Thursday, July 26, 2012

I... did something uncharacteristic.

The other day, I was talked into rafting down the Clackamas River.  I was not really all that interested in this, for many reasons.  See, the images I have of rafting are like this one.  I was quite terrified of this activity, and it was only compounded, knowing that Mr. Hed wanted to take the girls along. 

When he came in from saying goodbye to our friend on Sunday, who had stopped in for a quick visit, he told me of this plan, and of course, I immediately went into fear mode.  He told me he wanted me to come along.  I kinda laughed at him at this point, because I don't do stuff like that.


No, really.  I don't.

At first, I only agreed to go out there with them, and hang with Miss Ru in the park, where they would eventually end up, should they live through the extreme sporting event.

I somehow rationalized that if I were at the park with the little one, they would not die.  I have no idea where the logic actually comes into play here, but my brain works that way.

Did I mention that I was raised by two extremely lazy people, and the extent of my outdoor experience up to my early twenties consisted of playing outside in a suburban tract neighbourhood?


It has taken me a while to embrace the fact that people actually do the things they do for fun.  It has taken me longer to embrace the fact that the things people do for fun, are actually fun.

So, we arrived at the park, where we met up with our friend Jason.  He could tell I was kinda freaking the fuck out under my veil of hubris, which was probably so thin, blue veins of fear were visible, and pulsating; as if speaking to anyone who would listen, and get me the hell out of there.

He reassured me that this would not be bad at all, and I'd probably even have a good time if I decided to come along.

I then decided, after questioning my decision to bring my camera with me... to take a few pictures of the people who may die on the river, before they actually died on the river. 

After that, and somewhat reluctantly, I steeled myself in the bathroom.  Well, first, I went pee for the twelfth time since arriving at Jason and Brad's. Then, I gave myself a good little talk in the mirror:  "Hedro, they do this all the time, and they are still here.

"You apparently drive like a maniac and endanger the lives of everyone, including yourself, in Portland, on a daily basis.  You are probably not in any more danger doing this.

"You are a bad muthafucka who has been through some crazy shit, and you survived.

"White water rafting?  Pshaw!  You have chunks of that river's uh... floor... in your stool."

And with that, I emerged from the bathroom, and we all walked down to this so called riverbitch.

For obvious reasons, I opted to leave my camera at our friend's house.  So what you see above, is the extent of what I took that day, though I had hoped to take a lot more.  Yeah... it's not a great idea when you may end up SMASHED AGAINST SOME GIANT BOULDERS, as your life ends in a watery grave, to take a very expensive piece of equipment along.

My first fear surrounded the actual getting into the raft.  I thought for sure I would flip it over with my gargantuan ass, and be carried off down the river to my death.

Surprisingly, the raft stayed where it needed to while everyone else got in. 

I did not die then.

I rode in a raft with Jason and my girls.  Mr. Hed rode with Brad in a smaller raft.

We pushed off, and started down the river.  I knew it was going to take a long time, and so far, things were slow and uneventful.

It took some time before we went over our first rough spot.  And we lived through the bumps, and water lapping into the raft, soaking my ass. 

OK, I knew this would happen, and that was OK.  Wet ass.  Fine.  Good, even.  Sort of.  I began to relax.

It was so peaceful out there, and the river was so pretty!

We stopped at one point, to swim at a swimming hole, type... area.  We docked the rafts, and unboarded, one by one.  What I was not prepared for here, was that the terrain at the shore, (if you could call it that,) was like some sort of bentonite clay.  I seriously could have used that shit for a mask, but it made for a VERY slick setting.  I may as well have been flailing on a bed of slime.

I started out of the raft, and thought my footing was anchored well enough.  I was wrong.  I slid right off the edge, into the cold, swift water: RIGHT WHERE I DID NOT WANT TO BE!

Jason managed to wrangle me back to shore, and this time, I did actually land.  But it took me a moment to gain enough bearing to actually want to try and go back in that water. 

But, well, at that point, I had a vendetta, and I was not going to let that bitch win.

So, I stood there for a few moments. 

First, Jason jumped into the water. 

Then Lily. 


