Monday, April 15, 2013

It's Genetic

It's time to announce another member of the Super Secret Society of Awesome Goddess!

What is this society, you ask? Read here to find out! Basically, it's a society of bloggers who are totally awesome and are each a goddess in their own right.

Today's member is a goddess for many reasons, but her drawings? They. Complete. Me. Like I might actually leave the husband and marry one of her drawings. That's legal, right?

Without further rambly ado, let's welcome TriGirl from Tri-ing to be Athletic! Please show her some love.

It's Genetic

Hey there, allow myself to introduce...myself. I stole that line from Austin Powers.  It just really helps to introduce you to my awkwardness right from the start.  My name is TriGirl. The awesome, one and only SARCASM GODDESS asked me to guest post and I was very excited to do so!
But, what to blog about? In my own blog, I talk about my attempts at being sporty.  However, I didn't want to do the same ol' same ol'. I was at a loss. And then, I met up with my parents in Florida for a little vacation and it hit me.  I'll write about them!
Ok,  me and them.  Because really, they're the tree and I'm the apple. Let's start with my dad, shall we?  He's punny.  I believe his goal in life is to see how many times he can cause people to groan at his punchlines.  Especially my mom.
Did I mention we were in Florida?  Land of the hurricane?? One day we were planning our daily events.  I jumped in quickly with some input.
I'm very helpful. And this might seem weird and random, but my husband is always pulling things out of my wallet that I "don't need" in order to make it smaller.  During our visit I noticed my dad's wallet and sent a photo of it home.
Whoa nelly.  (I posted it on Instagram.) Now let's move on to my mom.  I spend a lot of time laughing at with her because I can see why I inherently do the things I do. For example, the first day of our vacation I couldn't get out of our place, no matter how much I pulled the front door.
Not to be outdone, my mom struggled with the gate at the pool.
Like, every day. Sadly, clothing is a regular challenge for me.  I have a hard time getting in and out of shirts.
This was me trying to take off my long sleeve shirt at a race last year. I witnessed my mother having this dressing problem as well while we were getting ready to head out the door.
A couple of months ago, my ankle hurt for a week after I tripped over absolutely nothing, other than my shoe.
I do this often, by the way. Guess who also did this as we were sight seeing on our trip?
So, if you ever find yourself with me and my parents, you might want to walk on the other side of the street.
It's for your own safety. Thank you SARCASM GODDESS for letting me spend the day here!  I'm so glad you invited me!

***
 Aren't her drawings the bomb diggity? You know you want more of Tri Girl's awesome goddess goodness. Be sure to follow her blog and give her a lick on facebook and don't forget the twatter!

Comment gem!

Ken:
Apollo 13! Are you kidding me?

and there's the part, where Ken Mattingly is in the cold, dark simulator with only a flashlight and a notepad, trying to come up with the start up procedure for the command module without going over the amps they have left in the batteries!!!

Don't get me started on Apollo 13! There's absolutely nothing wrong with you at all!

Tuesday, April 9, 2013

Houston, I Have a Problem

I have an unhealthy obsession with Apollo 13. As in, the movie. I could watch it once a day, every day for the rest of my life and still not get enough of it. (I suppose I could remedy that by watching it twice a day every day for the rest of my life, but then people might think I'm weird.)

I'm not sure what it is about that movie that draws me to it like a bug to a bug zapper (thankfully my fate is not the same as that of those stupid insects; although sometimes I think my mental capacity is on par with theirs).

Perhaps it is the cast:
Bill Paxton? Yes, please.
Tom Hanks? Yes, please.
Gary Sinise? Yes, please.
Kevin Bacon? Did someone say BACON?!!!!!! Please sir, can I have some more?
Ed Harris? Yesyesyesyesyesyesyes

Maybe it's because it's not just a story but a story that really happened. It's truly a miracle that we (you know, cuz I had a lot to do with the success of the mission 12 years before my conception) were able to bring those guys home.

I don't doubt those things play a part in by obsession. But honestly? I think I'm turned on by all the intelligence. I'm not trying to suggest that I get all hot and bothered (yes I do) when they create a filter for the carbon dioxide scrubbers from the Command Module to work with the ones on the LM (and with that statement, everyone just stopped reading). I'm just saying that I appreciate a man with a big, huge brain who knows how to use it.

If I was in the command room when all that mess was going down, I would have thrown my arms in the air, shaken them wildly about while running from one end of the room to the other screaming, "What are we going to do! WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DOOOOOO!" until I exhausted myself and collapsed in a heap on the floor and peed my pants (clearly I'm good to have around in a crisis).

