tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-104864682024-03-23T10:59:43.578-07:00Thought ConcoctionUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger342125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10486468.post-44838782450003509752010-08-12T18:53:00.000-07:002010-08-12T19:07:16.520-07:00Filling in the blanks.I can play guitar now. That's new. If you give me a song I can sing, and the corresponding chords, I can strum along, slightly off beat. And with the same up/down/up/down tempo that matches hardly anything. Except Neil Diamond songs.<br /><br />I am having ankle surgery in September. It appears my tibia was sorta crushed in a bad sprain a couple years ago. It validates my hunch that the pain was more than tendinitis. The doctor will drill a hole in my bone until he reaches healthy tissue, so that fresh blood can travel down the hole to regenerate dying bone. He calls it gopher surgery, which I find comforting.<br /><br />I'm writing a book about a girl with a crappy, dysfunctional family, who reconnects with her mom, who has come back into her life after finding Buddha. It's fun to write, but I may to step out of first person. She's too annoying, this girl. I like the idea of multiple points of view, but I also think that's a cop-out.<br /><br />My favorite song to play thus far is Slip Sliding Away. It's easy. And sad.<br /><br />The other day, in a soccer game, a woman charged at me as I was clearing a ball out of the back. When my ball flew by her (not necessarily that close, but it was a hard-struck ball). She yelled, "JESUS CHRIST" at me and cheap-shotted me later in the game. I saw her on a TV ad last night. She's a hospice chaplain for a charitable end-of-life care facility.<br /><br />Everyone in our house has had Rotovirus (or something similar) in the last month. It causes early morning diarrhea. Madeleine has twice walked upstairs to complain of stomach aches at extremely inopportune moments. We don't have a door.<br /><br />I don't watch tv, except for the local news, but when <a href="http://www.pbs.org/weta/carrier/">Carrier</a> comes on, I just can't stop watching. Is this how reality shows are for everyone else? You just can't stop watching?<br /><br />I'm trying to get a job at the YMCA. Where I'll get paid to people-watch. Have you seen the YMCA? It's like the DMV/post office/mall. With occasional hotness.<br /><br />I also like Lucille. Again, easy and sad.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10486468.post-53807443274892216952010-06-18T13:32:00.000-07:002010-06-18T13:50:02.081-07:00Lady Gaga is just fine. So is Yo-Yo Ma. So are sweats. And so is not waving and saying HI to my neighbor every single time he leaves his house.Thirty-seven seems to be a good year to let the whatevers settle where they settle. Meaning I can give in to a few harmless vices, and discard some literal and figurative baggage. I eat raw cookie dough. I throw away magazines I've paid for, yet have no interest in reading (i.e. Writer's Digest and Some Preachy Cooking Magazine). I play my hand-held, $7 Yahtzee game until my neck hurts from the required hunching, and I don't download apps on my phone. I cook a lot of breakfast-for-dinner (like, every night or thereabouts), and I fart. It feels like I'm being self-indulgent or neglectful or both, but really, since 37 is kind of kicking my ass, I'm going to rationalize it as self-preservation.<br /><br />I don't care if I'm supposed to be friends with that one mom from my school who has very bright children and is very involved with the community and shares a huge number of mutual friends. I don't like her. She's sour. I don't care if I say the wrong thing at social gatherings if my statements aren't hurtful to anyone. What, we're not supposed to have opinions and heaven forbid we air them in public?<br /><br />I want people to know when I like them, or when I'm supportive of or impressed by what they do. I want the checker at Shopko to know that I think she has beautiful skin. And conversely, I want my neighbor to know that, no, actually, I don't like it when they wait so long to mow their lawn that the gazillion dandelions in their yard begin populating the entire block.<br /><br />So that's my parenting formula as well. Tell them when you're pleased as much as you tell them when you're displeased, because how else will they know you mean it?<br /><br />Thirty-seven. The year I quit faking. Also the year I legitimately began turning into my mom and grandma.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10486468.post-8674620614661383712010-05-21T12:37:00.000-07:002010-05-21T12:45:54.943-07:00I don't think the snappy insults would come in handy right now.I totally forgot to sign up my women's league team for summer soccer. Sorry, all 18 of you expecting to get some fun summer exercise. I was really busy eating and playing my hand-held electronic Yahtzee game.<br /><br />In addition, I haven't sent two checks and two letters I said I would send weeks ago. And I have stamps (that's my normal excuse).<br /><br />I also haven't written much or put away my clean laundry.<br /><br />I suck at the above.<br /><br />I don't suck at making snappy little insults or buying gifts. I'm also good at mimicking voices on the radio and making 8-year-olds be quiet.<br /><br />I'm mediocre at personal hygiene and enforcing bedtime.<br /><br />Hopefully, I'm really good at sucking up to the Missoula Parks and Rec soccer guy.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10486468.post-13490663526002249412010-02-24T12:44:00.000-08:002010-02-24T12:59:49.860-08:00Oh yeah. February.I've had all sorts of hand-wringing questions and dilemmas in the last month. Nothing that can't be resolved with a couple good afternoons-lazily-leading-into-evenings and glasses of wine spent with friends, but those didn't materialize. I tried to make do with evening-time glasses of wine spent with my children and my hand-held yahtzee game, but the latter two didn't have much to say about uterine polyps and protein-heavy diets.