Well we've certainly had an interesting morning this morning. Instead of waking up to birds chirping and flutes playing, Tony woke up to Mason peeing on him, and I woke up to him yelling about it. Then, while Tony was in the shower and I was sitting in the floor after stripping the sheets, Mason came right over to within arms reach of me and looked me dead in the eye while he pooped on the carpet. (Poor Tony, as if being peed on wasn't bad enough, he had to handle poo patrol too).
It seems that one of our elder fur-children is trying to tell us something.
It's not like Mason to act out, so there's definitely a message going on here, although darned if I can figure it out. (Anybody know what deliberately peeing on someone while they sleep translates to in cat?) I wish this was one of those times where the cats could just go, "Excuse me, but I've been trying to get your attention to tell you that I'm sick/upset that my favorite twisty-tie is stuck under the couch/annoyed that Bella seems to get all the best lap time when you're watching TV".
He's a good cat, he really is, and this isn't like him at all. Plus you can almost see the frustration in his little cat eyes as he stares at us, willing his mysterious message into our dense human skulls. I've tried to concentrate and decode his little physic cat messages whenever he gets all stare-y like this, but it usually just ends with me getting a headache. (Mason cannot believe how we humans have managed to survive this long, being as dumb as we are. The fact that we can access the refrigerator and he cannot also rankles). Anyway, apparently he's been trying to tell us something for weeks, and I guess he decided today that he needed to step things up a bit.
(And in case you're wondering, we haven't changed the food, the litter, the number of cats, any routines, the environment, or anything else lately. The cat is just cuckoo for cocoa puffs).
I called the vet and made an appointment for him, so here's hoping that they'll know what's going on. I'd like to think that this is his way of getting our attention (and boy, did he get it!) for something that is easily fixed, like maybe a urinary tract infection rather than just one of those nebulous cat behavioral issues. I'm going to be annoyed if all they can come up with is something like, "He's trying to establish alpha-cat dominance over the household". (If that's the case, alpha cats sleep in the basement).
Don't you worry, Mason. We'll get you figured out. There's something going on in the little kitty brain of yours, and we'll do out best to get to the bottom of it.
And hopefully before we run out of clean sheets.
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Showing posts with label Doesn't Play Well With Others. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Doesn't Play Well With Others. Show all posts
3/3/10
Busting Out a Little Round Ball
Here's something different: Tony and I went to a Tennessee men's basketball game tonight. They were playing Arkansas, and it was apparently senior night, so we said why not, might be fun.
And it was. Which was kinda surprising, because normally we're not that big into basketball. Hockey? Absolutely. Baseball? Okay. Football? I can even follow that. But basketball? Not something I've ever really gotten into. (On TV, it just seems like a bunch of running back and forth, back and forth. But live? Actually pretty exciting if I do say so myself).
Of course, good tickets help A LOT. Some guy at Tony's work has season tickets on the SECOND ROW right behind the UT bench. He couldn't use them tonight, so we ended up with them instead. ON THE SECOND ROW! How sweet is that?!? We were so close I could have offered Bruce Pearl some of my hot pretzel. (I didn't because he was all busy stomping back and forth and yelling and I didn't want to interrupt his whole coaching mojo thing, but the point is that if Bruce had looked the slightest bit hungry, we soooo could have been pretzel buddies. Next time, Brucey baby, next time).
Also? Second row gets you into TV shots whenever they pan the bench or do a closeup on Pearl. (And knowing this, I very craftily wore my cute new pair of cargo pants which were purchased not two days ago and were just begging for local tv exposure). Not to mention that if you're going to be sitting on the second row with roughly 20,000 people behind you, it's always a good idea to bring the cuteness. Besides, all the pockets meant I could bring my phone/money/PDA/lip balm into the arena without having to drag my purse around and/or be searched for weapons at the gate. (See how smart these cargo pants are? I heart them.)
Being close to the action doesn't actually mean that you'll understand it, however. Every time they blew the whistle, I was asking Tony, "What happened? Why'd they stop? Is there a foul?" (Foul is the only basketball term I know). And he, without ever taking his eyes off the court in that way that men do, would say something like, "The call was an illegal screen in the backcourt by the blah, blah, blah more technical basketball terms here and now the defense has the ball." And I'd be all like, "Yes, but should I clap or boo?"
Another thing? Whenever there was stoppage of play, all these little kids with towels would run out and crawl around cleaning the floor. Every single time. Maybe a dozen of them, all out wiping away on their hands and knees, happy as clams. And I was like, heeeeeeey! They're really onto something here! I'm not sure how they got around the whole child labor law thing, but I'd like to order two please. First they can wipe up my floors, and then, if they're really good, they can maybe even scrub my bathtubs. Like little under-aged scrubby bubbles, complete with their own mini-towels. Sign me up for that.
Somewhere around the second...half? (Period? Regular playing interval?) I noticed something written on the back of the Arkansas shorts. (I know, I know, my first thought was "bootylicious" too, but that wasn't it). I couldn't quite make it out, but Tony said that it probably read "backs". And I was like, "They need it to say back? Can't they just look for the tag? Or the drawstring or something?" (I mean, I know it's Arkansas and everything, but surely they can dress themselves without having to label everything front and back). And he just stared at me for a minute before going, "They're the Arkansas razorbacks...they're called the backs for short". (And then didn't I feel like a doofus...like maybe I should be the one with labeled clothes). But you know, in my defense, what kind of nickname is the backs? And wouldn't you wonder if you saw it on the back of someone's shorts too? Exactly. Besides, how hard is it to spell out razorbacks? Put forth a little effort, Arkansas.
Of course, in the end we won (although I couldn't tell you by how much since I've already forgotten the score) and I was able to wear my cute pants and watch Bruce Pearl turn purple from all his yelling, and clap and boo (sometimes at the same time) while all the players ran back in forth not 5 feet in front of me. All in all, not a bad evening. This whole basketball thing is growing on me. I might even look forward to doing it again sometime.
I'll even share my pretzel.
And it was. Which was kinda surprising, because normally we're not that big into basketball. Hockey? Absolutely. Baseball? Okay. Football? I can even follow that. But basketball? Not something I've ever really gotten into. (On TV, it just seems like a bunch of running back and forth, back and forth. But live? Actually pretty exciting if I do say so myself).
Of course, good tickets help A LOT. Some guy at Tony's work has season tickets on the SECOND ROW right behind the UT bench. He couldn't use them tonight, so we ended up with them instead. ON THE SECOND ROW! How sweet is that?!? We were so close I could have offered Bruce Pearl some of my hot pretzel. (I didn't because he was all busy stomping back and forth and yelling and I didn't want to interrupt his whole coaching mojo thing, but the point is that if Bruce had looked the slightest bit hungry, we soooo could have been pretzel buddies. Next time, Brucey baby, next time).
Also? Second row gets you into TV shots whenever they pan the bench or do a closeup on Pearl. (And knowing this, I very craftily wore my cute new pair of cargo pants which were purchased not two days ago and were just begging for local tv exposure). Not to mention that if you're going to be sitting on the second row with roughly 20,000 people behind you, it's always a good idea to bring the cuteness. Besides, all the pockets meant I could bring my phone/money/PDA/lip balm into the arena without having to drag my purse around and/or be searched for weapons at the gate. (See how smart these cargo pants are? I heart them.)
Being close to the action doesn't actually mean that you'll understand it, however. Every time they blew the whistle, I was asking Tony, "What happened? Why'd they stop? Is there a foul?" (Foul is the only basketball term I know). And he, without ever taking his eyes off the court in that way that men do, would say something like, "The call was an illegal screen in the backcourt by the blah, blah, blah more technical basketball terms here and now the defense has the ball." And I'd be all like, "Yes, but should I clap or boo?"
Another thing? Whenever there was stoppage of play, all these little kids with towels would run out and crawl around cleaning the floor. Every single time. Maybe a dozen of them, all out wiping away on their hands and knees, happy as clams. And I was like, heeeeeeey! They're really onto something here! I'm not sure how they got around the whole child labor law thing, but I'd like to order two please. First they can wipe up my floors, and then, if they're really good, they can maybe even scrub my bathtubs. Like little under-aged scrubby bubbles, complete with their own mini-towels. Sign me up for that.
Somewhere around the second...half? (Period? Regular playing interval?) I noticed something written on the back of the Arkansas shorts. (I know, I know, my first thought was "bootylicious" too, but that wasn't it). I couldn't quite make it out, but Tony said that it probably read "backs". And I was like, "They need it to say back? Can't they just look for the tag? Or the drawstring or something?" (I mean, I know it's Arkansas and everything, but surely they can dress themselves without having to label everything front and back). And he just stared at me for a minute before going, "They're the Arkansas razorbacks...they're called the backs for short". (And then didn't I feel like a doofus...like maybe I should be the one with labeled clothes). But you know, in my defense, what kind of nickname is the backs? And wouldn't you wonder if you saw it on the back of someone's shorts too? Exactly. Besides, how hard is it to spell out razorbacks? Put forth a little effort, Arkansas.
Of course, in the end we won (although I couldn't tell you by how much since I've already forgotten the score) and I was able to wear my cute pants and watch Bruce Pearl turn purple from all his yelling, and clap and boo (sometimes at the same time) while all the players ran back in forth not 5 feet in front of me. All in all, not a bad evening. This whole basketball thing is growing on me. I might even look forward to doing it again sometime.
