Frenemy Sports

I have been watching the Olympics as of late and it has got me thinking about my own sporting abilities.  What might they be, you may be asking yourself.  I ask myself the same question.


It will not come as a great surprise to those that know me that sports are not really my cup of tea. Even that statement is un-sportsmanlike. Cup of tea? Would you like a cupcake with that, Cupcake? Yes, I would and proudly. Yum, I love cupcakes.

I am not particularly athletically inclined. It's not something that has faded, it just never was.  It does not seem natural to me to reach out and catch a ball when it is flying toward my body at a high rate of speed. Good God, why would someone throw something at me if they weren't aiming to hit me? After all, what are the chances I will catch it?  I have never developed past that baby stage where you close your eyes when someone throws something at you. I think I might still have that startle reflex. That is nature. I am a sad victim of said nature and I am also grossly uncoordinated.

So, imagine what that is like for me. Ball is flying at me, I'm wondering why my friend now hates me, my arms fly up from my sides, my fingers are splayed out and my eyes are closed. 

Does it look like I will catch the ball? Uh, no.

If I force myself to keep my eyes open, I have other skills I will employ. Sometimes I will throw something at it. Like it is a bird. I try to stop the trajectory. If there is a mitt on my hand, which I wear much like an accessory because it really is of no good to me, I might (quick as a flash) whip it off and throw it at the whizzing orb. I have actually hit the ball doing this. Victory! Hey, put that one in your playbook.

Because I've never had great success with that, I am a very good ball dodger. Leaning either left or right. Now I do happen to know this IS done in baseball by the batter. Making it a legit move in the sports arena - why limit it to the batter? I  have gone a little off the playbook, and employ this skill in the outfield. What? I am using the limited skills I possess.

Dodging.  See how nicely that works?

My last ball skill is to run. Run away from the ball.  My team mates are not generally fond of me.

Some people are sad when they are the last chosen. I am not and never have been. I stand there hoping maybe no one will choose me and I won't have to play and I can continue drawing with my stick in the dirt. I'm not insulted; I know how bad I am. If I wanted to win at a sports game, I wouldn't want me either.  It is always funny to me to watch a very sporty and pc person try to figure out how to utilize me. I’m like that new piece you bought for the living room but now it's home with you and you don't know where to put it. "Ok, why don't you go over there? No, wait, how about by the fence? No, let's put you way way WAY out there, over to the left.

Thank you, I still have my stick and can finish my dirt masterpiece.

Sporty people, with their god-like chiseled frames, are sometimes a little judg-ee. They look at me weird. Like "WTH?" It is the same look that the flamboyant dude on one of those "You Are Going Out In THAT Outfit?" TV shows gives the shabbily dressed Home Brau. "Oh snap, girlfriend.”  Except the sporty person is thinking, "really, THAT (as he motions in a circular motion in the direction of my body) is what you've got? Oh snap."

Sporty women are the most unkind of the sports world. Guys just get this very pitiful look on their face. They are sad for me and probably feel like you would feel toward a homeless dog. "Alright, come on".  Women, on the other hand, are out and out annoyed. I think they honestly want to bitch slap me. What do they want? At least my outfit is matching. And I'm wearing the stupid mitt, which, by the way, does NOT go with anything.

In high school I made it onto the cheer leading squad. It is sort of like a team sport. You have to have the same moves at the same time. And you also have to know the correct time to hair flip as well as back flip (in my case, cartwheel or forward roll).  That’s real pressure in high school. I'm not sure how or why I made it on the team. Maybe because I matched. And I had spirit.  Yes I did. (How about you?)  Though sometimes some of the girls on the squad looked at me the same way the sporty girls looked at me. Why you wanna flap-slap at me?  What?  Kick then turn?  Wait,….what?

This is sort of what I looked like in my finer cheerleading moments.

