Friday, February 26, 2010

Friendship Unrivaled

Julia and Lindsey have got me thinking.

Back in 2006, Julia Mancuso in all of her 21 years, showed up at the Torino Olympic Games sporting a tiara.  She even raced in that tiara.  It was her way of adding fun to the disturbing amount of pressure that came with being an Olympic athlete.  No harm, right?  Well, no.  Many made fun of her.  Even Picabo Street felt it was necessary to lash out at the poor princess. 

Now I've seen Picabo in person.  That girl wears enough rhinestones and razzle-dazzle to shame Elvis - especially when she's skiing.  So why would a little tiara cause Picabo Street to fret so?  Prolly because Julia Mancuso was about to dethrone Picabo as the reigning U.S. Olympic Giant Slalom champion. 

In honor of Julia Mancuso's tiara-studded, Giant Slalom, Gold-Medaled victory, the 2006 St George Marathon became the year of the Mancuso, wherein we women-folk ran 26.2 in a tiara.  Note, however, that we're equal opportunity women-folk and offered tiaras to the dudes, but they respectfully declined.  Here's the proof:

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Fast forward four years to Vancouver 2010.  Julia Mancuso is the reigning Olympic Giant Slalom champion.  Lindsey Vonn is the current world champion and Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Superstar.  As usual, the TV people (also known as NBC) picked their beloved.  And it was Lindsey.  Lindsey, Lindsey, Lindsey!  Enough already with Lindsey! 

(Am I alone in my yearn and burn for some other network to finally take control of the Olympics?)

Anyway, as Lindsey is crashing here and there, Julia is winning medals.  Who do you think should get the spotlight and media attention?  Why, Julia of course!  But you all know that Lindsey still got a truck-load of media attention.

The kicker to Lindsey's media whoredom, was the Giant Slalom.  Lindsey crashes.  And because Lindsey is the Golden Child, they yellow-flag Julia Mancuso so as to stop her run mid-way.  Julia is forced to ski down, ride a snowmobile up and restart.  Her second (first) run was a disaster and the reigning Olympic Gold Medal is out of the running for a medal.   The kicker to this already kicking Giant Slalom situation is Lindsey's post-crash interview.  Lindsey expressed how badly she feels for messing up Julia's run -- all while grinning from ear to shining ear.  Lindsey's sentiments weren't all that convincing.

It's no secret that Julia and Lindsey don't jive.  They don't hang and they certainly aren't copacetic with each other.  Which brings me to the point of this dumb post:

Men are better than women at competing with their friends.  Or so it seems.

When men who are friends race or compete directly with each another, it seems they can heckle with "I'm gonna kick your ass," or "you're going down" or "your mother was a hamster and your father smelled of elder berries."  Stuff like that.  Men friends can jab each other fiercely with derogatory names, compete ferociously, and still remain friends.

Girls can't do that.  Or so it seems.

At the beginning of a race, a girl (who is a friend) will size the other up and down, look straight into her dear comrades eyes and tell her just how awesome she is.  She'll gush all sorts of optimistic encouragement -- hoping the whole time that the girl friend will fall flat on her face.  Not only does the girl hope her friend will perform worse than she herself will perform, that girl hopes the friend will crash and burn.  Phony, right?  Phony is right!

Why is it that girls (or women), cannot openly express how badly they want to run their best friend into the ground?  How come?  If I were to march up to one of my girly-girl running buddies and say, "I'm gonna kick your ass," do you have any idea what kind of drama that would create?  I would be digging myself out of a hole for at least a month. And I'll be honest and say that I wouldn't exactly welcome the gesture either.

So why are we women like that?  Is it because doing our best is not enough?  Is it because women are insecure?  Must we be better than another to feel good about ourselves?  Is it all Cinderella's fault?

Yeah.  Let's blame Cinderella.  That and her petite little pumpkin riding feet.

