Cookie Monster

Before proceeding with this post, please take a moment to read this post for necessary background information.

Go ahead. I'll wait.

Welcome back! Now that you're up-to-date on my adventures as a Summit camp counselor during the summer of 1999, I can continue. (As an aside, has anyone ever told you what a slow reader you are? Tisk, tisk.)

During my sentence...er...time as a Summit counselor, I was happy to uphold the weekly Thursday night tradition of making Banana Boats around the camp fire with the campers. If you aren't familiar, Banana Boats are a weary counselor's answer to being all S'mored out. Ingredients of this beloved dessert include bananas, marshmallows, and crumbled up Chips Ahoy cookies, all heated over a campfire.

Now would be a good time to note that the storage of food and cleaning of dishes was always an important task, what with all the wildlife who would gladly snack on our leftovers. One particular Thursday night, after dinner had been prepared, eaten, and properly cleaned up, we set about the task of building the campfire and assembling our Banana Boats.

As was typical, there was a flurry of activity surrounding these events - half the counselors busy making sure no one flung themselves into the fire, the other half assisting the campers in their maiden Banana Boat voyages.

This is when the details get a little fuzzy. I remember being the last adult under the food pavilion while everyone else gathered a few yards away around the campfire. During a last second visual sweep of the area, I noticed an abandoned sleeve of Chips Ahoy cookies open on the table, and hastily collected and deposited it in the nearest food cabinet before heading to join the others at the campfire.

About 30 minutes later, after songs had been sung and Banana Boats eaten - in the pitch black night in the middle of the woods in the North Georgia mountains - we declared bed time and tucked our campers in. It was then that I returned to the food pavilion alone, gas lantern in hand, to secure everything for the night. I noticed a slightly ajar cabinet at the top of the pavilion steps. Not thinking much of it, I flung it open to begin fastening the "wildlife proof" safety latches. Imagine my surprise when I saw this, staring back at me:

A RACCOON! As long as I live, I'll never forget that moment. Two beady, reflective eyes staring at me. He was holding a Chips Ahoy cookie to his mouth with both little paws. I have never screamed so loud or run so fast. The noise I uttered must've been something straight from a horror movie because people came running toward me with panic in their eyes. By the time anyone made it back to the pavilion to investigate, the raccoon was long gone.

Oh, heavens.

Looking back, 11 years later, I often wonder if the whole thing actually happened. But it did. I know it did.

I don't startle easily.

The Agony of Defeat (or De Wrist, in my case)

I'm (finally) well on the road to total wrist recovery, as evidenced by the gnarly yellow, blue, and purple polka dotted bruise on the outside of my left forearm. Dude.

In retrospect, I wish I would've included "go for 5 days with the use of only one arm" to THE LIST. But alas, even I couldn't anticipate sustaining such an injury. For your viewing pleasure, I've compiled a list of things that are easier to do with two arms. Enjoy:

Things That Are Easier To Do With Two Arms:
1. type
2. button pants
3. fasten a bra (sorry, dad)
4. close a car door
5. make a sandwich
6. shave both armpits (sorry again, dad)
7. apply deodorant
8. remove or insert contact lenses
9. clap
10. put hair in a ponytail (which I do EVERY SINGLE STINKIN' DAY)

Turns out I'm not a very good injured person. I hate asking for help. I get frustrated easily. I squirm when people offer sympathy. I wallow in my own pity party. I revert to a tantrum-throwing three year old and mentally scream "I can do it BY MYSELF!"

Trust me when I say the entire world is really glad that I'm almost back to full left arm use.

That's especially true of those who have had to endure 9 days of my bad hair (see #10).

Hunting and Pecking

When my friend Eric asked if i wanted to join his co-ed flag football team for the last game of their season, it took me about .7 seconds to say "YES!" I played intramural flag football in college and again in a co-ed league in charleston a few years ago. That league was sponsored by a church and they had the GALL to instate a rule that any touchdown scored by a woman was worth 8 points instead of 6. If the budget would've allowed, I'd say they also would've cued harps, a choir of angels, and a heavenly spotlight. Don;t get me started.

The game was last night, and i'm now the proud owner of a sprained left wrist. As i type this post with my right hand, my left is sandwiched between two bags of ice. I llanded on it with all my body weight, causing it to move in a way that wrists should never move, accompanied by a frightening "POP!" which I think is wrist speak for "WHAT THE..." I immediately started seeing stars and felt like i might puke right there on the scene. However, pride and self preservation took over and, channeling my mother, I willed myself to stay conscience and not puke. After all, with the exception of Eric, I knew no one. How embarrassing. As soon as I sat down on the sidelines, I felt immediately better...except for the pesky wrist part.

I would like to state for the record that I can wiggle, extend, and make a fist with all my fingers without pain, and my wrist moves in all directions. I have had more than my fair share of experience with sprained ankles, and this feels EXACTLY like that, only in a different and much more frustrating location.

Also, for the record, I scored the team's first touchdown.

It was worth 6 points.

A Gangster's Paradise

Today is my 15th day on the job, and finally, I feel able to show you the results of an event I've dubbed "Oh, my gosh this place is such a wreck I think I might hyperventilate". In other words, I've finally finished cleaning out my office.

