This past weekend, I spent it in Eastern Oregon with my Polish Beauty sidekick, Miss W. Prineville is a beautiful town but we decided to see the sights and grace the warm springs of Kah-Nee-Ta with our presence. The waters of Kah-Nee-Ta are thought to be healing waters if swam in. So, Miss W insisted that we take a little dip in the pool. The same pool she continued to throw me around in. Fully dressed. Neither of us had our swimsuits or any towels. Unfortunately, I soon discovered it’s near impossible to put skinny jeans on while soaked and have vowed to never attempt to do so again. I’m stealing a fucking towel next time.
While we were splashing around in the pool like two fully clothed weirdos, I spotted a younger boy with a cross tattooed…on his face. He was moderately attractive with his olive skin and silky dark locks but mostly, he reminded me of a former Indian lover of mine (who shall not be named at the moment). Naturally, I was curious about it. What inspires one to brand their face? Miss W insisted I follow through with my curiosity and question him about his ink. As I ventured closer to the lad, I noticed he was in fact older and had a difficult time focusing his eyes in one spot for an extended period of time. I couldn’t tell what was exactly going on with them. They were slightly cross-eyed yet cock-eyed. His eyes were also blood-shot. Probably due to all the chlorine, of course.
The cross tattoo was right below his left eye and was no bigger than your average quarter. I gathered up the courage and asked, “Hey, I really like your tat. Where did you get your ink done at?”
The man-boy looked at me for a second and then up at the sky and said, “I did it myself…in jail.” After he spat this reassuring news, he smiled all creepy-like and had a crazy look in his already crazy eyes.
I stood there, motionless, feeling rather frightened all of a sudden. “Oh, well, how did you manage to do that?” I spat out without thinking.
“I just did it with…things,” he responded as he began to poke at his tattoo.
“Oh. Cool. Well, it’s really pretty. Nice job.” I then swam the opposite direction and decided that I should stick with my no-questioning-strangers-policy for the rest of my life.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
The Journey for Pickles and all its Hardships
Last Friday, in the midst of a long, tiresome 8-hour day at the library, I took my well-deserved lunch break at Starbucks to meet up with a friend, Chris. Before I departed, a fellow co-worker made a request, an order that caught me completely off guard. She handed me 50 cents and asked if I could grab her a miniature cup of pickles from Quizno’s. Although I found her request strange, I refrained from delving into her personal matters any further. From my experience associated with the Veneta bus, I eventually learned it was better to refrain from asking too many questions. You learn things you shouldn’t like, how much people like to poop.
I nodded conveying I would kindly take up this questionable deed, unaware of the impending consequences. I simply proceeded to ask her if she would like any mustard with her lonely cup of pickles. She gave me a weird face and said, “No. Just pickles you weirdo.” I disregarded that ego-boosting comment and commenced operation: pickles.
I safely made it to Starbucks, chatted with Chris, and then ventured over to Quizno’s with one thing in mind: pickles. I asked the nice man at the counter how many pickles I could get with a quarter. The man, who’s bald head was so finely polished I could’ve sworn I saw my reflection when the light hit it just right, gave me a quizzical look and said I could grab a cup full at the pickle bar near the assorted drinks. Who knew Quizno’s had a pickle bar? A bar of options dedicated to pickles? What the hell? Just one more reason why I prefer Subway. Eat Fresh.
I sauntered my way over there, accompanied by Chris, and scooped myself a generous helping of finely sliced pickles. As I used my massive bicep to snap the lid, Bald sandwich man yelled from the counter, “So, what’s the deal? Are you pregnant?”
I stood there. With my pickles. Shocked. What kind of a question was that?! Is he even allowed to ask such a thing even if it was clearly evident I had a bun in the oven? But clearly, I was not with child and clearly, he was out of line with such a question.
I gasped and said, “Excuse me? Does it even remotely look like I’m pregnant? Are pickles good for pregnancy or something? Why would you even ask that?”
“Oh, well, all I know is that pregnant women have these uncontrollable cravings and I just thought that these pickles were one of your uncontrollable cravings,” he stupidly replied.
“Well, you thought wrong bucko.” I scoffed.
And then, just like the cherry on the top of a disastrous sundae, Chris touched my arm and asked, “Oh, honey, do you need some more pickles?”
Screw Pickles.
I nodded conveying I would kindly take up this questionable deed, unaware of the impending consequences. I simply proceeded to ask her if she would like any mustard with her lonely cup of pickles. She gave me a weird face and said, “No. Just pickles you weirdo.” I disregarded that ego-boosting comment and commenced operation: pickles.
