Body Type: Fit

First an apology.  I know it’s been months.  But I’ve been busy.  I didn’t have internet all summer.  Then I started bluegrass school.  Recently, I’ve been trying to put together a social life.

Which is why I’m here again.  (Clearly, you say, she must not have one [a social life].)

I’m a 28-year-old woman.  I have very carnal needs.  But I was starting to get dizzy and cramped (right forearm, mainly) trying to keep myself in balance.

It all started with a day of practicing banjo on campus.  A freshman tried to hit on me.  It was cute.  No other comments.  I realized that being surrounded by traditional undergraduates would get me nowhere.  It’s not that I have no physical attraction to them…I don’t…but I just really need a fully developed brain, not that sorry excuse for a frontal lobe those sprightly lads are sporting.

So I took the advice of an acquaintance.  I joined a free internet dating site.

Thus far (a week and a half into the adventure) I have gone on dates with:

A lawyer.

A doctor.

A dentist.

A PhD/department chair at a nearby university.

And two other unmentionables.

The lawyer was intellectually stimulating but said he doesn’t kiss until dates five or six.  I haven’t talked to him since date one.  Oh well.

The doctor was not tappable.

The dentist kissed me.  Apparently he has a nine inch penis.  I did not see it.  He told me that.  I judged his character based on such an odd (and negligible) piece of information.  The banal banter he proffered the entire evening did not reckon him a future in the graces of my presence.

I slept with the PhD.  It was some of the best sex I’ve ever had.  But he’s 22 years old than me.  I’m closer in age to his children.  He’s marvelously eccentric and has more gray matter than all of the others combined.  Which I find terribly sexy.  Nothing like a MENSA-qualifying IQ to get a girl all riled up.  But age isn’t just a number. I will probably see him again, and I’ll look forward to it.  But it seems an impossible situation to sustain.  Alas…*sigh*…

What I’ve learned in the past week is this:

1. When people say they’re “fit” it just means they’re not obese.  Maybe there is validity in those stupid shirtless selfies taken in the bathroom.

2. Online dating is the most unnatural way to meet people.  There’s nothing more frustrating than going to a bar feeling obligated towards one person (sort of) when you see something much more interesting sitting across the way.

3. Apparently I’m best suited for men at least ten years my senior, most of them on the west coast.

4. Most people just aren’t smart enough.  I didn’t realize there was such a gap.  But there is.  And stooping is awkward.

5. I’m better off focusing on playing bluegrass…I think it’s time to deactivate the account.  Maybe.  Though, it is pretty self-gratifying.

For now, though, this Narcissus is going to bed.

Nine inch penis.  I bet.

Butt Dilemma

I’ve been pickin A LOT this week.  I finally decided to go climbing yesterday.  But…my stomach was feeling weird.

See, I’d been eating this conglomeration of stuff I put together because I hate cooking and it’s what I happened to have.  You know, quinoa, jalapeno, onion, dehydrated roasted red pepper sauce, tuna, brie…

Yeah.  It was fucking disgusting.  But I ate it.  For three days.  And then I started shitting my brains out.

I thought I had it all out until we were at the base of the third pitch (the crux pitch) and my stomach started getting weird.  I told my partner that I still planned on leading it but was going to try my best to not literally shit  myself.  He agreed that was a good idea.

I didn’t poop my pants, and we high-fived over it at the belay.  Then he led the next pitch.  And I started having GI-tract spasms.  We were waiting for this REALLY SLOW party ahead of us.  I was debating on what to do.  There were no rocks to shit on and toss.  I could maybe poop in my chalk bag.  If only it were going to be solid and tubular I could slide it into the wrapper of the shot bloks I just ate.  But I knew better.  This was the firey soup of hell death explosion ready to emit its wrath from the gates of Hades.  Also knows as diarrhea.

I climbed up to the belay and told my partner, “Yo, I need you to lead the traverse, climb up 20′, and build a belay.  I’ll follow to the end of the traverse.  Then I’m gonna down climb and do a belayed aerial shit because there’s no way I can make it 3 more pitches at this pace.”

He said, “Deal.”

