A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!

If ever you are so lucky as to find yourself in Tehachapi and on your way to Casa de Glib, you will be advised to look for this big, plastic clydesdale statue as a landmark of where to turn off the main road:Yes, it's quite impressive and tempting to the child in us all that wants to climb things because, well, it's a big plastic horse and who wouldn't want to climb a big, plastic horse? Can you see where this is going?

It just so happens that my cousin, A, was visiting last night and we decided the Tuesday after Christmas would be a fine time to visit Tehachapi's finest saloon: The Red Caboose. You may remember the Cabooty, as it is affectionately known, from a previous blog involving mojitos, a camel and bad sangria. Whenever A and I get together something that will eventually prevent me from becoming a judge is bound to happen.

A and I went to dinner then met up with my friend D and we all played pool and drank beer until they kicked us out of the Cobooty a little after midnight. As we were driving home, A spotted that big, plastic horse and felt a sudden urge to mount it. This is a common family trait and thankfully I had the foresight to suggest we drive home and get the camera before attempting such a feat. Of course, first I drunk dialed Q because I knew he had nothing better to do at 1 am than listen to two inebriated women plot the mounting of a plastic statue in the rain. We actually drove home (2.5 miles), got the camera, and drove back to the work of art. In the rain. After midnight.

So we got back to the intersection, parked and ran across the street. A flood light was on and pointing at the horse but we went through the fence anyhow, later noting we were lucky it wasn't electric, and came upon the great synthetic beast.

Problem was that it was gargantuan. A attempted to climb up on it a few times but couldn't reach that high and the horse was slippery because it was wet. Here's A looking diabolical in her Red Caboose t-shirt and plotting how to get on the horse:Somehow we came up with the bright idea that I should get on my hands and knees in the mud and she should use me as a stool. It was only after I got a bootprint on my back that I remembered the clodhopper, hard-soled boots she was wearing:Yeah, that wasn't too pleasant. And, after a couple of attempts we were both in the mud laughing because she kept falling.

Of course, quitting is not an option for us so we persisted and, after she basically climbed me to get onto the horse, success was achieved:It's a good thing we only see eachother about once a year.

On mountain rescues, beer and the media

The Outdoorspro, a highly trained Oregon ski patroller, has been doing some excellent coverage on the three missing mountaineers at Mt. hood this past week and it, of course, reminded me of the time my own brother required rescue from a mountain while snowboarding.

I was sitting home in Oak View about six years ago when one of my brother's buddies showed up at my door looking quite concerned. He didn't have my phone number but knew where I lived and didn't know how to get ahold of anyone on behalf of my brother. You see, my brother had gone snowboarding with some of his buddies. One of said buddies tweaked his leg or something early in the day and decided to go down the mountain and wait for my brother and his other friend at a bar. Well, said bar-going buddy soon found himself quite drunk and went to the truck to pass out. He awoke hours later to find my brother and his friend had not yet returned and it was after dark. So he went to the bar to find them. Of course, these guys didn't have cell phones so said injured friend, upon not finding the boys at the bar, decided to sit and drink some more while waiting for them, thinking they must be elsewhere. A few drinks later he found some clarity and realized that they should've met up by then, or at least put their gear in the truck, and decided to alert authorities to the fact that the two guys were missing.

So this drunk friend tells the police he's had about nine beers while waiting for his friends who never returned from the mountain. The police write it down as the two snowboarders each had nine beers then went boarding.

In the meantime, my brother and his friend, new to the ski area, were caught in a white out at the top of a run. They met another guy who held a season pass and told them to follow him because he knew the area - right down the back of the mountain into no man's land in a white out. The three of them were lost and disoriented and it got dark so they built a snowcave under a tree, smoked some of the good stuff, and shivered the night away as they were dressed only for a day's outing. A big storm hit that night so it was pretty fun for them. The following morning they found a clearing in the woods and stayed in the open hoping someone would spot them. Eventually a rescue helicopter came and they were picked up.

Of course, this all made the local news and I have a strange last name so many people questioned me about my drunk snowboarding brother. In fact, here's the only snippet I could find about the incident on Google today:

Three Drunk Snowboards Lost at Mountain High
Three drunk snowboarders. Three drunk snowboarders. See how they flounder. See how they flounder. They all went riding at Mountain High, after 9 beers they took off to fly, out of bounds they did nearly die. Three drunk snowboarders. Roy Paul Brown, 38; John Catlan, 31; and Glib Gal's Brother, 30, were found 12 hours after they went snowboarding in an out-of-bounds area at Mountain High West.

Yeah, looks like libel to me too. If only my brother and his friends had a reputation to damage...

This is an example of how the media can distort things and make a sensationalized story out of a reasonable mishap, kind of like the Bill O'Reilly clip you can find at Outdoorspro.

As for my brother, it was later discovered that the boys had not had any beers prior to snowboarding and that the resort had failed to maintain its fencing in the area they went out of bounds at and the guy with the season pass was, in fact, stupid.

It's that time again...

...Yes, it's time to have my annual shot of Jager and solicit my faithful readers and the public at large to donate to the great cause that is the Sarah Moody Memorial Scholarship. Yes, the only scholarship that rewards the lowest ranking person in a respective graduating class with cold, hard cash. I told you I was glib...

Hard to believe it's been four years since my good friend Sarah passed away. Also difficult to fathom how one good person leaving your life for good can still make you think about stuff four years later.

Don't worry, the scholarship is completely legitimate and you will get an official tax write-off for donating any amount above $25. This is the website for the VCCF. To donate, mail a check, payable to the "Sarah Moody Scholarship Fund" or "VCCF" (be sure to note that it's for the Sarah Moody Fund) to the address below:

Sarah Moody Memorial Scholarship
Ventura County Community Foundation
1317 Del Norte Road, Suite 150
Camarillo, CA 93010

I know, I know...Everyone's asking for money this time of year. So if you don't want to give to this worthy cause, pick another one that is dear to your heart or just do something nice (as much as it hurts, this includes you, MB). Oh, and order a shot of Jager or whatever your poison is and raise a toast to good friends, fond memories, and low GPAs.

Yet another reason to hole up and become the next Unabomber

Things not to do on a first date:

1. Bring flowers. It's presumptuous and premature and we really just want to decide whether we like you before we have a reminder sitting around on our dining room table. Unless you're a horticulturist or expert botanist. But if it has a pricetag on it, do not bring it.
2. Pat her on the ass. Really, this is inappropriate unless she is wearing a football jersey.
3. Tell her you're a genius. If you have to tell someone, you might be a bit shy of the necessary intelligence quotient.
4. Discuss her breasts as you stare at them. Not cool, dude, not cool. Unless she's a Hooters girl and you are visiting her at work. Then, by all means, have at it.
5. Elaborate on your connections to the Sicilian mafia in the greater Tehachapi area, or any other area for that matter. Girls really aren't into mobs and mafias.
6. Tell her how good you are in bed. If you have to tell someone, you probably aren't.
7. Begin any conversation with a sentece that contains the words "conspiracy theory". It just does not bode well and makes you seem a bit whacky rather than the pseudo-intellectual you're shooting for.
8. Perhaps most importantly, do not, under any circumstances, extoll the merits of your foreskin. We don't want to hear anything about your penis while we're trying to eat a baked potato. Really.

You may be surprised to learn that I came up with all those tips after spending just one hour with a man in Tehachapi Wednesday night.

I know what you're thinking, after last week's foray into the engineering world I would have the good sense to cancel a pending date with yet another local, and engineer to boot. Then again, if you've been reading this blog very long you know I must secretly like to suffer.

