Monday, August 27, 2012

Misadventures in the Great Outdoors a.k.a. Dude, Where's My Trail? a.k.a. Spider Saga

   I have three passions in life, reading, writing, and walking. More specifically, hiking. Lately, I have been afforded the ability to pursue the first two, but the latter has been more difficult to arrange. I walk for fun- weird I know. But I always have. It was something I got used to as a child when my family could not afford the luxury of owning a car. I was also blessed in that I had a grandmother whose favorite pastime was walking in the woods- it was a weekend activity that occurred in the winter, spring, summer and fall. And I loved every minute of it.
   Finally after years of limiting my walks to parks, neighborhoods and my own backyard, I had the opportunity to go hiking with my son and a friend. It was a small park- we were aware we weren't heading to Yellowstone- however we were determined to be prepared for a whole day of hiking. We were intending to spend anywhere from eight to ten hours and for this reason we planned ahead. We had one pack filled with bottled water, as well as my son's CamelBak and a third pack filled with protein bars, soy nuts, wasabi mix, and sunflower seeds. If we had gotten lost, we had enough to survive at least three days before being forced to resort to Donner party methods. Given that the highway was never more than two miles away at any given point in the park, the chance of that happening was next to nil. Still, we were prepared. (My son had gone so far as to pack two additional pairs of socks so that he might change every few hours in order to prevent blisters.)
   My friend- I shall call her The Navigator for reasons which will soon become obvious- arrived on time for our nine AM departure. And then we waited for my son, a young man who will without a doubt arrive fifteen minutes after his own funeral begins. So we sat. And we waited. And we looked at the clock. And we waited some more.
   When he finally arrived, he was decked out like Indiana Jones (which works, I suppose, since we do in fact live in Indiana) sans the whip. In its place there was instead, a hatchet. Not kidding. A hatchet. Now I am not certain if he thought we were headed into the wilds of some foreign and long forgotten jungle, or if he intended to kill me while we were out there and he had a convenient place to hide the body- I have no doubt my children have dreamed of this on more than one occasion- in fact I am so certain of this, that if my daughter had been on this trip as well, I would have made some excuse and bailed out immediately. Just saying.
   And so we finally headed out and arrived at our destination within the hour. Now, I must say, this is the first point at which The Navigator failed us. After turning into the park (thank goodness for the sign or I might still be driving up and down highway 24 looking for the park that The Navigator knew all about…), I drove down several narrow roads asking The Navigator where there was parking. At this point, The Navigator informed us that it had indeed been some time since she had been in this particular park and she was really not all that familiar with it.
   Yay adventure!
   We found parking (with no help from The Navigator I might add, although in all fairness I must report that I drove past it and didn't even notice it until Indiana Hatchet pointed it out; and this is why I was not The Navigator). I parked my car and loaded down with roughly fifteen pounds of gear split between us, we struck out on our first trail. Each time we reached a fork in the trail we waited while The Navigator consulted the map. Oftentimes upside-down. This should have been our next clue. Her success was, shall we say, limited. Varying. Mixed. Like nuts.
   We followed the trail and it didn't take long to discover that the spiders- for arbitrary reasons known only to them, consistently, insistently, nonsensically, strung their webs across the trails. Every two feet or so, whoever was first in line would face plant into an icky, sticky web. If we were lucky, no one was home. If not, we found ourselves littered with dead bugs and one very live, very agitated spider. Never fun for anyone. Except maybe the second in line who always got a first rate view of the action. Suddenly, whoever was in front would start to dance a frantic jig, waving their hands wildly and shaking every part of their body like they were suffering from the D.T.'s. It was awesome. Ahhh nature.
   It didn't take long to realize that the best course of action was for the person that was leading the way to carry a forked stick, waving it like a magic wand before them as they went. Which brings me to two thoughts: first- all this time we thought divining rods were used to find water- nope! - we were wrong!- they weren't looking for water- they were wiping away spider webs; and second- if this had been Massachusetts in 1692, we would all have been hanged- waving our de-webbing wands the way we were, we could easily be construed as conjuring some kind of wiccan magic. Of course, the only hocus pocus we were conjuring was the famous 'Spiders Begone!' spell. Or 'Eradicating Arachnids.' You choose.
   Anyway, aside from the spiders, we couldn't complain. The weather was perfect, the woods were pretty, and we were in good, if oddball, company. So if I sneezed a bit (allergy season is at its peak for me), I was okay with it. I was taking strong enough allergy medicine to compensate for the pollen in the air. All was well.
