Sunglasses? Weed?

Another funny story from Cabo - vacations are awesome in that way, I could probably write 50 more blogs about just that one week. I won't, don't worry, but I'm going to write at least one more. Or maybe two...

To start off, as anyone who has been to anywhere in Mexico will know, there are constantly vendors of...stuff. Everywhere. Pushing trinkets and souvenirs to unsuspecting tourists. Or, I suppose by the time they get out of the airport, they're no longer unsuspecting, but that's not the point.

Now, first of all, these vendors see me, and they just KNOW that I'm the one to go after. They push through crowds to get to me, follow me for blocks, haggle endlessly, KNOWING, without a doubt in their minds, that if anyone will break down today, it will be THIS girl. Seriously, I think it's written on my face. *Pushover!* *Gullible!* *Can't say no!* *Guilty conscience -- mention your children!*

I am not kidding you when I tell you that vendors IN THE MIDDLE OF A SALE would run over to me and offer their wares. So, I was absolutely positive I'd heard and seen all they had to offer by the 6th day we'd been there.

I was wrong.

I'd learned to do my best to not look them in the eye, not dare even glance at what they were holding, say nothing other than, "No, thank you." It only encouraged them. For me, encouragement was the last thing they needed.

On the night my husband and I went on our sunset dinner cruise (ahhh...) and the in-laws watched the little guy, we were walking down the pier for the millionth time, sun just setting behind us (Oh yeah, the boat totally docked before the sun set. The bastards. I wanted my money back. Thankfully, the in-laws paid for that one too...) So, not unexpectedly we were approached by a man with a huge bag on his back and a briefcase in his hand, "Pretty bracelet? Weed?"

I stopped. Damn it! But I couldn't help myself. I looked at my husband, who looked as shocked as me, and we both looked over at the guy. He held out his briefcase expectantly. It only had jewelry. Nothing we hadn't seen 300 times that day. I shook my head quickly and hastened my step hoping he hadn't gotten any ideas from the hesitation.

I leaned over to question my husband if he'd heard the same thing as me, but before I had a chance, another voice asked, "Sunglasses? Weed?"

I raised my eyebrows and tugged at his hand, I could not be making this up. But looking at the vendor again, he only held out his armful of sunglasses. I should have known it was real when they let me walk away so easily. Just in case I was undercover Federali. You never know what they'll be disguised as, you know.

"Pretty dress? Weed?"

"Whistle? Weed?"

"Blanket? Weed?"

"Kite? Weed?"

For real! Every single person we passed offered us weed! I was shocked! Not because of the weed, per se, I mean, I was a sorority girl, and let's face it, I DID grow up in California, it was just the fact that in all the times we'd walked down the exact same strip, seen the exact same vendors, we'd neve been offered weed before!

I guess this means we look like we can have more fun WITHOUT parents or a two-year old. Hm. Yes, I suppose you're right, I shouldn't be surprised.

ATV Adventure

I spent last week in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico.

I know, it’s a hard life, but someone has to live it. And I’m paid well to do so. Well, okay, not really paid per se, but it was an all expenses paid trip. By my in-laws. And they were there. But *believe it or not* I’m NOT going to complain about that! Well, at least not in this first blog… But no, in all honesty, it was a great trip. Probably thanks to the separate room they got for us. A little reprieve, you know?

So anyway, being an all-expenses-paid, in-law attended vacation, we were able to do a few more things than we otherwise might have done. For one thing, we had built in, overly willing babysitters. For another thing, we actually had a little money. And when I say a little money, what I mean is, my in-laws were willing to pay. Oh, don’t give me that look, I never said they were bad people!

On one of our otherwise impossible excursions, we went ATV-ing. (good word, I’m sure Webster will include it next year.) So first off, you get about 15 seconds of “instruction” the majority of which you can’t understand, being as the “instructor” (who, incidentally, introduced himself as Larry) has a ridiculously thick accent, is definitely trying to be funny, and I’m pretty sure is hitting on the females (there were only two of us, it was pretty obvious). Second of all, the 15 seconds of instruction have more to do with the bandana and goggles you have to cover your face with. Plus, the dude has obviously been riding ATVs since he was 6 months old. And I’m not talking about on the back of his Daddy’s ride either. I mean all by his little lonesome. He’s so used to it, he doesn’t even know what he SHOULD be instructing us on anymore. All he cares about is that we’re paying 50 bucks a pop to ride the things for a couple hours.