I'll even share my pretzel.
8/26/09
On Nail Polish and Books and Water Aerobics
I keep promising myself that I'm going to post something witty or moving or inspirational, but it turns out that I don't really do any of that stuff on a regular basis, so coming up with it is a lot harder than it sounds. And I could wax poetic about what I've been up to lately, but I'm not sure how to make giving myself a pedicure while watching reruns of Bones on TV sound poetic.
(Well I could, but it probably wouldn't be very impressive).
(Okay fine, how's this?)
Coral on my toes
cat tries to rub on wet paint
keen for fall lineup.
When I haven't been picking stray cat hairs out of OPI's Shootout at the OK Coral, I've been reading and going to the gym. Lately I've been focusing on the books I haven't read yet on the Book List, and am proud to note that I have just finished Nineteen Eighty-Four and The Handmaid's Tale. And then, due to a possible overload of dystopian, totalitarian regimes, I had trouble sleeping for the next three days. (I rebounded with an easy yet thrilling Lee Child novel, because why worry about reshaping contemporary society's morals when you can just kill a bunch of people with your bare hands?)
(And what does it say about me that reading about an ex-military guy snapping bad guys necks makes me sleep like a baby?)
The gym turned out to be a pleasant surprise. I messed up my usual swim schedule from the day before, so I made up for it by going the following day. Only I don't usually go those days, so I didn't realize that there was a water aerobics class scheduled for that time. But I thought, why not do the water aerobics class as a gentle warm-up until the pool is free again? So I grabbed the biggest pair of floaty pool weights I could find and joined all the little old ladies bobbing around in the pool.
[I'm going to be completely honest here. I was feeling a little smug about taking the class. I swim, I do the treadmill, I take a free weights class three times a week. I'm not out of shape. And I'm roughly 3 decades younger than the rest of the ladies in the class. So I was not worried about anything that the water aerobics grannies could throw at me.]
Kicked. My. Butt.
It took about 4 minutes before those super-grannies wiped my smug smile off of my face. 2 more before I couldn't feel my legs anymore. And 3 more after that when my lungs exploded. They had me kicking and jumping and water jogging without pause for an entire hour. And they totally called me on it when I started slacking off. (Standing shoulder-deep in a pool will not hinder the hawk-like vision of a Drill Sergent water-granny. She will know instantly when you are not getting your knees up as high as you're supposed to). Either I'm not as in shape as I thought I was, or the mild-mannered super-grannies are secretly all power-lifters. I suspect a little of both.
Right about the time I considered that drowning would be a sweet way to escape another round of underwater sprints... it stopped. Our hour was over, and the evil sadist water-grannies transformed back into sweet little ladies in conservative, ruffle-skirted one piece suits who compared grandchildren stories and worried about getting their hair too wet before the next beauty parlor appointment. They patted me on the shoulder as they left the pool, telling me how nice it was to meet me and how they hoped that I'd be back for the next class. I spent the next few minutes just floating in the pool because I'm not sure my legs would have supported my weight if I'd tried to get out right away.
Not judging a book by its cover seems to be a lesson that I am destined to learn over and over again. I have a tendency to make snap decisions about people (or aerobics classes) based on what they wear, or how they look, or what they say. And more often than not, I'm wrong. They turn out to be stronger, or smarter, or kinder than I give them credit for. Sometimes it comes back to bite me. This time it was a pleasant surprise.
So it turns out that my stint in the water aerobics ended up giving me more than just a good cardio workout. I learned a couple of lessons also. Don't believe the stereotypes, because how people look on the outside has no bearing to who they are on the inside, and two, water buoyancy is a great equalizer.
(Well I could, but it probably wouldn't be very impressive).
(Okay fine, how's this?)
Coral on my toes
cat tries to rub on wet paint
keen for fall lineup.
When I haven't been picking stray cat hairs out of OPI's Shootout at the OK Coral, I've been reading and going to the gym. Lately I've been focusing on the books I haven't read yet on the Book List, and am proud to note that I have just finished Nineteen Eighty-Four and The Handmaid's Tale. And then, due to a possible overload of dystopian, totalitarian regimes, I had trouble sleeping for the next three days. (I rebounded with an easy yet thrilling Lee Child novel, because why worry about reshaping contemporary society's morals when you can just kill a bunch of people with your bare hands?)
(And what does it say about me that reading about an ex-military guy snapping bad guys necks makes me sleep like a baby?)
The gym turned out to be a pleasant surprise. I messed up my usual swim schedule from the day before, so I made up for it by going the following day. Only I don't usually go those days, so I didn't realize that there was a water aerobics class scheduled for that time. But I thought, why not do the water aerobics class as a gentle warm-up until the pool is free again? So I grabbed the biggest pair of floaty pool weights I could find and joined all the little old ladies bobbing around in the pool.
[I'm going to be completely honest here. I was feeling a little smug about taking the class. I swim, I do the treadmill, I take a free weights class three times a week. I'm not out of shape. And I'm roughly 3 decades younger than the rest of the ladies in the class. So I was not worried about anything that the water aerobics grannies could throw at me.]
Kicked. My. Butt.
It took about 4 minutes before those super-grannies wiped my smug smile off of my face. 2 more before I couldn't feel my legs anymore. And 3 more after that when my lungs exploded. They had me kicking and jumping and water jogging without pause for an entire hour. And they totally called me on it when I started slacking off. (Standing shoulder-deep in a pool will not hinder the hawk-like vision of a Drill Sergent water-granny. She will know instantly when you are not getting your knees up as high as you're supposed to). Either I'm not as in shape as I thought I was, or the mild-mannered super-grannies are secretly all power-lifters. I suspect a little of both.
Right about the time I considered that drowning would be a sweet way to escape another round of underwater sprints... it stopped. Our hour was over, and the evil sadist water-grannies transformed back into sweet little ladies in conservative, ruffle-skirted one piece suits who compared grandchildren stories and worried about getting their hair too wet before the next beauty parlor appointment. They patted me on the shoulder as they left the pool, telling me how nice it was to meet me and how they hoped that I'd be back for the next class. I spent the next few minutes just floating in the pool because I'm not sure my legs would have supported my weight if I'd tried to get out right away.
Not judging a book by its cover seems to be a lesson that I am destined to learn over and over again. I have a tendency to make snap decisions about people (or aerobics classes) based on what they wear, or how they look, or what they say. And more often than not, I'm wrong. They turn out to be stronger, or smarter, or kinder than I give them credit for. Sometimes it comes back to bite me. This time it was a pleasant surprise.
So it turns out that my stint in the water aerobics ended up giving me more than just a good cardio workout. I learned a couple of lessons also. Don't believe the stereotypes, because how people look on the outside has no bearing to who they are on the inside, and two, water buoyancy is a great equalizer.
8/17/09
The Lost Week
Okay, okay, you've been wondering where I've been, right? Well, last week was an eventful week, but it left very little time for just sitting down to write. To catch you up, here are the highlights:
Tuesday: I had my first official swimming lesson. Tony's sister J has some experience teaching people how to swim, so she very nicely offered to tutor me and then hoped that I'd move on to my next flight of fancy without ever actually taking her up on it. Unfortunately for her, I took her up on it. Which is how I found myself in the middle of a pool on Tuesday, proudly proclaiming my dorkiness in the form of a bright blue nose plug and matching blue bug-eyed goggles. (Does anybody look good in these goggles? I think not). Despite the questionable fashion accessories however, the lesson itself went (if you'll pardon the pun) just swimmingly. J is a super fabulous (and patient) teacher, as evidenced by the fact that she didn't run screaming from the pool when I showed her what I could do (read: flail around like I was fighting an invisible underwater attacker). We went over kicking, breathing, and arm movements individually, and then started working on putting all three together.
J: Okay, now just try adding the flutter kicks with the arm movements while you breathe.
Me: (underwater flailing, although with textbook breathing)
J: Um. Okay...that was...great! Your breathing looked good. Now...just add the arms and legs.
Me: (more flailing, only with arm movements this time)
J: Okay, I saw the arms, but...what happened to the kicking and the breathing?
Me: Kicking! Right! (flailing with forward motion since I remembered to kick)
J: (sighing inwardly and hoping that any of my future offspring will have her brother's coordination instead of mine) That was great kicking...now don't forget the breathing and the arms, you know, AT. THE. SAME. TIME.
See? She has the patience of a saint. And I have the coordination of someone being electrocuted. But by the end of our lesson, I like to think that we had a little forward progress. I can technically do the breast stroke and freestyle and the flip turn, although none of them with any kind of grace or rhythm (yet!). And while even just a few laps wears me out like nobody's business, I'm getting there. I'll probably never be an Olympic contender, but I'm really getting a kick (get it?) out of swimming now. I finally get what everybody is going on and on about. I look forward to my cardio days because I'm spending all of them in the pool now. (You're dead to me now treadmill! You hear me? Dead! I've moved on!) I love swimming!
Wednesday: Oh my goodness I can't move my shoulders! Apparently I've never really used my shoulder muscles in quite this way before. And are my joints supposed to pop like that when I move my arms? That doesn't really sound right. I thought swimming was supposed to be easy on the joints! That old guy in the lane next to me never has any problems! Taking it easy for the next few days...