<br /><br />After 17 years of togetherness, I know better than to expect Jim to be my girlfriend. His mind doesn't swing that way. If I want to talk about my period or complain about the parents in Quinn's preschool, I have to call up a friend, arrange a playdate, or send an email. But, well, my arms are kind of ineffective this time of year. February is the month when my limbs and social skills go into hibernation.<br /><br />Whine. Someone come over and listen to me be inarticulate about my parenting concerns! Nod sympathetically while I bumble through a description of my THREE visits to the gynecologist, wherein my hou-ha got about as much attention as it did during four years of high school. None. (I wasn't particularly anxious to air my 'gina to the Future Loggers of America.) Which, back to the gyno visits, it's byarkity hem-ha jinka yo yo where gyno visits himiny grograx shrang glef. This is what I talk like in February. Hence, hand-wringing. I was just thinking that it's surprising the skin isn't pulled off of my fingers, but then I remembered teenage boys.<br /><br />Hells bells I need a night out, but ALL my nights are out. Coaching, playing stuff, watching others play stuff, Board Meetings. This month sucks.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10486468.post-66016500086397080102010-01-14T19:59:00.000-08:002010-01-14T20:40:40.439-08:00Mignon is..How do you decide what to worry about? Child abuse, drunk driving, genocide in Darfur, climate change? Do you pick one and shrug off the others? Do you unconsciously prioritize? What's your criteria, most to least helpless, what cause has the biggest impact on the world, where can I get the most return on my investment? Which wheel is the squeakiest? Most likely.<br /><br />I have a browser tab with the photo stream from Haiti open all the time, and I refresh it every five minutes, hoping to see something that will make me feel better. Or worse. I just want to be able to feel for them, either happy and devastated, because if I am being mindful of them, each of the people I see in those photos, then they have had an impact. Their lives have rippled, in such a way that my little boat, floating across an ocean, is drawn closer. The world had collectively placed Haiti on the bottom shelf, along with endangered elephants and drug crimes in Mexican border towns. We decided to volunteer locally, give money to our neighbors, worry about our communities. And we were doing a good thing, we thought. I thought. That's what I thought.<br /><br />But right now I'm thinking about the Haitian man I saw unloading bodies from a truck, picking up the boy in the navy blue shorts and white t-shirt by an ankle and a wrist and throwing him onto a pile of crushed Haitians in front of a make-shift morgue. I'm thinking about him and what he has to go home to tonight. About how he's going to lay down under a tarp to rest, but will hear only moaning and crying and singing, and how he's going to wash his face in the morning and do it again. And again and again and again. Some of the bodies he loads into his rusty black pickup will be friends and family. Some will be very young children or great-grandparents and most of them will be rotting in the next few days, and he'll be sick with the smell and lack of food.<br /><br />I sent my money to the Red Cross and Doctors Without Borders. I watch the news, I refresh my browser and look at the pictures. I read about Haiti and why it is abjectly poor. But mostly, I try to remember the faces I see, even the dead ones. And I just keep looking and feeling. Individually, it's not much, but I bet I'm not the only one.<br /><br />So that's my status.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10486468.post-59453982705912737482009-12-26T14:04:00.000-08:002009-12-27T09:57:36.203-08:00Giving Up, But Not Really. Because I'll be back at it later, probably.Wow. I spent way too much time on this today. There are toys and drawings and empty candy wrappers stacked up around me from the kids' never-ending hovering and demands of attention.<br /><br />All I want to know is, who is the TV sitcom actor with a very gravelly voice who looks a lot like Dennis Franz. If you don't know him (or even a single show he's been on), don't bother looking it up. I think I broke google.<br /><br />Update: He yells a lot. In his gravelly voice. And now I broke Yahoo, and for the record, it's not these guys:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq2vmv7eDPACoCjiNRrU5AziGOyybT1E6J8VVh1nYly2DQox7SQa-LG3SIaXk4MmHMQFgErfBafyP7anB8shShi05XVUcRXv0rf7pWMdoVc49-Ry8aQVxdiWJm5NOqrobCWQGvjQ/s1600-h/RichardRiehle3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 350px; height: 263px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq2vmv7eDPACoCjiNRrU5AziGOyybT1E6J8VVh1nYly2DQox7SQa-LG3SIaXk4MmHMQFgErfBafyP7anB8shShi05XVUcRXv0rf7pWMdoVc49-Ry8aQVxdiWJm5NOqrobCWQGvjQ/s400/RichardRiehle3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419967749151206066" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR9UbapLg18RGqZNpf7xL7eWRmtWyWGD_GM8O_WF_kMx-ZxB4QTSi0FT2cx0TiYEDLKClWCTRkIKs7NEEZP__G7a9xTAOKmBH0YX2rFh4jOYew4ymW2v5gwP3zWjAqfYLFhZOhgA/s1600-h/images.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 127px; height: 95px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR9UbapLg18RGqZNpf7xL7eWRmtWyWGD_GM8O_WF_kMx-ZxB4QTSi0FT2cx0TiYEDLKClWCTRkIKs7NEEZP__G7a9xTAOKmBH0YX2rFh4jOYew4ymW2v5gwP3zWjAqfYLFhZOhgA/s400/images.