Bears and Serious Socks

We should talk about hiking. It's enjoyable. You might learn something about yourself or nature. One day while hiking at Ricketts Glen, I learned about both. I can sum up this learning experience in one sentence: Bears aren't the only threat in the woods.

Ricketts Glen is a state park in Pennsylvania. I don't really consider it to be full-on hiking...it's more like a nature walk. Don't get me wrong, you shouldn't go in flip-flops like the jackass college students do [idiots], but you don't need those titanium/aluminum alloy poles [even though they are pretty bad ass]. The combination of mild-ish hiking and waterfalls means that it's usually packed with people/families/hippies/and flip-flop wearers. It's easy to forget that you're in the middle of a fucking mountain. with mountain animals.

Cousin A and I drove to Rickett's one Sunday late in the summer. We each took a backpack filled with supplies, mostly extra water and food, because I live in fear of being lost/abandoned in the woods. I am not a survivalist by any stretch of the imagination [please see below for details]:

That's how we looked for the majority of the day. Blissful, excited, and sweaty. What a perfect day, I thought to myself. After crossing several foot bridges, we passed a young family. The little kiddos were skipping and laughing while the father looked merrily on. They were the perfect family.  The mother, who I'm fairly certain is one of the Horseman of the Apocalypse, kindly warned us that there were bears up on the ridge, but not to worry, they were waaaaaaay off the trail.

I'll admit, I had several moments of absolute, paralyzing panic. That mother just calmly told us our skulls were about to be shredded. I could feel my eyes growing larger and larger in alarm as my mind digested what this mother was saying. I swear to you the woods got a littler darker, and I'm pretty sure it became totally silent. Hence, my belief that the Apocalypse was upon us. I tried to remain in my calm, cool, collect mode for fear of being judged by her young children who were staring at me with a sad, pitying look on their little faces.

She said: "...there are bears up on the ridge..way off the trail..."

This is what my brain produced:

As you can see, I get a little out of control when it comes to wild animals. My mind refuses to be realistic about any sound, movement or smell while I'm in the woods. I blame Freddy Krueger and The Blair Witch Project, but it's not all Hollywood's fault. Let's be honest, bears actually do make those horrifying, snarly faces. They also kill people. Now that you're in the same frame of mind as I was during this hiking adventure, you'll be able to fully appreciate the rest of the story.

As Cousin A and I proceeded across the foot bridge, my hawk eyes darted around like a cracked-out squirrel's, never resting on a single object for more than a few seconds. I was vaguely aware that Cousin A was talking. I could barely respond. I think I mumbled, but I can't be sure. I was in a fight for my life. Fucking bears! I was trying to remain calm, but my chest was about to explode in panic. That's when we saw them. That bitch of a mother LIED. The bears were right on the motherfucking trail! Foxtrot Umbro Charlie Kilo. [impressed by my military skills, eh?]

I desperately racked my brain for bear-surviving techniques. I thought about the countless hours spent with my father watching the outdoor channel and animal-hunting/slaughtering shows against my will. How in the holy hell did I not retain any of their unique survivor knowledge? Damn you little man in my brain. You've failed me again!! It was then that I realized how woefully unprepared I was for hiking. What is the common factor in all of those outdoor/animal shows? WEAPONS. None of those people are carelessly walking around the woods killing animals with kindness. I apologized to the little man in my brain. It wasn't his fault that I was completely inept in the wild.  Swearing at myself for not purchasing a crossbow at our local Walmart, I thought about fashioning a spear from a tree. Ah piss, the "knife" Husband bought at the Renaissance Fair in high school is in the OTHER fashionable hiking backpack.  So, no weapons or spear-manufacturing tools. I ran through all possibilities: give them carrots? sugar cubes? do I even HAVE sugar cubes? fuck it, they can have the trail mix. I'm pissed about wasting the chocolate, but would I really be able to enjoy chocolate if my face is ripped off? probably not. This is bullshit. Fucking bears!