Thursday: I have discovered the TV show Bones. It's awesome! How did I not know about this show before? It's all about a crime-solving forensic anthropologist and her FBI agent partner. (So, kinda CSI meets Numbers or something). The series is based on the life and novels of Kathy Reichs, which is totally funny because I'd read her books a few years ago and never made the connection to the TV show. And while some of the burned-body-rotting-flesh-exposed-skeleton shots are not for the faint of heart (although not nearly as bad as the squishy sucking sound effects that go along with them...shudder), the characters are amazingly likable. I stayed up all night Thursday night watching season one online. (If you've never watched a team of scientists boiling the remaining flesh off of bones at 3:00 in the morning before, you don't know what you're missing). As an added trivia bonus, the FBI agent, David Boreanaz, kinda slightly maybe-if-you-squint resembles a guy that I dated in high school, so I like to think that that gives me an additional connection to the show. I highly recommend. (The show, not my old boyfriend, although he was a nice enough guy too).
Friday: I can now move my arms without my joints sounding like I'm 104, so I'm back to swimming. This was a solo practice without J, but I'm still coming along. J's husband M also bought me a book on how to swim, and that's been incredibly helpful too. So far, I can beat the old guy who always swims in the lane next to me when I'm at the gym, but he can outlast me in endurance. (In his defense, I never told him that we were racing). My next goal is to be as fast as the severely pregnant lady who likes the far lane. (She's deceptively good considering that she's not exactly aerodynamic at the moment).
In other completely pointless Friday news, I stopped by the store on the way home to purchase a book of stamps. The gum popping, black lipstick wearing, Kurt Cobain sporting lifeform masquerading as a teenaged girl at the customer service counter made sure to let out a huge sigh to convey what an inconvenience it was for her to walk the 5 feet from the cash register to the mail counter to get my stamps for me. I was so busy thinking snarky remarks back at her ("What? You think you invented grunge? And what's with the Kurt Cobain shirt? He died years before you were even born. And please don't let my stamps interfere with you just standing there, picking flecks of black nail polish off of your nails...") that I didn't bother to look at what was on the stamps before I got back home. Now, far be it from me to criticize the post office, but exactly what were they thinking when they made the decision to put the Simpsons characters on official postal currency? Do I really need Bart Simpson on my electric bill? Does Homer Simpson really convey the tone I'm looking for with my business correspondence? I think not. Maybe it's because I was never really a huge follower of the show, but every time I go to mail a letter now, I cringe. What happened to dead presidents? Or famous landmarks? Or birds of North America? Those are good stamp candidates. I'm less enthused about paying 44 cents for a tiny picture of a fictional character whose most redeeming epitaph was "Eat my shorts". I'm also wondering if the delightful Ms. Cobain picked them on purpose just to annoy me.
Saturday: All that probably wouldn't had been enough to keep me from posting had it not been for the computer virus that we picked up on Saturday. (Lesson learned: When watching TV online, stick to the major known websites like hulu. Otherwise you end up with a virus that keeps sending you to porn and Viagra sites without your permission). We ended up doing a system reset to get rid of it (not to mention buying new virus protection since ours was obviously out of date), but the sound driver was corrupted, so I spent most of Sunday working on that. BTW, shout out to my IS-savvy buddy D who saved me from eternal computer silence by finding the correct driver and telling me how to reinstall it. I throw myself at her feet and kiss her shoes as she walks by. ("Blessed are the IS people, for they shall save me from myself"). Anyway, driver reinstalled, and I am back to being loud and proud, computer-wise.
So in short, swimming, sore, swimming, stamps, virus, sound drivers. Now you're all caught up and we're ready to start this week.
Well, right after I finish this episode of Bones anyway.
Tuesday: I had my first official swimming lesson. Tony's sister J has some experience teaching people how to swim, so she very nicely offered to tutor me and then hoped that I'd move on to my next flight of fancy without ever actually taking her up on it. Unfortunately for her, I took her up on it. Which is how I found myself in the middle of a pool on Tuesday, proudly proclaiming my dorkiness in the form of a bright blue nose plug and matching blue bug-eyed goggles. (Does anybody look good in these goggles? I think not). Despite the questionable fashion accessories however, the lesson itself went (if you'll pardon the pun) just swimmingly. J is a super fabulous (and patient) teacher, as evidenced by the fact that she didn't run screaming from the pool when I showed her what I could do (read: flail around like I was fighting an invisible underwater attacker). We went over kicking, breathing, and arm movements individually, and then started working on putting all three together.
J: Okay, now just try adding the flutter kicks with the arm movements while you breathe.
Me: (underwater flailing, although with textbook breathing)
J: Um. Okay...that was...great! Your breathing looked good. Now...just add the arms and legs.
Me: (more flailing, only with arm movements this time)
J: Okay, I saw the arms, but...what happened to the kicking and the breathing?
Me: Kicking! Right! (flailing with forward motion since I remembered to kick)
J: (sighing inwardly and hoping that any of my future offspring will have her brother's coordination instead of mine) That was great kicking...now don't forget the breathing and the arms, you know, AT. THE. SAME. TIME.
See? She has the patience of a saint. And I have the coordination of someone being electrocuted. But by the end of our lesson, I like to think that we had a little forward progress. I can technically do the breast stroke and freestyle and the flip turn, although none of them with any kind of grace or rhythm (yet!). And while even just a few laps wears me out like nobody's business, I'm getting there. I'll probably never be an Olympic contender, but I'm really getting a kick (get it?) out of swimming now. I finally get what everybody is going on and on about. I look forward to my cardio days because I'm spending all of them in the pool now. (You're dead to me now treadmill! You hear me? Dead! I've moved on!) I love swimming!
Wednesday: Oh my goodness I can't move my shoulders! Apparently I've never really used my shoulder muscles in quite this way before. And are my joints supposed to pop like that when I move my arms? That doesn't really sound right. I thought swimming was supposed to be easy on the joints! That old guy in the lane next to me never has any problems! Taking it easy for the next few days...
Thursday: I have discovered the TV show Bones. It's awesome! How did I not know about this show before? It's all about a crime-solving forensic anthropologist and her FBI agent partner. (So, kinda CSI meets Numbers or something). The series is based on the life and novels of Kathy Reichs, which is totally funny because I'd read her books a few years ago and never made the connection to the TV show. And while some of the burned-body-rotting-flesh-exposed-skeleton shots are not for the faint of heart (although not nearly as bad as the squishy sucking sound effects that go along with them...shudder), the characters are amazingly likable. I stayed up all night Thursday night watching season one online. (If you've never watched a team of scientists boiling the remaining flesh off of bones at 3:00 in the morning before, you don't know what you're missing). As an added trivia bonus, the FBI agent, David Boreanaz, kinda slightly maybe-if-you-squint resembles a guy that I dated in high school, so I like to think that that gives me an additional connection to the show. I highly recommend. (The show, not my old boyfriend, although he was a nice enough guy too).
Friday: I can now move my arms without my joints sounding like I'm 104, so I'm back to swimming. This was a solo practice without J, but I'm still coming along. J's husband M also bought me a book on how to swim, and that's been incredibly helpful too. So far, I can beat the old guy who always swims in the lane next to me when I'm at the gym, but he can outlast me in endurance. (In his defense, I never told him that we were racing). My next goal is to be as fast as the severely pregnant lady who likes the far lane. (She's deceptively good considering that she's not exactly aerodynamic at the moment).
In other completely pointless Friday news, I stopped by the store on the way home to purchase a book of stamps. The gum popping, black lipstick wearing, Kurt Cobain sporting lifeform masquerading as a teenaged girl at the customer service counter made sure to let out a huge sigh to convey what an inconvenience it was for her to walk the 5 feet from the cash register to the mail counter to get my stamps for me. I was so busy thinking snarky remarks back at her ("What? You think you invented grunge? And what's with the Kurt Cobain shirt? He died years before you were even born. And please don't let my stamps interfere with you just standing there, picking flecks of black nail polish off of your nails...") that I didn't bother to look at what was on the stamps before I got back home. Now, far be it from me to criticize the post office, but exactly what were they thinking when they made the decision to put the Simpsons characters on official postal currency? Do I really need Bart Simpson on my electric bill? Does Homer Simpson really convey the tone I'm looking for with my business correspondence? I think not. Maybe it's because I was never really a huge follower of the show, but every time I go to mail a letter now, I cringe. What happened to dead presidents? Or famous landmarks? Or birds of North America? Those are good stamp candidates. I'm less enthused about paying 44 cents for a tiny picture of a fictional character whose most redeeming epitaph was "Eat my shorts". I'm also wondering if the delightful Ms. Cobain picked them on purpose just to annoy me.
Saturday: All that probably wouldn't had been enough to keep me from posting had it not been for the computer virus that we picked up on Saturday. (Lesson learned: When watching TV online, stick to the major known websites like hulu. Otherwise you end up with a virus that keeps sending you to porn and Viagra sites without your permission). We ended up doing a system reset to get rid of it (not to mention buying new virus protection since ours was obviously out of date), but the sound driver was corrupted, so I spent most of Sunday working on that. BTW, shout out to my IS-savvy buddy D who saved me from eternal computer silence by finding the correct driver and telling me how to reinstall it. I throw myself at her feet and kiss her shoes as she walks by. ("Blessed are the IS people, for they shall save me from myself"). Anyway, driver reinstalled, and I am back to being loud and proud, computer-wise.
