Yeah, last Monday was Valentine's Day and I got to eat the Holy Grail of candy, See's bridge mix. Plus, I got a charm for my bracelet, some flowers, and a bunch of cards.And we went out to dinner. Cool, yes. Fun, certainly, but what really makes my toes curl is that on Monday pitchers and catchers reported to Spring Training! The rest of the team had to get there by Friday. Ahhhh - baseball season is almost back. All's right with my world.
I spent much of last fall on my butt in front of the TV watching games and wishing I was at them. It was easy to let my workouts lapse when the weather got rainy and it was too cold to walk or ride my bike outside. Back to the gym? I couldn't go there -my sweatpants only go down to my knees - I'd have to shave my legs. Plus the little fob thingy that lets me enter the gym is on my keys and I couldn't find them. I can always find a reason not to do something when I don't want to do it. Then my best buddy told me something that along with "Fuck it - its dinner" has become a new mantra for me.
I was bitching about how I needed to go back to the gym but I really didn't want to. Well, I suppose I was more whining actually, because she cut me off in a no nonsense voice (she's a high school teacher - she has a great no nonsense voice) "You don't have to want to do it" she said "You just have to do it". So I did. Every weekday for the past six weeks, I've spent an hour and a half in my little gym, lifting, pushing, pulling, sweating, treadmilling and generally getting in shape.
I haven't lost a single ounce of the five pounds I put on since Halloween, but I'm developing some pretty awesome muscles. I know that under my belly flab is a six pack just waiting to come out and say "Give me a beer and a hot dog - its baseball season!"
Because I love to buy myself stuff and because I don't trust myself to keep going to the gym, I decided to reward myself for sticking to my workouts. Every other Friday, which just happens to coincide with the hub's payday, if I've had perfect attendance at the gym, I buy myself a present. I now have a new pair of shoes, a purse in transit and a pretty set of sheets I've been eyeing. That's six weeks of exercise and some cool swag!
My shoes are the best. I remembered last year when Brian Wilson got fined for pitching in a pair of solid orange Nikes. He said he got fined for having "too much awesome" on his feet. With this in mind, I went to Converse.com and designed myself a pair of the coolest orange, black, cream and houndstooth check shoes ever. I'm wearing them now. My feet are bathed in awesome.
I'm going to keep up my new exercise/reward system. My BMI is coming down and I've got my eye on this planter stand that would look good on the patio. Plus I need some more peony plants for the front yard. When I run out of stuff to get myself I'll have to figure out some other reward - it can't be food - not even See's - that would be too much awesome.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Not Lazy, Just Saving Time...
I've been tossing around ideas for a blog but I used up all my brain juice on my annual Christmas letter so nothing is coagulating into a coherent theme. "What difference does that make?" you ask. I say "Shut up!". and you say "Make me!" and things get ugly from there. But then I remember that my friend, James, posted his Christmas letter as his blog entry. "Lazy", I thought, "but BRILLIANT!". So I'm gonna do it, too. Enjoy, and Merry Christmas!
Merry Christmas 2010
(Imagine a whispery, golf announcer’s voice)
(Since the year 2010 was pretty mediocre, Lizzie’s Christmas letter will focus on the two bright spots; Betsy, her new puppy, and the World Champion San Francisco Giants who are twelve kinds of awesome…We join her Christmas letter in progress…)
…there was a giant flag, a flyover by some cool jets and the Giants won. In extra innings, but they still won and kept on winning – even Zito! And that was April.
(During May and June, the Giants kept winning and our friend’s female mini dachshund had unauthorized relations with her boyfriend’s mom’s male mini dachshund. This resulted in six little wieners one of which was black and orange – Giants’ colors. In July, Ike and his beloved Carie moved to Iowa so she could take care of some family business… and the Bletz family’s Border Collie, Lucy, died. July pretty much sucked. Which brings us to August…)
… our mighty Giants lost a bunch of games. Plus it was the first anniversary of me getting fired. August was shaping up poorly but then (sound of harps) Jill moved home and got a job and we adopted Betsy, one of the offspring of our friend’s dog. She is black and orange, like Brian Wilson’s sneakers. She’s adorable. Jill’s hair is still orange..
In September we had to have our old lady cat, Beatrice, put down. Nicknamed Princess Roadkill for her ability to impersonate a kitty who has been run over by a semi truck, Beatrice had also lost control of her bladder. Which is a real pain when you’re trying to house train a puppy.
We got to see a bunch of baseball games in October which was weird because the Giants don’t usually play past September, but our guys were GOOD!!! In one five day period we went to THREE games! And they won and won and WON!!! And went to the World Series and won that, too!!! So…
(Although Lizzie was thrilled to see her boys win, she’s not mentioning the extra joy of seeing George Bush’s pouty mug behind home plate as he watched his Rangers LOSE. She felt bad for Laura, though.)
In November we got to go to the Giants’ victory parade. Saw some of the players. It was beyond cool – I’ve never been in the presence of over a million people before. Plus, we discovered that the press was mistaken – the Rally Thong had no sequins or rhinestones – it was a plain, red men’s thong. Kind of weird he carried it in his teeth, though…
(While we wait for Lizzie to evaluate her December experience, and because we’re running out of paper, we pause to give her a moment to clean up yet another pile of puppy poop…this is taking a lot longer than she expected…but she would want to wish you…)
Merry Christmas and a Happy 2011!
…and remember, pitchers and catchers report to Spring Training in February!
Merry Christmas 2010
(Imagine a whispery, golf announcer’s voice)
(Since the year 2010 was pretty mediocre, Lizzie’s Christmas letter will focus on the two bright spots; Betsy, her new puppy, and the World Champion San Francisco Giants who are twelve kinds of awesome…We join her Christmas letter in progress…)
…there was a giant flag, a flyover by some cool jets and the Giants won. In extra innings, but they still won and kept on winning – even Zito! And that was April.
(During May and June, the Giants kept winning and our friend’s female mini dachshund had unauthorized relations with her boyfriend’s mom’s male mini dachshund. This resulted in six little wieners one of which was black and orange – Giants’ colors. In July, Ike and his beloved Carie moved to Iowa so she could take care of some family business… and the Bletz family’s Border Collie, Lucy, died. July pretty much sucked. Which brings us to August…)
… our mighty Giants lost a bunch of games. Plus it was the first anniversary of me getting fired. August was shaping up poorly but then (sound of harps) Jill moved home and got a job and we adopted Betsy, one of the offspring of our friend’s dog. She is black and orange, like Brian Wilson’s sneakers. She’s adorable. Jill’s hair is still orange..
In September we had to have our old lady cat, Beatrice, put down. Nicknamed Princess Roadkill for her ability to impersonate a kitty who has been run over by a semi truck, Beatrice had also lost control of her bladder. Which is a real pain when you’re trying to house train a puppy.
We got to see a bunch of baseball games in October which was weird because the Giants don’t usually play past September, but our guys were GOOD!!! In one five day period we went to THREE games! And they won and won and WON!!! And went to the World Series and won that, too!!! So…
(Although Lizzie was thrilled to see her boys win, she’s not mentioning the extra joy of seeing George Bush’s pouty mug behind home plate as he watched his Rangers LOSE. She felt bad for Laura, though.)
In November we got to go to the Giants’ victory parade. Saw some of the players. It was beyond cool – I’ve never been in the presence of over a million people before. Plus, we discovered that the press was mistaken – the Rally Thong had no sequins or rhinestones – it was a plain, red men’s thong. Kind of weird he carried it in his teeth, though…
(While we wait for Lizzie to evaluate her December experience, and because we’re running out of paper, we pause to give her a moment to clean up yet another pile of puppy poop…this is taking a lot longer than she expected…but she would want to wish you…)
Merry Christmas and a Happy 2011!
…and remember, pitchers and catchers report to Spring Training in February!
Monday, November 22, 2010
Secon Chance
The other day I nearly had an out of body experience while I was in the shower. I was washing the goo off my face when my spidey sense started tingling. I turned around and there was a gigantic spider trying (and failing) to climb up the side of the tub. My initial response was to jump out of my skin and drown him, but then I remembered that I think everyone deserves a second chance so I took a deep breath and opened the window next to me. Then I got a tube of body wash (aka soap) and let the spider crawl onto it.
After the bug was safely ensconced on my tube, I carefully conveyed it to the window where I shook it to the ground. Or the maw of some waiting predator...It occured to me later that the spider could have easily jumped off the tube ( I hate when they do that) and lowered itself on a web. In which case, it could have easily gotten stuck to my wet skin.
If that had happened, I would have run full tilt boogie, stark raving naked out my front door into my front yard, screaming. My neighbor would have called the police and when they showed up, I would have had to explain to the cop what the hell I was doing naked and wet in my front yard with a spider stuck to me. That would have been embarassing. And cold.
Nevertheless, I still believe in second chances. Like this weekend, I was watching football and I actually found myself rooting for Michael Vick. Yeah, the same Michael Vick who tortured dogs and ran a dogfighting kennel. He was convicted and spent a couple of years in prison. I personally think he got off kind of easy, but he did the time he was given and he's out now.
Michael Vick is an athlete and has found himself a job as an NFL quarterback. He's probably getting paid a buttload of cash, but that's what people in his line of work get paid. He shouldn't be given a pass for his horrific crimes and he wasn't. But he should get a second chance. Like my spider.
Here's the deal, though, if that arachnid ever shows his face in my tub again I might have to squash him into a pile of eight legged gunk and wash him down the drain. How will I know its him? Well, spiders are territorial and it takes a lot of spider chow to grow one of them up to the almost tarantula size this bad boy had attained. Odds are good that my spider is the only one of his size in the immediate vicinity. So I'll know if its him.
And if Michael Vick ever gets more agressive with a dog than giving it a belly rub, his football career should be squashed and he should be washed down whatever passes for a drain in the penal system. Maybe he could have to pick the dead, wet spider off me. If that ever happens for real.
After the bug was safely ensconced on my tube, I carefully conveyed it to the window where I shook it to the ground. Or the maw of some waiting predator...It occured to me later that the spider could have easily jumped off the tube ( I hate when they do that) and lowered itself on a web. In which case, it could have easily gotten stuck to my wet skin.
If that had happened, I would have run full tilt boogie, stark raving naked out my front door into my front yard, screaming. My neighbor would have called the police and when they showed up, I would have had to explain to the cop what the hell I was doing naked and wet in my front yard with a spider stuck to me. That would have been embarassing. And cold.
Nevertheless, I still believe in second chances. Like this weekend, I was watching football and I actually found myself rooting for Michael Vick. Yeah, the same Michael Vick who tortured dogs and ran a dogfighting kennel. He was convicted and spent a couple of years in prison. I personally think he got off kind of easy, but he did the time he was given and he's out now.
Michael Vick is an athlete and has found himself a job as an NFL quarterback. He's probably getting paid a buttload of cash, but that's what people in his line of work get paid. He shouldn't be given a pass for his horrific crimes and he wasn't. But he should get a second chance. Like my spider.
Here's the deal, though, if that arachnid ever shows his face in my tub again I might have to squash him into a pile of eight legged gunk and wash him down the drain. How will I know its him? Well, spiders are territorial and it takes a lot of spider chow to grow one of them up to the almost tarantula size this bad boy had attained. Odds are good that my spider is the only one of his size in the immediate vicinity. So I'll know if its him.
And if Michael Vick ever gets more agressive with a dog than giving it a belly rub, his football career should be squashed and he should be washed down whatever passes for a drain in the penal system. Maybe he could have to pick the dead, wet spider off me. If that ever happens for real.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Been Around That Block...That One Too!
Last night I was happily sitting on the floor watching TV when the hub said "Your blog is old - you need to write something!" Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, the problem is that I've been just a teeny bit focused on baseball of late what with my beloved Giants becoming WORLD CHAMPIONS and all...Plus, I've been told that my musings might be a bit baseball-centric and I should branch out. So after the next paragraph, I will. I swear.
The hub, daughter unit and I got up early on Wednesday to go to the Giants' victory parade. It was so early, I think heard dawn actually crack. We took BART to the City and, with over 1,000,000 like minded peeps, we yelled, waved and shook stuff at our heroes as they passed by in motorized cable cars. It was cool to see them even though Tim Lincecum was waving out the other side of the car and the freakishly handsome Javier Lopez was in the middle of an interview inside the car when he went by so we couldn't see them. That's OK, they were having fun and we were happy to get the chance to celebrate. Plus we went out to Yank Sing's afterward for some dim sum that was so good I think my socks actually rolled up and down.