So my " sporty" contribution to the Wide Wide World of Sports is running.  I’m not particularly stellar at it but it's hard to get hurt. Well, not usually. I did fall down and get a bone bruise on my knee on my first half marathon. It really was not my fault. I was talking to a new friend I had just made (because my running partner was way way ahead of me – sporty girl that she is) and I was looking at the pretty cows in the countryside when I slid on the gravel. That hurt like a mo-fo. But, I did what other hard-core sportsman people would do. I cried a little into my never-been-used sweat band and then quietly bled into my shoe. But, I kept running, and did a cute hair flip at the end.  But other than that, running has been very very good to me. No pressure as no one is relying on me to catch, leap, jump or otherwise take one for the team.

But, I would take one for the team, it anyone would ever pick me…..just sayin.

Just another day....

I had the craziest day the other day. I don’t have crazy days every day – just the OTHER day. 

If I were an everyday blogger, I would be better at this AND this would be a doozy. Everyday blogging would be something. I don’t have enough to write about that anyone would want to read EVERY DAY.  Most of the time I sit down at the computer on Tuesday morning and think out loud.  I try not to do that too often – people tend to stay away from you if you do that.  

Just a personal experience antidote. 

You are welcome.

Today we will review a day in the life with bullets – the safe kind.  I’ve never worked with them before – so how exciting will this be? If they were real, it would be more exciting.  I could juggle them, throw them really fast at targets, stuff like that.   What am I?  A circus performer?  No, I'm not.  A Blood thirsty dare devil, are you?  I don't have a gun either. Too bad, punctuation bullets is all I got.

Probably won't be too exciting though– it is only Tuesday, not Wednesday which is known as hump day.   I know it is not literally “hump” day, but the 15-year-old boy inside my head thinks “hehehehehe” every time someone refers to Wednesday as hump day.  I’m really quite juvenile.

Anyway, this is how the day went down. 

• 100+- year old house
•  Rolling hills of green ever-growing grass
• Crazy lunatic puppy as an assistant and distraction
• Me on a riding mower
• ___________________________________
• =  Mowed grass but house still old   < = energetically unstable puppy

(I even included a math problem.  I have mad math skiils.  My mind is keen.)

That was the boring part, as you would have guessed because of the math problem.

• Victory dancing in my head (because I finished mowing) as I approach the house. 
• Note that there is water pooling in my yard.  Further note that the sprinklers are not on. 
• Done noting, and start panicking/swearing in my head. WTH?
• Puppy starts her own noting of pools.  Commences with a victory dance – in the pools.
• Puppy loving the bubbling sounds and water spewing out of the ground at various locations in my yard.  Decides to go for the source and begins digging. 
•  Realize I am just staring and emotionally slap myself and wake up.  Dang – it could be sewer or broken pipe.  I watch the dog for a moment and decide I have more important things to figure out even though my cream colored dog is now black and tan – like a beer my husband drinks.  I wish I had that beer right now. 

OK, screw the bullets.  That is too hard.  I don’t think I was doing it right anyway!

Walking further in the yard, I realize there is a very big depression in the yard.  The beginning of a sinkhole? I realize I don’t really know about sinkholes, but I’m sure this is how they all start.  Crap crap crap.  I back away slowly.  

Mud is flying everywhere from Annie’s dedicated search for the leak.   I have mud on my clothes, face and hair.

I race into the house, with a very excited muddy dog following me asking herself, “What will happen next?” 

My sump pump is working its’ little heart out, but the water seems to be coming into the cellar from the outside.  I think, “WTH” again, and curse “This Old House”, because they never responded to my eloquent plea for help.  I painted a very enticing invitation, but they never called.  This is their fault.  Damn them and their know how.

Annie is splashing around in the water in the cellar.  This is indeed a bonus day for her.   I notice she is now a little cleaner.

I am, however, a little grossed out because this very well could be sewer.  Whose sewer is the question because I have not been in the “loo” for hours.  Ew, Ew, Ew. There is no smell though.  . . . .

I am like an impaired Sherlock Holmes.

I realize the time.  I’m supposed to pick up my daughter after school.  She will be waiting with her boyfriend.  I can’t be late or I might be a grandmother.  (Not really, but that is always in my head. Doesn’t it flash through every parent’s head when their daughter is alone with a boy?)