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419968367697547362" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBkeC41QIyZ3YqLTtXM8uhDGnYr3Q_WvOODFDOwInIN3mBI4us3We6GjSMtWeyOyR_NefWlDcwfnjHeWjDPU6m-xBkYxejGdlFbtzFKry7BOgEdb4l7UDQTo9FMJw6KApvBRA6uA/s1600-h/images3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 112px; height: 118px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBkeC41QIyZ3YqLTtXM8uhDGnYr3Q_WvOODFDOwInIN3mBI4us3We6GjSMtWeyOyR_NefWlDcwfnjHeWjDPU6m-xBkYxejGdlFbtzFKry7BOgEdb4l7UDQTo9FMJw6KApvBRA6uA/s400/images3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419976383143728482" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNHXHNn2LO_BF7EarhcU4K6cigGKGqd4DJ_VLj1strrLr3pHckMs5qqLwxzRwrHL5iwfBh7-wwPXwuQ4abqLvUsmeq2PzCEaEiTj-q34GRzPQuf50GWHuXPZrJU6FsHPW1VmjzWw/s1600-h/images2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 96px; height: 92px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNHXHNn2LO_BF7EarhcU4K6cigGKGqd4DJ_VLj1strrLr3pHckMs5qqLwxzRwrHL5iwfBh7-wwPXwuQ4abqLvUsmeq2PzCEaEiTj-q34GRzPQuf50GWHuXPZrJU6FsHPW1VmjzWw/s400/images2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419976371340349058" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10486468.post-70967316673344708562009-12-14T11:26:00.000-08:002009-12-14T11:27:59.641-08:00<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/NI2_LYWLwes&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/NI2_LYWLwes&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10486468.post-61250129787078385932009-12-09T11:29:00.000-08:002009-12-09T12:28:00.094-08:00Our Home IceI read this book, <a href="http://www.powells.com/biblio/61-9781930845046-0">Home Ice</a>, in which a hockey writer for Sports Illustrated detailed his passion for his backyard, homemade ice rink. No, it wasn't remedial, and it wasn't just for hockey nuts. It was about how a neighborhood and friends are drawn together by something. In this case, a flooded backyard brought good, hard-working people together, but it could just as well have been a zucchinis-for-apricots exchange or a 4th of July barbecue. Neighborhoods and communities are pulled close by tragedy or activity, the former connecting people on a deep emotional level, the latter just makes you wanna share a beer and laugh.<br /><br />You might say it was a story about a cliche, as well, though. "When times were simpler we would..." or "Back in my day, we used to be able to..." It <span style="font-style:italic;">could</span> have been a Readers' Digest Chicken Soup for the Too Lazy to Buy a Decent Book with Real Conflict in It kind-of-story. But there were the hockey bits, and there's nothing Chicken Soupy about hockey. And the "when times were simpler" line of thinking is bullshit. Turning off the TV and saving a couple nights and weekends for ourselves is still achievable. I may not be able to say that in several years, when both kids are scheduled up to their armpits, but right now, we're just not THAT busy.<br /><br />The book inspired me, and by association, inspired my task-driven husband. Jim is nothing without his jobs. He wakes up every weekend morning itching to put on his dirty work gloves and build, deconstruct, plant or fix something (unless it's <span style="font-style:italic;">in</span> the house). I usually come downstairs at around 8:30 smacking the nastiness out of my mouth and tying my bathrobe, and he's there perched on the edge of our black leather chair, three cups of thick dark coffee coursing through him, waiting for the starter's gun. His work jeans are pulled up to his bellybutton and his wool sweater is tucked in tight. All he needs is a head-waggle from me, and he's out the door. But winter is hard on a guy like this. He can only arrange so much hay around the chicken pen, he can only shovel so much frozen dog shit. The idea of a homemade ice rink was manna.<br /><br />So, to sum-up my idle chatter and Jim's in-earnest planning for the last couple weeks:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqSZwlYiutW6DDWtkS4H_PyMyPJ11qjevCL1CsazsEbRoM355MXsoeClilch-UrPnD4atlXuMOiWU9KCSek5dpVIG7yFGP1zLGU2ccCKvOSlld9_IHYUALWDINyk7wUN-feN5R9g/s1600-h/download.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqSZwlYiutW6DDWtkS4H_PyMyPJ11qjevCL1CsazsEbRoM355MXsoeClilch-UrPnD4atlXuMOiWU9KCSek5dpVIG7yFGP1zLGU2ccCKvOSlld9_IHYUALWDINyk7wUN-feN5R9g/s400/download.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413323472294609042" /></a><br /><br />And it did bring over the neighbors, working and planning and fretting and musing and laughing. It did force us to be at home and talk over dinner and pat ourselves on the back. So it worked. I'm happy to fulfill this cliche. Maybe I can write a book about it and make a bunch of money, too. That'd be killer.<br /><br /><font size="1">(Special thanks to Dave for the photo and for sacrificing his left eye for our first noteworthy rink injury. And for helping. And for the book.)</font>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10486468.post-85354056663782123732009-11-08T14:53:00.000-08:002009-11-08T15:22:29.036-08:00ThingsIsn't it a letdown when you see a hot movie star running like a third grade girl? This weekend, both Hugh Jackman and Ben Kingsley applied. Sir Kingsley, I'll excuse, because he's Gandhi, but Wolverine? Unforgivable. He's all duck-footed, arms flailing awkwardly. Or perhaps it's hard to run with Adamantium daggers sticking out of your knuckles? <br /><br />This morning I made a fresh pot of coffee and poured in some cream only to see it congeal into tiny little sperm-like clumps. I dumped it down the drain, and started anew: clean cup, fresh pour of coffee, another pour of cream. Same thing. What gives? The cream wasn't sour. The coffee was fine yesterday. I'm still in the Northern Hemisphere. Why would it do that? I ended up chewing my way through it, but it was like a <a href="http://www.wikihow.com/Make-a-Cement-Mixer-Shot">cement mixer</a> with my toasted baguette.<br /><br />Jim took the kids to his parent's cabin for the weekend and I watched two movies and read two books. It was really boring and quiet and awesome.