All went well.  We had a nice conversation during the entire thing.  It was totally cathartic.  Including the alpine bidet method (suck some water from the drom, spit it into the hand = so fresh and so clean).  I even managed to take the tape glove off of my left hand…and put it back on afterwards.  It was impressive.

No, I didn’t shit on a route.

Yes, I did my best to wash it off.

No, there wasn’t anyone watching.

Yes, it was even more awful than the food that had created it.

Yes, I washed my hands afterwards.

We’ll just say the climb has been renamed for the two of us from Lucky Streaks to Lucky Skid Marks.  Sorry Tuolumne climbers…I did my best.  But desperate times…

Moral of the story: I didn’t shit my pants!   Yay!   I’m still winning!

Bugs

I was excited when I finally crawled out of my tent this morning.  I had whitener for my coffee for the first time in weeks.

A little french press, a little coconut milk.  Voila.

Then a bug fell in my coffee.  It was a weird one.  Big black body.  Red racing stripes.  Legs in odd places.  This bug was quick…but not quick enough.

I scooped him out of my coffee as I would any other bug, fast jacket or not.

Then I thought what would happen if I fell into a cup of hot coffee while enjoying my morning buzz around some dirtbag’s camp.

I would probably poop my pants as I was slowly scalded and drowned to death.

I guess that means I drank bug shit this morning.

And then my friend called.  He asked if I was still embracing the life of independent dirtbag climbing bachelorettehood.  I said thanks for the label.  While I still consider myself a bachelorette with accountability to no one…I did find myself in the throes of one hell of a dark haired, blue-eyed, well-muscled climber.  I was nervous because my hoohah needed a wax, I hadn’t showered in a…while…and, well, it’s a lifestyle not all are down with.  Then he said, “Finally…hot climber chick in my tent.”  Guess they boy knew what he was in for and is more than okay with it.  He’s been ecstatic at every dirtbag picnic, at the view of the mountains as seen through the tent screen behind the naked girl on top of him, and at my incredible car camping skills.  He even suggested I grow my belly mustache out.  Sounds like a keeper, but I’m leaving in a couple of weeks with the Manjo to pick my way across the country.

Besides.  I wanna marry a dobro player.  It’ll help keep the libido up.

Baking and Bears

I officially moved into my new abode just over two weeks ago.  I’m tenting it up on some friends’ property next to a beautiful creek in the Eastern Sierra.  It’s low enough in elevation that it’s pretty hot during the day, the bears are supposedly few (we’ll get to that supposedly in a minute), and I’m right across the road from one of my best friends who lets me use his shower, his interwebs, and occasionally his dick.  Though I don’t think he’s interested in more than the random drunken hookup, because I tried today and he opted for a nap instead…I’m so horny I’m light-headed.  It sucks.  HELP!

I’ve also been baking at the old coffee shop I used to manage.  It’s a pretty sweet gig.  I’m in and out in 4 hours.  I don’t have to deal with people either.  I get a lot of time to just think and let my brain get fuzzy.  Just yesterday I was thinking – as I proceeded to fuck up scones for the second time – that it isn’t that I suck at baking…I just don’t like reading recipes.

Well, today I was baking and kept looking out the window at my car to make sure there weren’t any bears trying to get at the beet salad I left in my car.  Apparently bears don’t like beets.  Which was verified when I came home.

I generally stumble into my tent exhausted and pass out thinking about the muffins I made and uttering incomprehensible words of reassurance that I didn’t forget anything.  This morning I flopped my lethargic body into my tent and thought, “Huh, I don’t remember leaving the doors open.”  (I may be from South Dakota, but I wasn’t born in a barn.)  Then it dawned on me that the doors were still zipped but that parts of my tent had been clawed to shreds by one of California’s finest.

I hopped out to assess the damage.  Both of my tents had been ruined.  I wandered down to my kitchen (which is appropriately far away from my sleeping quarters).  Untouched.   I would have rather he’d eaten my bacon than destroyed my home.  Especially since bear damage is outside of REI’s return policy, and my renter’s insurance doesn’t cover bear attacks.  So one 20-gallon bear canister, a new tent, and $350 dollars later…I’m now going to circle my camping area with shredded beets since the bear didn’t want the ones in my cooler, either.