 I am now teetering on the brink of my limited sanity.  I decide that I should just walk away.  La de la laa.  Act like I didn’t see it.  Maybe I will stop for a latte on the way home…. This is the flight syndrome.  I like it, it is momentarily freeing.  But, I am a bad bad liar and if I were to be interrogated, or even asked anything, like “how’s the weather?” it would all be over.   I would start wringing my hands like Lady Macbeth and mutter, “Out damn spot, out I say”.  She, too, had too much on her plate and probably a sinkhole or two in her back yard. You know, back behind the castle, in one of her gardens.  OK, she probably didn't know she had them, but does it make them any less real?  I say they were there.

I needs to get some of this!

I pull Annie out before she decides to roll around and drink the cellar “liquid”.  We return to the yard.  Hooray, she is back in the mud.

Pass the buck, pass the buck… I look around.  The birds are singing. No one is around on this god-forsaken island.  Sometimes solitude and tranquility is not all it is cracked up to be.

Annie is on her 3^rd hole.  She is looking very focused.  Maybe she can find the leak?

I decide this is a job for my husband.  I call him and he is very calm.  Of course, I’m the one who would have to care for the baby.

I try to appear very much in control as I explain the situation, but I am sweating just a little bit. Meanwhile, all is quiet around me.  Birds are singing, there is the burbling sound, and Annie is focusing on her digging.  I think he can see right through me because I am talking in a very high-pitched voice and repeating myself. He tells me to stop putting the phone to the ground; he says, he “cannot hear the sound” for the 4^th time.  I explain it sounds like the oil when it comes bubbling out of the ground on the “Beverly Hill Billies”.  He doesn’t seem to care about the sound.  I momentarily entertain the thought that it would be great if it WAS oil – we could be rich.

..and up from the ground, came the bubbling crude...

            I look back toward my swamp. –It is continuing to grow.  I Spy with my spy eye a swamp monster, hard at work, digging a 4^rd hole.  She is now just black, forget the tan.  I should just go straight up for the Guinness.

The “Unflappable One” tells me to go shut off the water in the pump shed. 

Ewww, that is a bad place.  Big spider webs and spiders.  It makes me frown and my face scrunches up.  I should have run when I had the chance. 

I run out there with my mud caked dog.  This is not at all what I had in mind when we bought this house.  I never intended on having to go into this shed. 

There are spiders – expected, and dead mice – not expected.  Annie decides she might give them a push and a sniff.  I push her out, and flip what looks like the switch.

I check the time again, the lovebirds will now be alone about 15 minutes.  Eeegads.  I hear JCPenneys is a good place for baby clothes.

I run back to the house.  Annie resumes her previous duties. Water is still gurgling.  I have seriously exhausted my problem solving skills AND I seriously no longer care about the flood.

I see the neighbor lady.  Yay!  I explain the situation in a high-pitched voice and I begin to start wringing my hands.  I shove them in my pockets and she calls her husband.  She is starting to sound high pitched.  My evil plan is working – it is now her problem.  The water seems to be coming from her house. 

The clouds have parted and the sun is shining.  I think Annie hears the angels singing and looks up with a black muzzle.

We decide that the neighbor lady and her husband will own the problem and I will rinse off my dog and save myself from becoming the old lady who lives in the shoe (who had so many grandchildren she didn’t know what to do).

Time for me to go.  I look at the dog.  Of course, the water is off.  Flight is back.  I have to get out of there before the lady wants to hand her problem back to me.  I load Annie into the car and she lays her muddy self down.  

She did her best to help and now she must rest.  I race around to the drivers seat.

I made it to pick up my daughter.  She was sitting in front of the school talking to her boyfriend and a group of other kids.

She bounces out to the car.  I scrutinize her – she looks like she did this morning.  She scrutinizes me and then looks in the back at Annie. 

“OMG, Mom, what happened?”

“Yeah, listen to a story about a man named Jeb.  A poor Mountaineer, barely kept his family fed…”

yes, yes, it might be possible...oil that is...

