What Constitutes An Emergency?

What does a broken jaw feel like, exactly? I can deduct the “it hurts” part on my own, but wouldn’t a bruised one hurt, too? The thing is I’m not a big fan of emergency rooms and even though it’s two in the morning and I’m awake and abusing over-the-counter pain medications, I’m still hoping my jaw will rally and I can avoid professional medical intervention. In general, I’m the complete opposite of a hypochondriac, which, for the record, is not hyperchondriac because that’s not a word. Basically, I wait out injuries and illnesses far beyond the point any rational person would. For the most part, it’s worked out for me. But there are a couple of times that it hasn’t. (Don’t worry; I’ll come back to how I might have broken my jaw.)

The first time I really underestimated an injury was in college when I broke my finger playing flag football. I didn’t know I had broken my finger and I not only finished the game, but kept trying to pull my finger back out like the joint was jammed. And, yes, that hurt, and I think I probably even screamed, but I don’t seek emergency attention unless I’m one hundred percent certain there’s an emergency. For instance, I would only consider a headache an emergency if it was a partial decapitation.

The broken finger was on my left hand, so I was able to function normally while it healed. I use the terms “healed” and “function normally” loosely, as it’s a stretch to call what my finger did healing and calling any part of my college life functioning normally would be an even bigger stretch. This “healing” was a month long process that involved a kaleidoscope of bruise colors and ultimately left me with a slightly disfigured middle finger because it grew back together wrong. So, in that case, I should’ve walked off the field and gone to the emergency room, but we won the game that night, and that was almost a fair trade for one measly broken finger.

Once, I had a sinus infection for almost four weeks, and knew that I had one, but didn’t want to pony up a co-pay and find a babysitter just so my family doctor could touch my forehead and eye sockets while I said, “Ow!” Eventually, it got so bad I couldn’t lie down. That was probably a defensive mechanism in my body that was preventing the infection from traveling to my brain and killing me. Of course, if my body was that good at defense, why did it let my stupid sinuses get infected in the first place? I eventually caved and went in to collect my prize of two full weeks of antibiotics.

And then there was the time I let myself get so severely dehydrated that the admitting nurse at the ER couldn’t get a blood pressure on me, at all. She freaked out and I got to go straight back, which is a bonus in the emergency room game. My organs were starting to shut down just a smidge, which explained some of my excruciating pain, but they eventually got me all fixed up and sent me on my way. I really tried to avoid going that time, too, but staring down the grim reaper left me no choice.

So, here I am, in the middle of the night writing a blog when I can’t even close my mouth normally. And I’m dreading how tired I’ll feel tomorrow during my exercise boot camp. I might be able to hold myself in a side plank position, as the jaw muscle is the only one you don’t use for that, but there will be no counting out loud during push-ups, so my drill sergeant CAN HEAR ME! Because, in the most depressing admission of my life, I don’t think I’ll be able to talk tomorrow. Actually, this may be what constitutes an emergency.

But you’re probably still wondering how I potentially broke my jaw. Well, I was playing basketball again with my friend, E. Some of you were privileged enough to see the enormous bruise that she left on my bicep two weeks ago. Undeniably, the worst bruise of my entire life and possibly the worst bruise I’ve ever seen on anyone. It was positioned just right so that people who didn’t know me did a double take to see what my tattoo was of. (It was a large rendering of busted veins, not the state of Alaska.) Some strangers who took note of it had really concerned looks on their faces and I just knew that my husband was probably going to get picked up by the police. He didn’t. Though if I went into the emergency room tonight with that baseball-sized bruise still healing on my arm and a freshly broken jaw, I don’t like his chances. Because who would believe that a 32-year-old mother of three got two serious injuries in one month playing basketball with her friend?

Maybe I can wait it out a few days. I have to admit I’m kind of stoked that I can’t chew at all because I really need to drop these last ten pounds and there’s nothing like a liquid diet to give you a boost in the weight loss department. And since I think emergency rooms are where people go when their arms have been sawed off in construction accidents or they have bullets in their person, I’ll just try the ibuprofen, Tylenol dance for now. I’m normally not a medicine taker either, but with some recent sports and running injuries along with muscle soreness I’ve made quite a dent in my price club sized bottle of ibuprofen. It’s become a staple of my diet, really. But, I don’t think pervasive use of 200 milligram Motrin requires an intervention or treatment at a methadone clinic or anything. I’m pretty sure the best prescription for me would be to act my age. Maybe I should be inside baking cookies instead of taking shoulders to the jaw in a raucous game of driveway basketball? Well, not this week, though, because I can’t chew.

