Just 2 buddies out for an evening stroll.
The other 2 buddies of the family are only invited on the walk to pick up the stink bombs that one of the buddies leaves behind.
Ok, so I don’t actually ever do it. I make Myke.
He sure is lucky to be our buddy.
I hate Indian food. There. I said it.
The first time I had it was about 11 years ago in Spokane while visiting my sissy. Afterwards, my intestines were flamethrowers. I vowed never to eat Indian food again.
My friend had a birthday recently and a few of us decided to go out to lunch to celebrate. We had agreed on Thai food – which I love - but the restaurant was suspiciously closed. At the last minute, she chose an Indian place as a backup. I ignored the urge to grab her by the neck and shake her vigorously while screaming, “Are you crazy?! Do you like pooping fire?!” Instead I muttered an insincere, “Sounds great!” Then I wondered why I’m friends with people who like Indian food.
At the restaurant I scanned the menu for the foods least likely to commit arson on my guts. I went with the Tandoori chicken. Seemed innocuous. As I ate my meal I sternly looked at each forkful of food and telepathically yelled, “You’d better not ignite an inferno in my innards you stupid Tandoori chicken!”
Fast forward to after an appropriate amount of digestion time had elapsed, and our little family trekked to the dollar store to pick up some very important Chinese imports. In the car I could feel my guts starting to tangle around themselves. I could feel the smoldering embers waiting to burst into flames. I felt like someone was wringing my intestines out like a wet rag. I told Michael to drive faster to the dollar store.
When we arrived I burst through the doors and calmly winced, “Do you have a bathroom?” The cashier turned to me and said in slow motion in a voice that sounded like a cassette player with weak batteries, “It’s out of order.” I panicked, saw myself launching my payload right there in the middle of Dollar Tree, almost started to cry, then decided my only choice was to bust across the parking lot to Fred Meyer as fast as Myke’s car would take me.
“Gimme the keys!” I shouted and sprinted back to the car, leaving my family at the dollar store to fend for themselves. As I tried to exit the Dollar Tree lot, a steady stream of cars rolled into Fred Meyer and forced me to sit and wait – forced me to sit and wait while my belly turned into a quivering, snarling, white-hot ball of intestinal terror.
Once in the Fred Meyer lot, my dad’s obsessive need to park the car in a spot where the car doors won’t get dinged took over, and I kept sailing by open spots until I finally screamed at myself, “Booney! Just park the car you idiot! YOU ARE GOING TO POOP YOUR PANTS!”
I hopped out and went speed-walking into the store, resisting the urge to hold my backside with my hand in an attempt to suppress the volcano. Have you ever looked at someone who is speed-walking and thought, “Hmm, she looks like she’s about to mess herself.”
That’s because she is.
I speed-walked and chanted, “Don’t poop your pants, Don’t poop your pants, Don’t poop your pants.” Thankfully, I didn’t. Even though the journey to the potty seemed like miles, I successfully made it to the bathroom. I also avoided eye contact with everyone on the way. I didn’t want people to know my secret shame – that fireballs were cascading through my digestive tract. I was ashamed of my inferno. Also thankfully, all of Fred Meyer’s patrons were shopping at the moment I needed to annihilate the bathroom and I was able to extinguish my fire in solitude.
Most thankfully of all: I wasn’t wearing button-fly jeans.
I supremely hate Indian food.
My friend and I were working out together way back in the Spring when she asked me if we would like to join their family on a camping trip over Labor Day. I hadn’t eaten breakfast and was dying on the elliptical machine. I think I was blacking out from overexertion because I suddenly heard the words, “Sure! That sounds like fun!” rolling out of my mouth before I could stop them.
Sure, that sounds like fun?! What?! I don’t even like camping. I mean, not at all. And besides that, the only camping gear we own is a cruddy sleeping bag from Walmart and a checkered camping pillow that smells like it’s been passed around a homeless encampment. It was a severe momentary lapse of judgment that I couldn’t renege on. Dang.
And then Labor Day just up and showed its face on the calendar. Thankfully, we looted my parents garage of all their expensive camping gear during our 4th of July visit so at least we wouldn’t be sharing the stinky pillow. But still I felt anxiety about camping. In the woods. Preparing dinner with dirty hands. With bugs all up in your business. Bleh.
But away we went anyway. We camped at South Beach State Park near the coast and what a delightful campground it was. Flushing toilets, showers, water, and all within walking distance to the beach. Turns out camping isn’t so bad when you can shower and wash your hands before making dinner. We had a pleasant time and will probably go camping again next year. Gasp!
It took a while to load our car – probably because of the copious amounts of Oreo cookies. And the fact that we didn’t test out our new bike rack beforehand and found our bikes wouldn’t fit on there as intended. So we white-trashed it and strapped them down all cattywampus like. Don’t judge. You weren’t there.