TJ is a local I'd met in town on several occassions. He had given me his number a few times, then conveniently started loitering in the vicinity of my office around lunchtime. He seemed a bit quirky but harmless so when he invited me to dinner I had no valid reason for refusing and fell back on my old rule of always giving someone a chance. I also thought I made it abundantly clear that it was just a friends thing. This is a problem we women have - we assume men get the subtle hints when really, we need to just tell them the human race would become extinct if they were the last man on earth and the fate of the world depended on our fornicating with them.

So, against my better judgment (Let's face it, if I had good judgment there wouldn't be a blog...), I accepted TJ's dinner invite on the condition that it be on a weeknight and casual. I was thinking tacos and a beer. I'm still not sure what he was thinking.

I was already regretting my decision to accept the invite when TJ showed up at my office after work with flowers and announced we'd be going to a local steakhouse (one of our allegedly finer dining establishments). I should have just said no at that point but I didn't.

We then walked to the restaurant, a few blocks from my office, and during the walk he attempted to hold my hand (another no-no when someone is not feeling your vibe). I declined that offer firmly only to be met with a pat on the arse just as we entered the restaurant. Yes, the guy actually patted me on the butt. I didn't believe it had happened because, really, who pats anyone on the butt anymore? When I realized what had happened I advised that if his hand strayed again I would clock him. Again, I should have just stopped things there and left, but there was a steak dinner involved and my refrigerator is on the fritz. I know, it seems shallow but somehow I figured there was justice in it.

He immediately ordered an expensive bottle of wine - to the tune of $70. Let me just tell you that in Tehachapi you can drink for three weeks on $70 so it was a bold move on his part. He then began discussing his mob connections, Sicilians, the fact that he can have medical marijuana, a conspiracy theory or two involving the local city council, and various other obscure stream-of-consciousness topics. I could barely keep up with the nonsense and, for the first time in my life, seriously contemplated walking out on a date. I even asked if he was on something and his conversation was rather confrontational and just plain nutty.

Then, just as I was starting to eat, he began discussing my breasts. Yes, right there at the table, with no prompting, he inquired about their cup size then elaborated on his love of breasts and went on to his own sexual prowess. I was a bit dumbfounded and nearly choked on my filet.

As usual, it gets better. Before I could interject, he explained that he was "as god made him". I didn't ask for any elaboration but he felt compelled to tell me he was uncut, and I don't mean in the censorship way. What possesses a man to describe his foreskin to a woman attempting to eat a baked potato is beyond me. It's not that I'm against foreskin, I just don't want to hear about it over our first meal together.

That was it for me. I called an end to things and told him I was about to walk out of the restaurant. He then had the gall to ask if I planned to help with the bill. I let him know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I had no intention of paying for a meal I didn't ask for with a man I could barely tolerate. I made it quite clear his behavior was unacceptable.

Fortunately, in this instance, I had the good sense never to give him my real phone number. Of course, I went in to my office today to find a phone message from him saying what a wonderful time he had and asking when we could do it again.

No, I haven't called him back but I may call the pirouetting, sad sapling engineer as he's starting to look pretty good...

An engineer, a sapling and the Macarena ballet-style

So I did it. I went out with <the engineer who was lurking on my MySpace page.

Really, you should feel special because I did it for the good of the blog. You know what my last date with an engineer was like. And no one could forget the original Catholic engineer. This time, though, I think I've outdone myself and that this guy was the final nail in the coffin for all engineers.

On to our story...The date was actually a double blind date with CW (the engineer), his co-worker M who I was originally to be set up with, and V, a woman from my writer's group. We were all to meet up last Tuesday night for sushi.

So after our writer's meeting, V and I headed over to the sushi bar. It was a bit awkward and, yep, you guessed it, CW, being an engineer, is not much of a conversationalist. I got the distinct feeling he had not been out in the company of a woman in a while. He spent a while discussing his job, then his recumbant bicycle, then his job, then just smiling kind of strangely across the table. There were some awkward silences (I know, it's hard to imagine that around me...), and in the end we all parted ways amicably with a standard "we'll talk again".

Flash forward a couple of days to when I opened my MySpace page to find the following e-mail from CW:

I thought you'd be interested to see what an oak sapling looks like after it has been grazed. I put a picture in my myspace profile of an oak sapling in my yard that has been severely grazed/ravaged. This happened to my tree twice in the last 2 years, both times late in the summer. It was pretty upsetting for me and I didn't buy this tree or expect to get any income from it. Both times I was surprised how severly the tree was damaged. Several branches were shortened by 2 or 3 feet and the remaining branches were also chewed on. I think my tree was set back by at least a year. I plan to enclose my tree in chicken wire before next spring. I hope this doesn't happen to your trees!

CW

Here's the picture of his sapling he put on his page just for me:That was it. No "Nice meeting you", or "I had a great time", or "Let's do it again". Not for an engineer, nope. Just an e-mail about his faltering sapling that had been overgrazed. Not sure if it was a metaphor for something else...

Note to gentlemen: If you find a girl's MySpace page and decide to lurk there until you find someone who knows her, then you are fortunate enough to get a date with her wherein she tolerates your social dysfunction, do not, under any circumstances, send her an e-mail with a picture of your dead tree.

But wait, it gets better. After our double blind date I sent a message to M letting him know I thought we had more in common and that I had no interest in CW. This led to M and I talking on the phone and eventually hanging out. M and CW's Christmas party was this past weekend and last night M showed me this video taken of none other than CW dancing the Macarena at the party. Being the evil person that I am, I decided it was so special and such a good sample of the over-40 single engineer in action that I just had to share it with you:

Apparantly CW, in addition to being a sapling connoisseur, is an accomplished former ballerina. Seriously, he used to be a ballet dancer. Note the pirouet at the beginning - a nice touch by a man dancing alone at a holiday party. No, he was not drunk. I'll give him credit for having fun and cutting loose, though.

Yes, it is hard to believe this one hasn't been caught yet.

MySpace and the over-30 non-predator

A couple of months ago my good friend SC decided Santa Barbara wasn't exciting enough for her and came to the megalopolis of Tehachapi for a wild night out. Yes, she has issues but that's another story...

We did the usual...Girl talk over the best margaritas in town (Domingo's), followed by a jaywalk/run across Hwy 202, a scramble down a wall, and across the parking lot to McGuire's Pub for some pool and drinks.

As always happens when SC and I go out, we met some boys. They were cute and young (26 and 27 I think). We all got to conversing and playing doubles and somehow the topic of MySpace came up. I was shocked that SC would have a MySpace page, especially at her age (41). Both the boys we were playing pool with had them too. I, Glib Gal, not-so-famous blogger, was the only person without a MySpace page. They all had a good time making fun of me for it. I honestly thought it was only for teens and sexual predators posing as teens in hope of landing a spot on Dateline. SC claimed it was a good way to keep up with her kids (two teenagers) and find old friends from high school. Intrigued, I looked it up.

I checked around and learned that several of my friends have these pages. Never one to be left behind or mocked for not having a teeny-bopperesque website, I created a page. Don't worry, you won't find it unless you know my true identity. Yes, kind of like Batman...

Don't worry, this story is going somewhere. Really, it is.

So last week I get this e-mail from a friend from the local writer's group:

Hi someone saw your myspace page and wants to meet you. He works with K (writer's group) here is his name and number CW 8**-****, I told her to tell him your a bit busy but he'd really like to hear from you.

Mind you, I have no idea who this CW is, or how he found my MySpace page, or why he didn't e-mail me through the MySpace message service.