I safely made it to Starbucks, chatted with Chris, and then ventured over to Quizno’s with one thing in mind: pickles. I asked the nice man at the counter how many pickles I could get with a quarter. The man, who’s bald head was so finely polished I could’ve sworn I saw my reflection when the light hit it just right, gave me a quizzical look and said I could grab a cup full at the pickle bar near the assorted drinks. Who knew Quizno’s had a pickle bar? A bar of options dedicated to pickles? What the hell? Just one more reason why I prefer Subway. Eat Fresh.
I sauntered my way over there, accompanied by Chris, and scooped myself a generous helping of finely sliced pickles. As I used my massive bicep to snap the lid, Bald sandwich man yelled from the counter, “So, what’s the deal? Are you pregnant?”
I stood there. With my pickles. Shocked. What kind of a question was that?! Is he even allowed to ask such a thing even if it was clearly evident I had a bun in the oven? But clearly, I was not with child and clearly, he was out of line with such a question.
I gasped and said, “Excuse me? Does it even remotely look like I’m pregnant? Are pickles good for pregnancy or something? Why would you even ask that?”
“Oh, well, all I know is that pregnant women have these uncontrollable cravings and I just thought that these pickles were one of your uncontrollable cravings,” he stupidly replied.
“Well, you thought wrong bucko.” I scoffed.
And then, just like the cherry on the top of a disastrous sundae, Chris touched my arm and asked, “Oh, honey, do you need some more pickles?”
Screw Pickles.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
The Last Song --> The Last Miley Cyrus Movie I'll Ever Watch
The treasured Miley Cyrus movie, The Last Song, was finally available at our local movie gallery, Rays. I rented it without a moment’s hesitation because I had to find out for myself how horrid Miley Cyrus’s snaggle tooth is. The rumors were true, slap some Invisiline on that girl. It actually wasn’t too dreadful but if one has more than enough money to correct a little noticeable imperfection, such as a snaggle tooth, why not fix it? I fixed mine and now the kids at school don’t make fun of me. Life is great. Perhaps Miley believes it adds character to her smile, her persona. Honestly, no matter what the child does, she’ll always resemble a little chipmunk to me. She could definitely be the fourth chipmunk addition to the current three. Her voice is nasal enough to join that little band as well. She’s set.
But the movie, overall, was fairly decent. I guess I am just embarrassed about the fact I couldn’t stop crying near the end. I am embarrassed by the fact that a Miley Cyrus movie affected my emotional well-being enough to induce tears. Tears I will never be able to get back. Oh well, it just goes to show that even the toughest of the tough can convey emotion. I used a whole roll of toilet paper I could’ve used on my ass but that’s the price I pay for putting in that video. Miley’s boy-toy in the movie was the equivalent to a babe and a half and has become a recent addition on my “To-Marry” List.
My younger brother walked in on my drooling, babbling self. Pointed. And laughed. I tried to throw my snotty tissues at him but it was to no avail. I was emotionally drained at this point and could do only one thing: cry.
Congratulations Miley Cyrus. You got the best of me. Just know, that I “Can’t Be Tamed.”
But the movie, overall, was fairly decent. I guess I am just embarrassed about the fact I couldn’t stop crying near the end. I am embarrassed by the fact that a Miley Cyrus movie affected my emotional well-being enough to induce tears. Tears I will never be able to get back. Oh well, it just goes to show that even the toughest of the tough can convey emotion. I used a whole roll of toilet paper I could’ve used on my ass but that’s the price I pay for putting in that video. Miley’s boy-toy in the movie was the equivalent to a babe and a half and has become a recent addition on my “To-Marry” List.
My younger brother walked in on my drooling, babbling self. Pointed. And laughed. I tried to throw my snotty tissues at him but it was to no avail. I was emotionally drained at this point and could do only one thing: cry.
Congratulations Miley Cyrus. You got the best of me. Just know, that I “Can’t Be Tamed.”
Monday, August 23, 2010
Too Much Texture
The other day I ventured to see Joan Jett, the 50 year old rocker who sings the old-time classic “I Love Rockin’ Roll,” at the Lane County Fair with a boy. Yes, a boy. Not just any boy in particular. We met in improv class and pretty much instantly clicked right after we performed our “Train Robbery” scene. I was a helpless damsel and he was a mute train robber who threatened to kill me. It was a hit, especially after he slapped on those hand-cuffs ;)
Did I mention he could play the bagpipes and dresses like Mel Gibson from Brave Heart for fun? I do believe we have potential but unfortunately, the date was something out of the unexpected. Let’s just say I’m bringing my little sister next time.
