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Of Dewdrop Temptresses, Womb Energy and Ryan Gosling

30 Mar

Dearest Dewdrop Temptresses of the Nile,

I am writing to you to inform you of my latest obsession.

(Don’t worry. Not taxidermy.)

I take regular contemporary dance classes, as you know, mostly to stay in shape and relax after work, plus it’s kind of artsy and I don’t even have to invest in a $3,000 camera or anything.

Well, here’s the thing about contemporary dance: I’ve been doing it for so long now that I feel perfectly comfortable even heading into a class I’ve never taken before. I walk into a class and think, “Ok, so now we are stretching, and now we are doing tendus. Now she is going to say we can get water and I am going to go snag that spot near the front from this ho with the ponytail so I can see the choreography better.” etc.

It’s all very relaxing and meditative and all that, but there’s just no fear in it anymore. Also, not enough womb energy.

But you know what has a lot of fear and womb energy?

BELLY DANCING!

I keep going around and around until I stop feeling feelings.

Here’s how this happened: The Ha-Canadian (Henceforth renamed Zahira of the Canadian Wilds) asked me recently to tell her which forms of dance I was bad at.

“I want to take a dance class with you, but I don’t want you to be all good at it,” she said.

“Hmmm, well, I’ve never taken belly dancing, I’m terrible at African, and I don’t tap.”

“Oooh. Let’s take belly dancing,” said the as-yet-unrealized Zahira of the Canadian Wilds. (Also, she has me on the hook for African, which my white, can’t bend my knees ass is going to be a HOOT at.)

So we signed up for a weekly class at the Mark Morris Dance Center here in Brooklyn, with a spunky teacher who likes to shout “AIIWA” more than I like to drink and eat pizza (so, like, a lot). The very first day, we show up and she immediately has us wiggling and jiggling and shaking our asses all around the room like it is feeding time in the Chippendale’s Men’s dressing room. I expected that, as I am a lily white girl from Florida and not a buxom, ravishing Arabic princess, I would be incredibly awkward at it, but it turns out that beginning belly dancing is remarkably simple.

“I just, this is basically just shaking your ass,” I say. “For an HOUR AND A HALF! I LOVE IT!”

Zahira and I jiggle around in a circle and sashay across the floor. The other ladies are all wearing midriff tops and coin belts that jingle like a change purse whenever they shake their hips.

“We need those little jingly things,” says Zahira.

“I think I need a bigger ass,” I say, frowning into the mirror. ” Also. Jingly things.”

“AIIWAAAAA,” shouts the teacher. “These are Egyptian half circles. EGYPTIAN. You have to use your pelvis. You have to put your WOMB ENERGY into it.”

Zahira and I giggle. “Womb energy?” she mouths. The teacher shoots us a dirty look.

The next time we come to class, the instructor splits us into two groups for the butt shaking.

“This group will be the Divine Temptresses of the Nile!” she declares, to group 1.  “And the second group, you will be The Great Mistress Sheba Lounging on a Bed of Pillows”

*we giggle*

*teacher shoots us a dirty look*

*ass shaking commences*

Seriously, y’all. At this rate I’m going to be able to shake my ass for like four hours straight by the end of the month. And you just wait till I get them jingly things. I am going to annoy the ever-loving hell out of my roommates.

*jingle jingle jingle jingle*

“Hey, Holmes. Can you keep it down? We’re watching 30 Rock.”

*jingle jangle JINgle JINgle*

“Seriously man, this is a funny part what the hell”

*JINGLY JANGLE JING JING JINGLY*

“GOD DAMN IT YOU ARE THE WORST ROOMMATE EVER!”

and then I will blast him with my womb energy (my female roommate will survive because women are immune to womb energy)

and SPEAKING of womb energy, here is some NEUROSCIENTIST RYAN GOSLING

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Here’s Mud in Your Eye!: The Final Chapter

27 Nov

You know what I really want right now?  A fudge pop. God dang do I want a fudge pop. But I shall persevere in my fudgeless state, penning for my dear readers the conclusion of the Tough Mudder story instead of shlepping down to Steve’s C-Town to buy fudge pops. Do you know why I will do this?

