Go Dean

My pinot gris-swilling, 400-threat-count-sheet-needing, soaking-tub-loving, privacy hoarding self is going to stumble into the team van tomorrow morning (can you locate the team van in this picture?) at Oh Dark Thirty with Dean, Drew and the team manager, and we will begin to haul ourselves and approximately $30,000 worth of specialty bike equipment down to Carson, California to watch Dean and Norene and the rest of the Rubicon team kick ass at the National Track Cycling Championships.

People laugh when they say I'm riding down in the team van. I understand it has a pretty shady (read smelly) history. I'm sure it has seen things that I would rather not ever see without a cleansing frontal lobotomy. But I want to go. Dean is riding really fast, and barring any unforeseen hip fractures, should do well.

Even though my presence is not exactly an omen of success. Even though I would buy valium out of a grocery cart in front of a pawn shop right now, thinking about the 18-hour drive and subsequent freak-out festival that is watching velodrome cycling. (That would be me freaking out, not the riders. They are usually cool as cucumbers as they donate their skin to the surface of the track.) Oh, and the return 18-hour drive.

So wish Dean luck. And book me a massage.

Everybody Knows I'm Not a Big Fan of "Feelings"

No, not the song.

Actual feelings.

So why did I cry like Tammy Faye through the entire Barbara Walters Special about Steve Irwin?

Thank God no one was here to see that.

Nothing Good Can Come of an Open Bar.

Some impressions from a wedding:

• If you put a doggy flotation vest on your wedding registry, be prepared to suffer the consequences long-term.
• If you plan to wear a long, filmy veil, you might think twice about an outdoor venue in a very windy part of town. Although it makes a cute moment when your dad has to fetch your veil out of a nearby tree.
• You get extra wedding points if your names sound cute together.
• Bicycle racers tend to stretch the bounds of wedding fashion close to, but not past, the breaking point. Although what is allowed of bicycle racers (retro martini-age gear including white shoes and belt) should not be attempted by members of the General Public.
• Despite what you may think, you can get a brew pub, which makes highly regarded artisan beers, to serve Bud Light to your guests.
• Wedding bands are a musical sub-set that should be admired much more than they are. First, they play soft Norah Jones tunes while everybody ignores them and eats their little wedding dinners. Then they try to get everybody interested with some catchy covers of Neil Diamond and Elvis while everybody ignores them some more. Then, after the speeches and the cake and the open bar and the couple's first dance, they let loose with some Tommy Tutone (867-5309) and everybody crowds them on the dance floor and steps on their cords. And they smile and sing pretty much any genre you can throw at them.
• Speaking of the wedding singers, whenever I hear Van Morrison (Moondance), I always think of every Grammy speech I heard in the 80's, because it was cool to thank him for being such a "huge influence" on them, even though none of them sounded anything like him.
• I like to dance. Drew does not. This means that once every two years or so, if he gets caught with me at a function with an open bar and some dancing, he is forced to dance with me, and I return the favor by not just leading, but gripping him so tightly that he has no other option than to do what I am doing. Which is not strictly a "dance," like the samba or the foxtrot, but more like whatever the music is requiring me to do. Kind of like forced interpretive dance, with only one of us knowing the steps. It's my method, and it works for me. He's good natured about it, as long as he can keep it down to once every two years or so.
• Dean is ready for nationals. I can tell because he looked like he was smuggling trout in the utility pockets of his trousers, even though his trousers didn't technically have utility pockets. (Large thighs. He's a sprinter. On the track. The bicycle track. The round one. Well, oval. Is the joke dead yet? Ah well. It wasn't very healthy to begin with.)

Correction

A little clarification after remembering this thing once (and possibly reporting it elsewhere)...

Okay, Sally and I liked Nancy Drew enough to have once attempted to write our own Nancy Drew mystery after noticing what may have been blood on a tree stump (although it may have also been berry juice). We entitled it "The Bloody Stump."

We found nothing amusing about that title.

Some Kid Stuff

Things I was not into as a kid (in no particular chronological order):

• Those girly patty-cake games. Please. I was reminded of these by one of my favorite bloggers, who seems to have enjoyed them. I was bored crazy after about 10 seconds, and could never get my patty-cake partner to go faster, or change to a crazy samba beat.
• Thrill seeking. Some things never change.
• Nancy Drew. Come on. She was a major Nancy.
• That girl who went down the rabbit hole. Who was she? Alice. Yeah. I didn’t buy that whole scene.
• Swimming. My brother and sister were great swimmers. I couldn’t see crap without my glasses, and felt completely out of control in swim class. Plus one of my teachers caught me trying to sneak into class without taking a (freezing cold) shower first and made an example of me to the rest of the class. That sort of treatment just exacerbates my personality quirks, if you know what I mean.
• Tether ball. Fabulously popular in the grade schools I attended. I would have loved playing it if I had been any good at it. Ditto for kick ball and baseball. Ball games were never my forte. Balls just never went where I thought they should have.
• Dodge ball. Who invented that, anyway? A guy for sure. (Fo sho.) I was great at dodging balls, which meant that I was always the last one left on the floor. Unfortunately, I could barely throw a ball past the center line of the gym, let alone throw hard enough to get somebody out. That left me out on the floor by myself, dodging, dipping, ducking, diving, and dodging, while the rest of my team (who obviously had picked me last) sat on the sidelines, begging me to just take one in the gut so they could get back up and play another game. It made for some awkward standoffs.
  

