Maybe She’s Born With It, Maybe It’s Her Father’s Fault

Lately I’ve really been into the word “amalgamate” but haven’t had the chance to use it in a conversation, and then I thought of this: Is it appropriate to say, “I want to amalgamate myself with an Assiago cheese bagel from Safeway, because they are so good?” Or is that simply a bit to sexual, considering the male anatomy and the anatomy of a bagel, or did I just sexualize an otherwise innocent concept right now with that comment? I’M SO CONFUSED. All I know is that amalgamate is a hard word to use and that I would do shameful, shameful things for one of those bagels right now.

Speaking of things that are shameful, I have a rather unique fear of becoming a father, (yup! Surprise! I hooked up with some chick I met at the bar last month and now she’s preggers and is saying  its mine, but I’m taking it to Maury because she is a ho fo’ sho and there’s no way she can prove I’m the father.).

 

(Except, JOKES! That’s all a lie, minus the part where I’m nervous to become a father, eventually.) However, the cause of my worry is a bit different from the normal anxieties that accompany becoming a first time parent. I’m less concerned as to whether or not I’m going to be a good parent, or whether I should make it (him/her) play the violin or piano and will the name I choose for it cause it to be made fun of in high school; I’m more concerned about what happens that day in the delivery room when they place the newborn in my hands. Because it is going to take me all the strength of a raging fire to stop myself from re-shaping the baby’s head. After all, did you know that newborns skulls are still soft and moldable?!? I don’t know why, but this fascinates me to no end. I also think it is hilarious, I mean, don’t even get me started on the “soft spot” babies have on their heads. Maybe because in my own little demented world, I can just imagine someone shaping their baby’s head into all kinds of funny shapes, you know, just for fun – it’s just like messing with your hair when it’s wet, only instead of forming a mohawk, it’s a skullhawk (if you will). A part in your hair? Try a ridge in your skull. Seen the movie Coneheads? You can make it happen. Plan on raising your kid to be a track or swimming star? Make his/her head a little more aerodynamic; it’s not cheating if their born with it right? See, isn’t this fun? (Keep in mind that in my dreamland this has no adverse effects on the baby’s brain or anything, I’m not that twisted.)

Oh, what was that? What shape would I make my baby’s head? I’m delighted you asked! I’m thinking football shaped. I mean look at Stewie from Family Guy, True or False: Stewie is not only hilarious, he’s a genius and is mature for his age. Also, look at Arnold from Hey Arnold, I didn’t watch the show much but from what I saw he seems like a dam decent guy, and I’m sure my friend Aaron Aruck would jump at the chance to tell you about just how awesome he is. Ok quiz time, what do both of these cartoon characters have in common? Answer: A football shaped head. I really think I might be on to something here you guys.

Now, if you are an avid 2birds1blog reader (which I have NO idea why you wouldn’t be) then you are familiar with the the game of, “Am I Crazy or Are You?” How you play is that you let me know what you think in regards to whether or not soft, moldable baby skulls are as awesome as I think. So leave some comments, and if it turns out that I’m the one who’s crazy (highly unlikely), then I can always just encourage my children to jump on the bed…..

 

And that’s how Cole . . . C’s it.

Meet Lucifer, My Lawnmower

Remember when I said I was going to die at the hands of my murderous spouse that one time? I would like to redact that statement in light of recent events. As fate would have it, probability is now putting my passing in the much more immediate future in the light of my recent mowing expedition. You’re probably thinking I almost got my hand chopped off reaching under the mower or that I nearly ran over my own head or something that is normally associated with lawnmower injuries and fatalities, but such is not the case in my instance. No, my near death experience came when I almost drove the lawnmower off of a cliff. Ok, cliff may not be the right word here but it’s as cliff-esque as you get when it comes to back yards. See for yourself:

It may not look so terrifyingly bad to the casual observer, but imagine driving off of it on a 500lb machine that would invariably flip on top of you as you fell, landing on you and crushing you against the hard earth and rocks. That’s what flashed through my mind anyway as I came to within inches of the edge. It totally wasn’t my fault though, I am a good driver: I go on speed One around the edges and always make sure I have a buffer zone between me and the sheer drops. But Cole, didn’t you know that 55 percent of fatal accidents in the 20-49 year old age range are cause by driver error? Uh, actually I did smart ass, and I swear on my first born child that it was truly machine error. Lemme ‘splain.

Because my parents are thrifty (in a good way), we bought our riding lawnmower at a garage sale, and based on the age of the vehicle it’s safe to assume that it’s previous owners were Pterodactyls. Seriously, I’m thinking of taking it to the next Antique Road Show to see if it has historical value, (because honestly, if this guy can get $300,000 for a Navajo blanket, I’m seriously optimistic that I can coax out a healthy ransom for my lawnmower based on the fact that my item doesn’t run the possibility of carrying small pox), (Native American jokes: Too soon? or just too racy?… probably both). But you guys, this thing is so Neolithic that I originally thought we were going to have to purchase a pair of oxen to drag it across the yard, which might have been the better scenario here considering it tried to kill me. Because one thing about this mower is that it’s transmission is out of control, literally – you can’t control it. This wily little piece of machinery is so unpredictable that the only thing you can be certain of when you throw it in gear is that it will shudder-start so hard you may be launched into the future, IF you survive the whiplash that is. Also, the only way to tell whether you’re in a forward gear, neutral, or reverse is to let your foot off the (faulty) break and see what happens. This is extremely worrisome when, like I mentioned above, you have cliffs in your backyard and you have approximately 5 feet to maneuver in.