I got to thinking on the way home that everybody needs a parade or its equivalent at least once in their life. A few weeks ago, I was watching the Today Show and they celebrated a mom whose kid had cancer. They gave her a special song. That's like a parade. I had a kid with cancer - its hard to watch. The chemo makes them nauseous and they cry a lot. This lady's kid survived, as mine did, but the lady was changed. Me too! I still take Paxil so I don't bust into a cold sweat and start drooling and making grunting noises when I get stuck in traffic.
Once when we were at a Giants' game, there were some people from Donate Life on the field. They got to throw out the first pitch and carry around one of those really cool over sized checks. It was very parade-y. They were promoting organ donation. I know a lot about that since my cancer surviving kid had a heart transplant! Always an over achiever, that one! She couldn't have gone for a downstream organ like a liver or a kidney (she lost one of those during the cancer fiasco...) no - my baby went heart. And she's doing really well now. I'm still on Paxil...
There was also an Awareness Day for dyslexia and ADHD. I totally identified with those parade subjects. That same kid again... Same prescription for me. I gotta say, though, that the dyslexia gave me the opportunity to read some of the books I had skillfully avoided in school. Since she read slowly I got to read some of her texts and literature books to her through high school and college. I don't like to go against all those years of history, but what is the big deal about The Catcher in the Rye? I thought it kind of blew. Also discovered I'm not a big fan of Hemingway. The son unit put it well when he said "He just writes about spoiled rich people who drink too much and think they have problems." Yup. He was kind of a pig. Totally loved Ray Bradbury, though, and Richard Bradford. Maybe its the "Brad" in their names. I like people named Brad. There should be a Brad parade.
Eating disorders are the topic of many parade-ish shows on TV. I have one of those - well, not a diagnosed one, but if you have a mom who always tells you that you need to lose weight - even when you're a sylph-like teenager, you're liable to develop an unhealthy attitude about food. I grew to be a fatty and my mom warned me (almost daily) about the danger to my heart of excess weight. "You could have a stroke or a heart attack" she would say.
So I did. It was an itty bitty heart attack, but a real stroke which knocked me out of commission for a while and ultimately, I think, resulted in me being fired. Actually, I think that my mom made me have the stroke. She passed away seven months before I had it, but I think her spirit continued to roam the earth, unable to complete her journey until she made sure I'd lose weight. I think if you look at the path of the stroke in my brain, it probably resembles my mom's finger (with a red polished nail). I'm skinny now. Thanks Mom. Now I'd look good in one of those awesome red dresses celebrities parade around in for heart health...
Anyway, I think I need a parade. Or a visit to Ellen, who is my favorite celebrity. Or I could throw out a first pitch. To Ellen. Whatever. The person who really deserves the parade is the daughter unit. That cancer surviving, dyslexic, heart transplant survivor. I'd march in it...
The hub, daughter unit and I got up early on Wednesday to go to the Giants' victory parade. It was so early, I think heard dawn actually crack. We took BART to the City and, with over 1,000,000 like minded peeps, we yelled, waved and shook stuff at our heroes as they passed by in motorized cable cars. It was cool to see them even though Tim Lincecum was waving out the other side of the car and the freakishly handsome Javier Lopez was in the middle of an interview inside the car when he went by so we couldn't see them. That's OK, they were having fun and we were happy to get the chance to celebrate. Plus we went out to Yank Sing's afterward for some dim sum that was so good I think my socks actually rolled up and down.
I got to thinking on the way home that everybody needs a parade or its equivalent at least once in their life. A few weeks ago, I was watching the Today Show and they celebrated a mom whose kid had cancer. They gave her a special song. That's like a parade. I had a kid with cancer - its hard to watch. The chemo makes them nauseous and they cry a lot. This lady's kid survived, as mine did, but the lady was changed. Me too! I still take Paxil so I don't bust into a cold sweat and start drooling and making grunting noises when I get stuck in traffic.
Once when we were at a Giants' game, there were some people from Donate Life on the field. They got to throw out the first pitch and carry around one of those really cool over sized checks. It was very parade-y. They were promoting organ donation. I know a lot about that since my cancer surviving kid had a heart transplant! Always an over achiever, that one! She couldn't have gone for a downstream organ like a liver or a kidney (she lost one of those during the cancer fiasco...) no - my baby went heart. And she's doing really well now. I'm still on Paxil...
There was also an Awareness Day for dyslexia and ADHD. I totally identified with those parade subjects. That same kid again... Same prescription for me. I gotta say, though, that the dyslexia gave me the opportunity to read some of the books I had skillfully avoided in school. Since she read slowly I got to read some of her texts and literature books to her through high school and college. I don't like to go against all those years of history, but what is the big deal about The Catcher in the Rye? I thought it kind of blew. Also discovered I'm not a big fan of Hemingway. The son unit put it well when he said "He just writes about spoiled rich people who drink too much and think they have problems." Yup. He was kind of a pig. Totally loved Ray Bradbury, though, and Richard Bradford. Maybe its the "Brad" in their names. I like people named Brad. There should be a Brad parade.
Eating disorders are the topic of many parade-ish shows on TV. I have one of those - well, not a diagnosed one, but if you have a mom who always tells you that you need to lose weight - even when you're a sylph-like teenager, you're liable to develop an unhealthy attitude about food. I grew to be a fatty and my mom warned me (almost daily) about the danger to my heart of excess weight. "You could have a stroke or a heart attack" she would say.
So I did. It was an itty bitty heart attack, but a real stroke which knocked me out of commission for a while and ultimately, I think, resulted in me being fired. Actually, I think that my mom made me have the stroke. She passed away seven months before I had it, but I think her spirit continued to roam the earth, unable to complete her journey until she made sure I'd lose weight. I think if you look at the path of the stroke in my brain, it probably resembles my mom's finger (with a red polished nail). I'm skinny now. Thanks Mom. Now I'd look good in one of those awesome red dresses celebrities parade around in for heart health...
Anyway, I think I need a parade. Or a visit to Ellen, who is my favorite celebrity. Or I could throw out a first pitch. To Ellen. Whatever. The person who really deserves the parade is the daughter unit. That cancer surviving, dyslexic, heart transplant survivor. I'd march in it...
Monday, October 4, 2010
Awesome Weekend
It was the best of weekends; it was the worst of weekends - and all for the exact same reason. Some weeks ago, the hub looked downcast because baseball season was almost over. So, being the understanding wife I am not to mention a rabid fan of the game, especially the Giants, I got us tickets to the last game of the season. Plus, the hub had gotten us some tickets to the Giants' Oktoberfest which was last Wednesday.
The Giants won that game and the next one, and as I was re-watching the good parts on TV on Friday, the announcers got me all whooped up about the fact that my Gigantes could become Western Division champs with one win over the Padres who came to town that very night! Ignoring common sense and budgetary constraints, I jumped right online and scored two (sort of) reasonably priced tickets. They were bleacher seats but who cares! I'd never seen a team win a championship and all pour out on the field jumping and hugging, and I really wanted to. And they were bound to win - Matt Cain was pitching and it was his birthday, for Pete's sake!
What I hadn't counted on was that 1. Matt Cain (he of the adorable ginger curls, sweet expression and powerful arm) had a gnarly bad night and 2. It was Singles Night at the park. Because of number 1, the Giants lost and because of number 2, there were large numbers of skankily dressed young women and horny young men staggering drunkenly around in the bleachers trying to score. I'm not absolutely sure they were going to wait til they left the park. There was a kind of sweaty desperation in the air. Plus, the stadium lights are blinding in the bleachers and you can't really see the ball. Not that any of the drunken singles could focus anyway.
There was also some form of ooze on the floor. At first I thought it was dew or mist in the air that formed on the ground, but there was none on the seats or rails which were made of aluminium just like the floor. After the third tipsy single person did a slip and fall right next to my seat, I began to wish I was a personal injury lawyer. I also got pretty good at catching people by the arm and putting them back on their feet.
When I went to the bathroom, something puzzling yet hilarious happened. I was heading back to my seat when I heard a voice from above me. No it wasn't the Almighty, it was a tall, young (really young) man who slurred " Are you a Giants fan?" Well, I was at a Giants game and I was dressed in as much orange and black as I could cram onto my body, and I had an orange rally rag hanging out of my pocket. I thought "Is this larvae flirting with me?" but I said "Yes." And I kept walking. Then he said "That's my girl!" Girl?! Obviously, he hadn't seen my 55 year old face. I lifted my chin so he could see past the bill of my baseball cap and smiled at him. He grinned back. I high fived him and beat feet out of there. Either his beer goggles are in serious need of adjustment or he is kinky in a way I do not want to know about.
We moped around that night and the next morning. I mean, the Giants only had to win one of three games to win their division and they lost the first one which seemed like a sure thing! That afternoon, during the second game of the series, I sent the hub next door to watch and I read my book. I love my mighty Gigantes, but I can't watch their sad faces when they lose. And lose they did. Ugh!
So we went to the last game of the series and the season yesterday. Got new rally rags and everything. Nobody hit on me, The Giants played wonderfully - Jonathan Sanchez was the winning pitcher and he hit a triple! Buster Posey hit a home run!!! Coolest game ever! The lady I sat next to looked like a nun, but talked like a stevedore. Plus, she was older than me and had a mad crush on Brian Wilson - the 28 year old pitcher not the geezerly Beach Boy. Apparently,there's a lot of that May/December stuff going around at the park... And I got to see the players pour out on the field jumping up and down and hugging when they won. They even took a victory lap around the field and slapped hands with the fans. We were in the second level and, though I was tempted to vault over the rail to the first level, I'm a big fat chicken - and didn't want to get arrested.
Now the Giants are the Western Division Champions. They are so cool. And totally worth all the coronaries I've almost had watching them. They have this habit of going right to the edge of the cliff and then leaning back at the last second. In an ordinary person this would drive me nuts. I would avoid them, and yet I pay to watch the Giants...weird.
Anyway, we're going to the first game of the playoffs on Thursday. I hope they just outright win instead of toying with me - and I'm staying out of the bleachers!
The Giants won that game and the next one, and as I was re-watching the good parts on TV on Friday, the announcers got me all whooped up about the fact that my Gigantes could become Western Division champs with one win over the Padres who came to town that very night! Ignoring common sense and budgetary constraints, I jumped right online and scored two (sort of) reasonably priced tickets. They were bleacher seats but who cares! I'd never seen a team win a championship and all pour out on the field jumping and hugging, and I really wanted to. And they were bound to win - Matt Cain was pitching and it was his birthday, for Pete's sake!
What I hadn't counted on was that 1. Matt Cain (he of the adorable ginger curls, sweet expression and powerful arm) had a gnarly bad night and 2. It was Singles Night at the park. Because of number 1, the Giants lost and because of number 2, there were large numbers of skankily dressed young women and horny young men staggering drunkenly around in the bleachers trying to score. I'm not absolutely sure they were going to wait til they left the park. There was a kind of sweaty desperation in the air. Plus, the stadium lights are blinding in the bleachers and you can't really see the ball. Not that any of the drunken singles could focus anyway.
There was also some form of ooze on the floor. At first I thought it was dew or mist in the air that formed on the ground, but there was none on the seats or rails which were made of aluminium just like the floor. After the third tipsy single person did a slip and fall right next to my seat, I began to wish I was a personal injury lawyer. I also got pretty good at catching people by the arm and putting them back on their feet.
When I went to the bathroom, something puzzling yet hilarious happened. I was heading back to my seat when I heard a voice from above me. No it wasn't the Almighty, it was a tall, young (really young) man who slurred " Are you a Giants fan?" Well, I was at a Giants game and I was dressed in as much orange and black as I could cram onto my body, and I had an orange rally rag hanging out of my pocket. I thought "Is this larvae flirting with me?" but I said "Yes." And I kept walking. Then he said "That's my girl!" Girl?! Obviously, he hadn't seen my 55 year old face. I lifted my chin so he could see past the bill of my baseball cap and smiled at him. He grinned back. I high fived him and beat feet out of there. Either his beer goggles are in serious need of adjustment or he is kinky in a way I do not want to know about.
We moped around that night and the next morning. I mean, the Giants only had to win one of three games to win their division and they lost the first one which seemed like a sure thing! That afternoon, during the second game of the series, I sent the hub next door to watch and I read my book. I love my mighty Gigantes, but I can't watch their sad faces when they lose. And lose they did. Ugh!