I think I'll save this and post it in the morning because sometimes things seem a lot funnier in the middle of the night than they really are, and I'm under the influence of a lot of Tylenol. Who knows, maybe I'll take my injuries more seriously in the morning when I'm pureeing my cereal in the blender, so that I can drink it through a straw.

Forgive Me My Chocolate Trespasses. . .

Today was the first day of Boot Camp. Not to be confused with Boat Camp, which is what my reading novice son inquired about when he saw it listed on the calendar. I had to explain that it was “BOOT” camp, and that it had nothing to do with boats (or boots either, for that matter). Which is unfortunate, because I love boots and I am completely open to going out on a nice boat two days a week. So, what is it then? Well, officially, boot camp is the intense period of training that soldiers endure when they join the armed services. Their bodies are strengthened and their minds are conformed. For us civilians, it’s basically a modern-day torture device, popularly used in the summer months, where we are punished for our crimes involving carbohydrates and cream sauces. Basically, I’m paying to be reprimanded twice a week for the next five weeks. Reminding me, yet again, that I was born in the wrong era. Why does thin have to be in? Why can’t we bring fat back?

Until someone answers that dilemma, I’m doing my best to blend in with the moderately-fit crowd. I exercise regularly and feel serious Judeo-Christian guilt over indulgences like ice cream. And, I do questionable things like enlist in exercise boot camp. When I walked into the gymnasium today, there was a huge camouflage sign with the words BOOT CAMP 2010 written on it, flanked by two Army-esque white stars. It was almost cute, except it was a little frightening. Especially when viewed alongside the three uber-fit instructors wearing camouflage tank tops and black shorts, their toned arms and cellulite-free legs taunting me from across the room. Once I saw them garnishing their necks with whistles, I started looking for the nearest exit. I didn’t leave; I just wanted to know where it was in case of emergency. Like if the paramedics who had to come and peel me off the floor needed directions.

The class started off okay, with a little jogging for a warm-up. This was very agreeable to me since I’m a runner. Next we moved onto jumping jacks, which are far less agreeable to me. I have the cardio wherewithal to handle those, but I think my knee joints are hand-me-downs. Because even though I’ve only had them 32 years, they feel like they’ve been around at least four score. (That’s eighty years for those of you that don’t speak Abraham Lincoln). I may have to do modified jumping jacks, which I hate to do because I think they make me look like I rode in on the short bus, but if I’m not careful with my antique knees I’ll be riding in on a wheelchair and that’s not going to help me achieve any of my goals, except the goal of getting great parking spots. Jumping jacks are also not my fave because I have the pelvic floor muscles of a woman who’s had three kids. If you know what I mean, you have my sympathies, if you don’t, you have my envy.

Next we moved onto some cardio interval training. This wasn’t too bad either. I especially liked the kickboxing moves we worked on. I’m almost hoping for a surprise attack, so I can pummel my assailant with my fierce upper cut and jab and then take him down with a nice sidekick. He’ll be distracted by me doing everything in an eight count, an eight count I will vocalize for fear of being sentenced to push-ups because the instructor CAN’T HEAR YOU!

After we prepared ourselves for all the hand-to-hand combat that we housewives face virtually every day, on our missions to places like the supermarket and the library, we moved on to some drills. This portion of the class went a little slow for me because we were on teams and had to wait for our turn. And, yes, I know there is no I in team, but there is an I in skinny, which is what we’re working on here, people.

The remainder of the class was devoted to a multitude of tasks that I’ll group together under the heading “You’ve Got To Be Kidding Me!”. I can’t remember the order we did the following activities in because pain tends to muddle my brain a bit. We alternated push-ups and sit-ups in a nine of one, nine of the other, eight of one, eight of the other fashion. The problem wasn’t what we were doing so much as the speed at which we were doing it. I was like, “Gee, do you think you could count any faster?” Drill Sergeant J was shouting “nineeightsevensixfivefourthreetwoone” faster than my hearing could digest it. Can I get a two-Mississippi up in here? And the quick turn from one position to the other was supposed to be achieved in under ten nanoseconds. By the time we got down to the twos and ones, there were ladies that were basically just rolling in circles on the floor with no actual time to do a push-up or sit-up. At one point, during the quick change over, I banged my knee so hard on the floor that I suspected little cartoon stars and exclamation points to be flying over my head in a circle pattern. How I banged it on the floor is still a mystery, since I was performing these exercises on my yoga mat.

