The time of year has now arrived during which I spend most hours of most days thinking about eating. It makes sense for me to be thinking about this on the eve of my favorite holiday: Thanksgiving, which I don't celebrate for the pillage and genocide but for the food, family, and football (easily my three favorite f words).
I don't want to be thinner," one of my friends said the other day. "I just want my friends to be fatter." This sounds a little anti-feminist at first blush (okay, at second blush, too...) but I understand the general sentiment. I certainly wish some of my friends enjoyed eating as much as I did. I often wonder if other people have wild fantasies that involve Northern Prairie chevre, rare filet mignon, lobster bisque soup, butterscotch cream pie, and caprese salad like I do.
But as a strength and conditioning coach once told my offensive lineman husband when he was struggling to get up to Big 12 size: "You've gotta eat to win." I'm not sure that the "eat to win" philosophy applies to twentysomething-year-old Web editors (or former offensive linemen who now work as construction managers) who mainly sit on their expanding butts all day, but Ben and I frequently tell each other, through stuffed mouths spraying out specks of pizza crust, "EHHHT TO WHHMM!" The good news is that we also both like to work out, so although we certainly aren't skinny we aren't approaching Mangino status. (Note: Perhaps we should aspire to attain Mangino status. I mean, it's probably not a coincidence that he's 10-0, if you know what I mean.)
Hey, we're eating to win over here. Don't hate.
So today I celebrate you, Thanksgiving, oh holiday for fat kids! Tomorrow I pull the three bags of cranberries out of my fridge and begin making the magic happen. Once I get to my mom and dad's house Thursday, I plan to set up my gravy I.V. so that it's ready in time for the Packers game. (The AHEM, NINE AND ONE Packers game...the Pack has been eating to win, too, it seems.) Then we're going to the in-laws' for pie. Pie, pie, pie. I'm not mad at pie.
I should probably also point out that there will be wine. Just saying.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
It's like the paparazzi, but for innocent college students!
Yes, he sort of sounded like a screaming hillbilly. But I'm gonna throw a couple quarters in the snap cup this week for Mike Gundy.
Writing a totally unprovoked, mean-spirited column filled with conjecture about a college student is bush league, and Jenni Carlson deserved to be called on the carpet. Last time I checked, "The Oklahoman" was not a junior high gossip column.
I just hope Carlson gets as much criticism for her ridiculous article as Gundy has gotten for raising his voice (okay, maybe it was a little more than raising his voice) at a press conference. But there's honor in defending your players; I don't see a whole lot of honor in what Carlson wrote about Gundy's player.
As a woman with an interest/background in sports journalism, I'm all the more annoyed and embarrassed that the columnist in question is female. If Jenni Carlson wants to write a gossip column, she should go get a job at the National Enquirer or go post on some Internet fan message boards. Because that's really all the "journalism" in question is good for. Maybe she can join the idiots on the ISU message boads who enjoyed posting online last season that they caught so-and-so being happy, sometimes even in a watering hole, after a loss. Pretty sure all of those people, including Jenni Carlson, have never played college sports in their lives. But hey! They're breathing, so they have the right to judge.
If I had a son, I'll tell you this: I would have no qualms about sending him to play for Mike Gundy. In his own saliva-laden way, Gundy proved on Saturday that protecting and respecting his players is the most important thing to him.
I know pretty much everyone in the whole entire world is trying to make it otherwise, but I still believe in my heart that college sports -- like college -- are about learning, developing as a person, and making mistakes. I am certainly glad that when I was a college student I didn't have someone like Jenni Carlson following me around with a notebook writing down if my parents were giving me chicken or making a notation if I smiled at what she felt was an inappropriate time.
A good kid like Bobby Reid doesn't deserve what Jenni Carlson did to him. His every move doesn't automatically become everyone's business just because he wears on OSU jersey on Saturdays. Have a little respect, and you'll get it in return. I'm sure Oklahoma State University isn't particularly pleased with Mike Gundy's choice of forum or tone of voice in addressing his issue with Jenni Carlson, but I bet this got her attention more than a sternly-worded e-mail. People seem to forget that her column is the print equivalent of a screaming (not to mention, in this case, lying) tirade that is open for everyone in the public to absorb. Mike Gundy just wanted a chance to rebut in an equally public forum. And now that he's all over YouTube, I think he got his wish.
That's called being a player-focused coach. And even if it's not so elegant, it's still something to admire.
Writing a totally unprovoked, mean-spirited column filled with conjecture about a college student is bush league, and Jenni Carlson deserved to be called on the carpet. Last time I checked, "The Oklahoman" was not a junior high gossip column.
I just hope Carlson gets as much criticism for her ridiculous article as Gundy has gotten for raising his voice (okay, maybe it was a little more than raising his voice) at a press conference. But there's honor in defending your players; I don't see a whole lot of honor in what Carlson wrote about Gundy's player.
As a woman with an interest/background in sports journalism, I'm all the more annoyed and embarrassed that the columnist in question is female. If Jenni Carlson wants to write a gossip column, she should go get a job at the National Enquirer or go post on some Internet fan message boards. Because that's really all the "journalism" in question is good for. Maybe she can join the idiots on the ISU message boads who enjoyed posting online last season that they caught so-and-so being happy, sometimes even in a watering hole, after a loss. Pretty sure all of those people, including Jenni Carlson, have never played college sports in their lives. But hey! They're breathing, so they have the right to judge.
If I had a son, I'll tell you this: I would have no qualms about sending him to play for Mike Gundy. In his own saliva-laden way, Gundy proved on Saturday that protecting and respecting his players is the most important thing to him.
I know pretty much everyone in the whole entire world is trying to make it otherwise, but I still believe in my heart that college sports -- like college -- are about learning, developing as a person, and making mistakes. I am certainly glad that when I was a college student I didn't have someone like Jenni Carlson following me around with a notebook writing down if my parents were giving me chicken or making a notation if I smiled at what she felt was an inappropriate time.
A good kid like Bobby Reid doesn't deserve what Jenni Carlson did to him. His every move doesn't automatically become everyone's business just because he wears on OSU jersey on Saturdays. Have a little respect, and you'll get it in return. I'm sure Oklahoma State University isn't particularly pleased with Mike Gundy's choice of forum or tone of voice in addressing his issue with Jenni Carlson, but I bet this got her attention more than a sternly-worded e-mail. People seem to forget that her column is the print equivalent of a screaming (not to mention, in this case, lying) tirade that is open for everyone in the public to absorb. Mike Gundy just wanted a chance to rebut in an equally public forum. And now that he's all over YouTube, I think he got his wish.
That's called being a player-focused coach. And even if it's not so elegant, it's still something to admire.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
My quotable husband
"People are stupid. If I were the Fifth Element I wouldn't have sacrificied myself for the world."