This happened all in a matter of nanoseconds. I'll have you know that all of the hours of my youth that were spent watching Hunting/Maiming channels were a WASTE. I couldn't recall anything helpful, which means we did exactly the OPPOSITE of what I now know you should do. So, don't do this:

As you can see, we crouched behind a small sapling/pathetic excuse for a tree and whispered feverishly to each other, never taking our eyes off of the bears. I did have the presence of mind to ask Cousin A if she had her period. In a strange and brief moment of clarity, I recalled from Pop-Up Video that in Madonna's "Like a Virgin" video, she DID have her period and the lion handlers were all concernicus that the lion would be up in her biz b/c lions are ATTRACTED to it. I could only assume that bears, based on size and wild animal factor, would be the same way. If Cousin A answered yes, she was a liability; and I was prepared to take drastic measures. 

She said no so I didn't need to sacrifice her. In retrospect, I'm relieved. I would have looked like SUCH an asshole if I abandoned her in the wilderness. I probably wouldn't have been invited to family dinners anymore, which means limited material for future blogs. Cousin A and I retreated in small, quick steps across the foot bridge. That's when we saw them. The second threat to mankind in the woods: Intense Hikers. We could tell they meant business because 1) they were speed-hiking and 2) they had on serious socks. You know, the wool ones that are all mottled/speckled. Usually bluish in color and they look mega comfy.

Yea. Those.

We tried to regain our composure from our close encounter before hurriedly whisper-shouting "There'sfuckingbearsthefuckoverthereJesusGodinheavnwesawthem.wesawthem."

Serious Socks looked at us like we were being ridiculous. I got the distinct feeling they labeled us as "city girls." I felt judged. I instantly hated them and their stupid socks. Fuck you. I'm wearing trail running shoes. This isn't my first rodeo, so to speak. They walked right by us, completely undeterred. Cousin A and I shrugged and decided to follow them. They looked like they knew what they were doing. PLUS I was hoping the bears would charge at them. I'd totally high-five the bears after that. In the back of my mind, I heard a faint voice say "you're handing your life over to Serious Socks because you assume they know what to do based on their wardrobe?" "Haha" I laughed to myself and the faint voice. "They think they're soooooooooo awesome. Hiking experts, huh? Can't wait to see those bears devastate the shit out of your fucking stupid, overly-warm socks. It's summer, asshole."

I practically vibrated with anticipation as we rounded the corner. I took a deep breath, waiting for the roar of death. Instead, a mildly annoying, rhythmic beat flowed into my eardrums. Serious Socks had started CLAPPING [note: this is what you can do to scare off the bears, apparently]. Startled, I looked around both disappointed and relieved. Not a single wild animal in sight. Stupid Serious Socks. 

I think I mumbled some shit like "ohtherewaslikethreehundredbearsherejustasecondago.iswear." 

Feeling slightly mollified, Cousin A and I spent a few minutes gathering our thoughts/eating the shit out of that trail mix. I was super happy that we didn't waste any chocolate on the bears, by the way. We were also too embarrassed to walk behind Serious Socks so our little dual-purpose snack time provided the perfect opportunity to hang back while Serious Socks marched on. After another hour or so, Cousin A and I passed Serious Socks again. I regarded them coolly, realizing that I was more put off by their premature judgment of us and their stupid fucking clapping than I was by the bears. I learned that I desperately need to buy some bear mace and that I should never underestimate Ricketts Glen again.

Why I'll Never Be President or the World Poker Tour Champion

I have mentioned in previous posts that I have trouble focusing. This can be directly linked to what goes on inside my brain at any given moment:

Because of the little man in my brain, I'm easily distracted and prone to boredom. Reason #1 why I could never do anything involving really tough, globally-relevant decisions. [I can recycle though so I'm not a total loss.]

This is an abridged list of things that induce boredom/irritation almost immediately:

1. Fake people and/or people who talk to me only because Husband is a successful musician.
2. MSNBC Morning Joe [seriously. they are still on the air?]
3. Chronic Interrupters [you are an abomination.]*

Now that we've reached a new level of understanding, I'd like to think that none of the above applies to you and we can resume our friendship as soon as possible.

There are a few things that happen when I'm confronted with the items in the above list:

1. I 'rutch' [this means to flop around uselessly.]
2. I usually march around to alert Husband to my boredom. He then initiates Operation Save Wife From Herself. 
3. I develop a persistent and often visible eye twitch. 
4. In severe cases, I walk away. [this is classic avoidance behavior.]

Husband likes to say that I get "punchy." I can only assume this means that I'm allowed to punch people because of my heightened state of boredom. I have yet to test this theory. Reason #2 why I could never be in charge of a country.

