There Were Monuments??!!?

Over the fourth of July Ryan and I went to Washington D.C. and saw absolutely nothing. Well, that's not entirely true -- we just didn't see any of the things you are expected to see when you head to D.C. Museums? Nope. Places George Washington slept? Nope. Places where laws are passed and massive mistakes are made? Not on your life. This trip was all about hanging with friends.

For those of you not related to me (I think there are three of you) I used to live in Washington D.C. during my young crazy days. I hung out with similarly crazy people, living in downtown apartments, going to hip bars, and generally acting as if adulthood was never going to catch up. Well, it did. I now live in Utah and am married to a Vice Principal, and those friends who still live in D.C. have all moved to sensible homes in the suburbs. It doesn't mean they are any less crazy though.

Take for example Blauren and Lill (names have been changed to protect the outwardly respectable). They now live in a nice home in northern Virginia with their beautiful daughter Claire. But while they may be in the suburbs they definitely aren't of them. Lill was still more than willing to stay up all night drinking vodka tonics, getting Ryan drunk, and telling about his chipmunk shooting adventures.

Blauren may have consented to decorating Claire's stroller for the fourth of July parade -- but only if we could use the plastic paratroopers to "show our support for the troops." Also, she had no problem plopping the tot in a large Tupperware container when we decided a kiddie pool would be fun on such a hot day, but then realized we didn't have one. And the Tupperware was great. Not too big, not to small, and Claire loved it once we got the water warm enough. She was actually upset when we tried to take her out because the water had gotten just a little too yellow... She was happy just doing her little wiggle dance and splashing around. No, Martha Stewart would not have approved, but Ryan has never smiled at Martha Stewart the way he smiled at Claire. That baby had him wrapped around her finger. Well, actually it was his beard wrapped around her fingers as she pulled, but he didn't seem to mind.

Misty and Handrew have settled a bit more into the suburban lifestyle, but they moved to Maryland, so it was kind of required by state law. However, despite the near perfect (and I mean, near perfect, these things are gorgeous) flowerbeds, and the new Lexus, they are still as goofy as ever. Handrew could not go ten minutes without wrestling with one of the dogs. And he very excitedly showed us his latest counter culture discovery, a magazine for the "modern Jew" called Heeb. He won't let Misty throw any of them out, no matter what is on the cover.

Misty has always been the most respectable of all my friends, and at the same time the most subversive. She took us to one of the nicest restaurants in Bethesda, but then pointed out all of the older men with plastic women, as well as all of the truly tragic fashion mistakes. The suburbs haven't changed her at all.

The best thing about seeing my friends is not only knowing that they haven't changed, but also that we haven't changed. We live thousands of miles apart, and see each other next to never, but we always pick up exactly where we left off. They have even welcomed Ryan in a way I never could have expected. I mean, I don't want to be too bold, but I think he and Lill have big ole' man crushes on each other. And he can't stop talking about wanting Misty and Handrew to come out and go fly fishing.

So, screw the sights. I saw all the history I wanted to see, and it makes me look ahead to a long future with good friends.

Falling Down

My driver's license says I weigh 120 pounds. My driver's license sits on a throne of lies. However, while I am a few pounds more than my "official" weight, I never thought I weighed enough to break a chair. That is, until last night. There I was sitting on the back porch, sipping some wine, talking with friends, watching Ryan grill, when I heard a creaking sound underneath me. The chair started to move, and even though it didn't all collapse at once, I was helpless, unable to stand up or move before I was flat on the ground with the wreckage underneath me. It was like being in a slow motion car crash -- with people standing there laughing at you the whole time.

Of course, the chair was several years old, and has been sitting, uncovered, on our back porch to suffer the Utah elements since we got it. Also, after my fall (of course), it was revealed to me that earlier in the evening another person had been sitting in the chair and gotten off when he leaned back and it started cracking. However, I still think it was mostly my fault -- especially when you consider my recent history of breaking things.