I run with people and many are girls (women).  We are somewhat competitive.  We all have a similar goal of outdoing our personal bests.  I have had many friends (who are girls) who honestly support and encourage.  But I've had a few doozy dodos that have been the exact opposite of support and encourage.  And it ain't fun.  It's as if the girl's entire self worth depends on whether she can beat me. 

So why can the dudes do it and the girls cannot?  Seriously, I want to know (and will try to remain objective even if you say, "Rabid.  It's just you.")

Thursday, February 25, 2010

Thursday Thongs vol 29 - February's Departed

Today's Tuesday Tunes are Thursday Thongs.  Did y'all wear your thongs today?  In honor of Thursday Thongs?  If not, drop everything (including your drawers), and sport yourself a thong or two.

I saved the February's Departed playlist for the end of February because it's apropos and whatnot to celebrate the Departed for February on the Tuesday just before February itself departs.  (Did you catch all that?  Might need to reread that one because it sure is loaded!)  Ironically, I was doing funeral stuff on the departing Tuesday of this February.  Was also doing funeral stuff on the departing Wednesday.  So that's why Tuesday's Tune vol 29 - February's Departed gets to be Thursday Thongs.

Are you ready?  February took some good ones from us.

New York - Sex Pistols (RIP Sid Vicious)
The Rubberband Man - The Spinners (RIP Bill Henderson)
Peggy Sue - Buddy Holly
Top Of The World - The Carpenters (RIP Karen Carpenter)
Goo Goo Muck - The Cramps (RIP Lux Interior)
Good Vibrations - The Beach Boys (RIP Carl Wilson)
Rock Me Amadeus - Falco
Meat Shaking Woman - Savoy Brown (RIP Dave Peverett)
Fox On The Run - Sweet (RIP Brian Connelly)
Hair - The Cowsills (RIP Bill Cowsill)
Take This Job and Shove it - Johny Paycheck 
Oh! Sweet Nothin' - The Velvet Underground (RIP Manager Andy Warhol)
Stealin' - Uriah Heep (RIP Byron David)
Children Of The Sun - Billy Thorpe

Extra especial graciases go to Vera for providing February's Departed.  And Vera darling, I expect March's Departed in my mailbox on Monday.

Monday, February 22, 2010

500 Posts of Pure Bull

This here post, is my 500th.  Five hundredth!  That's many megabits of foolish flapdoodle.

Technically, this post isn't my 500th.  I surpassed 500 a while ago but a few of those 500 have yet to be published.  I have a few posts hanging out in draft form - waiting patiently for their exposal.  But to make this 500th post legit, however, I had to delete those draft posts.  Did you gasp?  For deleting shenanigans of the Rabid?  Don't worry!  They were deleted from the blogger and copied elsewhere.  Remember?  I'm the Copy and Paste Master; champion of the Ctrl X (or V or C) Games.  Those drafts are stashed away in a safe place - waiting patiently for their exposal.

So how, exactly, do I go about celebrating this milestone?  With 500 individual notions of nonsense! Give or take 475.

- I'm the Mystery Reader in Yahoo #1's class today.  He didn't know I was coming.  The Mystery Reader is a parent (new one each month), who shows up and reads for twenty minutes.  Today I read the first chapter of The Candy Shop War by Brandon Mull.  Spouse and Yahoo #1 have been reading it the last few days.

-  Speaking of Brandon Mull, have you read Fablehaven? You should read Fablehaven.

- When Spouse and Yahoo #1 read the same book, they each sneak the book and read to get ahead of one another.  It's a book race of sorts.  If one of them is "missing", you know they're tucked in a corner reading the current coveted circular.

- I figured out a way to spend pennies.  This year the school lunch people raised the cost of milk from .25 to .30.  Now I send Yahoo #1 with pennies (and dimes and nickels and sometimes a quarter) to buy milk.  To keep the spare change from getting lost, it must be sent in a plastic baggie that costs .10.  I just now realized that it's costing me money to spend my pennies.