On the way to the fair though, something extremely odd occurred as I purchased my Pomegranate Vitamin water at the register situated inside our beloved WalMart. The lady in front of me, I kid you not, was buying 15+ massive containers of yogurt. All kinds of yogurt from strawberry, strawberry banana, to banana. It was as if this lady thought the world was soon going to undergo a yogurt scarcity of some sort. I’d be surprised if that WalMart has any yogurt left. Perhaps she was going to have an “All-Yogurt-Party” or she was pregnant and had uncontrollable yogurt cravings. Maybe she had 12 kids at home who had to be on an all-yogurt-diet? As my mind was racing with all these possibilities the clerk was also both curious and alarmed at this vast amount of yogurt. This was definitely enough yogurt to feed 20 people who had their wisdom teeth removed or perhaps enough to feed a small African country. She asked her what it was for but alas, I couldn’t hear the answer because the beep on the checking machine was too loud. I was crushed. But I never give up hope, so I asked the clerk if the lady had a child who had his teeth removed. She simply shook her head no and responded with zero emotion, “Her son does not like the texture of food and therefore, only consumes yogurt.”
I was completely distraught and could only feel sorry for this child’s bowel movements. God help him.
Did I mention he could play the bagpipes and dresses like Mel Gibson from Brave Heart for fun? I do believe we have potential but unfortunately, the date was something out of the unexpected. Let’s just say I’m bringing my little sister next time.
On the way to the fair though, something extremely odd occurred as I purchased my Pomegranate Vitamin water at the register situated inside our beloved WalMart. The lady in front of me, I kid you not, was buying 15+ massive containers of yogurt. All kinds of yogurt from strawberry, strawberry banana, to banana. It was as if this lady thought the world was soon going to undergo a yogurt scarcity of some sort. I’d be surprised if that WalMart has any yogurt left. Perhaps she was going to have an “All-Yogurt-Party” or she was pregnant and had uncontrollable yogurt cravings. Maybe she had 12 kids at home who had to be on an all-yogurt-diet? As my mind was racing with all these possibilities the clerk was also both curious and alarmed at this vast amount of yogurt. This was definitely enough yogurt to feed 20 people who had their wisdom teeth removed or perhaps enough to feed a small African country. She asked her what it was for but alas, I couldn’t hear the answer because the beep on the checking machine was too loud. I was crushed. But I never give up hope, so I asked the clerk if the lady had a child who had his teeth removed. She simply shook her head no and responded with zero emotion, “Her son does not like the texture of food and therefore, only consumes yogurt.”
I was completely distraught and could only feel sorry for this child’s bowel movements. God help him.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Veneta- History Best Left Unknown
A few days ago I decided I needed to incorporate some spice into my life and check out a spicy, hott romance novel drenched with passion on every page. So, my father and I drove to our local library and I checked out a sexy romance novel entitled, Temptations. Just the title of the book was tempting enough but the bulging muscles of the man pictured on the cover became the real deal-clincher. I read the little spoiler on the back and it was about a covert undercover accountant trying to solve a mystery but falls in love inadvertently along the way. My resistance to the muscles on the cover was growing weak and I caved in. I am now halfway through Temptations and loving it.
But after I checked out the book, my father and I walked by some questionable looking individuals on the way to our vehicle. It’s no surprise, though, for Veneta is known for being home to the questionable-looking sort. Of course after every “interesting” person we pass by in this town, my father cannot keep from asking, “Hey Rachelle, they a friend of yours?” I usually respond by ducking my head and by very quickly responding, “No. Dad. They look your age.”
Out of nowhere then, my father begins to explain to me why many people in Veneta appear as if they have derived from an incest-filled past. It is because…many people did have some incest in their family tree. I was completely shocked and distraught at this news. It all made sense. I have definitely seen some people who could have been casted in the movie Deliverance or Hunchback of Notre Dame. I then proceeded to ask my father why we moved out here again and he simply responded, “For your Catholic education, of course.” I thanked God that I had no incest in my ancestry and for my impressive taste in choosing romance novels.
A very important question was answered for me today. “Why do many people in this town look a little too related?”
Answer: Because they are.
But after I checked out the book, my father and I walked by some questionable looking individuals on the way to our vehicle. It’s no surprise, though, for Veneta is known for being home to the questionable-looking sort. Of course after every “interesting” person we pass by in this town, my father cannot keep from asking, “Hey Rachelle, they a friend of yours?” I usually respond by ducking my head and by very quickly responding, “No. Dad. They look your age.”