So we went to the last game of the series and the season yesterday. Got new rally rags and everything. Nobody hit on me, The Giants played wonderfully - Jonathan Sanchez was the winning pitcher and he hit a triple! Buster Posey hit a home run!!! Coolest game ever! The lady I sat next to looked like a nun, but talked like a stevedore. Plus, she was older than me and had a mad crush on Brian Wilson - the 28 year old pitcher not the geezerly Beach Boy. Apparently,there's a lot of that May/December stuff going around at the park... And I got to see the players pour out on the field jumping up and down and hugging when they won. They even took a victory lap around the field and slapped hands with the fans. We were in the second level and, though I was tempted to vault over the rail to the first level, I'm a big fat chicken - and didn't want to get arrested.
Now the Giants are the Western Division Champions. They are so cool. And totally worth all the coronaries I've almost had watching them. They have this habit of going right to the edge of the cliff and then leaning back at the last second. In an ordinary person this would drive me nuts. I would avoid them, and yet I pay to watch the Giants...weird.
Anyway, we're going to the first game of the playoffs on Thursday. I hope they just outright win instead of toying with me - and I'm staying out of the bleachers!
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Tying Up a Loose End
In my tirade about the crappy state of organized religion, I left a major end dangling and I feel the need to tie it off. Remember several posts ago when I mentioned that the hub would be performing a wedding? You know for the couple who have the world's cutest baby girl? The daddy is my friend's son who was huge at birth and went to Iraq the same time my daughter had her heart transplant. Remember? No? Well, you must be new to my blog. Or you've been in a coma. I hope you're feeling better - now get caught up!
Anyway, on August 20th, the hub, the daughter unit and I went down to Carmel and checked into our hotel. Well, first we stopped at the pub across the street for some refreshment. This would be a recurring theme over the weekend. When we got into our room, we discovered it had a kitchen with a full sized refrigerator! I thought this was standard for all the rooms, but after giving the rest of the wedding group tours of the room, I realized our was the only room with cooling capacity. The fridge rapidly filled with wine, beer, and a couple of bottles of hard liquor which I know don't need refrigeration but seemed happy to be among friends.
The hub wanted to take a walk to bank a few calories because we knew that there was eating on the horizon. And all that booze...We got into our sneakers and opened the door to find one of the other wedding guests about to knock on our door seeking access to the fridge. More people started gathering and bottles started being opened, glasses passed, cigars smoked. It got fun fast. We forgot about the walk and decided to socialize instead. These are nice people and they buy good wine. We made a good choice.
Later that night, after the wine-a-thon, we proceeded to the hotel's conference room where my buddy had arranged the mother of all rehearsal dinners (Oh, yeah, the wedding party had a rehearsal, but the rest of us stayed at the hotel "waiting for stragglers" and sucking down more wine). The dinner was a buffet, and I gotta say, the beef was so delicious it actually melted in my mouth. There was salmon and veggies and polenta, too. And wine. The dinner was fantastic, and the flowers were so pretty I wanted to eat them but there were some delphiniums and those are poisonous so I just took home a bouquet instead. Like their daughter's wedding, we laughed, toasted, cried, and ate like pigs.
The wedding day dawned foggy but not terribly cold and we had high hopes for some sunshine before the ceremony. The day was spent walking around in Carmel, which is the only thing you can do in Carmel that won't require a second mortgage.I did find a pair of earrings on sale which matched my dress so I considered that a major score. When we got back to the hotel, we discovered that there had been some family drama, lots of tears and door slamming. In other words, the usual wedding stuff.
At about 5pm we headed for a really cool little wine bar for wine and hors d'oeuvres. At 7 we all walked down to the beach, shed our shoes and crossed the sand to very near the water. We created an aisle out of seaweed and the hub got ready. As the girls arrived on a cool trolly, the guys met them and escorted them to the assembled masses. The bride's sister is 15 and possesses the voice of an angel. She also plays the guitar beautifully and serenaded us with a love song as everybody came together. I forgot to mention that as we were waiting for the couple to arrive we realized that the tide was coming in so we moved our assembly back. Twice. That water can move!
The bride was gorgeous, the ceremony lovely, and the hub did a great job. There were more tears, hugs, and crashing waves. Plus, just in time for the bride to show up - the sun came out! It was like a wedding in a romance novel! When it was time for their first married kiss the groom picked his bride up and swung her in the air! It was so romantic. Which is kind of surprising since they do have the aforementioned baby, and its not their first time at the rodeo, if you know what I mean...
We walked back to the restaurant and indulged in more delicious food, wine and conversation. when it came time for cake, there was a really pretty three tier wedding cake with flowers on it. It looked like a regular wedding cake but it was CHEESECAKE inside. There was chocolate and caramel sauce an strawberries on sticks. I want to live there and eat that food forever. Yum! More wine later, we walked back to the hotel (probably burned off a whole calorie! Maybe two...).
The next day we went out for brekkie with my buddy and her hub. Petted some dogs (Lots of Standard Poodles in Carmel), talked to some nice people, looked at some really expensive real estate, then headed home. It was a seriously fun weekend and such a beautiful and meaningful wedding.We got to hang with my bud and her hub. Plus we found out their daughter (the June bride) is pregnant!
I told my friend, though, that if her kids don't stop popping out babies and getting married, I'm going to turn into a fat alcoholic. A happy one, though...
Anyway, on August 20th, the hub, the daughter unit and I went down to Carmel and checked into our hotel. Well, first we stopped at the pub across the street for some refreshment. This would be a recurring theme over the weekend. When we got into our room, we discovered it had a kitchen with a full sized refrigerator! I thought this was standard for all the rooms, but after giving the rest of the wedding group tours of the room, I realized our was the only room with cooling capacity. The fridge rapidly filled with wine, beer, and a couple of bottles of hard liquor which I know don't need refrigeration but seemed happy to be among friends.
The hub wanted to take a walk to bank a few calories because we knew that there was eating on the horizon. And all that booze...We got into our sneakers and opened the door to find one of the other wedding guests about to knock on our door seeking access to the fridge. More people started gathering and bottles started being opened, glasses passed, cigars smoked. It got fun fast. We forgot about the walk and decided to socialize instead. These are nice people and they buy good wine. We made a good choice.
Later that night, after the wine-a-thon, we proceeded to the hotel's conference room where my buddy had arranged the mother of all rehearsal dinners (Oh, yeah, the wedding party had a rehearsal, but the rest of us stayed at the hotel "waiting for stragglers" and sucking down more wine). The dinner was a buffet, and I gotta say, the beef was so delicious it actually melted in my mouth. There was salmon and veggies and polenta, too. And wine. The dinner was fantastic, and the flowers were so pretty I wanted to eat them but there were some delphiniums and those are poisonous so I just took home a bouquet instead. Like their daughter's wedding, we laughed, toasted, cried, and ate like pigs.
The wedding day dawned foggy but not terribly cold and we had high hopes for some sunshine before the ceremony. The day was spent walking around in Carmel, which is the only thing you can do in Carmel that won't require a second mortgage.I did find a pair of earrings on sale which matched my dress so I considered that a major score. When we got back to the hotel, we discovered that there had been some family drama, lots of tears and door slamming. In other words, the usual wedding stuff.
At about 5pm we headed for a really cool little wine bar for wine and hors d'oeuvres. At 7 we all walked down to the beach, shed our shoes and crossed the sand to very near the water. We created an aisle out of seaweed and the hub got ready. As the girls arrived on a cool trolly, the guys met them and escorted them to the assembled masses. The bride's sister is 15 and possesses the voice of an angel. She also plays the guitar beautifully and serenaded us with a love song as everybody came together. I forgot to mention that as we were waiting for the couple to arrive we realized that the tide was coming in so we moved our assembly back. Twice. That water can move!
The bride was gorgeous, the ceremony lovely, and the hub did a great job. There were more tears, hugs, and crashing waves. Plus, just in time for the bride to show up - the sun came out! It was like a wedding in a romance novel! When it was time for their first married kiss the groom picked his bride up and swung her in the air! It was so romantic. Which is kind of surprising since they do have the aforementioned baby, and its not their first time at the rodeo, if you know what I mean...
We walked back to the restaurant and indulged in more delicious food, wine and conversation. when it came time for cake, there was a really pretty three tier wedding cake with flowers on it. It looked like a regular wedding cake but it was CHEESECAKE inside. There was chocolate and caramel sauce an strawberries on sticks. I want to live there and eat that food forever. Yum! More wine later, we walked back to the hotel (probably burned off a whole calorie! Maybe two...).
The next day we went out for brekkie with my buddy and her hub. Petted some dogs (Lots of Standard Poodles in Carmel), talked to some nice people, looked at some really expensive real estate, then headed home. It was a seriously fun weekend and such a beautiful and meaningful wedding.We got to hang with my bud and her hub. Plus we found out their daughter (the June bride) is pregnant!
I told my friend, though, that if her kids don't stop popping out babies and getting married, I'm going to turn into a fat alcoholic. A happy one, though...
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Little Boy of Summer
There are only three weeks left of regular season baseball for this year. I love baseball and I especially adore this year's Giants team. They are cute as kittens and very good at the game. Every time they're down, they just claw their way back up.Yes, my Mighty Gigantes are an inspiration, and while I hope they make it into the post season, even if they don't (they will!!!) they have been amazing to watch this season. I'm really gonna miss it when they're done for the year.
I will miss the big Giants, but I will actively pine for the tiny Giant who lives next door. On the front porch of his 5th birthday, the little guy (a newly minted kindergartner)continues his never-ending baseball game which has become background for everything that has gone on in the neighborhood this summer. "Hey, did you hear, Ann has to have a double mastectomy?" ("Now batting - right fielder - Aubrey Huff!)"I'm cleaning out a bunch of crap - wanna have a garage sale?" (Andres Tortoise hits another home run!"). "How's Ann?" (Take me out to thee ball gaaaame...) "Is he going back to Arizona already? Are the dorms even open yet?" (Pablo Sandyball hits a triple!) "We got all his school supplies - I can't believe he's starting kindergarten!" (Now pitching - Tim Linsykim!)
For the record, I know Huff plays first base, but it really ticks the little guy off to see him there so he always plays right field on our street. Also, Andres Torres is a speedster on the bases - nothing tortoise-like about him. I was thinking, though, of putting a Giants hat on our pet tortoise and taking a picture. Don't want to go near Pablo's sandyball with a camera...just sayin'. Plus, Ann is doing very well after her surgery and we made some good bank at our garage sale - enough to afford a bug zapper to cut down on the mosquito population in the nabe...
Sometimes the big Giants win and sometimes they lose, but our Giants usually win. And when they get a splash hit, like Timmy does every third at bat or so, they dive into McCovey Cove and retrieve the ball! OK, I know Lincecum bats about 130 and he's never hit a home run in his life. Don't even know if he can swim, but our little Giant trusts his heroes and I bet they can fly if he wants them to.
In fact, the only aspect of this baseball fixation that could be called remotely negative is the uptick in spitting and crotch grabbing that the little guy engages in. All the neighbors crack up when he does this. His mom - not so much. In fact, during one of yesterday's fourth innings she signaled for a time out, pulled him off third and read him the riot act..."When you are being paid lots of money to play professional baseball, you can spit and grab your crotch all you want - until then - knock it off!" Chastened, he marched back to third, hung his head and waited for Pablo Sandyball to swing the bat.
Next weekend, when we celebrate his birthday at the Giants mini field in the shadow of Giants stadium (where else?) I will hoist a hot dog (We're tailgating!)to my tiny Giant and his grownup counterparts, wish them all a fantastic fall and thank them for this awesome summer.
I'm even gonna miss the spitting and crotch grabbing...
I will miss the big Giants, but I will actively pine for the tiny Giant who lives next door. On the front porch of his 5th birthday, the little guy (a newly minted kindergartner)continues his never-ending baseball game which has become background for everything that has gone on in the neighborhood this summer. "Hey, did you hear, Ann has to have a double mastectomy?" ("Now batting - right fielder - Aubrey Huff!)"I'm cleaning out a bunch of crap - wanna have a garage sale?" (Andres Tortoise hits another home run!"). "How's Ann?" (Take me out to thee ball gaaaame...) "Is he going back to Arizona already? Are the dorms even open yet?" (Pablo Sandyball hits a triple!) "We got all his school supplies - I can't believe he's starting kindergarten!" (Now pitching - Tim Linsykim!)
