Moab 2010 8 Sep 2010, 10:55 am

Jon and I left Friday afternoon for a three-day break from everything. From children, pets, broken boilers, squirrels with good aim, and even the Internet. Well, I stayed off the Internet, and Jon did the best he could. Meaning just enough that I didn't have to nag, twist his nipple, or tell him to please put down his phone and look around:

We'd both been through Arches National Park before, so we decided to try some other activities: first, four-wheeling up Cane Creek Canyon to Hurrah Pass. And it was fun, yes, at least for the first couple of hours. And then the jiggling of my organs rearranged everything so that my bladder was sitting at the bottom of my throat. And at that point Jon was rocking out, swinging his fist around his head and screaming HOW AWESOME WAS THAT TURN THAT THREW YOUR BLADDER INTO YOUR THROAT? HOW AWESOME?!

This went on for another four hours.

I suggested that while I enjoyed sharing this experience with him that maybe next time he should call up one of his brahs.

I got him back the following morning, however, when we fulfilled a longtime dream of mine: horseback riding through Moab. I've only ever been horseback riding once, and that was, what, sixteen years ago? And it was midnight horseback riding with my college roommates where the ranch people didn't even give us instructions, and all of us just wandered aimlessly in the dark wherever the horses wanted to go. And that included through trees so thick that one of us hit a branch and flipped into a ditch.

We were too busy laughing to sue.

That's the thing I remember most about that night, the uncontrollable giggling. I couldn't stop. Every time my horse would start to gain speed I would start laughing so hard that I couldn't sit up straight, so I had to lie forward and hug his neck so I wouldn't fall off. And I'm sure he loved that, some wiry-haired, bony-butted loon clinging for dear life to his neck, giggling like a drunk hyena into his ear. Except I was drunk on life! And the prospect of obeying the commandments so perfectly that when I died I'd get my own planet! Mormon tangent!

Hie to Kolob!

So Sunday morning I warned our private tour guide, Brandon, that I was a giggler. That there was a good possibility I'd laugh the entire way. Also, Jon hadn't ever been on a horse. Ever. Not a single time in the whole forty-five years of his life. ALSO! And this was the most important part: neither of us has a functioning filter. So he should not be worried that we're on the verge of divorce no matter how much yelling occurs between giggles and having to pick that forty-five-year-old man off the ground to put him back on the horse.

My horse's name was Cisco. Jon's was C.D. We never learned if they were boys or girls or one of each, so there was a lot of GOOD GIRL! and GOOD BOY! and IT WON'T GO ANYWHERE! going on. And I was able to contain my giggling, at least until the guide was confident enough that we could handle a gentle trot. Because that's when Jon, whose horse insisted on remaining at least twenty paces behind us, would start going OUCH OUCH BALLS BALLS BALLS.

I really want to put on a leotard and tap dance to that song: Ouch! Ouch! BALLS BALLS BALLS! Except the shoes would be outfitted so that the tapping sounded like a galloping horse.

Turns out it can hurt to ride a horse if you have a penis! THE LEARNING!

Brandon showed Jon a few ways to decrease the impact on his parcels, and things got better for Jon from there. But not before my horse stopped and took a shit at least four times. He or she or it would just suddenly stop, no warning, and next thing you know dude is groaning, and seriously. More learning: horses groan just like humans when going number two.

And then it stopped and peed another three times. It was totally ridiculous. And I was like, the only thing left for Cisco to do is have a baby out here on this trail, and believe me, if it starts hinting that the contractions are getting closer I am hopping of this thing and running for cover. I'm an animal lover and all for nature and whatnot, but I get queasy when Jon calls me into the bathroom to show me the huge wad of brown snot he just blew into the sink. I don't think I could handle a horse placenta.

So: another check on the life list! I rode a horse in the desert! Is that too boring for a life list? Should it have been "performed handstand on a horse while it galloped at full speed in the desert"? Still not good enough? How about "performed handstand on a horse while it galloped at full speed in the desert and then delivered its baby"? FINE. I'LL TRY HARDER.

by dooce in Daily

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as Moab 2010. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

Subliminal 7 Sep 2010, 2:37 pm

"Too overt? Then how about torture? Or maybe treat with ill intent?"

click image above to see the photo on dooce.com

by dooce in Daily Chuck

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as Subliminal. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

Dubbin' 7 Sep 2010, 10:35 am

Jon and I went to Moab for the holiday, rented some sort of four-wheeler thing, and stirred up some dust. He was like a kid in that thing, and I loved seeing him that way. But I'm going to have a hard time forgiving him for that one peel out that got red sand so far up in my girl parts that it came out my nose.

click image above to see the photo on dooce.com

by dooce in Daily Photo

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as Dubbin'. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

The stamina of Chuck Schuldiner 3 Sep 2010, 10:05 am

Yesterday I was commiserating with another mother about the temperament of our infants who are close in age, although her son doesn't seem to have as much trouble as Marlo does with teething. I've mentioned this before, but when a tooth starts to poke its way through her gum she is inconsolable and sits on the floor screaming like someone stole the Oompa Loompa she had on layaway.

Another woman was in on our conversation, but she doesn't have kids, and she asked if it was really that bad. And I held out my arms to signify hours and hours and hours of bad. And she was like, wouldn't that be kind of fun, though? To have permission to sit in the floor and just scream all day long? And I could totally see where she was coming from, and wanted to extend that to having someone feed me grapes and wipe my bottom while cooing.

But then I thought about it for a second, and I don't think I could sustain a scream for that long. Even though I work out every day, I think I could maybe make it five minutes. Maybe. Think about the stamina it would take to scream for over and hour. And then think about how boring and monotonous it would get. Unless you're into death metal, then I guess it would be a total party.