Out of nowhere then, my father begins to explain to me why many people in Veneta appear as if they have derived from an incest-filled past. It is because…many people did have some incest in their family tree. I was completely shocked and distraught at this news. It all made sense. I have definitely seen some people who could have been casted in the movie Deliverance or Hunchback of Notre Dame. I then proceeded to ask my father why we moved out here again and he simply responded, “For your Catholic education, of course.” I thanked God that I had no incest in my ancestry and for my impressive taste in choosing romance novels.
A very important question was answered for me today. “Why do many people in this town look a little too related?”
Answer: Because they are.
Madam Big Eyes
Nothing grants me as much joy as riding the city bus every morning to my beloved job at the University library. No, nothing even comes close except for indescribable taste of coffee, which I recently have taken up again. Giving up coffee was by far the worst idea I have ever developed. The past month has been excruciatingly painful and I have vowed never to put myself through such suffering anymore. I truly do feel as if I have discovered what’s been missing in my life. Life has purpose once again. I felt like a crack addict being reunited with the only substance that understands them and their every need. Sleep really is a symptom of caffeine deprivation. My love for coffee is everlasting and our bond will never be broken. Amen.
As I finished my elixir of life on the bus, I noticed one of my favorite passengers happen to be riding which of whom I call, “Madam Big Eyes.” I have decided to endow her with such a nick-name because every time someone tells her something she reacts with enormous eyes threatening to pop out of socket and is accompanied by a huge gasp of, “Oh my Goodness!” She is probably around her early 60’s and always leaves her mouth open. It saves time I guess when she becomes surprised.
This morning, some man was talking to her about an argument he recently had with another man and he happened to mention his rifle. All I know is that Madam Big Eye’s face must have been exhausted after this story because I have never seen a more animated face. I even became exhausted just watching the wrinkly face contort. I stared in amazement while subtlety trying to mind my own business. I’ve learned the hard way about holding eye contact with fellow passengers on the Veneta bus. Many believe it’s an automatic invitation to start sharing life story.
Madam Big Eyes noticed me staring and quickly said, “Oh, don’t mind me darling. My face does this all the time.” I was completely caught off guard and responded, “Oh, no I’m sorry. It must be a good story with a face like that.” The elderly lady quietly chuckled and immediately returned to her big-eyed self. She knew she made these faces yet she still made them? I then got the sinking feeling that perhaps she couldn’t control how her face reacted and felt a little bad for her. I tried not to look at her the rest of the ride and it was by far the hardest task especially with her yelling, “Oh no!,” “Dear goodness!,” “No!” It was almost as hard as giving up coffee. Almost.
As I finished my elixir of life on the bus, I noticed one of my favorite passengers happen to be riding which of whom I call, “Madam Big Eyes.” I have decided to endow her with such a nick-name because every time someone tells her something she reacts with enormous eyes threatening to pop out of socket and is accompanied by a huge gasp of, “Oh my Goodness!” She is probably around her early 60’s and always leaves her mouth open. It saves time I guess when she becomes surprised.
This morning, some man was talking to her about an argument he recently had with another man and he happened to mention his rifle. All I know is that Madam Big Eye’s face must have been exhausted after this story because I have never seen a more animated face. I even became exhausted just watching the wrinkly face contort. I stared in amazement while subtlety trying to mind my own business. I’ve learned the hard way about holding eye contact with fellow passengers on the Veneta bus. Many believe it’s an automatic invitation to start sharing life story.
Madam Big Eyes noticed me staring and quickly said, “Oh, don’t mind me darling. My face does this all the time.” I was completely caught off guard and responded, “Oh, no I’m sorry. It must be a good story with a face like that.” The elderly lady quietly chuckled and immediately returned to her big-eyed self. She knew she made these faces yet she still made them? I then got the sinking feeling that perhaps she couldn’t control how her face reacted and felt a little bad for her. I tried not to look at her the rest of the ride and it was by far the hardest task especially with her yelling, “Oh no!,” “Dear goodness!,” “No!” It was almost as hard as giving up coffee. Almost.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Bless Me Father, For I See You
For some odd reason, nothing produces a bigger feeling of awkwardness within me than seeing my priest outside of his usual priestly habitat. I know such occurences should not be uncomfortable but it just feels unnatural seeing one’s priest roaming around outside of church with the rest of us mere mortals. Especially at a hippie-infested congregation also known as the country fair or at the classy cheap theater, for the movie Prince of Persia no less.
Each time I see this 6’ 3’’ giant (making it impossible to miss him), the same thoughts run through my mind, “Do I say hello or save us both from embarrassment and exit quietly?” “Should I be here?” “Should he even be here?” “Why is he HERE?”
