Giant Mountain

Perhaps it was a bad idea, but I can’t say no to an adventure. Sometimes they can be so hard to come by. For three days I walked like an elderly cripple, dragging myself up the stairs by the railing, complaining loudly on behalf of my speechless, withered quadriceps. Having never hiked a single high peak before, I ascended two in one day. My meaty ex-gymnast thighs were caught completely unawares.

But why would I accept such a seemingly impossible task? I don’t even own the appropriate footwear. Perhaps it was the tremendously encouraging song in my head, repeating, “Do it! Just do it! Don’t think about it! Do it!” So I didn’t think about it. I did it.

Surely I must be manic.

My friends and I began climbing at eleven in the morning. Chipper from wholesome breakfasts, we ascended Giant Mountain and enjoyed excellent views of mountains. I won’t put you to sleep with the dozens of pictures of mountains that I took. One, I think, will suffice.

Someone once told me that when you are hiking you unknowingly walk under bears all the time, quietly hugging the tree trunks like Velcro monkeys. You don’t see them because they don’t want you to see them. Now that I know this, my eyes scan the canopy looking for a badly camouflaged bear. Someday one of them may lose its grip and crush an unfortunate hiker and that hiker will not be me.

It seems to be a tradition for hikers to leave symbolic piles of rocks on the paths and the summits. There is a name for them, but googling “symbolic piles of rocks” only brought up Jewish burial traditions. I, too, leave my mark on the summit, but not a pile of rocks. Mine is the result of drinking a liter of water in two hours. After bolstering my ego with some narcissistic photographs, I strayed from the path to find a quiet place to christen the Giant.

Here lies Carl, crushed by bears.

As I stood in the hidden overgrowth of ferns and wondered if I would later discover them to be poisonous, I noticed there was a middle-aged woman peering down through the trees above me, watching. So much for privacy.

We descended down the other side of Giant Mountain, a slippery mudslide of Death. Passing hikers in suspiciously pristine sneakers consistently lied about the difficulty of the descent and the amount of time it would take. In a moment of mental absence, I tumbled down a rock face and bashed open my leg. Sliding down vertical slopes on the seat of one’s pants was often necessary to prevent fatal injuries. I clung to tree branches like railings and plunged into the nearby bushes despite my efforts. I used up two of the four communal Band-Aids.

The path to Rocky Peak Ridge was tamer and riddled with enormous sheepdogs and mastiffs. Hikers were teased with unripe blueberries reaching into the paths and imposter blueberries that probably should not be ingested. From the summit we could see Lake Champlain and more symbolic piles of rocks marking the journeys of other hikers. I also marked my territory on Rocky Peak Ridge under the cover of an idyllic patch of Christmas trees.

It was four o’clock in the afternoon and we still had to climb down Rocky Peak Ridge, clamber up the dreaded mudslide, and down Giant again before sundown. It is hard to race a celestial body like the sun; it has so many unfair advantages. The mountain was growing darker by the second and we were still stumbling and butt-sliding down the path. It was eight at night. A glimmer of hope came in the form of a man in a miner hat climbing the mountain with his daughter. “I know, we’re crazy,” my friend said, and he replied, “You’re not crazy. In an hour, you’d be crazy.”

Shortly after, we emerged at the highway. I’ve never been so thrilled to see a dark stretch of pavement and a slew of headlights in my life. Ice cream was in order. My legs will probably never be the same.

The Mind Reels

The inspirational music of Soul Surfer is seeping through the cracks of my door. Now I feel confident that I can do anything, including but not limited to writing multiple blog posts. Seeing bits and pieces of the film as I amble into the kitchen for chunks of cantaloupe has made the films strips of my mind reel with alternate endings. Perhaps if it were not based on a true story, and if it were renamed Moby Dick, things would have concluded differently.

