"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."
Saturday, July 28, 2007
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.
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