Musical Beds

Today’s article will be written in Verdana. I know, right?  I’m going rogue.  I think I can see Russia from my back porch…

Musical Beds.  It is not just a college phenomenon.  All you parents of college aged students want to plug your ears and say, “la la la, I can’t hear you”.

Right.  

Stand up and be a man.  

Pull the fingers out --I’m not going to talk about college.  And besides, your kids aren’t having sex.  They are too pure, too perfect, and don’t have time with all those studies.  Just keep repeating that. It helps to solidify the delusion.

While musical beds can be quite exciting and trashy - like 50 Shades of Grey- I want to explore some cleaner versions.  (And by the way, Mr. Grey is sooo weird. Ana needs her brain sanitized with Oxyclean – it can get out the worst messes).

One of my first (well, the first we shall speak of) experiences was when the kids were small and we were spineless, newly formed parents.  Our perfect children had manipulated our virgin parent brains into thinking they needed us to go to sleep.  So, every night, at bedtime, we would put them in bed and leave the room. 

Ahhhh…. look at us, the best parents in the world.

And then we would stare at each other because other activities required energy and libido.  But, it was somewhat relaxing nonetheless.  

The 10 minutes that it lasted. 

Then, the keystone cops music would start playing.  “Mommmm-mmeeee”.  I was always first because “Dadddd-deeee” was either at work or was suffering from some rare form of severe narcolepsy that resulted in quick, deep deep sleep.  So much that repeated pokes to the side did not stir him.  Neither did swearing, stomping, or cover pulling.  (I know now what I suspected then – he was a Ne’er-do-well that would rather fake a real syndrome than get up.  Damn him and his reproductive prowess. I now do it to him, but the dog-child has replaced the human-child.  Muah ha ha ha!  I’ve learned from the best).  
So, one of us (ME) would respond to the pitiful cries of the young.  We (I) would put them back in bed, reassure them that “they could do this” and shuffle sleep-blind back to our bed.  They didn’t believe us (ME) and after 21 billion times of textbook reassurances, one of us (ME) would end up “laying down” with our angel/devil child.  (If you have children, then you know that by "laying down with", I mean falling asleep and sleeping half the night in their bed and then stumbling back to your bed at 4am for your short 2 hour nap.)  I braved all kinds of scary things.  Giant Penguins, Pokémon Monsters, dump trucks, the little bossy neighbor girl, the potty – all the things that scare a super smart devil child.  I would like to say I am a better person for it.  But, that is a lie.  Just more aged and wrinkled.  It left a mark.

It sucked.

And then I had a musical bed experience of my very own.  It began innocently enough.  A light seesaw sound.  Almost gentle and sweet.  I just loved him, that’s all.  Nbd.

Somehow, while I was sleeping, it changed to moderately annoying.  I wake to the sound of a congested bear, a nice bear though, who has worked many hours saving lives and drinking coffee and is now in my bed.  Papa Bear in scrubs.  (Not MY Papa, I'm not weird like that - he just sounds like Papa Bear in Goldilocks might sound if he were in my bed. Just sayin.) I don't want to wake him, but dear lord, he needs to stop.  I poke him.  I turn sideways and push him over with my feet - gentle like.  Works for about 1 minute — just long enough for me to readjust my jammies and almost fall asleep.
Do I still love him?  Yes, I still love him, but only in the daytime.

Me:  “You are snoring, can you please turn over?”

Him:  “I wasn’t even asleep, how could I be snoring”

OMG really?

Me:  “So you snore when you are awake?”

Him:  “             “.

Time passes.  
Wax on, wax off. 
Then came the full on Pokémon Monster Snoring/Roaring.  Jeez Louise.  I cannot even tell you about it because the memory is too fresh.  And aggravating.  The part of me that loves the sleep is too agitated still.

This brought on the swearing and cover pulling and stomping.  

And musical beds are on.

