"My Weekend" by Jake Harper

"Then the kid next to us threw up waffles. It was awesome."

Quite often, best laid plans going awry provide a spectacular sequence of events that works out better than the original plan. If one learns to go with the flow when resistance is pointless, one quite often ends up with the kid next to them throwing up waffles. As Monkey Boy would say, SWEET!

This weekend past, we celebrated a delayed v-day combined with our 2010 birthday and Christmas presents. Monkey Boy and I had reservations at an historic lodge overlooking roaring falls, an appointment in the evening for a couples massage in front of a wood-burning fireplace, and a two-hour snowmobiling excursion the following day.

Before we left home, we went down the checklist; our snowmobiling hosts provided all necessary snow gear, so we packed light - a change of clothes for the second day, snacks for the tour, an emergency survival kit (I believe in being prepared for those occasions where you might get lost or stranded in inclement weather), and a camera so we could capture every splendid moment of hiking down to the falls and traversing snow-covered fields on sled-footed beasts.

We checked into the lodge around 3 p.m., dropped our stuff in the room, ensured we had the camera to take pictures of the falls up close and personal, and hiked about thirty feet...to a sign that said the path to the falls was closed Due To Unsafe Conditions. BAH! What's so unsafe about washed out gravel paths, slush-filled mud puddles and icy rocks? Scratch pics of the falls up close and personal. Oh, well, we can always look it up on the internet.

We hiked back to the lodge and found a cozy corner in one of the two dining rooms where we settled onto a leather loveseat and drank and ate and talked about the morrow. I've never been snowmobiling although I grew up on motorcycles - dirt bikes - and wondered how similar the experience would be. Monkey Boy was the reverse, his head is filled with knowledge of all things related to snowmobiling including what to do when you are in the woods and your snowmobile catches on fire. Since this was my first snowmobiling experience, and that seemed like valuable information, I felt safe in his capable hands.

He illustrated throttle and brake use, we talked about weight distribution, he confirmed we would arrive at our ultimate destination in plenty of time to embark upon our tour if we departed the lodge at 10 a.m.

We drank our drinks and ate our nosh and kanoodled a bit on the leather loveseat, then we headed to the spa for our couples massage in the fireside room. Here we were met by massueses who layered us in warm blankets, slathered us in hot oil, and kneaded us like two lumps of dough until we felt drowsy and relaxed from our taxing hike earlier in the day.

After, they invited us to stay and enjoy the pools, sauna and tea room; we politely declined having wisely determined that a good night's sleep would be beneficial in preparation for a day in the snow, where I pictured myself struggling to keep my willful snowmount on a safe and well-planned course.

We fell asleep shortly after 9 and awoke at 8 the next day, feeling refreshed and eager to get to the main event. We showered, gobbled down a healthy portion of steelcut oats and a buttload of bacon, then threw our junk in the trunk and headed out. We were on schedule and full of unbridled enthusiasm for our snowmobile adventure!

Nav was extremely cooperative, plotting a course based on the address handsome provided before he tucked the directions safely in "the boot." Her pleasant voice guided us through town, over the pass, around half-frozen lakes and into the heart of snowmobiling country. She gave one caution which we paid little attention to as we appeared, by her diagram and the line of cars pulled over to the side of the forest service road, to be right where we wanted to be. "Attention. Your destination is in a non-digitized area." In other words, for this our big adventure, we were off the grid.

"I'm guessing this is it," said Monkey Boy, as he pulled behind the last in a long line of cars and trailers. He parked the car and popped the trunk to get his smokes and take a look at the printed directions tucked safely away.

"Oh shoot," he said. "We were supposed to look for a pink ribbon past the firestation." No worries, we'd seen a ribbon and the firestation just a ways back, so he tossed the directions into the back seat of the car and lit a quick smoke. I grabbed the emergency supplies, he shut the trunk and we piled back into the car and headed back the way we came.

The firestation came into view shortly and there, sure enough, was a ribbon (although I would have called it orange). I briefly panicked at sight of the road we were turning down; it wasn't as well-cleared as I would have thought for a snowmobiling outfit that expected city folk to come 'round on the weekends. But shoestring budgets, blah, blah...



We drove past a newly-built cabin, past piles of snow that had quite obviously been snowplowed,
past a honey bucket (at which point I thought, geez, I hope this outfit has indoor bathrooms, I so don't want to have to pee in a honey bucket while strangers stand around waiting for me to take care of business so the ride can commence),
and came to within a few feet of a clearing that looked slightly flooded and a bit muddy. Monkey Boy appeared loathe to enter without first checking the depth. "Smart man," I thought to myself; that would just suck if we got stuck in half-frozen mud, eh?

