Captain's Log, Day 165: A Trip Through The Archives--Short Person Problems

          So, I was digging through my pictures today, trying to locate a specific photo I took back in college of a praying mantis (because I suddenly thought of it out of nowhere and I wanted to find it--there's no logical reason here; carry on) when I stumbled upon an old video that lacked a thumbnail, which prompted me to do two things, the first of which involved clicking upon it (because I cannot resist clicking things, which is why I have some really good virus protection on my computer) and the second involved writing this really long run-on sentence (which is possibly the longest ever written on Maximum Effect) to basically tell you that the clip was a) hilarious and b) about to be transcribed and I think this sentence needs to be taken out back and shot, by the way.
          It's been a long day at work. Humor me.

          The setting: undergrad. The cast: myself (due to my lack of photogenicness and the fact that I was the one filming this, I never appeared in the video), Shorty, Brad, Betsy, and Chris. The stage: outside the apartments where Betsy and Shorty lived. The central conflict?
          Brad was trying to steal Shorty's wallet.
          Why, you might ask? Well, there were two main reasons. Reason One is that this was Shorty, and for some reason (possibly her height), her friends kept swiping everything from her phone to her wallet to her shoes (the shoes one was always funny). Reason Two was that Brad had a massive crush on her that was obvious to everyone except Shory, and manifested itself in repeated pranks. Under normal circumstances, I would have aided and abetted Brad; however, in this instance, Shorty had promised to drive Betsy, Brad, and myself to Walmart and owed me about two cases of root beer--she lost a lot of bets, jinxes, and Uno games--so I figured she needed her wallet in order to pay up. Therefore, I stayed out of it; she was more than capable of beating the tar out of Brad, and I apparently wanted to film it anyway.
          "Give me my WALLET BACK!" Shorty ordered, her giggling kind of undermining her attempt to sound threatening. She had somehow managed to snag Brad's hand--the one that held her wallet--and was now orbiting him like a small localized satellite. Brad grinned at me and maintained his death grip on her possession, pivoting on one foot so Shorty couldn't get his arm behind his back.
          "Betsy!" Shorty pleaded.
          Betsy proved to be no help, grabbing Brad's other arm and dancing around him. Shorty giggled again despite herself. "Let GO!"
          Betsy let go suddenly, despite the order clearly having been directed at Brad. Suddenly off balance, Brad spun in a slightly wider circle and ended up with his arm around Shorty. It wasn't a terrible situation for him to be in, except that Shorty had a death grip on his digits that suddenly got uncomfortable. "OW! My thumb!"
          "Let. GO!" Shorty tried again.
          Brad looked thoughtful. "You're always, like, dislocating my thumb."
          "I know! That's 'cuz you're always stealing--"
          "And this is what happens when you have first world problems, kids," Chris announced, apropos of nothing (although he may have noticed me recording and wanted to speak to posterity).
          "Brad? BRAD! I'm gonna kick you!" Shorty threatened.
          Brad ignored her, given that a) she wasn't really in a position to kick him and b) she wasn't tall enough to kick anything valuable. Shorty started orbiting him again, possibly trying to get in a decent position. Or possibly running out of ideas.
          "Um, what are you trying to do?" Brad asked.
          Shorty laughed. "I don't know EITHER!" Her voice got high-pitched--I mean, higher-pitched than it already was. "Give it back! Ohmygosh, what it your problem?"
          I thought about answering that one, but decided to stay out of it. Brad grinned. "You?"
          Shorty suddenly looked at me. "Are you actually filming this?"
          I snickered.
          "I'm coming for you next," she warned me.
          Betsy, meanwhile, was trying to poke Brad in the ear. Brad suddenly turned and tried to swat her.
          "Yah! Dude! You got my finger!" Betsy yelped, dancing back.
          Brad gave her a look.
          "This is escalating," Chris noted with the kind of enthusiasm normally reserved for observing cafeteria food fights.
          "I know. It gets outta hand pretty fast," Betsy admitted. Given our specific natures for this particular group of friends, that had to have been the understatement of the month. She turned to Brad. "I was trying to get your ear. You should have accepted it."
          "NO!" Brad said loudly and indignantly.
          Shorty struggled with his hand. "Okay! Let...go...already!"
          Brad laughed. She tugged. He yelped. "OW!"
          Chris and I started laughing. Brad let out a melodramatic "AAAAaaaaaggghhh" and dropped to his knees on the pavement, arm locked out behind him courtesy of Shorty.
          Shorty half-turned to check on him. "That actually felt bad. Are you okay?"
          Brad chuckled. "Yeah, I'm fine."
          "Then LET GO!" Shorty shrieked and started trying to pry his fingers loose again. Brad managed to get his arm free, leaving Shorty hanging on to the strap of her wallet as Brad sprang to his feet.
          "It's escalating," Betsy intoned.
          "It really is tending to escalate quickly," Chris agreed, clearly in love with the word "escalate."
          Shorty gave Brad a look. "I'm going this way," she proclaimed and pulled. Surprised, Brad lost his grip on her wallet; Shorty quickly yanked it back to safety.
          "What was the goal? Were you trying to steal her phone?" Betsy asked.
          "Little bit." Brad leaned over and whispered something to Betsy. Her eyes lit up; a moment later, they were both sprinting after her roommate.
          Shorty heard them coming, but didn't turn around in time. "Let's give you a lift!" Brad proposed.
          "Huh? Wait--WHAAA?" Shorty yelped.
          Brad grabbed her arms. Betsy grabbed her legs, and they started carrying her towards the apartment. Chris and I burst out laughing and followed.
          Shorty was giggling helplessly as Brad and Betsy hauled her along. Betsy took a look around and burst out laughing as well. "This is getting really creepy, Brad!"
          Brad snickered. "My trunk is not a closed trunk, Betsy; we'll have to--"
          "It has a table in it! I know!" Betsy returned.
          "Betsy, did you see the look Security gave us?" Shorty asked.
          Everyone turned. Sure enough, the campus security (which was a massive misnomer at this particular college) had actually given us a second glance as they drove past.
          "Security totally just gave us a look," Betsy laughed.
          Shorty shrugged--an impressive feat, since Brad had decided to shift his grip to her shoulders for easier carrying. "Am I gonna have to call them later?"
          "Wait, are we going up?" Betsy asked as we paused by the breezeway. (She and Shorty lived on the third floor.)
          "I dunno," Brad said thoughtfully.
          "No! Not the STAIRS! NOT THE STAIRS! EEP!" Shorty yelped.
          Betsy tried to back up, tripped, and sat down on the second step. "Go ahead first, I can't do that," she ordered Brad, dropping Shorty's legs so she could stand back up. Brad obediently swiveled so his back was to the incline.
          "No, no, no," Shorty giggled.
          "Grab her feet," Brad told Betsy.
          "LEGGO," Shorty ordered them both, trying to sound threatening and failing entirely--possibly because she was laughing too hard. "No no no--I am not comfortable with this! STAIRS!"
          Brad started backing up. "Betsy, you gotta move--"
          "I am!" she protested. (Their coordination needed a little work.)
          They made it to the top amidst much laughter from everyone. "Should we--" Brad started, indicating the next set of stairs.
          "NO!" Shorty yelled, then fixed Betsy with a stare. "YOU! Drop me! And YOU--" she elbowed Brad, "Leggo!"
          I couldn't breathe, I was laughing so hard. Betsy dropped Shorty's legs obediently; Brad kept holding on.
          "Brad. Release me," Shorty snickered.
          "Can't. Arms are too tired," Brad protested weakly.
          Betsy bent over, panting. "Oh, man, Shorty. I'm not trying to say anything, but...whew."
          Brad, sensing that the wrath of Shorty might be released in a moment, promptly let go. Shorty gave it a moment's thought, then shot an outraged look at Betsy.
          "You look really tousled," Betsy offered, and then realized that probably wasn't the best recovery after her weight insinuations. "And...it's really attractive!"
          Shorty ran a hand through her hair, trying to untangle it (a lost cause, if I'd ever seen one). "I'm not driving you to Walmart," she said, mock-severely. Brad tried to help with her hair; she swatted his hand away and pointed her finger at him. "I'm not talking to you!" she decided, giggling.
          "Yes you are," Brad snickered.
          I made the mistake of laughing. Shorty spun around to face me. "And YOU--"
       
          ...and....that's where the video ended. A total bummer--I'm curious as to what my fate was.
          Maybe I should call Brad and see if he remembers.
          And maybe I should put this on YouTube....?

