KAYAKING

I kayak. I’ve done it for years with the same group of buddies. I love the sport, especially white-water kayaking. Nothing demands my attention like trying to avoid a boulder the size of Manhattan.

I don’t care for paddling that requires me to think too much. So I tend to paddle rivers with moderate current and small rapids. Oh sure, I take whitewater-rafting trips on insane rivers, but only if I get to sit in the back and the river guide tells me what to do.

Though I prefer moving water, I enjoy paddling the “flat-water” of placid lakes and creeks. Flat-water can be challenging, though. I learned to stay alert on Southern, black-water creeks overhung with trees. Stuff tends to fall from the tree limbs with alarming frequency. And I can personally attest that the only thing worse than a bunch o’ spiders dropping into a boat is a large snake.

There are “hair” boaters who live for the adrenaline rush of a near-death experience. The vast majority of these individuals are male — women know better. It has to be chromosomes that drive a man to ignore all the perfectly safe routes through a rapid in favor of the “hero” route.

White-water kayakers, like surfers, have their own language. So if I say, “Hey, the water is five-feet over paddler’s gauge and way creekin’ and gnarly,” everyone understands me. There are water features that sound like fun and are, like a “wave train”. However, there are other features, like “boulder gardens”, that aren’t.

Kayaking is good for me. I’ve become very adventurous. Being on a river all day with no bathroom helped me overcome my shyness. I used to have a problem with performing excretory functions in the great outdoors. But now I’m proud that I can quickly peel off a wetsuit and pee anywhere. I just have to be careful not to park my butt on anything with leaves-of-three.

I spend a lot of time at water sports so I have several wetsuits. But I don’t like them. They’re not flattering to the female figure. Most are so tight they outline every fatty bulge — some I didn’t know I had. I’m forced to spend a lot of time sucking in my stomach to look svelte. And I don’t have any use for the male, crotch-level zipper on the front of the suit, except perhaps for ventilation.

I haven’t mastered a kayak roll (known as an “Eskimo roll”) and don’t intend to. The maneuver was supposedly originated by the Eskimos. But I challenge anyone to find an Eskimo who’d say that capsizing a boat in sub-freezing water is anything but suicidal. I agree, especially if rocks are involved.

INSECTS

It’s a fact. I hate insects.

I realize they have their purposes on this planet. Without insects like bees we wouldn’t have flowering plants and fruit, or so the mantra goes. But I’m not buying it. If there weren’t bees then some other creature would evolve to pollinate flowers. Like unemployed humans.

I suppose I hate bugs because I tend to be a bug-magnet, especially where mosquitoes are concerned. Whatever my blood chemistry is, mosquitoes detect it like a beacon.

Inviting me along for a hike through the woods guarantees a mosquito-free event for everyone else. I read somewhere that the carbon dioxide exhaled by animals attracts mosquitoes. So I’ve tried holding my breath, but the nasty critters find me anyway.

I also hate bugs because, with few exceptions like butterflies, they’re ugly and gross. However, there are people who actually like them and actively seek them out. Entomologists specialize in the collection and study of insects. They need to get a life.

Certain aborigines consider white, chewy grubs to be a food delicacy. I guess when the alternatives are Tasmanian Devil stew or sauté of crocodile snout, grubs start to look pretty good.

Trend setters eat chocolate-covered grasshoppers because they’re “green”. However, I have a feeling that when no one is looking, these trendy individuals spit the bugs out. Better that then getting a grasshopper leg or two caught between the teeth.

I think it’s the insect body structure that gives me the willies. The multiple antennae and legs thing is something out of a B science-fiction movie. So are their multi-faceted, bulging eyes.

Those eyes detect movement well, but not images. That’s a shame, ’cause I want that fly to appreciate the irony of me using a nature magazine to swat it out of existence.

Beetles and other chitinous insects wear their skeleton like body armor. These insects are hard on the outside and soft on the inside. Squishing them (which is what I do when I see one) produces an unpleasant crunching sound and a disgusting splat of innards. I could do without that.

