Sunday, May 9, 2010
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Shooting the Rapids
When I was a bit younger, and vastly more adventurous I decided the time was right to stretch my proverbial wings and take some risks. The short list of risk taking "to-do's" included white water rafting. Since I reside within the banks of the Wabash, where the water is neither white nor raftable, I began to look beyond my landlocked borders. At the time I worked in an environment full of people who took risks for a living and had no problem rounding up a crew for a weekend venture. We loaded up the Jetta on a rainy Friday and set out for the hills of West Virginia; to shoot the rapids of the Gully river.
A steady rain followed us for all 7 hours of the journey. By the time we arrived we were stressed, sweaty, and soaked through; but ably managed to trudge to the local bar to get a feel for our new surroundings. As soon as we crossed the thresh hold of the Booze and Bait we knew we weren't in Kansas anymore. The rain apparently had been building for several days in these parts and as we watched the only local channel on the 19 inch black and white(trying not to notice Bubba and Bobbie Sue pickin' the gristle out of their tooth in some sort of strange West Virginian mating ritual) we learned the access points to the river had been washed out. Which meant we would be taking the far more advanced New river, instead of the beginners course; the Gully.
We retired early a bit excited and far too proud to admit; fully scared shitless.They took us by bus early the next a.m. on a "road" through the mountains(which I'm quite certain had been logged literally the day before) to our start point. We de-bussed and gathered near one of the rafts to get our gear and instructions. I knew we were in capable hands when the dread-locked guide, while lecturing on local vegetation seriously instructed us to always remember "Leaves of three; leave 'em be. Leaves of five; bring 'em to me."(It's marijuana people, MARIJUANA!) Life jackets and helmets were handed out along with casual warnings and "next of kin" paperwork in need of signing. Our guide immediately singled me out for the seat next to him, not because I looked cute in my completely inappropriate shorts and flip flops, but because I was apparently the "weakest link".
We were told what position would give us the best chance of glancing off sharp rocks instead of crashing into them, and what to do if we were thrown from the raft toward an undercut boulder(swim like hell!).I remember thinking as we drifted from shore and I began to hear the roar of the rushing current, "this ain't a small world and this ain't Disneyland"(apparently leaving all respect for the English language in the hollers of West Virginia). The rapids were fast, way faster than I imagined. We flipped it through the first rapid. And the second. On the third our guide actually fell out. By the fourth we were bruised, battered, bloody and lovin' every minute of it all jacked up on adrenaline and dirty river water. As we began our fifth and final rapid, aptly called Heaven's Gate, it began to pour cold, dagger-like rain spears. I stood at the helm of our beaten raft shaking my fists heavenward like Captain Dan helming the Bubba Gump, screaming "You won't beat me Goddammit. Not today!"(like maybe tomorrow would be OK, or I could squeeze you in next week; just not today). I glance side ward mid fist-thrust and notice the dumbfounded mouth-gaping gaggle of Girl Scouts(with nary a badge out of place!) drifting by on their pristine, apparently indestructible raft; completely stealing my hard earned dramatic moment.
A steady rain followed us for all 7 hours of the journey. By the time we arrived we were stressed, sweaty, and soaked through; but ably managed to trudge to the local bar to get a feel for our new surroundings. As soon as we crossed the thresh hold of the Booze and Bait we knew we weren't in Kansas anymore. The rain apparently had been building for several days in these parts and as we watched the only local channel on the 19 inch black and white(trying not to notice Bubba and Bobbie Sue pickin' the gristle out of their tooth in some sort of strange West Virginian mating ritual) we learned the access points to the river had been washed out. Which meant we would be taking the far more advanced New river, instead of the beginners course; the Gully.
We retired early a bit excited and far too proud to admit; fully scared shitless.They took us by bus early the next a.m. on a "road" through the mountains(which I'm quite certain had been logged literally the day before) to our start point. We de-bussed and gathered near one of the rafts to get our gear and instructions. I knew we were in capable hands when the dread-locked guide, while lecturing on local vegetation seriously instructed us to always remember "Leaves of three; leave 'em be. Leaves of five; bring 'em to me."(It's marijuana people, MARIJUANA!) Life jackets and helmets were handed out along with casual warnings and "next of kin" paperwork in need of signing. Our guide immediately singled me out for the seat next to him, not because I looked cute in my completely inappropriate shorts and flip flops, but because I was apparently the "weakest link".