So, the whole experience played out like this: I had just reached the end of the lawn by the arbor (see above pictures) and need to back up. After two failed attempts to put Satan’s lawnmower in reverse and knocking over the arbor/almost running over my mother’s garden, I managed to secure backwards motion. This is where things get tricky because a few culminating circumstances really compromised my driving abilities at this point: 1) reverse on our mower has only one speed, Back-To-The-Future fast, 2) I forgot this about our lawnmower, 3) I was so pissed off that I couldn’t get the mower to go backwards that I was completely taken by surprise when it actually did what it was supposed to. So now, in shock and at a break-neck speed, I was backing up when I made the unfortunate decision to turn the wheel and thus send me propelling towards the cliff edge and towards pending doom. In seconds my scrambled brain threw the mower into the opposite gear, all the way to gear Six and, my tires squealing, shot forward inches from plunging to my death, narrowly avoided hitting the AC unit outside and gave the finger to the rest of mowing the lawn and drove my ass back to the garage to get the hand mower.

Stay tuned next week for my thoughts on bagels and the ethics behind baby-head-shaping. It’s gonna be good.

And that’s how Cole . . . C’s it.

I’m Not As Dumb As I Look. . . or AM I?

While I sit here wasting away in the Terrel Library next to the book section on Genocide, I can’t help the sense of morbid appropriateness that I feel being in such macabre surroundings. After all, for lack of a more politically correct analogy, I am essentially slaughtering my GPA based on its political affiliation in opposition to my mental well-being and leisure time. Not only that, but I may or may not literally be dying. I’ve already feigned death twice now, and I write this as I lay writhing on the floor in a pool of my own tears and self shame, begging passersby for pity and alms; cue melodramatic dying music:

 

When I’m not hating my life for being on facebook, I’m staring blankly at the hate filled propaganda carved into the desk. News Flash – According to recent etchings on this work table, the frat Delta Tau Delta is gay. This is approximately all I’ve learned today, and I’m not even sure if it’s true. In case you weren’t able to guess from the sole clue that I am actually in the library, it is finals week. There are a few acronyms for the word F-I-N-A-L-S out there, and all of them are true: F*ck I Never Actually Learned Shit   – or –  F*ck I’m Not Asian Life Sucks. A clever someone also put together the fact that the words: Student + Dying = Studying (also true). So naturally it’s ok for me to become extra contemptible and lethargic for a few days, right?

Look, I don’t even know why I’m writing this, mostly it’s to avoid learning the Weighted Average Cost of Capital for my finance class but it’s also an attempted transition to talk about failing classes, or in my case, a single class. And as long as we’re playing Truth or Brick here, I might as well tell all.

And now it’s time for Confessions of a Young Academic: I, Cole Atkinson, have failed my first college course. There. I said it; cat’s out of the bag. I’ve laid bare my faults and stand before you all in order to receive my judgment.  (I’m going to take a break here to let the shame and guilt set in so that I can continue with the appropriate morose attitude, except psyche! I’m not because my earlier paragraphs were already more depressing than a Greek tragedy.)  However I should explain myself a little more so you all don’t think I’m some sort of smug college brat who “doesn’t care about his grades” or gives a big “whatevs” to the squandering of his parents financial assistance with school.

The course I failed was Intermediate Micro-Economics which I took at the University of St. Andrews, so immediately there’s good news here: this grade in no way effects my GPA. None of the classes I took abroad transfer as part of my grade point average, only the actually credits themselves transfer. Lucky, lucky me. As for the course itself, well I could sit here and spout off excuses all day if I was so inclined, and believe me, I’m so inclined. For one, my professor was German and had this crazy-thick accent which took me ages to wrap my mind around because 1) I love accents and tend to focus on the phonetics more than the content of the speech, and 2) I honestly had trouble understanding him at times; which, compounded with the fact that he talked at six-billion miles an hour and in strict economic terminology, basically meant that I stood a 13% chance of passing the course from the get go. And then there was the fact that I was in Europe, which meant that everywhere I went was a distraction – this includes the hallway in my dorm, or the street outside, or I don’t know, the St. Andrews Old Course a.k.a. the Mecca of Golf that was a three minute walk away? You try walking around a 600 year old town and not get distracted, after all, doesn’t a stroll through ancient ruins sound infinitely more pleasant than an economics course with Captain Bavaria? Yes, yes it does. So, due simply to the context in which my course was set, I was doomed from the beginning to fail. But still, I did have a little higher standards for myself.

