It’s been a full month since I tapped away even one word for this blog. I’m sure some of you have moved on to more reliable sources of entertainment: news radio, bulletin boards at the grocery store, seeing images of Mary in your cereal bowl. However, if you still have one fingertip clinging to the edge of the cliff, I want to thank you for your tenacious (and probably unrewarding) determination to wait for me.
I really like a good recap, but I hesitate to do that song and dance because my summers are busy, and I feel like last year all I gave you were a whole bunch of strange lists and awkward reviews about things like buying a van, riding a collapsible bike, and life with natural deodorant (a year later I can tell you that while I feel waaay holier-than-thou for leaving anti-perspirant chemicals behind, I finish a hot day stinking like a bag of Spanish onions).
However, after shuffling (and chuckling) through last summer’s posts a bit, I guess I’m ok with a signature recap. The only downside is that I’ll have to keep collecting fun and often unfortunate experiences to share.
Or is that really an upside?
We’ve done it, folks. About a week and a half ago, I crossed the border for the very first time since living here in the shadow of our French-speaking, poutine-eating neighbor to the north.
A couple of things I noticed:
1) They still use payphones in Quebec.
2) Amy Grant was playing in a McDonald’s. In 2012. I wasn’t that fond of her in 1998.
(Fine, I was. What can I say? She put my heart in motion.)
3) Blinking green traffic lights. What could they possibly mean other than “GO. No wait, I’ve thought about it, and I’d really like for you to stay there for a minute. No… actually, GO”? Canada makes traffic lights as well as I make decisions:
After the trip, I know I’ll return so that I can experience more of what French Canada has to offer, from a plethora of rivers to Japanese food and Cirque du Soleil.
On the other hand, I’ll have to figure out what to do at traffic lights. Other than panic, that is.
She’s Going Down, Captain
So, about three weeks ago or so, C and I took our little jellybeans (whitewater kayaks) down a section of the Winnepesaukee River in New Hampshire. It was an awesome and pretty demanding run for two relative newbies like us (low water, man-made obstructions), but we were really loving the challenge. Were.
Three-quarters of the way down the run, I got sucked in next to a rock and flipped/wet-exited. I mounted my upturned boat like a pool-toy alligator and rode it down the river for a bit, until I came to an old train trestle. The alligator pulled right of a pile-on, but I wanted to go left. In an act of God perhaps, I pushed off of the boat and swam left of the pillar, obtaining some great bruises along the way (three weeks later, they are still hard as rocks and a pretty yellow). Bruises acquired, I washed into an eddy safe and sound. Without my boat.
Where was my boat?
After some hunting, we found my 6-foot vessel, hidden under a foot of whitewater in a hole formed by a broken piece of the cement pile-on. This was, in effect, a perfectly boat-sized (or human-sized?) hole - a realization that could make any person appreciate a couple of bruises and a swim.
I never thought we’d see her again, but with the help of my Super Dad, Hero Husband, a winch and a pair of come-alongs, my green jellybean was lifted out of the depths, albeit bent and battered. The miracle was fully realized about a week ago when I took her back out for a run on the Moose River, in almost perfect shape.
Stuck in the Middle
Last week, I had the joy of my first mammogram. It was totally precautionary, with negative results, if you’re wondering. However….
Do you know that thin, sensitive skin on the inside of your upper arm? The area that, when you see it tattooed, makes you cringe involuntarily?
Imagine someone taking that part of your arm and pressing it between two metal plates. When I use “pressed” here, I’m not implying any kind of human force, two small hands pushing the plates together. I am trying to convey the feeling of having your chicken wing clamped tight by a robot that has suddenly become self-aware and has a serious beef with something you said to it three years ago at Thanksgiving.
Smashed. Squashed. Flattened.
(Oh, and it’s actually not your arm).
All by a really nice lady with cute bangs. If you ever find yourself in this circumstance, I can only hope that the technician is so peachy. I also hope that your chest is made of rubber, because mine wasn’t when I went in, but I’m pretty sure it is now.
So there you have it. Thankfully, some other great stuff happened during this last month, like seeing my three beautiful nieces and the rest of C’s family, a fun trip (or two) to NYC, great spring cook-outs, friends having their first baby, welcoming new staff to camp, and seeing a Prius full of really happy labradors.
I’d like to swear that I’ll be better about posting, but you know I’d be full of it. I do, however, promise to try.