My 9 year old was braver than I was.  After her, Mr. Hed jumped in.  I tried, but I was so scared I would lose my balance and come down on the back of my head against the clay of evil, instead of landing in the water, upright, that I eventually just sat down on the edge of earth, safety; all things stable and known, and slid in slowly.

I am a fucking wimp.  What can I say?

But once I was in,  I let the current carry me past the bend in the rocks and just beyond.   I thought this was a good thing at first, but I soon realized that it was carrying me past where I wanted to end up, and quite possibly, down the river to my death, this time for real!

So, I swam as hard as I could against that current, and I made it back over to calmer waters.

It was a nice place to hang out.  Once again; so peaceful, calm, and refreshing.  Things were going well until a few Jersey Shore clones showed up and trashed it the hell up with their... ways.  At that point, it was clear that it was time to leave.

But let's think about this for a moment:  I have to wonder where the hell these people come from.  I thought they really only existed on television, but apparently, I haven't lived enough or something.  So really?  I was getting two experiences for the price of one, that day.  I should be... uh... thankful, or something.

The rest of the trip consisted of more river merriment, raft bumping, and a rollicking good time.

I can say with certainty now, that I am no longer afraid of this activity... at least in this particular setting.

We all lived, and my kids will have an actual worthwhile memory.




Monday, July 16, 2012

No! I have to make fun of you on the internet! That's way more important!

My husband must have been in the basement a few minutes ago.  I know this because I was in the living room, (which is the room just above his creepy basement office,) listening to Spotify, and had an album by Mott The Hoople playing.  They did a version of "Ready For Love" by Bad Company.

Hm.  I should look that up.  That's kind of a chicken/egg situation right there, but before I forget all the hilarity in my head, I will forego the looking up.

This song came on, and he asks me:  "You trying to tell me something?  You are playing Bad Company.  You know what that means."

"Uh... whut?"

"You know... you must be feeling particularly amorous."

"Huh?  Bad Company?  Really?  Well, first of all, this isn't Bad Company, and secondly, it just so happened to be on this Mott The Hoople Album I'm listening to.  And for someone who acts like he knows, you should recognize that... no.  This is not Bad Company.  Do not sully the good name and music of Mott The Hoople, again with your poor ability to correctly identify artists.  And for your information, I put it on for 'All The Young Dudes, because that is a fucking classic.'"

"But you know Starman loved Bad Company.  Play that version."


"Do it for Starman.  Do it for my balls."


"Come on. Starman and my balls loved this song."

"Fine.  But I'll have you know that now I'm worried that this is going to open up some sort of supernatural portal that will allow Starman's ghost to come on in and start looking on at us through the wall while we do it.  This is getting a little creepy."

So, I go and search for the goddamn song on Youtube, but of course my computer is being wonky, and it won't play the right version, or even the right song!  It was FUCKING UP!  There's no way it was user error at all.  My computer, like my hair, has a mind of its own.

It does.  You don't even know the half of it. Sometimes?  It's just... inexplicable.

So I sit through the gawd awful Bad Company version... 

*                                             *                                                *

.......................... oh, the torture.......................................

*                                                           +                                                          *

*                                                                 *                                                     *

...and it ends...

and then of course, he has to come over here, and look shit about Bad Company up on Wikipedia, like the NERD HE IS, RIGHT WHEN I AM BEING BRILLIANT, and thinking of about eighty three thousand jokes, at his expense!

See, internet?  See what I put up with?


Thursday, July 12, 2012

On... Hedy, driving miss Hedy...

Recently, I have been called out on my questionable driving choices.  Yes, I drive fast.  I will be the first to admit it.  I love the rush I get from moving a vehicle at high speeds.  It kinda rocks.  It's kinda sexy.  And god damn it, it's just really fucking fun.

Yesterday, I heard this from the back seat:
(My oldest was telling my youngest about driving speeds.) "See, when you are going 100 miles per hour, that means you are going to Eugene."

"That sounds like mom."

To clear things up, I usually set the cruise control for 71 miles per hour in the I-5 corridor... but there have been a few times, when I was driving by myself, that I have driven that fast. 

