The Overachieving Vacationer … You Know Who You Are

Well, last week I put another frightening Adirondack mountain adventure under my ever expanding belt. No, no bears or mountain lions. Just kids. Their eerie screams and howling cries over fallen hot dogs, limited wifi, and any type of chore (“we’re on VACATION!!” … as if my dad, stepmother, hubs and I weren’t??) forced all wildlife out of the area for 7 days. Actually, I have no way of knowing if they returned.

The Hubs, if you haven’t guessed or seen already, is not the beer guzzling, lay around on the couch watching football all day kind of guy. And there’s never a time that I’m more disappointed about this then when we’re in the mountains. It’s like he’s got a Red Bull lit on fire up his ass. The only advantage to this is that I usually lose weight on these vacations – hiking up steep, insurmountable mountains, swimming miles in deep, thick lakes, and canoeing til my arms fall off.

I snuck away one night to read a smut book and got reamed out! Look, I can’t help it if fictional characters are my best friends I need to relax! Jeez!!

Did I say he reamed me out? What he really said was, “go relax, hon!” … what a douche.

While I snuggled up in bed with Caleb, I mean my book, the Hubs was diving after pontoon boats that had broken free, putting out ill-made fires in the family room, running (yes, running) up two mountains, and making the best smores this side of Tallahassee (I have no idea what happens on the other side of Tallahassee). He would go on walks and come back with enough wood to build a small cabin (presumably for me to read my smut books in) and took my one year old, 25 lb sister on his back up not one, but two mountains. Can you say overachiever?

Look, I’m not used to all this craziness on vacation. The Hub’s family did this kind of hardcore vacation stuff all the time when he was a kid. We did Disney. In a hotel. The most strenuous thing we did was wait in a 2 hour line for It’s A Small World*.  Hell, my dad’s the one that started the previously mentioned fire in the house that the Hubs had to put out – assuming the flue was open, but instead, sealing it so tightly shut that the thick curls of smoke in the house overpowered us all and the Hubs had to carry us all out in the crux of his bent pinky finger while simultaneously using some of his voodoo Boy Scout magic to diminish the flames.  What I meant was, it set the smoke alarm off.

That’s how my side rolls!

The Hub’s side? … they’re building houses in Uganda for poor orphaned children. And they don’t take breaks! Or drink water!! Or have any need for oxygen.

I do have to give my dad and stepmom credit.  They are always game – despite age, physical ability, and common sense. When my dad appeared at the top of a particularly hard ass mountain with steep rock climbing at the end, we’re pretty sure the heavens opened up and some angels sang. That could have been delirium from dehydration though.

Side note: You can really get a sense of who’s gonna survive the ever impending apocalypse on these hikes.  And I’m pretty sure the 82 year old lady with the hand crocheted sweater, khaki slacks and old lady slippers who passed me on the way up is gonna kick some zombie ass while I get torn to shreds by a werewolf.

We did get the Hubs a little tipsy one night. He denied it at the time, but listening to him stumble and slur over the word ‘specific’ had us laughing so hard I thought we’d all bust a gut. Thank goodness or we’d wonder if he’s human. One time I caught him sleeping and yelled (pointing at him), “HA! You sleep like the rest of us!!!” He was slightly annoyed with me considering it was 2am.

Now I’m forcing him on to Nantucket, for a long weekend with friends, where I will make him sleep in, lay on the beach, and eat lots of amazing food. Suck on that, Mountain Man!!!

*Do NOT wait in line for 2 hours for It’s A Small World.  After the 3 minute ride, you WILL sing the song for the rest of the day whilst becoming the bitchiest person that ever roamed the planet.

The Last Time I Will Ever Say YOLO

I find the human psyche so fascinating.  Probably why I majored in Psychology in college.  I find the brain, with all it’s cracks and crevices, it’s curves and tube slides, beyond interesting.  Ok, so it looks more like your intestines forcibly smashed into the size of a melon squeezed inside your skull, but whatever.  This past weekend I did something new and different and, naturally, analyzed it to death.  Isn’t that what everyone does?

At the risk of sounding like a serial killer, I went paint balling.  The bestie had a Living Social deal and it was about to expire.  So off we went – her, me, her husband, and mine.  She and I are trying to YOLO – as the young ones are calling it these days.  We’ve apparently hit our mid-life crisis.

I’m not a big gun advocate so I wondered if I was condoning something I didn’t believe in.  Eh.  Screw it.  YOLO!!!  (I will never use YOLO again, I promise)

To say I was a nervous wreck when we pulled into the dilapidated parking lot would be putting it mildly.  I was expecting a large, sprawling facility with air conditioning, semi-clean bathrooms, and hand sanitizer hanging on every wall.  Instead we got tents and port-a-potties.  I’ll be honest, every young man I saw gearing up to play looked like a crazed gunman to me.  I, in my insane, semi-delirious, high pitched whiny voice, started randomly conversing with some of the guys.  Maybe if they liked me they wouldn’t shoot me??  Most of them couldn’t keep a straight face.  I’m pretty sure that I came across as the crazed gunman.  I begged them all not to shoot me in the neck (apparently the most sensitive spot) and they all agreed (and then turned around and cracked up).