I first saw Father out of his holy domain at the renowned country fair. This is possibly the last place I would ever expect to see this man of God, besides a strip club of course. Unless he was trying to preach and convert the hippies, I just could not picture him here. Mostly because there happens to be many men and women who love to express themselves in unconventional ways such as painted ta-ta’s and wiener-socks. I am just thanking the dear Lord I refrained from wearing my bikini top that day. My stomach was looking rather bloated early that morning. If I saw Father with my bloated, exposed belly, I would have been mortified and pretty sure I would have found a new church to join.
I saw Father close to where the topless violinists were playing and he was in his full priestly attire making him appear like some white- robed preacher. All he was missing was a staff. Father was following some little old lady dressed in leaves and she was sporting a nice set of fairy wings. I really did love her glitter face paint though and wondered why Father didn’t have any on. I yelled at him from a distance and he came over with the fairy who I was introduced to and was told to address her by, “The Hemp Fairy.” Apparently, the “Hemp Fairy” has given my priest free tickets to the country fair for the past two years and Father just loves coming. I refrained from asking how they met mostly because I needed to escape from this awkward moment from hell. I simply said good bye to Father and the “Hemp Fairy” after a few minutes and prayed I would not run into that little duo again.
About a month later, I run into Father again at the movie theater for Prince of Persia. He was in normal clothes which was surprisingly uncomfortable for his legs are just so long. He was with some random group of people I have never seen before and I did not say hi this time. I’m pretty sure he heard me behind him though…where I sat the entire movie. That’s all right though. We had a silent understanding. I’m just hoping the next time I see him will be in church. Please.
Each time I see this 6’ 3’’ giant (making it impossible to miss him), the same thoughts run through my mind, “Do I say hello or save us both from embarrassment and exit quietly?” “Should I be here?” “Should he even be here?” “Why is he HERE?”
I first saw Father out of his holy domain at the renowned country fair. This is possibly the last place I would ever expect to see this man of God, besides a strip club of course. Unless he was trying to preach and convert the hippies, I just could not picture him here. Mostly because there happens to be many men and women who love to express themselves in unconventional ways such as painted ta-ta’s and wiener-socks. I am just thanking the dear Lord I refrained from wearing my bikini top that day. My stomach was looking rather bloated early that morning. If I saw Father with my bloated, exposed belly, I would have been mortified and pretty sure I would have found a new church to join.
I saw Father close to where the topless violinists were playing and he was in his full priestly attire making him appear like some white- robed preacher. All he was missing was a staff. Father was following some little old lady dressed in leaves and she was sporting a nice set of fairy wings. I really did love her glitter face paint though and wondered why Father didn’t have any on. I yelled at him from a distance and he came over with the fairy who I was introduced to and was told to address her by, “The Hemp Fairy.” Apparently, the “Hemp Fairy” has given my priest free tickets to the country fair for the past two years and Father just loves coming. I refrained from asking how they met mostly because I needed to escape from this awkward moment from hell. I simply said good bye to Father and the “Hemp Fairy” after a few minutes and prayed I would not run into that little duo again.
About a month later, I run into Father again at the movie theater for Prince of Persia. He was in normal clothes which was surprisingly uncomfortable for his legs are just so long. He was with some random group of people I have never seen before and I did not say hi this time. I’m pretty sure he heard me behind him though…where I sat the entire movie. That’s all right though. We had a silent understanding. I’m just hoping the next time I see him will be in church. Please.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Towed to Humiliation
I somehow miraculously made it to my destination: the campground. It was a lonely three hours but thanks to my beats, namely Jeremih’s up-tempo version of “Birthday Sex,” and thanks to the final directions given to me by the creepy gas-station lady, the drive was but a blur. Thank God for Google-Map Step-By-Step Directions. And for Jeremih. I have recently developed a long-term plan to marry him. On my Birthday ;)
The following morning, as I woke up to my own pool of drool on my sleeping bag, I mentally prepared myself for what was to come: kayaking. I didn’t know too much about the activity other than it involved paddling and that with too much movement, it could easily tip. I thought that due to my muscular yet feminine biceps, the paddling I could perform with an ease but I’m not one for remaining still. I knew one thing was for sure. This was going to be the adventure of a lifetime. Perhaps kayaking is my hidden talent and that I am, in fact, the Lance Armstrong of kayaking. Dream big.
Once we arrived at the departure site, we were all ordered to strap on our lifejackets and to attach red little rape-whistles on them, in case the kayak should sink. Or, if the kayaker we get paired up with happens to be a major creep and you require back up. There were a total of 16 kayakers and two guides who graciously educated us throughout the tour on how all the rock formations formed. Mind-blowing.