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- I'm beginning to despise the word "glitch" in a violent sort of way.  It makes my skin crawl and all my hairs stand on end.  Now why on earth do I hate that word?  It's prolly because people say, "There's a glitch in your software" all damn day to me.  There are no "glitches" in software.  Software has BUGS or DEFECTS or ISSUES.  So call it what it is - if that's what it is.  These so-called glitches, however, usually turn out to be user error.  Nine times out of nine.  Thank you for letting me bitch about glitch.

- Ooops!  I just accidentally hit "Publish Post" before I was finished, then quickly saved it as a draft again.  The Google Reader folks just received an incomplete.

- For Valentines Day each year, Spouse and I unload the kids on someone and ski by ourselves.  It's a great tradition.  This year Spouse bought me new poles.  I have a perpetual problem with poles.   I had some stolen two years ago while Spouse was in the Ski Patrol shack being attended to.  Then I purchased some new ones.  The new ones were okay until I got new skis.  The new skis had new bindings.  The new bindings had two inch lifts.  This made the poles two inches shorter in relation to my person when my person was mounted in the bindings.  I feel like Gene Simmons in those lifted bindings.  So Spouse bought me new poles.  They're Leki.  Like Lindsey uses Leki.  And Bode uses Leki. Now Rabid uses Leki.

- Speaking of Bode, did you see Bode in the combined Downhill Slalom?  Wow.  S'all I'm gonna say.  Wow.

- The VD (Valentines Day) skiganza has been a tradition since we were first married.  We were married a couple of weeks before VD and for the honeymoon we went to Grand Targhee.  Nothing says honeymoon more than some Grand Tetons.

- Oh and speaking of VD, I had a funny dream the other morning.  We were having tea with two male members of my hood (aka the home teachers), when the Yahoo's pediatrician barged in the house with news that Spouse had tested positive for Syphilis.  That's when the alarm went off.

- While we're on the subject of Tetons, did I ever tell you about the time I thought I could make it to the top?  Yeah right.  That was the day I decided that you would never find me near that mountain called Everest.  Nowhere near.  Someday maybe I'll tell you about the Teton excursion.  It was one of my Dad's grandiose adventures that involved a 50 pound pack, whiskey, freeze dried cheesecake and some dude who lost his friend while climbing .  That dude hollered for his buddy all night long while I shivered in my sleeping bag.  I was not going to make it off that Teton range alive.  I was sure of it for my climbing experience is surpassed by my tuba prowess.  And I don't play the tuba.

- As you can see, I made it off that Teton range alive.  The crapper in the saddle, however, is extraordinary.  I'd go back just for the crapper.

- By the way, I didn't make it to the top.  Totally chickened out.  And I do mean totally.

- Get a load of this question I received today: "How do I show my cows and farm equipment that is on depreciation that I sold?  I can't do it from the deprec. page."  First of all, I don't know diddly about depreciation.  If I wanted to know about depreciation, I would have become an accountant.  (Okay we know that's a farce because there isn't an accounting program outside of Jamaica that would admit me to their accounting program.)  If my boss asks, however, just tell them that I have all of the instruction forms for depreciation memorized, I just can't understand them.  That's called depreciation deomprehension and is reported on line 12.

- Today, thanks to Jessica, I learned that Kanye West makes me hungry.  Here's out it works (and I quote my comment from Jessica's post):  ''Every time someone says Kanye West, I think of Key West. Which makes me think of the Florida Keys. Keys make me think of cars. Which makes me thing that I want to drive on the super-cool highway that goes over the Keys. Which then makes me think of Key Lime pie. Which makes me hungry.  So Kanye makes me hungry. Psychoanalitize that!"

- I just blogged about blogging.  So there.  And I just might blog about blogging again.

- A while ago, Megan announced a blogging hiatus.  It was time for her to do real writing. (What?! Blogging is not real writing?  Come on!)  I'll never forget that I'm-a-quiting-fer-now post and how it made me feel.  It was like she was breaking up with me. 