And then he takes off down the trail, looking back maybe twice on the half hour drive up and down mountains over rocky terrain to the beach, generally just holding up fingers to let us know what gear to use as we climb the next hill or go over the next cliff.

Personally, I think I did great. I kept up, I didn’t stall going up any hills (my husband did…Ha!), I didn’t freak out while flying over precipice after precipice. I was damn good. The other chick freaked out so bad they left her ATV behind and she had to squeeze in behind the instructor for the remainder of the ride (and believe me when I say the seats aren’t intended for two). So great, I’m proud of myself, I’m awesome.

He gives us an hour of free time. This is the “highlight” of the tour. Basically we have 20 feet of beach to ride on before a “Mexican fence” (ie ragged branches shoved into the sand at distant and inconsistent intervals) separates us from the $2000 fine we’ll be charged for driving on the Federali protected portion of the beach, and a whole lot of cliffs up and down to the 20 feet of beach, and a few ridiculously rocky trails up into the mountains.

So we ride around for a bit, me following my hubby (who was surprisingly cautious, seeing as he’s male and all) and then I’m given the lead. Well, clearly I have to show off a little bit. I’m starting to love the cliffs. The straight down free-falling feeling…it’s exhilarating, what can I say? So I take off in the direction of the biggest ones, and at the last second decide to do one of the smaller ones on the way. It wasn’t a well thought out plan, just an impulse. UP to the top and DOOOOWN…and that’s when I see the Mexican fence two feet in front of me, just before a literal cliff in the SAND. Fuck. I swerve my ATV just as quick as I can (good idea, no?) and instantly feel the beach slide out from under my tires, feel the 398pound vehicle tipping, tipping oh so slowly tipping. So what do I do? Well, duh, I panic. What the hell else would I do? I throw myself off and into the sand.

For one tiny fraction of a second I almost laugh to myself. I’m fine, what a doof, I can’t believe I panicked. And that’s when I feel the hot metal touch my leg. I actually watched in slow motion as a 398lb (I looked it up) machine crushed my leg. Holy crap, that’s a lot of weight. You’d be shocked, you really would. So I take a deep breath, knowing my husband was right behind me, I stay calm, it’ll be off in only a second.

The brilliant man runs over to me, asks if I’m okay. “I have a fucking ATV on top of me, no, I’m not okay. Take it off!” I actually said it in a fairly stable voice, not yelling at all, I was more than a little proud of myself. I even took the moment to tell myself how proud I was. Positive reinforcement, you know.

And then he says, “Oh, hold on a sec.” And I hear him taking off his helmet and goggles, even the bandana over his mouth. Oh yes, this was necessary before he lifted the FOUR HUNDRED FUCKING POUND ATV off of me. Well, I may or may not have lost it then, but you’ll never meet Larry and my husband knows what's good for him, so we won’t get into specifics.

You’ll be glad to know I’m fine. Not even bruised. Did you hear that? NOT EVEN BRUISED!! Come one, you have an ATV fall on top of you, you want to be able to tell someone about it! You want people to see the massive bruise up and down your entire leg and ask, “My God, what happened?” You want some fricking sympathy!! But no, oh, and I’ve got pictures to prove it, NO, there’s NO bruise. Well, really, there’s a little bit of a bruise, I keep pointing it out to the brilliant husband, trying to incur his sympathy, I can trace the outline, it was a very faint blue at it’s worst, the yellow almost looked worse than the blue, but now it’s gone. That was last Thursday. Less than a week and I couldn’t prove to you that I’d been squashed under 400lbs of machine for the life of me. My mother in law stubbed her toe in April and her entire foot and ankle turned black and blue for weeks. She still has a bit of bruise on the toe. Two months later. A week later and I’ve got nothing. At most I had a faint blue outline. Damn it, that blows. Cause it’s a good story, right?? Imagine the conversations I *could be* having.

Addict

http://www.cnn.com/2009/HEALTH/04/23/ep.facebook.addict/index.html

I have to defend my dear friend Facebook. It's not that I don't believe Facebook Addiction exists because, well, I may be an addict, but I'm not in denial. I mean, I checked my Facebook account for the 75th time (at work, of course) today, and was actually UPSET that nothing had changed. Oh, it exists. It's just this crazy psychologist chick is just wrong. She clearly has no Facebook friends. She's clearly jealous of my 209 (and counting) friends.

She thinks it's because it's not reality? Because we don't get the bad with the good? Because we don't get morning breath? Well, here's reality for you -I cover my husband's head with a pillow every morning so I don't have to smell the morning breath. I can avoid that shit in "real life" if I want to, just the same as I could on Facebook. But here's the thing, I don't. No one does. Except maybe this jealous psycologist chick.