As soon as I finish watching the movie, I think when am I going to get to watch it again? Sometimes the answer is, right now! And I start it over again.

This is embarrassing. Why am I telling you guys this?

Lately, the urge it watch has been overwhelming. Last night, even though I was very, very tired, I just couldn't take it anymore and decided I had to watch. There was one small problem...I couldn't find the DVD.

I looked in the cabinet under the T.V.

Not there.

I looked in the DVD stand in our bedroom upstairs.

Not there.

The panic that had started in my stomach began to spread throughout my whole body. Where could the DVD be? Did someone steal it? Did the dogs eat it? In a fit of cleaning frenzy did I accidentally throw it away? (This possibility was quickly rejected due to my lack of cleaning frenzies ever.)

The husband was already in bed and asked me if I could turn off the light on the fan.

"I'm sorry but I cannot help you. I am dealing with a crisis right now. Much like the astronauts on Apollo 13."

Suddenly, I knew exactly how Jim Lovell, Fred Haise and Jack Swigert felt when that Master Alarm went off. The only difference in our situations was that they had a room full of engineers and rocket scientists helping them work the problem and I had two dogs (who took advantage of my absence in bed by laying on my pillow) and the husband who was more concerned with the bright overhead light impeding his ability to drift into dreamland than my state of duress.

Thankfully, he's smart enough to know that sleep would forever elude him if I didn't locate my beloved movie so he offered a helpful, "When was the last time you watched it?"

"I don't know! I don't know, I don't know, I don't know."

*cue sobbing*

Finally, I decided to check the DVD player (which is actually a Playstation 2) and there it was, Apollo 13. My precious.

My relief was short-lived. I pressed play and there was no sound.

*cue hysterics*

The husband, realizing the only way to fix this very traumatic situation was by taking a more active role, got out of bed and began fiddling with cords.

This is what the astronauts must have felt like when they realized they'd lost two of their fuel cells.

I, very helpfully, assisted the husband's efforts by unplugging the red, yellow, and white cables and very forcefully shoving the boy parts back into the girl parts (not recommended with humans, by the way) to ensure a proper connection. It didn't fix the problem, but thanks to the husband's big, huge, smart brain (or maybe just basic knowledge of cable connecting) the sound was restored.

Halleluj-


Just like the astronauts, I couldn't catch a break. Now the controller wasn't working. Instead of the solid red line indicating a properly functioning instrument that would allow me to press play, there was a flashing red line. Just like the Master Alarm!

My breaths started to come faster and were more shallow. My vision became cloudy and I started to feel dizzy. 

This is what the astronauts must have felt like when the level of carbon dioxide started to rise.

This time, unplugging and forcefully re-plugging the cord worked and the sweet taste of victory was mine! I could finally watch my dearly beloved Apollo 13.

I pressed play, moved the dogs off my pillow, settled into bed and thought I'm going to enjoy this even more because I had to work so hard for it. I'm going to be filled with so much more tension now that I know exactly the fear they experienced. This is going to be THE BEST VIEWING OF APOLLO 13 EVAH!

Fifteen minutes later, I was a sleep.

Comment gem!
 
Oh my god trumpet horn guy is for sure after you. Please be safe. Answer me. ANSWER ME.

Saturday, April 6, 2013

Go Ahead, Run With Scissors


It has recently come to my attention (by way of me) that I have a boring life. I have no one to blame for this but myself. I am too conservative (not in thought or philosophy- in fact the husband recently pointed out to me that I was a liberal, in which I think I doth protested too much, to which he pointed out that many of my beliefs were consistent with that of liberals, to which I was all, “Huh. I guess so.” I’m not sure yet how I feel about this but I’m pretty sure I don’t care.). It is my actions that are too conservative. I don’t take risks because OMG what if I get hurt? And also, I don’t like getting in trouble.

My single greatest act of rebellion was probably the time I threw a bouncy ball in chemistry class. Maybe they’re called Super Balls? I don’t know. They’re those super bouncy balls that you get out of vending machines at grocery stores (and depressing 24-hour diners). The boys in my class would take turns bouncing one or two a day off the walls, beakers, and lab desks (with the occasional rebound off Miss V’s head). Surprisingly, Miss V was not amused by this and confiscated them every day and tossed them her top desk drawer. That’s a far as her punishment went though, so maybe she did have a sense of humor about the whole thing. 

Until Dark Day happened.

