Friday, April 17, 2009

Masochism, defined

When in areas to which you are not native, or with which your digestive system is not thoroughly acquainted, it is in your best interests to order your meat products medium-cooked, if not well-done. However, when the meat product in question is a bacon-wrapped tenderloin with potato pie and spiced spinach, and you have already consumed more than your fair share of $15 glasses of sangiovese, it is understandably hard to resist ordering it bloody. Not rare, bloody.

In the car yesterday, between bouts of stomach cramps and vile asphyxiating gas (I was not driving because it was imperative for me to concentrate on not crapping my pants), I suggested to Scott that I would happily undergo another four days of this torture for just a few more bites of that delicious steak. God, it was good.

A short list of things Hopkins ate while on vacation in Arizona:

a pen
a stick
several rocks of varying sizes
a small notebook with "Red Feather Lodge" letterhead
a cigar butt (short, but not too big around)
several cigarette butts
a medium-sized piece of discarded drywall
dog poop
several of his own puppy teeth
a prickly pear cactus
Erin
an apple
half of a package of fig newtons (original flavor)

Thursday, April 16, 2009

Oh my heck!

When I'm in Utah, I have a compulsion to drop the f-bomb more than usual. Also, "Goddamnit!" and "Shitballs!"

Monday, April 13, 2009

Dog Park!

We took Mr. H. to the dog park in Heritage Park today - and he loved it! I didn't think that he could be so well behaved off-leash, but he acted like a shy little boy the whole time we were there. He came when we called, he fetched, he didn't jump on small children. So proud.

Sunday, April 12, 2009

Boob Tube

In our hotel room here in Prescott, AZ, we have two televisions. Two. Why they would ever think that two televisions are necessary in a room smaller than my kitchen is beyond me. We've been stuck here for four days and Scott doesn't want to drive the rental car because he's afraid that the wheels are going to fall off (which is not an unfounded fear, let me tell you - we actually stopped between Tusayan and Prescott to have the front tires put on the back just in case they decided to blow up in the middle of the highway); Erin doesn't want to leave the hotel room because, well, she's twelve, and there are TWO TELEVISIONS, for the love of God. Oak Creek Canyon is just down the road, and a ghost-town called Jerome, as well as the gimp zoo, and a whole slew of museums. But, no. We must stay here. With the televisions.

I've tried to hide from them. I tried taking a long bath, because the bathtub in this hotel is not scary like the one at the Red Feather *shudder*, but the tub here is very shallow and once I've gotten into a comfortable position, I'm mostly just soaking my butt while everything else freezes. I've tried to ignore it. I've tried reading my book under a pillow. Nothing works.

Erin has watched the same episode of The Penguins of Madagascar at least six times in the last three days. Also Sponge Bob and Homeward Bound (with the talking dogs), in addition to a bunch of ultra-snotty teeny-bopper shows on Nick. And Scott, my wonderful husband who I thought would be immune to its evil snare, must have the television on. Today he is watching golf. GOLF. There is no love for golf in our home. None of us have ever played golf, or will ever play golf, or watch golf, or read about golf, or care about golf. When I asked why in the hell he was watching golf, Scott said: "But there's nothing else on."

So, um, turn it off?

Gimpy Easter Bunny

Arizona has a zoo for gimpy creatures, too, the Heritage Park Sanctuary - which is shockingly similar to the Alaska Zoo (for gimpy creatures). There were three-legged foxes and one-winged birds, blind badgers and not a few exhibits with signs along the lines of "This exhibit is currently unoccupied as [insert gimpy animal's name here] recently died of renal failure/was euthanized/was eaten by the rabid boar in the next habitat." The cameras were both charging, so you don't get to see any depressing pictures. Sorry.

We are still stuck in Prescott while the VW service guys take the weekend off. If we don't murder each other after two weeks in close quarters, we should be home next week sometime. I'm crossing my fingers (while loading the shotgun).

We hope the Easter Bunny gimped through your house this morning and left you more than just poop!

Old West Weird Jeep Tours


We took a weird Jeep tour into the Canyon through the Hualapai Indian Reservation. They drove us down a big road through the desert and to the Colorado River, where there were ham sandwiches and port-a-potties. We rode with a Mexican family from Mexicali, who I think spoke more English than they let on. But I tried out my poor Spanish anyway. Una manzana por el burro está debaja de su silla.