- I think Marie Antoinette was on to something when she said, "Let them eat cake!"  New age critics are calling the quote bogus, but I want to hang on to it like I hang on to Pluto being a planet.  PLUTO WILL ALWAYS BE A PLANET!  Don't try to tell me otherwise.  But we're talking about cake.  I really like cake.  Cake is essential to my happiness.  Cake is sweet, squishy, succulent love.  All those people in France during the dark ages or Tower of Terror or whatever, should have quit their belly achin' and made themselves a cake.  Banana cake with chocolate chips, no frosting.

- We took the Yahoos skiing again on Saturday.  We went to Park City.  They have these fun little tree runs that are marked with metal monsters.  The have a run called Detonator and one called Short Fuse. The Yahoos would ski them all day.

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- Most of the runs at Park City are named after mining terms, famous miners, etc.  Park City is an old silver mining town.  But you prolly already knew that.

- My favorite run at Park City is the West Face.  I'm also partial to Scott's Bowl (for some reason), but it requires hiking to serve due diligence.

- This is Grandpa Plum. Isn't he dapper?

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- So with Grandpa Plum passing on Thursday, I figured the best spot for mourning would be Snowbird.  So Friday I went to Snowbird with Hillene.  Why don't I go to Snowbird more often?  The whole mountain is one big giant West Face and one big giant Scott's Bowl (which I'm partial to for some reason).

- Have you seen the Tunnel at Snowbird?  I dig the novelty of that tunnel.  There's a magic carpet that will take you from one side of the mountain over to the other.  It's crucial that you form a solid tuck while riding the magic carpet. 

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- The Ogden Marathon is 12 weeks away.  I'm signed up and ready to start "official" training.  The Ogden is a good one.  Highly recommended. 

- Whenever I start the official training phase of a marathon, I buy new shoes.  Some people buy shoes for the cushioning.  Others buy for the ride while yet others buy a shoe because of its colors.  Me?  I buy a shoe for the box.  Saucony has the best boxes.

- Vera brought me flowers today. I love Vera.

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- Goodnight and good bye (for now). Here's to 500 more.

Friday, February 19, 2010

Fastest In The Ward

Have I ever told you about when I was the fastest in the ward?  No?!  Let me tell you about when I was the fastest in the ward.  'Twas quite possibly one of the happiest 30 seconds of my life.

It went like this:  I was standing in the hall at church when Ellen (name changed of course), walked towards me.  Ellen is somewhat new to the hood and I don't know her well.  I know she's athletic, has four daughters, and brought me flowers from her garden after the Bread Incident.  (Ellen isn't the lady in the Bread Incident story, by the way.)  Ellen is very nice.

So Ellen says, "I hear you're a runner."

I respond with the typical, "Yeah.  I'm a runner." 

Then Ellen says, "Someone told me you're the fastest in the ward."

"The fastest in the ward....?" I said.  And the voice trailed.  My mind immediately wandered off to a daydream (complete with clouds) wherein I was right in the middle of a Sabbath Day podium ceremony.  I was just about to bend my humble little head down so as the Bishop could ring my neck with a gold medal.  That daydream was rudely interrupted, all record-scratch-like, when I looked to my left and right on that Sabbath Day podium. 

"Um."  I said.  "The state cross country champ is in our ward."

"Oh?"  Says Ellen, then begins to back pedal.  "But you're the fastest girl, right?"

"Nope.  State cross country champ has a sister."


So there you have it.  In Ellen's eyes and mine, the rabidrunner was the fastest in the ward for the beginning of one brief conversation.  Today however, the rabidrunner (love it when I talk to myself in the third person), might be the saddest in the ward.  My Grandpa Plum passed away last night - I suppose we'll just have to wait and see on Sundee if I win a medal for being the saddest.