Insect behavior is driven primarily by chemicals, just like pre-menstrual women. Similar to women, they can be unpredictable. Female spiders in particular are known for eating their mates after they’ve performed their one and only conjugal duty. Sort of like an instant divorce with no complications.

When I moved down to the South no one told me that insects thrive here, especially during the summer months. The relocation package certainly didn’t mention three-inch-long cockroaches that can fly. They’re native fauna and you can’t keep them out of the house. I’ve tried.

These mega-roaches just waltz right by those electronic repellents. And the sticky traps don’t deter them either. I saw one scampering around my apartment with a trap stuck to its butt like a second shell.

Someone told me I’m better off not spraying. Spraying traps them in the house and you have to deal with their dead bodies, which are just as gross as when they’re alive. Whereas not spraying allows them to come and go as they please at night when you’re sleeping. I can’t decide which is worse. Personally, I just pray for the arrival of winter.

BLACK FRIDAY

I usually try to avoid shopping on Black Friday. I don’t like dealing with traffic and competing with fellow shoppers for bargains. But this year, the store discounts were too good to pass up.

So yesterday, somewhere between the Jell-o Shot and pumpkin pie, I snuck off to clip coupons. This morning I rose before dawn to ensure getting a good parking space at the mall. And I did. It was no more than 200 yards from one of the mall entrances. I didn’t want more than a short dash ahead of me. Better to save my energy for bargain hunting.

I even prepared a thermos of high-octane coffee for myself. I wasn’t used to getting up this early. I’d need to be alert the moment the mall opened. But I didn’t join the throng of people clustered around the main mall entrance at 5:45 AM. Someone might demand some coffee.

However, as it turned out, the coffee was a bad idea. I needed to pee, but the mall was still closed. So I went to a 24-hour convenience store with grungy bathrooms. This meant relinquishing my elite parking space. By the time I returned, my spot was taken.

Desperately, I methodically drove up each and every row looking for a space. I was just about to circle around the back of the mall. That’s when I spied a Security vehicle pulling out of a primo spot near the mall entrance. I was in the next row so I swung my car around and raced over, careening around a baby carriage. I pulled in triumphantly and narrowly beat out a Salvation Army Santa. He flipped me the mitten.

Unfortunately though, I arrived too late for the best “Early Bird” specials. I waded through crowds of people in the men’s section of my favorite department store only to be disappointed. Instead of getting 60% off men’s Christmas boxers, I’d only get 40%. And the selection was limited to ones with Frosty the Snowman pasted across the butt. So I passed on them. Besides, it’s not like I have any men to buy for anyway. Being frugal, I just couldn’t resist a sale.

Frantically, I ran over to the women’s sleepwear section to see if I’d missed that sale, too. Yup. The nightgowns were thoroughly pawed through. Only footsie pajamas and Miss Piggy long-johns were left. And the sizes were enormous, even by American standards.

Feeling desperate, I flew down the escalator, pushing people aside as I took steps two at a time. A sale on candy canes was in progress at the drug store. I wasn’t interested in buying candy canes to eat. I only use them to decorate my Christmas tree. And I needed blue ones to match my seashore, tree theme. These are always in short supply.

Candy-cane boxes were heaped in what looked like a pyramid an elephant had charged through. Boxes were strewn everywhere. I spied one, lone box of blue candy canes. My hand locked on it. But so did someone else’s. I glared at the lady across the box. She glared, too. I lifted one corner of my upper lip in a feral snarl. So did she. I tugged heartily on the box. She tugged back.

Just when I thought I’d have to wrestle her for it, a store clerk rushed forward with another box of candy canes. He offered it to me. I reached for it, relinquishing the other box. Too late, I realized my mistake. They weren’t blue! By then, the lady was gone. And my blue candy canes with her.

THANKSGIVING

I like Thanksgiving just fine. It’s a warm-up for Christmas, but without the lights. The featured attraction is called a “gobbler”. And that’s what we do — gobble down everything in sight.

The holiday is also a time to reflect — to celebrate the bounty of the earth. You’re supposed to be grateful for what you have. And I am. Here’s my list:

I’m grateful marshmallows and sweet potatoes won’t be served together.