I will say this, I am forever shamed by the grade I received. In total sincerity I still feel the remnants of the mild depression that came with receiving an “F” in college whenever I think about it. It really ate me up inside; not only had I failed the course, I had failed myself and my parents: the parents who had worked their asses off to earn money and send me half way across the world to attend a ridiculously costly school, and still allow me a decent travel budget. I think that was what hurt more than anything; thinking I had abused my parents hard work and generosity by being selfish and not trying hard enough at school. For a long time I dealt in secret with this guilt, not wanting to think about it or directly tell my parents outright about what I considered my “lack of appreciation” for what they had done for me. Yet when the time came and they realized that I probably wasn’t going to pass, what did they do? Well, seeing as how I have the best parents ever (no offense to you or  your parents, but I can objectively say that Jeff and Deb are the world’s Number One ‘rentals – that’s a straight up fact), they forgave me, said they understood and continued to love me just the same. Jeez, I promised I wouldn’t get all pity-party on you guys and I now I’ve gone made my life look like something akin to Oedipus Rex. (Seriously though, I will never get over that story. I’m haunted for life.)

So taking a page from Ma and Pa Atkinson’s book, I decided to learn from my mistake, move on, love myself and never let it happen again. However, I totally get it if you decide to judge me. I used to embarrassed about it all, but now a little humble-pie may be a good thing. Really, the only thing I have left to say about failing that class is: Oops.

And that’s how Cole . . . C’s it.

THE Beach Hike

I realized that I have mentioned The Beach Hike to a few people recently, and some of you may have seen the pictures on facebook. Now, The Beach Hike is a large part of my life, both in my history and in my future. However, I don’t think alot of people really understand all that The Beach Hike entails, so I’ll explain.

Notice the capitalized THE in the title above, that’s on purpose. I don’t want anyone thinking that this is simply any sort of walk on the beach, although given the name I can see how you would think that. However, this is much, much more than your run of the mill jaunt along the coast. In fact, much of the actually hiking takes place not on the beach, but in the rainforest. Whoa, did he just say rainforest?! Surprise people! Washington has actual rainforests. I know, this caught me off guard when I first found this out because A) I was approximately 15 years old and expected that I should know things like this by now, and B) my original concept of the rainforest included things like parrots, man-eating-spiders, pythons, poisonous tree frogs and a South American locale. I guess the only real criteria for being a rainforest is lots of forest and lots of rain. (You know, when you write it out like that it really makes sense.) I’m sure all you crazy West Siders already knew this, but over here on the East Side we just choose to familiarize ourselves with different environmental features– like tumbleweeds, (I legit knew someone who at the age of 20 did not believe tumbleweeds existed till they came to the East Side of the state). But that is neither here nor there, except that it literally is here, and there so. . . back to THE Beach Hike.

Right, lets start at the very beginning, it’s a very good place to start. The Beach Hike is a tradition in our family (10 years and counting!) in which my dad and my siblings — along with our family friends the Russells and their friends – travel the six or so hours to the western-most part of Washington on the Olympic Peninsula. We usually set up base camp in the town of Forks, spending the night before our hike in the oh so lovely Forks Hotel. I have to add that the town of Forks has really taken a turn for the worse once the Twilight series came out, it used to be such a quite little run-down corner of the word; now it’s all cleaned up and selling “Vampire Blood” flavored pump syrup in its grocery stores. The whole city is dripping with merchandise and Twilight references – R.I.P. Ye Olde Forks. The following morning, we get up early to meet with those who have gathered for the hike, and then our caravan heads out. We navigate the secret path through the maze of logging roads outside the town and end up at the trail head. Here, we finish up last minute packing and rearranging our packs that contain everything we will need for the next 3 or so days (clothes, food, sleeping bag, tents, tarps, etc.). We aren’t talking about your school backpack here, these suckers are built for carrying the contents of a small house, or a few small children, or both – its your prerogative. Once we’re set, we begin to pick our way through the trees, roots, mud, streams and undergrowth of the forest. Despite all the tripping hazards, mud traps, and false stepping stones, it may just be one of the most scenic treks you’ll ever take. See here:

     

(I definitely didn’t take that picture on the right, but I swear to all things good and Holy that we probably cross that stream on our hike, or at least something very similar.)

Don’t let the tranquility fool you though, because one things that’s funny is when someone steps on a rotten tree root and watching as either A) they plunge straight into the ground and end up thigh deep in moss doing an awkward “splits” maneuver or B) watching the slow and inevitable fall sideways when they lose balance – its like watching a turtle fall off a log, you see it happening and want to help, but not bad enough to actually do anything. Normally the fall is accompanied by a voice over that goes something like: “Hhhhhuuuuuuu…..Oohhhhhahahaha!!”

Don’t worry, the final destination is totally worth forging all of natures perils. And because this post is getting out of hand and becoming way longer than anticipated, I will sum this up quickly. We make it to the beach, hike a bit more down the waterfront, and Huzzah! end up at our campsite. We are just a few feet from the beach, and right up along the high tide’s edge. We spend the day playing crazy Newfoundlandic games with sticks and building fires, reading and walking along the beach, hunting for crabs and starfish, and most of all – sitting around the campfire enjoying good banter. I’ll leave the rest of this post up to pictures.

And that’s how Cole. . . . C(amp)’s it.