<br /><br />On Friday I had a discussion with Janet about the prohibitive cost of college, specifically private schools. At this point, I have no intention of encouraging my kids to apply to Yale. It just costs too much, and the debt incurred isn't worth it. But Janet pointed out that, unfortunately, the Ivy Leagues still get you that extra-special goose when you're looking for a job, and I sadly agreed. It's just not fair... but wait. I don't think I actually agree. Because that may be true for certain fields (academia? law? I don't know...), but I think it's really an east coast phenomena. While my degree got me a few raised eyebrows in Portland, it definitely didn't open any doors or do me any special favors. I couldn't even get a good alum contact to help me out. But I did have an engineering manager ask me in an interview, "So... you went to Yale, huh? Does that mean you think you're smarter than everyone else?" So yet another east coast/west coast disconnect. That, and asian food/italian food. And sidewalks.<br /><br />I worked outside for about an hour today, clipping dead stuff and putting away hoses and all that. When I came in, all ruddy complected and refreshed, it would have been awesome if someone handed me a cider and rum and the Sunday crossword puzzle. But instead I tracked chicken shit across the kitchen floor and gagged down the rest of my congealed coffee. But in my mind it was different and I was still happy. So maybe that's the secret to life.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10486468.post-34113447704838940762009-10-14T12:12:00.000-07:002009-10-14T12:47:53.171-07:00Mommy coaches soccer 'til her head pops off.Ah, my blog. I've missed it in a distracted, unacknowledged way. I realized many many posts ago that this is not where my fortune would be found, and so I wrote for practice and for friendship. Blah blah blah, repeating exactly what every other person who ever wrote, then quit, then wrote again on her blog ever said, blah blah blah... <br /><br />I like it. I like the subjects I can write about here, that seem too personal and flip for fiction. So yeah, a half hour, I get to talk about assholes (big and small), cute track jackets, the guy who just now walked by me who looks exactly like motherfucking Christian Bale I'm not even kidding you (and too bad I had a mouthful of lemon bar or I would've surely said something clever) (oh never mind, he walked by again. false alarm) (holy shit dude, quit walking by me). I feel like doing it again, is what I'm saying. I think I want to blog.<br /><br />So here we go.<br /><br />You know how it's kind of a funny old joke when a former athlete coaches his/her kid in their former sport and has all these crazy expectations and gets very/too invested in the kid's performance and the outcome of the games, even though the kid probably can't even tie her shoes properly yet? Oh, what? That's not a funny old joke? Good, because I was starting to feel like the butt of it. Me = too much. Madeleine = not so much. It kills me. I just want SALDFJDLSFJKWNCNAV KL FUCK!!! That's how I feel each and every minute of every game and practice. The anxiety I feel when I see her dribbling the ball towards the goal and another tiny little girl from the other team runs toward her, makes a feeble attempt at taking the ball away, and Madeleine slows down and lets her take the ball away - let me repeat, lets her take the ball away - I lose my shit. And I just spazzy sweated all over my keyboard thinking about it. At least the fucking not-Christian-Bale guy will quit stalking my table (but he's really not, because I just realized he works here and is Doing Something). That happens. And other, equally maddening things happen, like her not wanting to play when it's really cold. And her falling down. Yes. Believe it or not, I lose my shit when she falls down.<br /><br />And I try to keep it all on the inside. But it's boiling and festering, and I know as a good coach you should always couch a criticism inside some positive feedback so mine comes out through clenched teeth like this, "Well you did a really nice job on your throw-ins today and I sure wish you could be a lot more aggressive and dribble the ball when you're out in the open and not pass to your teammates directly in front of the goal and the weird thing you do with your arm when you're running probably slows you down and thank you for helping me pick up the granola bar wrappers." It's probably not what the YMCA had in mind for a positive youth soccer experience. Please don't tell them. Or maybe you should, but just don't tell that guy who may or may not be handicapped, because I'd hate to be fired by him.<br /><br />I have to quit. I have to. I have to. My throat is raw after every 40 minute game, which is some indication that perhaps my "encouragement" is a tad too vociferous. The only other times I get that hoarse is when I'm drunkenly heckling the opposing kicker at Griz football games, which is a 3-hour whiskey-fueled affair.<br /><br />I just reread that last paragraph. I can't - wait, what? - is that? - I mean, wow.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10486468.post-88962154018033458412009-09-28T12:14:00.000-07:002009-09-28T12:16:47.741-07:00Artificial tears.Feel like crying? I haven't lately, so maybe that's why I've been seeking and devouring this kind of thing. I think sadness is an itch I need to scratch.<br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/r3dnFmwQy04&hl=en&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/r3dnFmwQy04&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10486468.post-81215593923390894322009-08-05T09:58:00.001-07:002009-08-05T10:16:55.811-07:00What else did I do?Crud. We've got money issues in August? What has this world come to? Oh yeah, a depression. Money worries make me feel like I'm 20 again, powerless and immature. Because we (me and him) are educated and gainfully employed, any money issues we have are a direct result of our own inability to budget and act fiscally responsible. I was hoping as I typed that last line that I would feel better. Absolved in some way, but it didn't work. Maybe if I type it again... nah. You know what would make me feel better? A nice hot cup of coffee. <br /><br />And so there you have it. My tiny-life drama in a world of inequity and poverty. I'm sad because I can't go to sushi for lunch, but Oh-Ho! my coffee has been replenished and Isn't everything awesome!