Monthly Archives: April 2012

Reminiscing about my youth, and some of the crazy stuff I did, some of my fondest memories come from the years I kayaked white water.  It took a long time for me to learn all the ins and outs of it, and by that I mean how to get in and out of the dagnab contraption…

We used to paddle in the springtime to catch the snowmelt, and the rushing rivers and creeks during that time.  We’d travel from Ohio up to the Slippery Rock River in Pennsylvania and do the “Miracle Mile” which was a fairly technical run, though not a large quantity of water.  It was a good place for a beginner, but still fun for the more seasoned.

And I learned more than paddling skills on it.  It was on the Slippery Rock that I learned how to pick out riverside pee spots.

The hard way.

As I said, it was early springtime, and the air and water were COLD.  We were all bundled up as best we could be to ward off hypothermia.  That meant layers, because we were all too poor to afford Dry Suits.  So picture Mama Boe in the following layers:

Bathing suit.  (a one piece because I’m shy like that…oh, and fat.)

Polypropylene shirt

Wetsuit

Fleece sweater

Paddle Jacket

Life Jacket (PFD)

Helmet

Imagine all of these things wet, which makes them cling to your body as if they were hermetically sealed.

Now, imagine having to disrobe to pee.

(Remember, the air is darn tootin’ cold!)

Ever shivered your way out of a wetsuit?  It’s painful.  Trust me.

So everyone in my group was nice enough to find an Eddy (calmer water to pause from paddling in the moving water) and wait for me to do my business.  I popped open the sprayskirt of  my trusty Response (a good beginner boat at the time.  By today’s standards, it would be considered the ol’ stationwagon you grew up with) lifted my prodigious butt out of it, and slid up the rhododendron covered embankment adjacent to the river.

I did a little bit of scouting….not a lot because I knew my friends were patiently waiting for me, and I was cold as all get out… found what looked to be a fairly open enough spot that I could reasonably squat without getting a rhododendron stuck in a place I would rather it NOT be… and began the tedious task of disrobing.  Off came everything:  The helmet, the Life Jacket, the fleece, the wet suit I pulled off of one foot and left dangling on one ankle (I didn’t want to pee ON it) and then my bathing suit.

Why not just pull the crotch to the side?  I have no idea.  I just didn’t. Probably because I was suffering from acute hypothermia and wasn’t mentating well.  Today, I would just pull it to the side.  No, scratch that, today I would just pee in my wetsuit.

ANYWAYS, I was effectively butt-naked.  In the cold frosty early Pennsylvania springtime.  Imagine me squatting, naked, steam coming off of my rather impressively sized body, my breath coming out in cloudy puffs, and trying to relax enough to pee.

It took a while.

But eventually I could and did and as I started to release my pee, I heard the crack of a stick.  And then another and another.  I looked around, and to my horror, saw a family of five…mom, dad, and three young kids, walking towards me.

Apparently my pee spot was actually a hiking path.

There I was…..

Naked.

Shivering.

Peeing.

(And you wondered why I am the way I am….it’s all coming together now, isn’t it?)

I did the first thing I thought of:  I put my hand up and said, “Hey. How’s it goin?”

They turned abruptly and walked briskly away.

I have that effect on a lot of people.

Me, circa something like 1875.  No, seriously.

About a Kagillion years ago, I paddled.  And by paddled I mean I kayaked white water.  (Get your minds out of the gutter already!)  I used to drive from Columbus, Ohio to anything white and frothy that I wasn’t too skeeered of in Pennsylvania and West Virginia.

***Wasn’t Too Skeered Of*** being the important part of that sentence.

During these crazy years, I knew a mountain of a man named Keith.  Keith was / is a ball of energy and sarcasm and intelligence and foolhardiness all wrapped up in a silly grin.

He’s a ton of fun to hang out with.

During the first season, as I was learning to paddle, I was introduced to several new concepts.  First off:  Peeing in the woods.   But that is for another story altogether.   Second:  Wet Suits, and how to live in them.

My first couple of weekends on the water, I actually rented my wet suits, because I didn’t know if I would enjoy the sport enough to plunk down the money to buy my own.   I’ll never forget my mortification when I was being sized and the shop renting the wetsuit put me in an FXXL.

To this day, I don’t actually know what FXXL stands for, but you can imagine what my paddling buddies suggested.

I’m telling ya, with friends like these….

Back to Keith.  We were paddling down the river, and I had to PEE.  I couldn’t hold it any longer, and the thought of getting out and peeling all of my wet, clingy layers off to pee in the woods and then layer them back on was too daunting.  I asked Keith how on earth he dealt with it.  I’ll never forget his response:

“Pam, there are two kinds of people in this world:  Those that pee in their wetsuits, and those that lie about peeing in their wetsuits.”

Now, it’s funny, yes.  But imagine you are wearing a RENTED USED wetsuit when you hear it.

EEEEWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!

