Weekend activities in Middle Earth

My Mac died. It was a wonderful little Mac. And cheap, because I'm a girl, and really what is the point to being a girl if you can't conjure up a few sniffling tears and get $150 knocked off the price of your already discounted laptop? Nurturing, artistry, fierceness, and beauty? Is the trouble of femininity really worth these virtues? No, but 150 bucks certainly is. Because I have my head on straight. And a scathing sense of reality.

Back to the point: my Mac died. And it made me sad. I've been a-coaxing and a-conjuring, a-begging and a-threatening with various sized mallets, but she won't comeback to me. The need to blog has finally outweighed my despisal of Justin's Intel. I don't like it, but I have no choice. My muse has the flu again, and words are just vomiting out everywhere... it's been a long time, I need to get back into the swing of not being a weirdo. Bear with me.

One final excuse before we continue: the spacebar on this maleficent, Windows 10 monstrosity is a wee bit sticky. (Kind of like that Farside cartoon where one sinner in hell murmurs to the other, "Man, the coffee's cold. They thought of everything!" Windows 10 left no pang unprodded.) Ergo, if you come to a word that is a paragraph long, know that I am not just making things up again. I am being thwarted. By a machine. Which is poetic, and maddening... and rather cliché.

It was bone-chilling cold here, so Justin decided it was a perfect day to take up Frisbee golf. We put several coats and hats on everyone and soldiered out to a Frisbee golf course. I'm not sure if this has ever come up, but I am a dis-embodied Frisbee-ist. When a human being loses their proprioceptors, they are no longer able to act physically in the world without visually focusing on the limbs/joints needing to move. (It's a thing. Again, I'm not making this up.) The brain via it's five primary senses has to willfully urge the body to act. That is how I play Frisbee. My eyes scream rather telekinetically at my wrist to break with enough whip to project the Frisbee forward, but to stop before I throw the rebellious disc into the next county off to my right. Disc games are exhausting. So much effort.

But the husband grew up throwing whatever was put in his hands, so he cannot empathize with my body's active betrayal of my conscious mind. And he brings kids back to life on a daily basis, so he gets to pick our recreational activities. ... Which is a pretty good system.

Thus we tromped. Over the frozen earth. Ears being gnawed on by the wind. To play eighteen holes of Frisbee golf. It took me nine throws to sink my "putter" Frisbee into the basket on the first hole.

It was then I lost my cherub-like demeanor.

And then this happened on the second hole.

In case that picture is unclear:

An Ent stole my Frisbee. And he put it in the 32.5 degree water down an embankment; because at some point inmy life I must have stepped on an acorn.

I would have included my lack of proximity to the hole in this picture, but the hole is behind me about three miles away on the other side of the Misty Mountains. As I trudged back up the embankment, Justin asked, "Are we done, then?" Oh, baby. Are we done.

Alas proprioception, you carried me through the Narrows in Converses, but Frisbee golf in Fangorn has bested you.

Unless Justin single-handedly reaches through the Matrix to Neo-like massage some kid's heart back to beating, I get to pick the next pass-time. And it will not involve any throwing of any kind... okay, maybe throwing pizza dough. I can't imagine how that could go wrong...