Viequation: A Story of Sand, Surf and Spanish Charades

Planes, trains and automobiles: three flights, one taxi, one ferry and a ride with some locals.  Finally, we arrive at the Casita.

Little house.  Big view.

It's dark by the time we arrive, so there will be no view tonight, aside from the twinkling of stars, street lights and incandescent bulbs gleaming from the kitchens and bedroom windows down the mountainside.  The audio is rich - women singing in spanish, guitars being strummed, the first Star Wars movie (excuse me, fourth) wrapping up off in the distance.  

It's dark, but what our ears see is vast. 

Also, there is no electricity here, so we clamber around with flashlight and headlamp, putting together a dinner of what the previous guests thoughtfully left behind this morning: soft sweet rolls, peanut butter, Nutella, bottled water.  It is heavenly.  We sleep in the open air, under the delicate mosquito net that is tucked in around our mattress, which is thin, but comfortable.  The bed platform hangs securely in the air, held by thick ropes that are attached to the ceiling by eye hooks.  Sleep comes quickly.

In the morning, we awake to the most fabulous dream: roosters are crowing, sunlight is shining through the dry morning air, and green living things are everywhere, including the lizards that will share the cabin with us this week.

After another ride from Beverly, one of our new neighborhood friends, we have picked up our rented Vitrano (everyone drives a Suzuki here, or a horse).  I completed the rental by handing my credit card to a man I didn't know in a small wooden building which held two printers (one on the floor), a MacBook Pro and the man.  Is it a good idea?  The parrots in the yard scream their objections.

We shop at the local grocer and buy mangoes at a fruit stand down the road, all the while I'm doing jiggly-armed charades in order to avoid employing my sad, donde-esta-el-bano spanish.

Vieques is a beautiful island, of course, but what is most astonishing are the number of beaches that one (with said 4X4) can access.  Each beach is slightly different from the next, like a line of fraternal landscapes.  One has black, magnetic sand, while another has cabanas made from enormous palm fronds, and the next has a maze-like coral reef, while the southeastern side has crashing waves and a public shower.  

Our favorite spot.

We spend the next four days dreamily meandering from beach to beach, miraculously finding our way back to the Casita each night at dusk, a place that upon arrival the first night, I swore we were never, ever going to be able to find again: on a mountainside, down a Z-shaped dirt road, beyond the single lane winding stretch of patchy pavement, surrounded by defunct boats, trucks and hungry, wild dogs.  

We would die before finding that cabin.  I swore it.  

C unfortunately dislikes sand and the sun, which could make one baffled that the trip was his idea, but let's face it - he loves me maniacally, and shows it by scratching my back most every night, planning beach vacations and watching the cat videos I find online.  

(hushed) Thank You.

As it would happen, apart from the food of the gods (sugary carbohydrates and Skippy), the previous guests had left behind a beacon of hope for my fair-skinned fellow: a large beach umbrella with a youthful ocean motif.  

Game on.

It was a divine vacation.  We drank instant Nescafe, read books (Steinbeck's East of Eden & Rushdie's The Satanic Verses), and people-watched as though we were secret agents.  When we looked out on the surf and saw "that crazy european couple" crashing through waves in the nude, we just chuckled and got back to snarfing down tortilla chips and dripping salsa on our book pages.  We played crazy nines, swam in turquoise waters, ate a copious amount of fruit, held staring contests with sand crabs, and counted tiny dogs.  

And we swerved to miss the wild horses.  

So.  

Many.  

Horses

Horses on the beach;  Horses in the streets; Horses on the roadsides and horses devouring every kind of living plant outside the cabin.  At 3 o'clock.  In the morning.  One of these fellows had a little white bird who seemed to travel everywhere with him, riding bareback, just like an image from National Geographic or an Outback Steakhouse commercial. 

We kept ourselves unbusy, collecting green coconuts at the beach and hacking the tops off when we came home at night, drinking the room-temperature water inside like desperate characters from Lost or brave contestants on Survivor: Dreamy Desert Island.  

Mercifully, my only real bug encounter during our tropical expedition were sand midges at the beach (no-see-ums to us from the North), a large, dead cockroach at a public bathroom (a prime reason why I relieve myself in the forest in nearly all cases - living things die in public bathrooms), and a spider the side of my hand, perched perfectly above the entry to our Casita bathroom, which I found with my headlamp in the middle of our last night there.  No, I did not scream.  Yes, I did pee my pants, but I'll have you know that the timing and location worked miraculously in my favor.  Phew.