He put his baby into neutral, got out to check, and returned to the vehicle having determined that the hole just out of sight and filled with icy runoff was likely not a good sign of road-worthy conditions; also that the road on which we were parked was clearly little more than someone's driveway. "This doesn't look right," he said, as he reached for the printed directions.

"Oh shoot! I put in the wrong address." He hopped back in the car and gave me a pat on the leg, "Sorry, babe," he said. "No biggie," I replied, "We aren't late are we?" "Shit no, our tour doesn't start until noon, and it's just now 11:30, we have plenty of time."

He put the car in reverse and started backing up the snow-covered driveway. We got about halfway to the road when the wheels started spinning in place. We slewed a bit, not much to frighten me, but enough to convince him that we weren't going any further without employing additional snow-navigating tactics.

"Hm," he said, while thoughtfully considering his options. There was a level clearing to our right, a spot where someone had plowed. The snow was about four feet high with the sheer walls left from the bucket of a snowplow. He determined, though, that driving back down the road to where we stopped to test the waters would be the better option; the snowbanks weren't quite so high and he thought trying to turn the vehicle around in that clearing appeared the better option.

He pulled down the driveway to the clearing and started his three-point turn. At about two points, the vehicle stopped and the wheels spun. He tried reverse and we moved a bit, then the vehicled stopped again and the wheels re-engaged spinning. Forward, spin. Reverse, spin. Forward, spin, reverse, spin and...

Breathe...

"Shit," he said, and we both got out to take a look. It was obvious we weren't going anywhere without a bit of muscle. We were fairly confident, though, that we still had enough time to get the car unstuck and make it in time for our noon departure.

For the next 15 minutes, we took turns, one person in the vehicle engaging the clutch and gas in a fashion to create a rocking motion, and the other pushing in rhythm to the rocking motion, with intent to either move the vehicle forward enough for the tires to grab or slide the vehicle sideways to, in effect, turn the vehicle by other methods.

We went nowhere.

We then spent a bit of time taking turns in the vehicle clutching and braking, and out of the vehicle shoving chunked up snow under the wheels. We got nowhere, and it had started to snow. I gathered sticks and branches and shoved them under the wheel. We moved not a whit.

We finally collapsed in the front seats, exhausted and cold, but not disheartened. We knew by this time that we were not going to make it snowmobiling, but we weren't at all concerned for our safety - he had Roadside Assistance! That is, if he'd paid the bill. Which he couldn't remember doing. But surely he did.

He pushed the button that transmits the signal and within seconds Roadside Assistance called his car phone. The situation was explained and they dispatched a tow truck, estimated arrival 1 hour. Before hanging up, they asked if we were certain we needed the service, the tow truck was being dispatched from a town quite some distance away with a native american name that the RA rep could not pronounce, and they didn't want to arrive to find we've gotten ourselves out and were no longer where we were supposed to be. Monkey Boy chuckled. "We are NOT going to be able to get ourselves out without help," he replied.

Now, I've been known to get a little nervous when there is snow or ice involved; I may become overly concerned at times with my ability to remain warm and dry and, mostly, alive in adverse conditions. But I wasn't, actually, in the least concerned about any of these things, even less about the fact that we missed our snowmobile playdate. We were sitting in a toasty warm car with half a tank of gas; we had zune tunes playing on his new Windows 7 phone, and I'd already gotten the emergency supplies out of the trunk.

He apologized several times for us not making it snowmobiling, he knew I was really looking forward to it, and I reassured him repeatedly that I was having lots of fun stuck with him. And we could, actually, HEAR the snowmobiles just beyond a line of trees, so it was almost like we were on the tour as planned.

An hour passed and Monkey Boy appeared to be getting tense. "Do you want to hear about the different kinds of firs we have here in Washington?" I asked.

"No," he replied, not tense, but rather distracted and justifiably so.

"Well," I replied, "do you know how to tell our state tree from the other trees?"

"No," he again replied, maybe looking a little resigned, as this line of questioning seemed pretty close to me telling him about the different kinds of firs we have here in Washington.

I raised my hand in a sweeping motion that took in the line of trees bordering the property on which we sat. "It's an evergreen, so you can rule out the deciduous trees, the ones that have no leaves at the mo. Of the remaining, see the top few feet of the trees? The newest growth?" I looked at him, then, to make sure he was listening since he'd said he didn't want to learn. Who doesn't want to learn something new, eh? He likely meant he did, but maybe misunderstood the question.

"Ye-e-s," he replied, in that patient voice fathers use when their daughters are showing them yet another seashell and describing the difference in color and shape from the previous 30 or so shells weighing down their fatherly pockets.