I think  he just wanted a blanket (he had pulled one almost out of the tent) and to check out my climbing rack.  Weird bear.

At least now I can focus on important things.  Like how to get laid in a town that is 7:1 guys to gals.  Shouldn’t be that hard.  But…apparently bluegrass jams and baking shifts don’t lead to sport fucking.

Climbing’s been good though…got on an alpine route that normally isn’t accessible until July and did a full moon simul of Cathedral Peak.  30-degrees and windy, but beautiful.  And tonight I get to masturbate in a shredded tent hoping I don’t get a visitor…because I no longer have a layer of bug netting to protect me from the rest of God’s creatures.  I also hope it doesn’t rain because my rain fly looks like a pile of prayer flags.

Eh. I’ll just sleep with my cast iron and hope for the best.

P.S. I know I’ve been referring to the bear as “he” – that is more because I’m totally delusional in thoughts of men.  Sometimes I wish I were a lesbian.  But as one of my female friends put it, “I think you’re really hot, but I just don’t want to eat your pussy.”

Bloody ‘ell

Well, guess all that crying and feeling morbidly obese yesterday was totally hormonal.  I started day one of uterine excavation this morning.  By far the most brutal part, though I’d rather be in physical pain than emotionnal.  You know when you are carving a jack-o-lantern for Halloween and you take a spoon and scrape out a thin layer of the inside of the pumpkin to get all the stringy bits off?  Yeah.  That’s what it feels like someone is doing to the inside of my uterus.  FML.  But at least I’m not dripping from my eyes anymore.

Anyway, I finally ordered a copy of Dr. Sara Gottfried’s The Hormone Cure in an attempt to figure out what my issue is.  I think I have a higher production of androgens then I should.  And I think my cortisol is out of whack.  Rumor also has it that long distance running is terrible for you.  What a shame.  But, hey, if I change to shorter, more intense workouts, than that means more time on the banjo.  And perhaps if I get my hormones balanced they way they should be, then I won’t be releasing the “douche bag” pheromone.

I’ve been trying to figure out what it is that makes me attracted to all the men I’ve dated recently that have left me feeling like a fool with my heart all broken and leaky in a plastic grocery bag.

Is it because they have something I want?  Excellent climbing abilities?  Amazing musical talent?  Unbelievable endurance?

They’ve all been remarkably different…one was a permanent bachelor, the other was married with kids (yeah, I know, I’m sorry), the other was fresh out of a divorce but had been living and in love with another woman for the previous three years.

So, maybe I suck at reading red flags, ya think?

I have THREE solutions to the problem:

1. Find a guy who doesn’t have anything I want.  He’ll be a shitty climber, capable of playing basic chords on the guitar, and be able to keep up with me on a run.  But something tells me if I go that route he’ll end up liking sports on TV and have a shitty diet or something.

2. Arranged marriage.  You pick.

3. Join a convent.  Then I’ll be married to God and won’t be distracted ever again.  Though I’m not sure how the Vatican feels about banjo pickers…regardless of how hip the new pope is.

We know how the rest of Italy feels:

Bastards. Fuck ’em.

I was going to just post a poem.  It went something like this:

Sometimes I miss you.

When your ghost walks into the room.

Or when it just stands in the doorway like an unspoken thought.

But I’ve never met you.

You didn’t write those song lyrics.

You were not the architect of the scene: the empty field, the wet grass, the West looming in the background.

You were not the one there that day surrounded by the red rock, keeping me company on the trail, enduring the cold bite of the shadow.

That was not your voice laughing above the hot water with the strangers and the trickle of the cold creak nearby.

You did not lie next to me in the pine needles beneath the damning night sky listening the instruments I did not yet love.

You are not honest.  You do not follow through.  You cheat.

You sin like me.

Your ghost whispers stories and lies into my ears.

Or maybe that was the real you.

 And then I got stumped.  And then I got REALLY angry.  The frustration is only elevated because all of those ghosts are vacuums.  I don’t believe in putting my energy into vacuums, but sometimes those ghosts are really damn persistent.