For the record, I know Huff plays first base, but it really ticks the little guy off to see him there so he always plays right field on our street. Also, Andres Torres is a speedster on the bases - nothing tortoise-like about him. I was thinking, though, of putting a Giants hat on our pet tortoise and taking a picture. Don't want to go near Pablo's sandyball with a camera...just sayin'. Plus, Ann is doing very well after her surgery and we made some good bank at our garage sale - enough to afford a bug zapper to cut down on the mosquito population in the nabe...
Sometimes the big Giants win and sometimes they lose, but our Giants usually win. And when they get a splash hit, like Timmy does every third at bat or so, they dive into McCovey Cove and retrieve the ball! OK, I know Lincecum bats about 130 and he's never hit a home run in his life. Don't even know if he can swim, but our little Giant trusts his heroes and I bet they can fly if he wants them to.
In fact, the only aspect of this baseball fixation that could be called remotely negative is the uptick in spitting and crotch grabbing that the little guy engages in. All the neighbors crack up when he does this. His mom - not so much. In fact, during one of yesterday's fourth innings she signaled for a time out, pulled him off third and read him the riot act..."When you are being paid lots of money to play professional baseball, you can spit and grab your crotch all you want - until then - knock it off!" Chastened, he marched back to third, hung his head and waited for Pablo Sandyball to swing the bat.
Next weekend, when we celebrate his birthday at the Giants mini field in the shadow of Giants stadium (where else?) I will hoist a hot dog (We're tailgating!)to my tiny Giant and his grownup counterparts, wish them all a fantastic fall and thank them for this awesome summer.
I'm even gonna miss the spitting and crotch grabbing...
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Old, Not Old...
Yesterday I heard a snatch of conversation that got me thinking. A couple of young voices were talking about an upcoming birthday. "I'm gonna be 25!" One of them moaned "I feel so I old..." I remember being young and feeling old. I also remember Watergate, the Beatles coming to America, and the signing of the Declaration of Independence. OK, not the last one but I have been around awhile.
I'm still not old, though, but gosh, if you're 25 and don't know if you're old, you've got a long, old life ahead of you! I remember when I was a kid; anytime I asked my mom how old she was she'd just say "I'm old" and the look on her face said she really thought she was! I did some figuring and realized that she was in her 30's when I started wondering about her age. Of course that was in the 60's when the worst thing a woman could do was grow older. The horror!
I think what we need are some benchmarks. That way there will be no question about when you become old, you'll just be there. If people can't do anything about it the debate will end. Problem is, what do you use for a benchmark? What are some commonalities we can use to determine geezerdome? Grey hair? That wouldn't work. We all go grey at different times. Plus, its easy to hide...
Bill Cosby once said your first grey pube makes you feel old but that's a lousy benchmark. Who would want to check? I have a personal set of aging benchmarks that serve me well and I think we should apply them universally. They are universal and unavoidable. Here they are: you are young until you're 30, then you're middle aged til you're 60, then you're old. If you live past 90, you're really old and for every 5 years after that you add another "really". Until you reach 100, and then you add a "freakin'" I think this will simplify our discourse.
You could argue that the weak link of my system is middle age because technically "middle" means that there is the same amount on either side and a 59 year old probably won't live to 118 years old. Possibly not, but who knows, modern science could help us all live to be really, really, freakin' really, really, really, old.
Of course, then I'll have to re-calibrate my benchmarks.
I'm still not old, though, but gosh, if you're 25 and don't know if you're old, you've got a long, old life ahead of you! I remember when I was a kid; anytime I asked my mom how old she was she'd just say "I'm old" and the look on her face said she really thought she was! I did some figuring and realized that she was in her 30's when I started wondering about her age. Of course that was in the 60's when the worst thing a woman could do was grow older. The horror!
I think what we need are some benchmarks. That way there will be no question about when you become old, you'll just be there. If people can't do anything about it the debate will end. Problem is, what do you use for a benchmark? What are some commonalities we can use to determine geezerdome? Grey hair? That wouldn't work. We all go grey at different times. Plus, its easy to hide...
Bill Cosby once said your first grey pube makes you feel old but that's a lousy benchmark. Who would want to check? I have a personal set of aging benchmarks that serve me well and I think we should apply them universally. They are universal and unavoidable. Here they are: you are young until you're 30, then you're middle aged til you're 60, then you're old. If you live past 90, you're really old and for every 5 years after that you add another "really". Until you reach 100, and then you add a "freakin'" I think this will simplify our discourse.
You could argue that the weak link of my system is middle age because technically "middle" means that there is the same amount on either side and a 59 year old probably won't live to 118 years old. Possibly not, but who knows, modern science could help us all live to be really, really, freakin' really, really, really, old.
Of course, then I'll have to re-calibrate my benchmarks.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
August 10
Today is the 25th anniversary of the daughter unit's birth. Its also approaching the fourth anniversary of her heart's failure and it is because of this that she and I spent today at Kaiser in Santa Clara for her annual big heart checkup. She has checks every three months but those just involve blood tests. The annual big one, though, involves a catheter inserted in an artery and threaded down to take a bite out of her heart.
I know. Ew. I sit in the waiting room, humming Janis Joplin's "Piece of My Heart", trying not to think about what's going on in the procedure room in the back, when I notice a couple across the room looking anxious and confused. Plus the young man was wearing a respirator - the kind painters wear. I moseyed on over, introduced myself and asked if they were transplant people. They were. He'd gotten a new heart just last Thursday. His experience and my daughter's were very similar. Perfectly healthy, caught a virus that killed their hearts.
We were talking about their transplants and the little old lady sitting with a whole different group (heart attack, I think), kept exclaiming "Oh my!" "Goodness!" and "Heavens no!" at intervals through our whole conversation. She was hilarious - I almost tossed in my uterine polyps and breast lump just to give her more material...
The daughter came out after her procedure, and I was glad my new friends had gone in already because this one hurt my girl a lot. When she came out there were tears in her eyes. She popped a percocet and a short time later got very relaxed. Then she had an echocardiogram, clinic visit and an xray. After only seven hours, we were done.
We toodled along back past home and to the county offices in Hayward. The daughter had to submit some paperwork for a job she starts soon. While at the County office with most of the population of the county, I discovered several things:
1. There are lots of fat people in our county.
2. Most of these fat people wear pants that are too small.
3. Too small pants on a too large body cause the flab to ooze over the waistband.
4. This is unattractive.
5. People who work in county offices don't get paid enough.
If we thought waiting in line at Kaiser and the county offices was fun, we found true joy waiting in line to leave the parking lot with all the other people who were trying to get the hell out of there because it was 4:30 and time to go home! I sang Happy Birthday to the girl just to remind her it was her special day.
When we finally rolled up the driveway, we were overcome with exhaustion and relief. My baby headed for the door and after I finished kissing the driveway, I joined her. I was thrilled to be home but I was mostly happy to be home with her because her life is truly a miracle. Plus I'm exhausted. And my nearly perfect hub made burgers for dinner - with pepper jack cheese.
All in all, not the birthday I'd choose for anybody but we made the best if it. We laughed a lot and gave her her presents before dinner. Then she went out for ice cream with her friends. If you take away the heart biopsy - you might even call it fun! Next year, though, maybe dinner and a show...
I know. Ew. I sit in the waiting room, humming Janis Joplin's "Piece of My Heart", trying not to think about what's going on in the procedure room in the back, when I notice a couple across the room looking anxious and confused. Plus the young man was wearing a respirator - the kind painters wear. I moseyed on over, introduced myself and asked if they were transplant people. They were. He'd gotten a new heart just last Thursday. His experience and my daughter's were very similar. Perfectly healthy, caught a virus that killed their hearts.
We were talking about their transplants and the little old lady sitting with a whole different group (heart attack, I think), kept exclaiming "Oh my!" "Goodness!" and "Heavens no!" at intervals through our whole conversation. She was hilarious - I almost tossed in my uterine polyps and breast lump just to give her more material...
The daughter came out after her procedure, and I was glad my new friends had gone in already because this one hurt my girl a lot. When she came out there were tears in her eyes. She popped a percocet and a short time later got very relaxed. Then she had an echocardiogram, clinic visit and an xray. After only seven hours, we were done.
We toodled along back past home and to the county offices in Hayward. The daughter had to submit some paperwork for a job she starts soon. While at the County office with most of the population of the county, I discovered several things:
1. There are lots of fat people in our county.
2. Most of these fat people wear pants that are too small.
3. Too small pants on a too large body cause the flab to ooze over the waistband.
4. This is unattractive.
5. People who work in county offices don't get paid enough.
If we thought waiting in line at Kaiser and the county offices was fun, we found true joy waiting in line to leave the parking lot with all the other people who were trying to get the hell out of there because it was 4:30 and time to go home! I sang Happy Birthday to the girl just to remind her it was her special day.
When we finally rolled up the driveway, we were overcome with exhaustion and relief. My baby headed for the door and after I finished kissing the driveway, I joined her. I was thrilled to be home but I was mostly happy to be home with her because her life is truly a miracle. Plus I'm exhausted. And my nearly perfect hub made burgers for dinner - with pepper jack cheese.
All in all, not the birthday I'd choose for anybody but we made the best if it. We laughed a lot and gave her her presents before dinner. Then she went out for ice cream with her friends. If you take away the heart biopsy - you might even call it fun! Next year, though, maybe dinner and a show...
Sunday, August 1, 2010
In Praise of the F Bomb
When my kids were little, in order to not raise potty mouths, the hub and I decided we needed to clean up our language. Its not that we were constantly swearing, but we realized that the cussin' we did would eventually be regurgitated by our offspring which would be broadcast into the ether at inopportune moments. So we cleaned it up and started sounding like something between a Disney movie and Mother Theresa. We were boring. But very well spoken.
As the kids grew up and discovered that there were cool other words to express anger, frustration, disdain, etc, I explained that - yes, they are just words, but they show a lack of creativity and - no, its not OK to correct Grandma when she uses them. The first time I dropped an f-bomb in their presence I think I made them cry. I even apologized - but I really wasn't sorry - I was f*ckin' pissed!
I discovered along the way that other people didn't share my restraint. Well, maybe around kids but nowhere else. One Sunday, I attended a meeting in my former minister's office. After the meeting ended, I mentioned that something confused me and my minister said "Yeah, that's a real mind f*ck". As I was drinking coffee at the time, I did an actual spit take. The kind you see on TV where somebody drinks something and blows it across the room. Whiles I was cleaning the wall, I said I was sorry, but I really hadn't expected to hear that word in the minister's office on a Sunday morning.
Flash forward to last month. The hub and I were visiting our pseudo family in Las Vegas. They are some of my favorite people and its purely fate that brought us together. The hub's widowed mother married a divorced man after all their kids were grown and everybody just kind of clicked. The sort-of brother has a kinda wife, and they are very cool people. Both journalist types, they are smart, artistic, and well spoken. My nearly sister-in-law also has a mouth that would make a rapper blush. According to her, people aren't dead, they're "tits up in the ground" and f-bombs fly like mosquitoes at dusk when she's comfortable around you. Which, I am happy to say, she is around me and the hub.
In fact, Semi Sis has given me a new mantra by which I intend to structure my whole life. In addition to her other talents, she is a really wonderful and creative cook. All her food is delicious and beautifully presented. One day, she was making a pizza and she was having trouble getting it off the peel (Of course she has a peel - I use a cookie sheet) She ended up folding the pizza in half and turning it into a cobbled together calzone. Ticked off, she carried it to the table, plopped it down and said "F*ck it - its dinner."
This is my favorite new phrase. And its so versatile! Wash the laundry with a red sock?"F*ck it - its clean". Let weeds take over your garden? "F*ck it - its green". Eat a whole bag of chips" "F*ck it - they're gone". I've long thought I needed a personal philosophy and I think I've found it. Thanks to my sorta sister-in-law in Vegas.
I've been thinking a bit about the f-bomb lately. In fact, I've done some research on it. Its an old word of Germanic origin that probably always meant having sex. That's why there's not much information on the origin of the f-bomb; people are shy about stuff like that. Now, though, it means so much more. It adds extremity to things, emphasis...Its a f*cking brilliant word when you think about it!
While writing this, I've kept my friends of tender sensibilities in mind by masking the f-bomb. That's another thing I've discovered - you have your nice friends and your f*cking friends. Your nice friends are people you can have coffee or lunch with, talk about your kids, and shop sometimes. Your fucking friends, you can do all the same stuff with, but you loosen up with these people, and they tend to be a lot more fun. There is frequently chocolate involved with your f*cking friends.
