International Bad Ass

Warning:  The word “ass” and a couple of its variations is used in this blog post a lot.  Like a metric ass ton.  It’s just called for.  Roll with it this one time.  Okay, we all know there will be lots of other times but just roll with it, damn it.

Remember that little fear of heights thing I blogged about here and the accompanying proposed zip line excursion?  Well, I won’t say that I conquered that fear completely in Roatan, Honduras but it failed in making me its bitch and I gave it a kick in the ass and balls it won’t forget for a long, long time.

I did it.  I know it’s not a big thing to some of you.  Maybe you’ve scaled Mount Everest or jumped out of an airplane when you didn’t even have to.  This blog post isn’t meant to impress you although I think you’re bad ass and I can only aspire to live as fearlessly as you do.

This blog post is meant for the weak kneed people who stay in the shadows, watching the excitement take place around you and without you.  This post is for the people who are automatically handed the camera to take pictures of others doing exciting things because…  well, you’re a pussy and everyone knows it so you may as well document THEIR bad assery for their next Facebook profile picture.  This post is meant for people like me, like I still am in many ways.

This adventure has given me hope that I can do other things I never imagined I would do.  I have gained 40 pounds over the past eight months and have been feeling a bit mousy.  I didn’t feel mousy after this was over.  I felt exhilarated and that zip line gave me the kick my ample ass so desperately needed.  I’m excited to think of all the other phobias I can conquer in all different cities now and that just inspires me to lose the weight, even though that obviously didn’t stop this adventure.  The fact that I did this while feeling incredibly low and mousy just means that I can accomplish bigger, better things when I’m feeling my best again.

My son and I were only maybe two of three people (if I recall correctly) who zip lined upside down, with assistance, of course.  I am giddy that I did this and I hope it inspires the piss out of you.

I will do full reviews of each excursion in the coming week, including a more in-depth review of this zip lining  trip.

In the meantime, feast your eyes on Steph:  International Bad Ass.  There’s talk of a possible movie and it’s surprisingly not even a porn.  I’d like Kate Beckinsale to play me because she’s hot and and a total bad ass.  We’ll see how it goes.   Also, I have to apologize to my husband because I think the zip line dude and I made it to at least 3rd base, based on the photographic evidence.




I think I should have a Caption This contest for the look on zip line dude’s face.  And check out my cool Def Leppard tank.  Bad assery exemplified.  I also must point out that I kept my sunglasses on, albeit askew, even upside down!  There is nothing I can’t do now!

Now y’all go out and do something bad ass this week.

22 Years Is A Good Run

I found out today that after 22 years my husband has finally had enough of my shenanigans and will attempt to off me in March.  Quite an accusation, isn’t it?  Let me explain.

I have panic disorder.  I take a controlled substance (or “nerve pills” as my genteel Southern Doctor calls them) three times a day to keep this disorder at bay.  Sometimes, in the perfect storm, the nerve pills aren’t enough.

I can swim but I’m not a very good swimmer.  I still have to hold my nose when I go underwater or I surface choking on pool or ocean water, snot flying everywhere.  The taunts year after year from the toddlers at the pool still don’t motivate me to learn the practice of not breathing underwater.  I’m 44 years old.  Why should I learn now?  God didn’t give me gills so why should I pretend to be a fish?  I’m just keeping it real.  Those toddlers are total fakes and wannabes.  I’m better than those ass holes.

My aquaphobia is not limited to calm pool water.  My husband convinced me over a decade ago to tube the Guadalupe River with him.  I was young and stupid so I did.  It was going pretty well for the exception of a turtle biting my ample ass until I heard the rapids.  Yeah.  Rapids.  Here’s the fun part:  If you lived through the rapids, God Himself had thrown in an honest to goodness Mother Nature made 200 yard water chute.  Here is what a local tour group says about the chute:

“Our natural made fast flowing 200 yard chute will blast you down the Guadalupe River. At the bottom of the chute is a rocky beach where you can stop and hang out with friends or take your tube back up and ride that chute over and over!”

Over and over again?  They are obviously some very sick bastards.

As we were approaching the rapids, my husband grabbed my hand.  The plan was to go through the rapids together only we got separated by a little island.  He says I let go of his hand.  I say he was the Rose to my Jack from Titanic and he totally let me go after repeatedly swearing “I’ll never let you go.”

He made it past the rapids and the chute and waited for me to come through.  My tube and flip flops, the traitorous fuckers, made it down to my husband just fine but I did not.  I was upstream, holding on for dear life to a tree.

My husband fought his way back to me with my tube and flip flops in hand and then proved he was crazier than I was when he yelled “Let go of the tree!” and then actually expected me to LET GO OF THE TREE!  I did not let go of the tree.  The tree and I were pretty intimate by then and I was incredibly reluctant to say goodbye.

It turns out, all I had to do to extricate myself from my imminent watery grave was to just stand up.  I had been clinging to a tree in no more than about 4 feet of water.  I was sure at the time that the only way my ass was getting out of there was by rescue helicopter.  In the end, we made our way to the river bank and walked past Mother Nature’s Death Trap.  This marked the first time I ever gave the finger to a work of nature.

I also have severe claustrophobia.  I want to be cremated when I die simply because I have a near panic attack thinking of my corpse being trapped in a coffin.  Where would I haul my dead ass?  I don’t know but I want to have options.

I cannot sit on the inside of a crowded theater row without having a panic attack.  I can barely sit on the inside of a restaurant booth and remain calm.

I freaked the fuck out two years ago when navigating the Dragon Challenge ride queue at the Wizarding World of Harry Potter.  I had to bolt for an Emergency Exit door.  It was quite the scene and I cursed in front of children, something I rarely do, believe it or not.  We go to Orlando every Halloween so last year I had to listen to my children snarkily and repeatedly ask me if I was going to “freak out” in every dark and tight ride queue.  They seemed to forget that I cook for them four times a year.

My last known fear is acrophobia, the fear of heights.  One of my worst recurring dreams stars myself free falling the shit off of something and I always have lots of time to think on the way down.  The circumstances change and I don’t have them often but when I do, I wake up with a pounding heart, barely able to breathe, mentally repeating to myself that it was only a dream.

What does my absolutely charming tendency to freak the fuck out in many different scenarios have to do with my strong suspicion that my husband is planning on killing me soon?

We will be sailing on our annual Spring Break cruise next month.  I just told you, dear reader, that I have a fear of water, particularly naturally semi-rapidly moving water.  I am extremely claustrophobic and I am afraid of heights.  Here is the first excursion option my husband sent to me today:

Oh dear God.  This is a snuff film.  Those innocent peple are willingly entering the gates of hell on round pieces of air filled plastic.  The purveyors of death then try to cover up your murder by calling it “Cave Tubing”.  I will not be fooled.  “Butts up” is accurate because your ass will be in the air when your dead, bloated carcass surfaces days later.  Hell to the no.

The next shore excursion suggestion was this:

You see that nice man at the 20 second mark, handing out beers?  Those bottles of beer had damn well better have roofies in them.  You see the 48 second mark?  That’s when I shit my yoga pants.

This blog post should provide sufficient evidence for my murder trial.  I trust you, my readers, to avenge my death by any means necessary.