucks, you're a flamingo, now act like one!" (Note: I made up the nunchucks for literary effect. You know, the scary kind, not the weird kind that I'm currently utilizing.)

Sixthly, you sprint across the finish line, get a medal slung around your neck, pick up a banana or two for your under five cheering squad, sit down and happily make plans with your fellow racers to fill your bellies with waffles and eggs while cheering on the other finishers. That is, until you find out that you got beat by the guy with a broken foot. (Seriously.) You'd berate your butt for letting you slack off on your training, buuuuuttttt, you then realize that it wasn't only you who got beaten by the guy with a broken foot, it was everyone. Which means he's probably an alien. So you happily firm up waffle plans, then join the line for the free post-race massage.

The End.

Dude... I can not wait to do it all again next year!

What I Did On My Summer Vacation: Part Tau*

I went to Arizona to do my annual retreat thing with my college besties. This year had considerable less sloshy baby poop in my lap and more "shush, shush little baby...." (small groan of frustration with overtones of glee because it's not my baby) "Sorry, Scooby, can't seem to calm him down." (PLOP! goes the baby back in mommy's lap).

It's a good thing my friends keep having such adorable babies, otherwise I'd be all "Awwww... Crapazoidal!! That ugly baby is going to cry again. I'm soooo out of here! I wonder if Fiesta Mall is still the place for the cool people to hang. Pish! What am I talking about? If I'm there, obviously it is!" Which would have been weird because, in high school, I was never a mall bunny. Mall siamang? Mall bobcat? Mall mule? Whatever. I'm basically trying to say I never hung out at the mall much. I was more of a *knock* *knock* Would you like to buy some Girl Scout cookies? type of high schooler. Meaning I was way less likely to get pregnant, do drugs or drink irresponsibly (ummm, this will be quite obvious in about 30 seconds). Not to say that the people who hung out at malls were all shopping for trendy preggo tops while sipping from their rum flasks and making appointments to smoke pot out by the dumpsters. I wouldn't know! Because I was too busy trying to earn this by selling 350 boxes of Thin Mints:

Now, I loved Girl Scouts. Heck, I'm probably genetically destined to become Cookie Chairman of my neighborhood someday. However, what Girl Scouts did a horrible job preparing me for was ordering an alcoholic drink from a piano bar when I was thirty-five. True story.

You see, we had dropped the babies off with their respective daddy's and were dressed up and ready for a night on the town! In a piano bar! Without adorable chubby baby butts! And, as we hurtled along the highway in our mini-van this was my thought process:

"Man. I haven't been to a bar since college. Huh. I never even ordered a drink from a bar in college. DUDE! I should totally order a drink from the bar!! It'd be like a life story!!! Like bungee jumping or hang gliding. People would be all, 'Have you ever jumped from a bridge with only a twisty telephone chord looking thing keeping you from crashing to certain death?' And I'd be all, 'No. But I ordered a drink from a bar once.' And then they'd be all, 'Dude! I've always wanted to do that!' Yeeaaahhhh! I'm totally ordering a drink tonight!"

A few miles pass.

"Wait. I don't really drink. I mean sure, a Margarita at a restaurant every once in a while (OK, every four years), but I can't order a Margarita, can I? Would it even come with the salty rim? Because if it doesn't have a salty rim, it's not worth it. And I never liked those nasty sweet fruity drinks that everyone orders. Crud. I'm going to look stupid. OK. Think. I can't order a beer because, one, I don't really like beer, and, two, the bartender would probably ask me what kind I wanted and then what do I say? Bud Light? Then it's not so much a life story as it is a Super Bowl commercial. Maybe I should do some research...."

More miles pass as I mumble to myself and shake my iPhone fruitlessly (to make it go faster).

"Wait! Someone once said that Mike's Hard Lemonade is pretty good. OK. I've got my plan. I'll walk up to the bar and order a Mike's. It's simple, it's alcoholic, and there's no way the bartender can look at me and say "What's in that?" with a confused expression on her face. Yeah. All the cool people order Mike's at bars. Definitely...."