"I'm NOT smokin' the Kool-Aid."
"That guy couldn't pour pee out of a boot if the instructions were written on the heel."
"Why would I want to smoke pot? Pot gives you two things: a headache and the munchies. I get that going to work."
(said as a Talking Heads song came on the radio) "Oooh, is this Megadeth?"
(said on air) "Well, it's a beautiful scene here today at Floyd Casey Stadium. The 12 Baylor fans who showed up are all holding up their arms in a bear claw saluting them team, doing a hand gesture like all these stupid Texas schools do."
"I'm NOT smokin' the Kool-Aid."
"That guy couldn't pour pee out of a boot if the instructions were written on the heel."
"Why would I want to smoke pot? Pot gives you two things: a headache and the munchies. I get that going to work."
(said as a Talking Heads song came on the radio) "Oooh, is this Megadeth?"
(said on air) "Well, it's a beautiful scene here today at Floyd Casey Stadium. The 12 Baylor fans who showed up are all holding up their arms in a bear claw saluting them team, doing a hand gesture like all these stupid Texas schools do."
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Scratching my dumb jock itch
There's this thing about me that has caused in my life both physical and emotional pain, a number of hits to my pocketbook, a severe depletion of my available time, and even a modicum of guilt. It's dirty, but it's not-so-secret.
I am a sports fan.
I really don't think of myself as unintelligent or even boring. But consider the evidence: I watch the NFL Network. I will willingly accompany you to any live baseball game -- ANY baseball game. I play golf. I watch golf. I read sports message boards and blogs. I can calculate a goalkeeper's save percentage and a softball pitcher's ERA. I eat walking tacos. I know that Niagara University's mascot is the Purple Eagles -- the horrors!
Among other types of nerdiness (grammar, civics, and sense of humor come to mind...I embrace them all), I am indeed a total sports nerd.
I have friends who have zero interest in sports and, quite frankly, little understanding of sports nerds like me who do. To these people and other acquaintences who run scared when I start talking about assist-to-turnover ratios or Brett Favre's retirement, I am some sort of meat-headed simpleton who blathers fruitlessly about the alleged drama and intrigue of the physical struggle. It definitely makes me feel just a little stupid. And today I would just like to thank the world of sports for making all those people just a little bit more correct about me and how incredibly stupid it is to be a sports fan.
Sports were the reason my husband received a college education. He was good at them, one in particular, and so he didn't have to pay college tuition for five years. For beating his head, chest, arms, mangled fingers, and strained knees as hard as possible into another man 45 times in front of screaming crowds of 40,000 who could be bothered to leave their beer bongs in the minivan and stumble into the stadium, he became a construction engineer. This, I'm sorry, is stupid. (By the way, his knee hurts. Does anyone responsible want to help pay our acupuncture bill?)
People were engrossed in the NBA finals last season only to discover last week that the outcome was more than likely rigged by a crooked referee. This is stupid.
People are dressing up their children in Michael Vick jersies because he is someone worth admiring due to his ability to spin away from linebackers downfield. All the while, he is torturing and killing dogs. Sick and stupid.
Major League Baseball commissioner Bud Selig can't decide how to feel about Barry Bonds being on the cusp of breaking Hank Aaron's home run record and the rest of the country is subjected to news reports about whether or not Selig will come to Bonds' games, get his picture taken with him, or get warm fuzzies about what under any other circumstances would be the sports story of the decade. Meanwhile, Barry Bonds is probably on steroids (would people care that he is probably on steroids if he wasn't also an a$$hole, I wonder?) but no one can prove it and so he just keeps on playing while everyone declares that his accomplishments are tainted. Really, really intensely stupid.
But here's the problem. The life lessons many high schoolers, and even college students, learn from being part of athletics are not stupid. They learn to work as a team, to overcome adversity, to face their fears. They learn to balance their time and believe in themselves. And that's something to be admired -- something beautiful. But dangle a few dollars in front of someone's nose and who knows what he or she will do. Even if it shrinks his penis and shortens his lifespan, an athlete will shoot drugs in his arm. And trust me, I get it: When sports aren't about personal growth and achievement and pushing oneself, they're about getting paid and being famous. And whether it's because this is actually getting worse or just because I am growing more cynical with age, an awareness of this reality is becoming more and more abundant in my brain.
And it makes me like it less and less every day.
Just not enough to not still be a nerd.
I am a sports fan.
I really don't think of myself as unintelligent or even boring. But consider the evidence: I watch the NFL Network. I will willingly accompany you to any live baseball game -- ANY baseball game. I play golf. I watch golf. I read sports message boards and blogs. I can calculate a goalkeeper's save percentage and a softball pitcher's ERA. I eat walking tacos. I know that Niagara University's mascot is the Purple Eagles -- the horrors!
Among other types of nerdiness (grammar, civics, and sense of humor come to mind...I embrace them all), I am indeed a total sports nerd.
I have friends who have zero interest in sports and, quite frankly, little understanding of sports nerds like me who do. To these people and other acquaintences who run scared when I start talking about assist-to-turnover ratios or Brett Favre's retirement, I am some sort of meat-headed simpleton who blathers fruitlessly about the alleged drama and intrigue of the physical struggle. It definitely makes me feel just a little stupid. And today I would just like to thank the world of sports for making all those people just a little bit more correct about me and how incredibly stupid it is to be a sports fan.
Sports were the reason my husband received a college education. He was good at them, one in particular, and so he didn't have to pay college tuition for five years. For beating his head, chest, arms, mangled fingers, and strained knees as hard as possible into another man 45 times in front of screaming crowds of 40,000 who could be bothered to leave their beer bongs in the minivan and stumble into the stadium, he became a construction engineer. This, I'm sorry, is stupid. (By the way, his knee hurts. Does anyone responsible want to help pay our acupuncture bill?)
People were engrossed in the NBA finals last season only to discover last week that the outcome was more than likely rigged by a crooked referee. This is stupid.
People are dressing up their children in Michael Vick jersies because he is someone worth admiring due to his ability to spin away from linebackers downfield. All the while, he is torturing and killing dogs. Sick and stupid.
Major League Baseball commissioner Bud Selig can't decide how to feel about Barry Bonds being on the cusp of breaking Hank Aaron's home run record and the rest of the country is subjected to news reports about whether or not Selig will come to Bonds' games, get his picture taken with him, or get warm fuzzies about what under any other circumstances would be the sports story of the decade. Meanwhile, Barry Bonds is probably on steroids (would people care that he is probably on steroids if he wasn't also an a$$hole, I wonder?) but no one can prove it and so he just keeps on playing while everyone declares that his accomplishments are tainted. Really, really intensely stupid.
