ducks, dares, and dexter, mr. president

I may as well just confess it. I don't feel compelled to spend sunny days outdoors. While my friends are taking the day off work and whisking their kids off to various parks, I am at home, utilizing the extra rays to kick my cleaning into overdrive.

So yesterday, Presidents' Day, was no exception. Todd got off early and swooped home to take the kids to Silver Falls, and I was muy contenta to fold Mt. St. Laundry and watch reruns of Lost. But no. Having heard of my abandonment, those kindly Kinches took pity on me once again and invited me to join their duck-feeding excursion. Even with all the ambiance of the state penitentiary, I had serious misgivings.

You see, I fell for this once before, about five years ago. A friend cajoled me to bring my kids to feed these same disease-riddled fowl, and, long story short, we slogged through five-inch bird shit until my kids' Brazilian-made Nubuck suede shoes were ruined, as were their pants, and I was reduced to a thumb-sucking infant for days. (I have OCD remember?)

So I was hardly clicking my heels to meet B & Co. at what I have come to call Duck Shit Acres. But I didn't have my kids, and I felt I could safely roam the outskirts without spoiling their fun, so I went. No sooner had I pulled in than a dreadful scowl etched itself onto my face. My reward for this immature behavior? Adam used his high-powered camera lens to capture it. I could feel the stench being absorbed by my pores, and my shoes were literally sticking with each step, and I had to peel them off. (Imagine a loud sucking sound.) I did my best not to tarnish their fun, but failed miserably, and we left rather soon.

Back at chez Kinch, I was confronted by Brandy with my promise to let her stick me with her new insulin needles. True to my cowardly form, I grabbed Adam's arm and offered him up first. After a little squirming, he let her do it, which pretty much set me swaying. Then they both turned to me expectantly. The periphery turned black, and I was too dizzy to run. B had that needle screwed in in about .00001 seconds, and began grabbing for my arm. She was serious about getting down to business. My short data file of plausible excuses shuffled through my brain, but alas, I was left with no choice. I'd love to make a big fat deal of how brave I was, but the truth is, the science behind these syringes is phenomenal, and it didn't hurt at all. 0%. This makes me feel so much better for B, but a little sad for myself that I lost out on any kind of courage award.

As if frolicking in seagull shit and getting stabbed with needles wasn't macabre enough, next we rented some Dexter, and settled in for a little homicide at sunset. Maybe on Memorial Day we can swim in the Willamette River and then engage in a little group cutting...