<br /><br />Things are a little turned around lately, people doing and saying the (sadly) unexpected, less cracking up and more pensive contemplation. So I don't want to be pissed at anyone else any more. I think it's much healthier to irrationally direct my anger and frustration at myself. I am actually the mastermind behind the Boko Haram killings in Nigeria. Madeleine's sheets are taking on a brownish tint because I'm an inadequate homemaker. I'm not being politically active enough and have caused the drop in Obama's approval rating.<br /><br />I feel much better now.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10486468.post-39254281538401091202009-06-25T07:27:00.000-07:002009-06-25T09:09:28.983-07:00Fine. And not.I say 'we should' too. Monday I decided it was time to address the we-overusage and it was laughable, the conversation. He defensive, me clamming up, him trying not to be defensive, me trying to meet in the middle, resolution, then a frank discussion of everything 'we' needed to do to get ready for our trip next week. Shit. What the hell? I couldn't stop saying it.<br /><br />We need to fix a thingy for the chicken coop to make it easier for the chicks to get out in the morning.<br />We need to call someone to feed the gerbils.<br />We should prepare to stain the deck when we get home.<br />We blah blah blaahhhbity blah blah hell junk piece of shit blahbity blah.<br /><br />Okay, fine. Let's just say, sometimes 'We' can be an effective conversation starter. Sometimes it's fine to be vague about a task that needs gettin' at, but nobody wants anything to do (read: finding a new home for our noisy dirty-ever-crapping parakeets).<br /><br />On another note, I sprained my LCL badly yesterday. Add this to the growing list of injuries incurred this year - injuries that can't be laughed off with a long pull at an ice-cold IPA. In fact right now I'm printing out rehab exercises that I'll have to do on vacation next week. I'm falling apart this month and it's making my stomach sour. Body, what's wrong with you? What have I not done for you lately?? Sure, I'm getting older, but the number and severity of injuries this spring and summer is Shock and Awe instead of Going Gentle into the Night. It's a real bummer, dude. But at least I have a soft baby.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO2CdgnzjwG4riQPhVJMKhAmYu0lhSSbeAyreh5EL4bAcVpJZxCnpgtMNyDaa6spbYCErZESlGov2sxSffq6IlsVbmIxoO0KHfgEY1J2T7u_wuFpmKFS8ZpSwnvf8KtYG78ZYelw/s1600-h/Photo+70.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO2CdgnzjwG4riQPhVJMKhAmYu0lhSSbeAyreh5EL4bAcVpJZxCnpgtMNyDaa6spbYCErZESlGov2sxSffq6IlsVbmIxoO0KHfgEY1J2T7u_wuFpmKFS8ZpSwnvf8KtYG78ZYelw/s400/Photo+70.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351297654001650978" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10486468.post-63437461066381657682009-06-21T10:06:00.000-07:002009-07-27T21:02:28.625-07:00Happy Father's DayHappy Father's Day honey. You look a little femme in this picture, but I know you're not. Femme. Because I am wishing you a happy Father's Day, thus I have direct experience with your not-femme-ness. So. I love you. You do great things and you do them with determination and integrity.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxiSEv6Jhk2zN-GR4V6ol_WiP6iFyWQaaf0jsHLxpSVN1enENBZlr51dAvMKvwjRy5H-ebLgxI-qyXApgn6bse_KoPTw7bfNUMzEKRTKCNWfuL4HhYyNsbRX_m-DPgMHrJNHIQ7w/s1600-h/DSCN4863.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxiSEv6Jhk2zN-GR4V6ol_WiP6iFyWQaaf0jsHLxpSVN1enENBZlr51dAvMKvwjRy5H-ebLgxI-qyXApgn6bse_KoPTw7bfNUMzEKRTKCNWfuL4HhYyNsbRX_m-DPgMHrJNHIQ7w/s400/DSCN4863.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349836605466529138" /></a><br /><br />xo,<br />MignonUnknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10486468.post-11725862040848070002009-05-18T08:44:00.000-07:002009-05-18T09:04:57.694-07:00Important Information Regarding Nookie SkillsSomeone bought me a shot this weekend called The Vegas. The purchasing and consumption of the drink were unremarkable, but the ensuing game invented by two drunk girls (me and someone) has got me thinking. Can you tell if someone is good in bed by just looking at them? Yes. Of course you can. See for yourself:<br /><br />Characteristics of Bad in Bed: <br />1) backwards hats (unless it's a pirate's hat, because how do you tell if it's backwards - plus points for being a pirate)<br /><br />2) meticulous facial hair (because he wouldn't want to muss it, plus it goes without saying but I'm saying it anyway, too much time in front of the mirror means too much time spent in the bathroom, means he's been in close proximity to a toilet for too long, means he's been virtually bathing in a pool of airborne fecal matter, which, hello? UTI? that's why we wipe front to back in the first place!)<br /><br />3) gay (I'm sure he'd be good in bed for someone - but I'm guessing that person would not be a hetero female, even if she can throw a football really far)<br /><br />4) pants pulled up too high or hanging too low (up too high is repellent in a way that screams "I have Oedipal issues" and too low screams "check my ID" or, conversely, "can you please help me find my way back to the nursing home?" - which neither necessarily indicates bad in bed, but they may result in a) jail time or b) future dates being planned around dialysis appointments)<br /><br />5) playing pool well (a guy that can cradle a cue with finesse and maneuver the balls in perfect coordination has spent WAY too much time with similarly shaped objects in his hands, or he's just a dork that avoids personal interaction by playing a meaningless bar game that is cool only when you're drunk or impressing your nephews at the Elks Club at your grandparents' 50th Wedding Anniversary)<br /><br />Characteristics of Good in Bed (These are less funny, I assure you, because at this point in the evening there was only one guy that didn't fall in the categories of 1-4 above and he was):<br />1) With a womanUnknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10486468.post-75658843019362202712009-04-28T12:57:00.001-07:002009-04-28T13:07:12.566-07:00A poll.What's your favorite book cover, or a really good book cover from a book you've read recently? Actually answer both, if you dare!