We were told what position would give us the best chance of glancing off sharp rocks instead of crashing into them, and what to do if we were thrown from the raft toward an undercut boulder(swim like hell!).I remember thinking as we drifted from shore and I began to hear the roar of the rushing current, "this ain't a small world and this ain't Disneyland"(apparently leaving all respect for the English language in the hollers of West Virginia). The rapids were fast, way faster than I imagined. We flipped it through the first rapid. And the second. On the third our guide actually fell out. By the fourth we were bruised, battered, bloody and lovin' every minute of it all jacked up on adrenaline and dirty river water. As we began our fifth and final rapid, aptly called Heaven's Gate, it began to pour cold, dagger-like rain spears. I stood at the helm of our beaten raft shaking my fists heavenward like Captain Dan helming the Bubba Gump, screaming "You won't beat me Goddammit. Not today!"(like maybe tomorrow would be OK, or I could squeeze you in next week; just not today). I glance side ward mid fist-thrust and notice the dumbfounded mouth-gaping gaggle of Girl Scouts(with nary a badge out of place!) drifting by on their pristine, apparently indestructible raft; completely stealing my hard earned dramatic moment.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Faction Fractions
"Your husband is so funny. No matter how you look at it you got a great deal. I'm so happy for you!" A sweet note from a supportive girlfriend? Not so much. This text was sent to me by my ex-husband, as he was sharing a pint(or a Jaeger Bomb, whatever) at the local pub with my current husband. I know, it's as odd as it sounds but it's our version of functional family fractions.
The tweens dad and I divorced when she was but a toddler, 3 to be exact. The decision to do so was as heartbreaking as you can imagine and still ranks as the most difficult days I've spent. However, it was a choice we made together. It wasn't working. For him, for me, but especially for her. She couldn't know that, but we could see we were changing who she was; even at that tender, formidable age. We would have none of it, so we made a breathtaking decision based solely on the needs of someone else. I can count on one hand how many times I've done that in my life.
To say the journey from there to here has been nothing but rainbows and unicorns would be a gross oversimplification. We stumbled, tripped, he fell, I fell, sometimes he led the way and sometimes I did. There were days her little heart broke, as did mine. Trying to figure out how to partner with someone in raising another human is not exactly paint by numbers, particularly when you add another parental unit to the mix.
Hubby entered the picture when she was just turning 5. From the get-go we knew it was something unique(in that "Oh crap, he's perfect for me, now what the hell do I do" kind of way). I included not only the toddler, but the ex in the approval process; when he had 3 thumbs up he got to stay("Congrats, you win a wife, her kid, and her ex-husband!).
I think they bonded over how difficult I can be. The ex often shrugs his shoulders at hubby in a "better you than me pal" sort of way. They are, after all, subject to my irrational fits of overprotective parenting, uninhibited bouts of random soap box ranting, and unabashed spousal double-standardness. The initial text in this post was preceded by the ex inviting us to stop by the pub. I smiled inwardly proud of a few choices I've made in life, and thought "that's so nice of him to offer." The subsequent text stated "or you could just drop your husband off"... Nice.
The tweens dad and I divorced when she was but a toddler, 3 to be exact. The decision to do so was as heartbreaking as you can imagine and still ranks as the most difficult days I've spent. However, it was a choice we made together. It wasn't working. For him, for me, but especially for her. She couldn't know that, but we could see we were changing who she was; even at that tender, formidable age. We would have none of it, so we made a breathtaking decision based solely on the needs of someone else. I can count on one hand how many times I've done that in my life.
To say the journey from there to here has been nothing but rainbows and unicorns would be a gross oversimplification. We stumbled, tripped, he fell, I fell, sometimes he led the way and sometimes I did. There were days her little heart broke, as did mine. Trying to figure out how to partner with someone in raising another human is not exactly paint by numbers, particularly when you add another parental unit to the mix.
Hubby entered the picture when she was just turning 5. From the get-go we knew it was something unique(in that "Oh crap, he's perfect for me, now what the hell do I do" kind of way). I included not only the toddler, but the ex in the approval process; when he had 3 thumbs up he got to stay("Congrats, you win a wife, her kid, and her ex-husband!).
I think they bonded over how difficult I can be. The ex often shrugs his shoulders at hubby in a "better you than me pal" sort of way. They are, after all, subject to my irrational fits of overprotective parenting, uninhibited bouts of random soap box ranting, and unabashed spousal double-standardness. The initial text in this post was preceded by the ex inviting us to stop by the pub. I smiled inwardly proud of a few choices I've made in life, and thought "that's so nice of him to offer." The subsequent text stated "or you could just drop your husband off"... Nice.