   It didn’t take long to discover the map was- among other things- inadequate and inaccurate. So much so, that it took about two hours for The Navigator to discover that the black squiggly lines indicated smaller side trails that branched off the main trail- which I will take this moment to point out encompassed roughly eighty percent of our hiking. In layman's terms, we had spent most of our time walking the black squiggly lines unbeknownst to The Navigator.
   That struggle aside, we were unconcerned. As I said, it wasn't ever likely we would get lost, just likely that we would stumble upon a sight-seeing opportunity depicted on the map while thinking we were on the opposite side of the park. After a bit of walking, we crossed over a wooden bridge. After a while longer, we crossed over another wooden bridge. After even more walking, we crossed over a third wooden bridge. Either we were walking in circles, or that bridge was following us.
   Eventually we came upon another bridge- a green metal one this time- ah ha! we had finally shaken the wooden bridge! - and a biker was sitting there consulting his own map. Turns out, he was having as much trouble with the map as The Navigator. According to his tale of woe, he had ridden in circles three times in an attempt to find the waterfall shown on the map. We were of little help to him and he finally gave up and rode off.
   We took a right off the bridge and walked roughly twenty yards and voila! There was the waterfall. Oops!
   Honestly, he wasn't missing much anyway. When I think waterfall, I think giant, massive rock face with hoards of water cascading heavily over the side. What I got was roughly a fifteen foot rock with buckets of water slipping over the side. It was tiny. It was the little brother of waterfalls. The tiny, baby, newborn, infant brother. Disappointing.
   This was also a dead end, so we returned to the green bridge and consulted the map some more. What to do? Stay on the main trail, which according to the map was going to take us out of the woods and onto the road before us, past a large playground, through an asphalt parking area, before it headed back into the woods, or head back the way we had come and rejoice in the nature we had come to see. We opted to rejoice. We returned along the same trail and eventually found ourselves back at the car which thankfully was parked near a bathroom. Indiana Hatchet was able to take care of business off trail, but The Navigator and I were not so eager. We'd seen enough spiders to know we didn't want to drop our pants anywhere.
   This also afforded me the time to scavenge in my car for much-needed napkins and tissues. My overflowing sinuses had in the last hour turned the faucets on full blast. My sneezing had increased exponentially and in all of our preparations, I had failed to prepare for this. All three packs were completely bereft of any piece of cloth that I might use to wipe or blow, save for Indiana Hatchet's dirty socks, which I hadn't gotten quite desperate enough to use. I had sniffed and snorted so much I was in fear of sucking my own eyeballs into my brain. In short, I was miserable.
   After filling up on water and partaking of the multitude of munchies we had to choose from, not to mention several rounds of emptying my sinuses, we decided to head back and try to hit some of the smaller trails we had missed. How we thought we were going to accomplish this was anyone's guess. So far the map had not been our friend. It had in fact proven that it was the enemy. It hated us and was out to get us. Why were we trusting it now? But hey, we were only three hours in and we had all day.
   After tackling two trails which were a complete disappointment because what looked as if it might be a mile or so on the map actually turned out to be roughly three hundred feet of hiking fun- whoopty-doo- we decided to go off-trail. Indiana Hatchet broke the way- hey, he had the hatchet, it's only fair- and The Navigator and I followed. That was the most fun we had in the day. We clambered up hills, climbed rocks, wedged between trees, picked our way across brooks, balanced on logs (one that broke) and slid down hills that were practically perpendicular. It was like being five again. And amazingly, no one got hurt.
   Eventually my sneezing, which was punctuating the quiet wilderness with machine-gun regularity, startling away any and all wildlife (with the exception of the spiders), put an end to our activities. I was out of tissues and refused to resort to the socks. I am however happy to report that I finally found a good use for the map. Revenge is sweet.

Wednesday, August 22, 2012

Simplification Complications a.k.a. American I-don't a.k.a. Fingers- They're Not Just for Counting Anymore!

   Before beginning the business of blogging, there are a few matters of business I need to discuss.
   1) I apologize for the lateness of this blog, but before you begin stoning me, allow me to remind you that I was ahead of the game after posting several blogs back to back- that should have bought me some time, right? Okay, maybe not as much time as I took, but still, life got a little busy for a minute.