But here's the problem. The life lessons many high schoolers, and even college students, learn from being part of athletics are not stupid. They learn to work as a team, to overcome adversity, to face their fears. They learn to balance their time and believe in themselves. And that's something to be admired -- something beautiful. But dangle a few dollars in front of someone's nose and who knows what he or she will do. Even if it shrinks his penis and shortens his lifespan, an athlete will shoot drugs in his arm. And trust me, I get it: When sports aren't about personal growth and achievement and pushing oneself, they're about getting paid and being famous. And whether it's because this is actually getting worse or just because I am growing more cynical with age, an awareness of this reality is becoming more and more abundant in my brain.
And it makes me like it less and less every day.
Just not enough to not still be a nerd.
Monday, July 23, 2007
What would you do in this situation?
A totally random guy you've never met is standing at a conference social with his back to you, wearing some khaki slacks that have, printed on a sticker that starts around mid-butt cheek and continues down to mid-thigh, 36x32 36x32 36x32, 36x32 (etc., etc., you get the picture) affixed to it. Do you:
a) walk up to the guy and discreetly tell him that he might want to go in the bathroom and check his butt for extraneous size-revealing labels
b) walk up behind the guy, reach down, and nonchalantly remove the sticker from his butt (at the risk, of course, of him noticing that you are touching his derierre and either a -- getting the wrong idea or b -- suing you for sexual harrassment)
c) sit in the corner and mock him while also acknowledging that this sort of thing could certainly happen to you or anyone for that matter, except maybe Val Kilmer, and feel just a leetle bit bad for him before you go back to heartily laughing at this situation and later feeling validated in your decision because the guy turned out to be sort of pretentious but at the same time you still felt sort of bad for not telling him but also feeling quite torn because you're not sure what you would prefer to have happen if you were the person who had your pants size affixed to your booty in front of a bunch of strangers who are probably laughing at/feeling sorry for you but since you have a sense of humor you would probably want someone to tell you but then again maybe not and mmmmm, Heineken.
I chose C. Probably not the right answer. But seriously! What do you do?
P.S. I would have chosen option A if he had been female. I think.
a) walk up to the guy and discreetly tell him that he might want to go in the bathroom and check his butt for extraneous size-revealing labels
b) walk up behind the guy, reach down, and nonchalantly remove the sticker from his butt (at the risk, of course, of him noticing that you are touching his derierre and either a -- getting the wrong idea or b -- suing you for sexual harrassment)
c) sit in the corner and mock him while also acknowledging that this sort of thing could certainly happen to you or anyone for that matter, except maybe Val Kilmer, and feel just a leetle bit bad for him before you go back to heartily laughing at this situation and later feeling validated in your decision because the guy turned out to be sort of pretentious but at the same time you still felt sort of bad for not telling him but also feeling quite torn because you're not sure what you would prefer to have happen if you were the person who had your pants size affixed to your booty in front of a bunch of strangers who are probably laughing at/feeling sorry for you but since you have a sense of humor you would probably want someone to tell you but then again maybe not and mmmmm, Heineken.
I chose C. Probably not the right answer. But seriously! What do you do?
P.S. I would have chosen option A if he had been female. I think.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
This is why I'm never bored
I can read my diary from 8th grade, which I found in a box this weekend, and be endlessly amused by the points it proves. Some examples.
Proof that middle school girls are pretty much all the same:
January 12, 1992
"I love (insert name of boy who is probably now a mass murderer). I love (insert name of boy who is probably now a mass murderer). I love (insert name of boy who is probably now a mass murderer). I love (insert name of boy who is probably now a mass murderer). I love (insert name of boy who is probably now a mass murderer). I love (insert name of boy who is probably now a mass murderer). I love (insert name of boy who is probably now a mass murderer). I love (insert name of boy who is probably now a mass murderer). I love (insert name of boy who is probably now a mass murderer)."
Note: This goes on for a whole page.
************************
March 13, 1992
"I can't believe my boyfriend who is a moron was mad just because I danced with this other boy four times and not him."
Yeah, that's a shocker. How unreasonable of him. Also: It's clear I felt very connected with this boy whom I referred to as "boyfriend who is a moron."
************************
July 5, 1992
"I am so sick of how (insert name of perfectly nice boy who is probably now a CEO) 'The Dweeb' loves and worships me. And I had to dance with him at the 8th grade party! Yuck! I think he might be starting to get the idea that I think he's a dork. At least I hope."
The directness of 8th graders in resolving conflict, as well as their relationship skills, is awe-inspiring.
************************
March 8, 1992
"Okay, this is serious. My friends liked this $30 Gitano outfit that totally clashed!"
What the hell is Gitano? Apparently it's SERIOUS.
************************
March 30, 1992
"I finally got lots of hair off my legs when I shaved! Hooray!"
It's really the small victories in life, isn't it?
************************
The entry for July 6, 1992 is an essay called "Why My Little Brother is a Stupid Jerk."
Sorry, darling brother who still has a nickname I made up for you in 9th grade that means the same thing as the word "shit." Loves you!
************************
Proof that the 90s were, in general, a little scary:
March 16, 1992
"Must close now. David Robinson and John Lucas are on Aresnio tonight!"
Note: I watched the Aresnio Hall Show?
************************
July 5, 1992
"Warm it up, Kris! Kris Kross is awesome. Almost as good as Color Me Badd."
Sweet Jesus. There are no words.
****************
Proof that I haven't really changed all that much:
November 2, 1992
"Oh my gosh, I saw Al [Gore] at the Waterloo airport! One day until the election! I'm so excited! If Bill and Al don't win I will just die of sadness. And oh my gosh Al Gore is SO HOT. I love Al! LOVE HIM!"
I believe I am technically now in 9th grade writing this. Not that it matters; I think I still write the same way about Al Gore. Sigh.
************************
July 7, 1992
"I just feel like writing and writing and writing and never stopping. But I will since this is probably majorly boring to read."
At least I had self awareness, even though I still haven't stopped torturing people with my boring and never-ending words.
************************
February 5, 1992
"I guess SOMEONE has to be on the C team. But why me?"
I never magically gained that athletic prowess I had been hoping for. But not my fault, remember? My fingers!
************************
April 25, 1992
"Happy Arbor Day, Diary! Plant a tree! Cool the globe!"
Once a tree-hugger, always a tree hugger. Also, I don't remember wanting to cool the globe being a controversial viewpoint them. Go figure.
************************
June 22, 1993
"I have this pen pal who I met at the Big 8 Tournament. He's really cute, but UGH I can't believe he's a JAYHAWK!"
What IS the matter with Kansas?
************************
In the entry for April 19, I circled my own grammatical error and wrote "please pardon the illegibility of this missive."
No comment.
************************
Coming soon (I hope): Actual excerpts from my 4th grade diary, which I also found yesterday but didn't take the time to try and break into. (Unlike the eighth grade diary which has a combination lock on it that can be opened by remembering the combination "grab both covers and pull really hard for 15 seconds," this one has a padlock that has to be opened with a key that no longer exists -- I'm thinking throwing a really large rock at it will probably do the trick.)
