Thursday, June 21, 2007

If This Makes Any Sense to You, Seek Professional Help

You know what really sucks?

When you put your phone on silent.
Because you don’t want to answer it.

Scratch that.
Because you are hiding in your own house and you have psychotics in your life that will come to your house, be unswayed by the unanswered door, call your phone and then troll around windows and doors to see if they can HEAR the ringing, thus proving you’re home.

But that’s beside the point.

You put your phone on silent.
But set it near you so you can see the display light up for a call.

You answer a call from your brother to learn that your arch-nemesis, AKA the stalker that’s driving past your house every three minutes to see if you’re home yet, is safely distanced from yourself so you may venture into the kitchen to make a sandwich, grab a yogurt and a bottled water and then huddle in a hallway far from the line of sight of any door or window to enjoy a meal.

You take the phone with you to the kitchen.
Simply because your brother may call to inform you that your arch-nemisis is returning to the area and you should duck and cover IMMEDIATELY.
You get involved in the intricacies of concocting the sandwich, juggling it with the Dasani and Yoplait and shoving all of it down your throat before anyone can notice a light on in your house.
You completely forget to grab your phone from the counter. The counter in full view of the back door of your house with the huge, uncovered window and no fence (or moat) around your house to prevent others from letting themselves into your backyard.

Two hours later.
You know that the "safe zone" is long gone.
The arch-nemesis could be at any window, at any time, searching for signs of life or unobstructed entry into your abode.
You realize that someone you WANT to call is supposed to call soon.
You reach to your left for your phone, only to discover that it’s haven is devoid of inhabitants.
Oh dear God.

You desperately search all areas deemed safe.
Unlit, windowless rooms. Windowed rooms with shadowed areas to tip toe in.
You begin to realize that you’re too old to be sneaking around your own home.
Actually, the mere fact that you OWN your own home should alert you that you’re too old to be sneaking around it.
But, being the chicken that you are, you continue to sneak.
You narrow down the possible places for the phone to one: The counter in full view of the back door of your house with the huge, uncovered window and no fence (or moat) around your house to prevent others from letting themselves into your backyard.

You cry tearlessly.
You straighten your spine, take a deep breath, become determined to act your age, then bend down and skulk quickly (were there ever two such incompatible terms?) to the kitchen, retrieve the phone and sprint faster than Jackie Joyner-Kersee to your safe place: Your bed littered with books, the laptop and . . well, could anything else be needed to survive? I think not.

And, after all this trouble, you realize:

You really wanted a glass of sweat tea . . and as long as you were exposed, you could have gotten it. But, now, you’re relegated to tap water from your bathroom which you will have to drink from your hand.

That’s what really sucks.

Monday, June 04, 2007

Summer Lovin', Had Me a . . . Blowout

I’m unsure if I’ve ever professed my love/hate relationship with summer on here, but I’ve got one.

The reason I hate the summers in Arkansas is simple: Heat.
On a good day - the high temp is in the mid-90's.
On a bad day - the one hundred and teens with a heat index of 212 and nary a breeze to be felt.

But, the reasons I love the summer are many.
Not the least of which include WATER!

I’m a water baby, always have been and dare to say I always will be.
The moment it’s warm enough, I pack a beach bag with provisions and head to water. Regardless of how cold it is.

Last weekend, I flirted with water a bit. Just one small (8 hour) trip to the lake. This weekend, however, I had a full-blown affair! I skipped out on work on Friday (one of the many joys of the self-employed) and headed to Heber Springs with Cassie to cliff jump, swim, float and sun ourselves on the rocks while reading amazingly good books. But that simple trip only served to whet my appetite. I needed more!

Saturday dawned cloudy and cool, but the puffy grey clouds that promise rain were nowhere to be seen. I over-packed every possible necessity in a beach bag the size of a small storage unit and a cooler that was significantly smaller, but no less stuffed, and headed to the dock to beg a ride with Cal.

Cal, Garrett, Todd, Jenn, Sarah and I loaded quickly in the boat and spent the day attempting to commit suicide. Or, possibly, it was only me. I was born with this sense of accomplishment that drives me to practice everything - even the things I do extremely poorly - until I get it right. The previous weekend Cal had tried to teach me to slalom ski . . . after being repeatedly skipped across the water - and damaging my swimsuit to the point where I could not decently remove my lifevest - I gave up. For that day. But Saturday, I was more determined than ever. I was going to slalom ski, come Hell or high water.

Well, the high water brought Hell with it. On my third pathetic attempt, a wake the size of a Tsunami attacked me and I was thrown across the water with considerable force into a large (read massive) boulder. I fear my black, blue and now green leg will never recover. Neither, I’m afraid, will my pride. I won’t say I will never try slalom skiing again, but it’s a distinct possibility.

Sunday - broken and battered - I decided to take it easy, but I still required water. Enter my neighborhood pool. Five hours of lounging in a deck chaise and teaching my god-daughter to jump to me in the water. I can think of no better way to conclude a morning of Fire and Brimstone speeches than to hear my god-daughter shout "Catch you!" and my answer "No, Eve, say Catch Me."

And what do I have to show for my weekend in the water? Skin so tan that I will be able to forgo make-up for at least two weeks, tan lines which will embarrass me in my halter-topped bridesmaid’s dress next week, sun-streaked hair and a bruise that covers my right leg ankle to mid-thigh. Would I trade any of it for the world? Nope. I’m even thinking about working 5-days a week (a novelty for me) and only 6 hours a day to allow me to get to my pool by 2 PM every afternoon.

Sounds like a good plan to me! Thank God summer is here!

Can someone remind me Thursday that I uttered that "Thank God" statement? I get the feeling that when we reach that projected 97 degree mark I might start to curse summer in Arkansas.