I’m grateful we’ll have Thanksgiving at a house with more than one bathroom.

I’m grateful I don’t have to sit at the kid’s table anymore.

I’m grateful no one in my family is a football fan.

I’m grateful we won’t take any family pictures that include an ex-husband.

I’m grateful no one else likes the dark meat.

I’m grateful there’ll be more than one loaf of bread (one for my brother, and one for everyone else).

I’m grateful I’m not cooking.

I’m grateful God invented stretch pants.

I’m grateful I won’t be bogged down with a year’s worth of leftover turkey.

I’m grateful Cosmopolitans and Jell-o Shots were added to our traditional Thanksgiving menu.

I’m grateful Thanksgiving is mercifully short, so we can get on with what everybody is really excited about — Christmas.

I’m very, very grateful I have my family and we’ll be together this Thanksgiving.

A Happy Thanksgiving to all — and to all, a good bite!

BORN TO WHINE – PART 3

Whine Rule No.3: Never Admit to a Fault you can Deflect onto Others

My brother, Mark, who is younger and much sweeter than I, was a target of a lot of my whining. If I wanted his G.I. Joe® doll to fall off a two-story balcony without a parachute, that’s what happened.

Mark was also part of my developing a “deflective” whine. I deployed this whine when it looked like I’d get into trouble. For example: 1) I “accidentally” spill grape juice; 2) switch juice glasses so Mark has the empty one; 3) set up a loud whine so Mommy comes running into the kitchen; and 4) point at the grape-juice stained carpet and Mark.

By then I was talking up a storm. So my whine included a fast, loud explanation of what happened — my version. It drowned out Mark’s feeble attempts to defend himself. He would just get red in the face and cry, proving his guilt.

My whining went into high-gear when playing with other kids in the neighborhood. We formed a military club comprised of my best friend, Mikey, Wolfgang and his sister Christa, Mark and I. Wolfgang and Christa lived across the street.

We had military ranks. Mikey was the General. Wolfgang was a Captain. I was a Lieutenant. Christa was a wimp and never given a military rank. Mark was a Private and progressed no further. (I failed him on the required exams.)

Wolfgang and Christa’s house abutted a strip of woods. This was hotly contested territory between our club and the Bobby Felini Gang (BFG). I’d climb a tall maple tree on the edge of the woods to spy on the enemy. From the upper branches of the tree I projected a loud, warning whine.

If we caught Bobby Felini or any of his henchmen in our neck of the woods, we’d throw sticks at them and sometimes rocks. But that didn’t stop them. So one day I got an idea to set a trap, my inspiration being the tiger pit in the “Jungle Book”.

I enlisted Mark’s help to dig a big hole and line it with sharp sticks. We then hid the trap from view, piling on light branches and dead leaves. The finishing touch was positioning a couple of good, throwing rocks nearby. They’d never be able to resist that.

The next day, we found the pit broken into. There was blood. I whined about how we killed Bobby Felini and would spend the rest of our lives in jail. But later that day, Bobby Felini popped up from behind a tree and threw a rock. I was so relived, I could’ve kissed him. We figured the blood was either from an animal or an expendable member of the BFG.

For my heroics, I was made a Four-Star General. (We used Mikey’s garage for our club meetings so he was a Five-Star.) Mark’s reward was the privilege of sweeping out the garage.

As I grew into my early teens, my family became used to my whining ways. There was a hole in our parent’s 25th wedding-anniversary cake. It was shaped suspiciously like an index finger. Everyone assumed I was the guilty party.

Thinking fast, I cut a piece of cake for Mark, leaving plenty of icing on the rim of the plate. He wolfed down the cake in his usual manner, smearing icing on his fingers. I then pointed triumphantly at his icing-laden index finger, proclaiming him as the perpetrator of the offending hole — and not me.

But Mark, showing signs of the lawyer he would become, eloquently deflected my whine. He cited my many past offenses. I admitted nothing, conceding only that something else could have caused the hole — perhaps my cousin’s pet gerbil.