So, I've decided that its OK to drop the occasional f-bomb. In fact, it adds color and depth to my vocabulary. Not in the way Mrs. Metz, my English teacher, would have wanted - but it works for me. And as for this blog entry, f*ck it - its done...
As the kids grew up and discovered that there were cool other words to express anger, frustration, disdain, etc, I explained that - yes, they are just words, but they show a lack of creativity and - no, its not OK to correct Grandma when she uses them. The first time I dropped an f-bomb in their presence I think I made them cry. I even apologized - but I really wasn't sorry - I was f*ckin' pissed!
I discovered along the way that other people didn't share my restraint. Well, maybe around kids but nowhere else. One Sunday, I attended a meeting in my former minister's office. After the meeting ended, I mentioned that something confused me and my minister said "Yeah, that's a real mind f*ck". As I was drinking coffee at the time, I did an actual spit take. The kind you see on TV where somebody drinks something and blows it across the room. Whiles I was cleaning the wall, I said I was sorry, but I really hadn't expected to hear that word in the minister's office on a Sunday morning.
Flash forward to last month. The hub and I were visiting our pseudo family in Las Vegas. They are some of my favorite people and its purely fate that brought us together. The hub's widowed mother married a divorced man after all their kids were grown and everybody just kind of clicked. The sort-of brother has a kinda wife, and they are very cool people. Both journalist types, they are smart, artistic, and well spoken. My nearly sister-in-law also has a mouth that would make a rapper blush. According to her, people aren't dead, they're "tits up in the ground" and f-bombs fly like mosquitoes at dusk when she's comfortable around you. Which, I am happy to say, she is around me and the hub.
In fact, Semi Sis has given me a new mantra by which I intend to structure my whole life. In addition to her other talents, she is a really wonderful and creative cook. All her food is delicious and beautifully presented. One day, she was making a pizza and she was having trouble getting it off the peel (Of course she has a peel - I use a cookie sheet) She ended up folding the pizza in half and turning it into a cobbled together calzone. Ticked off, she carried it to the table, plopped it down and said "F*ck it - its dinner."
This is my favorite new phrase. And its so versatile! Wash the laundry with a red sock?"F*ck it - its clean". Let weeds take over your garden? "F*ck it - its green". Eat a whole bag of chips" "F*ck it - they're gone". I've long thought I needed a personal philosophy and I think I've found it. Thanks to my sorta sister-in-law in Vegas.
I've been thinking a bit about the f-bomb lately. In fact, I've done some research on it. Its an old word of Germanic origin that probably always meant having sex. That's why there's not much information on the origin of the f-bomb; people are shy about stuff like that. Now, though, it means so much more. It adds extremity to things, emphasis...Its a f*cking brilliant word when you think about it!
While writing this, I've kept my friends of tender sensibilities in mind by masking the f-bomb. That's another thing I've discovered - you have your nice friends and your f*cking friends. Your nice friends are people you can have coffee or lunch with, talk about your kids, and shop sometimes. Your fucking friends, you can do all the same stuff with, but you loosen up with these people, and they tend to be a lot more fun. There is frequently chocolate involved with your f*cking friends.
So, I've decided that its OK to drop the occasional f-bomb. In fact, it adds color and depth to my vocabulary. Not in the way Mrs. Metz, my English teacher, would have wanted - but it works for me. And as for this blog entry, f*ck it - its done...
Monday, July 19, 2010
The Last Straw
So, many people know that its been almost a year since a board at the church I attended for more than 20 years fired me from my job in their preschool. They showed me the door without talking to me or getting my side of things. I knew there was trouble, but I had no one to help me because everybody was either sick or caring for a sick person or a nutball. In their termination letter, they said the problem started the year before but they never said anything to me, just tossed me under the bus.
This behavior seemed to be the antithesis of what I felt was the point of going to church, that is: to learn how to exist in the world in a Christ-like way. Jesus is well known to be an advocate of helping and supporting the underdog. He spent time with hookers, lepers, women, children, and nutballs (people posessed by evil). He was supportive of people who were treated unfairly. He wasn't just a really Good Guy, He was the Son of God for Pete's sake!
So when my church treated me so poorly and gave me no recourse, I quit that bitch and began looking for a new place to worship. See, I've always loved church - being in a church gave me such a deep feeling of peace, even if I was just touring a landmark like a mission here in California, or Notre Dame in Paris. When I was a kid I begged my parents to take me and I loved it when they did. Plus, the music was so pretty...
I researched various religions. Tossed out any that espoused idiocy - the earth is more than 6,000 years old, Jeez. After watching the news and reading the paper, I decided not to embrace any religion that put pedophiles in charge of children, encouraged people to kill in the name of God, or put the religion's needs over the needs of people. By this time, I'd rejected almost all of the world's faiths.
The fact is that I like being Christan. I believe in God and I love Jesus. But, to paraphrase John Fugelsang (great writer/hilarious comedian) some of His fan clubs give me pause. Like my friend who finally (after 20 years!) divorced her emotionally abusive douchebag husband and had her clergyman berated her for "not trying". Her hub was not the only douche. And the church that gave a woman in her 30s a hard time for having a baby outside of marriage. She couldn't seem to meet a good man and she heard the clock ticking in her uterus...
Which brings me to this weekend and my last straw. The hub and I were at a party, and also in attendance were my friend's son and his fiance with their new baby. They are getting married next month and they asked the hub to perform the ceremony. I wondered why not a professional? I mean, the hub has been a proud minister in the Universal Life Church since he sent in $5 in Middle School, but he's a park ranger by trade. Turns out they took their 3 1/2 month old daughter to her family's church to talk about christening and the dude with the backward collar said: "It would be a waste of water" to baptize the baby. Let me repeat that..."it would be a waste of water" to baptize that paragon if innocence.
I thought the point of baptism was to welcome a person into the family of God. So her mother wasn't confirmed and her parents rarely attend church, why won't the baby be welcome in God's family? I think Jesus would have welcomed her. I also think Jesus would have welcomed the fatherless baby and his mother. And I think Jesus would have encouraged the abused woman and (in His spare time)I think He would have talked to me about my problem and let me work in a different position at the school if I couldn't adapt.
I thank God every day for all my gifts, including, but not limited to, my awesome family, terrific friends, food, a place to live, good health and my sense of humor. All of which have gotten me through the hard times. I thought I needed church to feel close to God but maybe not. I've always thought that calling a building "God's house" was a little disingenuous since God created all outdoors and churches are built by people. Well intentioned people, but people nonetheless. I think I'll spend my time worshipping outside. Waste of water, my ass!
This behavior seemed to be the antithesis of what I felt was the point of going to church, that is: to learn how to exist in the world in a Christ-like way. Jesus is well known to be an advocate of helping and supporting the underdog. He spent time with hookers, lepers, women, children, and nutballs (people posessed by evil). He was supportive of people who were treated unfairly. He wasn't just a really Good Guy, He was the Son of God for Pete's sake!
So when my church treated me so poorly and gave me no recourse, I quit that bitch and began looking for a new place to worship. See, I've always loved church - being in a church gave me such a deep feeling of peace, even if I was just touring a landmark like a mission here in California, or Notre Dame in Paris. When I was a kid I begged my parents to take me and I loved it when they did. Plus, the music was so pretty...
I researched various religions. Tossed out any that espoused idiocy - the earth is more than 6,000 years old, Jeez. After watching the news and reading the paper, I decided not to embrace any religion that put pedophiles in charge of children, encouraged people to kill in the name of God, or put the religion's needs over the needs of people. By this time, I'd rejected almost all of the world's faiths.
The fact is that I like being Christan. I believe in God and I love Jesus. But, to paraphrase John Fugelsang (great writer/hilarious comedian) some of His fan clubs give me pause. Like my friend who finally (after 20 years!) divorced her emotionally abusive douchebag husband and had her clergyman berated her for "not trying". Her hub was not the only douche. And the church that gave a woman in her 30s a hard time for having a baby outside of marriage. She couldn't seem to meet a good man and she heard the clock ticking in her uterus...
Which brings me to this weekend and my last straw. The hub and I were at a party, and also in attendance were my friend's son and his fiance with their new baby. They are getting married next month and they asked the hub to perform the ceremony. I wondered why not a professional? I mean, the hub has been a proud minister in the Universal Life Church since he sent in $5 in Middle School, but he's a park ranger by trade. Turns out they took their 3 1/2 month old daughter to her family's church to talk about christening and the dude with the backward collar said: "It would be a waste of water" to baptize the baby. Let me repeat that..."it would be a waste of water" to baptize that paragon if innocence.
I thought the point of baptism was to welcome a person into the family of God. So her mother wasn't confirmed and her parents rarely attend church, why won't the baby be welcome in God's family? I think Jesus would have welcomed her. I also think Jesus would have welcomed the fatherless baby and his mother. And I think Jesus would have encouraged the abused woman and (in His spare time)I think He would have talked to me about my problem and let me work in a different position at the school if I couldn't adapt.
I thank God every day for all my gifts, including, but not limited to, my awesome family, terrific friends, food, a place to live, good health and my sense of humor. All of which have gotten me through the hard times. I thought I needed church to feel close to God but maybe not. I've always thought that calling a building "God's house" was a little disingenuous since God created all outdoors and churches are built by people. Well intentioned people, but people nonetheless. I think I'll spend my time worshipping outside. Waste of water, my ass!
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Bye Bye, Baby...
This past week, the hub and I were on vacation. We spent several days with his pseudo siblings (long, not very interesting story) in Las Vegas. We had a great time, floated in a beautiful pool, ate gourmet food, and generally had a really fun time. Of course, in our typical fashion, it couldn't be a vacation without something weird happening. We were in the Hofbrauhouse in Vegas (Which is an exact replica of the one in Munich) singing, dancing (the Chicken Dance - but it counts...)eating, drinking and generally kicking up our middle aged heels when the hub's phone rang.
He went out into the foyer to answer it and when he didn't come right back I knew something was up. I went to see what was going on and when I found him he looked up and mouthed the words "Lucy died." Then we went back to the party.
Lucy was our 15 year old Border Collie mix. When the kids were 10 and 12 I decided we needed a puppy. The hub and I searched and searched until finally we stumbled upon a baby Coon Hound which I fell in love with and named Lucy. Turns out the hub had some reservations vis a vis the really loud howl Coon Hounds issue instead of a bark.
So we went elsewhere and found a baby Border Collie mix which I fell in love with and named Lucy. This time it stuck. She was 10 weeks old, really cute and shy. The whole family loved her and she was the perfect dog. Lucy was so smart that she trained herself to sit, stay, heel and throw a ball. Heck, she probably would have cleaned the house and cooked dinner if she'd had thumbs.
We weren't sure of her birthday but we decided it was June 18 which coincided with my birthday. That made us Geminis so we understood each other. We had our bitch days and our other days we were warm and fuzzy. Of course on her bitch days, she had the excuse that she was actually a bitch. The other days, well, of course she was warm and fuzzy - she was a dog, for Pete's sake.
When we heard she'd died, we didn't want her to go to the vet where they'd just toss her in the trash and then send me the Rainbow Bridge poem. They sent it to me after Ernie died and I thought "Lame. Nice, but lame". Then I got to the part about him coming to meet me as I crossed the bridge and I dissolved into a blithering puddle of weeping jelly. I did not want to go there again.
My poor, brave sister was the one who found Lucy when she came to feed the pets while we were away. She called and the hub told her to double bag the body and leave her in the garage. We were banking on the weather being cool enough to keep her relatively fresh until we got home three days later.
We reasoned that Lucy had died apparently peacefully in her sleep. She had kindly waited until we were gone so we wouldn't be upset (Yeah, it seems a tad anthropomorphic, but you didn't know Lucy). She also left a whole bunch of little hairs around the house to remember her by. Plus, she was 105 in people years!
I was cool about her death until I got home. I miss her, but there's not the sense that she was too young to die. Still, her absence leaves a hole. And there's nobody to clean the dishes before they go in the dishwasher. Our small dog has taken to giving us the stink eye and peeing in the living room. I sense the possible need for a puppy shrink.
Everybody loved Lucy. I found myself consoling many of my neighbors. We had a wake at 5 Guys burgers. I had fries in Lucy's honor. Lucy would have wanted me to. In fact Lucy would have made them for me. If she'd had thumbs. Then she'd have licked the plate clean after I finished them. I miss Lucy...