I heard some things yesterday and today that have just proceeded to make me more upset.  Why are some people so fucking good at lying?  How can you look someone in the eye and say, “I don’t ever want to lie again”…and then do it the next sentence?

So.  Here I am.  About to head off to Yosemite for the next six weeks and my climber partner is full of shit and fired.  Maybe karma owes me a bit of a sharp bit on some loose skin, but my heart’s been shattered twice in the past six months and I’m fucking exhausted.

Fuck the poem.  What I have instead is a list of advice for the next guy:

1. Woo me.  Flowers, massages, cook me dinner, read to me, give me the money pitches, etc.  PROVE to me that I’m worth those those things.  Prove to me that you really want my attention.
2. Go through my friends.  I’m clearly the worst chooser of men, so the people who love me unconditionally are going to do this next round’s picking and approving.
3. Prioritize me.  I’ve always functioned off of the “do what you want” principle…but there’s a balance and I want to know that there are times when I’m the most important thing to you.  There is virtue in selfishness, but its bedfellow is selfishness in vice pajamas.
4. Be honest.  Simple.
5. Work hard.  Give me your best.
6. Follow through.  Don’t bail because it’s challenging.
7. Show me that you choose me…not because it was a decision you had to come to terms with…but because it’s what you want with all of your heart.  And if it isn’t…get the fuck away from me and go try to sleep with someone else.
8. Do not make me cry.  If you make me cry, you’re gone.  I’m done crying.
9. If you use the word “we”…mean it.
10. I don’t do well if I don’t get off almost daily.  I can usually go one day a week without it.  Maybe two.  But if you ain’t puttin’ out…or if you do and don’t succeed…my right hand will.  Be okay with that.  But if you can do it for me, that’s even better.  I know there’s that whole rumor about sex dying off at some point.  But I’ve been masturbating multiple times a day for years (unless I’m camping)…so unless you feel like funding long expeditions…you better be ready to keep up!

Best of luck.

I’m still angry.  But tomorrow will be easier.

Boy, I really hope you were wearing earbuds!

So…just after publishing my prior post and thinking, “Man, nothing really funny has happened in a while…”

Something funny finally happened.

It was 5:44PM.  That meant I had about 10 minutes until I had to go to dinner in order to get in line before the kids.  (Teachers are let in first…it’s not very single-standard, but I’m totally okay with it.)  So, I did what any normal person who is single at a boarding school in the middle of nowhere would do with 10 minutes to kill: I did a google image search and stumbled upon some hot lesbians doing dirty things to one another.  (Whomever invented animated GIFs…thank you.)

Now, because I don’t even have a glimmer of a love interest…I often have to give myself some coaxing words.  I don’t usually say them terribly loud, but loud enough for me to pretend like there’s someone else in the room.  Those 10 minutes went by quickly, everyone had a good time, and I stood up dizzy and happy, ready to go to dinner.  (Did I wash my hands?  Umm…well…that’s for me to know and you to make assumptions over to my delight.)

Anyway, I walked out of my room which is attached to a little area that has a couple of couches, a TV, and an adjacent laundry room which are available for use by all of the female students.  Apparently at some point in the afternoon one of the students had come in and was chilling on the couch watching whatever fantasy movie thing that vampire-child-who-is-failing-all-her-classes-but-feels-entitled-enough-to-try-to-fight-to-be-allowed-back-next-year happens to be interested in this week.  She looked as startled to see me as I did her.

But I played it cool.  I’ll assume she had her earbuds in and heard nothing.

She can assume I was knitting a sweater while simultaneously petting my cat, drinking tea, and talking to myself.  Because that’s what single teachers do.

Indeed, all of those things are true except for the sweater.  And it was wine instead of tea.

Ha.

Building Closure

I was eating a piece of peach pie in a dream last night.  Off of a piece of paperboard.  There were some children in my dream, and one of them was singing a song.  The only lyrics I recall were, “Why are you waiting here?  There’s nothing here but trouble.”

The peach pie would absolutely make me sick.

The paperboard will wilt.

So…where exactly am I waiting?  Why am I waiting?  And why is there nothing but a lack of sustainability and trouble?

