I’ve mentioned that I have Danish clients. Usually, their emails are in Daneglish. But here’s a copy of an email I received this morning:

This clearly meant one of two things.

1. Someone sent or received an e-mail about something that might have something to do with something I wrote.

2. The sender included my email address by mistake.

So I turned to the internets for translation. I’ve always used Babelfish for all my translation needs. Which are constrained to the fake French emails I exchange with Mike, a graphic designer in Portland. We crack ourselves up with our bad French because we are ridiculously easy to entertain.

But Babelfish does not include Danish. Little did I know that Google could do all THIS!

Turns out that my client submitted a grant, and this email acknowledged its receipt. More importantly, there’s nothing I need to do about it right now. Or perhaps ever.

But the next time you need to translate Macedonian into Haitian Creole, you now know exactly where to turn.

And no wonder Google runs the universe.

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Here are some more pictures that Mr. M took at the dropzone. The first one is me walking out to the plane, next to Big John (in red). Big John is an awesome instructor. Way back when I was first starting out and had completely blown one of the many student jumps I completely blew, he said, “You can do this if you choose to.”

I can’t tell you how many times I heard that in my mind over the ensuing weeks. I’m very grateful to him.

Anyway, once I got my license, Big John and I occasionally jumped together.

You’ll notice that I’m the only one wearing a helmet. In my student days, I had to wear a helmet while walking out to the plane. Most experienced jumpers carry them or clip them onto the chest strap on the front of their harness. Many don’t put their helmets on until about 12,ooo feet.

I wear mine because it would be just like me to whack my head really hard on one of the many metal things inside the plane and a) knock myself out, b) split my head open, or c) both. In which case, I wouldn’t get to jump. So I wear my helmet. Now that I have my new helmet, which is black, I only feel 85% as dorky.

This is us, waiting to get on the plane about five minutes later.

We’re in the back because we’re getting out first. There’s an order in which people exit the plane, depending on what they’re doing.

The arrow points to an extremely helpful thing. Mark’s holding the ladder for people. More importantly, after the last person gets into the plane, he’ll lay the ladder down on the ground. The last person into the plane will then shut the door and the plane will take off.

Mark isn’t always there. Occasionally, someone else will hold the ladder. If not, then the last person is supposed to lay the ladder down and jump into the plane.

This closeup shows you how high you’re supposed to jump. And the plane is generally starting to move by the time you do it.

I’ve done it once. I jumped up and managed to get my upper body on the plane, but my hips and legs were dangling. If the friend I was jumping with hadn’t pulled me in, I’d probably still be there.

I’ve watched other, male people do it. They make it look really easy.

The prospect of having to put down the ladder and jump into the plane has been bugging me. “Bugging” being a euphemism for “intimidating.”

Last weekend, I was talking to a woman skydiver who has 200 more jumps and about 15 fewer years than me. I said that I hated being the last one into the plane because of the whole ladder/jumping thing. She said, “I always ask a boy to do it.”

It’s that simple?

Oh.

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Amy, Cherry, and I went kayaking again on Saturday. We went 12 miles down the Willamette River.

We remained fully clothed. Except for the one part where we were on the shore skipping stones, and Amy picked up something with the heft and geometry of a brick, and I said, “If you skip that, I’ll drop my pants.”

Girlfriend knows how to toss building materials.

We did not get citations from Polk County.

However, Amy and Cherry kept saying things like, “You see how that water over there is darker?” and also “Notice how those two currents meet up ahead?”

To which, my answers were “No” and “No.” In a kayak, your eyes are about two feet above the water. How is that enough altitude to distinguish dark water from slightly less dark water? I did manage to see currents once.

There’s a whole river vocabulary: snags, currents, hazards, and stuff. Undertow, probably, and herons. They were all “We’re River Speakers,” and I was “Went to River but Left the Phrasebook at Home.”

They finally resorted to imperatives like, “Stay to the right” and “No, the OTHER right.”

Near the end, Amy summed up the experience by telling me that I should probably not plan on a second career as a river guide.

I suspect she’s right.

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Buster is a creature of habit. He needs to go out six times a day:

1. First thing in the morning right after he eats. He would eat with all four legs tied in a knot if he had to, because nothing is more important than that small pile of brown pellets.

2. A little while later, especially if it was raining the first time. It’s hard for a boy to stay outside long enough to get everything accomplished if it’s raining.

3. Later in the morning, because of the quart of water he washed down the brown pellets with.

4. Late in the afternoon, after napping in various positions all day long.

5. After the second pile of brown pellets called dinner.

6. Last thing at night.

The way he lets us know that he needs to go outside is that he stands by the back door and stares at us. Buster has elevated staring to an entire language of its own. There’s your “I have to go out” staring, and your “It’s time for dinner” staring, and the “I’m bored because you’ve sat at your desk all day” staring. Plus random stares thrown in to confuse me.

Which always works. I say, “What? What?!” until he tires of how dense I am and lies down with a sigh.

Our yard isn’t fenced, so we take him out on a leash. We started doing this when he was a puppy. Our neighbor’s cat always ran when she saw B coming, which is Dogese for “Game ON!” Buster never had–and still doesn’t–any skills at coming when he’s called, unless there’s absolutely no other option. In which case he puts his head way down and walks over very, very slowly.

We’ve taken him out on a leash for seven years. About two weeks ago, Mr. M started letting him out without a leash. You know, just opening the door and trusting that the combination of seven years of habit, plus a dog biscuit, would bring him back inside.

It did. We were pleased and proud.

Then he started standing by the back door and staring at odd moments. Like, say, ten minutes after he came back in. We’d let him out and he’d wander around the back yard and try really hard to squeeze a few drops out.