Is that what I'm raising? Someone who is going to grow up and growl lyrics about violence and Satanism and necrophilia? Because I think my dad would prefer she turn out that way rather than vote for a Democrat.

There's hope yet, Dad!

by dooce in Daily, Marlo, Parenthood

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as The stamina of Chuck Schuldiner. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

Breakfast nook 2 Sep 2010, 7:54 am

We've been eating off of old Mormon Church tables that the previous owner left behind until the table we ordered finally arrived for the breakfast nook. For a while there it felt like we were sitting down to eat refreshments at a wedding reception being held in the gymnasium of the church, but only Mormons will probably understand that reference. AND MY CRAVING FOR GREEN JELLO.

click image above to see the photo on dooce.com

by dooce in Daily Style

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as Breakfast nook. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

My first grader 2 Sep 2010, 7:14 am

During our family photo shoot Leta's transitional lenses started to darken because of the light, so I had her take her glasses off for a few shots so that we could get a good shot of her eyes. I think it worked.

click image above to see the photo on dooce.com

by dooce in Daily Photo

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as My first grader. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

Office remodel, episode two 1 Sep 2010, 5:34 am

This should surprise no one except for maybe the two people who just googled CONSTIPATED WALRUS BALL and pulled up this website for the first time that Jon has spent the last ten days researching the gravy out of how to use all his new video equipment. Also, we've been to therapy since the last video, and so this episode of our office remodel doesn't have the I REFUSE TO THANK YOU FOR UNLOADING THE DISHWASHER WHEN I HAD TO ASK YOU TO DO IT IN THE FIRST PLACE kind of tension going on.

However, I've heard that kind of tension is good for make-up sex.

(Skip that part, Dad. Mom, you know what I'm talking about.)

I think you'll like the improvements, including the surprise at the end. And yes, without giving too much away, that is photographic evidence of the mustard yellow pajamas and dead bird on my head from the weekend. Who loves you?

Click here if you are having trouble viewing the video. (Give it a moment to load before you click this link!)

by dooce in Daily, Video

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as Office remodel, episode two. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

So I know I can't dance 31 Aug 2010, 10:25 am

If reincarnation is true, I want more than anything the ability to dance when I come back as another being. I don't care if I'm a frog or a piranha or a rock inside a cave. LET ME BE ABLE TO SAMBA! I could watch people dancing for hours. Forever, maybe. And when it's done right I get goosebumps and start to cry and feel like calling my mom to gush about the beauty of the earth because I know she won't go twitter about what a nitwit I am.

(plenty of Internet strangers already have that job covered)

I saw this on Kottke today and have watched it several times. And then I got goosebumps so badly that I had to go put on a coat. Maybe I'm being dramatic, but I am so envious of people with this talent.

Just, DAMN!

(also, seeing Patrick Swayze doesn't help the tears)

by dooce in Daily

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as So I know I can't dance. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

When there were three 31 Aug 2010, 9:56 am

Life was so much simpler then. Before Rambo came into our lives and drew first blood.

click image above to see the photo on dooce.com

by dooce in Daily Photo

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as When there were three. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

Won't you be my neighbor? 30 Aug 2010, 2:25 pm

Everyone I know has had The Summer Cold, and up until last week I had managed to avoid that plague. Jon had it all week last week, and then I woke up Friday with my throat closed so tightly I couldn't even drink bourbon for breakfast. And I was all, what will my cousins in Tennessee think of me now!?

Chad! Robert! I promise I can still cook me up some good roadkill!

And it hit me hard. So hard that I put my pajamas on Friday night and did not change out of them until, oh, five minutes ago. Now, I don't own fancy pajamas. Mostly I just wear Jon's discarded XXL t-shirts. And it just so happened that the one I grabbed on Friday night was his mustard yellow Webtard t-shirt from Mule Design (note, the shirt has been discontinued, probably because they got as much hatemail as I'm going to get for even agreeing to own such a shirt in the first place, don't I know that some people have raised high-functioning webtards? And while you may see them as different they are just the most special beings in the world.)

Shit. I'm already a homophobe for suggesting that some gay men take a long time to get ready. And now I'm throwing around the word TARD. Next thing you know I'm going to be making fun of hill folk. Your unfollow finger is getting twitchy!

All of this to say, we have to take our garbage and recycling cans to the curb on Sunday nights, and Jon was in a rather untoward mood last night. So instead of asking him to do it and having him accuse me of nagging him to do it, I just up and done did it myself! In my pajamas. Barefoot. WEBTARD AND ALL.

Mind you, if I haven't changed out of my pajamas in over two days, it's pretty safe to say I haven't brushed my hair in just as long, and as I was walking out the door I caught a quick glimpse of myself in the glass of the window. HOO! What was that band called in the eighties? Flock of Seagulls? One of them up and died on top of my head!

So I was wheeling out the garbage can that was full of Marlo's poopy diapers when suddenly I saw a man in a suit rapidly approaching me, and since that can was so heavy I really couldn't drop it and run. Otherwise that thing would probably have crushed me. So I kept my head low, thinking surely this man would not see the dead bird on top of my head or the mustard yellow t-shirt or the fact that I did not have on a bra. There are only so many ways to make it look like you're not trying to cover up your bra-less boobs. I learned each of those ways last night. None of them are convincing.

Because it wasn't just the man in the suit who approached me, it was two other neighbors. THREE STRANGERS IN TOTAL. All eager to meet the new family on the street. Except my nose was running, I had WEBTARD written across my shirt, I was grabbing my boobs in all sorts of awkward ways, and my hair was pretending it was an entire crowd at a football game trying to do the wave except the fans in the end zones were messing it up because they were so drunk.

Oh, shame. Heather B. Armstrong is thy illustration.

by dooce in Daily

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as Won't you be my neighbor?. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.