<br /><br />Here's one I liked recently (regardless of how I felt about the book):<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYCObu1xqgvuqSha6coGIMJHtzckLkjhl45l5XE1eWvVjMYNEmCJPEI2FPy5DNpmmhOqn6shOjWUttG8zXqNYAs0d6_tbSYLNA9ZIBbCAwyTUOQzWnm_4f_yi_noAuiwcLGqgeOA/s1600-h/images.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 84px; height: 129px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYCObu1xqgvuqSha6coGIMJHtzckLkjhl45l5XE1eWvVjMYNEmCJPEI2FPy5DNpmmhOqn6shOjWUttG8zXqNYAs0d6_tbSYLNA9ZIBbCAwyTUOQzWnm_4f_yi_noAuiwcLGqgeOA/s400/images.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329834380833273682" /></a><br /><br />Here's a classic I've always liked (and I liked the other cover, with the diagonal stripes in the corner and the plain text):<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFxwcTKYPtaOrApKXWxLlrqqA7WraM0BdCAh6cB4Qkq-A3kT4-ig5Yza9K-9ffNm7EnYBPGu8Nna9Lyi2NunovA62fQl_ktzNDCMQGdV7nUK_rRtQrSe3qgwYlgPk737n5X7DU9Q/s1600-h/images-1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 84px; height: 130px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFxwcTKYPtaOrApKXWxLlrqqA7WraM0BdCAh6cB4Qkq-A3kT4-ig5Yza9K-9ffNm7EnYBPGu8Nna9Lyi2NunovA62fQl_ktzNDCMQGdV7nUK_rRtQrSe3qgwYlgPk737n5X7DU9Q/s400/images-1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329836072160511778" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10486468.post-48938525642863899862009-04-19T13:47:00.000-07:002009-04-19T14:10:23.233-07:00I Kissed a Girl, with a banana.I posted this on my FB page, but for some reason the thumbnail is a tiny, illegible word verification word. I asked the internet why, and it didn't understand my question and rambled on and on. Thanks.<br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/4P52W_Qu2OI&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/4P52W_Qu2OI&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10486468.post-12478082666926134652009-04-15T21:00:00.000-07:002009-04-15T21:23:59.543-07:00To catch you up.I just got home from a hockey game and I have a big bubble in my stomach from the celebratory can of MGD I drank afterwards with, um, those 10 other people... huh. I have no idea except for Lisa and Holly. I have not had an MGD for... 15 years? I remember the last bottle, and how the liquid sat on my tongue like piss (presumably) until I finally gulped it all at once, causing a lump to form in my esophagus that felt like a Rubik's cube. I can't burp. It's a condition with a name and everything. The name means this: one who can't burp. This causes my stomach to swell to immense proportions when I eat or drink <i>anything</i>. That's right. Every day, swollen belly.<br /><br />Moving along...<br /><br />I thought I was going to be published for a couple weeks. It was really exciting, and at night when I snuggled my pillow and listened to Jim snore, I imagined what the phone call would sound like. How I would react. Whether they would need a picture and how I would smile. Or not smile. But I was wrong and I had read (WAY) too much into a mildly misleading rejection note. So that was a couple weeks ago. Now I snuggle my pillow and listen to Jim snore while thinking about White Cheddar Cheezits.<br /><br />Moving along again...<br /><br />Today we went to the Missoula County Something Something Farm. The field trip included pigs and sheep and a zebra hide and a tour of the metal shop. The pigs are bred for show and for breakfast, and in the center of what you might call a courtyard (if you're James Herriot), but I would actually call The Area with the Least Amount of Shit, there's a metal contraption in which a pig is confined when she's giving birth to 8 or 27 piglets. The students giving the tour were very excited to show us the latest addition to the Mildly S&M Birthing Cages, in which all the latest technologies were instituted. I asked, because I like to be on the cutting edge, and it turns out the biggest improvement in the new cage is that the bottom is not made of metal mesh. Why? So that the mom pig's nipples don't sag down into the mesh and get stuck and ripped off. So, yay for that. Welcome to 2009!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10486468.post-8057681857160233352009-03-22T15:53:00.000-07:002009-03-23T08:55:28.396-07:00I imagine if my blog could illustrate itself, this is what it would say:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjllGPRbi3HBUCluc4V3VZEqrTj7ZarJMS3YDiHr0cFZHuf1Y2oaaShsZgl2fOsFafVdO2YWd3d8GjBDL-0AtR-emRKWvC6ebW4gN4F_G9Z3QcpW_zernfXoKU6nRczHL_XDHZ62Q/s1600-h/Photo+57.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjllGPRbi3HBUCluc4V3VZEqrTj7ZarJMS3YDiHr0cFZHuf1Y2oaaShsZgl2fOsFafVdO2YWd3d8GjBDL-0AtR-emRKWvC6ebW4gN4F_G9Z3QcpW_zernfXoKU6nRczHL_XDHZ62Q/s400/Photo+57.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316149400637603538" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><div style="font-size: x-small">ETA: This is Madeleine's artwork. She's a nightmare when she gets home from school, and I strongly encourage her to take out her pissiness with a pen or pencil rather than screaming at Quinn when he doesn't want to pretend he's a fairy princess baby. After three peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, two glasses of milk and a half hour of Arthur, she drew a picture of a fairy princess baby with a flower in its hair riding on a flying unicorn.