More rough camping and bralessness with the Beeswaxes

Hmm. I do believe it has been so long, my blog muscle has atrophied. I am, for once, short of words. Is scary a little bit.

Went 'camping' in Payson again last weekend. When I enter the cabin I pretty much stop moving. I like to blame my slug-like behavior on altitude sickness. (At 4,921 feet, it is pretty much like base camp with the Sherpas. If the Sherpas were small curly-haired white children, and 4,921 feet was 17,000 feet) Whatever the reason, there is something about the place that makes me immediately remove my trousers, don yoga pants (inventor of yoga pants should win Nobel Prize), pop the top of some tangerine Diet Rite, heat up an entire case of Costco mini quiches, take a 2 hour tub with bubbles and jets (and quiches), slip under a down comforter, and stay up reading mystery novels until 3 am. 

There are of course some variations, which include BBC America marathons (How Clean is Your House? Cash in the Attic, and Jake's maybe new favorite show of all time, TopGear), or trips to the Payson Wal-Mart in previously mentioned yoga pants to check out what's in the Redbox (Secret Life of Bees, No Reservations), buy new ice cream drumsticks (ones in freezer had unacceptably stale cones), and check to see if there was any sort of vampire/panty party going on in the intimates section. I stopped there to check out some bras, since I forgotten to wear one. Alas, I was too early for the party.

I did venture out a little on Jane's birthday. We went and got some manipedis and some mexi-lunch over to the El Rancho (at the intersection of the Beeline Highway and Highway 260, across from McDonald's). Then we came back and decided to walk off our chimichangas with a brisk hike in the wild and dangerous forest (i.e. along the golf course). Management had put up some weird wire fencing around the green and other random and unattractive spots to keep elk from eating/digging up/pooing on the course. While we were looking for lost balls, Jane bumped up against the fence and screamed, well, like an 8-year-old girl will: super-duper loud and squeal-y. She couldn't speak, but kept pointing at the fence. I told her to pipe down and grabbed the fence myself to show her that she was being dopey. I was fine. Her hip tapped it again, and this time I heard a snap and a hiss (before the screaming began again in earnest). It was ELECTRIC fencing. Seriously. What is the point of rambles in nature if we only end up electrocuted? (Only, not me, as I am inexplicably immune to electric fencing.) Is not relaxing. 

I say, take the fences down. I prefer elk to golf, anyhow. But nobody asked me.

So then, after her harrowing adventure, Jane needed a relaxing soak and some quiches before cake and presents. Only, her quiches were pizza rolls. To quiche her own, eh?

In other news, I found another scorpion in  my entryway yesterdee mornin'. Have finally decided to call professional bug murderer fellows. I can deal with crickets and ants and even roaches and huge hairy wolf spiders, but I cannot deal with scorpions. I CANNOT DEAL, I TELL YOU! Am now willing to risk cancerous poisons so that I can sleep unmolested in my bed. 

I do not like the scorpions. I do not even like eating their relatives the lobsters (unless they are pureed in bisque, where they taste quite lovely and sinful), because they look like scorps on steroids.

Finally, am loving Charles Dickens on Masterpiece. Did anybody see David Copperfield? Starring tiny 'Arry Potter?

Lastly, here is a little clip from TopGear, wherein they race communist-made cars. (That link was in case the embedded clip doesn't work. It isn't on my computer.)  Jake said later in the show, they race the cars against a dog, and the dog wins.

I was in Freiberg, East Germany, in August 1990, just a few months after the wall came down. We went to Church (next door to the temple), where a girl told us all about the many lovely changes in her life all thanks to German Reunification. The biggest and most exciting? The family's shiny new BMV (is BMW in German. Go figure), which they'd just picked up in West Germany the day before. She had lots of terrible things to say about the Commy cars. She might have spat on the ground to emphasize her point. Or maybe she didn't. I can't recall. I was only 16, and more concerned about my bangs than about correctly quoting ex-communists.