Then the bestie and I met Big Red.  This guy was the resident paint balling expert.  Hardcore doesn’t begin to describe him.  Apparently he shows up on weekends, unpaid, and mows the grass in the fields.  He’s got all the right equipment and even made his own paint ball gun.  Yes.  MADE it.  I saw him eye balling my friend and me as we were asking question after question of one of the referees.  And right then and there, Big Red became the mentor that I never had – mainly because I’ve never been paint balling before and never needed a mentor.  He took my friend and I under his wing and coached us on the ways to hide and shoot.  He went out onto the sidelines of the field our first time out and yelled at us the whole way through.  “I don’t see you shooting!!”  “Where are your guns?”  “Come on, girls!!”  I wish I had bothered to ask your name, Big Red … you saved me from, I’m sure, getting pummeled to death by paint balls.  But I was too nervous to think about anything but survival.

I  definitely kind of pictured myself being shot out in about 5 seconds – basically standing in the open with, potentially MOST definitely, crap in my pants, frantically looking around to see where I could hide and then being ambushed by 30 bullets at once – doing that whole flailing arms thing in the most dramatic fashion possible.

But it turns out being a scaredy cat has it’s advantages!  Here’s the weird part, though.  As much as I was panic stricken and had never held anything deadlier than a Nerf gun, I kind of got into it.  I was basically in squat position behind a wall or a large sewing spool (huh??) the entire time (great for the glutes!!) … acting like I knew what I was doing.  “I got your back!” and “Where are they?!” and “Did we lose yet?” and “Owwwwwwwwww!” becoming my new vernacular.

I may have also yelled, “Die, motherfucker!” a couple times while accidentally shooting the ref.

Later that night I sat down with the Hubs and did a 45 minute analysis.  He patiently listened as I described my terror, showed him all my war wounds, and explained how I would do it differently next time.  I really don’t know how he keeps a straight face sometimes.  Years of practice, I guess.

I kind of feel bad ass now.  Back to school shopping never felt so promising.  You don’t think the kids will mind that, while we’re in Target, I hop in crouched position from the back of one rack to another in an attempt to swipe the last Ticonderoga pencil pack from the lady with the newborn strapped to her chest, do you?  I feel stealth and unstoppable.

YOLO!!!  (shit, I’m sorry)

Being a Mom: Game of Thrones Style

Just FYI, this post is ridiculously ridiculous.  Like, you-may-not-want-to-waste-your-time ridiculous.  Don’t say you weren’t warned!!

I miss Game of Thrones … terribly … like, more than I probably should considering all the violence, incest, torture and rape … it’s my favrioso show.  I have a hardcore, teenage, moony-eyed crush on it.  And so I am going to write about it because, well, … because that’s what you do when you’re in love!  You write sappy prose and whimsical dialogue and you wistfully sigh … a lot.  (and, if it’s Game of Thrones, you wander around the house all day muttering, “You know nothin’ Jon Snow!!”)

To start out, I like to think of myself as Daenerys Targaryen.  I mean, besides the fact that we are practically twins …

… she is truly the best “mother” on the show.  I mean, come on!  Did you see the last episode … they were chanting “Mother! Mother! Mother!” in some bizarre, crunchy language (yes, I feel the word “crunchy” fits … especially while I’m sitting here eating a bag of Doritos).  By the way, do the writers/George R. R. Martin (one middle name would suffice, dude) make up whole new languages for shows like this?  If so, let’s start using them!!  Think of the amazing conversations we could have that we are restricted from having because of our stupid, current language.  I mean, who likes words like “thermometer” or “yellow” or “dysentery” or “the” anyway?

Daenerys loves her 3 adorably angry dragons with a fierceness and intensity that I’d like to think I love my 3 adorably angry dragons kids.  And god knows they breathe fire … between the lack of teeth brushing and the “I HATE YOU!”s, I’m covered in 3rd degree burns on a regular basis.

But then I waver … and sometimes picture myself more like the level-headed, likable, Tyrion Lannister … (talk about twins!)

He’s the only one that ever talks any SENSE in that family but everyone hates me him anyway.  Because I MAKE SENSE … I mean, HE … he makes sense.  Plus who can’t relate to being a cute dwarf in love with a sensible, sweet whore who is forced to marry a woman whose father was beheaded by your own nephew and who killed his mother in child birth.  It’s the standard, boring American story.  You’ve heard it once, you’ve heard it a hundred times.

Or maybe I’m Sansa …

… forced to live with these crazy, sadistic lunatics day in and day out.  Held captive while my her life is being systematically destroyed!!  (To my husband and children: LOVE YOU!!)

Or maybe I’m Melisandre?

God knows I’ve given birth to some crazy ass shit that has definitely attempted to kill.

My will to live, anyway.

Nah.

Mostly I think I’m Hodor.

(fyi, I’m too tired to recreate this photo … you’re just going to have to believe me … maybe someday I’ll do it and randomly post it and everyone will be all like, “wtf?!” (cause by then I’ll be super famous … or infamous), but you’ll know … yes, only you, lone reader, will know)

I mean, look at him with that stroller thingy and the two ungrateful kids in front of him!!  Talk about an exact mirror of my life.

I hogtie drag these kids around all day, I have limited intelligence (most scrupulously removed by my lovely children), I’m a liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiittle overweight and I get freaked out and can’t shut up when wild hellions surround our house with bows and arrows in an attempt to steal our horses (we don’t own horses … so you can imagine my terror).

So until Season 4 returns (holy SHIT, that long??), I will be staring at the television willing it to bring back my favorite show.  Cause that always works.

And plotting my brother’s death.

What?  Did I just say that?!  I’m just kidding.  I’d merely torture him.  Rat to the belly style!!

Mwahahahahahahaha!!!!