Of course, I called K to get the scoop. She said she was at work and was talking to another co-worker, M, about me - trying to set us up or something (no, I did not know she was pimping me out). As she was talking about me this other guy she works with, CW, popped his head up from his cubicle and joined in the conversation. He then rattled off some stuff about me as if he knew me, admitted to knowing about my MySpace page, and decided that if anyone in the office was going to be set up with me, it should be him. In true pimp-like fashion, K took his number and gave it to someone to e-mail to me.

At first I was pretty shocked and found it quite odd that someone had been lurking on my MySpace page. Then I wondered why he wouldn't just e-mail me through the service. Then K said she thought it was kismit or some cosmic thing that his number would find his way to me through her trying to set my up with someone else.

So now I don't know what to think...I looked him up on MySpace and he has a very blank page. He's 44 and an engineer. K says he's attractive and fit (rides his bike to work during summer) but shy and keeps to himself. I don't know whether to call him or not. Can't decide if it's weird or just how things work these days? And it's a holiday weekend and I'm bored. And we all know where boredom leads me - straight into blogworthy material!

Any thoughts? Oh, and if you know my real name and have a page, shoot me a message and let's be friends.

Oh, and I hope your turkey day was nice or at least better than the most bizarre Thanksgiving ever.

You know it's going to be a good weekend when...

...You are off to a late start on your road trip because you can't find your handcuff keys and riding crop.

Headed up to the 69th run of the San Luis Obispo Hash House Harriers on Saturday to see some old friends and just have some fun.

Made arrangements to room with MM and RMA on Saturday night as I was certain I would be in no condition to drive home after an S&M themed run. Dug through my closet and found my favorite old pleather dress, handcuffs, fishnets, and combat boots, and was off to SLO.

Now, I'm not saying life in Tehachapi is boring, but I will say it's been a while since I've gone to visit friends and found them in the cheapest hotel room in town dressed like this:Yep, that's RMA and MM in their version of S&M attire. Not sure where they get their information but they seemed quite happy with the 'Day After Tomorrow' meets Buzz Lightyear with clothespins approach. Note the knee pads and toilet plunger with condom. This is what happens when you buy your costume at a Dollar Tree. For the record, this is what a proper male S&M outfit looks like:Kudos to MB for letting it all hang out.

So I changed and we arrived at the run start and for some mingling and a few beers. Here I am with other similarly clad and leashed friends:We headed out and basically did a pub crawl through SLO, enjoyed the looks of innocent passers-by, returned to the bar we started at, had more beer and some tacos, then changed into more acceptable clothes for the night.

I pretty much stuck with the group all night, mostly with MM. We had lost track of RMA but that's nothing new or even unwanted so we just went about our business of partying with the group. At about 11:00 pm we returned to our hotel to find RMA had brought a guest home with him.

Let me just preface this next part by saying that one of the conditions I had to rooming with MM and RMA was that they not bring any women back to the room for extracurricular activities. Each of them has been known to locate a less-than-desirable woman for such activities at these events. And that's not to say that these women are anything but lovely, sophisticated ladies who exercise poor decision-making skills in the company of drunken hashers but let's face it, when your arse ends up in a picture with two men wrestling in a cheap hotel room where no one knows your name, something has gone wrong.No, I'm not sure what was going on either. I do know that MM's eye was almost gauged out during the match and it almost got ugly. Well, uglier than it already was...

Here's another disturbing image of RMA with his own jockstrap on his head:I guess the moral of this story is, do not room with RMA unless you want to listen to drunken attempts at fornication in a cheap hotel bathroom then have him wrestle with you while your face comes dangerously close to large amounts of unidentified flesh.

Disorder in the Court!

Wednesday night found me in the jury box of the Mojave courthouse playing jurist for the local high school mock trial competition.

Mock trial is basically where the slightly nerdy-yet-theatrical kids in a high school spend a semester playing lawyer and/or witness. One school is the plaintiff, the other the defense. They each know their case and practice their side then go to a courthouse and have a pretend trial against another school. Real lawyers and judges observe and score them with a point system then determine who wins based on points. Fun stuff and something I was, of course, too preoccupied to do in my own high school years.

Being involved in this made me realize I'm now an adult. I mean a grown up that kids might listen to at times. It was an odd realization because I really don't feel like an adult. I think when you don't have kids and are only really accountable to yourself, you don't realize you're supposed to grow up. After all the only real difference between kids and adults is responsibility, right?

Then you get called "Ma'am" by a 17-year-old and it all comes crashing down on you that you are twice the age of the person talking to you and they have thrown you in the adult/parent category and are looking to you for an answer or advice as if you might actually know more than them. You catch your bearings, change the tone of your voice, and start speaking with perfect grammar and calculated precision as soon as you realize what's going on and before you know it you've grown up.

While I was sitting in the jury box contemplating my own adulthood, maturity and wisdom beyond my increasing years, I noticed one of the boys from the prosecutor's side kept looking at me. I realized he was trying to make eye contact, and possibly even attempting to flirt with me. I had heard that older women were in for the younger set these days, but it embarassed and confused me. Then I laughed at myself, noted his Batman belt buckle, and realized he must be part of my inexplainable link to all things Batman, as has been discussed previously here, here, and, perhaps everyone's favorite, here.

Note to self: Line up Batman movies in Netflix queue before Round 2.

An aging Fanilow

Yep, I hit the big three-four today.

Somehow the past 33 birthdays haven't made me think twice about anything. Then again, by now you can probably tell I haven't spent much time thinking twice about a lot of things.

This one's different, though. Could be that I'm growing up and made all these big changes this past year: moving, starting a new business, ending a long romance. Could be that all my new friends here are more settled than me - with kids and husbands and a totally different lifestyle. Could just be that there's a full moon. All I know is that it feels different. More introspective or something. I'll let you know when I figure it out.

No plans for the big day. Come on, I'm single in Tehachapi and it's a Wednesday night. Oh, and I'm not saying it's a special tribute or anything, but I just don't think it's merely a coincidence that Barry Manilow decided to open his Vegas show on this sacred day. Thanks Barry, I certainly can't smile without you either.

Speaking of Barry, I found an interesting article on how he's doing to helping fight crime in New Zealand. Here's a description of the "Manilow Method" of dealing with hooligans:

Boy racers and rowdy teenagers involved in disorderly behaviour in Nelson may soon be confronted with a cutting edge crime tool: American crooner Barry Manilow.

Nelson police and the city council are thinking about using the "Manilow method" to disperse the unsocial groups from the inner-city Buxton Square carpark, The Nelson Mail reported today.

The method involves playing Manilow and other easy-listening tunes through speakers in central city public spaces to discourage young people from loitering.

The approach has been employed by police in England and Australia, and could soon be in Whangarei and Nelson.

I see a Nobel Peace Prize in his future...

Hi Mom!

I know, I know...I've been lagging on blogging lately. I'm not sure if the reason is that my life has become extremely boring or that my mother is reading the blog.

Yep, you read that right: Momma Glib has obtained the blog address and reads it.

I knew she had it a while back - when my brother was off being an idiot and I was blogging about my family frustrations. I knew then because she made a somewhat defensive comment on the blog that I deleted because, well, it's my blog and I don't like having my mom say bad things about me on it. I immediately chastised her for reading the blog as it's kind of my public diary. She promised not to read it anymore. I believed her.

Flash forward a year or so to our road trip to Texas to pick up the zebras. As happens when traveling for long periods, we got to talking, mostly about my constant state of singlehood, indomitable independence, and her subsequent lack of grandchildren. Then, out of the blue she asks, "Have you heard from JP?"

