Everyone! It’s Blondie’s 30th birthday!
Sorry I haven’t posted for nearly a week. How are you folks? I’ve missed you guys. Is everyone good? Still breathing? Got all your limbs? Good.
Last week I finally did it. I unplugged my Internet, for the most part anyway. I have a book I should be writing. I have dishes that need to be done. Finals are next week. Oh, and Officer Montgomery has promised to throw my ass in jail for neglect if she ever catches me again exposing my daughter to internet horse meat and escort services.
So I was kinda forced to kill the Internet. Pull the plug. Take myself off the E-Bay and blog-fed life support system. So I yanked the cord out of the wall, the lights went out, and e-mails immediately started piling up on Google’s server. World Wide Web go bye bye.
The result? I am now fully prepared for finals. All the laundry is caught up. The dishes are spot free. My children no longer have those unsightly restraint marks on their wrists and ankles. I’ve written a huge chunk of my book. It’s been at least five days since I’ve had to answer the question “Mommy, what is that man doing to that chicken?” I’ve made several batches of cookies, two gallons of salsa, and dinner four nights in a row. All my rugs have been vacuumed and steam cleaned.
…and I have realized something:
I need to drop acid or run naked through a crowded mall to counteract this flurry of domesticity before my brain melts and leaks out my ears.
But then I realized something else. I do have something un-domestic on my horizon! I’m going to do the Alcatraz to Fisherman’s Wharf swim! (And yeah, I’m still planning on diving with the great white sharks, but at $875 a pop I’ve realized that’s a dive that’s going to have to wait until November of 2008. And I need something un-domestic to happen, like, really soon lest I become a mindless suburbanite Stepford clone who listens to adult contemporary stations and lives for Pottery Barn sales.)
So where was I? Oh yeah, so I’m going to swim Alcatraz in August. And I haven’t done an open water ocean swim in Northern California in… well…. almost ten years. So today I tell my husband that I’m going to head down to Fleet Feet and check out their wetsuit rentals this next week. You know, so I can make a trial run in the bay and figure out what all I need to tackle the whole “swimming in water that will make you hypothermic in less than twenty minutes” thing.
Now, my husband is an engineer and is possessed of all the character flaws that come with the breed. The concept of taking on a task more complex than getting out of bed without a slide rule, calculator and butt-load of data is completely foreign to him. I, on the other hand, would skip off gaily to Sub-Saharan Africa and forget to pack underwear.
Him: You’re going to what?
Me: I’m going to Fleet Feet to get fitted for a wetsuit for the Alcatraz swim.
(This time I use finger signals to get my point across.)
Him: You’re still doing that?
Now, this is a common tactic of my husband whenever I come up with some brilliant plan that involves stuff like running marathons, climbing Everest, or applying to mortuary college. He forgets all about it. That is, until I follow up with something that makes him realize I am dead serious and not flaking on this. It’s not his fault really. There’s a reason I’ve never been mistaken for ‘the responsible one’.
Me: Yeah. It’s in August. So I should probably get moving on it.
Him: Ok… um, don’t people die in the bay? You know, of the cold?
At this point I gave him my best Tara-Reid-gets-asked-who-the-Speaker-of-the-House-is face. I’m scuba certified. I’m actually quite familiar with the dangers of swimming in water as cold as San Francisco Bay. Still, I couldn’t resist fucking with the poor man.
Me: Die? Oh yeah. All the time.
Him: Wouldn’t you… ah… feel better, uh, just watching this year? You know, until you get a good feel for what you need to do to prepare?
Me: Watch? No way. I just need to figure out if I need a wetsuit.
Him: It’s freezing out there…
Me: Yeah, sure. Look, you don’t think I’ll need one of those hokey shark repellent devices do you? Like some electronic beep’s gonna keep those fuckers at bay.
Him: Sharks?
Me: And don’t even worry about that jellyfish infestation off Angel Island. Please. Like some glob with tentacles is really that dangerous. I mean, paralysis doesn’t always lead to death.
Him: Paralysis?
Me: Oh, and they are dreaming if they think I’m wearing one of their silly yellow swim caps. Me. Get lost? Pshaw. Like I’m going to need to be visible. Tidal drift my ass.
Him: Lemme call and get our life insurance adjusted…