Stay tuned.
Proof that middle school girls are pretty much all the same:
January 12, 1992
"I love (insert name of boy who is probably now a mass murderer). I love (insert name of boy who is probably now a mass murderer). I love (insert name of boy who is probably now a mass murderer). I love (insert name of boy who is probably now a mass murderer). I love (insert name of boy who is probably now a mass murderer). I love (insert name of boy who is probably now a mass murderer). I love (insert name of boy who is probably now a mass murderer). I love (insert name of boy who is probably now a mass murderer). I love (insert name of boy who is probably now a mass murderer)."
Note: This goes on for a whole page.
************************
March 13, 1992
"I can't believe my boyfriend who is a moron was mad just because I danced with this other boy four times and not him."
Yeah, that's a shocker. How unreasonable of him. Also: It's clear I felt very connected with this boy whom I referred to as "boyfriend who is a moron."
************************
July 5, 1992
"I am so sick of how (insert name of perfectly nice boy who is probably now a CEO) 'The Dweeb' loves and worships me. And I had to dance with him at the 8th grade party! Yuck! I think he might be starting to get the idea that I think he's a dork. At least I hope."
The directness of 8th graders in resolving conflict, as well as their relationship skills, is awe-inspiring.
************************
March 8, 1992
"Okay, this is serious. My friends liked this $30 Gitano outfit that totally clashed!"
What the hell is Gitano? Apparently it's SERIOUS.
************************
March 30, 1992
"I finally got lots of hair off my legs when I shaved! Hooray!"
It's really the small victories in life, isn't it?
************************
The entry for July 6, 1992 is an essay called "Why My Little Brother is a Stupid Jerk."
Sorry, darling brother who still has a nickname I made up for you in 9th grade that means the same thing as the word "shit." Loves you!
************************
Proof that the 90s were, in general, a little scary:
March 16, 1992
"Must close now. David Robinson and John Lucas are on Aresnio tonight!"
Note: I watched the Aresnio Hall Show?
************************
July 5, 1992
"Warm it up, Kris! Kris Kross is awesome. Almost as good as Color Me Badd."
Sweet Jesus. There are no words.
****************
Proof that I haven't really changed all that much:
November 2, 1992
"Oh my gosh, I saw Al [Gore] at the Waterloo airport! One day until the election! I'm so excited! If Bill and Al don't win I will just die of sadness. And oh my gosh Al Gore is SO HOT. I love Al! LOVE HIM!"
I believe I am technically now in 9th grade writing this. Not that it matters; I think I still write the same way about Al Gore. Sigh.
************************
July 7, 1992
"I just feel like writing and writing and writing and never stopping. But I will since this is probably majorly boring to read."
At least I had self awareness, even though I still haven't stopped torturing people with my boring and never-ending words.
************************
February 5, 1992
"I guess SOMEONE has to be on the C team. But why me?"
I never magically gained that athletic prowess I had been hoping for. But not my fault, remember? My fingers!
************************
April 25, 1992
"Happy Arbor Day, Diary! Plant a tree! Cool the globe!"
Once a tree-hugger, always a tree hugger. Also, I don't remember wanting to cool the globe being a controversial viewpoint them. Go figure.
************************
June 22, 1993
"I have this pen pal who I met at the Big 8 Tournament. He's really cute, but UGH I can't believe he's a JAYHAWK!"
What IS the matter with Kansas?
************************
In the entry for April 19, I circled my own grammatical error and wrote "please pardon the illegibility of this missive."
No comment.
************************
Coming soon (I hope): Actual excerpts from my 4th grade diary, which I also found yesterday but didn't take the time to try and break into. (Unlike the eighth grade diary which has a combination lock on it that can be opened by remembering the combination "grab both covers and pull really hard for 15 seconds," this one has a padlock that has to be opened with a key that no longer exists -- I'm thinking throwing a really large rock at it will probably do the trick.)
Stay tuned.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Why drinking and being "single" for the weekend don't mix
And no, it's not the reason you're thinking. So stop it!
As I believe I may have mentioned before, I'm more than a little naive. I am pretty sure if I were an actual single person going to bars to try and meet other single people I would have been stabbed to death in a dark alley by now.
So Friday night while my husband was out of town I was looking forward to having a few drinks with some friends at a local dive bar, where one of the friends wanted to meet up with her other friend who was paying his way through college by deep-frying cauliflower there. Over the course of a couple of hours I proceeded to plow my way through several glasses of beer. I returned from the restroom, weaving my way inefficiently through several local class reunion participants in nametags (ever grateful that I was not one of them) and sat back down at our table, where within a few moments a blond gentleman plopped down in the seat next to me.
I figured he was the cook friend we were meeting, so I started willingly participating in the conversation he started with me. I honestly don't remember anything we were discussing except that he said something flippant about someone who was bald, to which I replied...
Me: Hey, my husband is bald and I think it looks rather attractive on him.
Guy: Husband?
Me: Yeah, my husband Ben.
Guy: You're married? MARRIED? Oh, well THAT'S JUST GREAT.
Me (duh): Yes, it is great.
Guy (leaving half a pack of Pall Malls and a Bic lighter on the table): I'll be right back, okay?
Me: Um...
My friend, leaning over: Why were you talking to that guy?
Me: What do you mean? I thought he was your friend!
My friend: Erm, no...
It's at this point that I finally realized that even though I was clearly wearing a wedding ring this guy was trying to pick me up. See why I could never be a single person?
The more I added up the pieces the more I realized that this guy was an A-1 jerk, so I brilliantly decided to get back at him by smoking all of his Pall Malls. See what fabulous decision-making skills drunk people have?
I didn't finish the pack, but it somehow ended up in my purse and subsequently on my kitchen table the next morning, where my mother saw it upon arriving at my house for a day visit. "When did you take up smoking?" she asked. "Pall Malls! Ew!" So I told her the story. She smoked for 30 years, she said, and could never stomach anything as strong as Pall Malls.
Sweet merciful crap, help me! Coffee and a traecheotomy, please! And let's not forget a shower!
How old am I again? Never mind, don't answer that.
As I believe I may have mentioned before, I'm more than a little naive. I am pretty sure if I were an actual single person going to bars to try and meet other single people I would have been stabbed to death in a dark alley by now.
So Friday night while my husband was out of town I was looking forward to having a few drinks with some friends at a local dive bar, where one of the friends wanted to meet up with her other friend who was paying his way through college by deep-frying cauliflower there. Over the course of a couple of hours I proceeded to plow my way through several glasses of beer. I returned from the restroom, weaving my way inefficiently through several local class reunion participants in nametags (ever grateful that I was not one of them) and sat back down at our table, where within a few moments a blond gentleman plopped down in the seat next to me.