Captain's Log, Day 164: Never Coming to a Theater Near You

          Back when Radar was about eleven, his mom somehow came into possession of a set of scripts for Biblical plays. No one was really sure as to why: the debacle that was the Spanish Christmas play of a few years back had amply demonstrated that no one in the Midway family had an ounce of acting ability, regardless of what language they were using. (Also, Radar's impression of a horse was unflatteringly compared to a cow having a seizure.) So, needless to say, the plays collected dust in an box next to the bookshelves.
          One fateful day, Radar rediscovered the family's camcorder. Well, rediscovered might be the wrong word: it was more like his dad forgot to hide it away from his meddling eldest and the meddling eldest took full advantage of it during a night round of tag (he found out it had a night vision setting--that's another story). After discovering that no repercussions were forthcoming--the parental unit apparently didn't keep as close of a tab on everything as they claimed--Radar got bit by the acting bug.
          Well, sort of.
          "Quill! Wanna make a movie?"
          Quill looked dubious. "Won't we get in tr--"
          "Oh, it's fine," Radar cut her off impatiently. "I put a fresh tape in the video recorder anyway, so it's not like I'm going to accidentally erase anything. Come on, I've got a tripod and everything."
          "What are we going to do?" Quill asked. "The Princess Bride?"
          Radar sighed resignedly. "I wish, but it's too cold outside. Besides, Mom still has my sword." (His custom-made fiberglass sword had been confiscated after he had dueled Nemesis in the house and broken a light.)
          "Oh. Right." Quill thought. "Then what--"
          "How about one of the Bible plays?" Radar asked.
          Quill grinned. "Yeah! Hey, wait." Her face fell. "There's too many characters. We'd have to be a bunch of different people."
          Radar frowned. "How about the Eli and Samuel one? There's only, like four characters."
          The two children raced to the play box and located the correct skit. After a moment, Quill shook her head. "No, there's five. Hannah, Samuel, Eli, the narrator, and God."
          "I can be the narrator and God," Radar offered. "I gotta man the camera anyway. I don't have to be on-screen. We don't have enough guys, though."
          "I can be Eli!" Quill said eagerly.
          "Then who's Hannah?" her older brother inquired.
          They gave it a moment's thought, then simultaneously announced, "Squirrel."
          Nemesis was a little difficult to convince, but Squirrel was up for anything that offered the possibility of dress-up. In a short time, copies of the script were handed out to everyone, and Radar had quickly located the old tripod and mounted the purloined camcorder to it. "Ready?"
          Squirrel draped an old blanket over her head. "Yes!"
          Quill looked up from where she was sitting cross-legged, reading her script. "Almost." She gave it one more glance, then sat on it. "Okay!"
          "No," Nemesis said flatly.
          "Don't care. You're not in this scene anyway," Radar returned. "Okay, ready...set...action!"
          "That's not what you say," Nemesis pointed out. "It's 'Three, two, one, action.'"
          "NEMESIS!" Radar yelled and tackled him.
          Once the scuffle was over and the tape had been stopped and rewound (no point in keeping that take), Radar got himself set up again. "Okay, three, two, one...action!" He pushed the "Record" button and began reading.
          "In the land of Israel, there was a righteous woman named Hannah, who was very sad because she had no children. One day, she went to the temple to pray to God for a child." He paused.
          Squirrel was zoned out. Radar subtly threw a toy train at her.
          "Ow! Oh, right." Squirrel thought. "I wish you'd give me a child, God, and if you do, I'll...um...I forgot," she recited with all the dramatic flair of a corpse.
          "You're supposed to be upset," Quill reminded her.
          "This was my upset voice!" Squirrel protested.
          Nemesis snickered. "That was your dead-inside voice."
          She threw the train at him.
          Radar sighed, already regretting his brainwave. "Oh, just use your script." He reset the recorder again. "Okay, take three. Action!" He read off his part.
          Squirrel promptly collapsed on the floor, fake-crying hard enough to be heard on the Moon. "God, if you--" *sob* "--give me a child--" *bawling* "--I'll give him to you as--" *sob* "a priest!"
          Quill looked at Radar, a little disbelievingly. Radar rolled his eyes and continued. "As she was praying, the priest Eli noticed her." Quill transferred her quizzical stare to Squirrel. "Since Hannah was praying silently--" Squirrel took the hint and shut up, "--Eli thought she was drunk."
          After a quick, panicked search for her script (which she finally remembered that she was sitting on), Quill got up and walked over to Squirrel. "How much have you had to drink?"
          "I'm not drunk," Squirrel said robotically. "I'm really unhappy because I have no children and I was praying to God."
          Quill looked like she was going to comment on Squirrel's acting, but restrained herself. "Well, go in peace, and may the Lord grant you children."
          Squirrel glanced at her script and saw a note that said Hannah ceases crying and leaves. "Okay!" she said cheerfully and skipped off set.
          Fortunately, Radar got the camera shut off before the room exploded with laughter.
          "Are we going to redo that?" Nemesis asked, giggling.
          "Oh, heck no," Radar said emphatically. "That's good enough. Okay, you're up--go get in position for scene two."
          "Question," Quill raised her hand. "It says here that Eli's working in the temple. What should I do for that?"
          Radar shrugged. "I dunno. Pretend you're lighting candles or something. Ready, set--move it, Nemesis!--action!" He picked up his script. "Now, it came to pass that Hannah had a son, whom she named Samuel. When he was old enough, she brought him to the temple and sought out Eli."
          Squirrel and Nemesis walked into the room. "Eli" promptly folded up her script, slapped it against her hand, and then made an exaggerated hand gesture as she lit imaginary candles. It was so funny that everyone burst out laughing again, including "Eli."
          Needless to say, that take was scrubbed. Radar rewound the tape, careful to avoid overwriting scene one, and ordered Nemesis to shuffle in on his knees, since "it looks stupid that you're taller than your mom."
          "Not my fault that she's younger," Nemesis muttered.
          "Kneel down anyway," Quill told him. "It'll look better, especially since Squirrel's blanket keeps the camera from seeing your feet if you stay on that side of her."
          "It's my veil," Squirrel said indignantly.
          "It's wildly oversized is what it is," Radar pointed out. "I told you to use a towel."
          Squirrel ignored him. Radar hit record, read off his part, and managed to avoid laughing at Quill's "lighting-candles" impression. Squirrel checked her script and recited, "Do you remember me? I was the woman crying and praying to God for a son. God granted my wish, so I'm giving him to God to serve Him in the temple."
          "Um, thanks," Quill said reflexively, despite that not being in the script.
          Radar decided that wasn't enough to cut the scene short and continued his narration. "Samuel grew up in the temple, and Eli trained him there." Quill promptly did her candle-lighting thing again. Nemesis copied her. Then, the two of them lit an entire imaginary row of candles before Radar punched the "Stop Recording" button and collapsed, laughing.
          Quill "struck a match" and suddenly shrieked. "AHH! MY ROBES ARE ON FIRE!"
          "I'll get a fire hose!" Nemesis offered and lapsed into giggles with his sister.
          "That's not in the script!" Radar protested weakly, wiping tears from his eyes.
          Quill snickered. "Eli died by falling out of a chair. I'm sure he set his robes on fire at some point."
          "Not in this movie!" her brother ordered, picking himself up. "Okay, ready for scene three?"
          "No," Nemesis giggled from the floor.
          "Really? Why not? You're already lying down," Quill pointed out, fetching some pillows from the couch.
          Scene three, for those Bible scholars out there, is where God refuses to let Samuel get any sleep by calling his name out repeatedly at night. Radar flipped one of the lights off and started out the narration by saying, "One night, while Samuel and Eli were sleeping in the temple, the Lord called Samuel." He cupped his hands around his mouth, moved to the left side of the camera, and called out in his best disembodied-voice impression, "Samuel! Saaammmuuuuueeeeellllll!!"
          His siblings convulsed with laughter on the ground before Radar could get back to the right side of the camera and continue his narration. "You sound like a dying moose!" Quill gasped.
          "Oh, hush up! I do not!" Radar protested, resetting the camcorder. "Okay, let's try this again."
          He read through the narration, did the "ghost-God call," and glared at his twitching siblings before continuing. "Samuel was unfamiliar with the voice of the Lord and thought Eli was calling him. He got up and ran to Eli."
          Nemesis got up, took the single step to get him to Quill, shrugged, and poked Quill in the back, eliciting an "eep!" from the surprised "priest." "Here I am. You called me," he announced.
          "I didn't call you. Go back to sleep," Quill grumbled, doing an excellent half-asleep impression. (She roomed with Squirrel, who never got up before the crack of noon if she could help it, so Quill knew exactly what a sleepy person sounded like.)
          Nemesis decided to walk a little further away to lie down again. A moment later, he emitted a hearty fake snore to indicate that Radar could continue. Radar glared at him, realized that looks of death didn't work if the recipient had his eyes closed, and continued. "The Lord called to Samuel again." Quick location shift. "Samuel! Saaammmuuuuueeeeellllll!!" Quick location shift. "Samuel got up and ran to Eli again."
          "Samuel" got up and rushed over so fast, he almost couldn't stop himself in time. Poke. "Eep!" "Here I am. You called me!"
          Quill glared at him sleepily. "I did not call you. Go back to sleep already!"
          Nemesis beat a hasty retreat. Radar continued. "For a third time, the Lord called Samuel." He almost tripped himself as he shifted position, but caught himself before he wiped out. "Samuel! Saaammmuuuuueeeeellllll!!"
          His younger brother got up and poked "Eli" in the back again. "Here I am. You called me."
          "Now, this time, Eli realized that the Lord was calling the boy," Radar narrated.
          Quill blinked sleepily. "Ugh. Go back to bed and if you hear anyone call you again, say "Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening." Now leave me alone--you interrupted a wonderful dream about candles!"
          Nemesis hurled himself across the room and buried his face in his pillow before he started laughing.
          "The Lord called Samuel again," Radar managed, suppressing a fair amount of laughter himself. "Samuel! Saaammmuuuuueeeeellllll!!"
          Nemesis mumbled something into his pillow. Radar tried again. "Samuel! SAAMMMUUUEELLL!!"
          "Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening," Nemesis announced, flipping over onto his back.
          "I'm very displeased with Eli's sons and will punish them severely," Radar intoned, paraphrasing a much longer speech by God that he couldn't remember and couldn't read anyway, since both hands were cupped around his mouth.
          "Um...okay," Nemesis replied, flipped over on his side, and went back to "sleep."
          Radar flipped the light back on and read, "The next morning, Eli went to Samuel."
          Quill popped up, yawned, and crawled over to Nemesis. "Yo, Sammy!"
          Nothing.
          "Wake up or I'll light you on fire," Quill threatened.
          Nemesis sat up abruptly. "Yes, Eli?"
          "What did God tell you last night?" "Eli" asked.
          "Samuel" winced. "Oh, nothing--"
          "Tell me. I must know!" Quill demanded.
          Nemesis shrugged helplessly. "Uh...that your sons are bad and that God will punish them?"
          "Oh." Quill sat back. "Um, okay. " Then she went into one of the greatest departures from the script that any of them had yet performed. "Well, since you'll be the next high priest, there's some things you must know about candles. First off--" and she delivered a stunning monologue regarding matches, lighters, candles, wicks, and proper lighting techniques that sent Radar and Squirrel diving into the couch to suppress hysterical laughter and caused Nemesis to turn his face away from the video camera in an attempt to hide his giggling.
          The rest of the skit finished without incident, with Radar delivering the closing summary extremely rapidly and finding the button that actually made the camera fade to black, an effect which he thought looked really cool. Then, the siblings watched their masterpiece, howling with laughter the whole time.
          "Hey, what are you guys doing?" Mom asked, appearing at the top of the stairs suddenly. "Shouldn't you be out with Dad doing math?"
          "No, we worked ahead yesterday," Radar told her. "Dad said he had a conference call today he had to be on, so we did today's work yesterday."
          Mom gave him a look. "And you're not working on other subjects because...?"
          "We're all done for the day," Quill announced. "Besides, we're...um...learning about the Bible."
          "Oh, you're using the plays," Mom said, pleased. "Can I see the--"
          "NO!" everyone chorused at once.