We humans are resilient and can, excuse me – MUST, make our own closure.  But damn it’s hard to do, sometimes.

I’ve got a lot of shit to keep me distracted.  I’m trying to record a banjo track for my friends’ new album.  That’s making me cross-eyed.  I need to run, but I’m making all sorts of excuses, mainly that I’m totally fucking sick of running around here, it’s insanely windy on the wide-open high plains, and when it’s not windy this time of year, it’s hot.  Really.  Effing.  Hot.  But, clearly I just don’t want it enough.

But…I’m not getting laid.   That sucks.  And I think my heart of hearts wants the man to call or text or email even though I won’t give in…just as a means of validating my self worth.  Really?  That’s fucked up.  Get over it, girl.  And on the “getting laid” note, I feel like I ought to nix boys for the summer since I’ll be travelling.  Men are too much of a distraction..  I guess it’s “unfortunate” that the places I’m headed to play these next couple of months are disproportionately male, hot, and talented.  Bummer.  I guess that’s why god made condoms.

So…if you know of any bluegrass pickers (not banjo players – two is too many), who have beautiful voices, a hard body, a nice face,  can lead…oh, let’s say 5.9 trad, eat well, have excellent stamina and skills in the sack (and aren’t going to say that they’re “low volume” and have to go to bed…ugh), can hold an intellectual conversation, are funny and good company, etc.

Send them my way.  I’ll go buy some condoms.

P.S. I also need to find someone who isn’t legally or mentally attached to another person.  Maybe it isn’t me who has the closure problem…

Be All You Can Be

Friday was my last day with the seniors.  I’m not nearly as impressed with this group as I was with the 230+ seniors I had last year.  But they’re off…off and away.  And I’ll be as happy to see some of them go as they are to leave.  I did my usual routine on the last day before the final: I read Dr. Seuss’ Oh The Places You’ll Go.  True words.  Good book.  But…

…I wonder…

I’ve been surfing the existential crisis ocean for the past couple of years.  This banjo thing is the first time I’ve felt like I was on dry, solid ground since college.  Ironically, it’s the least certain of any occupational choice I’ve made thus far.  There’s security in traditional and outdoor education.  Hell, there’s security in being a barista or a cave tour guide.  But I was lacking the passion.  The performance track bears with it a ton of obstacles and zero assurance.  But I finally feel free.

So what about everybody else?

Do people really wake up one day and say, “You know, I think I’ve found my calling, my passion, my dream job to which I want to dedicate my life.  I want to be a dental hygienist.”

Well, maybe they do.  So I’ve used a little crowd sourcing (from my beloved seniors) to compile a list of possible career options followed by what I believe has passionately driven people into those careers (other than, of course, the fact that “civilization” needs people to fill a variety of roles and that money is the driver for many people’s career choices…we’re talkin’ passion here people!!!).  If I offend anyone, I’m sorry, but really…you’ve really always aspired to be a desk clerk?

Teacher: A good place to start since I’ve been dabbling in this niche the past few years.  The only thing I could see that would lead someone into being a teacher for life considering how much freaking work it is and how dismal the pay happens to be is an inferiority complex under which one must surround thyself with children in order to feel more mature than one really is.  This is, of course, proportional to the age of the students.  That, or as I responded in college when asked why we were going into teaching, “A really expensive hobby that takes up a lot of time.”  People stabbed me with their eyes.  But I hold myself to the highest level of integrity; no use lyin’.  Though, the inadvertent “teacher” or “mentor” role that we all should fill daily, is totally legit.  That’s not a career, though.  That’s just being a good human being.

Docent: Ok, you caught me.  I just wanted to use this word.  But having given tours before, I cannot imagine that there is anything self-contained (i.e. museum/art gallery/etc.) that would be fun to give tours of even if it were ever-changing.  Even Pink Jeep Tours.  At some point those guys have got to feel really bad about themselves.

Generic Desk Job/Secretary: I’ve met some incredible secretaries in my day.  But by the end of a day, or a week, or YEARS of doing tasks for needy people (not the impoverished kind) who think their request is life-or-death…how can you go on returning to that same chair with the perma-buttprint, the line of cat photos, and that shitty plastic cross-stitched pen holder thing your niece made you.  That’s right folks.  You’re a spinster.

