Perk Up, Buttercup!

Well, Reader, I've decided to trump my creative block by drinking wine. Yes, wine is always the answer, no matter the question. It makes me happy and carefree and unblocked. At least the first glass does. After that, it could make me tipsy and cry-ie and sad, but right now? Carefree and blog-gy.  

Wine is a perfectly delicious dinner, and hey, I think Weight Watchers counts it as a fruit, because grapes.  And Dr. Oz says it's good for your heart, and my heart could use some good right about now, so I'm doing this for my health. I'm not really sure Dr. Oz actually says that, but he convinced me once to spend $150 on green coffee pills that were supposed to help you lose weight and my pants still fit the same, so screw you Dr. Oz. I'll lay my lushie ways at your doorstep. 

The wine is good. 

You know what isn't as good? Plants.  

They lure in you with their pretty pretty colors and you establish a relationship with them, inviting them right into your home and making a nice place for them on your porch, and then they are just never happy. They are always - always - "but what have you done for me lately?" Meaning, if they don't get a drink of water each and every day, they greet you with their sad and droopy dispositions. I mean, really. We're not in the tropics. It's Cleveland weather. Cowboy up, Plants. 

Look at them pouting right there, all because they didn't get watered on Sunday when I was Too Sad to Bathe. 

I have two plants out by the front of the house, too, and couldn't keep the one alive. There are some red flowers that are thriving by my inconsistent watering in the pot, but the purple flowers withered right on up. Survival of the toughest, yo. Those fuckers need to learn to conserve what little water I give 'em if they want to make it in this world. I'm doing it for them, so they are tough. 

But they weren't so tough, and I had to pull out all the dead stuff, and a giant centipede must have been roosting in there and it came running out on it's million legs and I almost - almost - screamed and fell right off the porch, but I didn't because I am also tough. Toughening up to nature.  I think my lazy river rafter trip in West-By-God-Virginia has made me all Rambo and shit.  Which, by the way, I still owe you the hour by hour recap - don't think I've forgotten, Reader - I wouldn't do ya that way - maybe on the second glass of wine. 

So anyway. Back to my pouty and demanding flowers. I gave them a healthy drink tonight. Let's see if they appreciate me in the morning. 

I'm not sure I can commit to this sort of a relationship in the future. 

It's just so needy. 

Some Things Are Better In Theory

This is where it all began, Reader.  Or not really, because really it all began a year ago on the 4th of July when we went to West-By-God-Virgina to visit our favorites down there. And we had such a good time we declared, "We shall make this our 4th of July Tradition!" and raised a glass of something alcoholic and did some pinky swears to make it all official.

Fast forward a year later.  And our friendies are determined to give us The Time Of Our Lives and Pete had a host of activities planned for us. I am going on the record as stating I didn't need a host of planned activities, because I am more than happy to just hang out at their house and use all their luxury amenities such as an in-ground pool, fire pit for s'moring, and a salt water hot tub and visit and chat.

But I as also willing to try something more outdoorsy than just laying about in the pool, so I put on my Game Face when they mentioned we'd be rafting down a lazy river. Because they made it sound so much fun, Reader. With a cooler of beers between us all, rafts hooked together as we lazed our way through a July afternoon, laughing and chatting and kicking up an occasional splash of water at each other in a move of just-pure-clean fun.

That does sound like fun, doesn't it, Reader.

My first inkling that it might not be all Hats & Horns should have been when Vera gathered up the floats from the pool. Pool Floats. For a West Fucking Virginia River Raft trip. Reader, listen to me now and hear me later: Do NOT take pool floats to a gun fight. Or to the wild rivers of West Virginia.

Example here: 

But I didn't question it too hard, because Pete & Vera. They know everything.

Second inkling that this may not go according to plan was when we were heading to the river and Kenny mused aloud, "I wonder how long until those rafts fly out of the truck?" and we rounded the first curve and saw rafts dragging behind the truck.  Two of the better rafts died right there of road rash before they ever made it to the water.

Third niggling suspicion that this might not go according to plan should have been when we got to the docking point and I asked Vera where the paddles were and like a true Do-it-Yourselfer, she replied, "I forgot 'em, let's go find some sticks." STICKS, Reader. Sticks and Pool Floats. Launching into the river.