My younger sister Yvonne insisted that we share a kayak together because her other partner option was, Diana. Enough said.
According to our guide, the kayaker who sits in the front is usually the power-paddler and the kayaker who sits in the back holds the most responsibility. The kayaker in the back must be the one with intellect and carry natural instincts for they are in control of the most crucial element to kayaking, steering. So, naturally, I sat in the back and Yvonne sat in the front. We were soon to discover though that we lacked both power and brains.
Yvonne would paddle hard and I would try my best to steer but it would only slow us down. I admit it. I had no idea what the hell I was doing and we eventually hit every rock in sight. I am still amazed till this moment how we did not sink that freaking kayak. It was obvious to our fellow kayakers that we were struggling because we were behind the group by 50 freaking feet. My arms were killing me and the humiliation was starting to settle in. Shit.
I knew we were in for a treat when our guide had to paddle back to us and suggested that she “tow” us for a while so we could actually finish the tour. She literally pulled out a freakin’ rope, tied it on her kayak, and then tied it to ours. And away we went. She tried to teach me how to steer but it was to no avail. I had zero coordination in the back of that kayak and was especially loving life when we made it to the rest of the group. Some old woman said upon our return, “Haha. They’re being towed. Can we all point and laugh?”
My dignity had then sunk to the bottom of that lake and I decided that kayaking sucked. Things got really bad when we started to somehow pull our instructor towards the rocks as well. She was not a happy camper, decided we were a lost cause, and let us loose. We were on our own and had to travel back against 14mph winds. I was about to pee my pants but I then realized I’d have to sit in it. And Yvonne. Haha. I’m not that cruel.
But eventually, we got the hang of it. I just had to paddle the exact same time as Yvonne did in order to avoid hitting her paddle. It worked like a charm and we then transformed into a well-oil kayaking machine. It was glorious. But my arms are still recovering and I’m pretty sure I won’t ever be kayaking again. Unless I am being towed.
The following morning, as I woke up to my own pool of drool on my sleeping bag, I mentally prepared myself for what was to come: kayaking. I didn’t know too much about the activity other than it involved paddling and that with too much movement, it could easily tip. I thought that due to my muscular yet feminine biceps, the paddling I could perform with an ease but I’m not one for remaining still. I knew one thing was for sure. This was going to be the adventure of a lifetime. Perhaps kayaking is my hidden talent and that I am, in fact, the Lance Armstrong of kayaking. Dream big.
Once we arrived at the departure site, we were all ordered to strap on our lifejackets and to attach red little rape-whistles on them, in case the kayak should sink. Or, if the kayaker we get paired up with happens to be a major creep and you require back up. There were a total of 16 kayakers and two guides who graciously educated us throughout the tour on how all the rock formations formed. Mind-blowing.
My younger sister Yvonne insisted that we share a kayak together because her other partner option was, Diana. Enough said.
According to our guide, the kayaker who sits in the front is usually the power-paddler and the kayaker who sits in the back holds the most responsibility. The kayaker in the back must be the one with intellect and carry natural instincts for they are in control of the most crucial element to kayaking, steering. So, naturally, I sat in the back and Yvonne sat in the front. We were soon to discover though that we lacked both power and brains.
Yvonne would paddle hard and I would try my best to steer but it would only slow us down. I admit it. I had no idea what the hell I was doing and we eventually hit every rock in sight. I am still amazed till this moment how we did not sink that freaking kayak. It was obvious to our fellow kayakers that we were struggling because we were behind the group by 50 freaking feet. My arms were killing me and the humiliation was starting to settle in. Shit.
I knew we were in for a treat when our guide had to paddle back to us and suggested that she “tow” us for a while so we could actually finish the tour. She literally pulled out a freakin’ rope, tied it on her kayak, and then tied it to ours. And away we went. She tried to teach me how to steer but it was to no avail. I had zero coordination in the back of that kayak and was especially loving life when we made it to the rest of the group. Some old woman said upon our return, “Haha. They’re being towed. Can we all point and laugh?”
My dignity had then sunk to the bottom of that lake and I decided that kayaking sucked. Things got really bad when we started to somehow pull our instructor towards the rocks as well. She was not a happy camper, decided we were a lost cause, and let us loose. We were on our own and had to travel back against 14mph winds. I was about to pee my pants but I then realized I’d have to sit in it. And Yvonne. Haha. I’m not that cruel.