To make matters worse, I suffer from a debilitating lack of control over my facial muscles. Let me explain: any emotion I'm feeling in my body will be displayed on my face. This ranges from happiness to fury. The transition that my face goes through is proportional to the offense. I am, after all, able to control some of my reactions [most of the time.] So that you understand where I'm coming from and what to expect from me, I have developed a helpful scale:

There are certain topics and people that cause me to transition quickly from Normal to Dino-bear. I do not take pride in this, but I am 27 and therefore understand that this is who I am. Compounded by this is the fact that I HATE to waste time. My time, your time, dance time, etc. No one needs that. 

You can see why this would be a problem for anyone who is around me and why I could never be in a position of global power or win the World Poker Tour. I think Dino-bear would be a huge tell. 

*I plan on covering the topic of chronic interrupters in another blog tentatively called "The Most Annoying Person You'll Ever Know."

How Supernatural Kept Me Out of TV Rehab

Like many of you out there, I watch television. While I was in college, and up to about three years ago, I did not have cable. How did I survive? Netflix and the internet.

Naturally, I fell behind in all things TV. I had friends talking about various shows and awesomeness of which I was missing out daily. I suddenly realized the err of my ways. How could I be considered cool if I couldn't contribute to these discussions? How would I ever fit in? My desire to become cool greatly outweighed how poor I was. I was desperate. Insane with envy and longing. Eventually, I got married and all of my problems were solved. Well, I'm still not cool, but I have cable.

Win.

I quickly became a ravenous monster who was satiated only by devouring weeknight television shows. I can calmly admit [now] that most of them are terrible. Even though I was completely addicted, I heard the voice in the back of my head, pleading with me to peel my eyeballs from the screen. It nagged at me while I stared unblinking at the crap that filtered through the TV. I did not care. I shoved that voice into the nether regions of my brain. Destroyed by hours upon hours of pointless shows. Once, at Applebees, I waited with bated breath as everyone began to talk about their favorite shows. And then the moment came. It was my turn. I struggled to contain my excitement. I took a deep breath, and I CONTRIBUTED. finally!!! TRIUMPH! ELATION! Then I was like a coked-up chimp. I couldn't stop. My mouth, completely of its own accord, spewed forth facts upon facts of television shows. Everyone else at the table stopped speaking and stared at me with wide, fear-filled eyes as I continued at a fevered pitch practically choking on my spit trying to divulge how much TV I watched, and therefore magically convincing everyone that I was a cool kid, too! BELIEVE ME DAMMITTTTT! I suddenly realized that I was sweating.

The reality of my situation came crashing down upon me. With increasing embarrassment,  I saw myself as I was: A crazed TV zombie.

Immediately upon this realization, I sat quietly at the table, contemplating my next logical move. There was no way to cover up my insane explosion of TV knowledge. I was exposed, and now, I had to find a way to redeem myself. I vowed to ignore TV. I was done with it. We were breaking up.  I mentioned once that the only time I can laser-focus is while I'm running. While this is true, I was determined to take up a more reputable hobby such as knitting or manufacturing meth. The Applebees incident was on a Tuesday. I made it to Friday.

Normally on a Friday night, I would be out at one of Husband's shows. He's a musician, not a stripper. Just to clarify. This fateful Friday, I wasn't feeling all that "pretty" so i chose to have a cozy night-in with my new zit.  I decided to reward my good behavior with some light TV-watching. Hey, I kept my promise for a couple of days. I deserved a few minutes of TV time. I felt marginally certain that I could control myself and the inner TV beast. As I flipped through the channels, I was accosted by the terrible reality shows that were dominating cable. Out of sheer terror of relapsing, I raced through the channels to find something, anything that wasn't reality TV.  That's when I found it. Supernatural. 

I don't care who you are. That show is awesome. Not only are all the main characters really, really ridiculously good-looking, but the story line is CLEVER [which is completely and totally lacking in other shows]. I'm sure it will come as no surprise to you, based on my previous addiction to television, that I was immediately addicted to this show. [I should mention that I am intrigued by all things ghosts, demons, haunted, etc. I love it and I want more of it.] This show blew my mind. I could feel the ravenous television beast stirring inside me. I needed more, and I needed it immediately. You'll be relieved to know that I got my fix and then some. Supernatural saved me from myself and TV rehab. My only regret is that I was such a late Supernatural-bloomer. Don't judge me.