One

The Soul Surfer paddles out into the ocean on her board, now confident in her ability to surf with one arm. The plot comes full circle as the fin of the same shark that attacked her before surfaces. She sees it cut across the water and her eyes narrow with the wisdom that she has gained from her journey. Since the accident, the Soul Surfer never paddles out to sea without a harpoon. She uses her remaining arm to launch the harpoon into the approaching predator. Blood surfaces on the water. The waves carry the Soul Surfer and the struggling shark to shore, where she guts the fish and retrieves her severed arm from its esophagus. Modern science provides a way to reattach the limb to her body. Modern taxidermy provides a way to mount the cartilaginous skeleton above her decorative marble fireplace – providing the film’s closing image.

Two

The Soul Surfer paddles out into the ocean on her board. A fin surfaces, the fin of the same shark that previously attacked her. She assaults the shark with her trusty harpoon and a knife between her teeth and drags it to land. As she guts the shark on the lonely stretch of Hawaiian shore, she finds no trace of her arm. For retribution, she slices off the fin of the offending shark and leaves it, gills heaving, in the sand. Modern science provides a way to attach the aquatic limb to her ocean-amorous body. An image of her gliding across the curling waves on her board, extending her shark fin for balance, fades to black.

Three

The Soul Surfer paddles out into the ocean and sees the fin of a shark moving towards her. She hurls her harpoon, skewers the shark, and guts it in the smoldering crystal sand. Triumphantly, she leaves the beach with a surfboard in her hand and a shark fin between her teeth. An eye for an eye; a fin for an arm, she mutters unintelligibly as she spits the fin onto an operating table. The tide gently pulls the suffocating shark back to sea. The shark community is outraged by the story of the 100 millionth human attack on a shark that year, imagining that the lost fin went on to be fermented into hakarl, a traditional Icelandic dish. The wounded shark is told that it will never swim again, but against all odds, it does.

Four

The Soul Surfer is making banana bread one morning when she hears a sharp knock on the door – the sharp knock of a shark. The predator apologizes for the whole incident, admitting elusively that it thought she was someone else. It announces that the shark community’s advances in stem cell research have produced a new arm for her. Then it returns the partially digested arm and gives her a large loaf of banana bread as retribution, making the situation all the more awkward for the Soul Surfer as she wonders what she should do with the banana bread batter she already has on the table. Should she freeze the batter, bake the bread and freeze it in some foil? Who knows? She decides to re-gift the shark bread.

Pins and Needles

While I should have been blogging or writing about pterodactyls, the urge to make something colorful and slightly idiotic became too strong to resist. It has been a long time since I last exercised the full range of my fine motor skills. I cracked open my sewing machine case and descended into lunacy for many lonely moons.

In a weekend of frenzied stitching I produced a new bag to replace the one I made last August for my European travels. The bag I brought to Prague tattered and ready for a comfortable retirement. The new one looks slightly Southwestern to me – perhaps it’s the button? Now that I’ve broken my one year pursing fast, I have an uncontrollable need to make clothing and curtains and cacti.

Continuing with the Southwestern theme, here is my cactus pincushion in all of its spiky glory. There is a breed of cactus called a pincushion cactus, so I've actually sewn up a lame visual pun and rendered it humorless with explanation.

The cactus is made of 100% XXL men’s tee shirt found in a free pile at college. I have many ridiculous pieces of used clothing that will probably become whimsical cacti in my idle hours. I just need a lot of tiny terra cotta pots to do it.

I also made a rather sad attempt at wire wrapping a vase. This is a technique I apparently have yet to master. The hook from which I intended to hang it is all barbed and mangled and I haven’t quite figured out how to fix it. Perhaps what it really needs is a tiny cotton cactus inside of it...

Along Came a Spider

One night I went outside to gather some oregano for an improvisational bean dip. I approached my patch of herbs with a pair of scissors in hand and jumped as I beheld the most enormous spider web I have ever seen. It stretched from my house to a nearby cedar tree.

The most massive spider I have ever seen (that wasn’t tarantula in a small plastic carrying case with holes on the top) was constructing the outer rings. I suspect that it is one of those spiders from Australia that survive underground for years without water and eat honey badgers. Boy Scout points to anyone who can confirm this baseless speculation.