As a reminder, here's the office as I found it on my first day:


I know, right? As much as I'd like to, I can't take all the credit for the transformation. There were actual people who actually volunteered to come in and help me sort through the mounds and mounds of disaster. Can you believe that? People came. On purpose. To help.

The results:


LOOK! I have a floor! With carpet! Can't you just breathe easier just LOOKING at it? Doesn't it seem like this is a space where a person might actually be able to form a creative thought and make some butt-kickin' plans? I'm just sorry you can't smell the vanilla scented candle. Mmmmmmmmmm...vanilla.

As a bonus, here's the supply room that I couldn't even step in at the beginning:


Anyone up for a little macaroni art?

Pet Peeve Monday

Just when I think the Peeve well has run dry, I remember a major Peeve and think to myself, "self, how did you forget this one?!?!"

While the practice of writing on one's self isn't exclusively a teenage phenomenon, I do get the most mileage out of this Peeve when "hanging" with my youth group. Seriously? You just wrote all over your hand with a blue magic marker. You know that's tacky, right? Seriously? You just sat there while your friend gave you an "I (heart) mom" tattoo with a ball point pen. Seriously? And you know you have to go to school tomorrow and that's not going to come off before then, right? Seriously?

And you tell me it's because you couldn't find any paper. Seriously?

Pain to my heart, I tell ya. Pain and Peeve.

#20

Number 20 on THE LIST was an intimidating challenge indeed. Grill Fish. To others, it may seem like a benign, even enjoyable task. To me, because I'd never done it before, it only meant one thing: risk of failure.

That's why I added it to THE LIST.

The fish grillin' took place the same weekend my parents were in town. After the gun slingin' and some lunch, we headed to Mt. Pleasant Seafood to purchase some fresh-from-the-boat fish that would be good for grillin'. The helpful deckhand in the stinky establishment recommended wahoo, to which I said..."Wahoo!"

After an afternoon nap, a shower, and a wardrobe change, it was dinner time and the grillin' began:

The menu: Grilled Wahoo in a marinade I found online, grilled pineapple, and grilled asparagus. (And no, my oven isn't broken. Why do you ask?)

The grill master:
The finished product: (Please note that, while I do struggle with portion control, this was not my dinner plate.)

My parents, Jeremy and I all agreed that the food was good, but the fish was overcooked. I hear that's a problem amongst seafood cookers - the propensity to unintentionally overcook. But everyone ate it anyway and we gave the leftovers to Elsie the dog and she didn't complain, so I guess I was marginally successful.

Also, no one died. Or gagged. So that's good.

If you're keeping track, the tally stands at 11 of 30 things completed, with 6 months left. I better pick up the pace!

Twilight Zone?

Truth be told, my enthusiasm for blogging has waned since I started my new job 15 days ago. You could tell, couldn't you? It's just that my mind has a finite amount of space for new thoughts, ideas, and questions, and currently the "needs further analysis" file in my brain has reached maximum capacity thanks to the wonders brought on by a new job! With new things to think about! Because I haven't worked here for almost 9 years!

Wait...what's that? You couldn't tell? Oh...well...in that case, let's carry on, shall we?

The strangest thing happened to me yesterday afternoon. I was at work, working away, as a working person does, when I casually glanced at the clock and it was 4:15. Instead of feeling a rush of "yipee! Only 45 more minutes left!", as has been my reaction for far longer than I care to admit, I felt a wave of disappointment that the work day was almost over.

Huh? Seriously? Did that just happen? Do people really FEEL this way about their jobs? And how long will this feeling last...the one of actually liking my job?

My guess is that the novelty will last until the first kid kicks me.

Which is precisely why I bought shin guards.

Pet Peeve Monday

I can do no better today than I did last year at this time:

Pet Peeve Monday, September 2009

#14

Ready, aim, fire. #14 on THE LIST (shoot a gun) has been accomplished.

Say hello to my little friends:

Who knew packing tape could be considered so deadly?

Since Jeremy and I began dating in January, he's repeatedly asked me if I want to go shoot guns. He bears arms. Three of them, as a matter of fact.

My parents came to visit last weekend (hi, Mom and Dad!) and I wanted to take advantage of their visit by marking a few things off THE LIST. Shoot a gun seemed like a logical place to start.

The pre-game consultation:

(Please note the hands-on-my-hips. Sometime I'll tell you the story about how I'm really competitive and thus kind of hate learning new things. Nice body language, Bits.) (Also, Jeremy wears those ear muffs when I start talking about my feelings.)

And then, the madness began:

I'm a lover, not a fighter:

The guy next to us was shooting some high powered rifle that was so loud and high powered that my hat actually, literally MOVED when he fired. I did not heart it.

Not to be outdone by the noisy-next-door-rifle firer, I tried my hand at it.

It hurt. I did not heart it, either. This is my fake smile:

In my mind, I'm thinking, "ow, ow, ow, ow, get this gun out of my hand, ow, ow, ow."

When the dust and gun powder finally settled, we retrieved our target:

And also, toward the end of the outing, it hit me that I had inadvertently orchestrated the fruition of every country western song about dads, guns, and boyfriends. How sweet.