Of course, Husband heard all about the show. I even convinced him to watch it one rare Friday night that he was not playing. He likes it, too. This is pretty much exactly what we look like:

Win.

If you don't watch this show, you should. If you have watched this show and you don't like it, we literally cannot be friends. Dems da facts. [I have never used this phrase before and feel slightly self-conscious.]

How Cockiness Almost Killed Me

I live in Pennsylvania. It's very green and can be lovely.  Generally speaking, I can run outside throughout the year [which I prefer to the monotony of a treadmill. hello, i'm not a hamster.] I'm a visual learner and so I'll assume that you are, too. 

This is me running under normal conditions: 

I'm happy. Life is good. You might even say I've reached inner peace. This is the only time during the day that I am laser-focused. I am not proud of this fact. 

You may recall that I drove Sister to Texas. I don't believe I mentioned why. Our parents, Big L and Baahb, live in the great state of Texas. I knew that I would be visiting with them for two weeks, which means I had to pack my running paraphernalia for the safety and well-being of society. You may not know this about me, but I become a man-eating/rabid dino-bear, devoid of all emotions except aggression and prone to irrational behavior, when I can't run. Don't ask me to explain why. I think the mania that is my brain, which I liken to a small man running around to different filing cabinets in total panic, requires the daily laser-focus that running provides me. Ask Husband if you don't believe me. I realize that not everyone can fully appreciate how important running is to my sanity. I also realize that you might not know what a dino-bear looks like. Please see below for explanations to both.

I digress. 

Everyone on EARTH said these exact words to me: "Texas in JULY?!?! It's going to be SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO HOT!!!" 

Thanks for that. I wasn't aware that it was summer and that I haven't stopped sweating since May. I also wasn't aware that Texas was DIRECTLY above Mexico, and more importantly, closer to the equator than Pennsylvania. Thank you, kind sirs, for sharing your bottomless wealth of geographical knowledge. I will kill you.

Fast-forward to Texas. I'm lacing up my shoes, guzzling some water. I shrugged off what I considered to be an obvious exaggeration of the heat factor in Texas. Huge mistake.

I fully admit that I got a little cocky when I first stepped out of my parents' home and felt the heat on my skin. I thought, "It's almost 8pm, the sun's going down. No big deal." I'll never lie to myself like that again.

I am telling you the truth when I say that no matter what time of day, if the sun is anywhere near the sky, you will die. You cannot run between the hours of 6am and 9pm. If you think you're made of sturdier stock than I, be warned. Cockiness = Fiery Death/Inferno/Immediate Dehydration.

Out of concern for my readers, I have provided a completely factual illustration:

It is not an exaggeration, and now you know how cockiness almost killed me. 

Things I learned while in Texas:

-I do not enjoy running while fully engulfed in flames.

-You cannot leave the house without sunscreen. I don't care if you're walking to the mailbox. Your skin will melt.

How the Lion King Soundtrack Can Save Your Life

Not so long ago, I drove with my sister from Pennsylvania to Texas. She was moving there because she had just graduated, and like most new graduates, she had no idea what to do with her life. Hence, a two-day journey through many states I've never been to before, nor will I go back to [Arkansas] ever again. ever.

After several hours of driving and two dead ipods, we were listening to the radio. It starts out innocently enough. You're still practicing safe driving techniques: 10 and 2, people. 10 and 2.  Lady Gaga comes on and you get into the groove. You're sucked in by her tranny dancing and crazy beats. Admit it. We all do it. We were all on the Edge of Glory.

After 4 - 7 times, you realize that Lady Gaga is irritating the shit out of you. Not nearly as irritating as Katy Perry, but preeeeeeeetttty close. You start hearing crazy messages in the music. You suddenly realize that she's been judging you the whole time. Mocking you with her fancy songs. What's that Lady Gaga? You wanna say that to my face?! 

 This is what happens to me when I've heard one song >15 times within a 24 hour period, and I've been in the same car for 10 hours. Something pre-programmed, most likely during the incubation period, SNAPS and my rage can no longer be contained.