   2) The truth is, aside from life in general, I also got a little side-tracked with my latest book- which I was obsessed with as it was coming to me faster than I could type- that kind of thing rarely ever happens and you don't mess with writing mojo- when you got it, run with it. The book is already finished and entering the editing process- woohoo!! And a heads up for my fans- should be published within the next month or so- and -drum roll please- will be Free!! (Does that unruffle any of your feathers?) It was so much fun to write (especially after such a heavy venture as The Dradon Project) and is the complete antithesis of that book. It's fun and funny, snarky and sarcastic- everything I enjoy in a book!! I will keep you updated as to its release date.
   3) (I'm almost done I promise.) I have begun receiving many reviews on my book and short stories (especially on B&N), and they have been good (thank you God!!). Average of three stars- naturally I would love more, but as some of the same folks have lambasted other writers in their reviews- I will take the stars and run with them. (Very far, and very fast.) My only objection to any critiques is when a) I am criticized for the page number of a book- the number is determined ONLY by the font size in which you download the book and therefore I have no control over it- in other words: if you can see a gnat on a bird's tail feathers five miles away, you're font size is likely to be tiny and therefore the number of pages is going to be 25; and if you are blind as a bat (like me) and your font size looks as if you are reading a pre-school story book, you're gonna end up with 100 pages. That's how it works. And b) if you are going to take the time to criticize my work, please use a spell check. There are no z's in the word 'surprise.'
   4) And finally, all of my published books and short stories are now available in the Apple Store, B&N, and several other e-book venues. Amazon is the only major vendor who still hasn't gotten on board- for some unknown reason? Anyone with a Kindle is advised to go straight to Smashwords for the download.
   Okay, onto the business of blogging!
   Deck the halls with bags and bookses, fa la la lala, lala la la. Don't give teacher dirty lookses, fa la la lala, lala la la! I feel compelled to begin the blog in this manner because there are two subjects I wish to discuss- college and choir.
   Regarding college- 'tis the season. Back to school fever and all that. For most students, school started within the last week or so. And it's not hard to tell when I take a gander at FB. A number of my FB pals are college students and with school having just begun, the complaints about homework have blossomed like weeds in my garden- innumerably. My heart goes out to them, it truly, truly does. I am not a person without pity, I can sympathize, but I do not wish to empathize. However, they insist upon sharing, too much, and feel the need to post not just comments, but actual examples, of some of their homework. Personally, I think, that's cruel and unusual punishment for a little old bystander like me. One example seen yesterday:
8{[3(m-4)+18]-[3(5m-2)+5]}=
(Simplify your answer.)
   Now, I can think of a thousand and one ways to simplify that answer, but none that would net me a passing grade. The first that comes to mind is a good old-fashioned eraser- blank paper is far simpler than paper decorated with all those mathematical thing-a-ma-doozies. Just saying. Then there's the ever-popular burning your math book method, though with today's homework being all computerized this would not be an economical alternative. Or, the change the math equation into an entirely different one technique- such as: 1+1=. You can't get any more simplified than that. Of course, there's the less popular, brain-melting- actually do it the right darn way option. I never recommend that.
   You there! The smarty-pants that is even now working out this mathematical equation in order to solve the problem and leave the answer in my comments box- get off my blog! I won't hold for any mathematical hi-jinks around here- be gone ye hideous beastie!
   My point is- I am so very sorry that your brain is turning inside out with all this gibberish- but why would you wish to liquefy mine? What have I ever done to you? I have complained before about the FB posts intended to save the world- because everyone knows if you just repost that picture little Suzie will get the artificial leg she's always needed and Johnny's cancer will clear up overnight. I have trudged through screens and screens of politics, religion and countless cute kitty pictures. But this- this horror! This has to be stopped! It's a call to arms folks- who's with me?! Deter Unnecessary Number Calculations Everywhere!!! (For those of you who excel more at the mathematical arts than the language arts, allow me to just point out that the acronym here is DUNCE…)
   Okay, rant over, but holding the rights to revisit it in the future.
   The reason so many of my FB friends are college students, is that (as I have mentioned at least once in this blog), my children talked me into joining the community choir that they are members of. (It is a decision that they may have already come to regret, but bless their pea-pickin' hearts, if this is true, they have yet to express the sentiment.)
