Why My Husband Won't Take Me To Another Football Game

What is it about sporting events that brings out such odd behavior in the male of the species? T. and I went to a Colorado Crush arena football game, and I spent the entire time studying the fanatical behavior in the stands around me.

A few seats behind me was "the ref obviously needs a little guidance" man - who spoke in strange fragmented sentences that always began with the number printed on the ref's shirt - followed by a series of instructions . . . some of them anatomically impossible. After a bad call in the first quarter, the sentences sounded something like: "23. Hey! 23! What the @*!%^ was that? Pull your head out of your !@#$. Call a &@#^@ personal foul. Remember you OWE us ONE."

I stared straight ahead, doing my best to ignore the obscenities streaming from behind me. Besides, I was far more interested in the 12 year old girl sitting in front of me - patiently pulling bubblegum out of a hair barrette. Not that the barrette was in her hair. She had apparently removed the barrette for the precise purpose of stuffing it full of bubblegum so that she could spend the next fifteen minutes pulling bubblegum off of it. At which point she returned the gum to her mouth so the process could begin again.

I started giggling. T. looked at me. I whispered in his ear, and he looked down . . . and started gagging. The women seated to my right shot me a dirty look, probably thinking I'd had one too many beers (I only had one bottle of water the whole night, Honest!).

During the second quarter, I volunteered to go for snacks - and ended up in line behind a man who was in deep and personal communication with the TV over the Dippin' Dots stand. "Come on," he whispered, so softly he was almost just mouthing the words. "Come on, come on, come on." I looked up at the TV. A referee was standing on the field, doing absolutely nothing. I looked at Communion Boy. He raised his arms and made a rolling motion, circling his hands around each other. "Come on," he mouthed, pausing the motion and nodding at the TV encouragingly. At last, the referee moved, repeating the rolling motion Communion Boy had just been making. "YES!" screamed Communion Boy, throwing his arms in the air. And I guarantee you that Communion Boy probably thought the ref wouldn't have made that particular call without the last two minutes of patient guidance.

But the "Fanatical Weirdness" prize must go to a duo of boys whom I dubbed "Lumberjack Tim" and "Slappy." Lumberjack Tim probably weighed over 300 pounds, stood at least 6' 7", and was wearing an honest to goodness flannel sleeveless wife-beater shirt. His main function at the event seemed to be keeping his friend Slappy from doing anything stupid, which occupied most of Lumberjack Tim's time and attention. When Slappy was a little too rambunctious, Lumberjack Tim would slap him upside the head or apply a judicious elbow to Slappy's rib-cage.

Touchdown! Lumberjack Tim overbalanced while trying to catch an airborne T-shirt (the cheerleaders throw them into the crowds at every touchdown), and nearly toppled over backwards onto a very nervous little old lady, who was watching her impending doom with a look that acutely said "Oh, please . . . don't let the newspapers report how I died."

Slappy stood up, wildly swinging his fists, a wad of chew the size of a baseball stuck in his right cheek, and proceeded to hump the air. I repeat. Hump the air. For a good 30 seconds.

I dissolved into gales of laughter. T. was giving me funny looks, so I waved in Slappy's general direction. T.'s skeptical look turned to one of absolute horror. "I can smell that wad of chew from over here!"

Touchdown! Apparently, Slappy didn't feel he had displayed enough attractive features of his masculinity . . . so he began diligently picking his nose. I poked T. in the arm to point out Slappy's new behavior and take bets on whether Slappy would ever meet a girl who would allow him to continue his genetic line. Much to my surprise, T. looked at my finger, and then at me, his blue eyes wide with shock. "Ow," he said. "Thanks a lot."

This coming from a man who sets his own broken fingers and toes. I looked down at his arm. . . and saw the severe sunburn he picked up at the wedding. "Sorry," I said.

"Why don't you dig in a little deeper next time," T. said facetiously. "Maybe twist the nail around for better effect?" I finally lost it, and laughed until my side hurt. The little old lady who had been spared being crushed by Lumberjack Tim pursed her lips with disapproval and decided I was drunk (I wonder what stories she told about me when she got home . . . ). As we left, I was laughing so hard, I couldn't even walk straight.

Now, tell me again - why in the world does my mother think I'm strange for dressing up twice a year for the Renaissance Festival . . . but doesn't bat an eye at individuals who choose to dip themselves in vats of orange and blue paint, and show up to nationally televised sporting events wearing nothing but a barrel?

Am I wrong here?

Famous Last Words

Apparently Priestess of Nothing and I have more in common than I thought . . .

Your Famous Last Words Will Be:

"I can pass this guy."

What Will Your Famous Last Words Be?

A Mountain Wedding a/k/a I'm Not Afraid of Flying Ants

I'm not afraid of flying ants. Even when they are half an inch long . . . and outnumber me 30 to 1.

I am happy to announce that my friend S. is now happily married! Sometime around mid-July her brain should emerge from its protective cocoon of sheer relief (no more planning - YAY!) and will transform into some form of happiness. The wedding was beautiful, the location was perfect, and even the local wildlife stopped in for the ceremony. While we passed a book around the circle (S. chose to be married by her family and friends instead of an officiant - perfectly legal in Colorado) a large orange monarch butterfly dropped in and flitted from bouquet to bouquet.

No one flubbed their lines. No one fainted. No one forgot the rings. A last minute "emergency check" conducted right before the ceremony proved that both Bride and Groom were still present and willing to be married.

But as every wedding must have a glitch . . .

The night prior to the wedding was the rehearsal dinner, which implies a rehearsal . . . and then a dinner. The rehearsal was quick and relatively painless . . . but afterwards, it became apparent that one set of critical guests had not arrived. The folks who were catering the dinner (and their presumed foodstuffs) were missing - and these guests were not the kind of people who would let S. down - unless their car broke down or one of them required emergency medical attention.