Oh and while we're on the subject of Bishops, do you read Bishop Higgins?  He's been released.  And he's outed himself.  After three years of hearing the dear Bishop make fun of our goofy culture, he's calling it quits - yet another reason to be the saddest in the ward.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

Tuesday Tunes, Fart Fishes and Olympic Osomeness

I don't have a tune today. I have plenty of tunes to choose from but I have no theme to go with a tune.  I blame the Olympics.  Every time the Olympics come to town -- and by "come to town," I mean "come to my TV" -- my life goes to pot in a pannikin.  Those Olympics swallow me up like a Fart Fish.

Fart Fish?!

The Fart Fish is actually a killer whale.   Killer whales were dubbed as Fart Fishes last night by Spouse and Yahoo #2.  You see, we have this giant stuffed Shamu.  For those of you not in the theme park know-how-and-to, Shamu is the King Killer Whale at Sea World.  Yahoo #2 was riding the stuffed Shamu around last night while making his flatulent boy noises. "See Mom," Yahoo #2 says, "he farts and that's what makes him swim." 

I gave Spouse that blank I'm-surrounded-by-stinky-and-savage-boys stare.  Spouse returned with "It's a Fart Fish."  Then went back to reading about Java Servlets or whatever geeky magnum opus he's got his nose in these days.

How is it that I started this Tuesday Tune featurette in hopes of telling you all about Olympic Osomeness and have now digressed to Fart Fishes?  It's because I'm surround by stinky and savage boys.

Anyway, the Olympics have swallowed me up like a Fart Fish.  Not that being swallowed up like a Fart Fish is bad, it's just that it's consuming all of the free time that I don't actually have.  And if I don't have any free time for the Olympics to swallow, then the productive time is being swallowed.  Not much is getting accomplished around here.

It's rather inconvenient that the Olympics came to town right in the middle of the Tax Season.  Inconvenient is not the right word, however.  A sea-like metaphor and simile is necessary for granting due process to the tragedy of the Winter Olympics on top of the Tax Season.  So here goes:  It's as if the Olympics have swallowed me up like a Fart Fish while the Fire Breathing Loch Ness of Tax Season pummeled the Fart Fish to bits.

If only the day had 48 hours.  Sigh.

Today I would like to share and document my favorite Olympic stories.  Thus far, my favorites are Shannon Bahrke, Johnny Spillan, J.R. Celski and Eric Heiden.


Shannon Bahrke

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Shannon Bahrke is a favorite for many reasons.  I've actually grown green moldy goo all about myself because of the envy I have over Shannon's very existence.  First and foremost, she can blast the bumps.  I cannot blast the bumps.  I can't even ski the bumps.  And now that I'm just 28 months away from that dreadful age o' 40, I might never learn to ski the bumps.  Other reasons to envy Shannon?  She's now the proud owner of an Olympic Bronze Medal (for bump blasting of course) and she's engaged to be married on 10/10/10.  10/10/10!?  10/10/10 is paramount of all wedding dates.  Paramount.  Spouse and I thought we were cool for getting married in the year 2000.  Bah!  We were dumb.

As if all of the above is not enough to spit eye-darts at the girl (for being so dang cool), she plans to marry a gent with the last name of Happe (pronounced Happy).  On 10/10/10, Shannon Bahrke will become Shannon Happy.

There is no better last name.  I'm convinced. 



Johnny Spillane

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Johnny Spillane is the first American in history to Medal at an Olympic cross-country event.  And by Medal (capitalized on purpose), I mean a big fat Gold in the Nordic Combined.  Cross-country skiing has been dominated by the Swiss, the Norwegians, the Swedes, the Italians, the French... pretty much everyone but the U.S.  Now, in the year-of-our-Lord 2010, an American has finally Medaled in a cross-country ski event.

That's pretty much all that is cool about Johnny.  He does live in Colorado though, so I suppose that's another thing that's cool about Johnny.  Colorado is awesome for it has the simplest tax code of all the states and Coloradoians get a workout in their sleep--what with the altitude being so up there and all.