So in short, swimming, sore, swimming, stamps, virus, sound drivers. Now you're all caught up and we're ready to start this week.
Well, right after I finish this episode of Bones anyway.
7/24/09
Swim Star
Sooo...in the latest installment of self-improvement, I have decided that I am going to learn to swim.
Well, maybe.
I'm going to try anyway.
And yes, I realize that it is a little odd that I have managed to make it 29 years without really knowing how to swim, but it's true. Oh, I'm pretty sure that at some point along the way, someone somewhere tried to teach me, but apparently the very first lesson one must master in learning to swim is the whole sticking your face in the water thing, and I do not do that at all thankyouverymuch. I believe my unrelenting response to that was, "Yeah...I don't think so" and if they persisted, "You're going to want to take about three steps back or that whistle is going where the sun don't shine".
(Needless to say, my enrollment in the 5 year old "tadpoles" swim class was short-lived).
It's not that I'm scared of drowning or anything. It's just that I can't seem to master blowing air out of my nose while under water. (Here's the problem with my nose. No matter how much air I blow out, water still races upwards and immediately makes itself at home in my sinuses for the next three days. And that hurts. I know, I know, it's physically impossible for water to go up my nose if I'm busy blowing air out, blah, blah, blah-it happens anyway. Don't ask me why. My best guess is that I have an invisible third nostril somewhere that I don't know about. I wouldn't put it past me).
Anyway, up until now, I have been a world class dog-paddler, but the whole sticking my face in the water and actually swimming thing? Not so much. And I was absolutely fine with that, until something happened that changed my (non-) swimming life forever.
The first thing was that I noticed that whenever I happened to pass the pool at the gym, all those people busily splashing back and forth, back and forth, in their little bobber-lined lanes looked ABSOLUTELY FABULOUS. They were thin, they were strong, and they had toned legs and shoulders that I was like, "where do I sign up for those?". Even the 90 year old guy had better looking legs and shoulders than me! (The rest of him was just a wrinkly bag of bones, so you can't tell me that it was genetic). And I was like, all these people are in the pool all the time. Coincidence? I sure hope so, because I'm still not sticking my face in the water.
The second thing that happened was that after all those beautiful people with their fancy swimming rubbed their perfect shoulders and legs in my face for a little while, I decided that maybe it wouldn't be so bad if I just brought a kickboard and kicked my way up and down the lanes a little bit. So I did. And it turns out that that's kinda fun. (Of course, I wasn't fooling anybody into thinking that I was one of the serious swimmers, but I did make a big deal of moving my shoulder around and grimacing a lot so they'd all think that I was doing physical therapy and not laugh me out of the pool). And that was cool too.
The third thing that happened was that one day, while I was busily kicking along on my little kickboard and muttering things like "stupid rotator cuff" whenever anybody got close, I happened to glance over at the woman in the lane next to me. At first, I thought that she was just readjusting her goggles, but right as I looked up, I saw her pull something off of her nose. And I was like, "Excuse me! What the heck was that that you just pulled off of your face just now?", and she (after looking really surprised that the weird muttering kickboard girl had just lunged over the bobber-line and invaded her lane) was like, "Oh this? It's my nose plug to keep water out of my sinuses". And I was like, "Reeeeeeeeally".
And then a little nose-plugged shaped light bulb went off over my head. Because ya'll, while technically I knew that such a thing existed, it wasn't something that I spent much time contemplating. And even if I did spend my time sitting around musing over such things, this nose plug was a lot more sophisticated than I would have expected. This one, first of all, was completely clear, so had it not been for the fact that she stood up out of the water and messed with it, I would have never ever guessed that it was there. Second, they don't have those dorky little neck straps on them anymore. She actually clipped hers to the side of her goggles when it wasn't on her nose. And third, she was able to swim like an actual real live honest to goodness swimmer without GETTING WATER UP HER NOSE!
I'll be honest with you; it was a watershed moment for me. And I was like, if I had a fancy new-fangled nose pluggy thing, then I too could do super-duper swim moves that would make Michael Phelps green with envy. (And who doesn't want that?)
So off I ran to Wal-mart to pick up some pretty blue goggles and a matching new nose plug. And I have coerced the seester into trying to teach me some official moves. (She used to be on the high school swim team and learned all about all that kicking and moving your arms and stuff, whereas I, well, never did). I figure that in a couple of weeks, I'll be swimming like a fish and giving old wrinkly bag of bones guy a real run for his money.
Eat your heart out, Michael Phelps.
Well, maybe.
I'm going to try anyway.
And yes, I realize that it is a little odd that I have managed to make it 29 years without really knowing how to swim, but it's true. Oh, I'm pretty sure that at some point along the way, someone somewhere tried to teach me, but apparently the very first lesson one must master in learning to swim is the whole sticking your face in the water thing, and I do not do that at all thankyouverymuch. I believe my unrelenting response to that was, "Yeah...I don't think so" and if they persisted, "You're going to want to take about three steps back or that whistle is going where the sun don't shine".
(Needless to say, my enrollment in the 5 year old "tadpoles" swim class was short-lived).
It's not that I'm scared of drowning or anything. It's just that I can't seem to master blowing air out of my nose while under water. (Here's the problem with my nose. No matter how much air I blow out, water still races upwards and immediately makes itself at home in my sinuses for the next three days. And that hurts. I know, I know, it's physically impossible for water to go up my nose if I'm busy blowing air out, blah, blah, blah-it happens anyway. Don't ask me why. My best guess is that I have an invisible third nostril somewhere that I don't know about. I wouldn't put it past me).
Anyway, up until now, I have been a world class dog-paddler, but the whole sticking my face in the water and actually swimming thing? Not so much. And I was absolutely fine with that, until something happened that changed my (non-) swimming life forever.
The first thing was that I noticed that whenever I happened to pass the pool at the gym, all those people busily splashing back and forth, back and forth, in their little bobber-lined lanes looked ABSOLUTELY FABULOUS. They were thin, they were strong, and they had toned legs and shoulders that I was like, "where do I sign up for those?". Even the 90 year old guy had better looking legs and shoulders than me! (The rest of him was just a wrinkly bag of bones, so you can't tell me that it was genetic). And I was like, all these people are in the pool all the time. Coincidence? I sure hope so, because I'm still not sticking my face in the water.
The second thing that happened was that after all those beautiful people with their fancy swimming rubbed their perfect shoulders and legs in my face for a little while, I decided that maybe it wouldn't be so bad if I just brought a kickboard and kicked my way up and down the lanes a little bit. So I did. And it turns out that that's kinda fun. (Of course, I wasn't fooling anybody into thinking that I was one of the serious swimmers, but I did make a big deal of moving my shoulder around and grimacing a lot so they'd all think that I was doing physical therapy and not laugh me out of the pool). And that was cool too.
The third thing that happened was that one day, while I was busily kicking along on my little kickboard and muttering things like "stupid rotator cuff" whenever anybody got close, I happened to glance over at the woman in the lane next to me. At first, I thought that she was just readjusting her goggles, but right as I looked up, I saw her pull something off of her nose. And I was like, "Excuse me! What the heck was that that you just pulled off of your face just now?", and she (after looking really surprised that the weird muttering kickboard girl had just lunged over the bobber-line and invaded her lane) was like, "Oh this? It's my nose plug to keep water out of my sinuses". And I was like, "Reeeeeeeeally".
And then a little nose-plugged shaped light bulb went off over my head. Because ya'll, while technically I knew that such a thing existed, it wasn't something that I spent much time contemplating. And even if I did spend my time sitting around musing over such things, this nose plug was a lot more sophisticated than I would have expected. This one, first of all, was completely clear, so had it not been for the fact that she stood up out of the water and messed with it, I would have never ever guessed that it was there. Second, they don't have those dorky little neck straps on them anymore. She actually clipped hers to the side of her goggles when it wasn't on her nose. And third, she was able to swim like an actual real live honest to goodness swimmer without GETTING WATER UP HER NOSE!
I'll be honest with you; it was a watershed moment for me. And I was like, if I had a fancy new-fangled nose pluggy thing, then I too could do super-duper swim moves that would make Michael Phelps green with envy. (And who doesn't want that?)
So off I ran to Wal-mart to pick up some pretty blue goggles and a matching new nose plug. And I have coerced the seester into trying to teach me some official moves. (She used to be on the high school swim team and learned all about all that kicking and moving your arms and stuff, whereas I, well, never did). I figure that in a couple of weeks, I'll be swimming like a fish and giving old wrinkly bag of bones guy a real run for his money.
Eat your heart out, Michael Phelps.
6/9/09 The Friend
Guess what! Guess what! (Drum roll please)
I have made a new friend.
Annnnnd, this time she's not even imaginary!
I suspect that you social butterflies are out there reading this and going, "That's it? That's the big news?" because we all know that you make a new friend approximately every 3.2 seconds, but for me, a social midget who gets hives at the thought of talking to (gasp!) a stranger, this is a MAJOR accomplishment for me.
Of course, to be honest, she is the one who approached me, right there in the middle of our free weights class, when she leaned over to ask me if the woman on my other side had ever tried to correct my form while lifting. (She hadn't, for the record, but I'm assuming this is because I have beautiful form and she could only stand in complete awe of my bicep curl prowess). But the ice was broken, and words had actually been exchanged, and for my part I did remember to smile and make eye-contact and even remember her name the next time she came to class.