I was getting apprehensive, and when I'm apprehensive, I have to pee. A lot. "Go pee over there by the side of the road," my friendies gamely advised me.  Except I'm not good at outdoor peeing. It's a skill I have never mastered, because I tend to avoid situations where there is no indoor plumbing.

Then Darla piped up, "Leaves of Three!! Leaves of Three!" and at first I thought we found a stash of pot growing by the roadside and thought this might be the best trip ever, but then realized it was a call of action to watch out for the Poison Ivy. So if I had hesitation about peeing in the wild before, now it was a real concern as I don't need a dose of poison ivy on my lady parts. I didn't end up with poison ivy on my vagina (see, Reader, I told you in the post below we'd be back to the usual nonsense about my vagina. You're welcome.), but I did end up with pee down my leg because I was too concerned to squat low to the ground and it was just all bad. Bad bad bad.

While I was peeing, the guys were taking the trucks down to the landing zone. They were gone about 20 minutes. TWENTY MINUTES, Reader. How many miles, at 70 miles an hour, do you think they went? Surely more than they should have, because at 1/2 mile an hour in that river we'd be Midnight Rafting, since we didn't get started until 3 in the afternoon. Because, as Vera stated, "Ya'll are sleepers, aren't ya."   Yes, we are sleepers. We are lazy lazy guests who can't get started until mid-afternoon, when most people are coming in from their rafting adventures.

Fourth warning that we should maybe be reconsidering our rafting adventure was when a group of kayakers came in where we were fixin' to launch, looked at our assortment of pool floats & sticks and said, "Ya'll taking those out there??" and sort of shook their heads at each other.

We thought they were envious of the fun we had planned. Because we had a cooler of beer, designed to float with two pool noodles tied together on each side. That's why.

They were probably also noticing the pee down my leg, but by then I was getting re-nervous and just thinking about having to pee. Again. So I wanted to get in the water. 

We finally set off in our assortment of pool floats. One two-banger was the Cadillac, that Pete & Vera were driving (see above), it was actually built for river rafting according to the box. I don't know exactly what sort of river, but definitely a river more gentle and predictable with less shallow and pointy parts would be a pretty good guess.

Stay tuned for the hour-by-hour recap, wherein I pee. A lot. It'll be titled "Two Hotdogs & Some Beans." You won't want to miss it.

Why I Am

So there's a lot of shenanigans going on around Chez Bang Bang lately, Reader.  Most of it isn't suitable for an Open-to-the-World blog format, which makes me have to censor myself, which I find really really really difficult to do. I pretty much roll as an open book, love me or leave me. Which, to be fair, I've had my share of folks who chose to do the leaving part, but that's okay too because Free Will. 

Now I'm not so open, and it's thwarting my creativity. I would like you to believe that most of the stories on this space are made up adventures from my tired imagination, but that would mostly be a lie. I say "mostly," Reader, so if there is something really outrageous, I still have an out to claim that's the not true part. Those really really uncomfortable things that I write about, usually pertaining to my vagina, let's pretend those are the made-up parts. You'll be happier about it, and I'm all about you. 

I don't know how to tell stories that aren't somehow grounded in my reality. 

I've been giving some thought lately as to why I put so much of myself out here to the whole wide world to learn about me, and I figured out I do it for me. My life is ridiculous and sometimes funny and sometimes sad and one hundred percent human, shortcomings and all.  Why hide from it. I like writing about the irreverent things that make up my world. Plus, it forces me to sometimes practice punctuation, so really I should be getting extra credit. Wouldn't that be nice if Life handed out extra credit, and some areas that you're really failing at could be pulled up into a passing mark by a little side project? Because I could really use that sometimes. 

This is also a good way to learn who I am, and what sort of nonsense takes up valuable space in my brain that should be used for solving world issues instead of wondering who's jizzing in my restaurant food. You can decide whether you like me or not, because after this you can't claim you don't know what you're getting into when you become part of my world. So it's all your own fault, Reader. 

Anyway. 

That wasn't the post I planned to write this morning as I sipped my coffee and got down to packing for my Wild & Wonderful West Virginia Weekend, but it's what came out of my fingers. 

Sorry it's not the normal nonsense I usually deliver. I'll get back to stories about my vagina next week.  You're welcome.