J.R. Celski

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J.R. Celski won a Bronze in the Men's Short Track 1500 -- an awesome feat no doubt, but that medal is not what is so cool about J.R.  He trains with Apolo Anton Oh No (Oh yeah!) in Seattle, but that still is not what's so cool about J.R.  Do you know what is so cool about J.R.?  In September of last year, the poor guy sliced his thigh open with his own skate.  Nearly bled to death.  Cutting your leg with your own skate isn't the cool part.  The cool part is that he was able to rehab that thigh and make it to the Olympics.  Now, how exactly, did this Celski guy rehab that thigh is so little time?  With the help of.... da da da daaaaah....


Eric Heiden

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The one and only Eric Heiden is a speed skater who won a lofty five medals in the 1980 Olympics.  All of those medals were Gold.  One might say that Eric Heiden won all the medals to all the events.  But that alone is not what makes Eric Heiden so cool.  What makes Eric Heiden transcend the awesomest of awesome is that he is an orthopedic surgeon at a place called TOSH in Salt Lake City.  TOSH holds a very special place in my heart for the TOSH people put Spouse back together after he hacked-up his heels.  And as if putting Spouse back together wasn't cool enough, they also helped him learn to walk.

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Sunday, February 14, 2010

Pune

A German bakery in Pune (India) was bombed on Saturday

Remember, like, two point five months ago, I was in Pune?  We drove by that bakery every day.  Spouse and I even made a few wise cracks about how cool it would be to go all the way to India for some stroodle. 

We ran into many Germans while in Pune.  And by "ran," I mean in the literal sense of course for I was running on treadmills with six Germans in the gymnasium at the hotel.  They work for a German automotive company which casts engine parts there. 

The German Bakery is no longer now because of a bomb in a backpack.  Nine people have lost their lives and around 60 were injured.

I'm sure there's a special spot in "heaven" for terrorists.  And I'm sure it doesn't include 40 virgins (or whatever the alleged terrorist-act-per-virgin rate is these days.)

Today, in honor of Pune, I kindly present you with some Pune Snaps.

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Look Ryan!  Scaffoling!

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Did you know the Nazis stole the Swastika from the Hindus?

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Friday, February 12, 2010

Anti-Tax Post Without a Title

I suppose I'm one of those evil people who dislikes paying taxes. You might think that I'm greedy. You might think that I want to horde all of my millions for myself so as to buy nice things and watch the poor get poorer.

You might. But it ain't true. I'm no millionaire and I've been known to give. Just the other day, in fact, I gave two bucks to some high-as-a-kite hooligan at the gas station so that she could make it home. Two bucks is generous. (Excuse me while I pat myself on the shoulder. Pat, Pat, Pat.)

Now I will explain to you in one simple sentence, the only reason I don't like paying taxes: The government, which includes BOTH Republicats and Demicrans, spends too damn much.

Would you care for a legitimate case to make my legitimate point?  The 2010 census. Did you know that the census people spent $340 million on advertising? $340 million! That controversial Superbowl commercial, at $1.2 million, was just a drop in the you-know-what bucket.

Now. If India can count 1.2 BILLION people without a $320 million advertising budget, we certainly can count a few hundred million for less.


Here's more anti-government spending ammo, just in case you cannot think of any on your own:
California Wine Train Project
Goldman Sachs et al. bailout

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Rabid Hamill

I got my hair cut today.

In honor of the Vancouver 2010 Opening Exercises (happening this Friday--in case you've been in a cave), I wanted to do something special.  So I printed up some photos and marched them into my hairdresser girl's booth.

"Gimme the Hamill!" says I.

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And look what happened...

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(Fallout from Innsbruck 1976)

Tuesday, February 09, 2010

Tuesday Tune vol 28 - Yodelayheehoo!

Today's Tuesday Tunes are brought to you by Mars Attacks! 

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Why Mars Attacks!?  Because:

A) It's a Tim Burton flick where
B) Martians attack the earth and
C) "Gack! Gack!" is their Martian language then
D) The Yodeling of Slim Whitman saves the day by blasting the Martians to bits.

Turns out yodeling is a stellar weapon.

