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For the Love of Lasers!

I thought I was done writing and complaining about my warped ankle. My surgery was nearly 4 years ago and the condition of my tendon had stabilized. Leftie wasn’t 100% but it was doing well enough. I could handle its occasional crabbiness and I thought I knew what to expect from here on out. That was until a little rock changed everything.

We had 30 people in our group. That's plenty of targets.

Jason planned another fantastic laser tag party up Provo Canyon for my birthday this year. Thirty friends joined us for this event. You can’t get much better than a bunch of adults running willy-nilly through a dark park wearing bizarre headgear and brandishing plastic weapons like they were Rambo.

The guys from Frontline did a great job keeping our group engaged in the game.
The Timpsons tagged me more times than I care to mention.

About 30 minutes into our 3 hours of play my perfect party turned tender. I was sprinting across a field of grass when I hit a hidden rock just right and rolled my bad ankle. I knew the instant it happened that I had done some serious damage and that I wouldn’t be dashing around the rest of the night. Although it hurt to put any weight on it, I wasn’t going to sit in the pavilion with my foot up while my friends got to dodge each other in the bushes. No, I would enjoy my party if it killed me.

Each game we played had it's own objective and rules. The evening wasn't just a shooting free-for-all. Here we are listening to our next round of instructions.
Drew and I demonstrated the basics of a sibling vs. sibling battle for everyone.

Despite my perseverance, as gimpy as I was I was next to useless to my teammates. I moved as fast as my lopsided gait would carry me but it wasn’t fast enough to avoid being spotted and targeted over and over. Sorry Team Alpha, I wasn’t much of a leader; it’s hard to lead when you can’t even follow.

This is what my ankle looked like when I got home from the party. And yes, its pain matched its appearance.

By the time I got home my ankle was severely swollen and throbbing. It looked like I was smuggling a golf ball under my skin. The next morning I reluctantly pulled out my box of ankle gear and dusted off my crutches. Plenty of bad memories were resurrected by that lot.

Just another unpleasant view of my ankle following the festivities.

I’m not much of one for giving my body a rest but I have made some effort to at least put my ankle up and ice it once in a while during the last week. The swelling has gone down considerably but now the bruising makes it look like I was the victim of a Leprechaun assault.

Four days after my injury the swelling had receded but the bruising was just getting started. It actually looks much worse now.

I am no stranger to ankle pain. Over a decade of tendon trouble has made me as tough as it has made my ankle weak. So while a sprain is inconvenient, especially when it pretty much ruined my own birthday party, my chief worry in all of this is isn’t my current discomfort but the possibility that I might have re-torn my tendon. A peroneal tendon tear feels like a bad sprain, a bad sprain that never heals. I could have a severely sprained ankle or a slashed tendon, the symptoms are the same. In a few weeks if things aren’t feeling better then I guess I will be heading in for another MRI. I can’t tell you how much the prospect of having that awful surgery again makes me want to go hit my head repeatedly against a wall. It took me a couple years to fully recover last time and I’d like to repeat the experience about as much as I’d like to go bodysurfing on asphalt naked.

On a lighter note, a big thank you to all the friends and family that joined me for my birthday celebration gone awry. It was nice being shot by you as I hobbled around in misery. To the birthday girl go the foils!

Rachel July 9, 2012 1 Comment

On a Midsummer’s Eve

My family has Scandinavian roots, specifically Norwegian and Danish, which explains why my inky dark eyebrows don’t match the shade of my hair. (Give me a break Denmark!) Because of this ancestry, and our close ties to some dear Norwegian friends, my family yearly celebrates Midsummer’s Eve: the biggest party this side of a smorgasbord.

Rum balls go fast. By the time I got my camera out they were almost gone.

Midsummer’s coincides with the summer solstice and is usually observed in Norway and Denmark on the 23rd of June. It’s honored more vigorously than any other holiday, except Christmas. It’s little wonder that a region that gets scant to no sunlight in the winter months celebrates a time of year when the sun hangs around 24/7 like that annoyingly cheery acquaintance you just can’t get rid of.

Miles properly enjoyed his rum ball as is apparent from the smears of cream all over his face.