It’s because I love you.

Except for you, No Pantsu.  I still hate you.

—————————————————————————–

So. Back to the race.

Ice bath completed, we stand dripping and incapacitated at the start of another running leg. No Pantsu, Steph, the Bad Idea Bear and I deliriously shuffle along with the crowd, and we enter the second stage of the race, The Silver Bullet Dynasty. (The first being “The Era of General Denial”)

You see, about 10 minutes before the start of Tough Mudder, I had the brilliant idea to wear a shiny silver swim cap under my  hat to keep my head dryer, and therefore, warmer (earning me the nickname, The Silver Bullet).  Once we plunged into the ice bath, all of our hats were rendered wet and useless except as “getting-water-in-your-eyes” devices. The result was that I was substantially less hypothermically challenged than my teammates, which gave me a 5 or 6 obstacle handicap wherein I was still positive and shouting encouragement, mostly in the form of reminders about the free beer we were getting at the end of the race.

The next obstacle was a single rope traverse. If you fell off, you were back in the water. Everyone but No Pantsu immediately fell in. No Pantsu lost it about halfway through.

OneBadYamPajama: “Alright, alright, we’re alright. Gotta keep moving. Woo. Moving will keep us warm! And we get a free beer at the end!”

No Pantsu: “I can’t feel my feet! AHH I CAN’T FEEL MY FEET!”

Bad Idea Bear: “Running. Good. Beer. Good. *teeth chatter*”

Steph: *silent*

Next was a 15-foot platform we had to jump off of, landing in a freezing cold lake, which we then had to swim across.  The water was so shockingly cold that I think my vulva may have actually detached itself from my body and run away, and yet, throughout the entire swim all I could hear were mammoth Muscle Mag types whining about how cold their balls were.

Giant Bodybuilder guy: “eeeek.  My BAALLLSSSS”

OneBad: “Hey, McFuck, at least you can retract those into your abdomen. This water is INSIDE ME! I HATE YOU NO PANTSU!”

No Pantsu: *teeth chattering*

Well, that’s what I thought. I didn’t say that. This is a family race, people.

Haystacks, 10-foot walls, rope nets and trenches with real barbed wire followed, and the silver bullet remained positive through it all. But soon we hit the obstacle that fucked us all: 100 yards of waist high mud arranged in a maze, so you’d fall in it about once every 30 seconds or so.

Oh, and it was freezing.

By the time we escaped, each of us was covered in a layer of mud at least an inch thick; we had eaten some mud, we had silt in our eyes and none of us could feel anything from the tits down. And there was a fucking video camera.

OneBad: *Tries to smile at camera. Fails. Grunts instead* “Beer. Need…. Beer”

No Pantsu: “I REALLY CAN’T FEEL MY FEET GUYS ISTHISBAD OHMYGOD”

Bad Idea Bear: “eeeee Eeeeee  EEEEeeEee”

Stage 3: The Beating

It turns out it’s pretty difficult not to sprain every single muscle in your body while running and climbing over enormous walls with feet you can neither feel nor see. I lost it first, on a motocross track covered in sprinklers, I stepped in a hole and sprained my ankle.A team friend broke both ankles falling into some unexpectedly shallow water, and Bad Idea Bear’s boyfriend, who was running separately, strained his knee.  Then, the Bad Idea Bear took a tumble off of this terrible half pipe called “Everest,” which you had to take at a dead run and leap into the arms of complete strangers to get over, and jacked up her hip.

The Silver Bullet attempts "Everest"

We assumed that this was the peak of general pain and misery. And we were right.

For awhile.

Stage 4: Paradoxical Happiness

Around mile 5, race volunteers started reporting that we were halfway to the finish. This was news to us, as we were expecting the race to be 12 miles. But the web site had said “approximately” and the emcee at the beginning had said 10 as well, and we were hardly in any condition to protest our good fortune. The water obstacles temporarily disappeared. We were getting close to the fire obstacle, which we had been anticipating with pleasure since the ice bath. We all sang my college fight song so I wouldn’t freak out in some underground trenches (OneBad is claustrophobic like a bitch). Then we all made it across a balance beam without falling into cold water.