This Mars Attacks! show reminds me of a story.  Would you care for a story?  When Spouse and I were first married, we spent a Saturday evening watching this Mars Attacks! show.  We laughed and laughed.  The next day we were sitting in church.  One of the speakers had just returned from a foreign (LDS) mission.  This gentleman announced that it was customary to testify of the religion using his newly learned foreign language and proceeded to do so.

I do not remember the language.  I do not remember the mission.  What I do remember is my beloved Spouse barking "Gack! Gack!" real loud-like after the young man had finished his foreign testimony.

I gave him the stink eye for his inappropriate cacophony.  He looked at me, shrugged his shoulders and said, "What?!  I said Amen."

 I laughed so hard I cried. 
(Which is okay because sometimes it's appropriate to cry in church.)


Incidentally, I'm feeling extra anxious today.  Not sure why.  Quite possibly, some Martians have weaseled their way into my psyche and are messing with my daily operations.  And those Martians need killin'!

Today we're gonna kill some Martians.  So take a moment with me now to name your Metaphoric Martians and blast 'em with a contemporary yodel.

Indian Love Call - Slim Whitman
The Boy With a Thorn in his Side - The Smiths
Wind It Up - Gwen Stefani
Focus - Hocus Pocus
Happy Yodel - Bill Staines
Toolie Oolie Doolie - The Andrews Sisters


What Metaphoric Martians did you come up with?  Hmmm?

-

Monday, February 08, 2010

What Would Shaun White's Mom Do?

Yahoo #2 is our Emergency Room Child.

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Vera pegged him as such before he even learned to walk. "That one," she said, "is your Emergency Room Child."  Then I rolled my eyeballs left and right while thinking, Oh hush, Vera.  You don't know.

The thing is Vera really does know.  She's quite handy for she's ten years my senior and has been around and done it all.  Well, prolly not it all.  But you get my drift.  She's got parenting experience that I do not got. And finally, after 8 some-odd years and her always being mostly right, I've decided to listen to her.

I'm not so quick.  But you knew that.

Thankfully, luckily, with palliation and solace, Yahoo #2 has made it to age six and eleven days without anything too life threatening.  That's my way of telling you that the following two stories have happy endings.  It's a new hip and edgy blogging term called aftshadowing and it's the opposite of foreshadowing.  (Or should it be forehighlighting?)

When Yahoo #2 was just shy of two, I left him in the kitchen alone.  This is where you say, "Well there you go, Rabid.  There's the problem.  Everyone knows you don't leave a just-shy-of-two-year-old in the kitchen by himself!"  I left Yahoo #2 in the kitchen alone so as to fetch a blubbering, I-just-hurt-myself, dramatic, Yahoo #1.  Yahoo #1 is the dramatic child in the same way that Yahoo #2 is the Emergency Room Child.

Incidentally, the keeping it straight with Yahoo #1 versus Yahoo #2 business, is making me wish I could use their real names.  'Tis a shame that I cannot.  They have great names.

Anyway, while comforting Yahoo #1 with my tenderest of mercies (which really aren't all that tender), I hear a loud flop from the kitchen.  So I run to the kitchen to find Yahoo #2 on the floor and rendered boobless (meaning he cannot cry).  I really dislike that hold-the-breath thing that kids do.  You know, where the kid has hurt himself, cannot cry, cannot breathe, is turning himself blue, and you just stare at them paralyzed until they finally take that much-anticipated gasp.

Yahoo #2 was doing that turn blue, not breathing thing.  Finally, he took the gasp and started to cry.  I picked him up and put him on the couch to care for the other one, who if you remember, was having his own dramatic moment.  After getting Yahoo #1 to calm down, I went back to Yahoo #2.  His eyes had glazed over, he wasn't making a sound, and blood was running out of his left ear.  Lots of blood.  Alarming amounts of red stuff was everywhere.

I called the doctor's office and bawled to the nurse that my child's brain was bleeding and it was all my fault.  She responded with, "Get him to the hospital, NOW."