Then he’d dash back in and stare at us expectantly.

It took Mr. M a few days to recognize the “I was just outside and I came back in, so fork over the treat” stare.

Irritainment is Buster’s specialty.

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When you have a license, you can dive with other people. It’s really, really fun.

You all plan how you’re going to get out of the plane, and you practice several times on the ground. Then you fly up to 13K feet and jump out and do it.

In my case, theoretically.

On Saturday, I jumped with several other people, who all had at least 50–and, in some cases, more like 5000–jumps than I do. It’s totally awesome that they included a complete spaz newbie in their jumps.

Here’s an illustration of what it looked like.

You can tell this is an illustration because the ground is so brown. I think this picture is from somewhere in Australia. I didn’t pay attention when I stole it off of the internets.

But the same principles apply. You’ll notice that six people are in a circle, holding on to each other. They practiced this on the ground, and it worked out well in the air for them.

Now, in the lower left hand corner of the picture, you’ll notice a solo skydiver. Far away, and, depending on the dive, either well above them or way below them. She practiced on the ground, too, and she jumped out of the plane at the right time. The whole getting into a circle thing? Not so much.

I’ll give you three guesses which one I am. And the first two don’t count.

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I occasionally think about being a food blogger for no particular reason.

One of the problems with me being a food blogger is that I would have to apply heat to food. I rarely do this. But, yesterday, I did.

So I made a practice food blog.

I’m not going to tell you what I made. I’ll tell you what ingredients you need as we go along. I don’t want to give the whole thing away up front, which could be another problem with me being a food blogger.

You only need six ingredients, not counting fresh ground pepper, which shouldn’t really count as an ingredient. More like an incidental.

First, you need a pie crust.

I often have a stray extra pie crust in the freezer. That’s where this one came from. You could also buy a pie crust, but I think that’s cheating. Which is hilarious, since I don’t think hardly cooking ever at all is cheating in the least. I am the Queen of Double Standards.

Unfortunately, I save pie crusts indiscriminately. A few seconds into the process, I remembered this particular crust. Because it did this.

This is Buster’s favorite kind of pie crust. Because the odds are very good that a chunk of it is going to fall right off the kitchen counter. He’s always ready. I wanted to take a picture of him staring at the floor, but I guess the only thing more important than immediately eating anything that falls is being worried about having your picture taken.

After about ten minutes of PlayDoh time, the crust was ready.

Put it in a 350 degree oven for about five minutes, until it starts to brown.

Now you need these:

Tomatoes. These are organic heirlooms, with a few Romas thrown in for good measure. Cut them into wedges and put them on top of the pie crust. Then put some feta cheese and Kalamata olives on top.

Go in the backyard. Try to remember which clump is thyme. Pick oregano, anyway, because you like it better. Plus you know which one it is. Then, for good measure, add a few leaves from another clump in case it’s thyme.

Put it on top, too. Plus the black pepper. And drizzle (which, when you stop to think about it, is a strange word) olive oil over the whole thing.

There you go.

Now put it back in the oven and set the timer on your watch for 25 minutes. When it chirps at you, turn it off and finish the email you’re writing. Edit it obsessively, because that’s how you roll. All of a sudden, remember that you turned the timer off and bolt for the kitchen.

Perfection.

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Capital T. Capital R.

The Rig.

On Saturday, I picked up my new (used) rig at the dropzone. Many people think of a rig as a truck. But a rig is a container, parachute, reserve parachute, and affiliated hardware.

The rigger at our dropzone, Instructor Ted, found the parts for me. He packed the parts into the container. The first time.

Then I had to pack it myself. No big deal, right?

You need visuals.

That’s me from the back, wearing my rig. The wonderful Mr. M came out to the dropzone yesterday and took pictures. The red rectangle is the space my main parachute occupies; it’s about 6″ x 14″ x 14″.

The space above the red rectangle holds my Diet Dr. Pepper, a paperback book for cloudy days, and my iPod.

Not really. The only thing in there is my reserve parachute. It has to be packed by a professional rigger every 180 days whether it’s been used or not, and let’s all hope that ‘not’ is always the case.

Here’s what has to fit into the red rectangle:

All that blue and white fabric. (I know, I know, I’m doing that squinty thing I do all the time. It’s probably because a whole bunch of guys were sitting on the porch laughing at me. They laugh at me all the time. It’s just what happens, mostly because I frequently do things that deserve to be laughed at.)

Here’s another view of what has to fit into that space:

Obviously, there’s a truckload of air in there still. And it all has to come out. Plus, all the lines have to be tight and in the center, and the folds of the parachute have to lay on top of one another, and then you wrap it up in itself and lay down on it in various positions to get the rest of the air out, then make a bunch of S folds in a long packet of slidey fabric and try to cram it into a little fabric bag that’s smaller than the red rectangle. And close it using rubber bands that are almost too small.

I learned how to do this a few weeks ago, but I hadn’t practiced in a while.

Here are my times for getting the rig packed back up this weekend. And also, the names of my various advisors, helpers, and general cheerers-on.

90 minutes. Mark, my hero. He came over and talked me through the entire first pack job.

50 minutes. No one. This was completely and totally beginner’s luck.

90 minutes. Paul, Carrie, Alex, and Ryan. I had to partially unpack it twice. It was a group effort, in the end.

35 minutes. Betty and Ryan, who provided excellent tips to speed things up.

The very best part of the whole thing is that in between each one of these packing jobs, I got to JUMP!

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Then:

Now:

I want to care. I should care.

But I’m ignoring the call light and going out for a cigarette.

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I’ve sussed out the most important things you need to know about skydiving. And I’m dedicated to sharing them with you.

Here’s Lesson Number One.

Never be too eager.

Got it?

Good.

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