"See how they are growing relatively straight up? You can tell our state tree from the others because the top hangs limp. Like that one there. See?" And I pointed to one of a myraid of trees and then looked around to make sure he was following my finger, and thus learning (while stuck in the snow on a forest service road) how to tell our state tree from the others. You never know when information like that might come in handy...

He looked, then, at me and smiled without the slightest sign of irritation, which is exactly why I wasn't upset that we were stuck in the snow and missing our snowmobiling tour.

"Well," I concluded, "so much for you not wanting to learn about the different kinds of firs here in Washington, eh?" To this, he laughed, and my heart fluttered.



We sat a bit more, then he needed a ciggie so he got out and walked up the driveway to the service road to see if the tow truck was perhaps prowling back and forth on the service road looking for signs of a stuck vehicle. I popped a few handfuls of Sugar Babies and washed them down with diet coke, then played a few rounds of Flowers on my Windows 7 phone.

He came back with the news that Roadside Assistance had called to check on us. It appeared the tow truck was out of cell phone range, so Roadside Assistance was unable to ascertain if they were on schedule for their estimated arrival.

Monkey Boy apologized yet again to me, and I again reassured him I was quite content, and I was! The snowflakes were significantly larger and the temperature had dropped a few life-supporting degrees, but I was popping Sugar Babies like they were amphetamines and guzzling diet coke like it was a Vicky blue. We were surrounded by snow-capped mountains, snow-covered fields, and evergreens with snow-frosted boughs. And it was snowing. And, even if we weren't on them, we could hear the snowmobiles, that's nearly the same thing!

Two hours later, there was still no tow truck, and we were starting to get antsy from inactivity. Monkey Boy went for another smoke and another walk up the driveway to see if, perhaps the tow truck was anywhere in sight. I popped a few more Sugar Babies and washed them down with the last of my diet coke realizing that I'd just made a trip to the honey bucket imminent.

Honeybuckets, as you know, should be regularly serviced. There's generally a little sticker on the wall that indicates last service date. The sticker in this one showed no dates of servicing; lifting the can lid confirmed there'd been no servicing. But I was full of sugar babies and diet coke - it was either a stinky honey bucket or the woods where any wandering snowmobiler, likely from our very group, could happen upon me and be startled off his snowmobile at the sudden appearance of a naked white ass. I didn't want to be the cause of a snowmobiling accident, so I put the honey bucket to use.

I returned to the car then, and, with energy to burn and an empty bladder, I popped it into first and started rocking it forwards and backwards and forwards and backwards, repeating to myself that sitting is a waste of Sugar Baby energy, and so what if we get unstuck before they arrive -- THEY ARE LATE. It was my sound reasoning that they broke the covenant first, releasing us of any obligation to NOT unstick ourselves.

I rocked to and fro until Monkey Boy returned, upon which he raised an impressed eyebrow as I'd managed to move the vehicle a significant distance...say, a foot or so. He agreed with my sound reasoning about covenants with tow truckers and excess energy and not getting any younger sitting still, and he pushed a bit and we rocked a bit and the clutch started burning and we recognized that unstuck but without the ability to clutch was really not much better, so he asked me to cease and desist, which I did because, quite honestly, it's not my vehicle and I wasn't worried yet, there were still chocochip cookies in the trunk along with some Sailor Jerry's and Disaronno. We also still had half a tank of gas and I'd determined that, while the cabin was barely into the wall-framing stages, we could, if need be, break in and weather the night. Also, there was plenty of light and there were likely still lines of cars up the road AND a fire station just past the pink/orange ribbon marking the driveway we'd turned into. I remained unconcerned for and not in the least bit panicked about our safety.

We waited another hour, then he gave up and decided, "Fuck that, we are getting out of here." He rocked and I pushed and I rocked and he pushed, and we even spent a bit of time with the car in neutral and both of us pushing. He revved and clutched and I sat on the trunk, then on the hood, and I bounced, too, to see if we could get airborne enough for the car to slide a bit sideways, and finally, FINALLY we managed to get the car turned around!! YIPPEEEEEE!!

We then slipped and slid and spun and pushed our way back up to that halfway point, where, exhausted, he put on the brake and made me get back in the car. He said I looked "completely worn out" and he didn't want me "having a stroke."

Ok, folks, which of the two of us looked more likely to have a stroke at last Saturday night's soccer practice? Hm? I mean, really.