And so it goes.
Now, this in and of itself probably isn't that impressive, but after months and months of casually exchanging small talk and complaints about how sore our abs were, I finally got up the nerve to suggest that maybe, you know, if she wanted, we could, I don't know, possibly, totally up to her, sometime maybe do lunch or something after class? (And then I held my breath and developed a brand new appreciation for guys, because ya'll, I have never ever before realized exactly how hard it is to put yourself out there and ask someone on a date, even if it is just a friend date). But she was like, "Oh! I'm so glad you asked! Because I was going to ask you on Monday but then I was like, 'what if she just thinks of me only as a gym buddy?'" and I laughed because I had had the EXACT same thought not two seconds before.
But we went to lunch, and then the next week we had a follow-up outing to the zoo (she has a one year old and I always like the zoo, hence that decision), and I think it's safe to say that she has moved into the tentative realm of new friend. Of course, she's still new enough that we're just beginning to let our guards down, but I don't have that urge to flee! flee! that I do sometimes with other new acquaintances that try to be friends with me. (Plus, she totally cracks me up with the stuff that comes out of her mouth sometimes. If I don't say 99% of the stuff that I'm thinking, she says 110% of hers, and it never ceases to amaze me the kinds of things that she blurts out. Of course, I'm usually totally thinking what she's thinking anyway, but she just comes out and says it, which then means that we can talk about it).
And at the risk of sounding clingy (and maybe a little bit obsessed), I can't tell you how happy I am that I have found a friend. Because I am one of those people who only has a few "real" friends, and by some cruel twist of fate, none of them live locally anymore. Which turns out to be pretty lonely sometimes, especially during times when there's a new gallery open at the art museum, or a romantic comedy showing, and Tony just gives me this look like I must be out of my mind if I think that he's going to go willingly to that stuff. So the new local friend is important. And while we're not yet to the she'll help me bury the bodies kind of friendship, this one is at least close enough where I feel comfortable going, "Hey, you want to check out that new taco place?" and feel pretty confident that she'll go, "Sure!"
And that's nice. That's very very nice.
I have made a new friend.
Annnnnd, this time she's not even imaginary!
I suspect that you social butterflies are out there reading this and going, "That's it? That's the big news?" because we all know that you make a new friend approximately every 3.2 seconds, but for me, a social midget who gets hives at the thought of talking to (gasp!) a stranger, this is a MAJOR accomplishment for me.
Of course, to be honest, she is the one who approached me, right there in the middle of our free weights class, when she leaned over to ask me if the woman on my other side had ever tried to correct my form while lifting. (She hadn't, for the record, but I'm assuming this is because I have beautiful form and she could only stand in complete awe of my bicep curl prowess). But the ice was broken, and words had actually been exchanged, and for my part I did remember to smile and make eye-contact and even remember her name the next time she came to class.
And so it goes.
Now, this in and of itself probably isn't that impressive, but after months and months of casually exchanging small talk and complaints about how sore our abs were, I finally got up the nerve to suggest that maybe, you know, if she wanted, we could, I don't know, possibly, totally up to her, sometime maybe do lunch or something after class? (And then I held my breath and developed a brand new appreciation for guys, because ya'll, I have never ever before realized exactly how hard it is to put yourself out there and ask someone on a date, even if it is just a friend date). But she was like, "Oh! I'm so glad you asked! Because I was going to ask you on Monday but then I was like, 'what if she just thinks of me only as a gym buddy?'" and I laughed because I had had the EXACT same thought not two seconds before.
But we went to lunch, and then the next week we had a follow-up outing to the zoo (she has a one year old and I always like the zoo, hence that decision), and I think it's safe to say that she has moved into the tentative realm of new friend. Of course, she's still new enough that we're just beginning to let our guards down, but I don't have that urge to flee! flee! that I do sometimes with other new acquaintances that try to be friends with me. (Plus, she totally cracks me up with the stuff that comes out of her mouth sometimes. If I don't say 99% of the stuff that I'm thinking, she says 110% of hers, and it never ceases to amaze me the kinds of things that she blurts out. Of course, I'm usually totally thinking what she's thinking anyway, but she just comes out and says it, which then means that we can talk about it).
And at the risk of sounding clingy (and maybe a little bit obsessed), I can't tell you how happy I am that I have found a friend. Because I am one of those people who only has a few "real" friends, and by some cruel twist of fate, none of them live locally anymore. Which turns out to be pretty lonely sometimes, especially during times when there's a new gallery open at the art museum, or a romantic comedy showing, and Tony just gives me this look like I must be out of my mind if I think that he's going to go willingly to that stuff. So the new local friend is important. And while we're not yet to the she'll help me bury the bodies kind of friendship, this one is at least close enough where I feel comfortable going, "Hey, you want to check out that new taco place?" and feel pretty confident that she'll go, "Sure!"
And that's nice. That's very very nice.
9/25/08
Softball
The Ye Ol Company softball team won their first game of the season last night, mostly due to the fact that I was not there. While I was home blowing my nose, the rest of my stalwart teammates were fighting out a very close game. They ended up battling back in the last inning, and managed to hang on to their win, 11 to 10. So that makes us….1 and 7 for the season. So much for our perfect record.
I’m not sure I’m cut out for softball. After two months of play, I still have the “don’t hit it over here!” jitters. Fierce competition doesn’t seem to be my thing, even in theremedial just for fun league. (Now, if this was a step aerobics league, or a Pilates league, or something like that, I’d be all over it. But it’s hard to revel in the thrill of competitive sports when you’re lousy at the game). Actually, I’m not sure I’d like it even if I was good at it. I don’t really have a “rip the competition to shreds” personality. I’m more of the “whatever dude” personality. Not exactly conducive to a major league career.
Still, I like the comradely, and it’s been fun getting to know my co-workers outside of work, and I like my little shirt with my number on the back (which makes me feel all softball suave, even if I’m not). I might even think about possibly maybe consider playing next year. Maybe. But I think I’m all softballed-out for this season.
Which is why my competitive streak is happy that our 1 and 7 season didn’t make the playoffs.
I’m not sure I’m cut out for softball. After two months of play, I still have the “don’t hit it over here!” jitters. Fierce competition doesn’t seem to be my thing, even in the
Still, I like the comradely, and it’s been fun getting to know my co-workers outside of work, and I like my little shirt with my number on the back (which makes me feel all softball suave, even if I’m not). I might even think about possibly maybe consider playing next year. Maybe. But I think I’m all softballed-out for this season.
Which is why my competitive streak is happy that our 1 and 7 season didn’t make the playoffs.
9/12/08
Dear Lou's Resulting Comic Wedgie
Oh ya’ll, I’m about to share a very important lesson with you. Don’t be all cute and try to tell Lou Piniella how to do his job. Otherwise the Fates will raise their eyebrows and say things like “So you think you can do better, do you?” And then they’ll smack you upside the head and your softball game will go Down. The. Toilet.
Like when you told Lou that he just needed to get his players to just hit the ball and stop stranding runners on base, and then you went to bat in your little game and proceeded strike out TWICE, both times being the third out and stranding your fellow teammates on second and third base.
That’s what they call irony, my friends.
Or how about when you told him that his stinky team needed to play some better defense and stop letting the other team score so much. Then, with two minutes left in the game, being up by one, you let a line drive to right field (where absolutely no one has hit the ball all night) come flying over, take a weird bounce 4 feet in front of you, go careening off to the side, and roll all the way to the fence, thus allowing the two runners on the opposing team to make it easily to home and beating you 7 to 6.
Not so many smug comments to the Cubs now, you’ll notice. (Although the missed line drive did bring up some other rather interesting comments, mostly involving not-nice-words that I yelled as I chased the ball back to the fence).
Anyway, the point is that the universe tends to recognize flippant smuggery (yes, I just made that up) and it corrects it by arranging to have you “brought back down a notch”, usually during bouts of physical activity, as they have the best embarrassment potential (although high school reunions and meetings with upper management are also up there).
So with the universe giving me the whole “Take that Mrs. Smarty Pants!” while bestowing a cosmic wedgie, I sent my most sincere telepathic apology to Mr Lou Piniella, sir, for telling him how to run his team. They are doing the best they can. And Lou, ever graceful when accepting an apology, decided to actually win a game.
Did I mention the irony?
Like when you told Lou that he just needed to get his players to just hit the ball and stop stranding runners on base, and then you went to bat in your little game and proceeded strike out TWICE, both times being the third out and stranding your fellow teammates on second and third base.
That’s what they call irony, my friends.
Or how about when you told him that his stinky team needed to play some better defense and stop letting the other team score so much. Then, with two minutes left in the game, being up by one, you let a line drive to right field (where absolutely no one has hit the ball all night) come flying over, take a weird bounce 4 feet in front of you, go careening off to the side, and roll all the way to the fence, thus allowing the two runners on the opposing team to make it easily to home and beating you 7 to 6.
Not so many smug comments to the Cubs now, you’ll notice. (Although the missed line drive did bring up some other rather interesting comments, mostly involving not-nice-words that I yelled as I chased the ball back to the fence).
Anyway, the point is that the universe tends to recognize flippant smuggery (yes, I just made that up) and it corrects it by arranging to have you “brought back down a notch”, usually during bouts of physical activity, as they have the best embarrassment potential (although high school reunions and meetings with upper management are also up there).