My first accidental destruction of property that could have ended in injury happened just about five years ago. In the backyard of my parent's house there was an old swing hanging from a tree. No one had ever sat on it, but I pulled on it, and it felt sturdy, so I thought I would try it out. Two swings and I was flat on my back on the ground. My Dad helped me up and brushed me off. My Mother was too busy being doubled over with laughter.

It was about three years ago that I destroyed our hammock. Picture it: Ryan's 30th birthday party. A feeling of joy and love in the air. Why wouldn't we try to put as many people in a hammock as possible? We learned very quickly that three was just over the limit. Not only did the hammock go down -- it broke the stand that was CEMENTED INTO THE GROUND in half. Luckily we all had been drinking, so we all went limp. Again, much laughter ensued.

A swing, a hammock, and now a chair. The list of things I have broken by sitting on them is now almost as long as the list of animals that have bitten me on vacations. But that's another blog. Let's just say that from now on I will be very careful where I put my ass. At least until I'm back to my driver's license weight.

Working 9 to Death

I will never again complain about having to get up at 5 o'clock in the morning. Well, actually I will, I know I will, but I will try to do it with less vigor in the future. You see, this week the noon show (which I normally produce, hence the early hours) is pre-empted by tennis, so that means I am working a day shift. A nine hour long, very little work filled, day shift.

The show that I am currently producing is the six o'clock news. It is a great show, filled with interesting stories, and headed by great anchors (there, now they won't fire me), the problem is, it doesn't really work to my strengths. It is only thirty minutes long, with four of those minutes filled by sports, three filled by weather, and eight filled by commercials. That leaves me 15 minutes to fill. On an average day I get three reporters, each filling at least ninety seconds. That means I am responsible for just over ten minutes of content. On a normal day, on the noon, I have to fill 27. So, you can see why filling the news hole (technical term) in this show takes me nowhere near nine hours. By the time the show finally airs I have read and re-read the scripts so many times that I could recite them at an outdoor theater festival. It gets to the point that any mistakes I might have made are completely glossed over, because they have started to seem correct to me. Of course, there are plenty of people to point out said mistakes.

That's the other thing about working day side. I don't know if I have mentioned this before, but I don't really know how to interact with people -- especially with people who want to tell me what to do. On my normal shift I am at work for a good four, four and a half hours before anyone who could have anything to say about my show gets here. On day side, they are here all day long. After a couple of hours it just starts to feel like I'm being constantly poked. That coupled with the feeling of twiddling my thumbs makes me very grumpy.

Oh, and I have to wear nice clothes, to match the newsroom that gets substantially nicer after 10am. Business casual clothes. Have there ever been two worse words to describe a fashion choice than "business casual?" For the past two days I have looked longingly at my jeans as I have put on a skirt. But I will not wear make-up -- they can't make me.

I guess there are some good things about this shift. I get to sleep in, and I don't have to be in bed before 10:30pm to ensure I get some sleep. But in exchange I feel like my whole life is being spent at work. I know some people who don't mind it, but I have really started to like my quality time in the afternoon. It's nice to feel like I've put in a full day's work, but then also get to spend time with Luke, or see a friend, or read a book, or take a nap. Oh, naps. How I have missed you. We will be seeing each other soon though -- I go back to my normal shift next week.

And I bet it won't feel all that early.

New Obsession

I am not what you would call a "networker." Sure, I have this blog, and I start to itch if I can't check my e-mail at least every three hours, but when it comes to all of the social and business networking sites, I really can't be bothered. I got a My Space page when Tara wanted me to check out a guy she was dating, but after the first few days it did nothing but gather dust until I deleted it. Same goes with my memberships on Good Reads, LinkedIn, and Webkinz (I just couldn't help myself, those little stuffed animals are just sooo cute!). Oh, and Twitter? The social networking/mini blogging site that I was so excited about? Totally over it. After about three days not even I cared what I was doing every second of every day. And I find myself fascinating.