By the time we were carrying tires around a Nascar track, we were actually racing each other and making “vroom vroom” noises.

The fire temporarily warmed us up enough that we didn’t even mind the smoke, and soon after, we passed the 10 mile sign. Then we passed a sign warning us about velociraptors. (!?) Then one that said “Remember: You signed a death waiver.” Then we passed one that said, simply, “Welcome to Hell.”

Stage 5: Hell

The race organizers lied. There WERE 12 fucking miles. And the last two were stuffed with the worst obstacles of all–greased monkey bars, deep trenches, nets you had to crawl under with your face pressed against the ground, more barbed wire, tight tubes filled with water you had to crawl through, another freezing cold lake that you had to swim underwater in. There were even fucking electroshock tentacles that would zap you with 10,000 volts.

At one point, in the underwater freezing lake section, No Pantsu and I were huddled next to each other for solace against the barrels, trying to balance the task of getting enough air for another underwater stint with getting out of the freezing lake as quickly as possible.

I know I'm like the boy who cried wolf with exaggerated pictures, y'all, but this is really what it looked like.

“This must be what it’s like to fall through thin ice in winter and DIE,” I think, because I am no longer able to speak.

No Pantsu: “eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee”

Crossing the finish line was amazing, as you can  see in the “Official TriState Tough Mudder 2011” video, which I am thankfully not in. Then we returned to the car, where I learned that when you’re suffering from hypothermia, you can’t button your pants. Or open anything. Or, you know, think. Thus we sat, half clothed, in No Pantsu’s car with the heat up to 85, groaning, until our friends found us and made us go to TGIFridays.

You should have seen the size of the beer I had.

Guess what!? You can't feel bruises when you're drunk!

I’m gonna go have that fudge pop now.

Here’s Mud in Your Eye!: Interlude

20 Nov

Dear Mr. Ramos,

I am writing because I want to apologize. When I was your gym student in elementary school, I hated you. Probably you already know this, because we called you names behind your back. Maybe kids are still doing this?  If so, I apologize. You are clearly not a Mr. Rainbows. Nor are you a Mr. Rambo. Especially, you are not a Mr. Ram Hoes.

I do think I should tell you that I had legitimate reasons for feeling put-upon by your coursework. Making us run the mile that was part of the state-required fitness test in May, in Florida, when it was 99 degrees outside with 300 percent humidity and the air was actually made of cockroaches was particularly devious.

It was also a little unreasonable that so many of the “sports” we learned involved teams, from which I was summarily excluded, hula hoops, which I am not and have never been proficient in employing, and beanbags, which I was summarily pelted with. Do you know how hard it is to make friends when you’re 8 and red and sweaty and tangled in a hula hoop?  Do you know how much it hurts to get hit in the stomach with 30 bean bags? DO YOU?!?!?

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get so upset. I am actually sending this letter because I want to make things right with you.  Miles and bean bags may have been cruel and unusual, but they are not unforgiveable.  Last weekend, I learned that there are worse ways a sports education can fail you than by leaving you with a permanent fear of that *TANG* noise made by red dodgeballs.

It could leave you completely incapable of climbing a rope, scaling a wall, swimming 100 yards in freezing water, and trudging a mile through waist high mud, for instance. Would you believe that, when I recently tried to traverse 30 feet of rope netting (a perfectly reasonable task, I think), I got too close to a friend I like to call the Bad Idea Bear and she kicked me in the face?

You could have warned me!

And what about 15-foot walls? I tried to climb some, and my friends and I had to clamber over each other like those creepy ants on the discovery channel that eat people’s arms. Why didn’t we have a cheerleading team, Mr. Ramos?  Think of the pyramids!