Cut scene to the piano bar where I'm enjoying the musicianship of the players as they smoothly move from Elton John's 'Bennie and the Jets' to Train's 'Hey Soul Sister' to Queen's 'Bohemian Rhapsody' to Garth Brooks 'Friends in Low Places' and other better songs that I can't remember right now. Because, seriously people, 'Friends in Low Places'? No. Just stop requesting that one. You're just embarrassing yourself. Dude, even a Journey song would be better. (But not Michael Bolton. For the love of all that is good-NOT MICHAEL BOLTON!)

Anyway, eventually I make my way to the bar, lean in confidently and say, "I'd like a Mike's." As I'm pulling my cash out of my purse the bartender yells (because Garth Brooks is up again) "I don't have that!" Crapaziodal! What did she say!?! I have no clue what to do now. I'm completely unprepared. I should have done more research!! While I'm internally freaking out the bartender keeps talking and somehow I end up walking around holding a Smirnoff Ice in my hand. And I don't have a clue what a Smirnoff is.

Cut to two hours later and there I am, showing off my coffee house roots by clutching my empty glass bottle of vodka (thank you iPhone and free WiFi) while awkwardly bopping along to 'Play That Funky Music White Boy'. Why? Well, because I have horrific rhythm people, and apparently 12 ounces of vodka doesn't help. Also because, I couldn't find the recycling bin. I thought about slipping the bottle into my purse and taking it home, but then thought, noooOOOooo, that would look kinda, you know, odd. Or stupid. Or possibly illegal. Either way you look at it, there I was, stuck pulling up my all-natural organic cotton big girl panties and sidling up to the bar to ask the bartender, "Excuse me. Where's the recycling?"

A confused stare and a point to the huge black trash can later, I had my answer: bars don't have recycling.

Because, apparently, bars are NOT run by the Girl Scouts.

Unless you count that time when the beer was buried off site at Girl Scout camp one summer. But that's a completely different "What I Did On My Summer Vacation" story.

*Because not only are my college besties awesome and get comped cover at piano bars, they also watched this video and pontificated upon the ramifications of a world in which physical mathematics is turned on its head. Obviously they are awesome, because the only thing I got out of the video was a really big craving for cherry pie.**

**We also watched this video. I thought it was AWESOME! They politely chuckled. Maybe I was smarter in college....

All This Could Have Been Avoided If You'd Just Followed Me On Twitter President Obama

I don't know how they missed it, but, apparently not a single uppity up in the TSA nor President Obama has read my post calling for the replacement of the evil x-ray machines at airport security with cute little fluffy puppies. How could they miss it? I mean, I put it right there! (points to computer screen) On the internet! Therefore, I can only conclude that they are too busy chuckling at the cats on icanhascheezburger.com to do any real research on the new trends for intercontinental transportational security. All I can say, is, dudes, those cats are not as funny as you think they are.

So, as a result of TSAs inability to tear their eyes away from cute internet kittens speaking with a horrific ungrammatical accent, there I was, stripped to my skivvies (plus a tank top and jean skirt) standing in line with all the other airport travelers out of Phoenix that day about to be blasted with 189 quadrizillion knots of radiation. Now, don't get me wrong. I understand that the heightened security makes people feel safer after 9/11. Heck, when they started the whole remove shoes confiscate pocket knives thing, I donned my stripped monkey socks and cheerfully left my Swiss Army Knife at home. Heck, I even started wearing my hair in Princess Leia buns just so when I got chosen for those extra pat downs (as I always seemed to be chosen for) I could tell everyone that "TSA squeezed my buns today." (Yeeaaahhh...Jon never really appreciated the wittiness of that joke.) But naked radiation boxes? Seriously, TSA? Do I look like I need more super hero powers?

Then, I notice. People traveling with wee little babes are shuffled around the boxes. They don't have to go though.

Quick check.

Yep.

Still baby and preschooler free.

Or am I?

As I come face to face with security personnel, I do what any woman my approximate age should do. I reach down, caress my stomach and say, "I don't exactly feel comfortable." And BAM! Just like that I save myself all the heartache that goes with having to attend Xavier's Institute for Higher Learning in order to learn how to control my mutant super powers.