</div></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10486468.post-61026817788001784442009-02-26T10:41:00.000-08:002009-02-26T10:49:34.115-08:00This is how we do it.I waited until the kids were gone, got my coffee, put my feet up, and finally started watching a movie. The Big Easy. Or, shall we say, Angel Heart, as re-scripted by Diablo Cody. Dammit! It should say in the synopsis where the doing-it part is, so I can skip the crappy acting, snappy self-conscious dialogue, plot holes and poor accents. And Dennis Quaid is way sexier as a 50-something than he was a skinny 30-something with yellow teeth.<br /><br />Aaaannd now it's snowing and time to go get Quinn and his playdate. Morning shot.<br /><br />(But for those of you keeping track, I hit Mignon-style rock bottom and busted out a good story. So yeah, life has to get its hands dirty. Now I know.)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10486468.post-45877286361129987402009-02-20T10:51:00.000-08:002009-02-20T11:08:35.934-08:00But, what the hell? Everyone liked Hemingway before they found out he was... unstable.And here we are. I'm a cliche. I've got writer's block. I'm misunderstood by editors. My family doesn't actively support my art. What else... Um, I struggle in anonymity. I retreat to the internet as a form of avoidance. I have no original thoughts. I bridle at criticism (see the misunderstood thing, above). I doubt my abilities.<br /><br />It feels awesome to be a cardboard cutout of a struggling writer. You can probably guess what I had for breakfast, what I watch on TV, what I'm wearing. And you would be right. Predictable. Like a cold french fry. This is the way we like our writers, isn't it? Nobody really wants a well-adjusted healthy writer of literary fiction. We don't want our doctors to have acne, we don't want child abusers to be young and attractive, we don't want our writers happy.<br /><br />So is it a product of the art, or is the art a product of the funk? I guess we'll find out, now that it's breaking me down.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10486468.post-22968072780280242682009-02-12T08:47:00.000-08:002009-02-12T09:33:43.499-08:00RemindersLife is fine here. Nobody's too sick, the dog quit having seizures. I'm not even hating on February as much as I've led you to believe. Feb's all right, just, you know, mildly irritating. My car runs. The coffee I've been drinking for the last half hour is still pretty hot. So writing suffers. There's no drama, I'm not pissed at anyone, not elated with shape of my eyebrows, not sick with sadness (that was last month).<br /><br />Yesterday I got talked into signing up for Skype, an online phone-call thing. Calling and talking to people on the computer, my face all blown up on their laptop. Their giant face on mine. It seemed superfluous, because, um e-mail? Facebook chat? An actual telephone that doesn't shove your sleepy face and unwashed hair into someone's computer monitor? But I did it because he kept insisting.<br /><br />And now today I'm thinking about things that I've neglected or thought I grew out of that are important...<br /><br />First, hanging out with my friend Fred. He was one of my closest friends in high school and we did a lot of pointless hanging out. And yesterday we Skyped and basically hung out for 15 minutes. This time we both had kids climbing all over us, but we kinda just sat around, chillin, while looking at each other on the computer. It was weird, but instantly comforting. I write a lot of stories about young people and their insecurities, awkwardness, angst, but in reality, hanging out with Fred reminded me that it didn't all suck. (This is him, he's a photographer. Call me if you need someone to take a picture of you jumping through the forest.)<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6eqfkhmmRX98tn3aTv9bN6dtzIfqLeVV0TE_o_zU30EvpZi4ETJRlmoAdhDgdGtBulBxtAVh9Q8jm7n1CFNMJTXgUa3PKQIONXCfOE3T8MvPgziNzMtBcoqgK0J5Tnm153yHQtQ/s1600-h/takingawalkintheforest.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 375px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6eqfkhmmRX98tn3aTv9bN6dtzIfqLeVV0TE_o_zU30EvpZi4ETJRlmoAdhDgdGtBulBxtAVh9Q8jm7n1CFNMJTXgUa3PKQIONXCfOE3T8MvPgziNzMtBcoqgK0J5Tnm153yHQtQ/s400/takingawalkintheforest.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301962565185763090" /></a><br /><br />Second, candy bars. Why, if I crave a slab of chocolate with hazelnuts, would I stare at the candy rack with chaste longing, like a retired arthritic longshoreman in the front row of a strip club. It was a dollar and fifteen cents and it totally made my morning. A candy bar now and then is really fucking good. And not illegal or potentially disease-ridden.<br /><br />Third, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iikKzQwgBJc">Queen</a>. A big part of why February is pfft. (And also perhaps why I spent 2 minutes in the penalty box last Friday night.)<br /><br />Fourth, totally offensive humor. Andrew Dice Clay, Sam Kinison, and <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BnDH-RXCptY">this guy</a>, who makes me laugh like a kid hunkered down with a sticky magazine in the back of the bus, and also directly led to my gesturing at my crotch and saying "Turn THIS" when Jim asked me to turn up the volume on American Idol last night.<br /><br />And, lastly, weight lifting. I'm doing it again.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi2CCdzY4TO6pUgBsCIPOPeVXcWlyem9n6BvqGW9ZODL66xWAMZDX2M1qbGbzalc-HZRmfnW83PQ5eNxX1UV3qK_C5vPXrS9KEPxLohzfYT1hMnJkmQzTejvb8lY_J0z5FuLpRVQ/s1600-h/Photo+60.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 374px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi2CCdzY4TO6pUgBsCIPOPeVXcWlyem9n6BvqGW9ZODL66xWAMZDX2M1qbGbzalc-HZRmfnW83PQ5eNxX1UV3qK_C5vPXrS9KEPxLohzfYT1hMnJkmQzTejvb8lY_J0z5FuLpRVQ/s400/Photo+60.