I bet the kids who went to fancy private schools like Exeter were subjected to useful exercises like these. In fact, I walked by there one time and I am pretty sure I saw a mud pit studded with grimacing fourth graders tucked away behind some trees. While I am aware that Dommerich is a public school, and as such, is subject to things like laws, I really think it is in the best interests of the young wards whose future athletic viability is entrusted to you to make your classes more terrible. Please, think of the children.

Sincerely,

OneBadYamPajama

P.S. You can keep the game with the giant parachute—especially that part where we are all under the parachute and you can, like, see everybody and watch the center collapse and we are all giggling and we get to roll balls across, because that is cool and sometimes I still get under my blankets and just roll balls around so I can use my skills. Which. Are. Formidable.

P.P.S. I have a friend in the Air Force SERE division. You should give him a call.

–TO BE FURTHER CONTINUED–

Here’s Mud in Your Eye!

16 Nov

I slept with your sister. And she was TERRIBLE.

Ha, I’m just kidding, y’all. I meant actual mud, and my actual eye. Remember when I told you about that terrible race I was convinced to do by Tawagoto No Pantsu Ni Osorete* (That’s Japanese for “Afraid to Shit Pants,” which is the only nickname my Japanese friend deserves after making me do this race)? No? Let me remind you:

It's called the Tough Mudder. You should see my shower.

It started much in the way of other over-the-top endurance races–with me and the Bad Idea Bear (don’t act like you’re surprised she had some part in this) enjoying prodigious bowls of pasta on Tawagoto No Pantsu Ni Osorete’s couch while his normal roommate giggled at our impending doom from the opposite couch.

We get it, Chuckles, you get to have wine and sleep in until noon tomorrow. Now shut up before I hit you with a running shoe.

We fell asleep about halfway through Horrible Bosses, which I consider an eminently reasonable pre-race bedtime, and awoke at 7am ready to face 12 miles of obstacles including (but not limited to):

Cargo Nets, Fire, Ice Water, Miles of Mud, Sprinklers on Motocross Tracks, Enormous Walls, tire-carrying, a 15-foot jump into a freezing lake, and greased monkey bars.

Did I mention the fucking half-pipe?

This is me, temporarily renicknamed "The Silver Bullet," attempting said half-pipe

Tawagoto No Pantsu Ni Osorete, I hate you.

But at 7am, we were all blissfully unaware of this, shuffling around the house cracking jokes and outfitting ourselves in head-to-toe Under Armor.

“Hey guys, you think we should take some Percocets so we can’t feel this?” shouts Tawagoto No Pantsu Ni Osorete from the back of the house.

“I don’t think that’s a very good ide…”

“Bring them for after!” says Bad Idea Bear.

“Ok, definitely after,” I say, and No Pantsu arrives in the front room, wearing a pair of sticky football gloves that he keeps clapping together in excitement.

“I’m just really hoping I don’t shit myself during this!” he says, clapping his hands.

Grimacing, I suggest that maybe we should skip the fourth obstacle, the ice water bath, so we can stay warm and not shit ourselves.

“No fucking way. We’re doing all of them.” says No Pantsu.

The Bad Idea Bear nods in agreement.

——————————————————————————-

It’s 40 degrees outside when we get to the race, and our team of four (we have added a girl named Steph, who is an innocent bystander like myself, and so does not deserve a poorly translated rude Japanese epithet) is jumping up and down to stay warm with multiple jackets layered over the clothes we will soon be wearing alone, and wet.

We begin to get nervous about the cold, but then it’s time for our wave to start, and the emcee (Yeah, the race had an emcee, as well as a Monster Truck) gives this whole speech about the money we’re raising for the Wounded Warrior Project, and how its not a race but a challenge, and how some of the people already out on the course have lost their legs in Afghanistan, and we begin to get a little pumped up.

We’re all shouting Hoo-rah even though the closest any of us has ever been to a war is closing time at a college IHOP (actually, I went to a sample sale once, so I think maybe I’ve been closest), and the monster truck takes off and we chase it down a straightaway, breathing in the fumes of excitement and honor and glory.

First, we cross a cargo net and a big wooden trellis thing and run a couple of miles. We pass a cone and joke with the people next to us that it is one of the obstacles.