   In all honesty, it didn't take much arm twisting. I thoroughly enjoy choir, for any number of reasons. The first- and most obvious- I love to sing. I have spent my entire life singing- at the top of my lungs, gleefully, joyfully, and with as much gusto and verve as any one human being can muster. Enthusiasm, however, should not be confused with talent. Above all else, we must remember that. I am in no danger of becoming the next American Idol, or The Voice. More along the lines of American I-don't and The Vice…
   I am not what you could call pitch-perfect. I am pitch-inconsistent. But I have no shame, and so, I still sing with gusto. Surrounded, as I am, by so much talent, you would think that I would feel some shame, but I do not. I admire the talent of so many people in the choir; I sometimes even envy their talent, but I am rarely troubled that I do not share their talent. I do my best, following along reading the music (another talent which I do not possess), looking like a five year old tackling her first I Can Read book, with my fingertip underscoring each and every note. Oftentimes I have to ask my son or someone else to translate some musical squiggle- each and every one of which have not only a proper name but- surprise! Who knew?- a purpose. So far, luckily, everyone has been generous with me, taking the time to explain it all. It's sort of the algebra of music, if you will. At least to me.
   Aside from their talent, these people are fun! More often than not, after choir, a good portion of the choir members will meet for a late dinner somewhere and madness ensues. Well, not necessarily madness, but it usually is a good time.
   I have a tendency towards attention deficit- shiny penny- did I turn off the stove?- I wonder what we're doing tomorrow- oooohhh salsa!- disorder. For that reason, I often find it difficult to stay focused on the conversation that is actually being directed at me, and my brain- left to its own devices- starts to wander, and before long my ears follow. Tidbits of conversations come to me, usually at the worst (or best, depending on how you look at it) possible moments. Last night was no different.
   Among other things, I was privy to a gummy worm conversation (that was too disturbing to repeat here- hey- it's not that kind of blog!), kleptomaniacal sopranos (they weren't really, but rumor has it that they were accused of stealing chairs- who steals chairs??- which of course had me envisioning a bunch of Brünnhilde's with folding chairs rammed into their bulging cleavages), which brings me to the next conversation. What I heard was- 'Seriously! I can only fit four fingers from my collar bone to my cleavage.' If that sentence doesn't perk up your ears, nothing ever will. This came from our resident Brünnhilde, a girl whose range extends from tenor to first soprano- with ease. Yeah, I'm a little envious. I myself am a tenor, and sometimes I find myself stretching to keep up with my fellow tenors, but once I hit alto, I am toast about mid-range. Her kind of range is impressive. Freaky. Weird. She's not human. Anyway, for the sake of the conversation, I shall call her, B.
   Naturally, I interjected myself into the conversation (uninvited, as I always do- it's part of my charm).
   Me: You what?!
   B: Look, (she demonstrates, turning her hand sideways and laying it on her chest, just beneath her clavicle) I can only fit four fingers between my collar bone and my cleavage.
   Me: And this is bad how? Just wait, time will catch up with you. At my age, if not assisted by a well-supporting bra, you can lay about fourteen hands between them. I step out of the shower and see myself in the mirror and think, 'Who let Yzma in here?' (That's a reference from my all time favorite Disney movie, The Emperor's New Groove. The character Yzma's bosom is roughly in the same vicinity as her waist- apparently the Inca's didn't invent Maiden Form.)
   B: I just have this weird stature where everything on my body is placed unnaturally close together. Look at my face; my eyes, nose and mouth are really close together too. (Again she used her hand for measurement, but honestly, I was so baffled that I can't remember the measurement for that one- it was something to do with a circle- like maybe her whole face fit in the circle created by her hands- I don't know. I mean, honestly, who among us has measured their body parts with their fingers- don't get dirty on me- that's not what I mean.)
   B:  And look- I only have a three-finger forehead! (This time she measured the distance from her hairline to her eyebrows.)
   It didn't take long for us all to degenerate into the world of measuring our cleavages and faces and foreheads with our fingers. (My son, who is prematurely balding the poor guy- he got it from my side of the family- won the forehead competition hands down- no pun intended- but it did make me giggle.)
   As one choir member pointed out- we were actually entertaining ourselves by dissecting our bodies- and it must have looked bizarre to anyone in the restaurant that could see us. We all looked like we were striking poses Madonna had never considered. It was like a Friends episode gone wrong.
   And finger-measuring? Really? This is the accuracy we get from college students who can simplify 8{[3(m-4)+18]-[3(5m-2)+5]}=?
   First day of school, and already their brains have melted…