But eventually, we got the hang of it. I just had to paddle the exact same time as Yvonne did in order to avoid hitting her paddle. It worked like a charm and we then transformed into a well-oil kayaking machine. It was glorious. But my arms are still recovering and I’m pretty sure I won’t ever be kayaking again. Unless I am being towed.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Asian Persuasion
It is settled. I am going to produce nothing but adorable, small, intelligent, squinty-eyed Asian Babies. My Uncle Justin's child, Kenny, melts my heart with his Oriental features. He's only two and just gets cuter in time. His little sister Melanie (6 months) is cute but hopefully she'll blossom eventually. She reminds me of a Cabbage Patch Doll except with softer hair. Due to the fact that she has Asian hair-follicles. Lucky Noodle. Maybe I am just bored with her cause all she does is eat, cry, and poop.
The way my Uncle and his Chinese wife communicate is interesting. They don't. Only God knows how they communicated via email. The exchange probably went something like this:
"Hi, my name is Justin. What's your name and where do you live?"
"My name Moo-Yuang. I live China. My English poor."
"That's great. I have always wanted to visit China. Is the food good there?"
"Food very good. Come visit. Bring me back to States. Gimme Green Card."
My Uncle revealed to me that he visited her in China, they took a ride on her moped through the crowded streets in China, and then they simply fell in love in China. They now live in a trailer above my Uncle's personally dug bomb-shelter and produce beautiful Asian children. Maybe my uncle could dig me my own personal hole to China so I could find a soul-mate too?
The way my Uncle and his Chinese wife communicate is interesting. They don't. Only God knows how they communicated via email. The exchange probably went something like this:
"Hi, my name is Justin. What's your name and where do you live?"
"My name Moo-Yuang. I live China. My English poor."
"That's great. I have always wanted to visit China. Is the food good there?"
"Food very good. Come visit. Bring me back to States. Gimme Green Card."
My Uncle revealed to me that he visited her in China, they took a ride on her moped through the crowded streets in China, and then they simply fell in love in China. They now live in a trailer above my Uncle's personally dug bomb-shelter and produce beautiful Asian children. Maybe my uncle could dig me my own personal hole to China so I could find a soul-mate too?
Pre-Camping Thoughts
Well, tomorrow I make my journey to the heart of Oregon and join the clan for some quality camping. We brought our 30 ft. camper, our boat, and 9 bags of marshmellows. My daddy called me yesterday with some startling news though. The kinda news that just sinks your heart...Our boat sunk.
Apparently, "someone" forgot to replace the boat-plug before we threw our boat in the water and it was simply too late. The boat was over-flooding. By the time they pulled the boat back up, it was so heavy that it tweaked out the boat trailer as well. Something also screwed up the gas lines...probably all the freaking water. So now that boating is off the list of things to do, the family has resorted to hiking and making jewelry. Apparently my mother brought her little jewelry kit. Cute.
I personally am looking forward to all the stories told around the bonfire. Especially the stories told by my darling G-Ma who suffers a little bit from dimensia. She was somehow persuaded to come by my Uncle Don. He probably slipped her some mind-easing pill.
Since I am only one shade away from being considered an African American, my goal is to come back from this trip with people believing that my name is Shoneequa. Corn rows would be next on the agenda. People would have no choice but to take me seriously. Otherwise, I'd be all ova them like stink on doo-doo.
I am looking forward to what the weekend brings. Brittany already leaves for North Dakota on Saturday. Whenever life gets you down, things could be worse. You could be on a plane for fucking North Dakota ;)
Apparently, "someone" forgot to replace the boat-plug before we threw our boat in the water and it was simply too late. The boat was over-flooding. By the time they pulled the boat back up, it was so heavy that it tweaked out the boat trailer as well. Something also screwed up the gas lines...probably all the freaking water. So now that boating is off the list of things to do, the family has resorted to hiking and making jewelry. Apparently my mother brought her little jewelry kit. Cute.
I personally am looking forward to all the stories told around the bonfire. Especially the stories told by my darling G-Ma who suffers a little bit from dimensia. She was somehow persuaded to come by my Uncle Don. He probably slipped her some mind-easing pill.
Since I am only one shade away from being considered an African American, my goal is to come back from this trip with people believing that my name is Shoneequa. Corn rows would be next on the agenda. People would have no choice but to take me seriously. Otherwise, I'd be all ova them like stink on doo-doo.
I am looking forward to what the weekend brings. Brittany already leaves for North Dakota on Saturday. Whenever life gets you down, things could be worse. You could be on a plane for fucking North Dakota ;)
Monday, August 2, 2010
Preparing for Camping- Coch-Style
This week my family is camping in the heart of Central Oregon at a little campground called Billy Chinook. I won’t be joining them till Thursday due to school and work. So naturally, I believe I can be excluded from the packing duties. If you saw how much we had to pack, you would do anything to excuse yourself as well. My mother packs for camping trips as if we’re moving to this destination. Permanently. We definitely have enough food to feed a moderately sized African country. Which, in actuality, is probably a good thing since my Dad’s whole family will be joining us later. My grandma can really eat when she wants to.