But he meant it with love, so I got in the car taking a breather in the form of a pull from the bottle of Disaronno. And just then, the tow truck pulled into the driveway. Dick's Towing. As you know, we LOVE dicks, even the greasy ones (that's for the irish lad, my token dirty comment). Especially the greasy ones wearing chains (that's for the two littlest angels who...well, love dicks and expect such disgusting comments from me :)





Our knights in grease-stained warm-weather armor winched us up and pulled us to the top of the driveway where hung the pink/orange ribbon. "You'd think," I said to Monkey Boy, "that they could get the color right or at least ensure there aren't two driveways near each other with similarly-colored ribbons!"

He laughed. "Look at what the ribbon says," he replied, still grinning.



The tow truckers unwinched us and wound in their gear; they filled out the appropriate forms in triplicate and obtained all necessary signatures; they wished us a nice day in pleasant voices that did not at all indicate they thought we were the stupidest city folk, and Monkey Boy shook their hands and told them to have lunch on us to which they replied in surprise while glancing at what he'd slipped into their palms, "THANK you, sir!!"



Yes, we'd been stuck for just over four hours. Yes, the tow truckers showed up a little later than expected. Yes, we'd missed our great snowmobiling adventure. But we were warm, dry and, most important, safely back on a snow-free asphalt road with plenty of time to make it home before dark.



As the tow truck drove off, we contemplated our next move. You would think that, at this point, we'd want to get the fuck out of Dodge. What we wanted, though, was to find the goddamn snowmobiling place and figure out why they couldn't provide clear directions.

So I picked up the directions and looked for mention of the firestation, which was there sure enough, but not followed by "pink ribbon," as monkey boy had on more than one occasion indicated.

"Really?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied, beginning to smile. "After the firestation," I read out loud, " Turn right onto Blah Blah road . Follow the road for .5 miles, turning left at the pink ribbon."

"Oh for fuck's sake," he replied and we both started laughing. We found the firestation, then, right where we left it, and we found the road that we were supposed to turn on, too - it was clearly marked by name and even had snowmobiling signs for those-who-get-easily-lost.

.5 miles down the road, we also found the pink ribbon, it was well and truly pink, not orange, and it didn't have any sort of warning printed the length of it. We pulled a u-turn and drove up outside a well-plowed gravel driveway such that I would expect from snowmobiling outfit. I rolled the window down to take a pic.





"Sweetheart," he warned, "Someone might come out and shoot us." He no sooner said this when a man appeared with a very deadly-looking clipboard in one hand and a dangerous drink cup in the other. "Can I help you?" he asked.

"Not really," we replied. "We were supposed to be here several hours ago, but got stuck in the snow and only just got out. But we wanted to see where this was so we don't get lost next time."

"You were supposed to be here earlier?" he asked, bringing the clipboard up into firing position.

"You're the snowmobiling outfit, right?"

"Yes, we are."

"Did you have a tour going out at noon?"

"Yes, we did."

"Well, we were supposed to be part of that tour, but we took a wrong turn not far from here and got stuck in someone's driveway in the snow."

"Oh, that's too bad," he said, "You missed the fun, then!"

"Yeah, we know, but we'll be back. We plan to rebook it."

"No, I mean, you missed the fun. A woman put her snowmobile into the lake."

"SWEET!" says Monkey Boy, with a HUGE grin on his face.

"Oh, my gosh!" I said. "Is she all right?"

"I can't believe we missed seeing a woman go into the lake!" said Monkey Boy softly beside me. I look at him.

"Yeah, she's fine, but it's been a helluva weekend. On Saturday, a guy took a real bad fall. Ended up in the hospital with several broken bones!"

"You have GOT to be fucking kidding me!!" said Monkey Boy. "Did he buy the insurance?" His concern for the injured was nearly overwhelming.

"Nope. And of course I feel like a jerk, cuz he's all broken up and I've got to ask him to sign a bunch of forms saying he'll pay for the snowmobile!"

"Those don't come cheap," said Monkey Boy, "What are they, about $6000?"

"Try $8000," replied the owner/operator of the snowmobiling outfit.

"Shit! I can't believe we missed seeing someone go into the lake!"

"Why don't you come on up and have a look? You can see the lake from the end of the driveway," said the man who was about to shoot us.

"Hey, that's alright, we're for sure coming back, we'll see it then!" said Monkey Boy.

"No fucking WAY I'm coming back," I thought to myself.

We drove away then, having reassured the guide that we would return. We passed the pink ribbon, then the snowmobiling signs, then the firestation, all clearly marked as indicated on the printed directions; we passed the orange ribbon with its bold writing intended to prevent clueless drivers from becoming stranded for hours down a clearly unnavigable driveway. And thirty or so feet farther along, Nav pipes up, "Attention, your destination is in a nondigitized location."