About a week ago Tara e-mailed me to tell me she had gotten a Facebook page and to recommend I get one too. Looking at my long history of web networking apathy I replied with a hearty NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! She then threatened to make a page for me. I said I didn't care as long as I didn't have to look at it. She then threatened to link me up with all kinds of weirdos. Again, I said I didn't care as long as I didn't have to be involved. Also, who could she possibly put me in contact with that is weirder than the people I already associate with? I was not tempted. Then she mentioned she found the profile of someone we used to know -- and that she had gotten really fat. So, I signed up. And now I am hooked.

You see, Facebook takes the best part of all of the other sites, and leaves out the boring shit. You can spy on old high school classmates -- but not have to worry about them seeing your stuff unless you want them to. You can instant message, and update what you are doing, but since it's only a small piece of the pie there isn't the mind numbing pressure to think up something funny to say -- like there is on Twitter. I'm sure it's better than LinkedIn too, I've just never really looked at that site other than to sign up and then drop out, so I'm not sure how. Oh, and it has something no other site has -- bar fighting.

Yes, with only a click of the mouse I can now challenge my friends, co-workers, and random people who I have only met once but found me online to a bar fight. It's even better because most of the time when I'm on Facebook I've already had a few drinks. And as if beating my friends at a computer game featuring a random number generator that determines the outcome wasn't good enough, I get peanuts for every fight I win! And I can buy virtual stuff with those peanuts! Oh, and if I threatening to beat down friends in a bar fight gets boring I can switch over and devour them in the Zombie game! What could better? Nothing, that's what.

I really think the only problem with Facebook might be that I like it too much. This weekend Ryan had to ask me twice to step away from the computer and spend time with him, and it got to the point where I was sneaking back to the screen when he was downstairs or in the other room. Is it considered cheating if there is a whole network of people involved?

It is entirely possible that I will fall out of love with Facebook soon. After all, Tara is now bored with it, and she loves this kind of crap. I told her she can't drop out yet though -- she got me into this, so now she has to stay until I am done having my fun. Once that fun is over though we can drop out together. After that I'll always remember my Facebook summer romance, just like the men I once knew that I found in it's pages. Those men I had mad crushes on, that marked my soul forever -- and now are bald or fat.

Too Hot to Think of a Title

I have the summer blahs. Proof of that are the six days that have passed since the last time I've blogged, not because I've been busy, but because I haven't been able to think of anything to say. I have had fleeting visions of posts, brilliant ideas that are quickly snuffed out by the fact the feeling that I am about to melt. I cannot tell you how hard it was just to write those first three sentences. I had to refill my drink twice and use a thesaurus. And now I'm worn out. It's sad really.

I'll be funny again once it gets cooler or we get central air. For now enjoy these pictures of kittens. Get it? They're talking! Like they're people! But they can't spell! Because they're cats! Oh, my sides...

Cyst-O-Rama

For about the last five years I have had a small "lump" on my shoulder. No big deal, nothing serious, hardly noticeable. I had always blamed it on the fact that in my teens my Mom worked for a dermatologist, and delighted in having every mole on my body removed and biopsied. Given my skin's fondness for over-healing, keloids were often the result, and I have grown used to being slightly less than smooth. I figured the lump was nothing more than another reminder of Mom's war on skin cancer. However, this year it started getting bigger. Keloids don't do that. The lump had to go.

I made the appointment for last Thursday, and in passing mentioned it to my Mom. Suddenly her eyes began to glow. "You're going to have it removed," she said, "I'll be there." Of course, I knew my Mother wasn't coming for me -- she coming in the hopes of seeing something gross. And all at once I realized such proclivities must be genetic. How else can you explain my sister Cate's studies of forensics and love of maggot sciences? Or the people my sister Mandy hung out with in high school? (Kidding, Mandy, kidding, don't sic the undead on me.) All of it comes back to my Mom's love of the gross. And she wasn't going to miss an opportunity to get a front row seat -- especially if it involved one of her children.

For the next two days I did nothing but wonder what was within the lump. I'm counting this as a time of introspection and self-study, since it's probably the closest I'll ever get. My bet was on the keloid, but there were so many other possibilities. A cyst. A mutant mole. My unborn twin. I actually started hoping for that option, since finally there would be a child I could be absolutely positive my parents liked less than me. Of course, then I remembered who my Mother was and pictured her carrying the tiny thing around in a vial hung from her neck. Damn it. It would probably get into a better college than I did too. And don't even get me started on how much space it would take up in the Christmas letter. I would maybe get a mention as the parasite that had been holding back my lump of an unborn twin for all these years. So unfair.