Captain's Log, Day 163: A Day in the Woods

Today, Mom decided to pull out some of the old homeschooling binders that she had (we were trying to remember who had the highest ACT score. We're pretty fiercely competitive). While perusing one of the binders, I stumbled across one of the essays I'd written for college back when I was sixteen. Since I was still being homeschooled by Mom at the time (she liked to keep me busy), I'd decided to also make it count towards my spelling lesson of the week. I'd forgotten that I'd written it...until now, anyway. The result was amusing. 

Anyway, without further ado, allow me to present A Day in the Woods.

It was a clear summer day four years ago. Our expedition set out as loudly as was humanly possible; my siblings and I bolted out the back door at top speed, heading for the woods. Carefree, exuberant, plans for the day fresh in our minds, we were the axiomatic archetype of capriciousness. Not to be wordy about it or anything.

Plowing up dirt and grass, we skidded to a stop at the base of an oak tree. The grand patriarch of this part of our forest, he offered the best climbing around. First, my brother, cognizant of all the nuts around the tree, mentioned this find, which promptly led to an abandonment of all plans for the time being as we raced to gather the acorns. Soon, however, candid remarks offered by contentious siblings turned the area into a battleground. In good humor, we pelted each other with “bullets” and, grabbing sticks, commenced to “swordfighting.” This turn of events could only disturb the woods for so long; soon we were flat on our backs, out of breath. Peace was made between the pirates and the royal navy, and we were ready to begin the ascent.

I hoisted myself into the tree and lent a hand to the others. The birds chattered at us as we trespassed into their domain, and the squirrels snatched some of our ammo from the ground and scurried off. Up and up we went, higher and higher, until we were at the top, or as high as we were going to go.

The view was excellent. Sitting with our backs to the rough tree trunk, we ignored the discomfort and admired the scenery. Even though we were—are—not aesthetically minded, we could still appreciate the surrounding sights. My brother promptly started to make up new adjectives to describe the area and was instantly and effectively sedated by popular request. The general conclusion afterwards was that wrestling in a tree that high up was just dangerous, so we descended the tree. I stepped on a rotten branch, resulting in me beating them to the ground by a good five minutes.

Once they made it to the ground and I took stock of my new assortment of bruises, we headed off for tree two. Some anomaly had caused one of the branches to grow out almost perpendicular to the trunk six feet from the ground. It was really thick and had convenient handholds in the form of small branches growing straight out of the main limb. Needless to say, we practically ran up the slope and swung like monkeys in and out of the branches. My brother started making drum noises and was shoved out of the tree by a vengeful older sister.

The drum re-ascended the tree amid loud protests. A shower of leaves fell upon the protesters, who promptly turned on me. I don’t care what Galileo said; I know I hit the ground harder and faster then my erstwhile brother-turned-word-creator-turned-drum. I scampered back up the tree and confronted my sisters. I didn’t get the chance. The drum had taken its revenge.

Peace momentarily restored, we began to have a yelling contest; i.e. whoever yelled the longest without taking a breath won. Since nobody was willing to concede defeat, there was very nearly a mass exodus from the tree right then and there. I suggested turning our thoughts to other pursuits, such as an animal-imitation competition. My brother won this one with his impression of a sick horse; I don’t think he meant to do that, but it knocked his older sister, the hairball-inducing cat, off her perch convulsed with laughter. The youngest person in the family, the dying cow, was hanging limp over two branches while me, the Spanish duck with a sore throat, threatened the winner with dire consequences if he didn’t cut it out and let us catch our breath.

The unanimous conclusion of said contest resulted in a general consensus that “our family had talent.” Looking back now, I wonder what we ate that afternoon. I’m guessing it was high in sugar. Or caffeine. But I digress.

By now, it was almost dinnertime. I suggested seeing if we could jump from our perches without getting hurt. A vote was called for. Two “ayes” and the reappearance of the horse were counted, with the end result that three of our number were writhing on the ground in helpless laughter, choking out dire threats against the naysayer smiling benignly down at us from his perch on the tree. Obviously, we had lost what little sanity we had to begin with. I recognized that and called for a return to the house. The horse drummed his way out of the tree and fled for his life as a mass grab was made for him. We reentered the back door sweaty and bedraggled, multi-colored from numerous bruises. We didn’t care.

As I recall this incident, I am convulsed with helpless laughter every time, as I was on that afternoon. I wonder exactly why we set out on that expedition and why it stands out so well in my memory. There must have been dozens of such incidents in my past. Why do I remember it in particular? Was it our good-natured squabbling? Our weird contests? Our constant descents?

Or was it because Mom caught us red-handed in the chocolate chips that night?