I learned about my friends divorce on Facebook. I helped someone through what may have been a suicide threat on Facebook. From 2000 miles away. I was told about the death of a friends' child on Facebook. I've comforted countless friends through countless break-ups, on Facebook. I've virtually hugged friends who were just having a bad day and I've virtually supported friends through layoffs and short sales and just tough times. Support I gaurantee you they otherwise wouldn't be getting (I mean, come on, I've got two year old; I'm lucky if I get a shower, much less a chance to talk on the phone to an old friend, certainly never to visit them!!)

And let's talk about this "if you're avoiding work by checking Facebook" crap. COME ON. How many of you are avoiding work by getting coffee, gossiping, checking your e-mail, checking this fricking blog? It's just one of the MANY procrastination techniques. Half of us would be reading a book or watching a TV show if we could get away with it. But that's just the point - we can get away with Facebook! Now I'm not saying the crazy chick who was avoiding her kids doesn't need help, she clearly does, but as for the rest of us...just join up Jealous Psychologist lady, find some old friends, and get over yourself.

Compaq Recall

I got an e-mail message today. The message read something like this -

It has come to our attention that a percentage of batteries sent out with our Compaq Presario portable PCs may severely overheat, possibly causing fire, or, in rare cases, explosions. We are cooperating with the US Consumer Product Safety Commission to proactively recall laptops which may contain said exploding batteries. This list has been expanded from the last three recalls, dating April 20, January 30, and October 14. If the serial number on your laptop begins with any of the following letters
...
(a list of at least 26 letters follows)
...
and you are currently using the laptop, calmly step away from the machine. Try to remain calm as you remove the plug from the outlet. If you are lucky, the battery will die before it explodes. If you are positive your settings have been changed to power off when the laptop is closed and you are feeling especially brave, you may lower the lid with a broom stick. We highly recommend giving the machine a minimum 10' berth until it has returned to room temperature. If you are using a different machine, please visit our website now for information on how to deactivate the ticking time bomb your child is playing with in the other room.

Thank you and we hope you purchase Compaq again!

(okay, it might be slightly paraphrased...)

Ready for the Races!

So, I'm the first to admit that I'm not a great bicyclist. Running, that's my thing. Biking, it's a way to get from place to place without using gas, all the while getting a little exercise.

So I started up again a couple months ago, one or two days a week, and I was pretty rusty. Labored breathing and straining muscles up a tiny hill; sore butt after a short ride, all that. But I've felt like my muscles having been responding recently, getting into bike-riding form for me.

I was pumping along up a hill, a gear or two higher than normal, going pretty quick, barely breathing hard, thinking to myself, "Man, I'm getting good at this."

At precisely this instant, a 106lb sorority girl on a pink banana seat bike, tramp stamp showing between her ultra-low rise jeans and x-small belly shirt (which also managed to barely conceal her size D breasts), idly combing her hands through her thick mass of perfect blonde hair, flew past me (hands free), without even a flush to her cheeks. In the street. Without a helmet.

Well fuck me. Whatever, her Daddy bought her an expensive bike, I'm sure. Sorority girl and all, you know how they are. I've got my 6 year old $50 Target bike. It's the inefficiency of the bike. I'm sure of it.

A ridiculously large man, butt crack and love handles proudly exposed, sped past me next. I'm sure it's easier to pedal when you've got the weight behind your thrusts...right?

Fuck-me Eyes

I was a sorority girl in college. (I can actually hear my mother chiding me right now - I should say I'm in a sorority now, once a sorority girl always a sorority girl...but working on a college campus I reguarly get mistaken for a college student - and therefore assumed to be immature, disrespectful and worthless for anything but tuition by all non-undergrad students in Ann Arbor, and saying you're a sorority girl does not help this image.) Having been a sorority girl, I know what "the eye" looks like. After all, I gave it hourly at the very least. In fact, one of my many sorority knick-names was "Fuck me Eyes." Uhh...for the eyes part only, of course.

Riding in to work on my bike this morning I a wildly unusual amount of the previously stated "eye." I was a bit later than usual and debated for awhile whether there were just more people out in general? Maybe it was the beginning of new term and there were different people out? Maybe it was all in my head? But no, no, it was most decidedly not in my head. Tons of guys, HOT guys, hot college-aged guys no less, were looking me up and down. Fake-tanned, bottle-blonde girls were checking me out. I was wearing sneakers, jeans, a sweatshirt and a really sexy bike helmet; I'm not sure why anyone would give me a second glance while I'm racing towards them yelling "On your left!" and rolling my eyes continuously, and though occasionally it does happen, this was abnormal. Extremely.