I'll save you the suspense and just tell you -- it was a cyst. A big gross cyst that the dermatologist too one look at and reached for his scalpel. Unfortunately for my Mom he was also trying to set the land speed record for cyst removal. There was no time for careful contemplation of the grossness of it (and it was gross), he had bigger fish to fry. I swear, I was in an out of there in less than seven minutes. I actually walked out before the actual time of my appointment. Of course, my Mom did make time to look at the sad little thing sitting on the piece of gauze, and remark that she wanted to put it in my baby book. I think that if I had left her alone in the room for a second she probably would have. And I don't actually have a baby book.

Now that the cyst is gone I am realizing just how much I depended on it. That first day every stoplight was an exercise in pain as I reached up to play with my lump and found only a gaping chasm. There is of course the option of picking the scab, but that just causes bleeding, stares, and Ryan lecturing me on staph infections. A staph infection would even be too gross for my Mom. And that's saying something.

Night of the Rhino

One last story from Mexico...

I have already mentioned the fact that every night just after sundown some type of bug would hatch and swarm us as we sat on the deck. Some had black wings, some had green wings, all were very annoying. On our second to last night little beetle type things started flying around. It was like being invaded by flying nickels. There was no way to ignore it when one of these things landed on your shoulder. However, since none of us wanted to go to bed or hide in the kitchen with the doors shut, we just went with the standard protocol of batting them away and trying to blase about it. That is until this guy showed up...

Yes, that is me screaming like a ninny in the background. You see, that rhinoceros beetle had just made his entrance into the party by landing on my head. So, I put my hand up to push away what I thought was a small menace, and got a whole handful of creepy. I think you can understand my shrieking now.

After we had all freaked out (except Lindsey, notice how calm she is sitting there?) we began looking at ways at getting that big boy back out into the yard where he belonged. However, he wasn't quite ready to go...

See how strong that little bastard was? He even too much for Ryan "Rhino Hunter" Hoglund and his sugar bowl of doom. There was only one thing to do -- turn off all the lights and hope he would thing we all went to bed and take off. And that's what we did. But then he still wouldn't leave. He just dropped to the table and sat there. Finally Ryan used a board game box to scoop him up and take him out to the lawn. He swears the crabs that were gathered scattered the second they saw the Rhino. I guess I would have too.

I just wonder what other bugs we would have seen had we stayed a while longer... Something the size of a coffee table perhaps?

Dos Cervezas, Por Favor

I like to think of my recent trip to Mexico as the quest for the perfect fish taco. Well, actually shrimp taco. Fish just tastes so, well, fishy. I would say that not a day went by in Mexico that I did not eat one of these deletable treats, and on several days I had them for multiple meals, always from different restaurants though, so I could continue my search.

You would think a shrimp taco would be pretty simple: shrimp, sauce, something green, folded in a tortilla. However, there are so many variations on the this theme it boggles the mind. Is the tortilla flour or corn? Is the sauce tomato or mayo based? Do you grill or fry the shrimp? Well, the answer to that one is easy -- everything tastes better fried. But all of the other variations had to be carefully tried and considered, and then mixed and matched with the other variables to find the ultimate combination. My favorite was fried (of course) shrimp in a flour tortilla, with a spicy tartar sauce and lots of cabbage. The best was in a little town called San Francisco up the beach from our house where we ducked in when it was raining so hard I thought I might drown. The shrimp were perfectly crunchy on the outside, the sauce didn't taste too much like mayo, but still had the mouth feel of something fatty, and the cabbage didn't just taste cold. Of course, I was the only person who preferred my shrimp tacos this way, and other people ordered theirs in corn tortillas or topped them with guacamole. That's fine, to each their own, but they're all just wrong.