4 Year Olds Rock
Everytime I look at this little bundle of squeezy 4 year old perfection I want to wiggle my nose and stop time. The steps from my side seem to get bigger every day. My spirited, whole hearted, snarl lipped toddler is settling into a slightly less wild version of herself. I can't wait to see what this year brings her. Happy birthday Miss M.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Spring is in the Air
The toddler and I were walking around the yard looking for signs of spring(it's been a long. long. winter.). Some of the flowers are starting to bud, grass is turning from it's standard shade of yuck to a nice muddled blah. She turned to me and asked, "What is your favorite kind of bird?" A thoughtful question from an inquisitive little cherub. I answered, "A cardinal. What is your favorite kind of bird?" She pondered the question as we walked, and with great consideration she stated, "The Assy. The Assy is my favorite kind of bird." I tried to hide my surprise as I wonder if I heard her correctly(bassy, classy, sassy... Nope. She said assy). "It's a rare bird. So nice and flighty and well... just kind of Assy," she continued. "Yes, the Assy. It's lovely, and so beautiful. When I grow up I might want to be an Assy." It's good to have goals my dear...
Friday, March 12, 2010
Poetic Justice
I'm sitting in front of a very blurry computer, with one(maybe two) cups of coffee while listening to the pounding of a steel drum playing Rastafarian band that seems to have taken up residence in my frontal lobe. A fantastic night with my boyfriend Jose(Cuervo, that is)? A girls night out? A hubby night in?? Not so much. I was a spectating victim of an errant dodgeball, thrown by a cannon-armed eighth grader.
I arrived with hubby, the toddler, and the ex-hubby to the dodgeball tournament of the tween tonight. My 6'5" hubby stood to my left, my slightly shorter, yet just as broad shouldered, ex-hubby stood to my right. I knelt down to take off the jacket of the toddler, and before you can say "Holy Balls Batman!" my glasses are flying off my face as I am knocked upside the noggin by the rubber missile launched with laser-like precision directly at my melon. I look up at the two men who have at one time or another sworn to serve and protect(love and honor, whatever) me and neither can hide the mile-wide grins gracing their tickled pink faces.
I'm quite sure this weasely, jacked-up, voice-cracking adolescent made the night; dare I say the year, of these two middle-aged men. They were both able to witness me; their kind(bossy), caring(stubborn), loving(obstinate) current or former wife be absolutely drilled in the dome without having to pay a dime for it. Had I not nearly lost consciousness I could almost say I saw them fist bump. At the very least I can say with 87% certainty I overheard them thanking the Gods of Dodgeball for the poetic justice served on the Karmic-laden silver platter this beautiful, memorable(for some) spring night.
I arrived with hubby, the toddler, and the ex-hubby to the dodgeball tournament of the tween tonight. My 6'5" hubby stood to my left, my slightly shorter, yet just as broad shouldered, ex-hubby stood to my right. I knelt down to take off the jacket of the toddler, and before you can say "Holy Balls Batman!" my glasses are flying off my face as I am knocked upside the noggin by the rubber missile launched with laser-like precision directly at my melon. I look up at the two men who have at one time or another sworn to serve and protect(love and honor, whatever) me and neither can hide the mile-wide grins gracing their tickled pink faces.
I'm quite sure this weasely, jacked-up, voice-cracking adolescent made the night; dare I say the year, of these two middle-aged men. They were both able to witness me; their kind(bossy), caring(stubborn), loving(obstinate) current or former wife be absolutely drilled in the dome without having to pay a dime for it. Had I not nearly lost consciousness I could almost say I saw them fist bump. At the very least I can say with 87% certainty I overheard them thanking the Gods of Dodgeball for the poetic justice served on the Karmic-laden silver platter this beautiful, memorable(for some) spring night.
Friday, February 26, 2010
The Power of the Strongly Worded Letter
Dear Cheap Cardboard Valentine Maker,In last month's letter I may have mentioned the absence of the Disney Princess Tattoos from the Disney Princess Tattoo Valentines my toddler so lovingly selected. I may have explained, in a few choice words, her feelings to the absence of said tattoos and my feelings about the character of the maker of said Valentines. I would like to take this opportunity to thank you for the beautiful Disney Princess Easter Egg coloring kit and bonus "Girl Power" sticker book you so thoughtfully expedited to my home address. I would also like to take this opportunity to thank you for rescinding that pesky little "cease and desist" order and express how much less of a jackass you now seem!
Sincerely,
The satisfied mother of an appeased toddler
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