For my birthday, The Boonga gave me a new camera lens and a heart attack. Well, actually The-Guy helped her out with the lens and it was two heart attacks, not just one. It turns out that I hadn't realized she learned to climb onto the couch herself until I saw her walking along the couch in her cowboy boots. My gasp (I gave up gasping around 2007, but it seemed appropriate anyway) caused her to look my way, falling backward in the process.
The other heart attack has been mercifully erased from my memory, but I'm sure it had something to do with eating something, probably a thumb tack. Today's diet of choice, the insides to a magic marker, preferably garnished with some sequence from her pants.
I recently went to Brooklyn, which turns out to have Hebrew to spare:
Even the garbage in Brooklyn is kosher:
Someone told me that the writing might be Yiddish. But that's beside the point. The point is, in Brooklyn you can buy the Israeli chocolate bars that have the pop rocks in them that you can never find anywhere in Texas!
Just after I got back from Brooklyn, we went camping, which is exactly like skiing. I hate skiing. I hate getting up extra early and rushing through breakfast to get there early enough. I hate the cold walk from the car to the lodge. I hate waiting in line to buy a ticket and then waiting in line to rent the boots and waiting in line to rent the skis. I hate getting all that stuff on and wearing hats and gloves. I hate waiting in line to ride the lift and I hate having cold toes and I hate it when the wind blows when you're up on the lift or when the lift stops and you have to sit up there in the cold. And I hate taking off the boots and returning the skis and trying to find your own boots and walking back to the car with frozen toes and the long ride home.
But I LOVE going down the mountain. Just enough to do all that other stuff.
Camping is exactly the same, except it's a hundred degrees instead of cold. They're both wonderful and horrible at the same time. But not at the exact same time.
Except one other difference...a baby hardly ever vomits in your hair when you're skiing.