But what about Jon, you ask. Will he be forced to abandon his family... his friends... his job... his life...his whole identity as he learns to control his new and strangely highly developed ambidextrous skills*? Naaawww.... That's why I'm planning on getting him this t-shirt for his birthday:

And this:

And some hair product.

Or maybe a wig.

I might need to take him down to ear piercing place in the mall too.

And maybe a cute pair of-

Aw crap. Never mind. I think Jon might be happier with the super hero powers.

*Knowledge that there is an ambidextrous X-man is just one of the wondrous things you can discover on the internet once you get past those stupid cats TSA. Just sayin'.

This Is What Happens When I Socialize

Conversation with Mabel at a party:

Mabel: You should frost your hair.

Me: It's summer, it wouldn't stay frozen.

Mabel: (ignoring my witty joke) Nooooo.... we should give you highlights!!

Me: Why?

Mabel: It'll make you a faster triathlete!

Me: A faster swimmer?

Mabel: Suuuper fast!

Me: Faster than you?

Mabel: (rolls eyes) Don't be ridiculous.

Me: Faster on the bike?

Mabel: Like blue lightening!

Me: A faster runner?

Mabel: Nothing could make you a faster runner, Martha. You are the fastest runner IN THE WORLD!!

Me: (jumping up and high fiveing Mabel) I'll do it!

Lies and flattery. Apparently that 's all I need to hear in order to agree to turn me into this:

Yes. With teal eyebrows.

Hair-dying is a very weird process.

Maybe I should start at the beginning-back story by VH1 and all that.

I've never dyed my hair. Well, I once tried to dye a reeeaaallly small section purple with Kool-Aide in high school once, but it didn't work. Sure it smelled good, and it tasted like a grape popscicle, but I at the end I lacked the totally awesome section of purple hair that was going to transform me from Girl Scout cookie selling orchestra geek to cool grunge girl. And, you know what they say about failure... OK, I don't know what they say about failure, but I can confidently say it does not smell like teen spirit.*

Fast forward something like 15 years, and there I am standing in the cosmetics section of Target pretending to contemplate the hueical difference between "Biscotti" and "Caramel Cookie" but really just dreaming about eating a caramel biscotti and drinking coffee while I twirled aimlessly around. (Dude. I was wearing a skit. It's a girl thing.) Then I saw something exciting! Did you know (I'm saying this in my best conspiratorial voice, so you should totally listen closely) that they have samples in the aisles? Cosmetic samples! And that's why Mabel had to have this conversation with me:

Me: Samples!!

Mabel: Wha-

Me: (rifling through the eyebrow pencils) Chocolate brown... brown....brown/black...TEAL! Mabel! We should paint our eyebrows teal!

Mabel: Um. No.

Me: (recklessly scribbling above my eyes) Come on! It's free! FREE SAMPLES!!!!!!!

Mabel: Um. No.

(Another friend was shopping with us, I'll call her Belinda (mostly because I always wanted a friend named Belinda), but she took one look at the gleeful look on my face as I clutched the eyebrow pencil, giggled nervously and bolted for the deodorant aisle. If we had been in high school this would have totally been mysecond Nirvana reference!)

Then, because while Target gives out free samples of make-up they don't give out free samples of make-up remover, we left quickly with our box of un-edible "Biscotti" and soon I was sporting a wimple, or whatever the Amish call those hats they wear. Because hair dyeing is a weird process.

A Chinese Crested Dog cap, a wimple, three different hair products, and a hair straightener later and Mabel still couldn't beautify the dork out of me. Probably because I scribbled it across my forehead.

Note: My eyebrows really were teal, really, but they didn't show up well enough in the photo. Because, you know, if anyone wished I were lying about my eyebrows, it's Mabel and Belinda. All apologies, guys. (Dude! That's three!!!)

*Oh my goodness! I just made a Nirvana reference!! Oh man.... I feel so cool!!!**

** My brain is totally partying right now: "Check out the hook while my DJ revolves it....Ice, ice baby...vanilla...." I'm doing the Roger Rabbit too.