The Casita, and for that matter, the entire trip to Vieques was special - ironically - not for what it had, but rather for what it did not have:  no electricity, no phones, no Facebook, no work, no alarms, no deadlines, and no snow.  Because it lacked these things, we could more easily see what we intrinsically had:  peace, freedom, connection, patience, light, and something to wake up for.  We possessed these things before we left home and we have them still, after our return, but there is something so refreshing when you rediscover that what you've been given is truly so deep, so overwhelmingly full, and so hilariously good. 

Thank you, Vieques.  Thank you, little Casita.  Thank you, God.  

And thank you to that questionable car rental man, who has refrained from riding off on a wild horse, with my identity in one saddlebag and my credit score in the other.  Thank you.

That's Why I Keep Lobster Bibs In The Top Drawer

Not 5 minutes after crossing the threshold of the beach resort where we’d spend our day on Grand Bahama island, I found myself peering curiously at a group of four transparent pitchers holding a variety of colored liquids: pastel yellow, soft orange, mint green, and on the right, a dusty pink.  After sniffing them thoroughly [and thereby killing any fellow interest], I was still having a hard time getting a whiff of the pink stuff on the right, which was the pitcher that really intrigued me, because hey - it could be a strawberry smoothie or something really good like that, right?

My plan was to pour a small “tasting” amount of the beverage into my glass, but there was this stubborn plug of fruit pulp in the neck of the bottle that was blocking the flow.  The mixture was frustratingly resistant to gravity until suddenly, when I had it practically upside-down, it wasn’t.  That's the moment I found myself standing in a large puddle of creamy watermelon juice that extended over to the dripping buffet counter and also coated my arms like runny oven mitts.

Post-spill.  I got a nice full glass.

I wish this event didn’t throw me into a foaming wave of pasty pink flashbacks, but unsurprisingly, it does.  During my four years of undergrad, I developed a somewhat regrettable relationship with the cafeteria frozen yogurt machine.   I’m the first person to encourage a dessert course, whether it’s after breakfast, lunch, dinner, or a snack, so it should come as no surprise that I was a frequent visitor to the frozen goodie station of our dining hall. 

One weekday after an early lunch, I strode over to the dessert counter, blindly reached for a sugar cone (which I could have done in my sleep), and held it in my left hand under the Columbo yogurt nozzle (flavor of the day: raspberry) while I pulled the white lever with my right hand.  Instantly, the device began gushing pink, frothy, room-temperature liquid in a 4-foot circle around my feet… all in view of 400 or so peers who I would spend the next month trying not to look in the eye.

To challenge any generous assumption that I’m a fast and thorough learner, an identical event happened on a second occasion, this time leading to strawberry- flavored results.  I eventually did get the message: Don’t try to satisfy a fro-yo fix before 1 o’clock; DON'T DO IT.  Because if I do decide to pull that lever and try my luck, I’ll just have to waste another Rhetorical Theory class showering syrup the color of Pepto-Bismol off of my legs, and I doubt that Dr. Chase is inclined to accept that excuse more than twice.  At least not without laughing in my face first.

Despite many years scattered with a multitude of bittersweet accidents, I want to encourage each of you to keep on filling that sugar cone.  However, if you’re standing in line and you feel even a shred of doubt, just go ahead and let someone else pull that lever, because while you can clean up the sugary stink, there’s simply no sponge in the world that can scrub away the shame.

Way, Way Too Much Of A Good Thing

Sun, sand, turquoise tropical waters, 24-hour pizza and ice cream… it sounds like a dream, doesn’t it?  It is.  Especially when you’re traveling with your older sister and your mom, two people who have the ability to singlehandedly make any ordinary occasion, to say the very least, extraordinary.

To celebrate my sister’s milestone birthday this year, we arranged to take her on a cruise to the Bahamas.  Renee has, until now, never had the joy of steaming along on a floating Las Vegas resort, so it was particularly exciting to watch her eyes absorb all of the neon lights, read the gluttonous menus and revel in the slothful lifestyle of our little adventure at sea.

You can probably recall from previous posts my extreme affection for soft-serve ice cream, but what you don’t know is that it runs in the family.  We are also a clan of chronic snackers, on which I’m blaming the extra 3 or so ”souvenier” pounds I’ve returned home with.  Everyone knows that you can nosh your way through a cruise, but hardly anyone really gives you the pathetic details of their sorry, over-indulgent foray into gastrointestinal chaos.  The following is a single day’s account of where my 3 pounds might have come from.  I promise you’ll find yourself speculating how far I am rounding down the wreckage.  I’ll never tell, but if you see me in person, you'll probably be able to without my help.

9AM - room-service breakfast, taken in stateroom: smoked salmon, fruit, bread products, coffee, yogurt, mimosas

10AM - breakfast #2: coffee, fruit, bacon

11AM – ice cream break, coffee

12:30PM – lunch: jerk chicken, curried vegetable salad, calamari fritters, beef in puff pastry, pizza, fruit, ice cream….

After reaching her max, my sister seems appalled at the fact that I, friends, am a bottomless pit.  It's a talent, really.

2PM – ice cream break #2

4PM – ice cream break #3

5PM – visit to the sushi bar (cultivating my very own maki roll, located just above my belt line)

7PM – dinner (2 starters, 1 entrée (or two, if you’re Renee), and as many as 7 desserts before Welly, our waiter, begins jogging in place as he prepares to log roll each of us out into the foyer.  Apparently, we’re not the only ones regretting that last scoop of bread pudding.

Get your own dessert table.

9PM – the last, is-it-even-possible ice cream break of the night.  Probably.

Add a couple of drinks in there, and you’ve got something like 8 million calories.  Or 4 pant sizes, which explains why I can’t even fit into my stretchy pants.

 

So there you have it, folks.  I have more stories to tell and other pictures to share, but right now it’s after 2PM, and I need to go find a soft serve machine somewhere.  What can I say?  Some habits die hard, if they die at all.  

WAIT!!!

I promise I'll post later today, so please don't give up on me!

I just got back from an incredible trip with my mom and sister to the Bahamas during which we ate like animals ("ate like kings" somehow seems lackluster), sunned ourselves with abandon, and laughed until we peed a little.  Okay, that last part was just me.

I'll share more this afternoon -  I swear on my cat, which means a lot more than you might think.

November, You're O.K

 Here's why:

It may be gorgeous, but I'm not ready.

• From where I am sitting right now, I cannot see a puff of snow anywhere on the ground.  And I can see a lot of ground from here, so this is a proof-positive miracle from heaven.  Thank you.
• Tomorrow morning in our county, there will be dozens of hunters’ breakfasts hosted by supermarkets, camps, outdoor outfitters, and snowmobile clubs.  Do you think that they would let me attend?  I’d be the girl wearing a kitten t-shirt under her camo fleece and masking a [not-so] slight aversion to guns by smiling awkwardly and making pistol gestures with my hands.  Can’t you hear my high-pitched shots?  Peuw… peuw… peuw-peuw!  Blow those guns out, hot shot!!  I’d fit right in.
• November is the month of my sister’s second-favorite candy holiday, The Day After Halloween, as well as Thanksgiving (I am waiting for stuffing like a turkey for a pardon), my niece’s fifth birthday, and an upcoming trip-to-die-for to the equator with my sister and mom.  I’m on the verge of making a paper chain to help me count down the days before the madness begins. 

On top of being adorable, my niece has killer moves.

• Black Friday.  My joy in Black Friday has nothing at all to do with joining the masses as they assault salespeople and destroy retail fixtures across the land.  This is the first year in a little while that I won’t be the smiling elf on the other side of that register counter, and unless you have ever been that elf, you have no idea how excited I am for this day.  I might stay home.  I might go out.  I might shop online.  I might hole up at a cabin in the woods and not cross the threshold for anything except some glazed doughnuts and a walk in the woods.   And I will not wear a sparkly headband with antlers.
• My first fall has come and winter is almost upon us, and I still do not own a camouflaged fleece.   In fact, I don’t own anything in camo, except some incredibly thick Smartwool socks I bought a couple years back.  You were right to doubt me in the second paragraph – I totally lied when I wrote that description.  Well, not totally.  I do have a kitten t-shirt (two, actually), and I love pistol hands. 

Peuw… peuw.  

The End Is Never Quite Like The Beginning

Into the city we drove, but not without a search for the one stop on this trip that we'd been planning for more than a month in advance: lunch at the dreamy tex-mex fast food joint, Cafe Rio.  This improved love-child of Baja Fresh and Cold Stone Creamery is filled with containers of bright colored treats behind glass and smiling employees shouting urgent commands at you: "Red or Green?!", "Pinto or Black?!", "Indigestion or heartburn?!"  I think they aim to give you an involuntary twitch by the time you reach the register.  They ask.  so.  fast.

After Cafe Rio, we rolled our bodies back to the Caliber and somehow managed to putter our poor, now-vastly-overweight car back to the hotel.  After shimmying up to the desk and checking in, we holed ourselves in the room for the rest of the day, too bloated to go anywhere and too full to want dinner.  But there would always be tomorrow.

Antelope Island had been on my radar for a long time before this trip, years actually.  You see, my family (due to free, magical pass-riding with my dad's airline employer - which seems farther away with each time I hit "checkout" on Expedia) spent a number of February school-vacations skiing Alta and Snowbird in Little Cottonwood Canyon outside of Salt Lake. And there was always that darn island lurking in the distance.  And it was always February.

So this year, I was determined to make the pilgrimage.  It was outstanding, for two central reasons.  First of all, there are 500-700 american bison roaming around, stopping traffic and generally showing visitors their um, best side.

Which is huge, by the way.

Second, there is a beach, which is composed 70/30 or so of the most beautiful white sand (formed like tiny pearls around the fecal matter of brine shrimp) and heaps of molted shells left by brine flies.  If you have a choice, step on the fly shells - they're a lot softer.  The lake is between 4 and 28% salinity depending on the season and rainfall (for reference, the ocean is 3%), so apart from some algae and birds that feed on the previous two species, it's just me, you, and some veeerrry floaty water.  You can even sunbathe in the lake if you like - it's easy as pie.  Which we did.  And it was excellent, but you'll need a shower afterwards - like right now - or you'll stink like an evaporating city pool.

We hiked in the foothills of the Wasatch range, went to the Hogle Zoo, saw the Lion King 3D (I'll tell you about my Lion King life phase some other time... it is way too extensive to slide in here), and went to a Brazilian churrascaria to cap off our western vacation.  There's nothing like 9 types of meat and those little cheesy donuts to really say, "it's time to go back to oatmeal and vegetables".

And that was it.  Just an airport whirlwind and we were home.  Plus a 5.5-hour car ride, then we were really home - just where we started, only a little less pale.  I assume this is Nature's peace offering for the six months of winter she's about to hurl our way.

Thanks, but the gifts better keep coming.

I Still Think Disney Filmed The Lion King Here

Needles District, Hike #1: Confluence Overlook via Elephant Hill, 11 miles

I'm sure you agree.

What a smashing day. We learned our lesson from the disaster of Murphy Loop and brought ample water, good eats, sunscreen and our A-game to this new landscape.  I wish I could fully describe how otherworldly the terrain is in the Needles district of Canyonlands.  We were in the southeastern slice of the park, and our hike led us to the Confluence, where the Green and Colorado Rivers meet and run on together through Cataract Canyon toward Arizona and the Grand Canyon itself.  I know some folks who have a permit to raft the Colorado in January of next year, and all I can say is buckle up kids, because this terrain is knock-your-socks-off, slap-your-grandma spectacular. 

The three districts of Canyonlands are geographically divided by water, but could also be identified through their gradual inaccessibility.  Island in the Sky is nearest to Arches National Park and the bustling town of Moab, where everyone in their right mind stocks up on water (no potable water is available in Arches, Island in the Sky or the Maze) and all other necessary munitions and luxuries (Ice!  Lattes!).  I’ll talk a bit about Arches later, but HOLY COW there are a lot of people running around that place, and each of them must drive at least three cars simultaneously.  I swear.  Needless to say, we didn’t spend much time hanging out with the masses there.

As I was saying earlier, Island in the Sky is nearest to outfitters, amenities and supplies, and therefore seems to be the most populated of the Canyonlands districts (which means that it is still “cricket…cricket” quiet compared to Arches).  The Needles is next in line with a far less dense group of visitors.  The Maze, an area that we unfortunately didn’t get to (it takes about 4 more hours to reach) is unmanned by the Parks Service and has been deemed “primitive”, which probably means “totally awesome and you should have come here”.