OK, more than a few times.  I think my favourite was the time I drove from Boise to Pendleton in just under 3 hours.  

I was alone.  I was all by myself.  No one was looking...

But to be fair, I happened to have a sweet, little, sexy, sporty as hell, 5 speed coupe at the time.  GOD, I miss that car.  Flying down Cabbage Hill was ever so exhilarating.

I don't think I am an unsafe driver, in the least.  And I feel the need, at times, to clarify the cause of some of the distressing things that may occur while a passenger is in my car for the first time.

See?  My gas pedal.  It sticks.  No, really, it does.

I swear.  It does.

It does not stick down, but up, rather.  So, when I go to depress the pedal with my foot, it will jerk forward slightly, before we really get going.  The car is 12 years old now.  I can't give it too much shit for this, honestly. And once it stops doing its weird little freak dance... at that point?  Yeah.  We are going to get going.

Because that's what I do. I am down with the boogie... just deal, bitches.

Don't think of me as the girl who will paralyze you.  Think of me as the girl who will get you to the airport on time when you miss your alarm.  I am that girl.  Just close your eyes, and try not to think about what I'm doing.  I swear, I know what it is. You have my word.  Really, I think I missed my calling as a stunt driver.

After all, if she says she can do it, she can do it!  She don't make false claims.

I have been driving for over 20 years now, and the only accident I have ever been in, was a one-car accident that happened because my car was ancient, huge, and had old-skool, rear-wheel drive.  The person in front of me did not have any tail lights, or brake lights.  We were on a highway that had a 55 MPH speed limit, but it also had opportunities for turns, including left turns.

By the time I realized that this person had stopped to make a left turn; no brake lights, blinker, or any indication, other than the not moving, I had to slam on my brakes.  And the car lurched one way, then another, and then flew into a ditch.


This was in the summer of 1995.  I was 19.  No one was hurt... ridiculously badly.  I broke a couple ribs, but that was the worst of it.  My giant boobs protected me... although the car was toast.

I kinda miss that car sometimes.  It was enormous, and the back seat was like a bed!

What's not to love?

My last speeding ticket was in 2001.  And OK, I've been stopped a few times, but I'm pretty good at sweet talking my way out of things.  I'm not necessarily proud of that... but I'm cheap.  It saves me money.  Most would argue that... saving money... is a good thing.

I am glad that at least my guy appreciates my mad stunt driver skills.  If I pull off a particularly brave move, he will even blow me a kiss from the passenger seat.

This, right here, is what long term relationships are made of.


Wednesday, July 11, 2012

The care and feeding of the 5 year old.

My 5 year old daughter is crazy picky.  I wish I could say that this is a great thing, but sadly, it is not even remotely close to a great thing; especially when she is SO picky, that she will ask for a sandwich, and if conditions within said sandwich are not absolutely perfect, she will tell me she won't eat it. 

I will do my goddamn best to fix it for her, in the interest of not wasting the food, and yeah.


Like THAT works.

Something invariably goes from wrong to worse.  A condiment will slightly leak out onto the crust, and she will take issue.  So, I'll try to fix it by swiping my finger along the side to catch the errant ooze, and that is also improper, because I have touched the sandwich I have been holding with my hands... and also made with my hands.


With my hands. 


With my hands.

That's wrong.

Before I realize what's happening, she has thrown the damn thing away.

A friend has made a suggestion that I am considering for the next time she does this, and that is to leave a clean plate over the trash in the can.  And when she throws it in, I'll say:  "HA!  Check that out!  You just done SERVED YOURSELF A SANDWICH!"

It probably won't work, but hey.  I need entertainment from time to time to keep myself from COMPLETELY LOSING MY SHIT.

I wish I could just take her for glittery pegacorn rides to the ice cream shop in the clouds of magic and wonder every day of the world.  But well?  I need to do more E before I can even conjure that image.  I doubt it would translate all that well for her, and she'd be asking:  "Mommy, why are you up on the plate rail, licking the ceiling?"

"Taste the clouds, child.  Taste the clouds."

Yeah.  E... probably not the best mother's little helper.  Sigh...