One thing we all agreed on was tequila. Sure, we drank it different ways, but we all really, really liked it. There were traditional margaritas, mango margaritas, tequila with sangrita chasers, and straight shots. I didn't really go for the shots, I'm too lady like. I did drink a margarita served in a glass I could wear as a hat though. I like to think I maintained my ladylike composure after finishing it, though Ryan assures me that was not the case. Eh, well, it's Mexico, what are you going to do?

When I wasn't eating shrimp tacos or trying to convince my husband, in my margarita haze, that it would be fun to jump in the enormous puddles rather than walk on the next street over that was dry, I was trying other delicacies. I had some pretty good mole, but nothing like that you can get here in town at the Red Iguana. Same goes for Mexican rice and beans. No one makes it better than El Chihuahua where I have been going with my family since I was born. You can say my tastes are Americanized but I just think they have better recipes.

The other thing I really didn't like in Mexico was the sweets. Yeah, the ice cream and the frozen stuff was good, but what the fuck is flan? And how can a culture make such delicious bread, but then go so horribly wrong with pastries? Now, I am not a big pastry person to begin with, but I think living in a Latin country might put me off of them for life. It's all mad fruit muffins or weird turnovers. The only place I've seen worse parties is in New Zealand, where everything it frosted red and covered in coconut. It's a country full of Zingers.

So, now I am back in the states and staring once again on Weight Watchers tomorrow. I really don't know how I did it, but I gained three pounds... I mean, after all, doesn't everything eaten on vacation not count towards your real life waistline?

Very Small Business

I will continue my stories from Mexico tomorrow, but today I need to address a story making headlines here in Utah: the sock Obama doll. This cute and cuddly toy was thought up by a pair in Utah County as a way to "get kids interested in the political process." However, they decided to stop plans to manufacture it after people began calling it racially insensitive, calling for a boycott of the company, and issuing death threats. The couple behind the idea say they are shocked at the response they have received, and that they didn't mean any harm. And I believe them. Because some people are just that stupid.

How could anyone in this country make it to adulthood and not understand the basic social mores that have formed during the history of our country? The 1960's weren't that long ago, and I don't think that America's schools have gotten so bad that nothing about the Civil Rights movement is taught. And even if they didn't learn it in school, did they only turn on the television to see possible political candidates and decide which animals they look like? If they had watched ten minutes of news they would have understood the racial overtones going into this election, if for no other reason than the fact Obama is the first black Presidential candidate from a major party. Or, even if they don't watch television (god forbid), if they have the savvy to start an Internet company they probably looked around the web some. Even if they only browsed porn they would get some sense of the racial tensions that still exist in America. But I'm guessing that all went over their heads. After all, today the couple issued a statement saying they would not be manufacturing the doll, disappointing their "wonderful new customers around the globe." I hate to tell them this, but I'm guessing that most of those "wonderful" people also subscribe to newsletters disproving the existence of the Holocaust. I'm sure if they knew who David Duke was they would understand why he ordered three.

I actually kind of feel bad for the makers of this doll, because they have gotten a rather virulent response, and have taken it personally. In their statement they write at least three times that they can't believe people are acting like this in America. Well, I guess if they don't know about race relations they probably aren't that familiar with the Bill of Rights either. Or maybe they were talking about themselves. After all, if America is an enlightened nation how can some of it's citizens not understand that racism is nothing to be toyed with?

Aquaman

I think Ryan must have been a fish in a past life. I have never met anyone who enjoys being in the water more than he does. It doesn't matter if the water is in a pool, or a river, or a lake, or the ocean, he has to be in it, and to stay in it until he is beyond pruney, and approaching the growing gills stage. He is happiest when he is scuba diving, which is to say when he is fully submerged. This trip was no different.

We had planned to do two days of diving on this trip, down from Ryan's original proposal of only coming up for food. However, when we arrived we discovered that the rain had stirred up the ocean, causing an algae bloom, and making visibility under water nearly nothing. The dive boat would not be going out unless it got better. This was not good news. Ryan went into a funk that is only rivaled by that of children promised puppies and candy, and then taken to the dentist. Luckily, the clouds parted, and Ryan started counting down the hours until we splashed.

