Zip-A-Dee-Do-Dah

I mentioned previously that I did something I swore I would never do.  Also, something I had absolutely no interest in doing.  Also, something I was terrified to do.

But I decided to push the levels of my comfort zone and while I'm not thrilled with the results, I'm glad I didn't chicken out.  We had some good friends visit from Dallas and at their suggestion, because trust me, I would NEVER suggest this, we went zip-lining.

Because it seems totally logical to test God's willingness to keep you on this planet once you've made it safely past 40 years by allowing a 20-something to strap you into a harness that has been used by hundreds of other people, hook you up to a piece of twine 40 feet in the air, and then propel you across a ravine (with a viewable poisonous snake below) where the only thing saving you from slamming face first into a tree is the four minutes of training you learned at "ground school."

Oh, and did I mention that the location of said deathiness (yes, it was necessary to make up a word) was over an hour away from our house and our "appointment" was at 9:00 a.m.?

And that I was exhausted from a crazy week at work that involved TWO days trips to Dallas and Houston - the latter the day before said "exercise in tempting fate"?

So I was probably a little biased before we left, but given that I tried it - I can give it a resounding 3 craw fish rating.

You see, I have a list of things that I like to refer to as crawfish hobbies.  It means an activity in which the effort does not equal the reward.  If you have ever attended a craw fish boil, or just eaten craw fish, you know of what I speak.  In other words, you spend a long time working at something, only to end up with a microscopic speck of meat that doesn't even taste that good.

Let me elaborate - take skiing.  You spent hours getting dressed  - you add layer upon layer - from your special underwear to your socks to your ski pants and sweater and then finally a jacket, hat, gloves and goggle.  You then toddle to the slope looking like a bloated inchworm and walking like you have a cold cucumber up your butt, all the while predictably sweating under the 1,567 layers meant for your protection.  You then go to the ski shop, wait in line, try on equipment - hell, buckling your boots takes 45 minutes alone because of the fabric beer-belly that prevents you from bending over or even seeing your toes. Then, you're ready.  Oh wait, no you're not - you have to inchworm-toddle to the lift line, wait your turn, and ride up the mountain.

Then, you ski. And it's over in a fraction of the time it took to get there.  Craw fish hobby.

Ziplining is quite the same idea.  You spend a lot of time waiting, and only a fraction of the time ziplining (is that word?). Like this:

Oh, and the equiment? MAKES YOU LOOK LIKE THE BIGGEST TOOL EVER.

My husband had tears streaming down his face when he looked at his best friend and realized that they both looked like idiots.  Let's just say that the harness that is a required part of the process affects those with external genetalia a bit differently than those of us that don't have such extremities.

In other words, the harness makes you look like you have shelf coming out of your nether-regions.  Add to that the helmet that creates the illusion that you are a giant-ill-dressed pencil...and well, there you have it.

Was it fun? Yes.  What I do it again? Yes, but only beause I discovered (too late) that there is a winery down the road.

So it gets a resounding "craw fish" from me.

The Kind of Snake You Don't Want to Receive in a Text from your Husband

I owe y'all a long explanation/story about the weekend I spent dangling forty-feet in the air while wearing a helmet and harness that made me look like a tool, but work is a bit crazy  - so let me tie you over with a little story.

The story begins with a girl who had to awaken three times in one week prior to 5:00 a.m. in order to take a stress-filled trips for work.  This particular day, the girl was heading to and from Houston for a few hours and had to entertain out-of-town guests for the weekend beginning that same evening.  Guests that would surely arrive at her house while she was still sweating like a pig in an un-air-conditioned warehouse.  Because of her travels, she had to rely upon her husband, and her cleaning lady, to get the joint in shape.  Cleaning lady was assigned to the inside.  Husband was assigned to the outside.

Imagine her surprise when she received a text from her husband entitled "Look What Jack Found" attaching the following picture (by the way, can we please give my damn dog a break? That poor thing has had the equivalent of 1800 nervous breakdowns in the past few weeks, including a recent piddle-inducing encounter with a nail gun):

I know it's hard to see because of the shading over the garden, but trust me - THERE IS A HUGE ASS SNAKE THERE.

Unfortunately, the snake had become entrapped in our netting (netting meant to keep the squirrels away but nonetheless has captured (1) a household pet, (2) a freaky caterpillar the size of my fist and now (3) a snake.  It has yet to show us, however, that it is effective at keeping the damn squirrels away!).

The snake was hopelessly trapped - that fact, coupled with a not-so-reliable diagnosis from my father-in-law that "it didn't sound poisonous" (really? sound? You don't want to know, I don't know, what it looks like?) made it obvious that the little guy had to be put out of his misery.

Don't get me wrong - I don't like snakes - AT ALL - I just don't like killing anything.  Especially when we are essentially living in his habitat.

Oh - totally unrelated, remind me to post a picture of my new snakeskin bag. 

Just kidding.

Hissssssssss.