So with the universe giving me the whole “Take that Mrs. Smarty Pants!” while bestowing a cosmic wedgie, I sent my most sincere telepathic apology to Mr Lou Piniella, sir, for telling him how to run his team. They are doing the best they can. And Lou, ever graceful when accepting an apology, decided to actually win a game.
Did I mention the irony?
8/8/08
The First Game
I had my first softball game last night, and I have to admit that it was more fun that I thought it would be. Since I read an article recently that people who set goals are more successful, I decided to set some very reasonable goals for myself, which included:
Don't throw up
Don't strike out
Don't trip and fall while running
Don't throw the ball away and
Don't throw up
I wasn't sure I was going to be able to accomplish the first (and fifth) ones, because the pre-game jitters were really something to behold. I can honestly say that I was more nervous about this game than I was defending my thesis, on my last job interview, or getting married. That and I ate meatballs for dinner before the game. Don't ask me why.
But once I got to the field, I realized that the heavens had smiled down upon me, and had actually cut me a break for once.
First of all, the game was 6pm, which means that the sun was strategically positioned...any place that I looked. It was like the entire field was just in silhouette- much like playing softball in an ipod commercial. The other players grumbled about this, but I was delighted, because it meant that I could claim that I lost any missed ball "in the sun". And no one can say anything! Because it's the sun! Can't do anything about that! (This softball thing just got a whole lot easier). I lost balls "in the sun". I lost bats "in the sun". I lost entire people "in the sun". It was fabulous!
I was also stationed out in right field (which I had been campaigning heavily for), since no one ever hits stuff out there. (Well, there was this one left handed guy, but we mostly walked him whenever he came up). There were only two balls hit my direction the entire night. I didn't catch either on the fly, but I did manage to "stop the ball" (which translates into it bounced up and hit me in the shin and yes, it will bruise). But I managed to throw it to the second baseman, and not over her head, which was a definite plus for me, and goal number 4. Other than that, I spent my time sending a telepathic mantra to the batter that went "Not over here. Not over here. Not over here". For the most part, I think it worked.
The only other hurdle was batting. I understand that coaches will put their best batters up first, so the fact that I was batting 11th makes since. Actually, I'm not half bad at batting. I can hit the ball. I just tend to hit it back to the pitcher. My first time up to bat, I swung at the very first pitch. I wasn’t planning on it, but he tossed an easy lob at me, and I swung without thinking. The good news is I hit it! The bad news is that I hit it right back to the pitcher! Technically that makes me out, but I was celebrating anyway because I achieved goals 1, 2, and 5.
The second time I was up to bat, I was feeling marginally better. I knew the first pitch he threw was low, so I wasn’t going to swing. Unfortunately, my brain forgot to tell my arms that because even though the brain recognized it as a bad pitch, the arms were so excited that they couldn’t help themselves and swung anyway. Never mind that it was after the catcher caught the ball. (This, by the way, is still a strike no matter how you argue that you were just “practicing”). Picky umpires.
The second pitch was better, which was good because the arms were swinging anyway (having obviously not learned their lesson from the first pitch), and I managed to connect and hit the ball straight over to the second baseman. This normally would have been an out too, except that the second baseman “lost it in the sun” and bobbled it. I ran. I still would have been out, but then the second baseman also lost the first baseman in the sun, because he threw it over her head. First base! First base! I’m on first base! I was so excited! (I thought a victory dance would have been over doing it, but a small victory wiggle may have slipped out). I was all content to hang out on first, but then the guy after me hit the ball, and I was off running again! I tried to stop at second, but the third base coach was pinwheeling his arms like crazy, so I ran to third. Third base! Three times as good as first base! I don’t think I’ve ever been on third base before! (I don’t think I’ve ever gotten a base hit period). I was trying to tell this very amazing fact to the third base coach, but I was interrupted by the crack of the bat again, and he was yelling “Run! Run! Run!” so I ran. And ya’ll, I scored a run! In my very first game! Annnnnd, I did not trip at all! I’m beginning to see why people play this stupid game.
We lost in the last inning, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is that for one hour, the softball gods indulged me and I didn’t make a complete fool of myself.
And actually managed to have a smidgeon of fun while doing it.
Don't throw up
Don't strike out
Don't trip and fall while running
Don't throw the ball away and
Don't throw up
I wasn't sure I was going to be able to accomplish the first (and fifth) ones, because the pre-game jitters were really something to behold. I can honestly say that I was more nervous about this game than I was defending my thesis, on my last job interview, or getting married. That and I ate meatballs for dinner before the game. Don't ask me why.
But once I got to the field, I realized that the heavens had smiled down upon me, and had actually cut me a break for once.
First of all, the game was 6pm, which means that the sun was strategically positioned...any place that I looked. It was like the entire field was just in silhouette- much like playing softball in an ipod commercial. The other players grumbled about this, but I was delighted, because it meant that I could claim that I lost any missed ball "in the sun". And no one can say anything! Because it's the sun! Can't do anything about that! (This softball thing just got a whole lot easier). I lost balls "in the sun". I lost bats "in the sun". I lost entire people "in the sun". It was fabulous!
I was also stationed out in right field (which I had been campaigning heavily for), since no one ever hits stuff out there. (Well, there was this one left handed guy, but we mostly walked him whenever he came up). There were only two balls hit my direction the entire night. I didn't catch either on the fly, but I did manage to "stop the ball" (which translates into it bounced up and hit me in the shin and yes, it will bruise). But I managed to throw it to the second baseman, and not over her head, which was a definite plus for me, and goal number 4. Other than that, I spent my time sending a telepathic mantra to the batter that went "Not over here. Not over here. Not over here". For the most part, I think it worked.
The only other hurdle was batting. I understand that coaches will put their best batters up first, so the fact that I was batting 11th makes since. Actually, I'm not half bad at batting. I can hit the ball. I just tend to hit it back to the pitcher. My first time up to bat, I swung at the very first pitch. I wasn’t planning on it, but he tossed an easy lob at me, and I swung without thinking. The good news is I hit it! The bad news is that I hit it right back to the pitcher! Technically that makes me out, but I was celebrating anyway because I achieved goals 1, 2, and 5.
The second time I was up to bat, I was feeling marginally better. I knew the first pitch he threw was low, so I wasn’t going to swing. Unfortunately, my brain forgot to tell my arms that because even though the brain recognized it as a bad pitch, the arms were so excited that they couldn’t help themselves and swung anyway. Never mind that it was after the catcher caught the ball. (This, by the way, is still a strike no matter how you argue that you were just “practicing”). Picky umpires.
The second pitch was better, which was good because the arms were swinging anyway (having obviously not learned their lesson from the first pitch), and I managed to connect and hit the ball straight over to the second baseman. This normally would have been an out too, except that the second baseman “lost it in the sun” and bobbled it. I ran. I still would have been out, but then the second baseman also lost the first baseman in the sun, because he threw it over her head. First base! First base! I’m on first base! I was so excited! (I thought a victory dance would have been over doing it, but a small victory wiggle may have slipped out). I was all content to hang out on first, but then the guy after me hit the ball, and I was off running again! I tried to stop at second, but the third base coach was pinwheeling his arms like crazy, so I ran to third. Third base! Three times as good as first base! I don’t think I’ve ever been on third base before! (I don’t think I’ve ever gotten a base hit period). I was trying to tell this very amazing fact to the third base coach, but I was interrupted by the crack of the bat again, and he was yelling “Run! Run! Run!” so I ran. And ya’ll, I scored a run! In my very first game! Annnnnd, I did not trip at all! I’m beginning to see why people play this stupid game.
We lost in the last inning, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is that for one hour, the softball gods indulged me and I didn’t make a complete fool of myself.
And actually managed to have a smidgeon of fun while doing it.
7/29/08
10 on Tuesday
You know what? We haven't done a 10 on Tuesday in a while. Whaddya say, just for old time's sake? (The old time that I would be referring to just so happens to be three weeks ago, so ancient history).
One- So, Tony and I went to see the new Batman movie last weekend and....I don't like it. I know, I know, it's a box office hit. Everyone is raving about it. I just didn't like it. I thought it was dark and gory and overly dramatic and boring. C'mon people! It's the same story line as all the other Batman movies! Batman does his whole "dark crusader" thing while chasing the Joker around the city with his fancy toys. He stands in the shadows and spouts overly dramatic whispered drivel such as "I'm not the hero you deserve, I'm the hero you have now". Puh-leeeeze. Get over your tortured self Batman. And how many packs did he have to smoke to make his voice all raspy like that? It hurt my vocal chords just listening to it. I spent most of the movie playing stray popcorn kernel soccer with myself while I waited for it to be over. I'm so disappointed in you Christian Bale.
Two- Oh good news! One a completely different note, it turns out that the kittens can swim! Well, Sebastian can anyway. I had the cover off of the hot tub this weekend while I was doing the cleaning cycle, and Sebastian just jumped right up and over the side, into the water. He was treading water when I ran over to fish him out, but boy was he surprised! The biggest thing on him was his eyes, and you could tell he was thinking, "What the...!" Oh, and it turns out that he's all kitten fluff, because he was the size of a shaved hamster when I got him out. Don't worry, other than the loss of his kitten dignity, he was fine.