Let me just say that in the real world, JP is not JP's real name, merely two letters which comprise his initials. I have never referred to JP as JP anywhere other than on the blog, and my mother knows JP's real name and has used it before. The only other JP I know is my good friend PD's brother who I used to give kisses in exchange for rolling the Star Free Press for my paper route after school during junior high. I didn't think she was referring to that JP and deduced that she was referring to my JP of recent years and that she had, in fact, been reading this very blog to keep up on my life. Oh the horror!

I must admit it angered me a bit to think my mother had been reading my blog, not only because she said she wouldn't, but also because she's kind of conservative and already has one heathen child to worry about without having to think about me running around in Catwoman outfits or on dates with men with poo bags.

Then I got to thinking about it and thought how ridiculous it is for me, a grown woman, to worry about offending my mother via a website that may at times be occassionally embellished, and that she has been expressly forbidden to visit but that every other soul on the planet is free to peruse and comment on. After all, if I were a mother and knew my daughter wrote of her exploits for all the world to see, I would most certainly be reading the site on a regular basis.

So I guess I get it: She wants to read this stuff. She's an adult. I'm an adult. Sometimes she'll be mad about some stuff, sometimes she'll be happy that I turned out somewhat decent, other times I'll refer her to far worse blogs to make myself look better.

That said, I'd like to welcome her to the blog, ask that she identify herself and only say nice things about me in the comments section, and congratulate her on finally becoming a grandmother.

Oh yeah, my brother's crank skank girlfriend (yeah, the one who sent him to jail and broke his car windows) apparantly gave birth to a surprisingly healthy looking baby boy a month ago making me the now twice-estranged Auntie Glib (sister has a baby too - yes, I have a sister).

Lone Pine Trip: Part 3 - Alabama Hills Arch

So you know how sometimes someone invites you on a trip and you say yes and then they offer to drive and you say yes and then they decide to stay an extra day and you can't say no? Well, that's what happened to me Sunday. We were supposed to be home by dark but it turned out Monday was a holiday of some sort and little A had the day off so R, J, A, and I got to spend another day camping and would presumably be home by noon Monday.

So Monday morning came and R and J had "gone fishing" and left me to cook outmeal and entertain a 6 year old. We grabbed my new hiking guide to the Sierras and took the opportunity to search for the elusive, yet oft-photographed Alabama Hills Arch - a window to Whitney.

Here's the arch as you see it from the trail:After a scramble up some rocks we found the arch and I was able to get a decent shot of my favorite mountain through the arch:Note to photographers: If you go in search of the arch, take some climbing gear and/or a ladder because it's up high and rather precarious to get to the back side of to take the famous shot. Oh, and don't take a gutsy 6 year old as it's unnerving to watch them scramble along large boulders as you contemplate how you'd explain the fall to the parents.

Finally, here's my favorite shot of the arch, taken of my trooper of a hiking partner, Ariel, who made me promise to summit Whitney when she's 10 and her lungs are ready:Gotta love that stuff.

Lone Pine Trip: Part 2 - Devil's Postpile NM

Turns out my friends R and J are really outdoorsy and have made it a hobby since marrying to attempt to fill their joint National Parks Passport with cancellation stamps. I didn't know what a National Parks Passport ws either but it's basically a little book you pay $7.95 for and take with you to all the National Parks, Historical sites and Monuments you visit. At each park there is a "cancellation station" with a stamp that says the name of the park and the day you visited. You collect these in the book just like a regular passport. I think they'd make a cool gift, especially for families and kids as it gives them something to do together. You can order them online here.

Because they are into the passbooks they wanted to head up to Devil's Postpile National Monument just outside of Mammoth Lakes so I hitched a ride and bought a passbook upon entry into the park.

Here's a shot of the famous formation:It is a pretty cool thing to behold - basically 60 foot tall hexagonal columns of shiny lava that look like Superman's secret hideaway in the North Pole.

And here's what the park service has to say about Devil's Postpile and the geologic phenomenon it depicts:

Approximately 100,000 years ago, a lava flow erupted two miles upstream from the location of today's Monument. As it flowed down the Valley, it eventually ran into an obstruction which served as a dam to the lava's path. Pooling up to as deep as 400 feet behind the natural dam, the lava cooled. Conditions were such that the lava--that was incredibly uniform in its mineral composition--cooled at a very slow rate. As it cooled, it contracted and cracked, forming hexagonal columns. 80,000 years later, a glacier flowed through the same valley, overriding the formation and eventually revealing the sides and tops of the columns. Glacial polish can still be seen today at the top of the formation.

What is perhaps more cool is the view from the top:Those are the tops of the columns and are about a foot and a half across. It's like walking on fancy yet primitive tile and if you're at all into geology it's well worth the trip.

Also at the park is famous 101-foot Rainbow Falls, the tallest waterfall on the San Joaquin River:It's called Rainbow Falls because the splash from the waterfall usually creates a big rainbow at the bottom when the sun is shining. We arrived a bit late in the day and this was the best rainbow I could capture in the fading light:The 2.5 mile hike to and from the falls would have been a leisurely stroll through a sequoia forest just 14 years ago. Unfortunately, a pesky fire that burned 7,000 acres ravaged the place in the 1992 Rainbow Fire and this is how the trail looks today. Incidentally, that's the back of a Mammoth area ski resort up on the left top of the picture.

Also in the park are a bunch of wild mules. We saw them in a meadow:Accomplished animal expert that I am, I have never dealt with a mule, a cross between a male donkey and a female horse, and did not realize that the female mules, called mollies, can't breed because they only have 63 chromosomes and you need an even number of chromosomes to divide. Perhaps we could start a national plan to remove one chromosome from every stupid person so they can no longer breed? In the meantime I'll just try to stay away from asses.

Lone Pine Trip: Part 1

Headed up to Lone Pine for the Lone Pine Film Festival with my friend J and her daughter A on Friday morning. We were to meet a couple of other folks for some camping, quad riding, and general hanging out. J has spent considerable time in this lovely mountain hamlet on the edge of the Alabama Hills and the Sierra Nevada mountains as her sister lives there. Being somewhat of a local she somehow procured a BLM permit for us to camp in the actual Alabama Hills, a rare treat. Here's our campsite:We were soon joined by the rest of our crew for the weekend, J's hubby R, couple JD and L, and father-son duo R and C. Among the participants we had three quads, a kid-sized dune buggy, two motorcycles, and two days' worth of s'mores.

I'm not really a motorized-vehicle kind of gal so I chose to go for a rock scramble/hike while everyone suited up and headed out on their various modes of transport. This is a view I got of them as I turned during my hike:Because the film festival was going on the local film history museum had put up plaques at various locations in the hills pointing out where famous western movies and tv series were filmed. I took a quad and visited the exact places where the likes of Tonto, the Lone Ranger and Captain Kirk rounded boulders, shot bad guys, and discovered new life forms. Here's what Wikpedia has to say about it:

The Alabama Hills are a popular location for television and movie productions (especially Westerns) set in an archetypical "rugged" environment. Since the early 1920s 150 movies and about a dozen television shows have been filmed here including Tom Mix, Hopalong Cassidy, Gene Autry, and the Lone Ranger. Classics such as Gunga Din, Springfield Rifle, and How the West Was Won, as well as more recent productions such as Tremors and Joshua Tree were filmed at sites known as Movie Flats and Movie Flat Road. In Gladiator, actor Russell Crowe rides a horse front of the Alabamas, Mount Whitney in the background, for a scene presumably set in Spain.

Pretty nifty stuff.