“HaHAHA,” we say. “Isn’t this a fun little mud race with silly little obstacles? Aren’t we prepared in our head-to-toe Under Armor?”

Then we got to the Chernobyl Jacuzzi, the ice bath I mentioned earlier.  So many people were shoving their way up the stairs I was practically carted into the thing like a cartoon character on one of those cartoon conveyor belts.

You should probably know that I compared this race to childbirth afterward.

Halfway through the damn thing, which was two ice-pools-wide, you had to completely submerge yourself to get under a wall and into the second pool. Total, we were in it only about 15 seconds, but by the time the four of us emerged, we were all completely numb from the hair down and so dazed we couldn’t speak, except for the Bad Idea Bear, who began emitting a low groan/keening noise that she was completely unaware of, but would make for much of the race.

And that was the beginning of the end.

–To Be Continued–

*UPDATE My Japanese friend has just informed me that this phrase actually translates as “worried about argued pants,” which is fine, because you don’t even deserve a nickname that makes sense, you bastard.

Trouble Always Comes in Tris

8 Oct

Wow y’all. I haven’t blogged in so long I forgot there was even such a thing as blogging…

Ok, that’s not true. I have the internet and haven’t been a victim of brain damage, so it is highly unlikely that I’d just up and FORGET what blogging was. (Although my new roommate did tell me a story about an indigenous tribe that lived in the woods and how if you went to visit them for extended periods of time you would just forget about everything that was more than three feet in front of your face because of the proximity of the trees and people would actually go insane in there because everythingwassocloseandWILLSOMEONEGETMEOUTOFTHESETREES?)

Ahem, anyway, as I understand it, I left y’all in a season finale cliffhanger, contemplating whether I was to die at the hands of the Westchester Triathlon. I am here to tell you that that did not happen. But it almost did!

You see, in order to participate in the Westchester Triathlon, which opens at 5am sharp at the Rye Playland in upstate NY, I had to rent:

1. A wetsuit so I could swim in the freezing Long Island Sound

2. A bike with gears so my legs wouldn’t turn into blocks of wood mid-race, and

3. An enormous SUV to haul all this shit to a hotel the night before so I could eat some pasta and go to sleep at 9pm.

Of course I saved renting the bike and the SUV for the day before the race, which pretty much any person (let alone triathlete) on earth would probably tell you is a bad idea, and the G train, which is the only reliable method of transportation to and from my new Greenpoint apartment, was nonoperational all weekend.

Long story short, it took me so long to pick up the bike that I skipped lunch (also a bad idea) and went straight back out to get the car. At 2pm, I am waiting for the G shuttle bus, staring longingly at a slice of pizza in a window across the street. At 3pm I finally get to the first train station and wait 15 minutes for a train, because it’s Sunday. Once I get on the train, it stalls underground because of a debris fire. Around 4:30pm, I finally make it to Queens, and realize I have to take another bus just 10 minutes to the airport. Only, I have to stand in the middle of a street fair full of food to wait for it. With no cash.

Then that bus is late. An HOUR AND A HALF LATE.

By the time the airport bus gets there, I am sitting on the curb, drooling on a Vietnamese tourist and cheering on the president of Ecuador, who is making the rounds of the neighborhood in a caravan. I am so tired of waiting for transportation that I’m not even sure why I’m in Queens anymore, but the president of Ecuador is here, so that has to be it.

Around 6:30, I make it to the airport, where I wait for the Budget bus, which, when it comes, is arctic with air conditioning. By now, I have run out of any extra calories I might use to keep my body temperature at a reasonable level, so I just huddle into the corner and shiver for warmth.

At 7, I make it to the Budget counter.

And the line is out the door.

At this point I’m ready to take off my shorts and run howling through the rental agency declaring my allegiance to the United States of Underpants just for some excitement (or food?), but I manage to wait until my turn without doing anything rash. Budget gives me a minivan the size of a small country.

I hate you AND your shiny windows, you van of lies. I bet those aren't even real leaves.

