You lose sight of things… and when you travel, everything balances out. – Daranna Gidel
Wednesday, June 20, 2012 (DAY 108)
A moment of clarity wakes me from my slumber and I am ready to begin the morning unsure of what the day may entail. Crawling out of bed and walking barefoot down the narrow hallway on the mocha colored concrete floor, I reach the living room where I have the unfortunate timing of catching Michelle embarrassingly reading a pop-up book both upside down and apparently from left to right. Wondering how much shame they must feel for their daughter, I'm prepared to take on another set of adoptive parents, this time from Canada with Momma Dukes and Padre Maffia so they don't lose all hope for the youth of the world. After a grueling thirteen and a half hours of explaining to her that this ten-page book is not in Hebrew through my elaborate tricks of crayon drawings, sock puppets, action songs, and full costume reenactments, I have made a believer out of her. Rewarding myself with a long well deserved self-pat on the back, I’m on a roll and anxious to put out another fire, and so, I go in search of Lindsay. Still dead to the world, asleep face down with her woobie tucked tightly under her right arm, suddenly there’s a horrible squeaking sound. Assuming that this will definitely wake Lindsay from her slumber, I look over to see her still sleeping soundly, and then realize the noise came from her rubber pants. I suggested plastic sheets, but she said she wanted more freedom of mobility, all while having the protection she so sorely needed. Unable to argue this, and leaving her asleep in the back room with her secret shame that I’ve quickly exposed, the rest of the morning is spent reading and making a yellow star shaped Sheriff’s badge, just in case anyone questioned my authority.
A moment of clarity wakes me from my slumber and I am ready to begin the morning unsure of what the day may entail. Crawling out of bed and walking barefoot down the narrow hallway on the mocha colored concrete floor, I reach the living room where I have the unfortunate timing of catching Michelle embarrassingly reading a pop-up book both upside down and apparently from left to right. Wondering how much shame they must feel for their daughter, I'm prepared to take on another set of adoptive parents, this time from Canada with Momma Dukes and Padre Maffia so they don't lose all hope for the youth of the world. After a grueling thirteen and a half hours of explaining to her that this ten-page book is not in Hebrew through my elaborate tricks of crayon drawings, sock puppets, action songs, and full costume reenactments, I have made a believer out of her. Rewarding myself with a long well deserved self-pat on the back, I’m on a roll and anxious to put out another fire, and so, I go in search of Lindsay. Still dead to the world, asleep face down with her woobie tucked tightly under her right arm, suddenly there’s a horrible squeaking sound. Assuming that this will definitely wake Lindsay from her slumber, I look over to see her still sleeping soundly, and then realize the noise came from her rubber pants. I suggested plastic sheets, but she said she wanted more freedom of mobility, all while having the protection she so sorely needed. Unable to argue this, and leaving her asleep in the back room with her secret shame that I’ve quickly exposed, the rest of the morning is spent reading and making a yellow star shaped Sheriff’s badge, just in case anyone questioned my authority.
Taking a moment to confirm that my status is still quite hot with a score of 5.6 on Hot or Not, it’s just after lunch, the remaining trio of our current familia decides an afternoon of wandering around SJDS might be a good distraction from missing terribly all those that are no longer with us; John Wayne, Julie, Cameron, and Roberto. Turning the corner in search of a more stylish pair of water wings, ones that easily scream out THUG LIFE or something equivalent in nature since I am on the verge of accepting the status of a distinguished adult, I freeze. Alarms are ringing, and yet, I am so confused in my current state of absolute terror that I have contracted a serious case of paralysis. Unable to move, I stare down the figure that is now approaching me at cheetah like speeds. Coming in to focus after a momentary lapse of my entire life flashing before my eyes, and I have what most have come to fear. I have a stage-five clinger! A Canadian, stage-five clinger to be exact. Krista Marie Stalker Braun. This girl has stalked me throughout Central America and my failed attempts of eluding her by fleeing like a group of unicorns after a chili festival has been unsuccessful. I know that doesn’t make sense but neither does Krista hunting me as if my name was Peeta Mellark. One would think that relocating to three different countries over the course of three months would provide a large enough hint, but I suppose she’s overdone the gravy on those French fries, because she has been in hot pursuit since our first encounter in Utila, Honduras. In all fairness, I suppose I should be truthful and admit that if we are labeling and defining stalkers I will have to throw my name in the basket as well, since I’ve been hot on the trail of Lindsay and Michelle also known as, Doodle and Doodle, following them from the poo streams of San Pedro La Laguna, Guatemala to the Fabio surf school of El Tunco, El Salvador through the gum drop forests of Honduras and currently in our third location of Nicaragua.
Hesitant, yet eager, to bring together the perfect storm for a battle royale, what’s done is done, and I’m not sure who I’d put my money on–the blonde Doodles from the Island of Victoria or the roughneck backwoods hillbillies of Winterpeg. Forget Sarah Marshall, our apartment is guaranteed to be full of drama, especially after a game of Pretty Pretty Princess...where only one can be crowned. Crossing my fingers that I’ll be the final one wearing the bejeweled plastic crown, it’s an afternoon of lounging around in our living room anxiously waiting for the electricity to return and begin the spinning of our ceiling fans before we begin spontaneously combusting one, by one. Living the dream, or a complete nightmare, I feel as though my meager invitation for Krista and Lexi to join me in San Juan has created something of a sorority house, and I’m just waiting for the guys from Lambda Lambda Lambda to drop in unexpectedly. Concerned that I may be feeling the early stages of heat stroke, the metal coins in my pocket are rapidly liquefying. Certain that I don’t want to be present when the metal reforms into a terminator, we head down to the beach for relief from James Cameron’s nightmares.
The incredible sunsets that appear on cue each evening tend to be enjoyed in silence with the reflection of deep thoughts, and even deeper questions. I mean, why do I only get one small bottle of syrup at Cracker Barrel when they can clearly see they’ve given me three pancakes the size of Yugos? And how am I going to survive a NFL season without Tebowing as we pass the ball less than eight times in the entire game, yet somehow win? And seriously, where in the world is that scandalous Dick Tracy wannabe Carmen San Diego? These pondering thoughts plague the mind that you all love oh so much, and I hope that you can all continue to smile back at life even if you had the limited brain capacity and unfortunate choice flung upon you by attending Colorado State University. The long brown stain on the underpants of an otherwise remarkable place to grow up, and you know it’s shameful when even Wyoming doesn’t want to claim you. Worse than a ginger. More hideous than an animal hoarder. More cruel than what Lebron did to Ohio. You are, a csu ram.
RSS Feed