While a bonfire is a customary accompaniment to Midsummer’s Eve, we skipped the roast and went straight for the food. My mom made traditional Norwegian mush for our festivities while I focused on preparing rum balls. Rum balls are pastries similar to éclairs filled with rum flavored whipped cream. I typically only make these for this particular occasion, which keeps them special and my butt skinnier.

The kids took turns zooming around the neighborhood with Grandpa. I think they would have kept this up all night if we had let them.

After our hardy meal we went Viking on the neighborhood. With the help of our stout vessels we wreaked havoc on the streets. Okay, we took turns riding my parents’ powder blue Vespa and dorky tandem bike around the block but we did so with fury I’m sure. The kids couldn’t get enough Vespa rides with Grandpa but only Jason dared scoot with me. I’m pretty talented on two wheels but not when they’re motorized. However, I think the tales of my poor steering skills have been unjustly inflated; so far I’ve only tipped the Vespa over not crashed it. And hey, that’s a better track record than half the celebrities out there.

Drew and Jason went on a little ride together. They make a cute couple, even the motorcyclist they ran into thought so.

It was a beautiful evening for a pagan rite and for filling our oddly-eyebrowed faces with fatty substances. Since I’m a fan of summer, sunlight, and cream you don’t really have to remind me of my Northern heritage to get me to live it up and stuff it down in honor of the season. Norwegian or not, I’m happy to shove rum balls in my tummy and sing halleluiahs to the sun anytime.

Rachel July 3, 2012 No Comments

Lego My Lego

P.C.G.s AKA perpetually collective geeks: you know the type. These are the oddballs that stash giant Tupperware containers in their basements full of worthless toys that they felt compelled to purchase because only limited quantities were available and nerdiness demanded it. The habits of these hopeless geeks are the subject of my rant today or, more specifically, the habits of this hopeless geek for I too buy nerd. Now those of you that consider yourselves among the “too cool” and are about to commence with disapproving head shaking – hold on. You need not bother shuddering in annoyance because I, like the rest of the eternally pasty, am way too dorky to care about your endorsement or purported coolness.

Yes, I am the proud owner of all sorts of sci-fi and fantasy models, dolls, and action figures. I have Enterprise replicas that I painted myself and that look it. I possess Twilight Barbies with glittery skin. Lord of the Rings speaking Sauron doll? Yeah, I’ve got one of those too. The average person might be appalled by what I’ve deemed worthy of accumulating but my zealous stashing remains undeterred.

I don't have a favorite Minifigure, too many of them are awesome, but the elf, mad scientist, and barbarian warrior are definitely among my preferred.

Over the last year or two I have started amassing Lego Minifigures. These little guys are comically detailed and at around $3 apiece the price is right for stockpiling. They come in sealed wrappers identified only by the applicable series so part of the fun is trying to figure out which packages contain the guys you are missing. Sure, this means you spend a very long time in the store feeling up little men and that you end up with five soccer players when you really just needed one werewolf but those unmarked wrappers also mean you get the rush of surprise each time you cut one of them open. There’s nothing like the anticipation of tearing into a fresh Minifigures package with insides unknown. Two out of three nerds agree that it’s even better than unwrapping a mail-order bride.

I now have about 75 Minifigures and I’m ready to go out and purchase Series 7, the latest group to be released. I haven’t decided yet if I’ll go the extra hoarding mile and buy a whole box of these toys, like I did for Series 6, but I just might. Why limit yourself to a few men when you can have 60?

I permitted some of my little men to have a fieldtrip out of their box in order to facilitate an epic good vs. evil battle.

My little dudes may be plentiful but that doesn’t mean they’re too numerous for spoiling. I stow them away stylishly in a Lego specific container where neither dust nor gawking can diminish their mintiness. Only the best for my mini men.

Now that you have the scoop on my nerdy little habit remember to judge not lest ye be judged. Despite the wisdom of that timeless counsel I’m guessing many of you have concluded that only the geekiest of rejects would stoop to collecting toys meant for the infantile. You would be correct but I dare you to try buying a few of these chaps without getting sucked in by their miniature kilts, mullets, and skateboards. It’s impossible. You’ll find that you too are powerless against the appeal of their tiny banana peels. So don’t point a critical finger at me when the truly geekiest of rejects lurks somewhere beneath the disguise of your non-greasy skin just waiting for the right Lego man in a Godzilla suit to call it out.

Rachel June 27, 2012 No Comments
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