Pillow in hand, I search for the right bed, like a messed up Goldilocks.  The first one contains a teenage boy.  The must smell is heavy and just too much.  That bed is too pungent and also, it is weird because he is a teenager.  That one is too “teen-ey”. The smell is much too big.
The next bed contains a small but furnace-hot starfish prone pre-teen girl.  This bed is much too hot and, even as a queen size bed, it has grown too small.  
Sadly, pathetically, I turn to go back to my hell/bedroom when I spy the perfect solution – the couch.  It works in the daytime for a nap, why not a quick little nighttime slumber? 

I lay down. It is just a little slippery, that's all. Leather is like that.  But, I can do it.  I fluff my pillow. 

It is jusssst riiiiight. Goldilocks should have tried the couch - stupid blond chick. I pick up my pillow that has fallen on the floor.

I am so freakin tired and I am sleeping on the couch.

My pillow keeps slipping.  The dog comes to check out my face. I re-fluff my pillow.

It sucks.

And then the Papa bear shuffles in. Oh Gawd!  I pretend I am so very fast asleep - like a seasoned faking narcoleptic (I am clever like that.) He stands there for a minute, staring at me and looking at my pillow on the floor.

Him:  “Hey, what are you doing?”

Me:  “You were snoring and I need to sleep”

Him:  “Oh…. I have to tell you that you were snoring too”

Me:  “Really?  I snore when I’m awake now too, I guess”.

Him:  “       “*

*(I’m thinking all kinds of swear words, but decide against saying them because I still love him on Date Night, Friday nights and sometimes weekends, and I want to stay married.)

My last experience involved a hot (not hawt-this isn't college) summer night, a beach house, open windows, barking dogs, a crying fox and a freaked out teenager.  And, of course, a snoring Papa bear.

It sucked.

(If I can, I will post the video of fox, but not the bear, I have to protect him. After all, I still love him – the bear, not the fox.  The fox I may hunt down.)

There is one last thing that I would like to add.  There is a small secret that The Bear and I have been keeping.  The musical beds have introduced a darkness into our lives - a rich darkness.  A rich, hot, steamy darkness.   It is a Menage a Trois of sorts.  He is ready in a pinch, and does a good drive-through service.  His name is Starbucks.  Thanks Howard Schultz – you be kinky.   Mr. Grey ain't got nothin' on you. 

It's a Trap

I like to think I am very aware – at least occasionally.  But, I have come to realize there are situations that are tricky, maybe even deceptive.  Yet, I continue to put myself at risk.  I guess this makes me an adventurer.  Lame, but I haven’t ever had the chance to refer to myself as such.  So, read with trepidation and caution, people. I put myself in this kind of danger daily.  NBD.

Danger, Will Robinson, Danger.

Yard sale: The perfect setup for buying other newly medicated hoarders' crap and for kidnapping - Criminal Minds Style. It is hard to resist those cheaply made, poorly spelled signs. They whisper to me.

Heather, there is total crap here that you need. (Ignore the pleading and raw embarrassment being spewed forth by your teenagers. They can stay in the car.) Come come inside “fer the bergins". 

Somehow I am also able to ignore the 2-toothed man breathing in my ear- he's just looking at the china too. He's really not sniffing my hair and imagining me in the new "retreat" he's been building. I've got 3 whole dollars to blow and, look, there's some old used shoes…and the 2-toothed man shuffles over behind me.  I guess he likes them too. Funny…?

My lovely friend Carolyn: I love her but she is my personal trainer. So when I make my appointments with her I am excited to go see her. But once I step in the gym door she is merciless.  I try to distract her with jokes and poor muscle strength, but she will have none of that. Damn her, it will take me a couple days to put that weight back on. She is like a black widow spider.  “Ooooo, look at her pretty red markings….I’m just going to get a little closer…..”  Before I know it, I am on the ground doing 20.

