swingers

We have a glorious sized deck, unusual because we live in a town where most decks are glassed in to become sunrooms that will cook you alive if you dare step foot into them. Decko Marveloso is mostly housing a small table and many 'Jeff' chairs from Ikea.

What it doesn't have, and is sorely missing, is a hammock. A freestanding wide hammock. Summer-made-out-of-wood-and-string. You know, a place where you can SLEEP OUTSIDE without having bugs touch your ears or blades of grass tickle every inch of flesh exposed. So amazing.

My obsession with hammocks started when I was little and we summered at Gramma and Grampa's acreage in Aldergrove. After Gramma's knees couldn't handle our wildly off-target badminton birdies, brother and I would retire to the skinny, yellow rope hammock affixed to two thick trees. And by retire I mean push the hammock, with the other person wrapped up like a mummy inside, so hard you flipped them clean around horizontally, and scared the living bejeebs out of them; if unlucky, your turn would end by laying flat on your guts in the dirt, remembering how to breathe while evaluating if, in fact, your entire body was broken.

We spent hours on that thing–just getting on it successfully was a Cirque de Soleil feat and it is one of the very few things I can think of that I wasn't very good at, yet kept doing it. And yes, having difficulty getting on a hammock betrays how amazingly shitty my balance skills and hand eye coordination are, but I think this confession makes me brave.

When we moved to Cloverdale and re-established the hammock in the new back yard, I flipped off it in my most favorite t-shirt in the entire everything, a Red Hot Chili Peppers t-shirt with their logo on it, and I skidded when I landed and there was now a mofo grass stain on the bottom of my shirt and that meant I might as well roll in skunk shit because that shirt was RUINED. If I could capture that youthful rage and grief times like that inspired, I could electrify the world for a day.

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I think everybody has that one breed of dog they hold closest to their heart, and I definitely think that dog love is implanted when you're little. Mine was an Irish setter named Trish. Fact: Trish was my first word. Fact: Trish was a terminally insane dog that had lockjaw when she got hold of a sock and lost her everloving mind when we played with a small red hippo squeak toy. When we squeezed that toy twice, her brain's record skipped. She was, I believe, the last of a long line of setters my Grandparents raised. Prior to that there was an unfortunate run of poodles that I thankfully missed by not being born yet. Poodles? Guh. The brittle old women of the dog world. Disgusting.

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Here are some examples of what's not cool, ever. And I will never change my opinion on any of these because I am right:

Wearing an athletic sneaker out. Like if you wear it to the gym, take them off when you're done. Those are not goin’ out shoes.

Rollerblading. You look retarded.

Thumb rings on dudes. I do not need to elaborate here.

Marijuana "stuff." If you smoke, great. There is, however, no need to create a lifestyle around it and surround yourself in pot leaves. That's like me getting a tattoo of mayonnaise and wearing Hellman's capris. Nonsensical.

Yin yang symbol. Have always hated it. Probably because any time it's on something, the something is also completely shitty.