We also got to spend some time in the purgatory that is the plank position. Front, back, and both sides. I have to say here that I didn’t even know there was a side plank position. The instructor kindly showed us four different levels at which we could do them. Level One was this-hurts, Level Two was this-really-hurts, Level Three was my-body-is-going-into-shock, Level Four was does-this-come-with-a-side-of-physical-rehabilitation? I attempted Level Three because shock dulls the pain sometimes. There was a woman of more advanced years than me to my right (she was about a score older), and she was practically yawning in the Level Four position! I felt like I just got served.

I’ll be going back on Thursday, but may or may not have recovered the use of both arms by then. Perhaps, by next summer, America will have gotten over this silly notion that less is more and we’ll finally learn to appreciate a large behind for what it is, a symbol of prosperity (I can afford cheesecake) and happiness (I eat cheesecake). And, following the suggestion of satirist, Jen Lancaster, author of Bitter is the New Black, we could introduce a flat abs tax. Then we could all sign up for something more fun in the summer, like Boat Camp.

Text-Savvy

Yesterday, a good friend from Texas sent me an email and in it she asked if I text. And it’s interesting that she should bring that up, because I guess the answer is yes, I do text. Sort of. I only have two friends that text me, A and E. I don’t know if these two friends hate the sound of my voice and have become anti-email snobs, but in both cases, their main form of communication with me is texting. I know when I hear that beep, beep that it’s either A or E. If it’s A, the text could be about virtually anything; refrigerators, movies, his dinner companions’ table manners, human tracking devices, airplane maintenance issues. But if it’s a text from E, it’s a text about scheduling a game of tennis or basketball. Working out a time that she can beat me, which, now that I think about it, is her main form of communication with me.

Personally, I’m at whatever level comes before novice with this texting thing. I don’t know any texting shorthand beyond using u for you. But, I realize that there is an entire texting language out there that some people, especially teenagers I would imagine, are fluent in. I’m just not that kind of person. I don’t care what my phone, computer, digital cable box, etc. are capable of; I just want to know how to do the basics and carry on with my low-tech life. But, I have friends that utilize every feature their phone has to offer. It goes without saying that these friends are proficient texters, but they also take pictures and videos with their phones – instantly uploading those and sharing them with friends and loved ones around the world, they access the internet through their phones – just for kicks, so they can look up the twenty-eighth President of the United States or how much lime juice to put in their guacamole, and they’re always checking the weather – here and in Bangladesh. And, now, I think there may be cell phone features that let you toast a waffle, dice a tomato, and add creamer to your coffee (cell phone addicts are unanimously coffee addicts). I’m almost positive that my best friend’s husband could launch our nation’s nuclear warheads with his phone, and sometimes I wonder if that’s what he’s doing on there. But, I know if he did, he’d be getting updates on the destruction to his phone and showing all of us the live footage, so, for now, I think he’s just checking on his stock portfolio.

And I feel like when I’m with a prolific cell phone user, I could ask them anything and they’d pull out that phone, to consult with it. Okay, yeah, when I say, “Do you guys want to come over for dinner on Friday?” it makes sense that they would pull out the phone and consult the calendar. (I don’t even use the calendar feature and that may explain my reputation for double-booking and completely forgetting.) But when I say, “Do you have a band-aid?” I don’t understand them using the phone for their answer. Are they texting the answer to me? I’m right in front of them! Or, are they ordering the band-aids? I sort of needed it now, not in three to four business days.

There are other obstacles I need to overcome to become a certified texter. The first one is my phone doesn’t have a full keypad. I have a basic can’t-toast-your-waffles model, and it’s quite tedious to type out replies. It would be easier if I was a succinct and to the point person, but I’m not. Obviously. I live by a the-more-words-the-better code of communication, so texting is a bit of a chore for me. The other obstacle I have is that I get confused when the back and forth texting gets going really strong, like having a virtual conversation. I’ll be in the middle of typing my reply to one topic we’re discussing, and unbeknownst to me, my friend will be moving on to a new topic and preparing that text to send my way. Our messages fly past each other in outer space or wherever and then I read the next message “How are the kids?” and I just finally finished typing out and sending a text on our previous topic of my mosquito bites, saying, “They’re awful. The itching is driving me crazy!” So, now, I’m worried that my friend thinks that was my response to “How are the kids?” and, clearly, that wouldn’t have been my response to that. But, yeah, I text. Sort of.