Psychosis has set in. You're gripping the steering wheel , crushing it in a fit of rage. Your upper body strength has quadrupled in mere seconds. You will EAT the radio. It's the only way.

Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, my sister has a much higher Lady Gaga threshold than I. Where I have obviously reached critical mass, Sister can calmly assess the situation and devise a cunning plan. You can thank her at any time for saving the lives of many, many innocent people.

*No longer practicing safe driving techniques. You don't need to. Simba knows.

And that is how the Lion King soundtrack can save your life. TRUST me. 

Shawnfie Cake

Yes, I realize I'm getting carried away. I probably should have mentioned in my "Here's Some Shit About Me" list that I often get carried away. I think it's a direct result of my hyperactivity and awesome brain power, but I can't be sure.

I celebrated a birthday last week. Because I'm ultra popular and mega busy, I had to postpone any celebration with my family until yesterday. Grandmother Dearest cooked up some delicious lasagna, meatballs, and chocolate zucchini cake. To my complete and utter surprise, there was also ice cream cake. You'll recall that I would kill a man for things like ice cream, pie, brownies, etc. I'm sure you understand the enormity of my sheer delight at having not one but TWO delicious treats at my disposal. Now imagine that your birthday ice cream cake wasn't for you, but for your arch nemesis or possibly someone that you didn't even know existed [this will perpetuate your paranoid delusions regarding 'big brother' and 'the man'.]

This is who the ice cream cake was for:

Lena is my pseudo-cousin whose birthday is also in July. As is custom in my unnaturally large family, we group birthdays together by month and sometimes by season. Depends on Grandmother Dearest's schedule. So, of course, I expected to see Lena's name next to mine, but who the fuck is Shawnfie?

Dogs Can Shit On Windowsills

I've just recently learned that dogs can shit on windowsills. I've witnessed it with my own two eyeballs.

Let me begin by introducing myself. My name is Shawnsie. For those of you lacking phonetic experience, it's pronounced SHAWN - SEE. I'm glad that's out of the way. I hope we can be friends.

Here is a list of things you may or may not like about me but are true nonetheless:

1. I have the attention span of  a 4 month old psychotic Jack Russell Terrier.
2. I have two dogs and a husband. (Neither of which are jack russell terriers).
3. I hate spiders and those fucking "million leggers" that live in and around fireplaces and sometimes lurk in your sink drain.
4. I would kill a man for the following: pie, ice cream, coffee, brownies, freshly-baked soft pretzels, pickles (dill only) and cocktail wieners.
5. I hate the snow.
6. I believe that Anthony Hopkins could be the anti-christ. 

Now that you know a little about me, I'd like to tell you a short story.

I recently returned from a trip to Texas (yes, it's hot as fuck). Brisby, known affectionately as "Momma", had contracted diarrhea. I'm not talking about your run of the mill diarrhea. This was far worse. I call it Projectile Diarrhea or Projectile D for short. [#7 of the aforementioned list: I take immense pleasure in giving cute nicknames to everything. especially gross things.]

Anyway, she was spray-farting and projectile D-ing for days. Concerned Husband and I stared at her in exasperation as she sharted all over the house. Not really sure what to do and dreading a trip to the vet's, we pretended that she was completely fine and that she was just expressing her inner joy through her anal glands. This was a bad idea. [#8: I often make really poor judgment calls when it comes to my dogs.]

One day, while I was diligently working on organizing shitstorms [#9: this is my actual job], Brisby was staring out the window watching the fattest squirrel you have ever seen in your life scurry around like a fucking creep in the tree outside my house. One minute, she's loving life, watching the squirrel and I'm swearing at my computer. The next minute, the sounds of sharts float into my ear. Intrigued/nervous, I turned in my chair to see her squatting on the windowsill in full projectile D position. My only regret is that I didn't have the forethought to take a picture of the little gem she left for me. In lieu of photographic evidence, I have provided a reenactment via Paint:

I should mention that we did take her to the vet's after she lost her ass all over our bedroom at 2 am. She's completely fine. I know you were concerned.

Blog Cherry

I'd like to pop my blog cherry by providing an observation.  True or False: have you ever seen anything that looks more like a used pad than this:

Moving on. I've been meaning to blog my observations and such for quite some time. Truth is, I've been intimidated; but now with a false sense of self-confidence, I'm taking to the blog-o-sphere.