I figured he was the cook friend we were meeting, so I started willingly participating in the conversation he started with me. I honestly don't remember anything we were discussing except that he said something flippant about someone who was bald, to which I replied...
Me: Hey, my husband is bald and I think it looks rather attractive on him.
Guy: Husband?
Me: Yeah, my husband Ben.
Guy: You're married? MARRIED? Oh, well THAT'S JUST GREAT.
Me (duh): Yes, it is great.
Guy (leaving half a pack of Pall Malls and a Bic lighter on the table): I'll be right back, okay?
Me: Um...
My friend, leaning over: Why were you talking to that guy?
Me: What do you mean? I thought he was your friend!
My friend: Erm, no...
It's at this point that I finally realized that even though I was clearly wearing a wedding ring this guy was trying to pick me up. See why I could never be a single person?
The more I added up the pieces the more I realized that this guy was an A-1 jerk, so I brilliantly decided to get back at him by smoking all of his Pall Malls. See what fabulous decision-making skills drunk people have?
I didn't finish the pack, but it somehow ended up in my purse and subsequently on my kitchen table the next morning, where my mother saw it upon arriving at my house for a day visit. "When did you take up smoking?" she asked. "Pall Malls! Ew!" So I told her the story. She smoked for 30 years, she said, and could never stomach anything as strong as Pall Malls.
Sweet merciful crap, help me! Coffee and a traecheotomy, please! And let's not forget a shower!
How old am I again? Never mind, don't answer that.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Sacrificial Gams
Call me a cynic, but "Kate! YOU have nice legs!" is a suspicious beginning to a conversation. Yet, so began the crackly cell phone conversation I had with my co-worker this afternoon.
It turns out I was correct to be skeptical, and -- long story short -- you may now add "stand half-naked in front of God and everyone, including a photographer," to the list of Things I Have Done To Be a Team Player at Work (right after getting mugged by geese, buying every basketball-hoop-shaped kids' wastebasket in stock at four greater Iowa K-Marts, and standing in street sludge in front of Minneapolis' Target Center while people asked me if I was an American Idol contestant).
Okay, perhaps making the long story short is ineffective in conveying the Oh-My-God-I'm-Freaked-Out-ness of the phone call, which was precipitated by the refusal of multiple co-workers to model a nightshirt and fuzzy slippers for our merchandise catalog, most likely because the outfit: a) is ridiculous; and b) involves wearing no pants.
I should actually add that, if you need someone who isn't afraid to go pantless in front of a camera, I may be a good option. Our family's photo albums are filled with images of me as a youngster, wearing only a shirt and underpants, sitting at family gatherings, watching Sesame Street, writing and illustrating my collections of short fiction/plans for world domination, etc. It's true: I ritualistically shed my pants the minute I walked through the door for many of my single-digit years. Not sure when this became uncouth and inappropriate (probably two years before I stopped doing it), but I'm afraid to say that most of my adult years have been spent rather boringly wearing pants almost all the time.
So in order to complete this assignment I was going to have to rediscover the spirit of my half-naked inner child.
I retreated to the restroom and put on the nightshirt and the fuzzy slippers. I looked, well, ridiculous. But I was taking one for the team. Boldly going where no person in her right mind has ever gone before. Wearing no pants in front of my co-workers. Wearing no pants in front of the camera...
I am not a model. Heck, I'm not even really that much of a girl. When I was frantically trying to put on some makeup before heading over to the photo shoot, another co-worker offered me the use of her some-kinda-special comb. "What do I do with that?" I replied. She giggled. I think she thought I was kidding. "Hey, at least you're wearing earrings today," another helpfully chimed in. Yes, it's a special day at our office when Kate remembers to accessorize. Alert the media! She's wearing a belt AND a bracelet!
Everything I know about modeling I learned from Tyra Banks on America's Next Top Model. This means that the extent of my knowledge about good modeling is that I know it involves reading Tyra Mail and being something called "fierce." I tried to think about being "fierce" in the nightshirt and slippers, but it just wasn't coming to the surface. The photographer didn't like my idea of channeling every men's underwear model I've ever seen and doing the "Look! A tree!" finger-point. So they handed me props: a coffee mug and a newspaper. Apparently instead of being fierce I was supposed to pretend I had just woken up and started reading the paper when someone pointed a camera in my face. In a fierce manner, of course. "Ooh, I'm so surprised that you are taking a picture of me while I'm wearing my nightgown and reading the paper," is apparently the message we were trying to convey, artistically.
And when art involves wearing an oversized T-shirt, no pants, and ridiculous slippers while not pointing at a fake tree, I'm just clay to be molded. Molded into a tan-legged frump to be plastered on catalogs and the innernets. Victoria's Secret, you may want to send your scouts to check me out. Just don't ask me how to use an eyelash curler or be fierce. Because I don't know.
It turns out I was correct to be skeptical, and -- long story short -- you may now add "stand half-naked in front of God and everyone, including a photographer," to the list of Things I Have Done To Be a Team Player at Work (right after getting mugged by geese, buying every basketball-hoop-shaped kids' wastebasket in stock at four greater Iowa K-Marts, and standing in street sludge in front of Minneapolis' Target Center while people asked me if I was an American Idol contestant).
Okay, perhaps making the long story short is ineffective in conveying the Oh-My-God-I'm-Freaked-Out-ness of the phone call, which was precipitated by the refusal of multiple co-workers to model a nightshirt and fuzzy slippers for our merchandise catalog, most likely because the outfit: a) is ridiculous; and b) involves wearing no pants.
I should actually add that, if you need someone who isn't afraid to go pantless in front of a camera, I may be a good option. Our family's photo albums are filled with images of me as a youngster, wearing only a shirt and underpants, sitting at family gatherings, watching Sesame Street, writing and illustrating my collections of short fiction/plans for world domination, etc. It's true: I ritualistically shed my pants the minute I walked through the door for many of my single-digit years. Not sure when this became uncouth and inappropriate (probably two years before I stopped doing it), but I'm afraid to say that most of my adult years have been spent rather boringly wearing pants almost all the time.
So in order to complete this assignment I was going to have to rediscover the spirit of my half-naked inner child.
I retreated to the restroom and put on the nightshirt and the fuzzy slippers. I looked, well, ridiculous. But I was taking one for the team. Boldly going where no person in her right mind has ever gone before. Wearing no pants in front of my co-workers. Wearing no pants in front of the camera...
I am not a model. Heck, I'm not even really that much of a girl. When I was frantically trying to put on some makeup before heading over to the photo shoot, another co-worker offered me the use of her some-kinda-special comb. "What do I do with that?" I replied. She giggled. I think she thought I was kidding. "Hey, at least you're wearing earrings today," another helpfully chimed in. Yes, it's a special day at our office when Kate remembers to accessorize. Alert the media! She's wearing a belt AND a bracelet!