There is nothing more wonderful than the moment that you start descending under the water and onto the ocean floor. However, there is nothing worse than the preparations that precede it. The boat ride out there usually isn't that bad, unless the seas are rough or the boat is overcrowded. But, there is really no way to gracefully put on a wet suit, or to walk with a forty pound rig on your back without looking like a hunchback. A pigeon-toed hunchback on account of the flippers. The feeling of ridiculousness was only intensified on this trip by appearance of our dive master Sebastian. Even under five millimeters of neoprene his six pack was rippling. And under 50 feet of water his hair stayed perfectly coiffed. Of course, like most pretty men, no one appreciated Sebastian's beauty more than Sebastian. When I tried to point out this out to Ryan, he had no time for my snark. It was time to get under water, and he was of only one mind. I had to save up all of my remarks for Tara when we returned home.

My friend Murphy always says he doesn't understand why we go diving because there are so many fish down there. But it's that feeling of seeing the strange that keeps us coming back. During our four dives on this trip we saw huge schools of angry looking jacks, fast swimming spiny lobsters, and turtles that seemed to be more interested in us than we were in them. And those are just some of the highlights. It's like a giant picture search down there. Look at one spot long enough and you WILL see something interesting. Small fish poking their heads out of barnacles, giant manta rays blocking the sun, or eels out searching for a meal, even though they are all almost blind as bats. Ryan always seems to find the most interesting stuff, and will come up from dives asking me if I saw the magnificent sites he did. Some times I have, but most of the time I have been completely oblivious. Thank god he has an underwater camera. Here are just some of the things we saw...

Much prettier without drawn butter.

Oh, so mean..

Pretty, but stinging. Like me.

Ben. The most dangerous fish of all.

Of course, diving wasn't the only way Ryan indulged in his passion for the water on the trip. That would be like me going to Italy and only having one glass of wine. Or me going anywhere and only having one glass of wine. He surfed, he boogie boarded, and he threw himself headlong into the waves like a lemming. He called it "body surfing," but I called it "forcing water up his nose." Ben and Kent also joined him in his pursuits, and every time they went out I have to admit I worried a bit. After all, I have seen that "Gilligan's Island" where the surfer accidentally catches a rogue wave and ends up with the castaways. While that might be Ryan's idea of the best thing that could ever happen (I think he'd go more for Mary Ann than for Ginger) I would miss him. He did look cute though heading out into the surf...

Before.

After.

Kent hits the waves.

Even though I don't share Ryan's extreme enthusiasm for the water I kept busy during our time in Mexico. Just wait until I tell you about the margarita the size of my head...

Viva Mexico!

Hello, people! For those of you who have been concerned about my well being because I haven't blogged in a while, fear no more. I wasn't trapped under something heavy, or kidnapped by Utah's Republican majority, but instead have been enjoying a much needed Mexican vacation with Ryan and a few friends. We had a really great time, and I will regale you, my 27 daily readers, with tales of our adventures in the coming week. However, because I can't do anything without complaining about some aspects of it, let's get that out of the way.

Five Things That Sucked About Mexico

1. The Rain. Mexico's rainy season is supposed to start in July. That is when it is supposed to start. No one told Mexico that though, and for the first three days of our trip it you would have thought we were in Seattle. Instead of laying on the beach, drinking margaritas, we spent those days in the house passing around copies of People, Details, and Vanity Fair until we could all quote from Angelina Jolie's interview, and identify all of the new necktie trends. Oh, and drinking margaritas.

2. The Mildew. Of course, the rain didn't keep the temperatures from soaring, and they went even higher when the sun came out. That made everything we owned smell like a high school locker room after Hurricane Katrina. Our rental car smelled so bad that the stench followed us out. Tara and I ran to the store one day and it was ten minutes before I realized the bad smell wasn't seafood out in the open, but my shorts from sitting on a damp seat. Lovely.