I ran into the house to fetch my camera-savvy brother. Perhaps I would have found this late night session of nature photography and flashing lights dangerous and invasive were it not for the “PHOTOGRAPH ME” message scrawled in iridescent web. I stood nearby holding an LED flashlight so that my brother could get a good view of the spider.

As we looked on, a fly was caught in the tremendous web and the spider swiftly dove upon it and wound it up like an unwilling bobbin. She left it alone, squirming in an iridescent straightjacket, and went on with her weaving. “This is nature!” I cried.

I carefully picked a few sprigs of oregano that were not bolstering the web to prevent my hand from being mummified in a similar fashion. Nature can be cruel, my friends.

Not So Carnivorous After All

            I was making a quinoa salad in my kitchen when I noticed an enormous black ant skittering across the floor tiles. I considered taking it outside where it could start a nice little homestead in the hostas, but then it occurred to me: I have a carnivorous plant. Instead of releasing the ant into its natural habitat, I moved it into hostile, flesh-eating territory.

I dropped its wriggling body from a mason jar into the open terrarium in the bay window. After I closed the lid, the ant crawled up and down the dewy walls of the terrarium and danced spastic circles around the red lips of the pitcher plant’s largest mouth. I watched in horror, waiting for the moment where he slipped down the waterslide into the digestive acids of doom. But no, he moved from the plant’s mouth to the wall of the terrarium once more and slipped into the peat moss.

The ant waved his fragile legs in the air so pitifully that I promptly opened the terrarium and rescued him from its swampy depths. I transferred him to the porch, where he will probably take advantage of the next opportunity to reenter my house.

I considered the pitcher plant, which has sprouted another luscious, red mouth since my last portrait session. Everything I’ve read on the subject of pitcher plants indicates that they aren't amazing photosynthesizers and require meaty meals, but my recent experiences have planted a seed of doubt in the peat moss of my mind. She is now bonding with my cat, Holly, a creature far too large for her to comfortably digest.

I suspect that my pitcher plant, Angelina, may be a vegetarian. It is not my place to criticize; I also dislike eating things with wild, wiggly legs. Perhaps it would be more amenable to my quinoa salad, served on the tip of a pair of pincers. Keep an eye out for my new food blog, Vegetarian Recipes for Your Carnivorous Plant.

This is Why I Didn't Get the Job, Part II

Like many Creative Writing majors, I spent the last few weeks of college panicking over my precarious employment future. All writers make half-jokes about living in cardboard boxes after graduation and paying off their loans by making weekly sperm bank donations, but suddenly the outline of my future box was becoming all too clear to me and I could see that the box once contained a small Fisher-Price electric jeep.

My desperation distracted me from my homework and drove me to spend countless hours scrolling through Craigslist and other worthless job websites. I looked at freelance writing positions, most of which were non-paying internships. Everyone needs writers to perform feats of linguistic acrobatics, but no one wants to pay them to do it. Usually, such Craigslist posts contain a line like, “You will be paid in experience and exposure,” and “In this economy, you should be grateful to have a job even if you’re working for free.”

Once I cut out non-paying internships, positions that I’m unqualified for, jobs writing quirky catalogue descriptions for lawnmowers, positions that required me to be a 5’6” brunette with a 75 wpm typing speed… there was almost nothing left.

I imagined, instead, doing some sort of physical labor, something that would allow me to move around, produce endorphins, and be in nature with the trees and the squirrels. This train of thought eventually stopped at organic farming. I care a great deal about health and the environment, so it wasn’t the huge vocational jump it seems to be. I compiled a list of organic farms in New York that were hiring interns. The great benefit to being a farming intern as opposed to a writing intern is that people are actually willing to pay you in more than “valuable experience,” a currency that is not recognized by Sallie Mae.

By what seemed like a magical twist of fate, I found a post from an organization that plants its interns on suitable organic farms, obliges them to keep regular blog posts about what they learn, and pays a minimum wage stipend. I leapt from my rocking chair with joy and proceeded to dance around my dorm room.