Needless to say, I own my own wetsuit now.

(Size FXXL)

Welp, I did it.

I finally succumbed to peer pressure and bought a pair of black knit yoga pants.

Apparently these have become the new stand-by for women who don’t want to wear jeans or shorts.

I have been teasing my yoga-pant wearing friends mercilessly.  Asking them if they want some Ginseng with their coffee now.  Asking them if they find they are more limber when the run their errands or do their other motherly duties.

I have been condemning them for jumping on the popular style bandwagon.  Not because I’m a judgemental person, but rather because I like to give people a hard time.

And then it happened:  I didn’t feel like wearing jeans or shorts.

And my sweats were too hot.

I bought a pair of Champion brand yoga pants.   Capris, actually.

I put ’em on this morning. Oh. My. Lord.  They are so comfortable.

And I SWEAR I can suddenly touch my toes.

I am so sad.  Last night during Varmint’s softball team’s bonfire, we told ghost stories.  I told a hum-dinger of a ghost story.  I even set it up with Coach Doug beforehand where he would go hide behind a tree near the bonfire and at just the right time,  moan like a monster and then come out to scare the jumpin gee willikers out of the bunch of 10-year-old girls.

I set up the scene admirably.  I had a guy mysteriously murdered centuries ago at about the same spot where the old tree behind them grew.  I told gruesome details.  I explained how, in the dark of the night, if you were still enough, you could hear the old murdered man moaning by the tree.

Coach Doug Moaned.

I mean, it was a scary moment for ME and I was telling the story!

And the girls.  These young, imaginative, impressionable, innocent girls, laughed.

They laughed!

This incredibly wrought, complex, totally realistic and believable story that had chills going down my own spine….and they laughed.

Either they are growing up too fast, or I am an enormous sissy.  I cannot believe at 10 years old I would have been so nonchalant about such a story – complete with moaning man in the dark in the background.

Maybe they are numb from all the violence on TV?

Maybe they had a false sense of security because they were en masse?

Maybe Coach Doug needs to work on his moaning.

I need to come up with a better story before the next bonfire.   I want to have them screaming at the end of it.  Maybe I’ll tell them something REALLY scary, like how big the country’s deficit will be when their generation is old enough to be responsible for it.

That ought to make them scream, and run to the hills.

My mother, God love her, has had a love affair with the South West for as long as I can remember.  The Jewelry, the food, the people…and the flora.  And by flora, I mean Cacti.  She has owned (and killed) hundreds of cacti in various forms since I was a munchkin in the ’70’s.  So I learned at an early age to stay the heck away from the pricky things.

If you are unfamiliar with cacti, you must know that there are two essential kinds:  The long-needled kind that can impale, and the tiny, hair-like, short invisible bristles that get under your skin like fiberglass and don’t leave for days, no matter how hard you scrub.

Either way, they are awful and I hate them.  They are a scourge on this earth and must be removed.

A few months ago we were having a family dinner at my mom’s house (we often do) and I backed into one of the tiny fiber-like kinds of cacti…with my rear….in non-bristle-repelling sweat-pants.  I had no armour on at all.  I yelped like Scooby Doo, and then set out a string of explicatives worthy of any sailor.  They were so bad, I had to rip my pants off right there in the dining room and then drive home (pantless) to get a new pair of pants.

Believe me when I tell you that me ripping off my pants in the dining room was enough to ruin that particular dinner recipe for my kids for decades.

I cussed all the way home, fervently hoping I didn’t have any cause to attract attention.  I could envision me having an accident or requiring a police stop and having to explain my current bottom-less situation.

But I made it, and weeks of counseling had helped me with the post traumatic stress I experienced afterwards.

Time heals all wounds.

And then Tuesday afternoon, My Captain, Varmint (who was home sick) and I were over at my Mom’s again..only this time to move an enormous plant, and it happened again!! 

I backed into one of her &!*#!&!! cacti on the back deck.  The good news is that I had jeans on, the bad news is that it was the impaling variety of cacti.

Jeans do not stop long sharp needles from slicing through the soft helpless flesh of one’s buttocks.

I cussed like a sailor again.  I’m getting creative in my cursing.

And my mom, the creator of all of this pain, the harbinger of these malevolent horticultural torture devices, has the nerve, the nerve to tell me she doesn’t like it when I use such strong language around my Varmint.

My Varmint who at that moment was being the perfect example of ROFLOL.

(For those of you who aren’t texting savy, that means Rolling On Floor, Laughing Out Loud. Which is different than LOLPIP, which is Laughing Out Loud, Peeing In Pants.)

So I lovingly and respectfully informed my mother that when one is repeatedly subjected to being stabbed by hundreds of tiny little pricks in one’s bottom, one is allowed to cuss like a sailor on leave.

Which set her off on a peel of laughter.  Apparently she thought the phrase ‘hundreds of tiny pricks in one’s bottom’ was something to laugh at.

I hate the South West.