Residential Life: The hours suck, the pay is dismal, and you have to be a disciplinarian which means having long, uncomfortable talks with people.  I guess knowing that the lives of some college or high school students are shittier than yours can make you feel better about your situation…but…free housing just ain’t worth it.  That’s what BLM land and a tent are for.

Butcher: If the rule was that you had to kill and clean your own meat in order to eat any (this means YOU do it, not your Second Amendment-obsessed brother-in-law), we could get rid of most of the dams on the Colorado River.  I would also probably turn into a pescatarian…strictly limiting myself to crawdads and lake trout.  Because I’m a total pussy when it comes to meat.  I love bacon and anything from the pig, but it would need to be severely desperate times for me to slaughter an ungulate.

Accountant: You really want to remind yourself daily of the fucked up disparity of our capitalist system?  You are a dirty little masochist.

Dental Hygienist: Clearly some sort of combination between a BDSM and a mouth fetish.  Not only do you get that super, slippery, wet tongue and lips and teeth…but you get to be in a dominant role and put sharp implements into many people’s gaping oral holes…yeeeeeeah.

Lawyer: I loved taking Constitutional Law in class.  But lawyers have a funny place on the trajectory of the development of civilizations.  I won’t deny their necessity, but the fact that people can’t just deal with their own shit and that we’ve created an entire institution that is required, in many cases, for people to use in order to proceed onto the next phase of their lives…it’s fucked up.  Don’t even get me started on “life coaches.”

Waitress: If you’re seriously into any sort of outdoor activity, you’ve lived in a town that survives solely off the tourism of wealthy shitheads from one of America’s larger metropolises.  You know, the people that entertain themselves by getting plastic surgery and…and…I don’t know what else they do for fun.  Go golfing?  Buy million-dollar houses and remodel them?  If you’ve lived in one of these towns, sometimes the only job options one can secure with any normal college degree (a.k.a. a bachelor’s in liberal studies/humanities) are in the service industry.   Sure, some people work at hospitals.  Knee doctors make bank and stay busy in these towns!  Some people teach (see above).  And some people guide wilderness field expeditions, ski patrol, or work for the Park Service.  The consolation to choosing to serve as a career (and this includes the NPS folks – the questions those people have to answer daily makes it a remarkable feat that they still maintain some level of sanity) is that you’re surrounded by hot, athletic, outdoor bodies.  If you’re a straight chick, this means the proportions are in your favor.  Mmm…hard bodies…

Plumber: Now plumbing is a totally legit job.  The general infrastructure of proper sewage systems is one of the first steps that allows states to transition from an LDC to an MDC.  The Population Reference Bureau added “modern sanitation systems” to their data sheet recently because it is that telling.  But…how many folks go into plumbing because they believe in PROGRESS?

Porn Star: I don’t know how this one made the list.  This one is an obvious passion and a totally legit career choice.  I’d consider it if it weren’t so stigmatized and if my body responded better to waxing.  Though, some of the shit those girls are doing these days, I hope they have a good health care package.  Does ObamaCare cover genital reconstructive surgery?

Pastor/Rabbi/Priest: Yeah, this might be your passion, your calling, but dewd…you should see a therapist.  I just got done teaching a unit on world religions.  After reading about many different religions, I’ve found most of them to be utterly baffling.  Except Taoism.  But that’s more of a philosophy than a religion.  And it’s rooted in reality and personal accountability…unlike so many of the others.  Since recovering from learning about belly button lotus flowers, Red Sea crossings, bodily mutilation, and blatant misogyny, the idea of paradox  is the only thing that holds any sort of ground.

 I could go on forever, but I’m bored.  I think I’ll go back to bed since it’s Sunday.  I woke up at 5:30 having to poop.  I had some coffee too.  But brunch isn’t until 9:30, and if I stay sentient I’ll get too hungry and eat the only food I have: chocolate, pickles, and kipper snacks.  Though I’m feeling a nagging sensation to run.  It’s only in the high 60s outside right now.  I did a 20-mile run yesterday and it was somewhere around 90 degrees.  There was one point where I was like, “What’s your body telling you right now?”…”That I wish I had a horse.”

