So I learned a couple of things about which I wasn't previously privy. First, apparently it is kosher for polygamists to drink alcohol. For whatever reason, it is just difficult to picture those statuesque, majestic women with their intricate braids and massive bang waves--lord only knows what those monstrosities are really called in the hair world--square shoes and 19th century era dresses, stumbling about, drunk and belligerent. They just don't fit the mold.

Second, when polygamists drink, they don't mess around. If I had to guess what a polygamist might order in the realm of alcohol, I would picture a cheap, fruity wine. Or perhaps a full bodied red, for the old crusty womanizers. Well, maybe even brandy for those guys. So when they ordered 3 long island ice teas, it sort of caught me off guard. Frat dudes order long islands. Drunks order long islands. Nobody drinks a long island because they like the way it tastes. The express purpose of said beverage, is to get drunk as quickly and cheaply as possible. And the long island is a veritable shit storm of alcohol; cheap tequila, gin, rum, vodka, and triple sec. Add a couple ounces of sour mix and a splash of coke, and cue gag reflex.

Thirdly, apparently polygamist women who delve into the seedier realm of alcoholic beverages also have no qualms about throwing down a few while BURSTING WITH PREGNANCY.

There is this polygamous family that dines at Carrabbas periodically. There is typically 1-2 men, and 3-4 women. And unless there is like, a new emerging club where people dress exactly like stereotypical polygamists and then go out to eat at semi-fancy Italian restaurants, these people are 100% big love. Tonight, we were blessed with their presence, exquisite braids practically seething sex, driving any man within the immediate vicinity insane with desire. Or something.

I was a little shocked when their server asked me for 3 long islands. "For the pligs huh? Get outta town." I was thoroughly stunned upon seeing one of the long island partakers stand up, and waddle her way to the bathroom, fetus practically clawing its way out of her swollen womb. A solid 6 months, if she was a day. "Huh," I thought. "Perhaps the ensuing fetal alcohol syndrome will cause the child to be more malleable to their way of life. And a fetal alcohol baby's hair is probably inherently easier to braid. Duh."

Poor little fetus, basting in alcohol laced amniotic fluid, and ultimately baking in a polygamist oven.

No bright side there.


Fat and sweaty

I went to an interview for an internship for which I applied. I sent in my resume a couple of weeks ago, which included some of my blog posts. Not being able to remember what I had sent them, I was reading through it. I came across this line from the post, You want to stick that where?, "As I rode my bike with the ever flattening back tire..."

There seems to be a reoccurring theme here.

One of my friends recently built me a bicycle, which I absolutely adore. It is a fixed gear bike, with a blue powder coated rim and matching handlebar tape. The frame is a charcoal gray, embedded with sparkles that glitter in the sunlight. Sounds like a fantastically gay bike. It is beautiful.

I have had this bike a very short while, and have already had 3 flat rear tires. Upon reading about my ever flattening back tire from last summer, it struck me that I may have a weight issue here. Am I too fat to ride a bicycle with a skinny, highly inflated tire? I think that consuming Carrabba's fare 3 times a week is starting to catch up with me.

If it were simply an unlucky thorn problem, wouldn't the front tube be as likely to pop as the rear? Yet, I never have this problem up front. It's always the ass-end tapping out, screaming for mercy. And when those desperate supplications are ignored, ass-end offs itself.

On an unrelated, sweaty note, I had forgotten just how hot this wretched house gets in the summer time. Here I sit, wearing socks (because in this heat, the effort required to bend down to remove them might send me into heat stroke) and the most skimpy underwear I can find, longing for fall. Remaining in the house clothed in anything more is a good way to pass out in a pool of ones own sweat. It doesn't help matters that my laptop feels like a pist off dragon breathing on my crotch. Which is another reason I have been avoiding my computer. It is too hot to write. Only by about 11 pm does the temperature become bearable. Which is to say, about 80 degrees.

Perhaps this heat is a good thing. Maybe I'll start sweating off some of the weight gain, and relieve a little of the pressure on my back tire, and thus avoid having to get a second job just to keep up with the tubular explosions.

Relax summer. Are 100 degrees really necessary?



The death of my blog has been caused by an extremely eventful summer. Way to much fun, I am having. Swimming, sneaking, movie-ing, friending, eating, ghost towning, biking, vacationing, Del Tacoing...so busy. I haven't even turned my computer on in a week, and I love it. This is not the end of all things. I will return to my post(s) soon. For reals. Although, I've probably done a pretty good job of loosing my "following" from the sparse posting over the last couple of months.


Night games call.


Fun with bees

Whenever I am riding a motorcycle at a very high speed and I happen to be wearing a full face helmet, I always have this really irrational fear that if I have the face shield up, a bug will fly into my helmet. Which for me, would be absolutely devastating, as I have an intensely irrational fear of bugs. And probably the death of me, since I would most certainly begin wildly flailing about, causing me to end up in a crumpled heap on the pavement. Probably with an exploded brain.

So I drive with that thing down. No face bugs for me.

Except for somehow, while traveling down a country road in northern Idaho at about 80 mph, a bee managed to infiltrate my closed helmet. A damn bee. Traveling 80. On a motorcycle. My worst nightmare. EVER.

It becomes a little difficult to pay proper attention to the road, while staring at a bee perched an inch away from your eye. He just sits there, this bee, staring at me. I decided right then, that as long as he wasn't actually attacking my face, I could keep my composure. The problem then, was deciding how to remedy the situation. He seemed somewhat content to just sit there and pierce my heart with fear, at least for the moment. I began to weigh my options. Do I pull over, and attempt to rip the helmet off of my head? What if he gets pist when I slow down and starts attacking my face? What if I can't remove my helmet quickly because it is STRAPPED TO MY HEAD? Should I open the face shield and hope he escapes? What if he is then simply blown into my face, and consequentially begins attacking it?

I decided that opening the face shield was my best bet. Upon doing so, he was blown out the bottom of my helmet, and I was left thinking, "WHAT THE HELL." Because this was the SECOND attack of the day. By a bee. You see, about 2 hours earlier, while pulling into a gas station, I was stung on my right arm. Which taught me 2 things; 1 being, I am apparently not allergic to bee stings. Cool. And 2, while bee stings hurt, they are not the end all, monumentally painful experience that I had always assumed. Cool again. But I'm still afraid of them.

Why did the bees have it out for me? I swear I haven't killed a bee in years. All that wasn't even the end of it.

A couple hours later, I was in the sorriest Subway on planet earth. They had no 9 grain honey wheat, no spinach, no chicken breast, no swiss, and their high speed toaster oven was broken down. WTF. As I was contemplating which bread to substitute for the 9 grain, I felt something itchy in my side. I reached down, and could feel a small ball of something in my shirt. Suddenly, that small ball of something stung me, at which point I freaked out and began to violently shake my shirt. Lo and behold, another bee.

Why did every bee in that state want to kill me? I made it nearly 27 years having never been stung, and then I was attacked thrice in one day. I have a sneaking suspicion that bee #3 might have actually really been bee #2. I think he might have, after being blown from my helmet, crawled down my shirt and hitched a ride for a couple of hours. He probably fell asleep, and then when I touched him in Subway, became grumpy because I woke him up. At which point he stung me for the second time in my adult life.