Things I liked when I was a kid.

• Our family’s wiener dog, Fritzy.
• My friend Sally’s gerbil, Tilly. I always wanted to take her out and play with her, but that was not allowed. Dammit, and damn their fascist rules.
• Dancing to the Monkees on Sally’s mom and dad’s stereo. Groovy. When we got tired of the Monkees (does one ever really get tired of the Monkees?), we would listen to her parents’ Roger Miller albums (“Trailers for sale or rent, roooooms to let, fifty cents…”).
• Watching the Monkees on TV. How many times over the years did Sally and I reenact the opening walking-funny scene, or the running up to the waves and running away scene? TV magic, and funny every time when you are 6.
• Playing the maracas in grade school music class when the teacher passed around the big box of sticks, tambourines and other, lamer percussion instruments. I remember once being so into my maraca music that I hadn't noticed that the rest of the class had quit playing some time ago and were all looking at me.
• The Boy’s Adventure Series by Willard Price. Books like Elephant Adventure, South Sea Adventure, and my favorite, Amazon Adventure. I had the baby hots for Hal, one of the adventuring brothers. After reading Volcano Adventure, I decided to become a volcanologist. What happened to that dream? Probably something to do with the thrill seeking issue…
• Going to the mom & pop store up the road for candy. Duh.
• Finger painting. What’s not to like? Messy. Arty. You can’t make a bad finger painting.
• Wile E. Coyote and that crazy road runner.
• A. A. Milne. NOT the Disney version. The original books by A. A. Milne were funny, breezy, and ever so British. And I did tend to identify with a certain mild mannered and stuttery Very Small Animal, who always had one eye open for Heffalumps.
• The comic strip Tumbleweeds. Look it up. Very funny, if not so politically correct anymore.
• Leg warmers. They were like an advertisement that you were a serious dancer, like in Flashdance. I hear they're coming back. Awesome!
• Spelling Bees, at which I kicked ass. In your face, dodgeball players!

Post-Dental Bulletin

This one's for you, Drew:

It turns out that my teeth are fine, but those headaches I've been having? Probably my hideously misshapen temporal mandibular joint, which may or may not need to be taken out and replaced with a baboon joint, or maybe Tupperware. However, he can't really tell me which until he fits me with this tooth-holder thing which I would wear at night to keep me from grinding them, which he says I am doing, which I had no idea I was doing, and of which I am a tad skeptical. He says he can tell from the shape of my tongue. So, obviously my tongue is also repulsively misshapen. He says just let him know when I am ready (to plunk down a grand or so) and he will get going on that mouthpiece. Now, I guess I sit around and ponder my revolting tongue until my head hurts and go back to beg him to relieve me of my subhuman jaw.

What's that new teeth cleaning machine they have? Is that supposed to double as a dog whistle? My ears are still ringing. It looks like a regular pick-style implement crossed with a water-pic, only attached to a wire that goes to a machine that makes it scream. I asked "Heather" about it. She said something like, "Well, there are these two discs inside here (pointing to the handle) that rub against each other and make an ultra-sonic sound (hey, not that ultra) that make the cell walls of bacteria explode. And the vibrations help me get the tartar off your teeth. But it gets really hot so that's why this water keeps it wet (yeah, and keeps me drowning)."

Hows that, Drew? Angry enough for ya?

BONUS: Your prayer for the day, courtesy of me stealing it from Tim Dorsey's book Torpedo Juice:

Almighty Father, please stop making jerks. Amen.

Bulletin

I'm going to the dentist this afternoon. I actually called and made the appointment myself because Drew is afraid of the dentist. Actually its more of an anger thing. But its not good grammar to say Drew is angry of the dentist.

So if you need to go to the dentist, I can call for you. I totally nailed it.

When did this become a pathetic booster blog?

A point is a point, and a win is a win. In your face Oklahoma!

Here are two Ducks enjoying some Esprit de Corps.

That's all for today. My ears itch, My head hurts, I'm sleepy, I'm fighting off a bug, and I have a flamingo to paint.

I don't even care that much about a certain Mrs. Alma Mater.

I don't even like to sit out in the rain and watch them play (that's why God gave us television). But that east coast beeyotch has made my red-hot Celtic blood all boily.