Captain's Log, Day 162: Duel in the Dark

FB: Musica is online!

Radar: You went to SPAIN??

Musica: Yes! Guess what I brought back from Spain...you will be proud....

Radar: A Stetson? Wait, they don't have those, do they?

Musica: Try a sword!

Radar: NO FREAKING WAY

Radar: WHAT KIND

Radar: HOW LONG

Radar: DID YOU GET A SHIELD TOO?

Radar: AND HOW DID YOU GET IT BACK?? Aren't airlines pretty strict about that sort of thing?

Radar: Way to make me spazz, by the way.

Musica: It's really short because that was the cheapest. The hilt is really simple, but it's really sleek too. And I just packed it in a suitcase; as long as I didn't take it in the plane, I was fine. No, no shield, that would have put me way over the 50lb suitcase limit! Anyway, you totally need to teach me how to swordfight sometime! Also, you gotta help me name her!

Musica: *picture attached*

Radar: Actually, that's pretty close to the perfect length for you. Well done!

Radar: I'm thinking about coming down there this evening for a swing dance. Any chance I could see it....??

Musica: Yeah totally!

Radar: AWESOME

          I coasted into the parking lot outside Musica's dorm. To my annoyance, the weather had gotten cold again, the seventy degrees of but a few days ago giving way to something I like to call "too damn cold." I pulled my gloves on, shut the truck off, and bolted for the doors, skidding on an icy patch and almost slamming full tilt into the glass. 

          An exiting resident kindly pushed the door open before I actually hit it and stepped to the side to avoid my flailing attempts to stop. "Are you late for something?"

          I laughed. "No, it's just cold! Thanks!"

          Musica, who was waiting in the lobby, snickered. I didn't even stop to greet her before demanding, "Where??" 

          She outright laughed at that one. "It's in my car. You can't have swords on campus. You should know--you used to go here!"

          I shrugged. "I thought they might have changed the rules. Good thing I decided to check first--I almost brought my swords in with me."

          "You brought your own?"

          "Yeah, the split-blade ones. Where are you parked?"

          We walked back out the doors into the Arctic. She pointed. "Over there."

          "Too far. We're driving," I stated and made a beeline for my truck. Musica followed, laughing again. "Come on, it's not that far! It would be quicker to walk!"

          "Yeah, but this way, I'll be warm," I pointed out logically. 

          Musica conceded the point. A few minutes later (apparently, the college moved the entrance to the parking lot, a decision I thought was stupid), we arrived at her car and discovered a new problem. 

          "No parking spots?" I demanded, outraged.

          "There's one over there," Musica suggested.

          I gave her a look. "I don't wanna walk that far--that's the whole reason we drove in the first place." I checked the immediate area. No one was around, so I put my truck in park in the middle of the lane. "Perfect. Right here."

          "That is so illegal," she pointed out.

          "Only if you get caught. Wait! I have an idea!" I announced and turned my hazard lights on. "There. Park-anywhere-button activated!"

          Musica decided not to comment on my questionable relabeling of and flagrant misuse of the emergency gear and hopped out to get to her car. I followed, where she presented me with the sword.

          "Whoa, that is nice," I breathed, promptly forgetting the cold. I twirled it briefly. "Full tang, too. Sharpen this up, and you have a battle-ready sword."

          "Really?"

          "Yepp." I handed her back the sword. "I prefer an hand-and-a-half grip, myself, though. More versatility."

          "Well...it's kind of a hand-and-a-half for me," she pointed out, actually getting both hands on the grip. 

          "Good gravy, how small are your hands?" I demanded before looking at mine. "Okay, to be fair, mine are freakishly huge, but still."

          Musica adopted a fighting stance. "So, what are you going to teach me?"

          "The importance of not doing this in the campus parking lot," I said regretfully. "Campus PD would probably not take kindly to that. Let's get in the truck and try to find a place to fight."

          "Where are your swords?" Musica asked as we got back in the truck. 

          "Back seat," I said distractedly, reaching back to pull them out. "Careful, these are literally battle-ready."

          "No kidding. They look sharp."

          "They are sharp," I confirmed, leg twitching a little as I remembered a certain incident regarding the coffee table, a failed somersaulting attempt, and my knee. "Anyway, where can we go? Maybe..."

          "Skipper's apartment," we both said at the same time before laughing. 

          "That wouldn't be awkward at all," Musica snickered, glancing at the clock, which read 9:03 PM.

          I nodded. "Yeah, he's probably in bed by now. Let's not make him answer the door in his PJs because two insomniacs wanna spar."

          We finally decided on a park and set course, briefly debating the legalities of sword-fighting in the middle of town before deciding that there probably weren't any laws either for or against it. I brought both of my blades, long experience teaching me that it was best to have more than one available weapon when training novices. Professionals were predictable; novices tended to flail in some odd and surprising ways. My blades were both single-edged to Musica's dual-edge, so I flipped them both around to that the dull edge was my leading edge. Like I said before...flailing.

          "So what should I do first?" Musica asked.

          I grinned. "Glad you asked. Grab your sword with both hands and raise it over your head."

          "Like this?"

          I put one of my blades down and showed her. "No, like this."

          "This feels weird," Musica muttered.

          I nodded. "Yeah, but it's crazy versatile. You can do a straight downward chop, or come in from both sides, or--" I demonstrated, "sweep in from underneath and up."

          "Wow." She tried all the different strikes, frowning at the last one.

          "Yeah. Drop your shoulder into that a little more--it will help get you more power," I suggested.

          She tried it again, with much more success. "This is so cool! So how do you defend?" She raised her sword.

          I grinned. "Back up a little."

          "What?"

          "Here, go ahead and strike at me," I offered, picking up my second blade and assuming a ready stance.

          She came in with an overhead strike. I moved back just enough to let the blade pass harmlessly in front of me before sliding forward and flicking my right sword up to her shoulder. "Tag!"

          Musica blinked. "That was fast." 

          "Yepp." I backed up and resumed my stance. "Most swordfights are decided in the first few seconds, as opposed to swordplay, which is strictly theatrical. That reminds me. You know any movie that has swordfighting in it?"

          "Yes..."

          I shrugged. "All bullcrap. You don't want to hit swords unless you absolutely have to."

          Musica frowned. "Because...you'll damage them?"

          "Exactly. If you do have to block, use the flat of the blade, never the edge. Edge on edge will destroy your sword pretty fast."

          "How would you do that?"

          I grinned. "Here, stab at me."

          She thrust. I spun my blade in a circle, smacked the sword away, and continued the motion to tap the flat on top of her shoulder. "Like that." I did it a little slower this time. "Circle, flat to edge, then continue the motion."

          "Like this?"

          "Very close. Try not to stop your sword; just redirect the motion. Make it one fluid movement." I spun my sword for emphasis. 

          We continued working, with occasional breaks to retreat to the truck and warm up. (I was doing okay, despite having a body fat index that was seriously pushing the "ridiculously low" level.) We also relocated to a different park when the wind picked up. I showed Musica how to thrust properly, adjust sword angle mid-block, and how to use direction and force of incoming attacks to effectively foil them. She did better than I was expecting, given that it was kind of dark out and that my blades were black.

          There was also not as much flailing as I expected. I did, however, manage to get clobbered across the knuckles when I accidentally stepped into an echo spot, deafen myself, and lose track of her blade. I'd never really realized how much my hearing was tied into my combat skills. After figuring out that I was a literal version of Batman (I said Daredevil initially, but she didn't know who that was), we started playing with my hearing to see if I could effectively pick up attacks when I wasn't looking. Let's just say I did really well. 

          I kinda wished that I'd brought my nunchucks too, but unfortunately, I hadn't thought about that before leaving.

          When we were driving back (some of us finally got cold enough to decide to stop), Musica brought up something I'd completely forgotten about. "So, when are you doing to the dance?"

          I checked the clock. 10:44 PM. "Well, in theory...almost two hours ago."

          "What?"

          I grinned. "It started at nine."

          She shook her head. "I'm so sorry! When does it go until?"

          "One AM."

          "Oh, good, you've got time. When were you going to go back home?"

          "Um...fifteen minutes ago?"

          She stared at me. "RADAR!"

          "What?" I defended myself. "I was only going to go there for an hour and half anyway. I got work tomorrow. Besides, sword-fighting is more fun anyway. And..." I raised a finger for emphasis," I get to cross "sword-fighting at night in a park" off my bucket list."

          "That was on your bucket list?"