Which turns out to have so many buttons and automatic doors and folding seats that it takes me 25 engineering-heavy minutes to get the damn bike into it. By now, I am starving and stressed out. I find a Cliff bar in my cupboard and shove it into my mouth whole.  I just want to get on the road, eat some room service pasta in my hotel and go to sleep.

But where are the keys?

I still have the giant plastic key fob in my hand, but the place where the metal key was just a moment ago is now just a plasticine knob. The Twilight Zone theme music plays in my head. I retrace my steps back into my apartment looking for it. I press all the car buttons. I climb under the chassis. I curse the heavens. I throw things, but the key does not grow back. I begin to think that maybe I am inside a Stephen King novel, and that I will soon murder someone.

I sit in the drivers seat, almost in tears, and mash the plastic key fob into the ignition.

“Why can’t I just start it with THIS?” I cry.

And the car starts.

Because, you see, there never was a key. Apparently, behemoth minivans with hundreds of buttons start magically with the little plastic knobs of their key fobs, and I was so exhausted I hadn’t even noticed.

I drive to the hotel in Connecticut, where I eat some watery room service pasta with sausage and what may be the hardest roll on earth. I fall asleep around 11.

I arrive at the race and unpack around 5am, and am briefly concerned that I have one piece left over from my triathlon packet–which is a thing that seems to happen every time I build anything from bookcases to lego sets. It is a roundish hardware-looking appliance that I assume is used to secure the strap to your wetsuit so it won’t flap around during the swim.  “Don’t need this,” I think, and toss it back into the cavernous backseat.

I am the one that looks like a sausage.

Finally, I have set up my transition area and am waiting with my age group to run into the water. I am so excited that I think my heart might beat right out of my chest, and when they count down the seconds I actually start hopping up and down in anticipation.

Then I hit the water.

And.

I.

Can’t.

Breathe.

The water is so unexpectedly cold that I start gasping and sputtering and can barely keep my face in the water.

“Jesus Christ,  I just trained for a triathlon for five months and I am GOING TO DROWN,” I think (repeatedly). As my last thought, I murmer:  “GOODBYE CRUEL OCEAN/BUSSES/BUDGET/CAR KEYS,” as I flounder in a soup of splashing elbows and flapping wetsuits.

YOU try not to drown in that.

But then, after struggling for two or three minutes, I warm up enough to swim normally. I am saved (!) and  the rest of the race goes off without a hitch. I make it through the bike without a flat tire or my legs falling off, and I even manage to pass a few people on the run.

When I reach the finish line, people I don’t even know are cheering for me and I have a straight line of sight to the free beer table. I get to stop running soon! I am in heaven! Until I finish and get to the unlikeliest of finish line managers–a pair of 10-year-old girls.

“Here’s your finishers medal!” says one.

“Thanks!”

“Timing chip?” asks the other.

“Here you go sweetie,” I say, and hand her the rubber ankle bracelet with the bit of metal that I’ve worn throughout the race.

She scowls. “Not that. THIS,” she says, and holds up the piece of hardware I left in the car.

*gives up, drops rubber thing, makes beeline for the beer*

Why Have I Signed Up for This?

15 Jul

I fancy myself a triathlete, despite having a single-speed bike that currently trails handlebar wraps like a 10-year-old girl’s Huffy, so, naturally, I signed up for the Westchester Triathlon in September, and have henceforth been “training,” by which I mean running slightly more than usual, groaning about biking around Prospect Park (Can we talk about that hill? Why, with the hill? Why?), and occasionally schlepping to the Red Hook pool to swim. Today, a former coworker told me her boyfriend passed me as I was running hills in Prospect Park.

“Yeah, that was fucking terrible,” I said, to which my boss responded,

“Then …why are you doing it?”

“Because I’m doing a triathlon and I don’t want to look like an idiot?”

*stare off*

Anyway, apparently I am really into punishing physical activities, because instead of scaring me off races forever, this experience has spurred me to sign up…. for THIS:

“THIS” being a 12ish-mile boot camp style obstacle race through water and over walls and shit, in costume, in the north, in November. Can someone please tell me what the hell is wrong with me?