Sunset at the Beach: I’m wrapped up in my blankie on the deck and the lights in the sky are fading. So so so beautiful The West Nile Virus diseased carrying mosquitoes think the same.  But they aren’t interested in the beautiful colors and the soft caressing breezes. They like me, similar to how my daughter’s boyfriend likes her – on her like a vampire.  That breeze is carrying the sharp essence of carbon dioxide in it-the Chanel perfume of mosquito pheromones. Their numbers have been amassing all spring in the old tires they’ve been repeatedly warning us about on the news.  (I shouldn’t have bought those at that garage sale, but they were such a GOOD deal!) Could be one of the last sunsets I see, so I better enjoy it before they bite me & the disease festers & then kills me. Damn those pretty colors and my disease centered paranoia.

The Swimsuit Department: No need to explain, but I will. You are drawn to it by the dreams of yesteryear (how you used to look) and all those tropical colors. You choose a beautiful little swimsuit, a size bigger than what you usually wear, (because these were sized by the French who don’t eat hohos and potato chips) and head for the dressing room. You are feeling OK though because you are not alone -- you have Hope and Magical Thinking with you.  You approach the opposite of Hope -- the dressing room – also known as the Room of Despair. The dressing/despair room should have a rear door that drops off onto a cliff. Hand your husband the bag of lovely smelling hand soap from Bath and Body Works, and close the door. Do not waste a second thinking that this year will be different.  Just open the "escape hatch" door and over you go. Much less pain for all involved. At least he will be clean and smell good when you are gone. 

“Luckily”, it doesn’t have a back door, or there would be a lot of sweet smelling widowed guys sitting in bars wondering if she’s going to be mad he left because the game started.  You were taking soooo long in there. 

And “Luckily”, once again, your hopes and magical dreams are dashed and your husband dutifully hands you the tankini with the moomoo cover over the door.  Hope and Despair have run away to the bar – THAT was obviously a one-sided relationship.

You are set for another year on the side of the pool (drink in hand) glaring at the skinny girls through your sunglasses.  If only Hope and Magical Thinking were stronger –say like….Delusion.  That is a girlfriend to take with you in the Room of Despair, she will always have your back (but, of course, never tell you about the fat on it).

I know that I should learn from these traps, but I live for the danger.  It is in my blood. 

That’s what the mosquito said.

Go 'Merica!

Go ‘Merica.  

Yes, I said it.  

This is an ode to the USA. 

 It is almost the 4^th of July.  Independence Day.  I like the Independence part. 

What I like about the US is that we can say, “Really?”, and no one will arrest us for doubting or questioning. 

A black president.  Really?  Hell to the yes.  ‘Nough said.

Hohos for breakfast.  Really?  Yes, yes, I think I will have another.  Not in France.  They have socialized medicine.  They do not like chubbos.  I think that if I lived there, they would set a trap for me.  I would open my door to find a trail of ‘Merican Hoho tid bits leading out of my fab flat and down the Rue (like that?  I am tres Francais).   Once they had me out, they would capture me and make me ride through the countryside on a bike with a basket full of French flowers until my derriere was a size French small (French small is very small).  And, you know what?  I would like it.  Because I like hohos, and bikes, and the French country side.  But, I don’t live in a French flat.  So, I can eat hohos for breakfast if I want.  Really?  I could, but I don’t.  But I could. But I won’t.

Haters be hatin.  Really?  Yes, they be hatin.  And it doesn’t matter.  That is what you say when you don’t give a rip about what others think.  We can do that in America. 

A kid named America.  Really?  True that.  I have met him.  Fine boy.  I’m unsure if there are any other countries in which they name their children the same.  “Come, come, China, help me build this great wall”  -  too confusing.  “Hey, Brazil, what kind of wax do you use…..on your car?”   Doesn’t work so well.  But it does in America!

Hoochie Momma Shorts and bum crack jeans.  Really?  Yes!  And they are worn by EVERYONE.  Those that should and, especially, those that shouldn't.  They are both the popular choice worn by Americans who eat hohos for breakfast.  Where are those French when we need them?

I am going to keep this short, for now.  I have to go pack up my mobile, pay a lot for gas,  and then head out to the good old beach where I will fly my flag, eat my hot dogs, and drink my drank.    

Thanks ‘Merica.  You are very very good to me.