          "It was as soon as I thought of it. Hey, we should do this again, and get the twins in on it too!"

Captain's Log, Day 161: Another Career Bites the Dust

          I was whistling (sort of) as I pranced through the woods, staff in my hand and my golden retriever Max at my side. Today's mission: deep forest exploration, following the creek back to the rear end of our property. Since we'd only lived out on the farm for a few years, and various events, insects, plants, and injuries kept interfering with my plans, I didn't quite have the whole woods mapped out yet.
          ...all right, all right, Maxie was sort of "at my side." He was more like "in my general vicinity," being only slightly less ADHD than I was at 12. (To be fair, I really haven't mellowed out with age, either.)
          "Hey, Maxie, check this out!" I yelled, about fifty feet down the hill from the forest border.
          Maxie wildly misinterpreted my command. There was the pattering of paws, followed by an ominous, one-second silence, followed by a mighty thud as airborne dog collided with the unaware kid holding the staff that the retriever wrongly considered to be his rightful property. We rolled down the hill, almost all the way to the creek, at which point I wrestled my errant buddy into submission (Max always did love a good romp) and retrieved my staff. "Not what I meant, Maxie!"
          Max gave me a toothy grin from flat on his back, then licked my face.
          "Ahh! Dude! I did not need a bath!" I yelped, leaping off of him.
          Maxie regained his feet and cocked his head. I looked down at the mud covering me and sighed. "Okay, maybe I do, but this is totally your fault."
          He sniffed my jeans before wandering off to the creek for a drink. I thought about joining him, but I remembered what he'd done the other day, upstream, and decided to pass. Ew.
          "Come on, doofus. I gotta show you something," I tried again, trudging back up the hill. The dog followed my this time.
          We made it to the tree that had caught my attention. It was a monster, probably thirty or forty feet tall, overlooking a steep drop off to the right. Down in the valley, I could see another tree; this one had collapsed, part of it sticking up at an angle from the ground. Must have had a y-branch thing going on...
          Gotta be honest, I really only noticed all of that peripherally. What had my full attention was the vine arcing its way up into the branches in the top of the tree.
          "I've so always wanted to swing on a vine," I confided in Max. He licked my hand in response and tore after a cat that had appeared in the undergrowth.
          "Fine! Don't be adventurous!" I yelled after him, before reminding myself that dog paws weren't really meant for clinging to vines anyway. I yanked on the aforementioned creeper before discovering something interesting; the vine was firmly anchored to the ground.
          Huh. I'd always thought that they grew down from the treetops and not up from the ground.
          Oh well. I had this covered. I yanked out my pocketknife and set to work.
          After ten minutes, I was in the middle of my sixteenth or seventeenth vow to sharpen my bloody knife when I finally cut all the way through. Wiping my slightly-sappy knife off on my jeans (they were a lost cause by now anyway), I closed it up and grabbed the vine firmly, yanking on it.
          It held. Nice.
          I jumped off the ground, wrapping my legs around it. It dipped slightly, the branches of the trees shaking...
          It held. Wonderful!
          I took a little test swing, arcing a ways out over the drop before swinging back the other direction.
          It held. Awesome!
          Time for some fun. I took a running start and hurtled out over the drop, yelling like a maniac. This was even more fun than the rope swing! Better yet, the tree was angled just enough so that there was little danger of me smacking straight into the trunk on my return, so I could swing freely. Life rarely worked out that well. I was beyond pleased, and forthwith claimed both the tree and the vine as my own personal property. My siblings would be so jealous!
          (Note: we kids had a habit of laying claim to anything interesting that we found in the woods. For instance, I owned a whole island in the middle of the creek. Nemesis had another one, while Quill and Squirrel laid joint claim to the last. We each had our own special trees and literal tree houses, while I also had a sort of runoff cave that I was very jealously protective of. This would just be the latest acquisition.)
          I scooted back up to the house and summoned anyone who would listen, refusing to impart my grand secret but demanding that they "come and see." The only ones who turned out were Nemesis and Quill, Squirrel being elsewhere. After looking askance at my clothes (and after five minutes of assuring them that my discovery was in no way--well, indirectly, anyway--related to my find), they agree to join me.
          We marched out to the woods (I may have skipped) posthaste, where I triumphantly unveiled my find.
          "I saw that the other day," Nemesis started.
          I settled into a combat stance, staff at the ready. "But I set it up. Care to challenge?"
          Given that I was the undisputed master of the quarterstaff, they had both forgotten to bring their staffs, and my staffs were lightyears stronger than any deadwood they would find on the ground (my secret shall follow me to the grave), they declined to challenge my claim.
          "What are you gonna call it?" Quill asked.
          Huh. "Um, haven't decided yet," I stammered. "Here--you gotta see this, though! It's amazing!"
          I seized the vine, backed up, and took a running start, sailing over the drop.
          Snapsnapsnapsnap.
          I didn't hardly have time to register that I was suddenly going down, not up, when I slammed hard into that downed tree, wrapping up on the higher branch. Sudden loss of breath made me a little dizzy, but not quite as dizzy as the upper end of that damn vine smacking me in the back of the head, as if to emphasize the more crueler aspects of Murphy's Law.
          I expected that my siblings would come to my aid--but as I peeled myself off the branch and fell in a heap on the ground, I realized that I'd apparently crashed harder than I'd thought. Of course my siblings wouldn't come to help; the official Midway Sibling Code stated that all brotherly or sisterly mishaps must be handled with uproarious laughter, since that was clearly the best medicine. (Our code didn't say whose medicine it was. In this instance, it clearly wasn't mine.)
          Anyway, Quill and Nemesis were rolling down the hill, laughing so hard they weren't making any noise. I wished sourly that they'd end up in the creek (Midway Sibling Code, Paragraph 35: Karmic wishes were better than beating the tar out of each other, but the tar shall be held in reserve) before taking stock of my injuries. My left leg had impacted the lower branch, but since my legs were used to abuse of all sorts, nothing broke. I hoped irreverently that I'd at least get a decent bruise this time. I never had visible bruises, which was annoying.
          My rib felt weird, though. I carefully rolled up my shirt to behold the massive swelling forming on my right side lower ribcage. Careful experimentation (I almost passed out) yielded the conclusion that I'd definitely cracked at least two of them. Well, guess that was why I was having trouble breathing.
          Ugh. I picked myself up, kicked the vine resentfully, and walked slowly back up the hill to meet my siblings' incessant teasing about my "Tarzan-like" abilities (or lack thereof). The general consensus was that any career I had as a "professional jungle dude" was officially out. I managed to hide my injuries from Mom for about three days, at which point she walked in on me changing and saw my multicolored side. Needless to say, there was minor freaking.
          Yeah, now I get a bruise. Yes, I do understand the irony.
          ...on the plus side, it was quite impressive.