He went out into the foyer to answer it and when he didn't come right back I knew something was up. I went to see what was going on and when I found him he looked up and mouthed the words "Lucy died." Then we went back to the party.
Lucy was our 15 year old Border Collie mix. When the kids were 10 and 12 I decided we needed a puppy. The hub and I searched and searched until finally we stumbled upon a baby Coon Hound which I fell in love with and named Lucy. Turns out the hub had some reservations vis a vis the really loud howl Coon Hounds issue instead of a bark.
So we went elsewhere and found a baby Border Collie mix which I fell in love with and named Lucy. This time it stuck. She was 10 weeks old, really cute and shy. The whole family loved her and she was the perfect dog. Lucy was so smart that she trained herself to sit, stay, heel and throw a ball. Heck, she probably would have cleaned the house and cooked dinner if she'd had thumbs.
We weren't sure of her birthday but we decided it was June 18 which coincided with my birthday. That made us Geminis so we understood each other. We had our bitch days and our other days we were warm and fuzzy. Of course on her bitch days, she had the excuse that she was actually a bitch. The other days, well, of course she was warm and fuzzy - she was a dog, for Pete's sake.
When we heard she'd died, we didn't want her to go to the vet where they'd just toss her in the trash and then send me the Rainbow Bridge poem. They sent it to me after Ernie died and I thought "Lame. Nice, but lame". Then I got to the part about him coming to meet me as I crossed the bridge and I dissolved into a blithering puddle of weeping jelly. I did not want to go there again.
My poor, brave sister was the one who found Lucy when she came to feed the pets while we were away. She called and the hub told her to double bag the body and leave her in the garage. We were banking on the weather being cool enough to keep her relatively fresh until we got home three days later.
We reasoned that Lucy had died apparently peacefully in her sleep. She had kindly waited until we were gone so we wouldn't be upset (Yeah, it seems a tad anthropomorphic, but you didn't know Lucy). She also left a whole bunch of little hairs around the house to remember her by. Plus, she was 105 in people years!
I was cool about her death until I got home. I miss her, but there's not the sense that she was too young to die. Still, her absence leaves a hole. And there's nobody to clean the dishes before they go in the dishwasher. Our small dog has taken to giving us the stink eye and peeing in the living room. I sense the possible need for a puppy shrink.
Everybody loved Lucy. I found myself consoling many of my neighbors. We had a wake at 5 Guys burgers. I had fries in Lucy's honor. Lucy would have wanted me to. In fact Lucy would have made them for me. If she'd had thumbs. Then she'd have licked the plate clean after I finished them. I miss Lucy...
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Bitches Please
So one of those vampire movies is coming out. Maybe its already here - I don't follow the series but those actors are all over the place so I figure there's something afoot. That excessively handsome young man who doesn't know a vagina from a Swedish car (see March 13) is in the movie along with another kid who recently reached his 18th birthday and women are going nuts.
Here's what's weird. When I say "women", I'm not just talking about females in their late adolescence or early 20's. There are ladies MY AGE swooning like teenagers over these (barely not) children. I have nothing against older women with younger men. I mean my son's girlfriend is 10 years older than he is. She's lovely and their relationship is wonderful. They are also in the same generation. Some of these vampire lover gals could be grandmas to the actors they're slobbering over. Ew.
I was watching the "Today Show" the other day and one of these actors had a body guard to keep people from touching the goodies while he circled the crowd. Lots of the hands they were brushing off were wrinkly and had liver spots. He was polite and gracious to everyone which makes me think he must be a pretty good actor. The body guard looked kind of disgusted. You've got to admit that's gotta be pretty icky duty.
The thing is, do they not realize the people in those movies are not real? In People Magazine a few weeks ago (Yes, I subscribe, it was a gift from the hub...What?)there was an article about a woman who decorated a room in her house in a total vampire movie theme. Including, but not limited to posters,cardboard standups, sheets and movie paraphernalia. I also read where marriages are breaking up over vampire obsessions. Bitches, please...
I hope women who are obsessed with these stories (and ladies, they are just stories) realize that they were made up by a woman. Lots of women write romantic fiction. Our minds just work that way. Once tapped - our romance gland can create ooey, gooey prose that would make your hair curl softly, softly over your silken shoulder. Your satin robe pushed back, while your body achingly awaited his touch.
See, all it takes is a feminine brain and a hormone. I'm not saying men can't write romance, but, ironically, the kind of brooding, manly men that vampire obsessed women fantasize about could probably no more write a romantic sex scene than decorate a powder room. Plus, I've gotten to know a few brooding men in my life and I've discovered that when women think men are awash in deep, romantic thoughts, they're most likely trying to decide on tap or bottle beer.
I hope that when all these ladies who are changing their lives for fictitious young men and scenarios float back down to earth, they have something to land on. It would be depressing to wait for a pale, young stud to bite your neck and find out that he was your grandson's friend from Oregon.
Here's what's weird. When I say "women", I'm not just talking about females in their late adolescence or early 20's. There are ladies MY AGE swooning like teenagers over these (barely not) children. I have nothing against older women with younger men. I mean my son's girlfriend is 10 years older than he is. She's lovely and their relationship is wonderful. They are also in the same generation. Some of these vampire lover gals could be grandmas to the actors they're slobbering over. Ew.
I was watching the "Today Show" the other day and one of these actors had a body guard to keep people from touching the goodies while he circled the crowd. Lots of the hands they were brushing off were wrinkly and had liver spots. He was polite and gracious to everyone which makes me think he must be a pretty good actor. The body guard looked kind of disgusted. You've got to admit that's gotta be pretty icky duty.
The thing is, do they not realize the people in those movies are not real? In People Magazine a few weeks ago (Yes, I subscribe, it was a gift from the hub...What?)there was an article about a woman who decorated a room in her house in a total vampire movie theme. Including, but not limited to posters,cardboard standups, sheets and movie paraphernalia. I also read where marriages are breaking up over vampire obsessions. Bitches, please...
I hope women who are obsessed with these stories (and ladies, they are just stories) realize that they were made up by a woman. Lots of women write romantic fiction. Our minds just work that way. Once tapped - our romance gland can create ooey, gooey prose that would make your hair curl softly, softly over your silken shoulder. Your satin robe pushed back, while your body achingly awaited his touch.
See, all it takes is a feminine brain and a hormone. I'm not saying men can't write romance, but, ironically, the kind of brooding, manly men that vampire obsessed women fantasize about could probably no more write a romantic sex scene than decorate a powder room. Plus, I've gotten to know a few brooding men in my life and I've discovered that when women think men are awash in deep, romantic thoughts, they're most likely trying to decide on tap or bottle beer.
I hope that when all these ladies who are changing their lives for fictitious young men and scenarios float back down to earth, they have something to land on. It would be depressing to wait for a pale, young stud to bite your neck and find out that he was your grandson's friend from Oregon.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Wedding Week
The wedding I've been looking forward to is in the history books. The rehearsal was last Friday. It was fun and disorganized, as all wedding rehearsals are. There was lots of giggling and running around. Afterwards there was napping and then a burrito buffet and lots of wine. Which might have been the catalyst for the hub and me putting the table decorations on our heads and dancing in the bar. Well, the table decorations were straw sombreros and we didn't dance on the tables. Plus, the band contained one aging and wrinkly Doobie Brother so we felt dancing was in order. And it was my birthday which was cool. I got free ice cream at lunch.
Saturday dawned way too early and after breakfast we spent the day hanging out and annoying people. The girls were getting their hair and makeup done in the bridal suite. The boys were trying to eradicate their hangovers (the girls probably were, too but at least they smelled good). About noon, the hub and I wandered down the street to Pizza My Heart for a slice. Halfway through, his phone rang. It was the daughter unit and Maid of Honor who was having a shoe emergency; as in the ones she had didn't look right with the dress. Or her hair, which caused me to bust out into a chorus of "Don't Cry For Me Argentina" when I first saw it. Not my best move and one of the reasons I offered to run out and get her another pair of shoes.
The problem was, I knew what she needed and I was certain we could find them at Payless. But there are no Paylesses in Los Gatos. Google maps located one in San Jose and we zipped over there got the shoes and tried to zip back before the bridal party left the hotel. We would have made it, too, but the hub, who never gets lost anywhere, got lost. On the plus side, we drove through Saratoga which is pretty.
We got back to the hotel about 5 minutes after the limo left. The ceremony didn't start til four o'clock and it was only 1:45 so we knew we'd get the shoes to the daughter in time but we had to catch our shuttle to the wedding site at 2:15. We raced to our room and threw on our clothes. Then I decided I looked fat in my dress so I put on one of the other ones I'd brought(in case I looked fat) tossed some makeup at my face and ran to catch the shuttle. We made it.
The shoes fit, and I realized why the dress I chose to wear wasn't my first choice...I kept having to hoist up the front because my bra kept showing. So I ditched the bra. I still had to hoist it up to keep the girls in line, but at least nobody saw my bra which was, to put it mildly, really ugly. Plus, I had a shawl that could hide a multitude of sins (including, I just realized, my bra) so I was all set.
The wedding ceremony was gorgeous, touching, spiritual and fun. The bride was not beautiful - she was exqisite! The groom was handsome and adorably dorky. We laughed, we cried. There were flowers, trees, birds tweeting, sunbeams, joy, prayers. It was a great wedding. The reception was fun, if a little cold. Great food, good wine, awesome beer (the hub made it). Then we repaired to a large barn for dancing, coffee, more wine and cake. It was so much fun everybody wanted it to last all night, but, alas, we had to catch the 10 pm shuttle.
The next morning, my friend and her hubby put on a wedding brunch with great food and (surprise!) champagne. This was how a wedding should be - three days of parties, wine, family and so much fun! We sent off the new couple with lots of hugs and kisses. They are a great pair and I'm so happy for them. The only problem is that this wedding has been in the planning stages for more than a year. And now its over. Done. Now what?
I think I'll get a puppy.
Saturday dawned way too early and after breakfast we spent the day hanging out and annoying people. The girls were getting their hair and makeup done in the bridal suite. The boys were trying to eradicate their hangovers (the girls probably were, too but at least they smelled good). About noon, the hub and I wandered down the street to Pizza My Heart for a slice. Halfway through, his phone rang. It was the daughter unit and Maid of Honor who was having a shoe emergency; as in the ones she had didn't look right with the dress. Or her hair, which caused me to bust out into a chorus of "Don't Cry For Me Argentina" when I first saw it. Not my best move and one of the reasons I offered to run out and get her another pair of shoes.
The problem was, I knew what she needed and I was certain we could find them at Payless. But there are no Paylesses in Los Gatos. Google maps located one in San Jose and we zipped over there got the shoes and tried to zip back before the bridal party left the hotel. We would have made it, too, but the hub, who never gets lost anywhere, got lost. On the plus side, we drove through Saratoga which is pretty.
We got back to the hotel about 5 minutes after the limo left. The ceremony didn't start til four o'clock and it was only 1:45 so we knew we'd get the shoes to the daughter in time but we had to catch our shuttle to the wedding site at 2:15. We raced to our room and threw on our clothes. Then I decided I looked fat in my dress so I put on one of the other ones I'd brought(in case I looked fat) tossed some makeup at my face and ran to catch the shuttle. We made it.
The shoes fit, and I realized why the dress I chose to wear wasn't my first choice...I kept having to hoist up the front because my bra kept showing. So I ditched the bra. I still had to hoist it up to keep the girls in line, but at least nobody saw my bra which was, to put it mildly, really ugly. Plus, I had a shawl that could hide a multitude of sins (including, I just realized, my bra) so I was all set.
The wedding ceremony was gorgeous, touching, spiritual and fun. The bride was not beautiful - she was exqisite! The groom was handsome and adorably dorky. We laughed, we cried. There were flowers, trees, birds tweeting, sunbeams, joy, prayers. It was a great wedding. The reception was fun, if a little cold. Great food, good wine, awesome beer (the hub made it). Then we repaired to a large barn for dancing, coffee, more wine and cake. It was so much fun everybody wanted it to last all night, but, alas, we had to catch the 10 pm shuttle.
The next morning, my friend and her hubby put on a wedding brunch with great food and (surprise!) champagne. This was how a wedding should be - three days of parties, wine, family and so much fun! We sent off the new couple with lots of hugs and kisses. They are a great pair and I'm so happy for them. The only problem is that this wedding has been in the planning stages for more than a year. And now its over. Done. Now what?