3. The Bugs. I don't mind bugs. In fact, I am the kind of person who scoops up spiders and puts them outside. However, in Mexico I smacked the little suckers like I was playing an arcade game, and I still ended up with millions of bites. Every night around nine there would be some kind of bug hatch, and we would be swarmed and bitten. And those bugs that didn't bite would just annoy the shit out of us.

4. The Rest of the World. Yes, I know that part of going on vacation is getting away from it all, and I didn't miss most of it. However, I really missed being cut off from parts of it. For instance, I hated not knowing if any major news stories had broken, like if Brangelina had delivered their twins. And I hated not being able to talk to my folks. There was no phone at our rental house, and Mexican public phones were devised by Rubik before he started work on his cube. It may sound weird, since I am almost 34, but I miss my parents if I can't talk to them and gloat that I am on vacation and they are not.

5. Coming Home. Before adulthood caught up with us Ryan and I used to take off on two or three week voyages around the world, and even then it wasn't enough time. It seems that I just get into vacation mode on the day we are leaving. This morning I was sitting on the beach, a beer in my hand, talking to Ryan and Tara and I just felt myself totally relax. And then I realized we had to get to the airport or else miss our flight. Now I wish we had.

Okay, so that's all the petty shit I have to say about Mexico. And, trust me, it pales in comparison to the good stuff I have to say. Just wait until you hear about the Rhino...

Where I Want to Work

People would actually appreciate me yelling "what the fuck are you doing" instead of looking hurt and calling HR... Actually, this office probably doesn't even have HR.

Landscaping Hell

Ryan and I have a lovely home with a large backyard, one third of which is actually usable. The rest of the yard is covered with natural springs which turn the ground swampy, and good only for growing weeds. And not just any weeds, but the big prickly kind that make it their mission to hurt you before you hurt them.

When Ryan and I first moved into the house we loved the amount of water on the property. We liked the fact that some of the water was diverted to make a lovely little fish pond, and that the dirt in the garden plot seemed so dark and moist that we could grow anything without having to worry about watering it. Of course, over the past four years we have lived here, things have gotten worse. The water has come closer to the surface, and the muck has gotten worse. The stream diverting water to the pond has outgrown it's bank, and the garden plot has gotten so wet that anything planted there (other than the evil weeds) is instantly swallowed up into black swampy darkness. Because we worry that a mud bog is not a selling point when we eventually sell our house, and because Ryan would like to stop wearing hip waders when he mows the back lawn, we decided this year to finally do something about it. Little did we know that wanting to fix the waste land of our backyard would mean wandering into the wasteland of landscapers.

I have no idea how landscapers make money. They never answer their phones, or if they do answer they make appointments they don't keep, or if they do keep them then they never get back to their potential clients with an estimate until they are hunted down like dogs. Oh, and even if they actually get to the estimate phase half of them will say they are too busy to consider the project until the 7th of never, and the other give out estimates that make scribblings on used McDonalds napkins look notarized. I swear that one of the estimates had a two thousand dollar expenditure for, no, I'm not kidding, "stuff." Oh, and one of them charged me a $50 consulting fee only to come out and tell me that they don't do the type of work we need done. Luckily I had the kind of money they wanted to spend. At least they admitted they didn't know what to do with the water though. Two of the guys who came out kept saying how they had never seen a problem like this before, but that they were certain they could "work it out." One even said he could find a book on it. Not surprisingly both of them later begged off saying they had too much work. Dry work.

There is one landscaper that answered his phone, showed up on time for our appointment, seemed knowlegable about the problem, and submitted a reasonable bid in a timely fashion. He was also dressed in pants without holes (I guess if you refuses work you can't afford clothes) and was really nice. Of course, all of those factors made me instantly distrust him. I would hire him, but I think we need to go to couple's therapy before I can believe he won't flood my house and then run off with my dog.

It makes me want to brick the entire thing in. But I'm guessing that bricklayers are just as difficult.