Captain's Log, Day 160: When the House is Rocking, Don't Bother Knocking

          Radar, Quill, Nemesis, and Squirrel departed the warmth and comfort of the house for the frigid Minnesota outdoor evening. The sun was setting, darkness casting a shadow over the white snow. All of them were bundled up in full winter attire--snowpants, boots, scarves, gloves, hats, coats...the works.
          Of course, a large part of that was because they were wearing shorts and t-shirts.
          Their dad had kindly built the Midway girls a fully insulated and powered playhouse that summer, with the Midway boys helping on the condition that they got to use it on occasion. (Since Radar and Nemesis were 12 and 8, respectively, any "help" rendered was probably not actually useful, but their dad was gracious enough to let them help.) Dad had also gifted them with a heater for the winter months, so that when their mom was tired of them trashing the house, she could order them outside without even a slight twinging of the conscience.
          The playhouse was a marvel, as would be expected of the product of an engineering mind. It was about ten feet by ten feet, with a front porch (rendered useless at the moment by the Minnesota winter) and a second story loft that took up half the inside space. The result was one and a half floors of fun. Radar, of course, disdained the convenient ladder/trapdoor rig in the corner, preferring to jump for the railing and bodily haul himself up. (Or just jump down, depending on what direction he was going.) This, of course, was probably why he was the one who proposed the game of tag, figuring his daring would give him the edge.
          Snow gear piled in the corner, the siblings voted on who would be "it" first. The honor fell to Quill. Radar scaled the loft, crouching in the far back corner, while Squirrel hid on the ground floor directly beneath him. Nemesis ran up the ladder, closed the trapdoor, and sat on it, leading to a brief discussion of what constituted "fair." Radar argued for an open-trapdoor policy (since it didn't bother him any), Quill argued that a closed trapdoor meant a very one-dimensional game with her and Squirrel, and Squirrel (who did not want to be it) sealed the vote with a cry of "Get off it, cheater!" Nemesis yielded to the vote, and the game began--
          --after Radar activated the boombox with their favorite soundtrack of Pirates of the Caribbean...and turned off the lights to give the game the proper ambiance.
          The move, daring as it was, was initially met with protests before everyone realized that their odds of hiding just got a lot better.
          Quill opened up the round by flying up the ladder after Nemesis (or Radar; she wasn't real picky). Nemesis retreated towards Radar, demanding to know why she wasn't going after Squirrel. Quill pointed out that Squirrel was "too easy" as Radar departed the loft over the railing. Nemesis swung a leg over to follow Radar, desperation making him bold, but was tagged by Quill before he had quite gotten up the nerve. Since a ten-second no-tagback rule was in place, he opted to exit the loft via conventional means to pursue Radar.
          Radar planted off the small toy stove and re-entered the loft. Nemesis settled for Squirrel. Squirrel scurried up to tag Quill, but both Quill and Radar jumped over the railing to the main floor. (Quill remarked that the technique was actually not as bad as she'd previously thought.) Squirrel saw the veritable buffet of tagging options on the ground floor and slid back down the ladder with a haste that led Quill to believe she'd fallen off. She ran up to see if her younger sister was okay and got tagged for her pains.
          By now, Radar was back in the loft, so Quill cornered Nemesis. Nemesis charged for the ladder; as soon as he got out of sight under the loft, Radar jumped back down. Nemesis almost tackled him, his charge for the ladder having merely been a feint. Radar wasn't it for long; throwing out a hand, he tripped Quill. Since that technically counted as a tag, she tried to get Nemesis, but Nemesis had already vanished up the ladder into the loft. Quill followed him up, so he jumped over the railing, emboldened by his siblings' prior successes. Quill jumped after him, so he ran up the ladder. The chase continued in that vein for almost a minute before Quill reversed thrust and was waiting for Nemesis when he jumped over the railing. Nemesis, furious, tagged his incapacitated brother, whose laughter wasn't so pronounced that he forgot to immediately pass the designation of "it" off to Squirrel, who was laughing right next to him. Squirrel got Quill, who tried to get Radar--but Radar was long gone, having scaled the loft via railing moments before.
          Quill tagged Nemesis. Nemesis went after Radar again, trying to pull the same feint he'd used before. His older brother, however, was too wily to be taken in by the same trick twice, waiting until Nemesis's head poked into the loft before jumping down. Nemesis went back down; Radar went up. This continued until the ten seconds were up, at which point Nemesis tagged Quill, since she was considered to be the more accomplished at nailing the oldest. She shot up the ladder. Radar jumped down--
          --and almost landed on his dad, who had just opened the door and walked in.
          Dad flicked on the light as everyone froze in instinctive guilt, before remembering they weren't in the "real house" and thus punishments for banging around would not be forthcoming. Dad noted that a) it was dinnertime, b) the loud music had apparently deafened them to the dinner bell, and c) that it was probably 97 degrees in the playhouse and that they could probably turn down the heat.
          Now that their father had mentioned it, they were all pretty hot. Slipping into their boots, they scooped up their clothes and bolted for the house before their astonished dad could point out that summer clothes probably would result in frozen kiesters....
          He didn't rat them out to Mom, though.

Captain's Log, Day 159: Oh, Fudge.

          About three things I was absolutely positive. First, I was hungry. Second, my butt hurt. And third, I had an appalling lack of furniture in my apartment room.
          Also, I liked brutally murdering famous quotes, but that wasn't really applicable at that precise moment in time.
          "So what now?" Rach asked, hanging upside-down over the edge of my bed.
          I had been sitting on my desk, since Rach had declined my chair and I thought it would be rude to occupy the only legitimate butt-rest in the room. We'd just finished watching a movie, which had been of a long enough duration for the desk to get really uncomfortable. At Rach's query, though, I popped up. "I dunno, but it should involve food. I'm hungry."
          "Yeah, me too," Rach complained, face turning red as a result of her position. With a grunt, she righted herself. "Well, sort of. I'm not super hungry, but I could eat something. What do you have?"
          I mentally ran through my pantry. That was a depressingly brief exercise. "Pretzels."
          "That's it?" Rach made a face.
          "In my defense, I was going to get groceries today," I pointed out. "You kinda sidetracked me."
          She shrugged, stealing my dog blanket. "Well, let's go get some groceries, then. Can I use this as a cape?"
          I stuck my tongue out at her. "No."
          A few minutes later, we were installed in the car my parents were loaning me: a Toyota Matrix. For anyone unfamiliar with the car, it's basically the size of a shoebox, and about as intimidating. Rach, of course, thought it was "cute." I told her that she was nuts and promptly smacked my knee on the steering column as I tried to squeeze in.
          "Gah, I wish I had a truck," I muttered, unaware that, in three years, I'd actually get my wish.
          "Why?" Rach demanded.
          "It's small and has the impact resistance of a tin can," I complained, with the knowledge having been gained in a crash I'd been in the previous semester. (Sorry, Ma.) "Also, the horn sounds like it's terrified of the other cars." I gave that some thought. "Actually, it might be."
          She buckled herself in. "Can I hear it?"
          I wrinkled my nose. "Eew, no. It's embarrassing."
          Rach gave me her best pleading-puppy face.
          "Okay, fine." I honked the horn. The car made a noise that Mom once said sounded like a plea of don't hit me! Rach cracked up.
          "See? Told you it was bad," I grumbled.
          "Do it again!"
          "NO. And I'm not looking at you," I snorted, pulling out of the parking lot.
          Not my best decision.
          BEEP!
          "Hey!"
          BEEP!
          "RACH! STOP BLOWING MY HORN!" I swatted her hand away. She didn't try to hit the horn again, possibly because she was laughing too hard.
          We made it out Walmart without further incident other than Rach shuffling all the stations on my radio. I let her, since the alternative was apparently the horn. However, a new difficulty was presented once inside.
          "Um...what are we getting?" I asked.
          She shrugged. "How would I know?"
          I gave her a look. She returned it with interest. "What? I thought you were the one who needed groceries!"
          I sighed. "True, but I never made a list! I do need milk, though. Hmm, what goes with pretzels?"
          "Chocolate," Rach replied promptly, investigating various hats.
          My eyes widened. "You're brilliant!"
          "I know," she said absently, trying on a Sonic the Hedgehog ball cap. "Wait, what?"
          "We can make chocolate-covered pretzels!" I exclaimed, making a beeline for the chocolate isle.
          "That is a good idea," she agreed. "What kinds should we make?"
          I gave her a blank look. "There are kinds?"
          Rach started pulling baking chocolate off the shelves and tossing it to me. "Milk chocolate...no, we don't want bittersweet...we could try white...ooh! Butterscotch!"
          "That's not technically chocolate," I pointed out.
          "Whatever," she said dismissively. "It'll still taste great. Come on, let's get your milk."
          We made it back out without further incident; I decided to try to make up a grocery list and do my shopping at a later date. (I still mostly ate at the caf, a decision my wallet rejoiced in while my stomach complained. Caf food was notoriously bad.) Rach promptly honked the car horn five or six times before I could stop her, since I incapacitated myself by whanging my knee into that dammed steering column again. That was impressively painful.
          "I should watch my language," I muttered while pinning Rach's hands to the center console with my forearm.
          "'Damn' is hardly swearing," my horn-happy compatriot pointed out, trying with little success to free her arms.
          I fixed her with a look. "I'll let you go if you promise to not honk the horn."
          She remained mute.
          "...until we park?" I suggested.
          "Okay, fine," Rach capitulated. "Man, I wish I had a car like this."
          "You can have it," I grumbled, putting it in gear. "Besides, you'd never quit honking."
          She grinned. "But it's so cute though!"
          I groaned. "I don't want to drive a cute car!"
          Three minutes, two beeps, and one protracted chase later, we were back in my apartment. My suitmate (well, one of them, anyway), Zach, was hanging out in the living room when we burst in. "Hey guys, what's up?"
          "Chocolate-covered pretzels," I announced.
          He gave me a disbelieving look. "Oh, like you know how to cook?"
          "Shut up," I advised him, dumping my ingredients out on the counter. "Where'd I put my pot?"
          Zach snickered. I ignored him.
          I managed to get locate the pot, while Rach blatantly stole one of Zach's for her butterscotch brainwave. Zach decided that TV was going to be nowhere near as interesting as watching this debacle unfold and pulled a barstool over to the counter. "You should add milk," he offered. "It'll cook better."
          I turned to face him. "I'm pretty sure we don't need milk," I began.
          "Too late," Rach announced, dumping a liberal portion into both pans.
          "First my horn, now my milk?" I demanded, throwing a pretzel at her. She caught it deftly and ate it.
          We started stirring and sneaking handfuls of various chips. However, our concoctions didn't seem to be melting like I was expecting them to. After about five minutes, we were staring at--
          "Fudge?" Rach demanded.
          "That's weird," I noted unnecessarily, sticking my finger in to sample it before belatedly remembering that it was still on the stove. "OW!"
          Zach came over to investigate, then doubled over laughing. "Well...that's not the worst way to screw up!"
          "I told you we didn't need milk!" I protested.
          "We can try again," Rach reassured me, handing me her spoon and taking both pots. "I'll make fudge squares. You melt some more chocolate."
          "Fine. I'm stealing another pot," I told Zach.
          He shrugged. "Don't wreck it. I'm going to work."
          "Have fun," I said absently.
          Rach had finished with the squares by the time I had the chocolate melted. She got some pretzels arranged on a plate, then took the spoon from me and began artistically drizzling chocolate over them. After a few moments, she stepped back. "What do you think?"
          "Nice. You missed a spot, though," I noted, upending the pot onto the plate.
          She glared at me.
          "What?" I demanded. "You get better coverage this way!"
          She burst out laughing. "Engineer!"
          "You know it," I returned. "Let's eat."
          The pretzels tasted great. The fudge was surprisingly good, too.