Alas, my jubilation was premature. After gracefully passing through the application process, answering fanciful interview questions, and choosing possible farms from a list of ones connected with the organization, I have heard almost nothing. Two months pass. My emails remain unanswered but for the occasional, “We are still placing you on a farm. Thanks for following up!”

Now I feel naive for putting all of my free-range eggs in one basket. I am at home, working as a cashier. I am looking for a more practical job, the sort of menial desk job that one seeks after earning a bachelor’s degree.

I turned my occupational eye towards administrative positions, thinking that the employers would welcome an English background. I found a wellness office looking for a receptionist and the same misguided instinct that led me to organic farming compelled me to apply. After passing through the application process, I received an email essentially asking me why I would be a good fit for the position. I responded, echoing what I had already said in the cover letter that they apparently did not read.

Then I received a very long email. We need a Superstar Receptionist… this office is challenging medical paradigms… resurrecting a community hampered by Western medicine through the shifting of vertebrae… and do you still want to apply for this position? Are you Superstar enough for this wellness center? Can you handle the ideological weight of our filing system?

Yes, I answered firmly, for I refuse to succumb to intimidation.

The interview took place over the phone because I still live rather far from where I intend to work. I made notes about why I am interested in the position and how superbly qualified I am. The phone rang. I spoke with the chiropractor, and he went into length about the details of the Wellness Center and how they only hire Superstars. I cursed the state school system for not including Superstar as one of their majors. Then doctor asked a rather weighted question: “What makes you great?”

I paused for a moment and densely responded, “For this position or in general?” The WikiHow page on job interviews had not prepared me for such a vague question. I was answered with silence. Shaken, I began to mutter awkwardly about my excellent interpersonal skills. Then I asked a few confident questions about the position. The doctor said that his assistant would get back to me within twenty-four hours with a personality quiz. “There are many personalities that we are willing to consider for this position,” he said sternly, “But not all of them.” Then he announced that he had another appointment.

“It was great talking to you. Thank you for your time,” I said. No response. “I’m looking forward to your email. I hope to hear from you soon,” I said. No response. I suspected that he had set the phone down next to the receiver and walked away to realign someone’s spine or something. “Goodbye…” I trailed off. I have not received so much as an email from the office, let alone a personality test. Apparently my personality was not one of the acceptable ones.

I have composed a draft of a follow-up email:

Dear Superstars,

I just wanted to follow up on that Superstar personality test. Just because you post your jobs on Craigslist doesn't mean be you have to be a dick.

Yours truly & etc…

            It will rot away in a Gmail folder until I can think of something wittier.

For my last job search failure, see This is why I didn't get the job.

Beauty Tips in Conversational, Gossip Style for Your Demographic

It’s summer! Time to take off your ski mask and let your face shine. Here are some of my favorite simple skincare recipes to make your skin glow.

Avocado Mask

Ingredients:

1 half ripened avocado

1.  Remove the dark skin of the avocado to free its slimy, green interior.
2. Apply a dollop of avocado flesh to your own flesh in a gentle circling motion.
3.  Let rest for 20 minutes.
4.  Serve with a bowl of Blue Corn Tostitos.

Egg White Mask

Ingredients:

1 egg white

1. Beat egg until frothy.
2. Apply to T-zone with your fingertips in a gentle circling motion.
3. Fry on a seasoned cast iron pan at low heat for best results.
4. Remove from heat and sprinkle with crumbled feta and basil.
5. Salt and pepper to taste.

Pumpkin Face Mask

Ingredients:

2 teaspoons cooked or canned pumpkin puree

½ teaspoon brown sugar

½ teaspoon of milk

For Dry Skin:

¼ teaspoon heavy whipping cream

1. Preheat oven to 400 F.
2. Combine ingredients in medium sized mixing bowl.
3.  Gently apply to face, avoiding the eye area.
4. Insert face into preheated oven for 20-30 minutes or until fully cooked.
5.  Let sit for 10 minutes.
6. Serve with whipped cream and optional coffee to top off a filling holiday meal.