The raccoon vs. Mandy's new pants: Gospel #14

It's possible that after reading the following email from my mom, it was confirmed that I am a bad daughter. Why? Because my first reaction was non-stop laughter, not concern. See for yourself. Also, I'm not posting a picture for this post because the most appropriate would be of a raccoon, and if I do that, Brenda will freak out.

It's back on the bike (see Gospel #12 for more) and Brenda's latest run in with wildlife is best described by the gospel herself:

This morning I’m biking across Amazon Park, right near the trees by the tennis courts. I’m going fast, but not hell bent because I’m not late.

A raccoon runs smack into my tire. I crashed completely and swore like a mad woman because I hate raccoons.

Amazingly, I didn’t hurt myself. Small abrasion on my very cute, first-time-today Title 9 dark green pants. Small because the pants are probably made for some cute girl to rock climb in. “Mandy” or “Kirstin” or someone adorable.

Crunch my toe, dirtied up my jacket and gloves, because I think I slid into the dirt a bit. My whole front tire is catty-wompus, and I don’t know where to begin. A nice young man bikes along. I ask him for help. All I had to do is quick release my front stem, which quick releases because it’s a fold-up Bike Friday. Now wasn’t I lucky? It’s the kind of thing that COULD have curtailed a Zion trip. The 26-year-old kid spent the night before the trip in the Vegas ER with a kidney stone. Fortunately it passed on and he picked up the trip on morphine hangover.

The bus driver asked if I was running late. I said No, I crashed into a raccoon. She said usually those things are more disastrous because of the way we react. Like it was a deer and I shouldn’t have swerved. That damn rodent (are they rodents?) crashed into ME. I was afraid as I went down that I would see more of him, but he got away.


Today, there was a follow-up email on this event:
Someone at the City of Eugene must have heard me cursing Tuesday morning, because today there’s a big border mowed along the sidewalk. Now I can see the raccoon coming.

"Someone said Jesus died." Gospel #13

Morning after Easter emails:

#1 (Subject: "fyi")
The tradition of chocolate Easter bunnies dates back to 19th century America, which borrowed it from Germany. 90 million chocolate Easter bunnies are produced each year, with 76 percent of Americans saying that the ears should be eaten first.

#2 (Subject: "in addition")
Americans buy more than 700 million Marshmallow Peeps. In 1953, it took 27 hours to create a Marshmallow Peep; today it takes six minutes.
Source: yummymath.com

I love Hallmark Hall of Fame.
Happy Easter
I'msorryudidn'tgetchyercookies
(She's convinced someone stole the Easter cookies she sent me out of the mail.)

#3 (Subject: "the Hallmark commercials make me cry")
(no text)

Mom, when you're sending emails after 10pm and they have nothing besides a subject line--it's time to go to bed.

Cold in the wetlands: Gospel #12

As we all know, Brenda doesn't drive unless coerced by late night meetings after school or forced by sleet, snow, or freezing temperatures. After one gnarly spill several years ago on her bike on an early frosty morning, we agreed she would drive to school on such mornings. Yes, we had to make an agreement--about frost and darkness. It's like parenting, but in reverse.

So, she bikes part way in the morning to a church near the bus, wherein she's made a deal with Jesus about using their parking lot. He seems okay with it. Then she hoists her little bike on the bus and rides to school in warmth. In the evenings she bikes back to car from school. Sometimes she remembers the cars is there, sometimes she doesn't.

Dears:

I pack up my bike to go home after school yesterday. Cake pan, plastic container (a little chocolate cake left for dessert with Jeff and Diane and Shaun) and metal cake pan (carrot cake gone). Various recyclables. My bag’s a mess, but I strap it in the basket.

I bike half a mile into the wetlands. My head is cold, so I stop to put on my fine wool scarf under my hood. I have to unstrap my bag and rifle through it seven ways to find the scarf, which isn’t in the mesh bag of wintry sundries I might need. Finally locate it after most of the contents of the bag are on the sidewalk.

While I’m hooking myself back up and putting my helmet on, I turn around and there are two Mormon missionaries on their bikes. “You might guess who we are.” Yeah. I spoke courteously about how I wasn’t interested in the Book of Mormon, but I respect what they do and thanked them. They asked me if I NEEDED anything. “Are you kidding? Yeah, a permanent filling in my root-canaled tooth, drains cleared, a brake job on my bike, a warm vacation, and a husband.” I think they just wondered if my bike chain was okay.

Then, I get almost to Amazon Park, and I realize I had to do a park-and -ride Wed. morning at the Methodist Church, because it was frosty. So I turned around and biked back for the car, because I knew it would be even frostier this morning.

You should see me now. A big old bruise on my lower cheek from all the novacaine shots in my upper cheek and gums. I look hidjious.

Ah, mom.

Mr. Genuine: Gospel #11

Brenda doesn't watch television.

When she does, it's PBS on an 8" monitor in the office wherein the time flashes on screen incessantly.

And then, now and again, she busts out of her well-educated, classical music, church-going bubble (it's a nice bubble), and hangs out with the rest of society on ABC. Just so happens, she chooses Monday nights to do this.

So, this is the email Bree and I receive on Tuesday morning:
"WHY do I watch this vacuous bachelor thing with these 'totally cool' people walking around with with wine glasses, flipping their hair back? Mr. Genuine is a bit much. WHY DO I DO THIS? It's riddikilus."

Really, I find it relieving. Somehow it validates every episode of "The Hills" or "The Bachelor" that I've ever taken in. I feel smarter already.