Captain's Log, Day 158: Woofing Practice

          "Come on, Max! You can do it!" Mom urged.
          I was not passing this one up. As stealthily as I could, I eased my phone out and opened the camera app...
          Mom saw me and gave me a hard look. "I don't need this to be on Facebook--Radar, NO."
          "I just...um...I just want a picture of the dog," I lied unconvincingly, punching the record button.
          Mom shook her head. "I don't want to be in it. No."
          "Okay, fine," I huffed in mock exasperation, angling the camera at the edge of the table towards Max.
          Mom turned back towards the dog, holding the plate of meat up (leftover stew). "Come on, Maxie! Woof! Woof! Come on Maxie, you can speak!"
          "I think he's taking a movie," Dad muttered.
          Mom rolled her eyes at me. "Please don't."
          Needless to say, I ignored the request. Mom knew as well as I did that if I put it up on the internet (which I wasn't planning on doing), I was a dead man. However, I considered all non-uploaded videos my personal domain. As the one with the newest phone, too, I considered myself the unofficial family recorder.
          My mother turned back to the dog. "Woof!" she invited.
          Maxie's nose twitched. Everyone burst out laughing.
          "I think there's too much negativity in here," Mom objected, plate still in hand.
          "I think you're confusing 'negativity' with 'realism'," Dad offered, prompting another round of laughter from us Midway siblings. The dog was quite friendly, but somewhat...er...lacking in the brain department.
          "Maxie, speak!" Mom tried again.
          Squirrel piped up. "You're just confusing him!"
          Max gave her a quick glance before returning his gaze to the plate in Mom's hand.
          "Maxie! Do brain surgery!" Dad ordered.
          Even Mom burst out laughing at that one. "Come on, Maxie, can you speak?"
          The dog drooled a little.
          "Come on, you can speak--"
          "Can you drive a car?" Dad inquired.
          We were all almost crying by this point. Max gave us no more attention and drooled at the plate a little more.
          "Maxie! Tell time!" was Squirrel's contribution.
          Dad shushed her.
          "Maxie! Woof! Woof!" Mom tried again.
          Quill snickered. "Change the oil?"
          "OOH! He almost--no, wait, that was a burp," Dad noted. "I suppose it's sorta..."
          Mom patted the dog's head. "Maxie, ignore them. I know you can speak."
          "He's going to bite your arm," Dad said dryly--a hysterical statement, as Maxie was the gentlest dog we knew. Mom gave him a look; as she did so, Maxie slyly extended his nose towards Mom's hand. A moment later--
          "He licked your plate!" Dad exclaimed. "Eew!"
          Mom shrugged. "I was done with it anyway," she pointed out over the laughter.
          "He's sick of it! He's tired of all this woofing crap--just give the plate up!" Dad intervened on behalf of the now wildly confused dog.
          Mom gave her husband a look of mock disbelief. As she did, the golden retriever put his paws on the edge of her seat and launched himself up to see over the edge of the plate. Mom moved it away, just far enough for him to decide that he wasn't going to be able to make it. He settled back down.
          "He's coming over the top!" Dad said gleefully.
          Quill wiped tears of laughter out of her eyes. "Maybe you should just give him the plate."
          "Oh, he's far too done with this," Dad laughed. "He burped--that's close enough!"
          Mom finally acknowledged the inevitable and began lowering the plate to the ground. Maxie lunged for it and helped it descend much faster.
          Dad and Squirrel were still roaring with laughter over Dad's last joke. "Well, he can eat it now," Quill offered.
          "That's like woofing...just...in the other direction," Dad laughed.
          Mom wrinkled her nose at the mess on the floor. "I told you he was gonna have an accident!" Squirrel wheezed.
          "It's woofing in reverse!" Dad offered, still enjoying his joke.
          "He swallowed his woof!" Squirrel offered. Everyone at the table--including Mom--burst out laughing.
          Guess you really can't teach an old dog new tricks...        