Those Tempting Toaster Pastries

I was just cutting out the coupons from the Sunday paper, when I came across one for Pop-Tarts. We don’t eat Pop-Tarts. We love them, but we don’t eat them. My kids have, of course, sampled them a time or two in their limited existences, but I can’t rationalize making them a staple of our diets. There’s too much research about the benefits of eating healthy, not to mention too much evidence of the results of eating junk food. (I have pictures of me in sixth grade if you need to see some evidence.) And it’s too bad that there’s so much press on good nutrition, because even when I was a kid this whole health movement was in its infancy and nobody judged you for Pop-Tarts in your shopping cart. In fact, I remember how we sprinkled straight sugar on top of our Frosted Flakes. Guiltlessly! Though not without waistline consequences. But, lay people weren’t supposed to consider nutrition back then.

For an example of how far we’ve come, last week, when my son was in summer camp, a friend of mine was talking about how crazy things were by Friday. She said that she had to wake up her boys, rush them out the door, and let them eat Pop-Tarts on the way to camp. And bananas. It was important to mention those lest the child welfare department launch an investigation into the unhealthy eating practices of her family. And the way she told the story was in the everything-is-so-chaotic-I’ve-had-to-resort-to-Pop-Tarts kind of way. Isn’t strange how much guilt and shame we feel over feeding them Pop-Tarts for breakfast, when back in the day the only discussion would have been over flavor varieties?

This brings me to my next Pop-Tart point. Have you seen the flavors they have now? My choices were strawberry, blueberry, or brown-sugar cinnamon. (A disadvantaged friend of mine had parents who only bought the unfrosted variety. She liked to sleep over at my house.) Now they have, S’mores, Hot Fudge Sundae, Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough, Strawberry Milkshake, and many more dream concoctions. I mean, there’s a virtual Baskin-Robbins of breakfast options. It just goes to show how divided our country has become. The FDA powers that be come out and indoctrinate us with all of these food pyramid, whole grain, low-fat, low-carb, sugar is the great satan messages, then the drug pushers over at Kellogg’s, Frito-Lay, Nabisco, etc. develop more provocative products to seduce us. The naughtiness of blueberry toaster pastries wasn’t enough, we became immune to that, now they’re selling us dessert in a pouch and suggesting we start our day with it. Like everything else, it’s taking more and more to shock us.

Yet, despite the statistics and evidence that convince us to buy Special K, or take the time to prepare an egg-white omelet with bell peppers and low-fat cheese, America still turns to Pop-Tarts. And Kellogg’s Pop-Tart business clearly isn’t suffering either, because they have enough money to hire those genius marketing people who keep coming up with exciting, dare I say dangerous, flavors, and art directors who make the box look so appealing it practically jumps off the shelf at us. And so that we don’t feel too bad about buying dessert pouches for breakfast, they advertise (on the page with the coupon) that Pop-Tarts have 25% less sugar than leading toaster pastries. I have two reactions to this claim. 1. Pop-Tarts isn’t the leading toaster pastry? Isn’t that a bit like saying Jell-O isn’t the leading gelatin? And reaction # 2. I could be feeding them something worse, so I shouldn’t feel too bad about the Hot Fudge Sundae Pop-Tarts. Actually, when you think about it, I could be making them an actual hot fudge sundae for breakfast, though that would be hard to feed them in the van when we’re running late and in a hurry to get somewhere. And, surely that would qualify me for some kind of child endangerment investigation. My kids, however, might nominate me for mother of the year.

But, before you start thinking I’m judging you, or that I’m the “Carrot-Stick Mom” that is ever-mindful of my kids nutritional needs, I should say that this morning my daughter had to use a snow shovel to dig out her chocolate chip pancake from the Everest-size mountain of Redi-Whip I let her pile on top of it. I make observations, people, not good decisions.

Can I Get That To Go?