Day two started with several motor enthusiasts going for another ride and me finding a sunny perch on a rock to read on. After everyone returned we decided to head north to Rock Creek to check out the fall colors on the aspens and do some trout fishing. On the way we were lucky enough to see some Tule Elk grazing:We cruised up into the mountains and arrived just in time to catch some of the leaves turning along the creek:We stopped for a while and the kids caught some nice rainbow trout but, seeing as how I was the only one who eats fish and I do not like to clean them, we released them back to be nabbed by some other 6 year old's Mickey Mouse rod and reel.

While the kids were fishing, I caught a gaggle of photographers diligently staring at the same hillside, undoubtedly in search of the perfect shot:In the end think I got the best shot of the afternoon.

Across the River and Into the Trees

Blogger ate my previous post on this subject but certain people (MM) have requested that I recount the events of Saturday, September 20, 2006 so they are forever floating around the blogosphere to remind us all why mojitos, sangria and seedy bars are a dubious combination.

So some friends had been threatening to visit the safari for a while and we decided that the weekend during which I was babysitting would be best. At first it was just BH and AG, along with Bailey the dog, that were to visit. This somehow turned into MM, RMA, BS, and two strangers, J and K, also coming by for a campout in my living room on a Saturday afternoon.

The thing with having so much help with the bottle feeding was that I had my hands free and was able to have a beer or two while my friends played with the kids. Here's RMA with Max, the camel:Beer somehow evolved into mojitos, Ernest Hemingway's second favorite drink - a cuban concoction involving rum, mint, lime juice, more rum, and some other stuff. We all decided to grill up some shish kebabs and all was going well until someone decided to do something with the grill. It somehow toppled and all our kebabs either fell on the grass or remained stuck to the grill. This did not deter us as the five second rule applied and, well, we were drunk. Here are MM and K proudly showing off their dirty kebabs:

After the kebab debacle we started a campfire and were just settling in when someone had the brilliant idea of driving into town to partake in the local social scene. I assessed my group, donned my "I Heart Rick Springfield" shirt, seen below, and took them to Tehachapi's most illustrious drinking establishment, The Red Caboose, for some small town tweaker karaoke.That was at about 10 pm.

Upon arrival MM honed in on a lovely lady at the bar with a zebra tattoo. He approached her with the ever-popular pick-up line, "Nice tattoo, I just fed a baby zebra today." He may have asked if she wanted to smell him too, I'm not sure. Anyhow, the line didn't work on this discerning Tehachapi native and he was summarily dismissed.

I don't remember much from the bar but vaguely recall singing karaoke, our group having stolen the dance floor and karaoke playlist, and dancing with a local with a large moustache and striped leotard shirt. I believe I asked if he was one of the Village People. We closed down the bar and headed back up the hill.

For some strange reason RMA and I were wired and got the brilliant idea to drive up to the mountain estate at 3:00 in the morning. He grabbed a bucket of sangria and we hopped in my truck and drove up the dirt road to the trailer. It was cold up there so we returned rather quickly and on our way down the hill RMA asked to drive. Note to self: Do not allow drunk friends to drive unfamiliar, winding dirt roads in truck at 3:30 am. RMA promptly had us in a couple of 360 degree spin outs and one grand spin out that led to our ending up taking out a couple of fenceposts and some barbed wire. During the spinouts all of the possessions in the back of my truck, including a 40 lb bag of dog food and AG's napsack, were ejected from the vehicle. By some miracle, the sangria bucket remained in the vehicle:The next morning we fed the leftover, saturated fruit to Hogitha and the camel and went on a reconnaisance mission to find the ejected items and found only a trail of cheap red wine, soaked fruit chunks, and wavy tire tracks. The dog food and napsack were never recovered but I'm sure I'll hear about it at our next board meeting for property owners up there.

Oh, and since MB couldn't make it up for the safari, I snapped this shot I knew he'd appreciate seeing as how it has both Monolith and animal arse in it:

Adventures in Babysitting

My charges for the week arrived a day early. Yep, my parents, who so far as I know have never left town for more than three days at a time together, are going on vacation. Good for them. Since I now live a convenient 18 miles away from the ranch it means I'll be ranchsitting and, perhaps more exciting, babysitting all the kids still on bottles. So now I get to look out my living room window and see this:This guy is out the kitchen window:Max (the camel) is comfortably sharing a fenceline with Hogitha since she's been reduced to lockdown unless I'm in the yard. In a gesture of tolerance we should all embrace, she appears to have no problem having a middle eastern dromedary next door:Should be an interesting week, especially when it's time for their daily leash training that entails walking around the neighborhood. Maybe I'll lose that "pig lady" nickname sometime soon...

Food chain, schmood chain...

You asked for it, you got it: and update on the once cute and small puppies. As you can see, they've grown a bit and are starting to look more like guard dogs:Believe it or not, they once fit through the cat door. Now that they can no longer fit through, there's new favorite pasttime among the cats: It's called "taunting the next rung up on the food chain."

What they do is hang out by the cat door in the kitchen like so:They wait for a puppy's head to emerge:Then they pop the poor puppy on the nose. This results in that particular puppy retreating.

Then the cats relax, claiming victory...Until the other puppy sticks its head through the door and licks an unsuspecting cat:This game continues for a good 30 minutes with everyone taking turns, but in the end, they all get along fine.Who needs satellite tv when you've got this kind of entertainment?

Zebra update

Someone asked for an update on the zebra. Thanks for asking, and, yes, they are doing quite well. In fact, here's a shot of me getting some love from the critters.Oh, and for those interested in a road trip, I will be babysitting four zebra and one camel from next Tuesday through October 5 so if you want to help bottle feed and get cool pictures of you or your kids with baby zebra, give me a call or drop me a note and by all means, come on up and learn what it's like to nurse striped donkeys and a dromedary.

Oh, and here's something funny. A lady called about purchasing a baby zebra (list price: $10,000 if you're interested). She came to see the babies yesterday and offered to trade her unruly 6 month old (blue book value $4500) for a newer, nicer model. She was serious!!! It was hilarious and the offer was declined. After all, who wants an uncontrollable zebra (they are tough to tame once let go and can be quite nasty)? It's kind of like asking to trade a Pinto in on a Mercedes.

More zebra pics next week when I've got them all to myself.

Pillow humper update

Remember CL? The pillow humper?

Well he called earlier this week to announce that he is engaged. Yep, congrats to him for finding a more lifelike object of affection. Of course, I pity the woman and hope she knows the huge undertaking she is about to embark on, because, after all, CL is a 38 year old man who humps pillows and watches Playboy channel when she's not looking. This will not go over well in a household with a semi-religious wife and two young step-daughters...

In all fairness, CL and I have been pretty good friends ever since our relationship ended two days after a great trip to Zihuatenejo about four years ago. We were on the last legs of trying to force romance into a brother-sisterish friendship and decided to go to Mexico for my 30th birthday. We went, lied our way into the honeymoon suite at the Catalina Beach Resort, and spent a nice week under palapas, sipping margaritas, eating fish tacos, and frolicking on the beach. I do vaguely remember someone yelling "Mira!!!" from the hill as I fished for my swimsuit top in the bay after my second shot of mescal (sp?). Ah...The memories... We split up a few days after our return and have remained good friends ever since.

CL liked the place so much that he has taken a different woman to the Catalina Beach Resort every year around my birthday for the past three years. It doesn't bother me and I just laugh when he tells me he's taking another trip to Mexico because I know where he's headed, where he'll stay, and what he'll eat at what restaurant. He even took his now-fiancee last year.