I think I'll get a puppy.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Tiny Temporary Family
The hub and I went to the ballpark last night. Our Mighty Giants were playing the A's and since we were in Oakland when the A's spanked SF, we were looking for some payback. Since we'd watched the last two games from the nosebleed area, we alerted Tenzig (Norgay - our Sherpa friend) that we could find our own way to our seats. Because we got good seats - not great ones in the field club, but two rows back. So we didn't have waiters, but we did have a great view of the game.
When you take your seats at a baseball game, you have to get to know, to some extent, your seat mates. After all, you are going to be confined together for two and a half to three hours. You will eat together, drink together, and work toward a common goal - trying to avoid having to pee when there are runners on base...
I got to chase some guys out of our seats, which was cool, never done that before. When we got settled, three men came and sat in front of us. As soon as he sat down, the guy in front of me started talking, and talking. This guy looked and sounded like a guy who, if you wanted to cast somebody to play a midwestern minister, you'd pick him. Tall white guy with thinning white hair, kind of doughy, perfectly pressed shirt, well modulated voice and he never shut up. In his favor, he knew a lot about sports, but - damn...His name was Scott.
About a half hour into Scott's homily about Pablo Sandoval's weight problem, I whispered to the hub asking if he had a sock I could stuff in Scott's mouth. He offered his shorts. I considered it. Speaking of weight problems, there was a family of future heart attack victims accross the aisle and I wanted to smack the parents who kept feeding the kids chips.
Right behind us was a guy who I think was on a date with the woman next to him. I caught her eye as he was finishing up a story about hitting a rubber snake on some pole at spring training. We shook our heads. Dude - if you have to preface a story with "This is so funny..." - its not funny. Don't think there will be a next date. Behind him was Crazy Uncle A's Fan who brought his horn and kept talking about the A's as if he was part of the team "We're hitting real well - We had a great spring" etc. Um...the A's don't hire lard butts...well, except Jack Cust.
The game was a nail biter at the end, but they pulled it out for Zito. I was exhausted. Good game, though. Reverend Scott left early, probably to go home and tune up today's sermon. The Fat Family hung in til the end which was impressive because by the ninth inning they'd run out of food and had to actually watch the game. Date Couple ditched in about the seventh inning. The Giants scored - don't think he did...Crazy Uncle A's Fan broke his horn -awwwww. The hub ran into him in the potty line after the game and said he was a nice guy - pretty funny and just enjoying the game. Uh - what if the A's had won?
Our next game is Monday. I can't wait to see who we sit near. Of course, its Halloween in June at the park and we'll be in our Star Trek uniforms (original series) so theres a good chance nobody will sit by us. Maybe we should take a horn...
When you take your seats at a baseball game, you have to get to know, to some extent, your seat mates. After all, you are going to be confined together for two and a half to three hours. You will eat together, drink together, and work toward a common goal - trying to avoid having to pee when there are runners on base...
I got to chase some guys out of our seats, which was cool, never done that before. When we got settled, three men came and sat in front of us. As soon as he sat down, the guy in front of me started talking, and talking. This guy looked and sounded like a guy who, if you wanted to cast somebody to play a midwestern minister, you'd pick him. Tall white guy with thinning white hair, kind of doughy, perfectly pressed shirt, well modulated voice and he never shut up. In his favor, he knew a lot about sports, but - damn...His name was Scott.
About a half hour into Scott's homily about Pablo Sandoval's weight problem, I whispered to the hub asking if he had a sock I could stuff in Scott's mouth. He offered his shorts. I considered it. Speaking of weight problems, there was a family of future heart attack victims accross the aisle and I wanted to smack the parents who kept feeding the kids chips.
Right behind us was a guy who I think was on a date with the woman next to him. I caught her eye as he was finishing up a story about hitting a rubber snake on some pole at spring training. We shook our heads. Dude - if you have to preface a story with "This is so funny..." - its not funny. Don't think there will be a next date. Behind him was Crazy Uncle A's Fan who brought his horn and kept talking about the A's as if he was part of the team "We're hitting real well - We had a great spring" etc. Um...the A's don't hire lard butts...well, except Jack Cust.
The game was a nail biter at the end, but they pulled it out for Zito. I was exhausted. Good game, though. Reverend Scott left early, probably to go home and tune up today's sermon. The Fat Family hung in til the end which was impressive because by the ninth inning they'd run out of food and had to actually watch the game. Date Couple ditched in about the seventh inning. The Giants scored - don't think he did...Crazy Uncle A's Fan broke his horn -awwwww. The hub ran into him in the potty line after the game and said he was a nice guy - pretty funny and just enjoying the game. Uh - what if the A's had won?
Our next game is Monday. I can't wait to see who we sit near. Of course, its Halloween in June at the park and we'll be in our Star Trek uniforms (original series) so theres a good chance nobody will sit by us. Maybe we should take a horn...
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Leftovers
I have to apologize for last night's post. I was really tired and I so wanted to crawl into my bed with the hub and the dog; plus we'd been to a funeral and I was a little distracted; and the Giants game was on TV and they were winning. So that's why yesterday's post was so egregiously banal (My 8th grade teacher, Mr. Duff, was right - those words did come in handy...I AM glad he taught them to me - dammit.)
There were some thoughts bouncing around in my head and was afraid they would fall out if I didn't get them down before I fell asleep. So I wrote them down. Then today, I read through it again. It sucked (Hey, Mr. Duff - I picked that one up on my own - not fancy, but it works...). Then I got to thinking, I've left a few loose ends dangling, so I'll catch up...
I bought the Spanx! Its a pretty cool garment that, if I was a skank, I could wear as a dress. Its actually a different brand than Spanx, but it does the job. The bra, undies and slip are all one garment and it smooths out all the bumpy parts. There is a thin rubberized strip under the hem so it won't ride up. It also has stitching around the ass part that, if mine was perkier, would make it stand up and salute.
There's another word I found that sounds dirty but isn't. Its "diphthong" which sounds like something a skank (me if I wore my Spanx as a dress!) could wear in a swimming pool. Its actually a two vowel sound in a single syllable. Perfectly acceptable but it sounds gross.
Oh, yeah,aside from tonight, the Giants are winning! Timmy's last game wasn't a winner but it wasn't a loser either. It makes no sense. I think you have to be four years old and a rabid baseball fanatic to understand it. Also - yesterday, our four year old rabid baseball fanatic neighbor who has an imaginary baseball game going 24/7 added the National Anthem to his repertoire. Our across the street neighbor flies her flag nearly every day so he takes off his hat and faces it while belting out the song. Anybody who's out there joins in. Our across the street neighbor thinks we really like her...
Life is improving. Its not all better yet, but its getting there. As we all know, life is a journey, not a destination, and what doesn't kill us makes us stronger, and that includes last night's post...
There were some thoughts bouncing around in my head and was afraid they would fall out if I didn't get them down before I fell asleep. So I wrote them down. Then today, I read through it again. It sucked (Hey, Mr. Duff - I picked that one up on my own - not fancy, but it works...). Then I got to thinking, I've left a few loose ends dangling, so I'll catch up...
I bought the Spanx! Its a pretty cool garment that, if I was a skank, I could wear as a dress. Its actually a different brand than Spanx, but it does the job. The bra, undies and slip are all one garment and it smooths out all the bumpy parts. There is a thin rubberized strip under the hem so it won't ride up. It also has stitching around the ass part that, if mine was perkier, would make it stand up and salute.
There's another word I found that sounds dirty but isn't. Its "diphthong" which sounds like something a skank (me if I wore my Spanx as a dress!) could wear in a swimming pool. Its actually a two vowel sound in a single syllable. Perfectly acceptable but it sounds gross.
Oh, yeah,aside from tonight, the Giants are winning! Timmy's last game wasn't a winner but it wasn't a loser either. It makes no sense. I think you have to be four years old and a rabid baseball fanatic to understand it. Also - yesterday, our four year old rabid baseball fanatic neighbor who has an imaginary baseball game going 24/7 added the National Anthem to his repertoire. Our across the street neighbor flies her flag nearly every day so he takes off his hat and faces it while belting out the song. Anybody who's out there joins in. Our across the street neighbor thinks we really like her...
Life is improving. Its not all better yet, but its getting there. As we all know, life is a journey, not a destination, and what doesn't kill us makes us stronger, and that includes last night's post...
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
I'm starting to make old people noises. Not the organic pops, creaks and toots that you expect from someone approaching the time to start thinking about when they'll become old; well, those too, but...my accessories are getting noisy.
See, when I was a kid charm bracelets were very fashionable and all the old ladies wore them. A lady was old when she was over 40. Basically, that was time to be put out to pasture or left on an ice floe to be eaten by polar bears. I guess that's why they wore the charm bracelets - those charms clanking together would scare the polar bears away.
All I knew was that if I heard clanking and smelled gardenias there was a grandma in the vicinity. Grandmas also wore shoes that made hollow thunks on the floor. They used old-school cigarette lighters that went clack, shoosh, chwa.
Now, I will never, ever use a cigarette lighter for its intended purpose, but the last pair of shoes I bought are kind of ugly and when I walk on hard floors they kind of thunk. I also have started collecting charms for my bracelet. The new style of charms don't dangle but they're like metal beads which fit on a metal rope-like bracelet.
These charms are silent but when I was cleaning out my garage, I found a silver bangle with a prayer inscribed on it. Its one of those mobius strip bracelets that has a twist in it so it can hold a really long prayer. I put it on with my charm bracelet. When I moved my arm - I clanked!
It took me a minute to recognize the sound but then I located it in the rusty, slightly corroded file cabinet of my mind. It was a grandma noise! If I put on my thunky shoes and walk down the hall while shaking my bracelets I might get so wrapped up in my past that I'll inadvertantly brace myself for a pinch on my cheek.
My transformation is coming together...All I need is some gardenia perfume.
See, when I was a kid charm bracelets were very fashionable and all the old ladies wore them. A lady was old when she was over 40. Basically, that was time to be put out to pasture or left on an ice floe to be eaten by polar bears. I guess that's why they wore the charm bracelets - those charms clanking together would scare the polar bears away.
All I knew was that if I heard clanking and smelled gardenias there was a grandma in the vicinity. Grandmas also wore shoes that made hollow thunks on the floor. They used old-school cigarette lighters that went clack, shoosh, chwa.
Now, I will never, ever use a cigarette lighter for its intended purpose, but the last pair of shoes I bought are kind of ugly and when I walk on hard floors they kind of thunk. I also have started collecting charms for my bracelet. The new style of charms don't dangle but they're like metal beads which fit on a metal rope-like bracelet.
These charms are silent but when I was cleaning out my garage, I found a silver bangle with a prayer inscribed on it. Its one of those mobius strip bracelets that has a twist in it so it can hold a really long prayer. I put it on with my charm bracelet. When I moved my arm - I clanked!
It took me a minute to recognize the sound but then I located it in the rusty, slightly corroded file cabinet of my mind. It was a grandma noise! If I put on my thunky shoes and walk down the hall while shaking my bracelets I might get so wrapped up in my past that I'll inadvertantly brace myself for a pinch on my cheek.
My transformation is coming together...All I need is some gardenia perfume.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Connections
You know that story that illustrates how everything is connected to everything else? The one about a butterfly flapping its wing in Brazil eventually causing a hurricane in Texas? Its a way of showing that even tiny actions have repercussions. Like that same butterfly flapping a second time and the resulting breeze causes my skirt to blow up into my face just as the picture is snapped and I'm wearing granny panties. I hate bugs.
I like cherries, though, which is why I'm glad I have cats. See, a few years ago I got the hub a cherry tree for Father's Day. He loves peaches and apricots but he likes cherries more than all the other fruits combined and since he didn't get mine I figured the least I could do was give him the ability to grow his own.
We planted the tree at the bottom of a little slope in our backyard so we could stand at the top of the slope and pick the fruit on the top and the bottom branches. It seemed like a brilliant idea when we put it in the ground, but we hadn't counted on the fact that birds like cherries, too.
Every year we saw blossoms on the tree which would start to turn into nice little yellow orbs. As soon as they started to blush and get a teeny bit sweet, the birds would devour them and leave just a pit swinging by a stem. I like birds but this was annoying. I mean, I'm willing to share but there has to be compromise. Those birds were just pigs...
And then we got Wilson, our little striped cherry protector. We'd had a cat for awhile, but Beatrice, our tuxedo kitty, spends most of the day doing her impersonation of roadkill. Wilson, on the other hand is constantly in motion, always looking to play with whatever is at paw. He seems to have eased off on his earbud fetish although that may have something to do with us changing to white ones which match our bed sheets so he can't see them (We listen to music at night to get to sleep).