Rainbow Road and the Bad Idea Bear

7 Jun

This post sounds wholesome and fun, doesn’t it?  I bet you opened this thinking it would involve stuffed animals and come with a gift certificate for free pie. (It doesn’t). Or that I’m wearing an adorable sailor outfit and singing showtunes. (I’m not.) Actually, it can come with a free beer, if you like, but it’s a can of Tecate, it’s at my apartment and I only have one. I expect you to fight for it.

*Waits*

I went to St. Thomas recently, and in the course of my adventures on that pulchritudinous island (stay here. We booked the Cruzan apartment and it was cheap, private and lovely), I had to drive a rental car. Up precipitous mountain roads. On the left. It was surprisingly similar to playing the Rainbow Road level in Wii Mariokart, which I am abysmally bad at.

So you can imagine I was pretty bad at this, as well. What’s worse, I went with a friend of mine I like to call the Bad Idea Bear. She lives in my old apartment, The Haus of Mad, with Party Monster, Gay Meow Meow and the Pharmacist, so you can imagine that she’s one for a lot of nonsense.

Surprisingly, the Bad Idea Bear did a great job navigating from the airport to our mountainside inn, using such exemplary topographical instructions as:

“We’re supposed to turn at this overgrown planter”

“I think we should to turn left here. *points right*”

“AN IGUANA! *is useless for several minutes*”

We made it to the apartment without incident (although we later got pulled over by the police when she exhorted me to make a left turn on red). Then the Bad Idea Bear had an idea.

“I think we should go out every night, and we’ll take turns getting trashed so the sober one can drive!”

“Why, that’s a brilliant idea, Bad Idea Bear,” I said, and it was.  Until we did it, and I realized I had a drunk navigator and no clue how to get back to our hotel. It was like an episode of drunk history, but with explorers.

OneBad: “Do you remember if we turn at this bush?”

Bad Idea Bear: “BUSHES! IGUANAS!”

OneBad: “Uh, thanks.”  *turns at bush anyway. ends up next to an unrecognized fence.* “Dude. I have no idea where we are. Do you remember if we saw this fence?”

Bad Idea Bear: *unintelligibly Apple Facetiming with some guy in Seattle*

OneBad: “I’m thinking we might have to sleep here in this field in this mint green Ford Focus with rental plates and try not to die till morning. You okay with that?”

Bad Idea Bear: *asleep*

We made it back to the apartment by dint of a luckily placed ditch that angled my headlights at what may be the only recognizable road sign on St. Thomas. The worst part is that this isn’t even the first driving adventure I’ve had with the Bad Idea Bear. The last time we went on vacation, we drove a candy apple red street legal golf cart through the French Quarter in New Orleans. Bad Idea Bear got drunk on luxury whiskey at lunch, then threw beads at attractive men and police officers and offered everyone we passed a sip of her mint julep. Then she jumped off the golf cart, sprinted to a nearby playground, and attempted to do the monkey bars for 15 minutes.

[There is a video of this that I will hopefully put here soon. I’m talking to you, Bad Idea Bear]

All of this was hilarious until she passed out while we waited for the ferry in Algiers Point to take us back to the Quarter. Seeing as the golf cart has no doors, I kept picturing her slumping out of the cart along Canal Street and me dragging her by her seatbelt 20 blocks back to the Ritz-Carlton.

“Is she alright?” asked the ferry fare collector.

“Hard day. Long flight. Beads?  I mean, she’s wearing a seat belt, it should be fine. It’ll be fine. Who falls out of a golf cart? People don’t fall out of golf carts…”

The fare collector stares at me.

“Alright then.” *drives off*

If anyone’s got an idea for our next driving adventure, I’m taking suggestions.

I hear the Mongol Rally is safe and educational.

As for other things I’ve done lately that are scary, I finally succumbed to the Twitter! NOOOOOOOOOO!

Follow me and the like.

@Jacquidetwiler

Also, I just put my real name on my blog! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! *races around apartment in terror. Hits head on wall. Falls on ground. Is attacked by feral house kittens.*