Everything I know about modeling I learned from Tyra Banks on America's Next Top Model. This means that the extent of my knowledge about good modeling is that I know it involves reading Tyra Mail and being something called "fierce." I tried to think about being "fierce" in the nightshirt and slippers, but it just wasn't coming to the surface. The photographer didn't like my idea of channeling every men's underwear model I've ever seen and doing the "Look! A tree!" finger-point. So they handed me props: a coffee mug and a newspaper. Apparently instead of being fierce I was supposed to pretend I had just woken up and started reading the paper when someone pointed a camera in my face. In a fierce manner, of course. "Ooh, I'm so surprised that you are taking a picture of me while I'm wearing my nightgown and reading the paper," is apparently the message we were trying to convey, artistically.
And when art involves wearing an oversized T-shirt, no pants, and ridiculous slippers while not pointing at a fake tree, I'm just clay to be molded. Molded into a tan-legged frump to be plastered on catalogs and the innernets. Victoria's Secret, you may want to send your scouts to check me out. Just don't ask me how to use an eyelash curler or be fierce. Because I don't know.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Trying to ford a river of Pabst Blue Ribbon
So it was over a month ago that I went to Portland, but I still haven't written anything about the experience. Not exactly sure what has been the cause of my writer's block, but rest assured that I always inevitably find the temptation to deliver verbose blow-by-blow accounts of my vacations too overwhelming to stand. The level of detail in which I documented our trip to Aruba four years ago, for example, should serve as proof of this phenomenon. In other words: Never question my commitment to being a giant geek.
Okay, so Oregon.
First let me say that if it weren't quite so many miles from the UMW I would move to Portland in a heartbeat. I have always had a fascination with the Pacific Northwest (stemming from my religious devotion to watching Twin Peaks as an adolescent, perhaps?), and this satiated my desire to spend a good bit of time there in a way that my New Year's 2003 trip to Boise did not.
My friend since junior high who was also my roommate during freshman year of college, Winnie, was kind enough to play host to us. She has a cute house, an even cuter puppy, and a cute ex-chef husband who vaguely resembles Justin Timberlake and currently makes a living harvesting barn owl pellets in scary ghost-town looking places down south. Seriously.
I'm a pretty big fan of athletic apparel, so it was a pretty cool thing that Winnie works for Nike. We got a tour of the campus and a pass to shop at the employee store, where we spent $750 on $1,500 worth of stuff in the course of an afternoon. But hooray! Sports bras for life! Also: Shoes! When we visited the Nike campus, we avoided parking in Michael Jordan's parking spot. Apparently it's not really reserved for Michael Jordan, though, Winnie informed us. Um, we're gullible Iowa hicks. Haven't you heard?
On our first night in Portland, we went to dinner at a fantastic Thai restaurant and then to the Last Thursday festival on Alberta Street. It's basically like an art festival where all of Portland's most interesting characters come out to play -- unicycle riders, the performance artists at the "clown house," random ranters, ravers, painters, and musicians. Despite the perponderance of junk of everywhere, it's really cool, actually. We made our way to the lawn of an Alberta Street drinking establishment, where I snapped this incredibly flattering but oh-so-funny picture of Win drinking a can of PBR (which, apparently, is the official canned beverage of the Greater Portland Area):
Two significant things happened after I took this photo:
1) A woman squatted down and peed in the lawn in front of approximately 400 people, including my husband...who couldn't quite wash the perplexed look off his face for the rest of the night after witnessing this event and urging the rest of our group to steer clear of the puddle.
2) A riot, apparently, broke out on Alberta Street. At least according to this blog.
The next day was all about checking out the city. Winnie decided the best way to do this was to ride on the controversial sky tram up to the Oregon Health & Science University, which has a great view of the city and even, on a clear day, Mt. Hood. I say the tram was controversial because it takes you right over people's houses. The houses of people who protested its construction, lost the battle, and now keep their curtains permanently drawn. You really could see right into the houses were they not, so I can see why they were unhappy. We were easily the youngest people on the tram, and we did resist the temptation to visit the hospital gift shop at the top of the hill despite the urgings of the tram operator.
Later that day we went up in the west hills and visited the rose garden. We thought this was a good place to take a prom picture. So we did:
Instead of a wrist corsage, Kate is sporting a Nike handbag purchased at a rock-bottom warehouse price!
They also had some viewers that cost a quarter. Which we didn't have. So we used the opportunity to take another stupid picture.
Hey! It's another stupid picture! It must be Kate and Ben's vacation.
The next major highlight of the visit was our day trip to the coast. It is GORGEOUS. See photographic evidence of gorgeousness below:
Winnie knew of a semi-secluded beach we would enjoy that was only a short hike away, so we took the dog and headed down to the shore, where we were apparently so overcome with rapture over seeing the ocean that we decided to mess around like total dumbasses, which to me makes for a perfectly awesome time. Winnie and I tried to get out modeling careers off the ground by practicing some sexy butt poses on the beach, but really Maya the dog was better than we:
Sexy bitches. Literally.
I also have to admit I was a bit surprised how many sufers were hanging out...er, hanging ten...at this particular beach. It was really not warm. And the water was really, really not warm. And I really, really, really don't know my surfer lingo, as I believe my exact quote was "Let's hang some ten." I am not sure that "ten" is an adjustable quantity in that sense. I believe if you were hanging some ten, it would just mean you were hanging eight or six-and-a-half or Pi or something like that. Hey, I'm from Iowa.
But man, did we have fun at that beach. It's good for the soul to see the ocean for those of us who are locked between the Missouri and Mississippi. And they had saltwater taffy and fish n' chips and rock formations and look! They have waterfalls!
Speaking of waterfalls, the next day was cool because we spent it hiking near the Columbia River Gorge, which is phe-nom-e-nal.
I mean, look.
Multnomah Falls was really cool, but there were also lots of people there. So Winnie took us over to the Horsetail Falls Trail, which was a pretty easy hike with very few tourists and lots of great scenery. Like this:
As is true with anything related to me going on a vacation, we goofed around. Here's a botched attempt at a photo of Winne holding the waterfall in her hand while I look surprised in the background:
The hike was definitely worth it, as the top of the trail netted us a great view of the Columbia River.
This is all, f'real, like 20 minutes in a Subaru from Winnie's house. And when I say Subaru, I mean Subaru. There is an unofficial Portland city ordinance, apparently, which states that you must own a Subaru and a dog to live there. And when you're cruising around in your Subaru with your life partner wearing your Columbia or Nike or Adidas athletics gear, you must have the dog in the back of the car. And have your radio tuned to Q97.9 FM all the time, so you can hear Mims' highly musical song, "This is Why I'm Hot," every 10 minutes. Okay, don't do that last part. But you can!