Wilson loves to play outside, and enjoys climbing trees which scares the birds away. Until Wilson decides that cherries look like tasty earbuds, we're in heaven! The cherries are starting to ripen and I ate my first one today. Almost sweet enough, perfect texture and no beak holes!
I'm so glad Wilson has caused his ripples through our house. The only problem is that if ever a butterfly happens into our backyard when Wilson is out there, the world's weather could change forever.
I like cherries, though, which is why I'm glad I have cats. See, a few years ago I got the hub a cherry tree for Father's Day. He loves peaches and apricots but he likes cherries more than all the other fruits combined and since he didn't get mine I figured the least I could do was give him the ability to grow his own.
We planted the tree at the bottom of a little slope in our backyard so we could stand at the top of the slope and pick the fruit on the top and the bottom branches. It seemed like a brilliant idea when we put it in the ground, but we hadn't counted on the fact that birds like cherries, too.
Every year we saw blossoms on the tree which would start to turn into nice little yellow orbs. As soon as they started to blush and get a teeny bit sweet, the birds would devour them and leave just a pit swinging by a stem. I like birds but this was annoying. I mean, I'm willing to share but there has to be compromise. Those birds were just pigs...
And then we got Wilson, our little striped cherry protector. We'd had a cat for awhile, but Beatrice, our tuxedo kitty, spends most of the day doing her impersonation of roadkill. Wilson, on the other hand is constantly in motion, always looking to play with whatever is at paw. He seems to have eased off on his earbud fetish although that may have something to do with us changing to white ones which match our bed sheets so he can't see them (We listen to music at night to get to sleep).
Wilson loves to play outside, and enjoys climbing trees which scares the birds away. Until Wilson decides that cherries look like tasty earbuds, we're in heaven! The cherries are starting to ripen and I ate my first one today. Almost sweet enough, perfect texture and no beak holes!
I'm so glad Wilson has caused his ripples through our house. The only problem is that if ever a butterfly happens into our backyard when Wilson is out there, the world's weather could change forever.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
The Worst of Times, The Best of Times
Ever since I was canned from my job, Ive gone through periods of being OK to periods of being pretty darn depressed. I worked at a school and I suppose its only natural since I spent 20 years at that place, it became rather thoroughly entwined with my life and I got close to the kids. I spent lots of time even on my time off doing things, shopping, writing, for that place or thinking about ways to improve it. I was dedicated.
So when they told my they no longer wanted me to work there, I was poleaxed. After I cried my eyeballs out, I decided to purge the place from my belongings. Every year at that stupid place, we would order sweatshirts to sell to raise money. Each one had a our distinctive teddy bear logo and the name of the place on it. I had about six of them and my family each had one; I had raised a lot of money for that stupid place. I gathered them all up and next time we went to a baseball game I distributed them to the homeless people who ask for money on the way to the ballpark. They were grateful and I felt good.
I'd just start feeling better and then every time a significant date in the past year has come around, I have found myself getting depressed all over again. Since the end of the school year is upon us, there are lots of activities I'm missing,so its been kind of hard. My sweet hub has been doing his best to keep me busy.
We've been going to lots of baseball games and the Giants have been winning like crazy. This thrilled me and raised my spirits. I love my Mighty Gigantes and my favorite player, Tim Lincecum. Plus all the other players in orange and black. For most of the spring, I was getting along rather well...and then the Giants started losing. Whatever buoyed them in the beginning of this year seems to have leaked out like air from a tire, or a whoopee cushion. I started getting sad again.
There's oil flowing into the Gulf of Mexico, they've hired a permanent replacement for me, and the Giants are losing - how low can you go? Then last night we went to the Giant's game with some college friends. It was fun and Timmy was pitching so we were expecting a win. Unfortunately, Timmy had a really off night. Really,really off. Plus their bats ran out of hits. The Giants lost and Timmy seemed so sad I wanted to hug him and make it all better then put all the bats in a pile for the rest of the Giants and burn them and order new ones with hits in them. So last night sucked, even though it was great to see our old friends.
And then on the way back to our car, we crossed the Lefty O'Doul bridge where its usually a mini shopping mall for Panda hats, ball caps and 'Let Tim Smoke' t- shirts. Last night, though, there were very few salespeople there, just one panda hat vendor and a couple of homeless guys on the corner with a guitar and a harmonica in front of an open guitar case with a sign asking for "beer money - no lie". We'd already handed out all of our donation dollars so we started to skirt around them when my hub said "Look..."
I responded with my customary "Huh?" and he said "Look at the guy with the guitar." so I did. And there, playing a credible tune, was a skinny, haggard-looking man with no front teeth and a billy goat beard, singing "I need money for beer and weed!" And wearing a sweatshirt with a distinctive teddy bear logo and the name of the stupid place that fired me on it. We gave him some money and I kept the laughter to a low roar until we were out of their proximity, and then I really let go. I'm still laughing today - beer and weed and teddy bears.
So I will feel better, Timmy will get his groove back, the Giants will start hitting again and somehow, someway, they'll get that oil stopped and cleaned up. All ya gotta do is wait out the bad times - the good times will return. And as for that stupid place that fired me...what goes around, comes around. Beer and weed and teddy bears.Ha!
So when they told my they no longer wanted me to work there, I was poleaxed. After I cried my eyeballs out, I decided to purge the place from my belongings. Every year at that stupid place, we would order sweatshirts to sell to raise money. Each one had a our distinctive teddy bear logo and the name of the place on it. I had about six of them and my family each had one; I had raised a lot of money for that stupid place. I gathered them all up and next time we went to a baseball game I distributed them to the homeless people who ask for money on the way to the ballpark. They were grateful and I felt good.
I'd just start feeling better and then every time a significant date in the past year has come around, I have found myself getting depressed all over again. Since the end of the school year is upon us, there are lots of activities I'm missing,so its been kind of hard. My sweet hub has been doing his best to keep me busy.
We've been going to lots of baseball games and the Giants have been winning like crazy. This thrilled me and raised my spirits. I love my Mighty Gigantes and my favorite player, Tim Lincecum. Plus all the other players in orange and black. For most of the spring, I was getting along rather well...and then the Giants started losing. Whatever buoyed them in the beginning of this year seems to have leaked out like air from a tire, or a whoopee cushion. I started getting sad again.
There's oil flowing into the Gulf of Mexico, they've hired a permanent replacement for me, and the Giants are losing - how low can you go? Then last night we went to the Giant's game with some college friends. It was fun and Timmy was pitching so we were expecting a win. Unfortunately, Timmy had a really off night. Really,really off. Plus their bats ran out of hits. The Giants lost and Timmy seemed so sad I wanted to hug him and make it all better then put all the bats in a pile for the rest of the Giants and burn them and order new ones with hits in them. So last night sucked, even though it was great to see our old friends.
And then on the way back to our car, we crossed the Lefty O'Doul bridge where its usually a mini shopping mall for Panda hats, ball caps and 'Let Tim Smoke' t- shirts. Last night, though, there were very few salespeople there, just one panda hat vendor and a couple of homeless guys on the corner with a guitar and a harmonica in front of an open guitar case with a sign asking for "beer money - no lie". We'd already handed out all of our donation dollars so we started to skirt around them when my hub said "Look..."
I responded with my customary "Huh?" and he said "Look at the guy with the guitar." so I did. And there, playing a credible tune, was a skinny, haggard-looking man with no front teeth and a billy goat beard, singing "I need money for beer and weed!" And wearing a sweatshirt with a distinctive teddy bear logo and the name of the stupid place that fired me on it. We gave him some money and I kept the laughter to a low roar until we were out of their proximity, and then I really let go. I'm still laughing today - beer and weed and teddy bears.
So I will feel better, Timmy will get his groove back, the Giants will start hitting again and somehow, someway, they'll get that oil stopped and cleaned up. All ya gotta do is wait out the bad times - the good times will return. And as for that stupid place that fired me...what goes around, comes around. Beer and weed and teddy bears.Ha!
Monday, May 24, 2010
Big decision
I'm thinking about buying a Spanx. I know what you're thinking: "OK, go out and get the damn thing". But here's my problem, if I buy a Spanx, which is a piece of "control wear" it will involve breaking a vow I made to myself about 48 years ago, to wit: " I will never, ever, ever wear a girdle of any kind.
See, I come from a generation whose mothers trussed themselves up in larval versions of Spandex on a regular basis. My mom only girdled up if it was a really special occasion, but I had friends whose moms got up and wrestled themselves into their Platex Tummy Control torture devices every morning. My best friend's mom, for instance.
When I was a kid, hugging was not the common practice it is now. Its not that people were cold, but usually a pat on the head was the reward for a job well done. Its a good thing, too, because my friend's mom wore a full girdle contraption every day. Bumping into her was like running into a wall. There was absolutely no give - at all. I can only imagine what a hug would have felt like. "Honey, how did you get that black eye?" "I hugged Mrs. Francis."
I just knew that running into an adult woman by accident or because I felt like they needed to be rammed into was an unpleasant experience. Not that I ever achieved ramming speed, but I had a first grade teacher who was a real pain in my patootie and once I often fantasized about running into her on the playground so she'd fall and skin her knee. I probably would have knocked myself silly on her undergarments.
Not only were women encased in girdles, but on TV there were dire warnings about "midriff bulge", which was a consequence of wearing a bra on top and a girdle on the bottom. The flab had nowhere to go, so it squirted out the middle like a wobbly donut, all the way around. Thus was invented the "long line" bra which met up with the top of the girdle. This created a kind of constricting jumpsuit. In hot, humid Houston, Texas for Pete's sake - its no wonder they didn't hug much.
In any case, once when I watched my mom wrestle her way out of a girdle, I said to myself "I will never, ever, ever put on one of those things. And I never have - not even control top panty hose. Not even when I was fat! But now I lost the flab and I bought a dress. One of those dresses that really emphasizes the hour glass shape of my bod. Oddly, I don't look like that with my clothes off but this dress...it does all the right things to all the right stuff and I really want to wear it!
Problem is that it is really tight and undie lines will show. A Spanx will solve that problem, but I have to break my vow with my young self. Maybe I'll just try one on and see how it feels. Yes, its a control garment, but if control is not my intent, then maybe I'm not going back on my word. I just hope I'm not heading for some kind of slippery stretchy slope.
See, I come from a generation whose mothers trussed themselves up in larval versions of Spandex on a regular basis. My mom only girdled up if it was a really special occasion, but I had friends whose moms got up and wrestled themselves into their Platex Tummy Control torture devices every morning. My best friend's mom, for instance.
When I was a kid, hugging was not the common practice it is now. Its not that people were cold, but usually a pat on the head was the reward for a job well done. Its a good thing, too, because my friend's mom wore a full girdle contraption every day. Bumping into her was like running into a wall. There was absolutely no give - at all. I can only imagine what a hug would have felt like. "Honey, how did you get that black eye?" "I hugged Mrs. Francis."
I just knew that running into an adult woman by accident or because I felt like they needed to be rammed into was an unpleasant experience. Not that I ever achieved ramming speed, but I had a first grade teacher who was a real pain in my patootie and once I often fantasized about running into her on the playground so she'd fall and skin her knee. I probably would have knocked myself silly on her undergarments.
Not only were women encased in girdles, but on TV there were dire warnings about "midriff bulge", which was a consequence of wearing a bra on top and a girdle on the bottom. The flab had nowhere to go, so it squirted out the middle like a wobbly donut, all the way around. Thus was invented the "long line" bra which met up with the top of the girdle. This created a kind of constricting jumpsuit. In hot, humid Houston, Texas for Pete's sake - its no wonder they didn't hug much.
In any case, once when I watched my mom wrestle her way out of a girdle, I said to myself "I will never, ever, ever put on one of those things. And I never have - not even control top panty hose. Not even when I was fat! But now I lost the flab and I bought a dress. One of those dresses that really emphasizes the hour glass shape of my bod. Oddly, I don't look like that with my clothes off but this dress...it does all the right things to all the right stuff and I really want to wear it!
Problem is that it is really tight and undie lines will show. A Spanx will solve that problem, but I have to break my vow with my young self. Maybe I'll just try one on and see how it feels. Yes, its a control garment, but if control is not my intent, then maybe I'm not going back on my word. I just hope I'm not heading for some kind of slippery stretchy slope.
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