Vacations don't just happen. Someone has to plan them (my husband) and pack for them (me). And, since I'm not the most decisive person, the 24 to 48 hours prior to a trip keep me pondering what each of my family members might need and what they should wear. I can't actually consult with the four of them on any of this because I'll get such wildly varied answers as Star Wars Legos, my horse, Christmas tights, Pringles, and, from my husband, "Just whatever." Really, honey, we can go to the beach for three days and you'd be fine with sweatshirts, rain boots, and snow skis?

So, I pack. And, in order to pack economically, I try to ask myself what's essential. Kind of like packing a "go bag". The kind it was highly recommended we keep on hand post 9/11. (Those people at FEMA are all about being prepared, ya know.) And anyway, once that train of thought left the station for me, I started wondering what I would pack in a real "go bag". The obvious approach is to say, "What could I not live without?"

1. My glasses. I'm not sure if this unknown and hypothetical emergency is an "on the run" scenario or a "fleeing disaster" one, but, either way, I'm supposed to take my contacts out at night and would love to be able to see where I'm going.

2. My cell phone. How our world made it so many eons without cell phones is a complete mystery to me. And I even lived in those very dark ages. If the emergency is so serious that I need a go bag, I don't know that calling 911 would be a viable option, but I'd still need to text my friends. Like. . .No tennis 2nite. Running from Attila & Huns. Or, to my Texas friends, East Coast destroyed. Can we come 2 ur house 4 dinner?

3. My iPod. I can't run from anything without music. And, don't worry, I already have a "go playlist".

4. A ponytail holder. The only thing more annoying than being forced from my home and running for my life is not having anything to put my hair up with.

5. Chapstick. I seriously question my will to live with chapped lips.

6. Running shoes. Should be self-explanatory.

7. Water. I'm not the kind of girl that could sniff out and identify a safe fresh water source during an emergency. I could sniff out a Sonic and they have many drink choices, but I'm not sure I should count on that.

8. Cash. I'll still use the Visa if I can because it has cash back rewards, but if the Huns are holding my husband hostage and I have to buy his release, I might need the cold hard stuff.

And, if there's room for just one more item (and isn't there always), it would be white-chocolate covered pretzels. Because if my time on Earth is limited, which a go bag would imply it may be, I'm done counting calories.

FEMA suggests a compass (I don't know how to use those things at all), and your passport (mine's expired, but I have considered investing in some fake ones, a la Jason Bourne), and duct tape. What's with the full-court press on duct tape, anyway? Is duct tape the official sponsor of the end times and all natural disasters until then? I'm almost 33 and have never needed duct tape, so I'm not wasting valuable go bag space on it. I'm pretty sure it would just get stuck in my hair.

Okay, back to our vacation. I packed for everyone, and, for the most part, efficiently. I did somehow get talked into eight sand shovels in six different sizes and fourteen different colors for only three kids, but my son wasn't sure what kind of construction jobs awaited him and his sisters at the beach, and it seemed like a valid point.

Next, it was time to load the van. My husband and I both like working that puzzle and love it when you fit something smoothly into an odd shape of available space. We'll even take along items we don't need just because they round out the stacking job we're doing. Like, "Oooh, we could slide the tent bag right in here!" Nevermind that we're staying at a hotel. Or, "Look, my high school yearbook fits perfectly in this gap!" You get the picture.

But, we're on our way as I compose this blog, to be posted later. My husband's driving, I'm writing, and the kids are watching a movie where vegetables are singing about the Wild West. You haven't lived until you've seen an armless gun-slinging tomato. Still, here's hoping that's not the highlight of my vacation. I'll let you know.

You Procreated This Mess!

I had a really busy week last week and it was a struggle just to keep my head above water, so that’s why I only posted one blog. The weekend itself was devoted to attempts, successful and failed, to honor my husband for Father’s Day. It’s only fair to make it a Father’s Weekend as Mother’s Weekend is the custom for me, and I’m thinking of stretching that to a full week next year. I figure by the time I’m forty, I can convince my family to consider the entire month of May a mother’s holiday extravaganza. But, back to this weekend and my husband’s turn to be pampered by our three miscreants.

It really all started in Target (doesn’t everything?), when we were picking out his Father’s Day cards. Originally, it was going to be a Father’s Day card, singular. But, to keep with traditions of conflict, the kids couldn’t agree on one. The ridiculousness of this is confounded by the fact that only one of my children can read, so clearly the disagreement was picture based. One of the girls had actually picked up a sympathy card as her first choice. Sadly, there are days of fatherhood for which her card would’ve been appropriate. I decided to guide them in the right direction with the cards and let each choose their own, since they wouldn’t be involved in the purchasing of the gift. Neither would I, and I’ll get to that part of the story later.