Captain's Log, Day 157: Pride and Powder Digging

          I was humming a little tune to myself as I threw myself into a belly-flop from a full sprint. Normally, this would yield a fairly messed-up stomach (not that such concerns ever bothered me at the tender age of 12), but this time--
          --okay, yes, fine, I was totally humming the "Pirates of the Caribbean" soundtrack. Moving on--
          Anyway, this time, I landed on a slight incline of snow and hurtled at full speed into my Fortress of Awesome. I did managed to get my hands up before I put my face into the back wall; I'd already taken more snow to the face than I'd really cared for in one day.
          Not that I was blaming anything but my own inability to duck.
          After giving it about thirty seconds to settle down outside, I cautiously crept back out. Sure enough, with the inciting factor gone (*cough*me*cough*), the snowball fight had subsided. It may have helped that the resident golden retriever, Max, had gotten involved and made it incredibly difficult to land any shots. He loved catching snowballs; decidedly a mixed blessing, at best.
          "Anyway, as I was saying," Quill was saying to Nemesis, "you should see how far I've gotten!"
          "How many rooms?" I asked quizzically.
          "Just the one," Quill replied, eyeing my suspiciously. "We haven't been out here that long."
          Nemesis grinned. "I already have two," he bragged.
          "Three!" I one-upped him, before my sense of honor intervened. "Okay, two and a half. But the third one is almost done!"
          "You guys have all the tools, though!" Quill protested. "I'm doing this by hand!"
          Nemesis offered her a trowel. Quill gave him a look. "And I don't want tools, thank you," she added.
          "Your loss," I shrugged. "Nemesis, can I get the saw from you?"
          Nemesis handed over the wood saw, flexible blade wobbling in an amusing fashion. "Only for a few minutes. I need it once I shovel all the debris out."
          "You got it." I took the saw with alacrity and vanished inside.
          My cave was almost big enough for me to sit up in, thanks to the extra-large section of the drift that I'd promptly claimed and defended against all comers. Since I was also on the end of our line (we liked to build close so we could easily brag to each other about our progress), I got the entire west side to tunnel into. I had no doubt one of my other siblings would eventually cave in one of their sections and move over this direction, which is why my first order of business was extend my territory as far as possible. My cave and tunnel system currently consisted of two fairly large "turn-around" rooms and a fifteen-foot extension west. I figured that, if my luck held, I could get a good twenty to thirty feet before someone tried to jump that direction for a do-over.
          Tunnel-carving was an art. I strategically scored the end of my tunnel with the saw before turning around in room two and kicking out the loosened chunks with my feet. After reversing direction again, I scooped all the snow into the entry to room two, sealing myself in temporarily while I flexed the saw blade and slid it through the roof to create an arched ceiling, accidentally dumping a bunch of snow down the back of my neck.
          In space, no one can hear you scream. That's equally true in a snow cave.
          I shoved all the loose snow ahead of me into room one before wriggling past it and out my cave entrance to the right. Nemesis was waiting for me. "Saw?"
          I handed it to him. "Shovel?"
          Trade completed, I used the shovel to scoop all the dislodged snow out of room one, packing it into a wall around my cave entrance to make a miniature fort. The shovel blade didn't pull up any grass or anything, since there was a layer of ice from previous snowfalls that had partially melted. I figured that one operation gave me another three feet of tunnel. I was definitely in the lead for the title of "Longest Cave System." Since this particular drift was formed by a combination of fence and hillside, it was a good hundred feet long, easily. I'd have my work cut out for me for the foreseeable future.
          "Radar! Come see this!" Nemesis popped out of his cave and beckoned.
          I jumped over my wall and hurried over. "How is it going?"
          "Take a look!" Nemesis urged and...vanished inside.
          How odd. Normally, our caves couldn't take more than one at a time. This, I had to see. I slithered inside, to find that Nemesis had one-upped me in ingenuity. He'd used the saw to cut through the ice layer and into the softer snow beneath, dropping the floor a good ten inches and creating a space we could sit up in. He'd also somehow managed to hollow it out wide enough to fit not just two, but three. I high-fived him, while privately making plans to duplicate his feat.
          After some small talk, we got down to business. "How far this way did you dig?" Nemesis inquired.
          "I didn't, except for my first room," I answered. "You saw that one, right?"
          He nodded. "So I can go that way?"
          "Sure. Just don't break into my wall," I replied graciously.
          "If I do, I can always patch it," he pointed out.
          I felt like arguing. "Unless it's too big."
          Unfortunately for my private warlike desires, he conceded the point. "I'll be careful."
          Ugh. I wanted an excuse to throw snow at him. I privately decided to hit him with a snowball from behind the safety of my wall later with the pretense of "testing my fort."
          "Hey, guys!" Quill popped in. "Oh, wow. Great cave, Nemesis!"
          "Mine's longer," I felt constrained to point out.
          They both ignored me. "Which way are you digging?" Nemesis asked, just to confirm things. The unwritten rule was that the outside parties let the inside party have all the drift room between their caves, since he had nowhere to go.
          Quill pointed east. "That way. I made a little room back by the fenceline, but it doesn't go very far towards you. Want to dig over to it and make a peephole?"
          "Sure!" Nemesis agreed eagerly.
          I edged towards the entrance. "I'm going to get back to work. Nemesis--"
          "You can have the saw now," he said generously, anticipating my request.
          "Thanks." I reflected, a little disappointed, on how his generosity meant that I should probably forebear from smacking him upside the head with a snowball, at least for now--
          "I still think that's cheating," Quill muttered, following me out.
          Ah-HA! Target justified! I dropped the saw into my fort, scooping up a chuck of snow, and splattering it across the back of my sister's coat.
          "AAH! RADAR!" Quill screeched, throwing a snowball back before taking cover behind Nemesis's displaced snow pile.
          Nemesis popped out. "What's going--oh."
          "Help me get him!" Quill proposed.
          He took her up on it. A few moments later, they were spread too far apart for me to defend against with any kind of effectiveness (long years had taught them how to handle me). Maxie was nowhere to be seen, so I opted for the path of tactical retreat and hurled myself into my tunnel again.
          Back to digging!

Captain's Log, Day 156: Parenthetical Wolves

          The Midway kids had a great deal of imagination. Occasionally (usually), it got away from them, to the great enjoyment of anyone who happened to be in the immediate vicinity and the periodic horror of their parents.
          Bible study night is one such example.
          Radar was nine, Quill was seven, Nemesis was five, and Squirrel was three when the parental unit of the Midway family became involved in a Bible study at their parish with a few other families. It seemed like a great idea, conceptually: every so often, the adults would meet to learn more about their faith, and the kids--
          ...ah yes, that's what they (kinda) forgot about.
          The ingenious solution that parents implemented was this. The meetings would be held at the Midway house, upstairs, while the kids would play quietly and safely downstairs. This way, they would know at all times where their young ones were and what they were doing.
          All of the young ones of the Midway family had friends in the other families. Radar's and Nemesis's best friends were Cam and Jay, who were almost as boisterous as they were. Squirrel's friends preferred to play dress-up with her, while Quill and her friends vibrated between Squirrel's group and Radar's group. It was about a fifty-fifty split, unless the boys were playing Spies, in which case the girls stuck together (because the boys were trying to spy on them).
          One fateful night, Radar became bored with the usual fare. Inspired by their game of Indians in which Jay had claimed to have shot a "wolf" (pillow) with a "bow and arrow" (hanger) to eat in their "tepee" (mess of blankets draped over every-freaking-thing), he suggested playing a new game. He called it "Wolf Puppies." (He may have also been inspired by the jumping-off-the-plastic-playhouse-roof competition that he was having with Cam.)
          One of Quill's friends was cooking the meat over an imaginary fire when the natural question occurred to her; where was the den to be? All wolves had a den. Radar pointed out that, between the tepees and the playhouse, they had three dens. The girls could have one of the tepees, while the boys could have the other one, plus the playhouse. Quill pointed out that it was her playhouse and that she was telling on him if he took it. After some deliberation, the boys agreed to generously allow them the inside of the playhouse if they got to have the roof. Quill pointed out that their dads--ALL of them--had told them to stay off the playhouse. Cam and Radar were already wrestling around on all fours growling at each other, so it fell to Jay to point out that it was no longer a playhouse, but the top of a cave, and thus untouched by parental edict. Besides, wolves didn't understand humans anyway.
          Only mildly convinced, Quill and her friends relocated to the inside of the playhouse and began to act out a story full of woe and nobility, in which their wolf parents had died in a tragic accident and they were left to care for their even younger wolf siblings (Squirrel and her posse having been convinced to join). Days went by in a matter of minutes, time in wolf land being considerably different than the time measured by the real live adults upstairs.
          The story of the boys was considerably different. Their parents were gone too, of course (out of necessity--everyone knew that they couldn't have any fun if parents were involved), but their days revolved around learning how to fight and beating the tar out of each other and learning how to catch chickens (small pillows) and rabbits (larger pillows). In a stunning display of teamwork, thanks partly to Radar's extensive wolf knowledge, all the boys ganged up at one point to take down a deer (sofa cushion). All of their prey was brought back to Quill's wolfpack. The female wolf puppies, while grateful for the food, pointed out that their parents would be mad if they caught Radar chewing on the sofa cushions again and made them put it back.
          It was Cam, though, who noticed the moon outside the windows of the basement and remarked that wolf puppies should really be howling. Radar pointed out that wolves liked howling from mountain peaks; so, with a considerable amount of group effort, they installed themselves on the roof of the playhouse, crouched down on all fours, and howled at the moon.
          They may or may not have completely forgotten about the Bible study going on upstairs, whose discussion on the creation of the animals in Genesis was interrupted by wolf howls from downstairs.
          Needless to say, the Midway children's father was the one who drew the short straw. He appeared at the base of the stairs, arms crossed and glaring at the errant puppies perched on the playhouse roof.
          Howls stopped mid-warble and a mass exodus from the forbidden perch occurred. Sudden quiet notwithstanding, their father demanded to know why a) they were on the roof and b) what the ungodly racket was about. It fell to Radar to explain the new game (parenthetically adding that wolf puppies couldn't understand human orders anyway), to which the parent sternly ordered them to have less fun (okay, he said "keep it down," but the meaning was clear) and departed for the boring adult gathering upstairs with his mouth twitching suspiciously.
          New rules were promptly instated. By decree of Radar, all howling must be kept to ordinary vocal levels (as opposed to "jet taking off" levels), and the picnic table was to be pushed over next to the cave (playhouse) to make it easier to climb on top. When Quill and Nemesis protested, Jay and Cam pointed out that Radar's dad had never told them to stay off, he'd only asked why they were up there and told them to keep quiet. Such logic was unassailable. Quill and a few of her braver friends made the trip to the top.
          None of them were caught up there when the grownups came down later to collect their respective charges, mostly because the girls were trying to make a more comfortable den in the playhouse and the boys were crawling around on all fours with pillows in their mouths (they'd just caught some more rabbits). Radar probably would have gotten yelled at if someone hadn't pointed out that, with their mouths occupied, they were technically quieter than before. Despite that, Radar did get in a little hot water later for chewing on the pillows (again), but the game quickly became a staple of the Bible nights.
          At least until Radar introduced a new game: Obstacle Courses.