Dark Day was the day the boys decided to purchase the entire world’s bouncy ball supply, turn off the lights and unleash them all at once. All the girls knew what was coming but none of us did anything to stop it. In fact, some of us might have participated. And some of us might have been me.

I grabbed one of the bouncy balls and when the lights went out, I threw it.

Ha! Like I would actually be so daring.

What I actually did was let it fall from my hands where it bounced off the floor and hit my shin and rolled under the cabinet. At least, I assume that’s where it ended up. I don’t actually know because true to its name, Dark Day was dark, yo. I didn’t need my sight, though, to know that what was happening was epic. I kept my head ducked while a thousand orbs of rubber bounced off every surface of the room and every part of my private-school uniformed body with the skirt exactly two inches above my knee because following rules completes me.

The balls pinged off my body with the fervor of a bullet from a gun, but not before making deep impressions in my flesh. It was mildly traumatic, and I still have the dimples in my ass as a constant reminder of that day.

No wait, that’s just cellulite.

Miss V’s shrill voice cut through the mayhem as she screamed for someone to, “turn the lights.” Any humor she previously had about the bouncy balls was now gone. She was not happy. In fact, she looked like she wanted to cy. Which made me feel really badly about the part I had played in Dark Day.

Poor Miss V. She didn’t deserve this. She was so nice. She was always willing to stay late the day before a chemistry test to tutor me and a friend because we couldn’t be bothered to pay attention in class in the weeks leading up to said test.

In our defense, Chemistry was really boring.

Dark Day was a good reminder that it’s okay to play it safe in life. Okay, but mind-numbingly boring.

It’s not so much that I am unhappy by the ennui which fills my days. It’s just that I’m a writer (or at least trying to be). And in order to write about life, you have to live life. And not just any life but life that is Interesting! and Exotic! and Spectacular! Call me crazy, but I don’t think journaling the accounts of which 500 piece puzzle I purchased from the Dollar Store for my Friday night activity falls under any of those categories (I went with Wonders of Nature in case anyone is curious.).

Any writer worth her salt has a good imagination. Perhaps what I need is not a more exciting life, but a greater ability to imagine.

The husband would tell you that I'm perfectly well-equipped in that department. For awhile now, I’ve suspected that the neighbor who stands on his balcony and plays three notes on his trumpet (the husband says it’s a French horn. I say trumpet. Potato, Potahto.) every few weeks without ever getting better, is not, in fact, practicing as he would have you believe, but is, in fact, announcing that he has captured yet another female and locked her is dungeon to torture and kill her – a three note victory cry, if you will. 

The husband argues that I am insane. I argue that this is a perfectly logical assumption and why is it exactly that we haven’t called the police yet? There are lives at stake!

He also thought it was ludicrous of me to think that our very attentive, overly polite waiter last night was a psychopath.* ( I’m sorry, but people just aren’t that nice.) (Also, the husband is right. Being overly-polite less implies psychopath and more expresses sociopath.)

A few weeks ago I sought to remedy my dull existence by running with a pair of scissors. There are few activities known to be more greatly forbidden than trotting about with sharp pointy things. Especially if those pointy things are facing in the general direction of up, as in toward your eye.
 
Violating this law must be a real thrill! A real heart thumper! A real vein-busting surge of adrenaline!

To make it even more of a thrill ride, I waited until the husband wasn’t home. Nothing amps up the excitement like knowing it will be hours before you are rescued should your jaunt with recklessness go horribly wrong.

I grabbed my favorite pair of blue-handled scissors (when breaking the rules, I recommend selecting only the finest of instruments with which to do it) and ran from my kitchen to my living room. And back.

You guys? It was not thrilling. I did not have to pee from excitement, nor poo from nervousness, nor did I excrete even one drop of sweat. (Nothing says danger like an adventure that ends with an ass-clenching run to the bathroom).

It’s possible that the experience fell short of my expectations because instead of actually running, I walked fast. Well, kinda fast. Because running with scissors? OMG I could get hurt!

Sometimes in life, you just have to call a spade a spade. And this spade? Is lame. And likes to do puzzles. So off I shall go to put together the 500 pieces of wondrous nature.

Rest assured, I will detail every unspectacular minute of it upon my return.

*For the record, I am an excellent judge of character and more often than not, my concerns are justified. It's called Woman's Intuition, ladies. Don't ignore it. And the next time you hear the strangled cry of a brass instrument, lace up those shoes and start running.


Comment gem!
 
Mountain woman ape hair blowing in the wind is sexy. At the very least it provides traction.