Not because I was bonking on the trail (I was)…I just wanted to play Genghis Khan the Arizona Cowboy.

Black Hills

I fell in love this summer.  Imagine that!  Gotta stop doing that.  Clearly it just fucks shit up.  Oh well.  It happened.  Anyway, I fell in love in the Black Hills of South Dakota.

Ever been?  No?  Why not?  Oh, because it’s in South Dakota.  Shitty excuse.  The place is awesome.

There’s more rock than a girl knows what to do with.  You can limestone sport climb in Spearfish Canyon.  There are perfect splitters on Devils Tower (schmackschmackfeldsparsomething…super hard igneous intrusion that makes a certain noise when you hit it with a hammer loaded with a bunch of white chunks…great to climb on).   The Needles are pre-cambrian granite.  Knobby.  Good Tuolumne practice if you’re looking towards the Yosemite high country for the summertime (yes, please!).  And it’s just insanely beautiful.

Let’s see…what about the shitty winters?  Well, you can be insideoutside.  Seriously.  All the hills are freakin’ hollow out there.  I’ve heard of people drilling through 8 layers of cave trying to put in a well.  Much of the bedrock is mississippian limestone.  Well…sort of…the cross section diagrams are pretty cool.  There’s a lot going on out there because: shallow sea + batholith + uplift = holy fucking awesomeness.  Well, when the granite batholith shot up (by shot I mean pushed it’s way through REALLY slowly) about 60 million years ago, it cracked the limestone layer.  Consequently, with fissures and water erosion, the Black Hills is home to THOUSANDS OF MILES OF THE SICKEST CAVES IN THE WORLD.  Most of it is undocumented.  Ever been on a cave survey?  Then you know why.  But back to the insideoutside thing.  Caves are sweet – they’re the same temperature (low 50’s) year-round and totally sheltered from the elements.  And there aren’t really any creepy crawlies in there (no food).  So it’s just you, the darkness, and your pooptube.

The only thing the Black Hills are lacking is a solid community.  I didn’t really feel like it had the pep to it that most other outdoor places I’ve lived has.  Everyone’s married and/or has children.  There’s not anything wrong with that, but it’s a lot easier to find people to do stuff with when everyone’s independent, single, and not worried about who they’ll leave as survivors if they get into a freak accident.

Oh, it’s also full of what we call “West River Conservatives”.  The state is split in half by the Missouri.  The western half is basically Frederick Jackson Turner’s 100th meridian definition of the American Identity.  The east has water.  The west has a lot of ranches and short grass prairie.  The east has tall grass prairie (well, it used to), a ton of agriculture, and plenty of Scandinavian and German heritage.  The west is a bad place to get pregnant.  The east is a bad place to start a career.  Unless you like to be indoors.

I’ve spent the last 8 years mostly in Ponderosa and Lodgepole forests.  Now I’m moving east.  I’m excited.  I can stop including “lotion&chapstick” as its own category in my monthly budget.  There are caves out there too…  But, what’s really exciting, is I discovered last night that the director of my program’s last name is pronounced exactly as it is spelled upon first glance:  Boner.

Wow.  How’d I get from the Black Hills to that?  Hell.  It’s the end of the school year.  Everyone’s fried.  What’d we learn today?  Caves are indooroutdoor, something about schmackschmackfeldspar, batholith, pooptubes, and boner?  Huh.  Pooptube and boner probably shouldn’t be used in the same sentence.  Ever.

Oh – and one quick note.  You know how I made a butt sex joke last post?  Well, I was proctoring the computer lab tonight during study hall and I looked over at a computer only to find two of the kids looking up prolapse.  It’s not that that shit grosses me out, but more that I worry unwarranted fears will deter them from a good time someday once they’re finally  allowed to touch other people.  I’m still having gnarly visuals.  People are into some vulgar shit.

I’m going to bed now.  If you wake up to me screaming, you know why.  (Batholith nightmares.)