I realized when I got to work that I was wearing my sorority sweatshirt. Go Sigma Kappa! =)

Sidewalk Biker

I've started riding my bike to work again in the nice Spring weather, and have discovered several interesting little factoids that I may have known before but just repressed from last fall. I'm GREAT at repressing memories if you didn't know.

Despite many of Ann Arbor's main streets having bike lanes, I ride my bike on the sidewalk. This is mostly because people driving cars go fast and don't pay attention to the world around them, while people walking go slow and don't pay attention to the world around them. There is always a constant stream of cars flowing past while I seldom see more than one or two people on the sidewalk (and even then they're almost always undergrads, who barely count anyay.) And I've had the good luck of having this decision reiterated multiple times in the past few weeks.

First, I actually watched a biker, in the bike lane, get hit by a car right here in good ol' Ann Arbor. (The car was making a right turn, I'm guessing this is the most common way for bikers to get hit.) Bike knocked over, bloody road-burned legs, all the goods. I didn't stay around to check for broken bones, my EMT license being expired by 8 months and all...okay, maybe this makes me a terrible person, but she stood up, and there were other people with cell phones out there to help her. What was I going to do? Put her on the back of my bike and take her to the hospital? Anyway, I'd really prefer not to have this experience from her point of view.

Second, the end of my ride after work has a huge hill and the sidewalk has extra waves in the hill to accomodate the constant driveways so I decided one day to try riding on the street. I regretted my decision immensely when I was weaving from exertion at the top of the hill in the bike lane the size of my front tire when a gi-normous semi-truck flew past at 45 miles per hour, swerving with it's own exertion in the lane not originally intended for anything but horse carriages. You know when you're driving on the freeway on a really windy day and when a truck passes it blocks the wind momentarily, but then you practically lose control when the wind hits you again? Imagine your little car being a bike instead. And now imagine the next vehicle to come flying up the hill being a bus. I will stand by my decision to ride on the sidewalk, extra hills and all.

While riding on the sidewalk, I have the fabulous opportunity of interacting with many exciting individuals. Let me point out here that's it not at all unusual to see a biker on the sidewalk anywhere in Ann Arbor, and is certainly expected in the general campus area. The common courtesy phrase as a biker passes a person walking is "on your right/left."

So the other day I say my polite but loud "On your left!" as I get close to a blonde girl (most likely an undergrad unfortunate enough to be stuck taking classes over the summer, at 8 in the morning no less!) She is pleasantly to the right side of the sidewalk (an unusual occurance) so I don't slow down as I approach her. Upon hearing my declaration, she literally pivots on her left foot, turns 180 degrees to face me and stops cold. "Excuse me?" she oh so politely asks my front tire as is barrels towards her. Turning TO your left when I say ON your left is one thing. But then NOT figuring out that I'm riding into you after you're staring at the tire tracks running up your shirt? Really?

Frozen in Place

I walked out the door at 6:30 one morning last week in running shorts and a tank top, a far stretch from my deep winter outfit of tights, leggings, sweats, sports bra, turtle neck, jacket, gloves, hat. I bounded down my steps, the screams of weather men in my ears, “highs of 78 degrees, 82 degrees, 83!” Spring has arrived! At the end of the porch steps, my leg muscles began to harden; halfway down the path, my fingers stopped moving altogether, the blood leaving them significantly colder than the rest of my body…my brain decided to reject this information. By the end of the path, I had completely frozen in place. As my brain struggled for comprehension, slowly freezing itself, I recalled the full weather report, “low of 28 overnight, rising to a high of 78 in the late afternoon, 82 on Friday and up to 83 on Saturday.”

The sun hadn’t yet broken the horizon. I was outside in 28 degree weather in shorts and a tank top. I cracked the ice forming on my lips and tongue enough to yell “Ben, help!” It came out as only a squeak. I stayed frozen to that spot until 7:45 when the temperature finally broke 32. Stiffly entering the bedroom, dripping melted ice from my hands, legs, forehead, my husband cracked an eyelid at me, “You took a long run this morning, huh? You’re all sweaty too,” rolled over and went back to sleep. I gave him my worst fire-y glare but even that seemed to have frozen. Bastard. This is clearly his fault.