The first thing the girls do, when they are involved in any preparations for gift giving, is to inform the recipient of what they will be getting and what has been purchased thus far. This time it was only the cards and comments on a gift my husband was already aware he was receiving, but they are devoted to ruining any and all surprises for Christmases, birthdays, and special anniversary dinners. It’s genetic; a trait they inherited from my mother that skipped a generation in my case. And in both my daughters’ and mother’s case, it seems completely uncontrollable. They are confident they can keep a secret right up until they see the person from whom the secret is being kept, and then suddenly it’s as if someone has slipped them some truth serum and they’re being tortured for information by Russian operatives. Suffice it to say, these are not the ladies we should trust with the nuclear weapon launch codes for our country.

On to the gift segment of our story. . . My husband really enjoys basketball, so I thought it would be nice if we could get a basketball hoop to put up in our driveway. The idea stage was as far as I could take it though, because what do I know about picking out a basketball hoop? Or purchasing it? Or loading it in the van? Or assembling it? The logistics were above my pay-grade. So, basically, I said, “We want to get you a basketball hoop for Father’s Day. Can you go get one and put it together?” He obliged our request and went on to pay for, pick up, and assemble his own Father’s Day gift. I don’t think this can be considered the royal treatment in our society. Especially because the assembly took about a fortnight and involved a few minor injuries.

“We” made him a big breakfast on Sunday, and were accomplices in his unhealthy cinnamon roll choice on Saturday morning. And even though he didn’t need a break from the cooking he never does, we decided to go out to dinner on Saturday night. We went with our neighbors to Texas Roadhouse, where we were seated in the “family section”, a.k.a. the corner they stick everyone that has very small children and babies in. That was a good move on their part, since during the course of our meal I saw our combined six children do everything you can imagine; including, but certainly not limited to, screaming at the top of their lungs for food, dancing, arm wrestling, laying down to rest, full-throttle cackling, and knife-wielding. My husband got the “honor” of sitting between the twins and serving as food-cutter and drink-controller. And, as I’m income-challenged, he even got to pay for our raucous steak dinner.

And, of course, like all American holidays, this one called for the consumption of surplus calories. In honor of fathers, I ate two and half preliminary rolls with cinnamon butter before attacking and conquering my entrée. The food offerings went on all weekend and I rationalized things like ice cream and fresh from the oven peanut butter cookies in the same day. Because my husband’s a good father.

Yesterday, at least, he got to enjoy his hard-earned basketball hoop. We had another family over to help us break it in. We let the children have the first turn, and their ranks diminished quickly through face/head injuries, distraction, and the heat pushing them back into the air conditioning. After all of the kids were tucked away with sugar and a movie, we played a couple of games of two-on-two. This was an experiment in extreme street ball because it was the middle of the afternoon and 400 degrees outside. I think the actual thermometer reading was 95, but the heat index was 127ish. That portion of the weekend was made possible by the scientists at Gatorade.

But, on a serious note (not that possible heat stroke isn’t serious), I know that yesterday was about honoring the strongest of men – Fathers. Guys that know no amount of personal toughness can prepare for them for battlefield of fatherhood. A service that calls on you to be strong when everyone else around you is crying, to provide, to protect, to give affection and correction, always digging deep in yourself for unending patience and unlimited forgiveness while balancing the weight of your family’s world on your shoulders. And that’s tough.

And I’m so thankful I married a man that is fully committed to making our children be the best people they can be. I’m thankful he’s more patient with them than I am, so that they know there are other options besides sheer frustration. I’m thankful he’s capable to handle all three on his own (some men aren’t) while I pursue my dreams and hobbies from time to time. And I’m thankful he put together his own Father’s Day present, because outside of a cake or a lasagna, I’m completely assembly-handicapped.

We’re heading to the beach for vacation, and I’ll be keeping you posted!

Woman Versus Wild

More than once during my weekend getaway I heard “Don’t put this in your blog.” So, as I embark on recounting my adventure know that this is a partial retelling and the full one requires security clearance. Luckily, the last forty-eight hours provided a wealth of storytelling material to choose from.