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301962047264129506" /></a><br /><br />Looking back at a couple of these, I think the inversion in the Missoula valley has caused a dangerous build-up of testosterone.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10486468.post-40955358160339810052009-02-08T15:39:00.000-08:002009-02-08T19:39:20.095-08:00More Ways to Exorcise February.Just found this on my hard drive. heh heh.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm1YvoglV9JRY0DO0_Hj4p7cTsXW1sbU0MkwgQqIMQXRkwRG5458eXc7WoMsgxvuZmRT8EHmYl4NJtED9MTppRNeBx6VsOwUlnoMhGToYsYOOgFQvy9vOtbb4OJLc8lkWqv5dVMA/s1600-h/image5.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 265px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm1YvoglV9JRY0DO0_Hj4p7cTsXW1sbU0MkwgQqIMQXRkwRG5458eXc7WoMsgxvuZmRT8EHmYl4NJtED9MTppRNeBx6VsOwUlnoMhGToYsYOOgFQvy9vOtbb4OJLc8lkWqv5dVMA/s400/image5.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300575737843161250" /></a><br /><br />And beware what you wish for when you go searching for <a href="http://www.boingboing.net/2007/12/26/mouth-eye-photoshop.html">nekkid famous people</a>. (Dude, it's February. Of course I'm searching for nekkid famous people.) I'm also drinking cooking wine, wearing my swimsuit in place of a bra, and cleaning random brown marks off the bathroom floor with spit. Also? I cheated on the crossword puzzle, told Quinn I couldn't read a story because reading makes one of my eyes hurt (? - he bought it) and scooped some half-melted snow into the dog's bowl because I didn't want to pick it up and carry it 10 steps to the sink to fill it with fresh water. But I <i>did</i> diligently apply 5 different ointments to the little coldsore on my lip every two hours for 4 straight days. I pick my battles. And I'm still picking a fight with February.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10486468.post-90667760592030576852009-02-05T09:07:00.000-08:002009-02-05T09:30:58.118-08:00Fighting against February.I'm not giving in to her this year. Screw you, February, you mean nothing to me. You may as well be March, for all I care.<br /><br />February is like that party guest that you invite, but are really hoping is busy or out of town. But then she's not, and she comes and is passive-aggressively needy and ends up making your other guests feel uncomfortable as she talks about her cat and that guy at work that may or may not be eating her food out of the refrigerator. And then she (Feb) insists on helping a bunch in the kitchen, where all the fun people are hanging out and drinking wine, but whenever someone sloshes a little on the counter she hustles over to wipe it up with a stinky dishrag... you get the point. February is that girl. <br /><br />So what do you do with a guest like this? You hide from her and make jokes about her stanky cat and when she finds you to tell you that someone has clogged the toilet, you ignore her and turn up the music really loud until everyone is dancing and spilling wine and tipping over the coffee table and she can't keep up with her dirty dish-rag and her tsk-tsking, so she just sits in the corner nursing her tepid chardonnay until she realizes everyone is wandering into the bedrooms to hook-up or pass out and she leaves. So here's to you February!<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/DeuqQ1aipTY&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/DeuqQ1aipTY&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/3wEzPgXOaHg&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/3wEzPgXOaHg&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />And if that doesn't work...<br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/9O_aa0QSZ1A&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/9O_aa0QSZ1A&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10486468.post-52363899648241408402009-01-26T09:27:00.000-08:002009-01-26T09:56:26.059-08:00There's Good-ish News and Bad NewsI've registered for a coaching certification class this coming weekend. Friday, 4 hours. Saturday, 10 hours. Sunday, 6 hours. That's a tad crazy, don't you think? Not One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, but something more Shirley MacLaine-esque. Should I wear a turban? Maybe just for warm-ups. At the end of the marathon, instead of a crown of thorns, I'll receive an E Certificate, which will reassure concerned parents and high school athletic directors that I can tie my own shoes and stamp an envelope in a timely fashion.<br /><br />I guess I'm a sports elitist/egomaniac. What the hell can this guy, Ric (note the absence of the 'k' - idiot!), teach me about coaching that I haven't learned on my own (from the internet)? The clinic is in the gymnasium of a Catholic elementary school! Ha! More sanctimonious-ness! On the other hand, as I said a while back, it's time to gussy up my resume with items that don't include "statistical control" and "plasma etch." Or, alternately, "diaper" and "Lego." E Certificate is a place to start.<br /><br />But, now the bad news. I joined the Y. And I started jogging on the treadmill. And I jog in front of a giant window that reflects my own image back at me. And there's nothing on TV except Family Guy and bad NBA games, and anyway when I watch TV I have a tendency to veer off-course which isn't bad on a sidewalk, but can have disastrous effects on a treadmill. (I'm stalling, because I'm embarrassed about what comes next.) I've made a very troubling discovery: I run knock-kneed. I don't/can't say anything more about this yet, except to say that it's as if someone told Miles Davis his horn is always flat. Can you fix a flat horn? Maybe, but suddenly Miles is thinking back to Kind of Blue, going, "Fuck. I sold a million copies of an album that was flat?" It's very much like that. <br /><br />So now you know two things: I run funny, and I equate my athletic prowess to Miles Davis's musical abilities. Not a proud day.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com11