So eat this, baby. And pray (like this sad, sad Fresno State lad) that your Sooners won't bite it too badly on Saturday.

(Okay, Ducks, don't make me look stupid.)

(I'm going to regret this.)

Watch This.

Is anybody listening?

If I had anything interesting to say, don't you think I would say it?

I got nothing.

One note: if I run amok, don't expect to bring me down with some wimpy taser.

I Was the Victim of a Random Act of Kindness

...which completely ruined my road rage buzz.

Vancouver Hearts NY

As the wife of a fire captain, it was my duty today to go to a memorial to the fallen public safety personnel and innocent victims of New York and D.C. this day (which also happens to also be our wedding anniversary) here in Vancouver (Washington, not B.C).

It was touching (a local police officer with a wonderful voice singing the National Anthem, a friend playing bagpipes, seeing all the faces of Vancouver’s finest and bravest) and infuriating (constant conflation of 9/11 and the current fiasco in Iraq).

My favorite part was in the closing prayer by a local pastor, who first asked God to bless this country, which our forefathers set up to be just like He liked it, and then invoked Him to flush out the enemy for us so that we might kill them as He intended.

So evildoers, you are on notice.

Vancouver “hearts” NY and DC, and our thoughts (both the righties and the lefties) are with you.

Dissed Again By East Coasters With No Red-Hot West Coast Flair

Michigan Wolverines, a paragon of football chic? University of Oregon the exact opposite? Is everybody taking crazy pills?

Obviously, a certain fashionella loitering about in New York for fashion week needed a few more cocktail galas, or orgies, or limbo dance parties, or whatever they do to pass the time between fashion shows where they seem to measure the fashionesque-ness of any "line" by how much they can make anorexic 15-year-olds look ugly and misshapen, because a certain Nancy Armour of the Associated Press, having 10 minutes or so to spare, has taken it upon herself to rate college football uniforms. (You are free to enter that sentence in the writing competition of your choosing.)

That she has chosen to rate the most fashion-forward, Nike (tm) Brand designed team as the worst of the worst just shows how topsy-turvy her world has become.

The Michigan Wolverines. This is what she deems the epitome of gridiron style. Maybe back when people still used words like "gridiron." It's 2006, fashion weekers! And this is old school. It almost looks like its made out of wool, or "gabardine," or "discarded flour sacks." What they used to call "dry goods" at Ye Olde Countrye Store. And their helmets aren't even shiny. Actually, they look a lot like our old high school football uniforms. How precious. Now hold on to your eyeballs.
THIS is what a football uniform circa 2006 should look like. What, you can't see him clearly? That's because he's so friggin' fast. Then check this one out.

That's some fashion happening right there. That's taking some chances. Throwing some curves. Rocking the stadium. And you get the impression that he might have done some blocking drills against a Ram truck and won.

Put that in your catwalk and smoke it (because I hear smoking dulls the appetite, and they certainly won't let you in to the most important Fashion Week shows with those extra ounces you've packed on).

If You're Going to Live With Me, You Will Have to Look Cute.

If Scotty and Annie were rock stars, this would be their CD cover photo.

Yeah, I'm A Duck.

NOTICE: One of my favorite bloggers is an east coaster with a thing for the Red Sox. Or some socks. Whenever she starts blathering on about baseball, I skip down to the next post, because I am not a baseball fan. So if you are not a football fan, or a Duck, I won't feel bad if you just skip down to the next post. I can relate.

Today I watched the opening game of the Nike (tm) Brand Oregon Ducks 2006 football season.

It was a corker. They came out in all their fashionableness and spanked the Stanford Cardinal (Really. Don't call them Cardinals. They get all huffy. They are a color. Or one bird. Although their mascot seems to be a tree. Whatevs.)

The announcers said that something like 50 of Stanford's players have a grade point average of 3.0 or better. That's sweet, but they're bad at football.

The Oregon Ducks probably don't have such good grade point averages, but I bet they have longer rap sheets.

The Oregon defense is all up-in-your-face this year. Literally. Great football if you like yellow flags. I especially enjoyed the guy who all devil-may-carishly tackled a guy by happily yanking on his face mask until he crumpled to the ground.

Jonathan Stewart and (no kidding) Jeremiah Johnson (What, aren't you old enough to remember Jeremiah Johnson, the hairy, leather-covered mountain man? The MacGyver of the woods? What, you don't know who MacGyver is? Get out.) are two running backs who are going to be very fun to watch this year (if Stewart's girly ankles hold up).

And Keith Oldperson has retired! Whew! No more "boy howdys" or "cats pajamas" or whatever other bizarre old-personism he used to throw in for "color". Besides, he didn't love the Ducks enough.

I read in the paper today that Autzen Stadium now has a "jerk line," so if there's a loud, obnoxious drunk in the row above you, spilling his beer on you and calling you a bad word, you can call this number and have the security goons escort him out.

Lee, I heard about you. You're on notice.