Why don’t we pick it up with my nighttime arrival back in the state of Virginia. A state that misleadingly claims to be “for lovers” when indeed it is “for driving obstacle courses”. I made it to level three in this game on Friday night when I successfully navigated narrow, winding, two-lane roads in the pitch dark without hitting a single animal the encroaching woods threw at me. Animals like deer, raccoons, opossums, and possibly a warthog (I didn’t get a good look at that one.) The next morning, as I left from my first night’s destination to go to my friend’s mountain home, I noticed that other motorists didn’t fare as well. And judging from the carcass strewn highway, the animals fared even worse. I’m not sure what type of training is required for taxidermists, but I do know where they can pick up some practice animals if they need them.

We’ll come back to how I made it to level four in the rural driving obstacle course game later, because I actually have another animal related story to share at this juncture. And let me start by assuring you that I’m not making this up. My half-sister and her mom, who I spent the night with on Friday, found themselves pet-sitting for two different sets of neighbors who had gone away on beach vacations. That’s what neighbors are for, right? And checking in on and feeding someone’s dog or cat or even gecko is no big deal. But I think at the point the owner starts telling you where to bury the dog if it dies while they’re away, you have to draw the line on the pet-sitting. I’m pretty sure that when the conversation took this turn, my half-sister and her mom were at a loss for words and just followed the woman out to the sacred burial tree out of confused curiosity. My step-mom did say, “But you’re not expecting the dog to die, right?” The owner assured them that, “No, no. Not really. But let me just show you the blanket you should wrap him in if he does.” Seriously? I think we can all agree that shrouding and grave-digging would warrant a few surcharges to the pet care bill. I, for one, would not bury any friend or neighbor’s pet for less than two hundred dollars. I guess I might do a goldfish for like twenty bucks.

Back to the driving experiment: I had to find my way to my friend’s mountain log cabin using only my trip gauge and random markers like green mailboxes, tiny concrete bridges, and abandoned settlements, circa 1700s. And level four came when I had to mount what they graciously term the “driveway”, a gravel speckled path that went at a 90 degree angle toward the sky. This was no easy feat in my Mazda 6. The precarious climb was worth it, though, as they have built for themselves a paradise on a mountain top. It was breathtaking. And while I don’t know that I could ever sacrifice the conveniences of city-dwelling, I must admit the beauty their lifestyle offers is tempting.

But I think the main reason I couldn’t live that way is my complete reliance on civilization. I don’t know how to live off the land, fend for myself, etc. My friend, P, on the other hand, along with her husband, Tarzan of the jungle, ooze competence and independence. They literally built their own home whereas I can barely hang a picture frame in mine. They grow their own vegetables, which isn’t so uncommon, but I personally harvest my crops at the grocery store. And remarkably, despite being brought up in the same county as the two of them, I wouldn’t even know where to begin with the whole planting a garden thing. Even when forced to work in my family’s garden as a child, I paid little attention to what I was doing. My mind was always elsewhere, plotting out my future stardom no doubt.

At some point, when we were discussing hunting (their forte being wildlife, mine being discounted shoes), I learned they could survive in even the worst of times, as they are willing to eat not only deer (venison) and the even more obvious turkeys, but also have killed and eaten wild chickens, rabbits, and squirrels! Okay, number one, I know that even the most lackadaisical animal lover is outraged over the rabbit thing and needless to say vegetarians probably started weeping during the first sentence. But in my friends’ defense, they hunt for food, not sport, and one can certainly understand how it might be beneficial to cut down on the bunny population, as there is a common saying of things multiplying like rabbits. And number two, yes, I said squirrels. I was as surprised as you. But, apparently, they taste like chicken if you cook them right. You know what else tastes like chicken if you cook it right? Chicken. And I’m more of a Tyson boneless, skinless, prepackaged girl.

The highlight of my weekend was hiking/mountain climbing/rock climbing up to a beautiful waterfall. And I felt such a sense of accomplishment for making it up there unscathed, even surmounting an enormous boulder at the top that once we climbed over brought us to the other side where the waterfall emptied into a sparkling pool of water before it meandered gradually down the mountain. My lifelong friend and I rested there, enjoying the majestic view and recounting many highlights of the past 32 years of our lives, which turned out to save me some time later as I tried to scale my way back down the boulder on the edge of a cliff and didn’t have to fool around with the whole life flashing before my eyes thing since we’d just gone over that. I just had to choke on my fear and go for it, knowing there was some delicious chicken salad back at the house for us to enjoy at lunch. At least I think it was chicken.