I don't know much about medicine.  But I do know that if you phone a doctor's office in the middle of the day, and they tell you to sidestep appointments and whatnot for the emergency room, your current situation is a dire one.

Long story, short, I rush the poor thing to the ER and they check him in while the Rabid mom admits fault for leaving him unattended in the kitchen.  The hospital folk sedate the snot out of the boy and give him a cat scan.  The cat meowed, the brain was clear and Yahoo #2 would be okay.  He had, however, ruptured an eardrum or had broken the itty-bitty hearing bones in his ear--they couldn't tell which. Either way, no one knew if he'd hear out of that ear again.

After a few months of patience and prayer, the ear repaired itself and he passed a hearing test.

We had another... um... situation this weekend.  It wasn't at all life threatening.  But it made Spouse and I sick to our guts in unspoken what-have-we-done type guilt.

On Saturday, the Rabid Family was up for some frustrating fun so we went skiing.  It was a good warm day with two inches of new.  Our Yahoos are tree monkeys.  We cannot keep them out of the trees.  We can't follow 'em well either because their 110 centimeters can worm through stuff my 166s cannot.  And Spouse is on something like 213s, so he cannot follow them either.

The above described scenario explains how we spend the day.  The Yahoos break for the trees.  We do our best to follow.  The Yahoos lose control and wrap themselves around a tree, or hit a bump and crash, or plow into the pow and tip over.  Spouse and I then make our way over to them and pick them up.  It doesn't sound like a lot of work, but it is.   I sleep like a baby when we get home.

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Nose-blowing coach.

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Lifts through the flat stuff.  Check out Spouse's new boots.

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A moment of silence for Crushed Calcaneuses.

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Yahoo #2

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This year, we are having wardrobe issues.  We have a wild assortment of gear in colors, styles, decades and sizes.  The Yahoos, however, are in-between sizes of what we have.  We haven't decided if we should force 'em up a size, leave 'em behind or buy new.  Last Saturday, we decided to rent gear for Yahoo #1 and put his old gear on Yahoo #2.

It seamed to work okay, the skis were a little long for Yahoo #2 but he was handling them without too much trouble.  Spouse and I, however, had managed to overlook a crucial element in ski swapping.  Safe ski swapping, if you will.  It has to do with the bindings on the skis that you swap and the DIN settings that lie therein. 

Long story, short, Yahoo #2 takes a ride on skis with bindings set for someone 20 pounds heavier.  Yahoo #2 crashes, bindings don't release, and Yahoo #2 tweaks his knee.  For two long days, that kid hobbled around.  He chose to lay in bed instead of play video games.  Now that's serious.

Spouse and I did not exchange words over this at all, but we knew.  We both know about knees and have had enough friends and family with knee trouble too think that the Spouse and I just might have wrecked the knee of our poor six-year-old boy.  Each of us had garish nightmare thoughts about a torn ACL, MCL or LCL.

We had giant puke rocks in our guts over this one.

It's so very hard to watch your children get hurt, isn't it?  Nothing compares.  Not tax season, not divorce, not starving to death, not even when your beloved spouse crushes his calcaneuses.  But you gotta live, right?  Tell me you gotta live!  And you gotta let your kids live too.  Which means they might get hurt.  And sometimes it might even be my fault...

This is where I ask myself, What would Shaun White's mom do?

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If you paid attention to the aftshadowing above, you'll note that Yahoo #2 is fine.  He's running around like a banshee today.  We'll be skiing again soon as long as "What would Shaun White's mom do" says we should ski again.

Incidentally--scratch incidentally--purposefully, Spouse was annoyingly patient this weekend.  I say annoyingly, because it's like I looked at his new patient persona and declared, "where the hell did this patient parenting come from?"  He was awesome.  He is awesome.  So patient, so loving, so empathetic.  I should award him the Patient Parent Prize.  And being as we're all about alliterations, this prize should start with a "P"...

Popcorn?