So guess what? CL, after telling me he's getting married, asked me to be his best man of sorts in Zihuatenejo during my birthday week this year.

Now, I've met CL's girlfriend and she has told me in that non-confrontational-but-I'll-tear-you-a-new-one-if-you-touch-my-ex-con-pillow-humper way that she's a wee bit jealous of me and CL. He's also admitted she's asked him about our relationship on several occassions.

So my reaction to the invite to be part of the wedding party was, of course, a firm, "No senor." I had to explain to CL that the rules of love dictate that you can neither invite your ex-girlfriend to be in nor anywhere near your wedding, especially if your fiancee is already barely tolerant of her presence in your life and your constant need to "Run things by Glib Gal".

I went on to explain that getting married on a beach and staying in a hotel that you've taken three other women to in the past three years is probably not a brilliant idea because there will come a time, 10 years from now, when you least expect it, that it will be used as ammunition in a fight that started because you didn't rinse a pot before putting it in the dishwasher, and that means you don't love her anymore because you don't care if spaghetti sticks to the pot, and you probably never did love her anyway since you took her where you take all your women instead of someplace special when you got married.

It's tough explaining these things to the challenged but I felt it would save him some heartache down the line, before he made such propositions to her and was met with a slap in the face.

I guess he should continue to run things by me until she can take the reigns in his upbringing.

Are those your zebra in the parking lot?

Left for Mount Pleasant, Texas to pick up one baby camel and possibly one baby zebra on Tuesday night. No, not for me, for my parent's ranch. Imagine spending four days in a van with your mom and some baby animals. If that isn't a test of love, I don't know what is.

The drive there took about 25 hours, non-stop. We tried to detour through Roswell, New Mexico, thinking it'd be a fun place to stop and take a picture or two in front of a flying saucer or something. Guess what? Roswell, the mecca for intergalactic activity, didn't have anything noticable from the main road that would indicate alien presence. It was gravely disappointing.

Got to the exotic animal ranch in Texas on Thursday for our pick up. My mom wanted the baby camel and a baby zebra. The ranch had four baby zebras. Turns out you can buy a baby zebra in Texas for about $5000 each. Sounds like a lot. Unless you're from California, where they sell for $10,000 each. Entrepreneur that I am, I bought the three remaining baby zebra to bring back to California and double my money by the end of the year. So now I'm a zebra trader/truffle farmer/lawyer. Why Survivor hasn't picked me yet is beyond me.

So we stuffed the camel and four baby zebra into the back of the cargo van (sounds crowded, but there was actually room to spare) and we were off. This is what the back of the van looked like: And the camel fit right in:Texas is a huge state and by the time we got to Tucumcari, New Mexico it was 2:30 am and we were both nodding off so we stopped at a motel. We fed the kids (all on bottles) and figured they'd be down for the night in the back of the van.

At 3:00 am, right after our heads had hit the pillows, the motel phone rang. I picked up and heard a timid voice on the other end say, "Sorry to bother you ma'am, but are those your zebra in the parking lot?"

Turns out one of the zebra was a bit skittish and decided escape was in order. First she tried to get out the front window with a head butt:She apparantly realized the back window was easier and actually broke the window and jumped out the back of the van to find herself in a parking lot in Tucumcari, New Mexico - frightening for any species. By some strange twist of fate, two cowboys with an empty horse trailer just happened to be cruising that particular parking lot in the middle of that particular morning and were more excited than the zebra to help wrangle it back in. Seemed a bit suspcious to me but my mind wasn't in CSI mode at that point.

Of course, we couldn't go back in the hotel room and leave the critters in the van with an escape route so we covered the broken window and hit the road again. It was a long drive home, especially when the animals started getting carsick in Arizona. Carsick in the form of the runs and bad gas. Trust me, no amount of cedar chips in the world can cover the smell of zebra diarrhea.

We eventually made it home, and the crazed zebra has shown no signs of distress but I think that'll be the first one we sell...

Mommas, don't let your babies grow up to be...

Here's a sentence I never thought I'd utter:

"I worked the ticket booth at the local rodeo this weekend."

Yep, a couple of the girls from the old softball team are fully ensconced in the world of small town rodeo and, seeing as how I'm single and work for myself, figured I would have nothing better to do with my Saturday afternoon than sit in a booth selling tickets to Wrangler-clad persons in large hats. So I rode my little Chinese scooter down to the rodeo grounds, was teased about bull riding or something, and spent a few hours taking hard earned dollars from folks who wanted to pay to watch people wrestle animals.

Now, I had never been to a rodeo before but I had ridden a mechanical bull or two after a few shots of whatever the guy with the booze bandolier was toting at the time. A mechanical bull surrounded by padding is one thing, a bull that's been hauled to some po-dunk town to have a man strapped to him for 8 seconds and then be taunted by a clown while two-legged Coors Light soaked creatures cheering him on to maul the poor bastard is another.

I was secretly rooting for the animals and, much to my enjoyment, the beasts beat the men almost every time. In fact, I am told it was a lesser rodeo and that the cowboys weren't of the highest caliber because the prize purse was too low or some other excuse like that. Regardless, I watched and was amused at how many people actually came out to this sort of event.

I would've taken pictures of the bull riding but I had my digital camera and, I kid you not, the cowboys couldn't maintain for more than a second out of the gate. So all I got were a couple of shots of the only ladies' event: barrel racing. That's where a woman on a big horse sprints out of a gate and around three barrels then back across a finish line. It lasts about 17 - 19 seconds and a lot of dust is kicked up while the women hold on for dear life. Yep, another sport that makes complete sense. Anyhow, I think this was the winner on her way back to the finish:No, it doesn't look comfortable to me either.

The other big thing at the rodeo was the crowning of the illustrious "Rodeo Queen". Only problem was that this year there was only one contestant. No one even cheered as she was crowned. Maybe I'll enter next year. It appears all you have to do is wear a silly costume with glitter and ride around an arena with a flag then spend all year telling people you are the Tehachapi Rodeo Queen so you get invited to things like grand openings and Kiwanis events.

Finally, as the daughter of ranchers I was reminded how truly strange some women can be with their horses. I'll be the first to admit a nice ride can be quite pleasurable with the right saddle and gait, but I'm referring to the horsewomen who take it a step further...You know the ones I'm talking about - the ones that seem to be having affairs with their horses. They start to look all horsey and equine, even carry the feint scent of a stall around with them, and have this bizarre sexuality connected only to a gelded quarterhorse. Yeah, those girls. Rodeos are full of them. And men in Wranglers. Wrangler butts do nothing for me. And those stupid belt buckles drive me nuts. Add to that the inexplicable use of plaid on everything and it's just plain bad.

Enough on that, here's a picture of my favorite barrel racer - I think she did the whole thing with her eyes shut! (Click to enlarge)I'm off to Texas to pick up a white camel with my mom this week. If that doesn't provide some blog fodder I'm giving up.

I see another bad date...

Okay, I've been meaning to cover this one for a couple of weeks.

Remember when I mentioned I may have a new boyfriend? Yeah, well, a mention here is the equivalent of a hex on any potential suitor and so it was with the well-digger.

Remember him from my trifecta dating spree a while back? In case you don't, here's a quote about him:

I wasn't going to go out with him again as the first two dates were fun but he is very shy and I had decided he might not be able to handle a gal like me without serious therapy down the road.

Unfortunately, I did not listen to my gut, which was telling me he was a bit boring for my tastes. After all, I'm 33 and he was cute and nice and why couldn't I just settle for someone stable for once?