This left one adventure before we could leave: driving up to Timberline Lodge on Mt. Hood.
Coming to your hood
And wow -- Timberline Lodge is the hotel they used for the exterior shots in the movie The Shining. A movie that scared the pee out of me. And it was a little creepy seeing it, even though there are no snow tunnels or psychotic killers or Here's Johnny but rather just a bunch of caffienated Oregonians with their snowboards.
And a ski lift. And a massive parking lot. With Subarus.
We had a hot alcoholic beverage inside and then tromped through the snow on the side of the mountain. And who can resist an April snowball fight in 60-degree weather? Certainly not me.
I'm a really bad over-actor.
So there you have it: Go to Portland. You will not regret it. There are so many things to do, including the ones mentioned here plus also locking your keys in your rental car, golfing, purchasing Columbia jackets sales-tax free, pointing out electrical wiring inadequacies in art galleries, eating candy, thrift store shopping, and going out for breakfast like every day. Oh, and Chai! Real Oregon Chai...take that, Starbucks evil-doers.
Raising a can of PBR in thanks to my Portland friends,
That Weird Girl from Iowa
Okay, so Oregon.
First let me say that if it weren't quite so many miles from the UMW I would move to Portland in a heartbeat. I have always had a fascination with the Pacific Northwest (stemming from my religious devotion to watching Twin Peaks as an adolescent, perhaps?), and this satiated my desire to spend a good bit of time there in a way that my New Year's 2003 trip to Boise did not.
My friend since junior high who was also my roommate during freshman year of college, Winnie, was kind enough to play host to us. She has a cute house, an even cuter puppy, and a cute ex-chef husband who vaguely resembles Justin Timberlake and currently makes a living harvesting barn owl pellets in scary ghost-town looking places down south. Seriously.
I'm a pretty big fan of athletic apparel, so it was a pretty cool thing that Winnie works for Nike. We got a tour of the campus and a pass to shop at the employee store, where we spent $750 on $1,500 worth of stuff in the course of an afternoon. But hooray! Sports bras for life! Also: Shoes! When we visited the Nike campus, we avoided parking in Michael Jordan's parking spot. Apparently it's not really reserved for Michael Jordan, though, Winnie informed us. Um, we're gullible Iowa hicks. Haven't you heard?
On our first night in Portland, we went to dinner at a fantastic Thai restaurant and then to the Last Thursday festival on Alberta Street. It's basically like an art festival where all of Portland's most interesting characters come out to play -- unicycle riders, the performance artists at the "clown house," random ranters, ravers, painters, and musicians. Despite the perponderance of junk of everywhere, it's really cool, actually. We made our way to the lawn of an Alberta Street drinking establishment, where I snapped this incredibly flattering but oh-so-funny picture of Win drinking a can of PBR (which, apparently, is the official canned beverage of the Greater Portland Area):
Two significant things happened after I took this photo:
1) A woman squatted down and peed in the lawn in front of approximately 400 people, including my husband...who couldn't quite wash the perplexed look off his face for the rest of the night after witnessing this event and urging the rest of our group to steer clear of the puddle.
2) A riot, apparently, broke out on Alberta Street. At least according to this blog.
The next day was all about checking out the city. Winnie decided the best way to do this was to ride on the controversial sky tram up to the Oregon Health & Science University, which has a great view of the city and even, on a clear day, Mt. Hood. I say the tram was controversial because it takes you right over people's houses. The houses of people who protested its construction, lost the battle, and now keep their curtains permanently drawn. You really could see right into the houses were they not, so I can see why they were unhappy. We were easily the youngest people on the tram, and we did resist the temptation to visit the hospital gift shop at the top of the hill despite the urgings of the tram operator.
Later that day we went up in the west hills and visited the rose garden. We thought this was a good place to take a prom picture. So we did:
Instead of a wrist corsage, Kate is sporting a Nike handbag purchased at a rock-bottom warehouse price!
They also had some viewers that cost a quarter. Which we didn't have. So we used the opportunity to take another stupid picture.
Hey! It's another stupid picture! It must be Kate and Ben's vacation.
The next major highlight of the visit was our day trip to the coast. It is GORGEOUS. See photographic evidence of gorgeousness below:
Winnie knew of a semi-secluded beach we would enjoy that was only a short hike away, so we took the dog and headed down to the shore, where we were apparently so overcome with rapture over seeing the ocean that we decided to mess around like total dumbasses, which to me makes for a perfectly awesome time. Winnie and I tried to get out modeling careers off the ground by practicing some sexy butt poses on the beach, but really Maya the dog was better than we:
Sexy bitches. Literally.
I also have to admit I was a bit surprised how many sufers were hanging out...er, hanging ten...at this particular beach. It was really not warm. And the water was really, really not warm. And I really, really, really don't know my surfer lingo, as I believe my exact quote was "Let's hang some ten." I am not sure that "ten" is an adjustable quantity in that sense. I believe if you were hanging some ten, it would just mean you were hanging eight or six-and-a-half or Pi or something like that. Hey, I'm from Iowa.
But man, did we have fun at that beach. It's good for the soul to see the ocean for those of us who are locked between the Missouri and Mississippi. And they had saltwater taffy and fish n' chips and rock formations and look! They have waterfalls!
Speaking of waterfalls, the next day was cool because we spent it hiking near the Columbia River Gorge, which is phe-nom-e-nal.
I mean, look.
Multnomah Falls was really cool, but there were also lots of people there. So Winnie took us over to the Horsetail Falls Trail, which was a pretty easy hike with very few tourists and lots of great scenery. Like this:
As is true with anything related to me going on a vacation, we goofed around. Here's a botched attempt at a photo of Winne holding the waterfall in her hand while I look surprised in the background:
The hike was definitely worth it, as the top of the trail netted us a great view of the Columbia River.
This is all, f'real, like 20 minutes in a Subaru from Winnie's house. And when I say Subaru, I mean Subaru. There is an unofficial Portland city ordinance, apparently, which states that you must own a Subaru and a dog to live there. And when you're cruising around in your Subaru with your life partner wearing your Columbia or Nike or Adidas athletics gear, you must have the dog in the back of the car. And have your radio tuned to Q97.9 FM all the time, so you can hear Mims' highly musical song, "This is Why I'm Hot," every 10 minutes. Okay, don't do that last part. But you can!
This left one adventure before we could leave: driving up to Timberline Lodge on Mt. Hood.
Coming to your hood
And wow -- Timberline Lodge is the hotel they used for the exterior shots in the movie The Shining. A movie that scared the pee out of me. And it was a little creepy seeing it, even though there are no snow tunnels or psychotic killers or Here's Johnny but rather just a bunch of caffienated Oregonians with their snowboards.
And a ski lift. And a massive parking lot. With Subarus.