Es un arból de matar... the Hangin' Tree. Apparently this is where the Hole in the Wall Gang hung out. The driver was a little shocked that I hadn't seen Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, but what can I say? I was born in the '80s. I can only picture Robert Redford as a creepy wrinkly old guy.


And here's the Hole in the Wall itself. I didn't know how to say that in Spanish. What can I say? I was born in the U.S.

Grand Canyon Caverns

Part of the weird Jeep tour was a tour of the Grand Canyon Caverns - dry caves apparently discovered by a drunk gambler who fell in a hole on his way home from a poker game. A stifling elevator ride down through 21 stories worth of rock brought us to the caverns themselves, which had been stocked for a while for use as a fallout shelter. I was feeling a little claustrophobic, but was certainly reassured by the fact that I would have enough water and fallout crackers to last me into the 22nd century, if necessary.


When I ran out of crackers, I could probably gnaw on this guy. Mmmm, mummified bobcat jerky.


Because of the dry nature of the caves, there were no stalagmites or stalactites. Instead there were these bizarre calcium formations that made me feel like I was inside a melting bag of marshmallows. Didn't help the claustrophobia, not at all. I was pretty sure that I was going to end up like the bobcat.

Paco


Él se llama Paco. Es un burro del cañon. No huele mal: es limpio y lindo.

Tuesday, April 7, 2009


Intrepid Explorer


Hopkins took a long hike on the Rim Trail today (It was apparently not as difficult to find as we thought. Hmm.) I think about halfway through he decided that he was never going to leave the Grand Canyon: every pretty Belgian girl who passed gave him love and he would forget that he was wearing his backpack and show his tummy and wiggle around like an upside-down turtle.


Six miles and hundreds of tummy rubs later he decided that a nap was in order.

Blazing Saddles

This morning we took a ride out through the Kaibab National Forest.


Slingshot.


Shiloh.


Ben.

Monday, April 6, 2009

The Curse of the Katrino



"Funny," you might say. "That doesn't look like Scott's car."

Yesterday Scott's car starting belching fire (which has NOTHING WHATSOEVER to do with my taking his compact sedan four-wheeling through the desert in search of a secluded spot for Mr. Hopkins to take a dump) and we had to take it to the nearest mechanic qualified to fix it, 75 miles away in Flagstaff at the European Auto Werks. Yeah, "e". I think that "e" means that we will pay twice what the repairs are worth. In the meantime we get to drive this fancy green machine. Whee.

Buffalo Park Urban Trail


While we were waiting to find out just how many millions of dollars it was going to cost us to fix the car, we hung out at Flagstaff's Buffalo Park, where Erin went back to her simian roots.



Also, stinky Harold got a bath. Look at that shiny butt.

Trespassing

Between the three of us, apparently there is not one who is capable of reading a map. So, while trespassing on federal property in search of the Rim Trail (which, incidentally, we never found), we came across some really cool stuff:



Something, not specified, flanked by a large sign informing us of just how dead we would be if we tried to dismantle it or remove any part of it. (Note Erin performing an astonishingly accurate portrayal of Early Man.)



An old mining camp, complete with Boom Dust.



Modern performance art by moles.



Burnout.



What's left of the last kid who whined about her parents' choice of vacation spots.

Banner raised, gong... sounded?


It was a little windy.



Hopkins is all about his stylin' pack, as are we. He carries his own poop now.

Sunday, April 5, 2009

The Assassination of Jean-Paul Marat in his Bath


I really want this painting in my bathroom. Does that make me creepy?

I can see your Temple Garments!

Major thanks to Christy, Kevin, Kelsey, and Kacie who put us up and fed us and entertained us for a few days in their little corner of the creepy mecca of Mormondom. Hopkins had a fine time with Jake and Maddie, and spent his few days with them putting on the charm: sticking his tongue up everyone's nose, crapping on the floor, eating houseplants, and stealing socks. I cemented my title as Sister-In-Law Least Likely to be Invited Back by dropping an entire bottle of wine on the floor, an offense which could be forgiven if it hadn't been a bottle of wine carefully chosen by Kyle in New Zealand and smuggled - at great (imagined) peril - through U.S. Customs. I'm such a schmuck. Sigh. Thanks, guys.