So I tried. And tried. And tried. For a couple of months I listened to him talk about Texas and the Army way too much. I went golfing in 102 degree heat. I saw Superman Returns. I cooked him dinner. He cooked me dinner. Normal date stuff, going through the motions, waiting for the big spark to happen. Alas, not even a flicker and my ardor was fading.

Then we had one of those dates. You know the dates where you're already on the fence about someone and then they go and do everything that could possibly annoy you all within the same hour? It's not that each individual thing they do would normally annoy you, it's just that it annoys you more because you know you'd rather be home washing your cat than feigning interest on another so-so date. So it was with the well-digger.

He called me on a Friday afternoon to invite me to dinner in his town. I accepted and drove to his place around 7:00. We had some casual conversation, played with his dogs, and had a beer while hanging out before heading to dinner. Don't worry, it gets better...

At the restaurant he ordered a margarita and I followed suit, except I asked for a top shelf margarita. Once the waiter left my date chided me for ordering a top shelf margarita, stating I wouldn't know the difference between regular and top shelf. I explained that I'm a puker and rottgut tequila does not help the situation and offered to pay for it myself. He continued to ask about the state of my "top shelf" margarita throughout dinner. That was annoyance factor #1.

The next annoyance factor came into play during dinner when our conversation somehow turned to the topic of Haley Joel Osment, that the kid who saw dead people in some movie, recently got in a car wreck in a 1995 Saturn. Teh well-digger was extremely critical and juvenile about the fact that a rich 18 year old movie actor drove an old Saturn. I don't know about the kid, the accident, or why anyone would care what an 18 year old he didn't know drove. But my date dwelled on this topic for ages and was quite upset about the situation. I just listened in disbelief happy that I hadn't paid for satellite tv if this was what it was reporting as news.

After dead people and dead conversation, the bill came. He let it sit there looking from it to me and back. Finally, he picked it up and asked me for $20. You read that right.

Notwithstanding the fact that he invited me to dinner and I drove 30 minutes to get to where dinner was, I knew my margarita didn't cost that much and all I'd eaten was an appetizer flauta, for a total of about $14. I asked if he was serious and he said yes so I gave him a $20 bill and seethed quietly. I'm good at seething.

Oh, but it gets better. Rather than pocket my $20, he put the $20 bill on the pay tray along with his credit card and asked the waitress to put the difference on his card. I know people do this when out to lunch in groups, or they are short on cash, but this was a date!

Still, it gets better.

Because he hadn't dated much I gave him the benefit of the doubt and figured maybe he didn't know that when you invite someone to dinner, unless otherwise stated, the invitor pays for dinner. Especially when they drive 1/2 an hour to see you. It's not about the money, it's about courtesy. I decided to tell him "the rules" politely after we left the restaurant. He suggested we grab a beer at the local bar and I figured that would be a great venue for a polite summary of the rules of dating.

So we get to the bar and order two beers and he says, "Why don't you get this round since I got the first round at my house."

That's right folks, he was counting the beer I had at his house as credit toward a round at the bar. And he was, again, serious.

I don't know about you, but I have an extra refrigerator dedicated to beer and wine just for when my friends come over to hang out. I don't consider them having a beer as part of some great scorekeeping scheme, I just consider it hospitality and common courtesy. I also buy rounds for people with no expectation of reciprocation. So to have a date keep tabs on things really irks me.

Oh, no, it's not over. The date was, but the saga isn't.

After the beer I said I had to get home. Of course, as I drove home and replayed the date in my mind I grew more and more irritated with myself for attempting to date someone I knew was not my type and vowed to dump him at the next reasonable opportunity. I tried to fathom how he'd lived 29 years as an attractive male and not known better. I couldn't find and answer.

That was on a Friday night.

He called twice on Saturday and, thanks to the miracle of caller ID, I didn't pick up.

Then he called Sunday and I did the same thing.

Then he called Monday and left a message saying he was going to be passing through my town around lunch and for me to call if I wanted to go to lunch with him. I didn't call back.

Around 12:30 on Monday I heard the growl of a diesel engine on the street. Seeing as how there is only one house on my street I knew it was coming for me. I peeked out and sure enough it was a well-drilling rig. Note to readers: If someone doesn't return six of your phone calls in three days, do not just show up at their house.

Let me preface this next part by saying that I absolutely hate it when people drop by my house unannounced. It is presumptuous and since the advent of telephones there is no excuse for not calling to confirm a visit is acceptable. I had told the well-digger that it is one of my pet peeves so he knew better.

Alas, I couldn't pretend I wasn't home so I answered the door. He was all smiles and wanting a Gatorade and some lunch. I gave him a Gatorade (keeping score, of course) and promptly gave him the old "you're a nice guy but we just don't have any chemistry" speech which is almost as good as the "it isn't you, it's me" speech, both of which usually mean one of three things: 1. You're boring, 2. You're bad in bed, or 3. I've met someone else who I like better but thanks for being a placeholder.

Fever pitch

Ah, small town softball.

A couple of months ago I joined the local women's slowpitch softball league to meet friends and have some fun. I meant to blog about the drama that is women's adult sports back then but you know how lazy I've gotten in my retirement.

Anyhow, back when I joined I signed up on the free agent list at the rec center. A nice lady, S, called me and invited me to be on her team. I went to one or two practices wherein S, who takes her softball quite seriously, had us doing yoga and hitting flat soccer balls off of toilet plungers and doing strange drills and stuff. Having never played softball before I figured this might be the norm and just went along with it.

At the second practice the issue of ordering jerseys came up. Somehow it had been decided that our colors would be hot pink and green and we would have sleeves on our shirts so S wouldn't have to shave her armpits. These things are a concern up here in the mountains. And I'm no artiste but I have seen a color wheel and know that something is not right with hot pink and olive green together. Still, I was the new girl and didn't want to cause a ruckus so I kept my mouth shut. Thankfully, the other players did not and the captain was overruled on team colors but stood her ground on pit hair.

That practice ended with a few folks feeling disgruntled so the captain called a meeting at the local Mexican restaurant to improve team morale. This was right after my Vegas trip and I had won some money so I ordered a round for the girls and toasted our new team.

No sooner had I put my glass down than one of the other girls proclaimed there would be an insurrection and that S could either stay on the team as just a player or split off and form her own new team because she was too bossy and hairy. Other reasons cited for the coup were that there were too many players on the team, one girl felt threatened that other, better players from the dreaded town of Mojave (aka 'Hell on Earth') would take her position, another had issues with doing yoga before practice, and the whole body hair issue was revisited.

I watched in awe that people took their slow pitch so seriously and noted that if my life ever reached the point that I felt threatened by someone over a slow pitch position I should immediately check myself in to the local mental health facility. The meeting ended with a team split and me undecided as to which team to play with. On the one hand, S was nice but a bit demanding and serious about things, particularly religion and homeschooling. On the other hand I didn't like the way the insurgents had handled the split (it was like junior high school and S left in tears) but they were a drinking team with better colors and a few clean-shaven players I liked. So I let my alcoholic tendencies decide and went with the heathen traitors.

Now it's midseason and we have a great team. When we lose, we go down in flames and the mercy rule is used more innings than not (that's when the team at bat scores 7 runs in one inning - they just call the inning whether there are three outs or not). When we win, we're ecstatic but sportsmanlike. We bring coolers full of libations and every Wednesday a group of us head to karaoke after the game and imbibe and sing country songs and just have fun. We even have nice shirts with nicknames on the back. Here's what mine usually looks like:Here's what it looked like last night:Don't ask...Just know that we all had Tweedle names and there was a lot of cheesy tweedle humor going on.