For us to reach the Needles, we journeyed an hour or so south from Moab, then turned east and slithered into the park near the small, sleepy town of Monticello where I purchased one of the most disgustingly sweet root beer slushies I’ve ever had.  Once you pass through the park gate, you still have another 22 painfully gorgeous miles to drive before you reach the Squaw Flat campground.  Even though we had left Moab fairly early, we were still pretty nervous that we’d get all the way in and find no available sites, only to have to drive all the way back to the Needles Outpost, a privately owned campground near the park entrance.  Anywhere else this might have been our fate, but not there, not then –the place was only half occupied, and we still got to choose – choose, I tell you!! – our sleeping quarters.  The sites were nestled in amongst gargantuan (read: McDonald’s-sized) boulders that were perfect for scrambling onto in the evenings to watch the sunset burn down into the horizon. 

The other glory of the Needles is that they somehow manage to pipe potable water in to the Visitor’s Center as well as the campground, which felt like a real lucky streak for dirty, thirsty visitors like us.  It would have been unfortunate to have to cart in a trunk-full of water without having to leave our clothes behind in town.  Exhibitionism in the desert is not highly recommended, unless you’re ready to paint your body in what C refers to as "sunscream", Australian zinc oxide sunscreen, which I’m not.  

The hike was meandering and the terrain diverse, with great “needles” or pillars rising above us in one moment, then a great savannah surrounding our tiny footsteps at the next, and we were constantly aware of the real possibility of catching a glimpse of a mountain lion or stepping on a diamondback rattlesnake.  By the time we returned back to the campsite and caught a Ranger talk on Ancient Puebloans, we were ready to cram some dehydrated Kung Pao chicken and rice down our gabbers (not so good if you’re curious) and slip into our two person Big Agnes sack (wicked good if you’re curious) for some sweet dreams, because let’s face it, the scenery was nice, and neither of us smelled like dead fish yet.

Why Can't We Live Somewhere Warm?: We're Back

Three things I learned during our first active day in Canyonlands National Park:

1. I am NOT 18 anymore.  
2. When hiking in the desert, bring water.
3. Sunscreen is not just for your mom.

We arrived in Moab, Utah to blue skies and the nice 90-degree heat of early afternoon.  Canyonlands is a park that is naturally divided into three districts, each carved out by the Green or Colorado River: Island in the Sky, The Needles, and The Maze.  We started our trip in the Island in the Sky district, which only has one small campground (Willow Flat) of 12 sites.  This was full when we arrived, so we drove our hot little Dodge Caliber over to the Horsethief Campground, which is operated by the Bureau of Land Management.  Mercifully, the BLM runs a slew of campgrounds surrounding Canyonlands and Arches National Park, all for 10 to 15 bucks a night, which in my book, is as close to free as you can get.    And I’m all about that, because as we know, less money spent on lodging means that the dinner budget can expand a little.  And I like to eat, so this is good.

Day One: Murphy Loop, 8.5 miles.   Mother Nature is an evil mistress.  

For a day hike, 8.5 miles really isn’t bad.  Sure, this was one of the longer trails in the district, but still, it should have been very doable.  This is where I experienced realization #1: I am not 18.  I can’t suddenly expect my body to be able to descend then ascend 1000 or so feet in 75 yards without doing so much as a few sit-ups in preparation.  Well, I can’t expect to enjoy it anyway.  This was compounded by truth #2: When hiking in the desert, bring water.  The National Parks Service recommends carrying/drinking at least a gallon of water per person, per day.  At least.  So I guess carrying a Nalgene for each of us and a 16 oz. Dasani to share was a serious misstep.  I can’t believe how rookie this makes us seem.  The truth hurts. 

Sunscreen is also an important friend in the desert.  It’s particularly true when you are from the Arctic Circle and your skin tone resembles the bottom side of a paper plate.  Well, friends, it doesn’t anymore.  No sir.

Somehow I survived the first day, probably due only to the gentle prodding of my husband (read: I was allowed a break after every ten steps or so) and the depressing thought of black widow spiders and vultures picking away at my dehydrated body lying in some dried up river wash somewhere.  Also, I never, ever want to have to drink my own urine.   For these reasons, I managed to trudge my way up the cliff face back to the car… slower than a slug on a lamppost.

Since I had designed our trip itinerary, I fell asleep that night knowing that this was the shortest hike I had planned, and that the sunburn I had acquired would only feel worse after another day in the scathing heat.  But despite all this, if you had asked me if this was the best vacation ever, I’m pretty sure I would have said yes. 

I love this sort of thing.

Who Brought The Snacks?