It only took us an hour to set this bad boy up. We would have been done sooner but one of the poles was strangely too long so we had to perform minor surgery. We were successful. Who says you need formal training to perform surgery? Hogwash.
Eva and her buddy made great use of the outdoors. My favorite activity they conjured up was their “exercise bikes.” They sandwiched their bikes into the bark chips so their back wheels could spin freely and then they would sit and “exercise” whenever we were in camp. They also spent a lot of time climbing around in my car and leaving dirty footprints everywhere.
We had fun at the beach and exploring tide pools. We ran down the rock hill at Cobble beach and listened to the cool sounds, we roasted lots of marshmallows and drank hot chocolate. We spent quality time together as a family and enjoyed the freedom from distractions. It was a good trip.
And then we hit up Dairy Queen on the drive home. Seems fair after sleeping on the ground for 2 nights. Which is my limit. 2 nights and not a minute more.
I guess we’ll try it again next year. I sure hope my parents don’t expect their equipment back anytime soon…
Just because she continues to make me laugh, here are some more recent conversations with Eva.
Driving in the car:
A cat ran across the street in front of us and he had a dead mouse in his mouth.
Me: Eva, look! That cat caught a mouse. Pretty cool, huh?
Eva: But how did he catch it?
Me: I don’t know. He probably cornered it and pounced. That’s what cats do.
Eva: But not all cats. Tom never catches Jerry. The truth is that Tom always chases Jerry but never catches him.
At the supermarket:
Eva: Can I have a treat?
Me: No, you don’t need a treat.
Eva: (pointing to herself) But Mom! This cat eats people food.
At home:
Eva: Can I play on your phone?
Me: No. You’re in trouble for not obeying.
Eva: But Mom! You guys wouldn’t stop bothering me. That’s why I didn’t listen.
Getting in trouble:
Eva was upset about something and swatted at my leg.
Me: Eva, don’t hit.
Eva: I didn’t.
Me: Then what do you call that?
Eva: I call it my freaking out.
At Ace Hardware:
There was a bucket of rabbit’s feet on the counter and Eva and I were playing with them.
Me: Ew, gross. I think it’s a real rabbit’s foot. It feels like a real foot.
Eva: Here, let me see. Mama! It’s just wood with cotton on top.
Listening to music:
Eva: I like that song.
Me: You do?
Eva: Yeah, see my tear of joy?
In the car:
Myke has a retractable back scratcher in his car and Eva was using it.
Eva: Ahhhh. That feels good.
Myke: Yeah, I like it too.
Eva: You know my favorite thing about the back scratcher? It gets all my fleas.
And that’s exactly why her dad likes it too.
Have you met my kitty?
Well, she informed me tonight that she’s all ready to play in the snow.
I’m glad she’s prepared. We certainly don’t want frostbite on those tender paws.
Eva is a lucky, lucky, lucky little girl and was able to spend 5 whole days at my sissy’s house all by herself. I haven’t spent that much time away from my baby since she was born and I felt the anxiety of her departure pinning me down like there was a boulder on my chest.
Eva had no such feelings.
Eva was so excited to go that I couldn’t get her suitcase packed fast enough. With a cheery, “Bye-bye, Mama!” she was off.
The house was still and quiet and I felt out of place. I thought about being productive with my new-found stillness and quietness but that was a fleeting moment. Instead, I did something I never do, something I normally despise doing, something rather unthinkable on a mid-morning Wednesday – I took a nap.
It was odd. It was refreshing. It was just what my poor’ol bones needed.
I thought over the next 5 days that I would ache with emptiness. I thought Eva would miss me terribly and cry herself to sleep at night. There was no aching or crying-ourselves-to-sleep. There was only happiness.
Turns out my sissy’s house is much more awesome than mine.
I don’t know what all the fuss is about. It’s not like going to the lake everyday and having your sandwiches cut into shapes is that cool. I mean, come on. Getting to eat your aunt’s famously delicious cinnamon toast for breakfast, going to the car wash, watching movies, reading every book in the toy closet, and slicing bananas with your own mini-slicer is a bore. Who really wants to drink out of a tiny A&W mug and use a tiny spoon that used to belong to a squirrel named Ralph? And what fun is there in calling your uncle “Captain Graybeard” and he calling you “Sailor” all week? Sounds kind of dull.
Yup. I don’t understand why she keeps talking about her trip to Idaho. Some people must really like lame trips.
I asked Dexter to hurry and put her dress on so we weren’t late for church.
She quickly replied, “It’s not a dress, Mama.”
“Oh?” I said. “What is it then?”
“It’s my church fur.”
Well, of course it is. How could I possibly expect my kitty to go to church in her mangy ‘ol everyday-fur?
