Sometimes You ARE The Show.

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?

O Canada

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:

not well.

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.

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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.

You're Invited to a Pity Party

This blog thing is harder than it looks. 

As you’re reading this statement, I assume that you’re picturing me as a whiny and pretentious 4-year old with pigtails and an astonishingly upturned nose, shoving expensive chocolates and Petrossian special-reserve caviar down her pie-hole, a la Augustus Gloop.  That’s what I’m imagining, anyway.

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Really, M, grow a set.  It can’t be that bad.  It was your idea, after all.  

But seriously, for someone like me who is perilously underequipped in all things will-related, committing to a rigid (or not-so-rigid if you consider my track record) schedule of intelligent and thought-provoking scrawlings is a heavy burden to carry.  I understand now why authors tend to rent out wooded cabins and spend months alone with their typewriter or laptop after running their smart phone over with a riding lawnmower.  Life gets in the way.

On the other hand though, the flavor of life is what really makes the cake worth eating, now isn’t it?  Though I would venture to guess that such deliberate isolation must breed tremendous creativity [and serial killers], I don’t think that I could ever fully commit to a life entirely powered by my mind and an electric typewriter.  

I know I wasn’t born with an imagination like Lewis Carroll, which I do think is really too bad, but my disappointment is tempered by the threat of what would possibly happen if my dreams became scripted reality.  A chiropractor that uses a power drill to correct your T4/T5 spinal misalignment is still pretty scary, even on paper (especially at age 11, which was when this sickening brainchild came to me in the night – my sister can confirm that the next 3 years were full of dreams and mental snapshots that were quite alarming but simultaneously had the potential to make me a cool million in slasher film royalties).  It's a good thing I haven't written all of them down.  That is, unless you consider that as a result, I didn't make a cool million in slasher film royalties.  Then it seems less good.

And all of this creativity happened without the massive opiate supply that Lewis Carroll must have been employing – we are agreed on that fact, right?

I guess what I’m saying is that finishing each of these little posts is like taking a good nap.  For the experience to be sufficiently gratifying, I need to expend a fair amount of energy in preparation and do some rigorous carbo-loading in advance.   It’s not as easy as it seems.  Please, feel for me.

And can you hand me a napkin?  I've dribbled a little caviar down my front.  

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.

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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.