And, out of the goodness of my heart, I did make a small contribution and packed a few chairs into the trailer. But sadly, that was the extent of my assistance when it came to preparing for this trip. I was far too busy with other things like taking saunas, laying on our trampoline, and working on my sixpack. Oh well, they somehow managed without me.
Things started to take a turn for the worse though after my dad had announced that while he was giving the dogs their daily food and water, he happened to step in dog shit. This would not have been so bad if he had found that out BEFORE he walked around the house for about 15 minutes. Apparently, my dad’s sense of smell is delayed for that long of time. Everyone now proceeds with caution around the house and is sure to have dad wipe the remains off whenever found. The family will be leaving tomorrow round ten so realistically 11 and I will be house-sitting with my Uncle Justin. And his Chinese-Mail-Order Bride, Moo-Young. Exciting times ahead I tell you.
And, out of the goodness of my heart, I did make a small contribution and packed a few chairs into the trailer. But sadly, that was the extent of my assistance when it came to preparing for this trip. I was far too busy with other things like taking saunas, laying on our trampoline, and working on my sixpack. Oh well, they somehow managed without me.
Things started to take a turn for the worse though after my dad had announced that while he was giving the dogs their daily food and water, he happened to step in dog shit. This would not have been so bad if he had found that out BEFORE he walked around the house for about 15 minutes. Apparently, my dad’s sense of smell is delayed for that long of time. Everyone now proceeds with caution around the house and is sure to have dad wipe the remains off whenever found. The family will be leaving tomorrow round ten so realistically 11 and I will be house-sitting with my Uncle Justin. And his Chinese-Mail-Order Bride, Moo-Young. Exciting times ahead I tell you.
Deflated Tubes
"I laugh in the name of danger." This is quoted from the beloved children's classic, "The Lion King." After Simba spits this out with unwavering confidence, I thought he was such a badass. Ever since that movie, I too, have longed for a moment where I could laugh and scoff at danger. "Being a badass" is actually on my list of things to do. I occassionally try to succeed at this by wearing my bright pink du-rag from time to time or my blinding grill. Depends on my mood. The response I receive however is never one of fear but one of disbelief. Laughter, to put it simply. But today, I had my chance, my time to shine. I will never try to be a badass again.My sister and I decided that floating down the Willamette River would be a "fun" idea and we ventured on this adventure with our lifelong friends, the Cauthorns.I am something close to a genius and blew up an enormous purple innertube designed to be pulled by a boat. I definitely gloated in my brilliance the whole way down the river...for a while.My genius of a sister however, purchased 6 small "flower innertubes" for herself and for some of the poor, unsuspecting Cauthorn boys. These midget tubes could barely fit over a human skull nonetheless a waist. They were $2 each from WalMart and I still believe she overpaid for these shit floaties. The Cauthorns basically said "Screw That" and went back to grab some rubber rafts from their house. Brittany took advantage of the extra "flower innertubes" and put one over each limb. This somehow kept her afloat ...with the exception of her ass dragging as the anchor. Nothing a little Neosporin can't fix. Brittany's butt has been through a lot of these similar situations. The blessings of a huge ass I guess. All that padding is good for somethin.'I made sure my butt however remained dry and I was loving life. I couldn't help but feel like such a badass floatin' down this river with "no worries about a thing." Our guide though, Luc, didn't have a plan on how to get out of this river though. shit.The Willamette River is full of deadly currents and protruding sticks and rocks. It's a miracle we all survived.We climbed onto some random shoreline and hoped for an exit to the road. After walking through bushes and shrubs full of thorns, we decided we'd have to float down the roaring rapids a little farther and latch onto the sharp rocks. I was done at this point and my tube was essentially deflated...along with my badass ego. This was not going to be fun in any way, shape, or form.We started floating and I lost my beloved right flip-flop in the process but we somehow latched onto the rocks, cutting my precious foot. We climbed the sharp rocks with our deflated floaties and never looked back.On a side note, I now know why shoes are the most important possession if the world should enter an apocalypse of some sort. Because feet are the most SENSITIVE part of the freaking human body. I proceeded to cut and burn my feet again. Well, just my right foot that is.This river trip was definitely a once-in-a-lifetime-experience. When I wish to feel like a badass, I am simply sticking to my du-rag. Watch out.
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