Three- Are you tired of hearing about softball yet? Tough. I spent Sunday practicing with Mom and Dad and Tony in a field next to their house. In addition to playing softball, Mom and Dad were both actually gym teachers for a while, so they know the whole mechanics of catching and throwing and batting. (Plus Mom took one look at my glove and declared it beyond saving...I'm using her glove now). And it turns out that after someone takes the time to actually SHOW you how to catch and hit and throw, it isn't really that terrible. (Okay, so I'm still bad at the throwing. I keep forgetting to turn and step and lead with my elbow and hold the ball loosely and release at the top of the arc and aim for the person I'm throwing at's chest and keep my thumb from turning. But the catching and batting showed vast improvement). We'll see how tomorrow's practice goes before I put myself out there as a free agent though.
Four- I had a dream last night that my good buddy Nicole was dating Jim from The Office. Only he was about 8' tall, and she was really short. And Nicole was also concerned because he had a large tattoo (I'm not sure where) and she didn't think her parents would like that. Nicole, if you're reading, forget about the tattoo! It's Jim! Get him before he remembers about Pam!
Five- Speaking of TV crushes, I've totally developed a thing for Geof Manthorne from Ace of Cakes. I started out DVRing all the episodes because I thought the cakes were neat, but I find myself especially interested in the ones that Geof does. And I'm not sure what the attraction is, because he's scruffy and gangly and his nose is just a little too big for his face. But I'm totally crushing on him anyway. (Geof, if you're reading this, I totally didn't mean what I said about your nose. Call me!) I think the lure is that he's one of those quiet laid-back types. Still waters and all that. I just love me those quiet laid-back types.
One- So, Tony and I went to see the new Batman movie last weekend and....I don't like it. I know, I know, it's a box office hit. Everyone is raving about it. I just didn't like it. I thought it was dark and gory and overly dramatic and boring. C'mon people! It's the same story line as all the other Batman movies! Batman does his whole "dark crusader" thing while chasing the Joker around the city with his fancy toys. He stands in the shadows and spouts overly dramatic whispered drivel such as "I'm not the hero you deserve, I'm the hero you have now". Puh-leeeeze. Get over your tortured self Batman. And how many packs did he have to smoke to make his voice all raspy like that? It hurt my vocal chords just listening to it. I spent most of the movie playing stray popcorn kernel soccer with myself while I waited for it to be over. I'm so disappointed in you Christian Bale.
Two- Oh good news! One a completely different note, it turns out that the kittens can swim! Well, Sebastian can anyway. I had the cover off of the hot tub this weekend while I was doing the cleaning cycle, and Sebastian just jumped right up and over the side, into the water. He was treading water when I ran over to fish him out, but boy was he surprised! The biggest thing on him was his eyes, and you could tell he was thinking, "What the...!" Oh, and it turns out that he's all kitten fluff, because he was the size of a shaved hamster when I got him out. Don't worry, other than the loss of his kitten dignity, he was fine.
Three- Are you tired of hearing about softball yet? Tough. I spent Sunday practicing with Mom and Dad and Tony in a field next to their house. In addition to playing softball, Mom and Dad were both actually gym teachers for a while, so they know the whole mechanics of catching and throwing and batting. (Plus Mom took one look at my glove and declared it beyond saving...I'm using her glove now). And it turns out that after someone takes the time to actually SHOW you how to catch and hit and throw, it isn't really that terrible. (Okay, so I'm still bad at the throwing. I keep forgetting to turn and step and lead with my elbow and hold the ball loosely and release at the top of the arc and aim for the person I'm throwing at's chest and keep my thumb from turning. But the catching and batting showed vast improvement). We'll see how tomorrow's practice goes before I put myself out there as a free agent though.
Four- I had a dream last night that my good buddy Nicole was dating Jim from The Office. Only he was about 8' tall, and she was really short. And Nicole was also concerned because he had a large tattoo (I'm not sure where) and she didn't think her parents would like that. Nicole, if you're reading, forget about the tattoo! It's Jim! Get him before he remembers about Pam!
Five- Speaking of TV crushes, I've totally developed a thing for Geof Manthorne from Ace of Cakes. I started out DVRing all the episodes because I thought the cakes were neat, but I find myself especially interested in the ones that Geof does. And I'm not sure what the attraction is, because he's scruffy and gangly and his nose is just a little too big for his face. But I'm totally crushing on him anyway. (Geof, if you're reading this, I totally didn't mean what I said about your nose. Call me!) I think the lure is that he's one of those quiet laid-back types. Still waters and all that. I just love me those quiet laid-back types.
Totally ripped-off picture of Geof.
Six- Does anybody know about the snack/dessert food called Muddy Buddies? It's rice chex coated with peanut butter and chocolate and rolled in powdered sugar. We always called it Muddy Buddies growing up, but Tony knew it as Puppy Chow. I made some on Friday for a co-worker's baby shower, and nobody knew what it was. Everyone was scared of it until I started eating it myself. No one knows it as Puppy Chow or Muddy Buddies either. I know they used to put the recipe on the back of the chex boxes, but I guess everyone was busy making traditional chex mix instead. If you remember it, what do you call it?
Seven- Speaking of the above, here's the recipe. I love it because I can mix it all up in a one gallon ziplock, and then you don't have to get your hands messy.
9 cups Rice Chex
1 cup semisweet chocolate chips
1/2 cup peanut butter
1/4 cup butter or margarine
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 1/2 cups powdered sugar
In microwavable bowl, stir together chocolate chips, peanut butter and butter. Microwave uncovered on High 1 minute; stir. Microwave about 30 seconds longer or until mixture can be stirred smooth. Eat the leftover chocolate chips right out of the bag. Stir in vanilla (to your mixture, not the leftover chocolate). Put cereal in gallon Ziplock bag. Pour chocolate mixture over cereal, shaking until evenly coated. I find the "hands on either side of the bag while executing a gentle rolling motion" to be the best. Add powdered sugar. Seal bag; shake, rattle, and roll until well coated. Transfer to clean bowl and enjoy all those cereal coating calories.
Eight- Speaking of calories, I was at the gym yesterday, just doin' my thang on the elliptical machine while reading a book, and I did the entire 50 minute workout WITHOUT REALIZING IT! I was elliptical-ing away and all of a sudden I looked down and it was giving me the end of workout summary! I know! I'm very excited. Normally I'm checking the time every 5 seconds because I'm dying and when can I get off this machine of torture? But yesterday I was in the elliptical zone! I wasn't winded! I wasn't having a heart attack! I wasn't gasping and turning purple and losing feeling from the waist down, which is what I'm usually doing. I'm not sure what made the difference, but I seemed to have developed instant crazy endurance. Woot!
Nine- I just double-checked my recipe on http://www.chex.com/, and they officially call it Muddy Buddies! Ha! I was right! Of course, there's a note underneath it that it is also known as puppy food, but I'm going to go with Muddy Buddies since it's all copywrited (copywritten?) and everything.
Ten- It also occurs to me that Geof would probably never go for someone who considers making Muddy Buddies in a ziplock baggie "cooking". (Well, that and whole I'm already married thing). Sigh. I'm sorry Geof. I'm afraid it never would have worked out for us. We'll always have the Food Network though.
So that's my ten. I've mentioned Geoffrey Manthorne enough by now that he'll probably get a restraining order against me. I'll console myself by stuffing myself with cereal-based dessert mix, which I'll then work off with my super elliptical endurance powers. All of this will be documented in my comic hero movie, where I'll save a kitten from a hot tub and stand in the dark, reciting rasping monologues in my smoker's voice. It'll be a hit, and Nicole can meet the real Jim at the after party.
Geof can come too.
7/25/08
Dead Cows Need Proper Skin Care Too
Here's another thing (besides an intrinsic lack of ability) that makes it harder to play softball:
When your glove dry rots and crumbles into dust.
It turns out that when you leave your glove sitting in a box in the garage for sixteen years, it dries out. And when you try to pull it out and use it one day, the shock is just too much for it, and it copes by reducing itself to black leather confetti EVERYWHERE.
I've completely lost the top layer of my glove. It used to be leather...now it's just suede. When asked what happened to it, I explain that the cow it was made from had leprosy. (I like to watch how quickly people back up after that).
"Oil it" Tony says when I complain about the black dust that was once my glove.
I wander to the pantry. "Peanut, Vegetable or Olive?" I yell back.
"GLOVE oil!" He yells, a little louder than necessary. He comes in and takes my glove away.
Apparently I'm not responsible enough for glove ownership yet.
When your glove dry rots and crumbles into dust.
It turns out that when you leave your glove sitting in a box in the garage for sixteen years, it dries out. And when you try to pull it out and use it one day, the shock is just too much for it, and it copes by reducing itself to black leather confetti EVERYWHERE.
I've completely lost the top layer of my glove. It used to be leather...now it's just suede. When asked what happened to it, I explain that the cow it was made from had leprosy. (I like to watch how quickly people back up after that).
"Oil it" Tony says when I complain about the black dust that was once my glove.
I wander to the pantry. "Peanut, Vegetable or Olive?" I yell back.
"GLOVE oil!" He yells, a little louder than necessary. He comes in and takes my glove away.
Apparently I'm not responsible enough for glove ownership yet.
7/24/08
Practice Makes...Your Teammates Think Of Ways To Kill You And Make It Look Like An Accident
So I had my first softball practice last night.