Halfway home we realize that, taking into consideration where we got stuck, where the outfit was actually located, and the timing, the snowmobiles we'd heard were most likely the very snowmobiles we'd rented in advance, and the shouts we thought were indicative of folks having fun could very well have been the shouts you might expect to hear if one of your party were to drive off terra firma and say, sink their snowmobile in a partially frozen lake.

Quite often, best laid plans going awry provide a spectacular sequence of events that works out much better than the original plans. If one learns to go with the flow when resistance is pointless, one quite often ends up with the kid next to them throwing up waffles.

Peeing in advance reduces the chance that you might be in the can when that happens, thus missing all the fun. Next time, read the freakin' map, zap :)

Check Yourself

A few months ago, I saw Due Date, the movie with Robert Downey Jr., and can I just say, yum! Not the movie; it was okay, but Robert Downey Jr. is one steamy cup of HOT STUFF.

He plays a successful man with anger management issues who is trying to get from Atlanta to L.A. in time for his pregnant wife's scheduled c-section. In the process, he has the misfortune to meet, and consequently get stuck with, Ethan Tremblay (Zack Galifianakis), an aspiring actor with no visible talent and an annoying habit of annoying others. This doesn't bode well for someone with a quick temper.

The movie is funny, although predictable. The lesson learned, of course, is that what doesn't kill us either makes us better or drives us crazy to the point of wanting to kill it in return.

RD Jr, as you may be aware, has some real-life experience on the topic. Drugged out to the point of jeopardizing his career, his happiness, and potentially his life, Downey checked himself pre- or mid-wrecking, and is living a much cleaner and happier dream. And he's back to acting, thank the good lord in heaven!

There is a scene in the movie, a pause really, where his talent comes through crystal clear. In the men's room of a rest stop, bloodied and torn and sporting a very chic wristwrap similar to a certain irish lad's, Downey challenges his travel companion to act. As the wannabe actor begins his scene, miserably failing, the camera captures in a matter of seconds a myriad of emotions on Downey's face. First disgust, then impatience, puzzlement, disbelief, acknowledgement and finally, chagrin and shame. For, in a moment of despair, this wannabe actor manages to tap into a hidden well of talent stemming from painful reality, emotions that bring the scene to life.

And Downey's character recognizes that the pain this man is portraying is indeed, very real, and that he, Mr. All Together, has caused it.

Tremblay exits stage left - or, in this case, through the restroom door - and sinks down against a brick wall, drained. He stretches out his hand in a pathetically weak attempt to touch something from which he can draw unfailing acceptance and unreserved love - his masturbating dog.

Downey follows and stands against the brick wall trying to understand how he got where he is -- not physically, rather mentally, as in considering the feelings of another human being. He doesn't really know what to do to make it better, but he does just that by virtue of having paused his life to try.

And...cut.

This is real life, though, not a scene from a movie where we are playing opposite Hotty McHotterson. While we may be practiced enough actors to exit stage left with a modicum of dignity when we are bleeding inside, we don't leave the stage to join the after-show party. We slide down that brick wall, drained and confused, having lost our bearings, and we stretch out our hands to touch something we hope will provide comfort and center us again.

The irish lad once told me that, when he blunders and says something that causes someone pain, he often doesn't apologize or recant because he thinks it won't really do any good, he can't take back the hurt he's caused. So he jokes it off instead, and thinks this will ease the pain or at least the discomfort of an awkward moment.

In real life, an apology is as good as a dog, and it has infinitely more power than a canine metaphor to start the healing process. When we are sitting against that brick wall, drained and numb, we are comforted when the cause of that pain comes and sits with us and tries, perhaps clumsily, to make amends. It means something to us that they take the time to suffer the same inconvenience and awkwardness of a hard cement floor in a spirit of shame and ignominy; this goes a long way to helping us find our way back from the lost place we've suddenly been transported to.

We are human and strangely clumsy for such a surefooted animal. We are going to hurt people, and we are going to be hurt ourselves. In that moment, though, it's helpful to remember who the lost one is and give them our hand to help them stand back up and get pointed in the right direction. It's up to them whether they take the steps to head that way.

We can, of course, take the attitude that everyone is responsible for their own happiness, and what doesn't kill us makes us better, but come on. Be adult. Be the best of humanity. Interrupt your regularly-scheduled program, pause your life, take the time to exit the restroom and stand or sit against an uncomfortable "brick wall."

Learn the art of reparation. While it may not get you the lead role in an upcoming movie, that willingness to be vulnerable for a few seconds will earn you the respect of someone who matters more than anyone else...yourself.