Ninja Warrior

As a continuation on Ryan and my embarrassing viewing habits today I would like to talk about our favorite entertainment from the east. Yes, Japan has many, many game shows that showcase everything from overeating, to cross dressing, to that bitch goddess of a game Pachinko, but there is nothing better than Ninja Warrior. Here is a show that combines brute strength, co-ordination, and careful planning with prat falls, and circus like showmanship. Oh, and it is all topped off with a healthy dose of shame for those who fail. If you have never seen an episode, check out the clip below:



See? Isn't that awesome? Isn't that everything you ever could have hoped for in a television show? The pathos, the pride, and the pleasure at watching the mighty fall? Its like Roman gladiators without (much of) the blood lust. You don't have to feel bad about rooting against these people because they don't die, they just let down their nation and their ancestors, and must forever live a life of shame. My favorite is when the last competitor of the day is about to take the course, and everyone else before him has failed. The announcer talks as if failure on the part of this man will not only mean disappointment for him, but the downfall of the entire Japanese nation, and their thousands of years of history.

None of these competitors want to take the walk of shame, so they go to amazing lengths to prepare for the competition. At least twice a show competitors talk about their "practice courses" they have built at home to prepare for the contest. I have seen one guy on at least three different episodes, and each time he talks about the improvements he has made to his course in order to make his training harder, and up his ability to beat the actual course. Then he falls into the mud on the first obstacle. And I laugh. I have to. It's my right as a viewer.

Oh, the mud. Farm animals are not plentiful in Japan, but I imagine every one of them is asked to bathe in Ninja Warrior course. It is truly disgusting. Really, it looks as if dirt threw up. No wonder none of these guys wants to land in it. It isn't just about shame, it's about giardia.

An American version of the show is being launched this summer on ABC. They're calling it "Wipeout," which I think will pretty much sum up the ratings. After all, who wants to watch a pale imitation of the original? It's the reason Frank Sinatra Jr. isn't more famous. Watch the video below and you'll understand:



Yes, there are people falling, and yes there is dirty water, but where is the heart? They are encouraging you to laugh at these people, not root for them. And rooting for them, as we all know, is the only way laughing at them is truly worthwhile. See, that's why we're losing ground to Japan as a world power. Well, that and the incompetence of our government, but that's another post. For now, let's just blame it on out lack of Warriors, Ninja Warriors.

Okie Noodling

The United States of America is a vast land filled with a myriad of proud traditions and cultural mores. And then there is Noodling. This is a "sport" that involves catching enormous catfish by diving under river banks and trying to get them to bite onto your hand. It's only legal in four states, and Utah isn't one of them. That should tell you something. Luckily though, it is legal in Oklahoma, and is the subject of a fascinating documentary called "Okie Noodling" that Ryan and I Netflixed this weekend.

The people who go noodling are exactly the ones you would expect. There wasn't one lawyer or investment banker in the film talking about taking off his suit after a long week and diving into murky water to intentionally get bitten. These guys work in jobs that allow them to wear tank tops and have pants that fall below the crack line when they bend over. Oh, and there wasn't a single female noodler. In most backwoods documentaries there is at least one female, usually a little butch, ready to show her mettle in the hillbilly spectacle being highlighted. Not here. All of the women featured in "Okie Noodling" talk about how dangerous and stupid it is, and how catfish the size of a Vespa really isn't that tasty anyway.

There really wasn't a plot to the film. Basically it was a punch of guys pulling fish from underneath logs and banks without drowning. Oh, and drinking while doing it. And talking about the "grand tradition" of noodling. They really could have used some writers. Despite that fact Ryan and I found ourselves absolutely riveted. We even tried to make a drinking game out of it. Missing teeth? Drink. Mullet? Drink. Father/son noodling team? Two drinks. Father/son noodling team with the son under the age of 10? Finish your drink. We could really only play for about ten minutes though, we found ourselves getting too hammered.

Eventually Ryan and I will have watched enough of these documentaries to have our own "Backwoods Film Festival." We'll watch "Okie Noodling," and "Dancing Outlaw," with a few episodes of "My Big Redneck Wedding" thrown in for good measure. We'll drink nothing but PBR and eat nothing but foods with "cheez" in the title. And then we'll know we've arrived. Oh, glorious day.