It wasn't pretty. A one-armed coma patient with leprosy could play better softball.
I guess that I had hoped that I had magically improved in the sixteen years that I hadn't been playing. Like maybe, even though I hadn't touched a softball, my throwing arm and depth perception and batting would have improved somewhat. Maybe I'm a softball natural and I don't even know it!
Yeah, not so much. If possible, I was even worse that I was when I was 12. And that's really really saying something.
They started me out at second base. They told me where to stand, and lobbed a ball very gently in my direction. I missed it. Then I ran to pick it up and tried to throw it back to the pitcher. And he missed it, which wasn't that hard to understand due to the fact that I threw it in the dirt, 15 feet to his right.
Seems I have some issues with throwing accuracy.
They lobbed another ball. I missed it.
A grounder. I missed it.
An easy pop fly that a two year old could catch. I missed it.
Wincing glances from all the men on the team to each other. Ones that said, "Uh-oh. She really IS as bad as she says she is". False modesty is not one of my sins.
They decided to try me at catcher. I go behind the plate and squat in the dirt. (Tell me again why would anyone think that this is fun?) I don't know how to hold my glove to catch the ball. The pitcher lobs the first ball and it hits me in the chest and knocks me back onto my rear. (Great. And these were my brand new yoga pants too. This dirt better not stain!) I try again. I don't like playing catcher. I'm afraid the bat is going to hit me. I'm afraid the ball is going to hit me. I'm afraid my own teammates are going to hit me and then bury me in the woods so that they don't have to play with me anymore.
The other girls that swore that they couldn't play softball either are disgustingly good. I hate them.
It's my turn to bat. Maybe I'm a super good batter. Maybe I'll knock one out of the park! Wouldn't THAT surprise them? Maybe that's my secret weapon! Yeah, she sucks at catching and throwing, but she's got a killer bat!
I do not have a killer bat.
Unless you count my teammates beating themselves in the head with it to put themselves out of my misery. Which they appeared to be seriously considering. I did managed to hit some of the balls. And I hit them very well...right back to the pitcher. Who then turned and executed a beautiful double play. Every. Single. Time. (Sigh. It seems I have managed to hang on to my reign as the double play queen).
If this was a reality show, they would have voted me off the island by now.
Finally, they put me way out in right field where no one ever hits the ball. On the one hand, it was nice because I got to admire the wildflowers on the other side of the fence. On the other hand, I'm not going to get any better unless they give me some practice. I need to have Tony show me some mechanics. Like how to bat. And catch. And throw.
I have two weeks before the first game. I need a miracle.
It wasn't pretty. A one-armed coma patient with leprosy could play better softball.
I guess that I had hoped that I had magically improved in the sixteen years that I hadn't been playing. Like maybe, even though I hadn't touched a softball, my throwing arm and depth perception and batting would have improved somewhat. Maybe I'm a softball natural and I don't even know it!
Yeah, not so much. If possible, I was even worse that I was when I was 12. And that's really really saying something.
They started me out at second base. They told me where to stand, and lobbed a ball very gently in my direction. I missed it. Then I ran to pick it up and tried to throw it back to the pitcher. And he missed it, which wasn't that hard to understand due to the fact that I threw it in the dirt, 15 feet to his right.
Seems I have some issues with throwing accuracy.
They lobbed another ball. I missed it.
A grounder. I missed it.
An easy pop fly that a two year old could catch. I missed it.
Wincing glances from all the men on the team to each other. Ones that said, "Uh-oh. She really IS as bad as she says she is". False modesty is not one of my sins.
They decided to try me at catcher. I go behind the plate and squat in the dirt. (Tell me again why would anyone think that this is fun?) I don't know how to hold my glove to catch the ball. The pitcher lobs the first ball and it hits me in the chest and knocks me back onto my rear. (Great. And these were my brand new yoga pants too. This dirt better not stain!) I try again. I don't like playing catcher. I'm afraid the bat is going to hit me. I'm afraid the ball is going to hit me. I'm afraid my own teammates are going to hit me and then bury me in the woods so that they don't have to play with me anymore.
The other girls that swore that they couldn't play softball either are disgustingly good. I hate them.
It's my turn to bat. Maybe I'm a super good batter. Maybe I'll knock one out of the park! Wouldn't THAT surprise them? Maybe that's my secret weapon! Yeah, she sucks at catching and throwing, but she's got a killer bat!
I do not have a killer bat.
Unless you count my teammates beating themselves in the head with it to put themselves out of my misery. Which they appeared to be seriously considering. I did managed to hit some of the balls. And I hit them very well...right back to the pitcher. Who then turned and executed a beautiful double play. Every. Single. Time. (Sigh. It seems I have managed to hang on to my reign as the double play queen).
If this was a reality show, they would have voted me off the island by now.
Finally, they put me way out in right field where no one ever hits the ball. On the one hand, it was nice because I got to admire the wildflowers on the other side of the fence. On the other hand, I'm not going to get any better unless they give me some practice. I need to have Tony show me some mechanics. Like how to bat. And catch. And throw.
I have two weeks before the first game. I need a miracle.
7/10/08
We Need A Pitcher! Not A Restless Twitcher!
When I was in school, I would spend two evenings a week, at four hours a night, telling myself that when I finally got out of this joint, I wasn't going to do ANYTHING in the evenings. No classes, no study groups, no planned events, nothing. I was just going to go straight home from work and sit in front of my TV like every other red-blooded American. (Or read, because I actually prefer books to TV). But that was it! No going anywhere!
Um Yeah.
You know how long it took me before I added another evening commitment to my schedule? 9 days. 9 whole evenings of going home to sit on the couch and watch mindless television without any kind of planned activity. And don't get me wrong, it was nice. I relaxed, I lounged, I...got really restless.
I'm a doer. I like schedules and plans and having something to do. The aimless sitting? It makes me twitchy.
Which is the only possible reason why I signed up for what I did. The twitching must have addled my brain. It's my only excuse. Because suddenly I find myself agreeing to be on the company's co-ed softball team.
I hear you out there. You're all like, "That's it? Softball? That's nothing to worry about! Softball is fun! I love softball!" But that's probably because you're athletic and enjoy team sports and have even an iota of natural ability. Not so, my friend, with me. (I threw out my shoulder pitching an imaginary ball in Wii baseball. If an imaginary ball puts me on the DL, a real ball could very well kill me.)
And that's just throwing. Batting isn't much better. When I manage to hit the ball, which is no guarantee in itself, it results in a alarmingly high amount of double plays. I am the queen of double plays. (If you're on base in front of me, you might as well go ahead and come back to the bench). And we won't even talk about my lack of depth perception, which causes me to yell "I got it! I got it!" when the ball is actually landing 20' behind me.
But when the company newsletter came out, and I saw the softball sign-up sheet, the twitchiness threw all of the above out the window and I very gamely agreed tomake a fool of myself enjoy the company of my peers with a friendly game of softball every Tuesday night for the months of August and September.
Despite my dismal level of play however, the team informs me that we're all just here to have a good time, and it really doesn't matter how bad I am, because it's not competitive AT ALL.
Uh-huh.
Have you ever seen a non-competitive softball team with a bunch of guys? Or even with the other girls, who I have just been informed went to college on scholarships for fast pitch softball?
But the twitch wanted to do something other than watch TV on Tuesday nights, so here I am digging through boxes in the garage looking for my glove from 16 years ago. It should be entertaining to say the least.
Stupid restless twitch.
Um Yeah.
You know how long it took me before I added another evening commitment to my schedule? 9 days. 9 whole evenings of going home to sit on the couch and watch mindless television without any kind of planned activity. And don't get me wrong, it was nice. I relaxed, I lounged, I...got really restless.
I'm a doer. I like schedules and plans and having something to do. The aimless sitting? It makes me twitchy.
Which is the only possible reason why I signed up for what I did. The twitching must have addled my brain. It's my only excuse. Because suddenly I find myself agreeing to be on the company's co-ed softball team.
I hear you out there. You're all like, "That's it? Softball? That's nothing to worry about! Softball is fun! I love softball!" But that's probably because you're athletic and enjoy team sports and have even an iota of natural ability. Not so, my friend, with me. (I threw out my shoulder pitching an imaginary ball in Wii baseball. If an imaginary ball puts me on the DL, a real ball could very well kill me.)
And that's just throwing. Batting isn't much better. When I manage to hit the ball, which is no guarantee in itself, it results in a alarmingly high amount of double plays. I am the queen of double plays. (If you're on base in front of me, you might as well go ahead and come back to the bench). And we won't even talk about my lack of depth perception, which causes me to yell "I got it! I got it!" when the ball is actually landing 20' behind me.
But when the company newsletter came out, and I saw the softball sign-up sheet, the twitchiness threw all of the above out the window and I very gamely agreed to
Despite my dismal level of play however, the team informs me that we're all just here to have a good time, and it really doesn't matter how bad I am, because it's not competitive AT ALL.
Uh-huh.
Have you ever seen a non-competitive softball team with a bunch of guys? Or even with the other girls, who I have just been informed went to college on scholarships for fast pitch softball?
But the twitch wanted to do something other than watch TV on Tuesday nights, so here I am digging through boxes in the garage looking for my glove from 16 years ago. It should be entertaining to say the least.
Stupid restless twitch.