Well, we flew into Salt Lake yesterday, and after a brief trip to REI for supplies and dinner/drinks at Squatter's downtown (and some gummy raspberries in honor of my sister), we've piled into our [awesome] burnt orange rental car, and are headed off into the dusty hills. Have I ever mentioned the love affair C and I have for burnt orange? Well, we do. If I can talk him into it, we'll take a picture of us with all of our burnt orange apparel and gear, leaning against our burnt orange Dodge Caliber. You'll like it, and it will affirm the idea that we're as un-trendy as two people could possibly be. This traveling roadshow likes us some burnt orange as well as some deep, satisfying 1991-era teal green. Yeah, we aren't just out of style, we're out of touch.

Seven Plus Five

In exactly twelve days, I will be on a plane, headed west.  I cannot adequately phrase how overwhelmed I am by childlike anticipation for this trip.  Believe it or not, I may be more excited for this 10-day stretch than I was for our honeymoon.  All we had to do on that jaunt was decide if so much guacamole could be considered unhealthy, and whether we should deposit our bits and pieces by the interconnected pool or on the secluded beach (as well as where to stash the bacon we lifted from the breakfast buffet).

C and I are soon headed to what is becoming one of our favorite places on earth: Utah.  Before your mind starts swimming in thoughts of the two of us on some compound in the hills, me barefoot and struggling to hold one screaming infant in each arm, C walking a plow behind a mule, and our 15 other sister-wives inside the pueblo peeling potatoes and making baskets to sell to the tourists, hold up.  Last fall, we decided to celebrate our 5^th anniversary with a crazy camping vacation to the southwest.  See, both of us have been fortunate enough to, during our respective childhoods, travel overseas a little bit, and I for one, have found in my relative adulthood that I have a feverish desire to see America. 

Our 2010 plans took us to Zion Canyon, in southwest Utah, where we found ourselves completely dwarfed by the orange stripes of Navajo sandstone and pale gold limestone rising half a mile above us.  Zion is what Shangri-La must look like after a day crisping in the sun.  It is simultaneously arid and cool, lofty and shallow, extremely sparse and astoundingly fertile.  I have never found myself in a place so very welcoming while also so unapologetically austere.  It’s hard to describe, but as we prepare to return to the area (this time to the southeast of the state), I randomly find myself fantasizing of my first moments in that bright, sandy landscape.  All I want is to lay my body down on the hot rusty stone and stare into the bright turquoise expanse of sky – to feel the beating rays of the sun on my face and the radiant heat of the earth on my back.  I want to taste the dust in my mouth and feel the swirling aroma of pine and juniper overwhelm my senses.

The north end of Zion Canyon narrows to a small chute at a point named the Temple of Sinawava (Sinawava was the Coyote god of the Paiutes).  It seems obvious that people would come to a place like this and expect to offer some form of worship.  There are geographic landmarks with names like Angel’s Landing, Court of the Patriarchs, and The Great White Throne which all allude to the canyon's role in various spiritual traditions.  I do acknowledge that many of the titles administered to Zion’s landscape can be attributed to the influence of Mormon settlers in the mid-nineteenth century, and that some may find the imagery of The Altar of Sacrifice a teensy bit sinister.  I have to admit that likewise, I don’t really want to hike up and check for bloodstains. However, the canyon’s vast panoramic nature does demand a certain humility and submission from it’s patrons, not unlike the spiritual kind.  It’s like the earth speaks and insists that you think of more than yourself for a little while.  It practically begs it of you.

If you shut your eyes and inhale deeply, I swear you can almost feel the warm, dusty breeze.

Twelve days

Wicked Wednesdays

I’ve you haven’t noticed, my Monday-Wednesday-Friday blog (that was once a MTWTF blog) has turned into more of a Monday-IHopeNoOneNotices-Friday blog.  It’s not that I don’t intend to offer you a midweek masterpiece, it’s just that I’m busy doing more important other things.

For example…

• I saw 13 moose Wednesday on a drive home after dinner with friends an hour away.  13 is a record for me, so far anyway.  Even more exciting is the fact that we managed to miss all of them with the truck.

• I rolled a kayak.  On purpose.  In the right direction.  More than once.

• I’ve been watching Unwrapped.  I love Unwrapped.  I’m not sure if it’s because of how much I enjoyed the crayon factory episode of Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood as a child, or how excited I am about eating.  I don’t mean this in a foodie kind of way, but rather in an “I’m glad humans developed a taste for pancakes and fondue instead of tree bark and centipedes” kind of way.  I mean, would you rather chew grass nine times?