Mountain weddings are wonderful locations for scenic privacy . . . and terrible for cell phone reception. We sent several "rescue parties" down the mountain in an attempt to locate even a weak signal . . . to no avail. As no one knew which route the caterers were coming by, further search parties would be a waste of time.

When in doubt, order pizza.

At long last, a budget rental U-Haul wound its way up the mountain. It turned out that J. and J.'s (the food caterers) truck broke down sometime around 3:00 p.m. - at which point Plan A was to get it hauled to a nearby mechanic and fixed. Once the car was pronounced dead on arrival, Plan B was to rent another truck to haul the trailer full of supplies for catering a 3-day mountain wedding. For liability reasons, no one would allow them to rent a truck for towing purposes - so, Plan C was locating a U-Haul and transferring all the goods from one trailer into another. And they still beat the pizza (marginally). Let's hear it for persistence!

Other than that, it seemed to be a perfect weekend. Perfect weather. Perfect location. Let's hope we got picture perfect photos (to be posted at a later date, if S. is kind enough to provide me with copies).

Heck, we even got cake!

And after two days of flicking monster flying ants off of picnic tables, items of food, tents, and random people . . . I was almost used to the darn things.

Almost.

For the Love of a Language

My first week at college, one of the other students invited me to watch some anime. "Anime?" I said. "What's anime?"
"Japanese cartoons," he said.

Great. Just great. I really had no desire to sit in a dark room with a bunch of strange boys (strange in that I didn't know them - not strange as in hentai/pervert) watching cartoons . . . but, then again, my mother had left me with the helpful piece of advice that I should accept any invitation that was extended during my first week at college - as a great way to try new things and meet new people.

Wow. Getting hooked on drugs would have been cheaper. I am willing to bet I have over $5,000 in anime videos . . . on a college kid budget, nonetheless.

Friendships were made (with the boys). Love blossomed (anime, anime, anime) - and the next person who says "So, uh . . . you mean, like, you watch Dragon Ball Z and Sailor Moon?" is going to get slapped so hard that the mere echo will stop birds in full flight.

The natural progression for this obsession was a fervent desire to learn Japanese. Honestly, I tried to run away. One of the many male acquaintances I had made - we'll call him "Toony" - since that used to be his Internet call sign, turned to me one evening and said "Hey, do you want to take Japanese?"
"Are you crazy?" I said. "That's one of the most difficult languages in the world. Of course I don't want to take Japanese!"
Toony thought about it for a few minutes.
"I'll do it if you'll do it," he said.
And so we ended up in three years of Japanese - with a lot of harried business majors, diplomats in training, and folks with military careers - ALL of whom looked at us as though Toony sprouted a second head - or I suddenly developed a figure similar to that of every busty anime heroine . . . take your choice - when they found out we weren't taking Japanese for the money, the challenge, or the doors it would open on a very long and involved career path . . .
We were taking Japanese for the sheer love of the language . . . to learn how to say things like "the cat is in the box" or "may I have fries with that?"

I miss my Japanese.

Not surprisingly, after graduation I had no one to practice with . . . but now a few ladies in my writer's group are considering whether they potentially want to study Japanese (which seems like a sentence with an extra piece . . . but, trust me - if you want to study Japanese you first consider whether you can devote the time and effort - and the sheer amount of brain cells to the task - before you even begin to debate about the language itself). The spoken is cake. It's the written that twists your brain into tiny pretzels. It's like training your mind to recognize a lollipop as being pronounced "ah."

Then again, what other college level class gives you 5 credits and requires that you practice drawing small pictures every night? I haven't had that much fun since, well, Kindergarten.
I think it is time to pull out the dictionaries (all five of them) and purchase some new learning materials off of Amazon.

After all, if I can master "the cat is in the box" (Hako no naka ni neko ga iimasu) and order a hamburger and fries . . . I can darn well revive most of the language and return to my anime habit.

Konnichi wa! or Kon nichi wa! or Konnichiwa! . . . *@#$ phonetic translations . . .

Words of Encouragement

One of my co-workers read an email describing my trip to Mexico, and she told me that I ought to be a writer.

If I had $2 for every time someone told me that . . . I would be . . . um . . . a writer.

Wow.

Return from Obscurity

Though I must admit . . . in order to return from obscurity, one usually has to have a following. Thus the reason I choose to ignore the finer detail of semantics.

April and May consisted of a series of events, with me madly scrambling from one to the next. Birthday parties, holidays, bridal showers, car sales (farewell my 'Roo . . . ), a trip to Mexico, and a Celtic Woman concert . . . which was cancelled due to rain. Of course they couldn't cancel the show at 4:00 or 5:00 in the afternoon. They had to wait until a half hour before showtime (7:30) when everyone had already packed their cars full of rain gear and slogged their way through rivers of red mud to the ampitheatre. The invitation even said "rain or shine, the show must go on. Bring warm clothing and a poncho." LIARS!

On the bright side, T. and I enjoyed a lovely walk around Redrocks in the rain.

Life happens. My little one continues to grow. He's making up his own stories now.

A: [Crouched over and looking intently at a stepping stone.] Look, mommy. There's an ant!
Me: I see the ant. What's he doing?
A: He's looking for the rolly-polly.
Me: Why is he looking for the rolly-polly?
A: Because he wants to say: "Hey, Dude. Are you okay?"

The rest of life continues as it always has . . . though my trip to Mexico reinforced the feeling that I have allowed too many things to complicate my life . . . and retrieving my brain from the land of margaritas and warm beaches has not been an easy task (pictures coming soon!).

I don't know which I would rather have: an "easy button" or the magical green bracelet the resort gave us, which allowed access to free drinks and food at any time of day.

Choices. Choices.