Monday, September 5, 2011
About half a mile into our route, we saw a car coming toward us on a very rarely traveled country road. Knowing that we have probably already caught the eye of the occupants of this car (mostly because this particular country landscape doesn't typically include runners), Emily and I made eye contact with each other. Without any more prompting than just a single word ("bees"), Emily and I kicked it into our complete immature ridiculous mode we've perfected so well over the years.
We get attacked by a swarm of non-existent bees.
See, it starts with just a single wave of a hand in front of our faces like we're shooing a pesty gnat. It gradually intensifies to a quick swat of the t-shirt or a kick of the foot. Then, with confused "what WAS that?!" facial expressions, we brush our hands down our forearms, shake our heads, and just when it looks like we escaped a minor insect annoyance, the ridiculousness begins. We go absolutely bat-shit crazy. We duck around, spit, scream, and start swinging both arms around and flailing like...well, like we're being attacked by a swarm of vicious bees. (There was a similar "attack" years ago when Emily lost her balance and rolled down a ditch after turning up the intensity a little too much. That was pretty fantastic too, and completely believable.) We tend to stay in character pretty well, but after the car passes, we burst out into giggles that eventually ruin our pace and we have to make a considerable effort to pull it together and finish our run. It's pure fun.
No one has ever stopped to help us escape the bees, but I can't say I blame them. Those f*ckers can be pretty dangerous.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Monday, June 27, 2011
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Remember in high school when you drove your dad’s 1982 Ford Granada Station Wagon? Remember it had fake wood side paneling that was peeling off? Remember how you drove it down Douglas Street on Friday nights and hoped the car full of cute varsity baseball players with their caps on backwards in the next lane would notice you? Remember that? You weren’t one of the cool girls at school because you had no idea how to French braid your hair and your eyebrow (singular) was like a dead ferret sprawled across your forehead. Remember that?
Fast forward to June 2011. I’m driving my much cooler car about a mile from my neighborhood. It’s a beautiful night, so I have all the windows down, the sunroof open, and I’m listening to Paperboy’s Ditty – clearly channeling 1994 but embracing being 32. My eyebrows are nicely shaped, and I’m feeling good about my deodorant. As if written in a script, a car full of Justin Biebers pulls up next to me and they’re yelling at me. Not yelling at me like “Hey, old lady, your left taillight is out!” but the kind of yelling a 16 year old high school girl dreams about.
High school boy: “Hey babe! Hey! Baby, what’s your name?”
Me: (humoring them) “Ha-ha, hi.”
High school boy: “Follow us to Sonic, ‘kay?”
Can you believe it? They want to know my name and they want to share a cherry limeade with me! I can barely contain my sheer joy and obvious cool-chick status. I glance their way, give a little smile and…
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Thank God they were clean. From now on, I will keep my bedroom in "Unexpected Firemen Visit" condition. You know, just in case I get hit by a car. Or have a carbon monoxide leak.