• I’m booking a vacation with my sister and mom.  When I asked my sister if I should talk to our mother about coming on the trip with us, she responded with, “Yeah, what’s the worst that could happen?”

Exactly

 Mom is the best world traveler I know, and is nearly fearless when it comes to foreign environments, which is exactly the kind of cohort we’ll need with us on this adventure.   That, and the potential for hilarious and awkward conversations goes up by about 300%. 

When I was first searching out vacation/trip options, I was quickly faced with a unique challenge.  Google searching for “adventure junkie sister vacations” led to suggestions like:

-Zero-gravity flights in sub-space

-A personal shopper at Georgio Armani

-Surf/Yoga camp (the only tempting contender)

-Sledding on treadmills (this wasn't really a google result, but yes we've done this recently)

-Hiking in active volcanoes

If I had found a tropical island with unlimited snorkeling, yoga, guacamole, cliff jumping and costume parties, my search would have been complete.

 source

Next year this is you and me, sis.

So next time I forget am too busy to post a mid-week blog entry, just remember that I’m off doing important things, like watching Marc Sommers narrate on frozen banana pops or flailing upside down in the river.  Don't worry that I won't come back - I'm out building a library of awkward stories to share with you on Friday.  

Ten Ways to Make Your Week Awesome

• The NBA playoffs.  I don’t know if you watch basketball, or if you even care, but trust me, it’s worth it for those 60 combined seconds of inspired play.   I can usually only stand to watch football on television, but last nights Celtics v. Knicks game was heart-thumping.  If you’re not really into the idea, I guess you could stab yourself with your kid’s epi-pen and watch the highlights instead.
• Get your hands on some Marshmallow Peeps.  Yes, it’s the season.  Go buy a variety pack, and see what you can't do with them.  Check out the Washington Post's annual Peep Show. 

source

• Download the FatBooth App.  Then use it on pictures of your sister from childhood.
• Observe the state of current commercial advertising.  I have a deep love affair with the way that marketing firms are taking on today’s television audience.  Dairy Queen doesn’t just have rainbows; they have rainbows on fire.  They don’t just have bunnies; they have old fashion shaving bunnies.  Old Spice features a man rising out of beach sand, strumming a guitar that opens to reveal a “romantic puppy surprise”.  Genius?  I think so.  Welcome to my mind.

• Dress for success.  By this I mean that you should, at least once this week, take a walk around outside in shorts and a t-shirt.  Or your bathing suit.  If I can do it with a foot of snow on the ground, and the possibility of my flip-flops slipping on the ice, you can do it wherever you are.  I want to win Mother Nature over on the idea of spring, and the best offense is a good offense, right?  So help me show her what she’s missing.  Are you with me?!
• Plan an imaginary vacation.  This is what I’m going to do this week.  In my imaginary trip, we’re spending 10 days in St. Lucia to snorkel and sunbathe and eat bacon every hour, on the hour.  What’s your plan?
• Host an adult Easter Egg hunt.  Now, I don’t mean that the eggs will contain something adult-oriented, which would produce an entirely different event.  What I do mean is that you should gather some friends and have an egg-hunting party that is physically, relationally, and emotionally challenging.  A small amount of eggs placed in outrageous locations is enough to make even the best of friends become violent adversaries. Eggs in trees?  Yes.  Down snake holes?  Uh huh.  Eggs filled with coffee gift cards or expensive stinky cheese?  Your friends and family will be like hyenas around a dead water buffalo. 
• Grill out.  This is easy.  Get it done.
• Start a garden.  This is for those of you who can.  Get to your favorite home and garden store, and get your green thumb on.  If I were you, I’d plant haricot vert, jalapeños, butter lettuce, snap peas, heirloom tomatoes, and mangoes.  And none of them would live past May.
• Try something new.  Get out and go rollerblading.  Volunteer at the SPCA.  Have some Guinness ice cream.  Rent a Segway and drive it down Main Street.  Go to a yoga class.  Eat a different donut every morning (unless you do that already, then step it up to duck liver and brie).  Say hello to everyone you see when you’re out walking.   Go out walking. 

I hope this list gives you the drive it takes to make it through another week with a smile on your face.  Remember, we only have today, so rock what your mama gave you and make some memories with your week. If you actually do any of the above, please share your story with the rest of us.  Now, get busy making the next seven days awesome.  I’m rooting for you.