We had a hot alcoholic beverage inside and then tromped through the snow on the side of the mountain. And who can resist an April snowball fight in 60-degree weather? Certainly not me.
I'm a really bad over-actor.
So there you have it: Go to Portland. You will not regret it. There are so many things to do, including the ones mentioned here plus also locking your keys in your rental car, golfing, purchasing Columbia jackets sales-tax free, pointing out electrical wiring inadequacies in art galleries, eating candy, thrift store shopping, and going out for breakfast like every day. Oh, and Chai! Real Oregon Chai...take that, Starbucks evil-doers.
Raising a can of PBR in thanks to my Portland friends,
That Weird Girl from Iowa
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
I peed my pants a little laughing at this.
If you're a Pearl Jam fan, this is must-see YouTube:
For what it's worth, these are the actual lyrics to Yellow Ledbetter:
Unsealed
On a porch a letter sat
Then you said I wanna leave it again
Once I saw her on a beach of weathered sand
And on the sand I wanna leave it again...yeah
On a weekend I wanna wish it all away yeah...
And they called and I said that I want what I said
And then I call out again
And the reason oughta leave her calm I know
I said I don't know whetherI'm the boxer or the bag
Ah yeah ehh....
Can you see themOut on the porch
But they don't wave
I see them round the front way yeah
And I know I don't want to stay...
Make me cry
Ooooh I see
I don't know there's something else
I wanna drum it all away
Oh I said I don't, I don't know whether I'm a boxer or the bag
Ah yeah ehh....
Can you see them
Out on the porch
But they don't wave
I see them round the front way yeah
And I know I don't want to stay
I don't wanna stay
I don't wanna stay
Don't Don't wanna
Oh... yeah... oooh...
Thursday, May 24, 2007
So I got mugged by some geese. What?
One of the things I like most about my job is that I never know what to expect. So this week, when I was asked to participate in the "we love Iowa State's campus swans, Lancelot and Elaine" video shoot for the university's sesquicentennial traditions video, I didn't know what to expect.
I will say my track record with this particular video is perhaps not the best. At the shoot for the first segment, in which I assisted but was mercifully not on camera, I fell down in the parking lot. So there's that.
But that was over a month ago, and I arrived at the set (Lake LaVerne) Tuesday ready to rock and roll with a fresh new confidence in my upright, sober walking abilities.
My co-worker/co-star and I were told that our first order of business was to round up the swans, who were hanging out in a corner of the lake (okay, it's a pond that is ridiculously named "Lake," but whatever) that didn't necessarily have the most aesthetically pleasing background, namely a construction site and a busy intersection. That's where I'd be if I were a swan, too. There are probably hunks of rotten gordita tossed out the car window by college students two months ago, or the remnants of Ring-Dings that were eaten on the construction site, worth munching (Elegantly munching, of course, because Hey! You're a swan. Everything you do is elegant! Even snarfing garbage off the curb!). But we had a whole bag of moldy wheat bread, so we knew we could entice them over by the tranquil and much-more-video-worthy park bench area.
And it worked. We congratulated ourselves on successfully positioning the swans for the video and were about to chill on the park bench when all hell broke loose. Two Canadian geese came seemingly out of nowhere and swooped down to scare the swans away and claim the bread. The geese are much more aggressive than the swans, by the way, and decidedly less elegant. The swans paddled their elegant butts out of there while the geese approached us on foot, rapidly and with a strong sense of purpose.
"Give me some of that moldy bread," one seemed to hiss at me. "Bitch."
"Okay, okay," I relented, frightenedly hurling crumbs in the opposite direction and speaking directly to the geese in English like a giant dork. The other goose in the pair lunged at me, and I threw a whole wad down the sidewalk. They were eating the bread faster than Sara and I could throw it. It really escalated quickly, though last time I checked I did not end up killing a man with a trident.
We were finally able to entice the geese to go another direction and were able to re-focus our attentions on luring Lancelot and Elaine (though both of the swans are male, one of them is forced to keep the name "Elaine..." sucks to be him) back toward the shore with the coveted moldly bread. Things were going quite swimmingly, and Sara even had one of the geese, let's just say for argument's sake it was Dude Elaine, eating out of her hand. That's when she turned around to get another piece of bread and about leaped out of her Cole Haans. Like some scene out of a really bad and not-at-all-scary horror movie, the geese were right. freaking. there, staring her in the face. That's right, the geese snuck up on us.
And that's the day we got mugged by geese.
I will say my track record with this particular video is perhaps not the best. At the shoot for the first segment, in which I assisted but was mercifully not on camera, I fell down in the parking lot. So there's that.
But that was over a month ago, and I arrived at the set (Lake LaVerne) Tuesday ready to rock and roll with a fresh new confidence in my upright, sober walking abilities.
My co-worker/co-star and I were told that our first order of business was to round up the swans, who were hanging out in a corner of the lake (okay, it's a pond that is ridiculously named "Lake," but whatever) that didn't necessarily have the most aesthetically pleasing background, namely a construction site and a busy intersection. That's where I'd be if I were a swan, too. There are probably hunks of rotten gordita tossed out the car window by college students two months ago, or the remnants of Ring-Dings that were eaten on the construction site, worth munching (Elegantly munching, of course, because Hey! You're a swan. Everything you do is elegant! Even snarfing garbage off the curb!). But we had a whole bag of moldy wheat bread, so we knew we could entice them over by the tranquil and much-more-video-worthy park bench area.
And it worked. We congratulated ourselves on successfully positioning the swans for the video and were about to chill on the park bench when all hell broke loose. Two Canadian geese came seemingly out of nowhere and swooped down to scare the swans away and claim the bread. The geese are much more aggressive than the swans, by the way, and decidedly less elegant. The swans paddled their elegant butts out of there while the geese approached us on foot, rapidly and with a strong sense of purpose.
"Give me some of that moldy bread," one seemed to hiss at me. "Bitch."
"Okay, okay," I relented, frightenedly hurling crumbs in the opposite direction and speaking directly to the geese in English like a giant dork. The other goose in the pair lunged at me, and I threw a whole wad down the sidewalk. They were eating the bread faster than Sara and I could throw it. It really escalated quickly, though last time I checked I did not end up killing a man with a trident.
We were finally able to entice the geese to go another direction and were able to re-focus our attentions on luring Lancelot and Elaine (though both of the swans are male, one of them is forced to keep the name "Elaine..." sucks to be him) back toward the shore with the coveted moldly bread. Things were going quite swimmingly, and Sara even had one of the geese, let's just say for argument's sake it was Dude Elaine, eating out of her hand. That's when she turned around to get another piece of bread and about leaped out of her Cole Haans. Like some scene out of a really bad and not-at-all-scary horror movie, the geese were right. freaking. there, staring her in the face. That's right, the geese snuck up on us.
And that's the day we got mugged by geese.
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