Monday night we were short players and everyone was having to play positions they weren't used to. I play anything but pitcher and really don't care where they put me as long as I can make snide remarks. Other folks are a bit more insecure and even though no one on the team is from Mojave, somehow feel threatened if they are placed somewhere they don't want to be. One such person is C. Now C is the one person on the team I try to avoid contact with. She has a flare for drama and crude comments. Those would be comments even I find inappropriate so it's bad. She never shuts up. And she talks a lot trash. The uneducated kind. She is always injured in some grave manner that looks like she's auditioning for the role of softball victim on Grey's Anatomy. She definitely always needs to be the center of attention. Oh, and she's in her 40's so it's even more pathetic.

So Monday night C was in the outfield and I guess the first baseman told her to move over a bit. For some reason C, who has never had a problem telling me where to move when I'm in the outfield, proceeded to start yelling and throwing the F-bomb at the first baseman. This riled up our first baseman, who has some gumption of her own, and a verbal catfight ensued. Mind you, this is in the middle of an inning and the game is going on. I was over at third base so I didn't really catch all the action, but I did see C throw her glove down, scream something, and walk off the field and right out of the ballpark. In the middle of the game. When we were already short players. This resulted in us having to take an automatic out the next time she was up to bat (which was no different than her batting seeing as how she usually gets out anyhow), and having to move the second baseman into the outfield to cover centerfield. Still, we lost miserably but had fun in the process as usual.

Last night was our first post-C desertion game. We had 10 players and a few coolers of booze and C didn't show and hadn't spoken to anyone since Monday. So there we were, playing the game, when C shows up mid-game. I didn't see it but I guess the first baseman told her that she was welcome to stay and sit on the bench but that she wasn't going to pull players seeing as how C abandoned the team the previous week. Seemed fair enough to me. You walk out during a game, you sit out a game. No big deal. Well, C didn't like the deal and left the dugout claiming she'd find a new team.

You would think she'd have left the ballpark but she hung around, rooting for the other team and undoubtedly talking trash about each of our tweedleteammates.

After the game, fellow teammate T and I were walking to our cars and C's husband accosts us to start a tirade against the whole team for not having called C to apologize. He was pretty upset and felt that everyone should have called to beg C to stay and come to the game. I told him that if anything C should be apologizing to the team for her immature behavior seeing as how the other 9 players hadn't done anything to her but she'd left us short handed. He was not seeing the logic there and was upset that C was benched for acting like a three year old. T and I escaped the tirade as C's husband shifted his ire toward the first baseman who was also attempting to get to her car. He yelled at her and actually called her a whore. No, I'm not sure what that has to do with softball either.

Alas all the tweedle losers made it to karaoke and lifted our spirits with margaritas and bad renditions of Gretchen Wilson songs.

The point of this story? None. I just needed to blog and this is what has become of my life. Oh, I do have a new beau and I need to blog about him but I'm on the fence about it so you'll just have to wait until the relationship implodes so I can blog about it.

July 4 Recap

Two tanks of gas to get to northern California: $88.00
Munchies for road trip: $14.76
Bubba Keg: $14.99
Event fees: $79.00
Watching your friend lay naked on a bed of ice while drinking beer from another man's butt crack: Priceless.

Two weeks late but still worth telling.

Headed up to El Dorado National Forest with MM for the holiday weekend. He arrived with a road trip gift for me:It looks harmless enough but in reality I believe it is the liver's equivalent of a weapon of mass destruction.

The Bubba Keg, found in your local Target store, holds 52 ounces of your favorite beverage (that's more than four bottles of beer for those of you unable to convert liquid without a Pee Chee folder), is insulated, and has been known to cause irratic behavior, stumbling, slurring, vomiting, public urination, random make-out sessions, spontaneous nudity, butt chugs, and bad karaoke. A special thanks to MM for thinking of me.

After a long drive up highway 99, we eventually arrived at our destination, Stumpy Meadows Lake, and saw this picturesque view that made the drive worth while:Upon arrival MM and I set up my tent and the mosquito-free lounge. MM opted not to set up his tent, rather to hit the beer truck with his Bubba Keg. That was his first mistake of the weekend. Note to beer-guzzling campers: set up your tent and air mattress BEFORE imbibing.

I had a beer, socialized a bit, and we were off on a trail that took us around the lake, complete with a swim-out-to-it boat full of beer and some naked guy who didn't want to get his shoes wet. Note to naked guy: You only have to remove your shoes to keep them from getting wet, other articles of clothing can stay on. Anyhow, the swim was almost as refreshing as the beer and I learned it is difficult to swim or tread water while drinking beer. I don't remember seeing MM after the run but do know he was sighted at the beer truck with his Bubba Keg on more than one occassion. I, of course, also hit the beer truck with my own Bubba Keg on several occassions throughout the first day and night which led to one of the side effects of a Bubba Keg: the random make-out.

I somehow wrangled a fellow drunken reveler into the cab of the beer truck and found myself playing tonsil hockey with him. Unfortunately, we just weren't in synch and I can't stand a bad kiss so I put a stop to things rather quickly, stating something to the effect of, "We don't kiss well." or "It just isn't working." My victim then stated something to the effect of, "Oh, but I get better." or "It'll get better." To which I replied, "No, it won't", and stumbled back to my tent. In my experience folks who aren't doing well with their tongues don't do well with other things.

So there I was, passed out in my tent, in the wee hours of the morning when I hear someone unzipping it. I flash my light at the person and see MM, covered in leaves and dirt, crawling in exclaiming that he had been sleeping outside in the dirt and didn't know how he'd gotten there. I had two words for him: Bubba Keg. Of course, that reminded him that he had misplaced his treasured vessel.

Now, anyone who has been to a hash event knows that one of the worst things you can do at such an event is lose your drinking vessel. Depending on who finds it, and where, you will have to take great measures to get it back, and when you get it back you will certainly want to disinfect it as there will inevitably have been various body parts placed in it for photo opportunities.

So after the next day's run MM was called up in front of the group (about 100 of us). Normally, people are called up for doing something wrong, or right, and given a "down down". A down down is a cup of beer that you must drinking while others sing to you. At bigger events, like a campout, people will have to sit bare-arsed on a block of ice while doing their respective down downs. Seeing as how there were about 100 people at the event, there were about six or seven blocks of ice conveniently placed on a picnic table for the ceremony. After several people were on the ice for various offenses such as sex on trail, losing the canoe, using mortal names and the like, they got everyone off the ice and made a bed of ice. Then they called MM up and brought out his Bubba Keg. They had him strip down and lay naked on the bed of ice while chastising him for LEAVING HIS BUBBA KEG IN AN OUTHOUSE - the worst offense possible. As if that weren't enough, the largest, hairiest man present then straddled MM, squatted, dropped his pants, and had another person pour beer from the Bubba Keg, down his butt crack, onto MM's face. This is called a butt chug. No, I did not have my camera but the image is forever etched in the darkest recesses of my mind.

Now, I've seen some things in my time, but this was the most disgusting, can't-stop-watching, oh-god-are-they-really-going-to-do-that, oh-god-they-just-did-it moment I've seen since that donkey show that sealed my virginity for an extra couple of years back in my Navy days.

Yet, even after this terrible ritual, MM managed to lose his Bubba Keg less than four hours later. Of course, that could have been a result of his having slept outside in the bushes somewhere again that very night. Some folks just never learn.

We eventually found our way back home. The drive back is always so much longer than the drive there. MM was still too drunk or hungover to drive so he crashed on the sofa. This is what was left of MM after a weekend with a Bubba Keg and unrestricted access to the beer truck: