Tuesday, 19 September 2006

Birthdays: It's Okay to be Selfish!

To be published in the Mississippi Weekender 9/22/06 - Following is the 'director's cut':

I just celebrated a birthday. It wasn't a landmark birthday, so the day wasn't overly special, but the weekend before? That was a party. Thanks to my girls for keeping it real. Thanks to my wonderful hubby for being so understanding of our girl-cult. If you're not careful, you could end up with four or five wives.

Through the years, I’ve come to believe that birthdays are the one day that I can stand proudly and say ‘it’s all about me’. It's about what I want, when I want it and where I want it. I get to eat what I want, drink what I want, watch what I want and behave just about any way I want. Me me me! It's easy to be indulged on your birthday, so why not take advantage of it?

I am going to share my knowledge with you, and tell you how you can be proud, demanding, and selfish on your birthday. And the beauty is you’ll do it all without getting anyone’s whities in a wad.

Be selfish the moment you wake up: “It’s my birthday! Sing to me!” With any luck, choirs of angels will sing the hallelujah chorus in honour of your birth. But really, you should just feel lucky if you have more than your cat and dog staring at you, wondering where their breakfast is.

Be selfish about your meals. When your family comes in to hug you and tell you happy birthday, suggest how nice it be to have a yummy breakfast. They won’t have any choice. How can you say ‘no, thanks – make it yourself’ to someone on their birthday? Could you live with the guilt? A few well-placed hints and you could have Eggs Benedict waiting for you when you step into the kitchen, as if the birthday fairy had placed it there herself.

Be selfish about your greetings. You should receive lots of calls with wonderful wishes for a happy day. Demand that every one of them sing to you. Yes, demand it. The embarrassment of your friends is well worth it. When they are done singing, hint that you’ve nothing to do at lunch, and you should be able to score a nice afternoon on a patio on Bridge Street. Never forget how lucky you are to have friends to spoil you at all.

Be selfish with your time. Don’t feel guilty if you don’t want to work on your birthday. I doubt even your boss would frown largely on a slightly lazy day from you once a year. If you get a scowl, just look up with a bright smile and say “I’m in such a good mood because it’s my birthday!” Any boss worth their salt will smile and walk away. Now, close the solitaire program and get back to work, this will only work once.

The only time you can’t get away with being selfish on your day has to do with gifts. If you get a gift, be thankful. Be effusive with your thanks. It really is the thought that counts, so don’t be a brat.

I believe that birthdays are not about the presents. What makes you feel more special; a nice gift, or the phone call from the friend you haven’t seen in two years that sings in the worst voice ever because you demanded the birthday song?

Remember, what ye reap ye also shall sow. Now that you have been taught these valuable birthday secrets, pass along the knowledge to someone you love. Make their next birthday one they won’t soon forget.

Monday, 18 September 2006

Happy Birthday to ME!

Saturday, September 18, 1965

US President - Lyndon B. Johnson
US Vice President - Hubert H. Humphrey

Top News Headlines This Week:
Sep 18 - Mickey Mantle Day at Yankee Stadium: Mantle play his 2,000th game
Sep 18 - Purple Mountain Observatory discovers asteroid #2380 Heilongjiang
Sep 18 - "Get Smart" premiers
Sep 18- Joyous bundle arrives in Nay household - A Star is Born!

1965 Academy Award Winners
Best Picture: The Sound Of Music, Directed By Robert Wise
Best Actor: Lee Marvin, in Cat Ballou
Best Actress: Julie Christie, in Darling

Top Songs for 1965
Help! by Beatles
Yesterday by Beatles
I Got You Babe by Sonny & Cher
You've Lost The Lovin' Feelin' by Righteous Brothers
Turn! Turn! Turn! by Byrds
Downtown by Petula Clark
Satisfaction by Rolling Stones
Mrs. Brown You've Got a Lovely Daughter by Herman's Hermits
I Can't Help Myself by Four Tops
This Diamond Ring by Gary Lewis & the Playboys 1965

Bread: $0.21/loaf
Milk: $1.05/gal
Eggs: $1.00/doz
Car: $2,350
Gas: $0.31/gal
House: $21,500
Stamp: $0.05/ea
Avg Income: $7,704/yr
Min Wage: $1.25/hr
DOW Avg: 969

People born on September 18
1905 - Greta Garbo Stockholm (Ninotchka, Grand Hotel, Camille)
1838 - Anton Mauve, painter/graphic artist/cousin of Vincent Van Gogh
1905 - Agnes De Mille NYC, choreographer (Oklahoma)
1905 - Claudette Colbert Paris, actress (Lily Chauchoin, Arise My Love)
1920 - Jack Warden Newark NJ, actor (NYPD, Crazy Like a Fox, Norby)
1928 - Adam Walacinski, composer
1946 - Alan "Bam" King, rocker
1933 - Robert Blake Nutley NJ, (Baretta, Little Rascals, Coast to Coast)
1940 - Frankie Avalon Phila, actor (Beach movies)/singer (Venus)
1964 - Holly Robinson Phila, actress (21 Jump Street)
1965- Joyce Kristine - Novelist, Columnist
1971 - Jada Pinkett, actress (Jason's Lyric, Menace II Society)

On TV in 1965
Gilligan's Island
Green Acres
The Ed Sullivan Show
The Twilight Zone
Alfred Hitchcock Presents
The Dick Van Dyke Show
Lost in Space
The Addams Family
Hogan's Heroes
Get Smart
I Dream of Jeannie
The Andy Griffith Show
The Flinstones
The Beverly Hillbillies
Hot New Toys in 1965
Barrel of Monkeys
Mystery Date
Screaming Mee-Mee Gun
Booby Trap
Super Ball
G.I. Joe
The Big Wheel
Green Ghost Game

Top Books in 1965
Shadow of a Bull by Maia Wojciechowska
The Autobiography of Malcolm X by Alex Haley and Malcolm X
In Cold Blood by Truman Capote

Sunday, 17 September 2006

This is Jordan Jeffrey. Isn't he beautiful? He's my nephew, barely a year old (July), and I really can't wait to meet him.

Coming Soon

  • Birthdays, It's Okay To be Selfish!
  • My Review of the Black Eyed Peas, Rihanna and Swollen Members concert (which could not be done if not for the generous birthday gift from Roxie)
  • Girls Night, the End of the Season
  • Anal Tear....A Very Special Love Story (A special request for the written version from my fellow WTFers)

Tuesday, 12 September 2006

A Crazy Week to Come

Well hello, Party People!

Saturday's party was a screaming good time. There were about 50 people, and the weather could've been warmer, but we all had a good time.

Our hosts cooked a hip of beef and had two kegs of beer and a live band. Yeah, that's a party. The best part was drinking too much rum and being brave enough to hook up my friend Muffin with a stud named Mark with the deep and dreamy eyes.

Sunday was a waste of alternating whines and moans because my liver was upset with me. I took a long walk in the sunshine and cringed when I received a message later that afternoon that our hosts of Saturday were ready to go again on Sunday and wanted our help to finish the keg. Yeegads!

Since I am on the lightning track to 41, call me a woos, but I can't handle this crap two days in a row anymore. I called Kim and begged off. It was a shame, really, because Kim and Dan are really cool people.

Maybe next year y'all can come!

So it's officially 6 more shopping days until my birthday. Peter's daughter is turning 17 tomorrow, my buddy Lil has a birthday on Friday, and we're all headed to the cottage on Saturday for more liver abuse, lung abuse and digestive system abuse. Vocal chord abuse from Karaoke is also likely.

Pray for me, my friends. This old gal needs all the strength she can get. It all starts again tomorrow night with the Black Eyed Peas!

I've no deep thoughts today, nothing to make you laugh.

Have sweet dreams, have a marvelous Wednesday, and think of five things that you can be happy about today. If you'd like to leave that list here, well that would be just dandy.


Thursday, 7 September 2006

The Magic of the Moon

What is it about the moon?

The romance, the magic light, the supernatural glow....it's powerful stuff. Last night, as I fell asleep, I smiled as I heard the pack of wolves in the woods behind us start their lonesome howling. It's a bit spooky sounding at first. They are far enough away that it is a distant cry, but even the crickets and frogs stop to listen. When we figured out it was our wolves, the romance of it hit me. I snuggled in a little tighter to my man and fell asleep thinking of the moon and its magic.

Let's take a walk in the moonlight. If the right person says it to you, your knees get weak at the prospect of a magical moonlit night. You'll walk in the glow, possible stop to sneak a look at a nocturnal critter or two. You'll link fingers and look at each other, and you won't believe how beautiful your date is. There's something about the night that makes you know it's time for the first kiss.

Would the walk be the same without the moon? Let's see...

You wish you knew what your date looked like. You wish you could see where you're going, wish you had a flashlight. You both laugh it off and stop near a tree. You're going in for that magical first kiss and get a clumsy mouth full of the tree trunk you thought he was leaning against. He's already face down in the grass because he thought you were just little bit more to the left. You'd both be able to laugh about it if you didn't have a face full of splinters and he didn't have a broken nose. Without the magic of the moon, there's no second date.

Can anyone tell me why a full moon turns a person into a werewolf? Did you know that some believe that Hollywood perpetuated the full-moon thing? Apparently real werewolves change voluntarily http://www.mythicalrealm.com/legends/werewolf.html. Why the moon if they can do it at their own whim? I would think it would be much more practical to change -- say, when the auditor shows up.

So I propose that we take the creepy away from Hollywood. Let's tell those "real" cannibalistic creatures that they are no longer allowed to use our magical moon as an excuse for their bad behaviour. Leave it to the creatures of nature. They know so much more than we give them credit for. Believe that the fireflies are really faeries sent to twitter across your path with faerie dust and good dreams for the night to come, and believe that you'll never need to know how to make a silver bullet out of grandma's silverware.

We'll never escape the natural effects of the moon. It seems it will always be an excuse for weird behaviour of most men I know. We have our lovely PMS, and they seem to get a little kooky around the full moon. But maybe that just means there's a little beast in all of our men. As if we didn't know that already. ER visits and arrests seem to be up on the full moon. The tides are ruled by the moon.

So what does it all mean?

Is our moon magic? Sure it is. There's a little bit of Swiss cheese up there for anyone who cares to believe it exists. That man is there, hanging out, writing down all our dreams as they float past him every night. There are magical moonlight walks, dances, kisses and incredible memories. The moon is mystical and wondrous and if we're lucky, it will keep shining for us for generations to come, spreading a little moon dust magic on the way.

The magic of the moon can only be felt in a quiet spot far from the city lights. The stars only come out in the country, where they know they will be appreciated. They only remove themselves from the canvas to take a back seat to the moon's magic.

Good night, Thursday.

Wednesday, 6 September 2006

Goodnight, Wednesday

Yep, It's almost midnight. I'm letting Steven Colbert tell me my bedtime stories as usual, because nothing is better (well, almost nothing) than getting a good belly laugh before bedtime.

So goodnight, Wednesday. Thanks for a decent day today. Birthday plans are solidified. I am one lucky chick. Another cottage night for the girls. You know, Roxie, Fluffy, Cutie, Muffin and Vanilla? Well, on September 16th we're headed up to Fluffy's cottage for a birthday celebration for moi. But which one is moi? My mom would probably know for sure.

Anyway - we'll all be hanging at a party Saturday, where sightings of the LC-GMD are expected. LC-GMD is a sight, folks - he is definitely a Weapon of mass destruction in his own right. I wonder if he would find that honorable. Probably. Anyway, fun starts at 3:30 and is expected to last into the wee hours, if you gathered any information at all from my previous post about Canadian parties.

Then Wednesday, as a birthday gift, Roxie is taking me to see The Black Eyed Peas! Yeah! Rihanna and Swollen Members are also playing. We plan to stand and dance the entire night. Peter is even going! I'm not sure he realizes what he's in for....(insert wicked laugh here).

And at last - to the cottage, for more over-indulgence. Remember, exaggeration is key, here. That way you'll never know what to believe.

Time to toddle off to bed. For once in a great full moon, my husband is in bed before me.

A last goodnight to my God, and a huge thank you for always knowing the right time to bring a blessing.

Goodnight, Wednesday!

Tuesday, 5 September 2006

End of Summer Party Season

Summer parties. Love them, love them, love them. Invitations are starting to spread like small-town gossip and soon the next several weekends will be booked with celebrations that symbolize our last-gasp-useless-effort at pretending summer isn’t about to show us her backside as she leaves us for the season.

Some of my favorite words to see are as follows: Dress warm, bring a chair, bring your own beverage. Bring a tent or trailer, be prepared to leave your keys. Band, dancing, roast corn, barbecued ribs, friends, laughter. Great memories and hazy story retellings for weeks afterwards are on the house. Lanark County, you know how to party. And I can’t wait to party with you.

Let’s decipher the invitation of a well-rounded Canadian party:

Dress warm: Warm means layers. Dressing in layers is an art. You can’t have too many, or you’ll look like you’ve been retaining water for most of your life. However, you have to wear enough to be warm (thus the invitation advisory), and yet, even seemingly more impossible, you have to make sure your most awesome party outfit is somewhere in the layers. You must be able to unearth something devastatingly sexy if, by chance, it’s warmer than expected or that hot guy you saw at last year’s party decides to notice you while you’re sober this year. Smart layering is also handy when you don’t know who’s on the guest list. Nothing says prepared party guest better than being able to quickly adapt a fashionable outfit to any party crowd. Please, there are no parties where it is appropriate to show your thong strap, your muffin tops or your boxer shorts, unless you have an engraved invite from Hugh himself.

Bring a chair: Not many hosts have enough chairs for their partying masses. Bringing your own chair ensures your comfort and guarantees a place to sit. There aren’t many strangers that will just park themselves in your chair. This, of course, will change in the wee hours when nobody recognizes their own furniture anymore. By that time, you’ll likely be sharing your chairs with your new best friend, a complete stranger who has nothing in common with you but a current love of all things rum and good it all makes you feel.

Bring your own beverage, tent or trailer and be prepared to leave your keys: This is responsible partying and hosting. Lanark County has so many blessed wide open spaces that most party venues have plenty of room to set up a mini hangover village. Nothing is better than not having to worry about figuring out how you’re getting home. No tent or trailer? Choose your ride (or date) wisely and you may end up with a designated driver and a place to crash for the night. Some may even offer reasonable rates on their multiple room tents. If you get desperate, there’s always one person who falls asleep on the path to the bathroom, under the kitchen table or in the barn with the cats. If you keep your eyes open, you’ll have a cozy tent all to yourself without packing so much as a sleeping bag.

Band and dancing: Remember that hot guy you’d hoped would notice you before you went beyond that sensible point this year? Well, make sure that you are not dancing like nobody’s watching. Nothing kills a party mood faster than a geek who doesn’t know when to stop wiggling like a worm on a hot frying pan and just stand still. And it’s not okay to be a groupie. Rum makes boys in the band look Bon Jovi hot. That’s not necessarily a good thing, especially when you realize you don’t like country music. Always appoint a designated friend to make sure your keep your bra.

Friends and laughter: A natural by-product of any well-hosted party. Be warned -- there will always be someone you run into after a good party. You’ll cock your head and search your brain. A fuzzy image appears, and suddenly you see yourself, head over the garbage can while a nice stranger holds your hair. You’ll both remember this at the same moment, and both of you will turn away with equal embarrassment. As you walk away, you mutter to yourself that you can’t wait for next year’s party. Maybe that hot guy will be there again, and maybe this time he won’t have to hold your hair.

Monday, 4 September 2006

Girls Night

Pillow Fights in our underwear. Breast comparisons.Makeovers and hairstyles. Dance Parties. My-Man-Has-The-Most-Faults Contests. Gossip Marathons. Jump Rope. Tea Parties. These are things that don’t happen on Girl’s Night. Sorry to disappoint you, guys.

It’s time someone told you men the truth. From all of us women who are lucky enough to find that one great guy that’s perfect for us, thank you, wonderful men, for being there, for supporting us, for loving us, and for being our best friends. We love you. But there’s one thing that’s missing from our relationships. One need that you will never be able to meet. Before you get your pride all twisted into machismo-hunter/gatherer-knots and start pounding on your manly chest, it’s not something you want to do. But just to be safe, I have to say it, for all of us…you will never be our girlfriends.

When you’ve finished your collective sigh of relief, or manly snort, or whatever you have to do to let us know that you already knew that, let me tell you why girlfriends are so important to us. Women are different from men. Wow. Profound, I know. Mars and Venus aside, it’s a simple reality.

You would think that’s all that needs to be said. But believe it or not, there are men and women out in this grand world of ours that don’t understand why it’s so important for us girls to connect with one another. There are even husbands who get downright angry when a girlie opportunity presents itself to their obviously completely indispensable wives. I know you’re all shaking your head at that. But it’s true. Sad but true.

See, most of us girls don’t try to be the buddy that understands how engines work. We don’t really care what the high score is on Xbox, and we only pretend to be interested when you show us how great your fantasy baseball team is doing. We don’t expect our guys to pretend that they care about how well the conditioner is working on our split ends, what celebrity couple’s marriage just took an anticipated nosedive, or how cute that kitten really is. And guess what? We women are pretty much okay with that! And please, I mean no offence to you cool women who know how to fix engines, or you men who actually use more than a bar of soap on your hair. We’re all different, and I would never presume to speak for everybody.

All this is to introduce my Canadian girls. One night a week, I hang out with some cool women. We take turns showing up in one another’s yards and do shady stuff. I hope you're ready, men, because this is where I will reveal the main purpose of Girls Night. Brace yourselves. Here's where you say "I know what she's gonna say. It is about underwear, I just know it is!"

What do we do on girls night? We enjoy one another’s company. Blink. Blink. What? That’s it? Boring, you say? Hardly!

We five women (who sometimes get three others to hang with us) pour a drink (or six) and become girls again, not worrying about the stuff we’ve had to stress about all day. We’re too busy laughing, making fun of each other, or dancing in the rain to pay attention to the ‘normalcy’ of life. We daydream, tell stories, and wonder aloud about how all of us came to live in Lanark County and managed to find each other to form this special group. And sometimes shady stuff happens in the midst of all these conversations. But it’s just girl stuff, boys. You know, periods, perms and estrogen. You wouldn’t be interested.

I plan on speaking of my girls often. But as any responsible story tell will let you know, here is my disclaimer: Any story I tell about Girls Night may be exaggerated. I just thought I’d throw that out there, you know…just in case. But equally, I guess I’d better tell you that our cast of characters may include Fluffy, Muffin, Vanilla, Cutie or Roxie. Yes, these are their real names. No, really. No name changing to protect the guilty here, nope, uh-uh, Occifer, sir.

So have I revealed all about Girls Night? Come on now, you know the saying. What happens on Girls Night… I will tell you this though. It never has anything to do with our underwear. Well, almost never.

There was this one time, when we liberated a certain piece of clothing from our bodies to decorate a cedar tree for the night. And then Roxie bought magic boobs in a box that defy gravity, but those are stories for another day. I’m still a little fuzzy on all the details, and the girls aren't finished with their depositions, I mean - uh, their diaries.

Ladies, if you can’t remember the last time you had a great time with your chicks, call them. Make a date. Laugh with them. You won’t regret it.

Sunday, 3 September 2006


Originally published 8/25/06 Mississippi Weekender

I love critters.

My dictionary of critters is almost all mammals, which definitely includes my husband, dog and kitten. Critters are not birds, spiders, or crickets, nor or they anything creepy-crawly, except for snakes. Snakes somehow fit into my critter kingdom. Critters are furry, possibly rodent-y, and will most likely eat something you don’t want them to (gardens and garbage), appear where you least expect them (snake slithering over your toes as you step outside) or take up habitation in a most undesirable place (your house, car or spare bedroom or office chair searching porn on the internet).

Now before you think that I’m some California chick that knows nothing about critter life, let me assure you that I am qualified to discuss this subject. I have camped, hiked, and prayed that a grizzly wouldn’t eat me as it sniffed me from the opposite side of a thin wall in a ghost town where I was camping. I’ve been close enough to tell you that grizzlies smell like garbage, sewer and wet dog all at the same time. But that’s a story for another day. Leave the grizzly experiences for the unfortunate, or, if you find yourself in a grizzly critter situation, pray that you run faster than your companions.

Critter life in Lanark County is fascinating no matter where I go. There’s my friend Roxane, who told me of the battle of the bats in her belfry…oh, I mean her attic, house, family room. The bats almost made her move out, but she got smart, raised the rent, called an expert and sent the bats packing. At least she had the mosquitoes in her living room conquered. But now she has this strange aversion to sunlight…update – two or three bats refuse to move out, and the – ahem, bat-man is a friend of the critters and refuses to help them rid their house of the vampireous critters, even though they’ve paid him about a thousand bucks to do just that….get rid of them…gotta love the critters.

Then there’s Jennifer, a dear friend who has taught me that nature is really na-chur, and even if you stretch a dead snake (that met its demise in her lawnmower) between two sticks to show your children the wonders of decomposition and critter dining habits, this na-chur thing should be appreciated. And she’s right. She points at every butterfly, goose and loon that passes near us, no matter where we are. Look! Na-chur! It’s one of the things that makes Jen, well – Jen, but in the adorably unaffected way she says it, I kind of see na-chur a little differently as well.
Where else can a person drive down a busy highway only to stop and let a mama bear and her two cubs cross? Where else does a wolf take up winter residence across the road from your house, making you wonder if you should take a silver bullet with you when you take the dog out for his constitutional, and yet make you hope you get to see him, just a glimpse, before running like a frightened sissy back into the safety of your house? And where else can you watch the deer eat your crab apples, or drive by and honk at a grazing moose?

I’m sure that others will say that they have better critter life where they live. But the truth is, from where I’ve lived, Lanark County has the best critters, even if they do haunt our belfries, make messes, provide nasty dining extravaganzas for other critters and way too often get in the way of our vehicles. We should feel honoured that they want to hang out with us at all.

And before you get mad at the next critter that tips your garbage cans, remember this. We're moving in to their land, they aren't moving in to ours.

Saturday, 2 September 2006

Reality Killed the Video Star

My guilty pleasure is reality television. It’s all MTV’s fault that I was unwillingly sucked in to this deep black vortex of voyeurism. And all because I hoped to catch a Jason Mraz video on that silly channel. Imagine that, hoping for a music video on MTV? What was I thinking?

Saturday. Bored. Doing my finger exercises on the remote. MTV has a Laguna Beach marathon. Not videos, but it looks interesting. Teenagers. Rich, good-looking teenagers and their life in a posh high school. So unlike my school days. And even though I grew up in California, it was worlds away from the stuff I'm watching. I can deal with the bad acting, but what’s this show about? Oh, wait…it’s reality!

Next thing I know, it’s 6 hours later and I'm wishing all the best for LC, thinking Jason is a scumbag for kissing his ex in front of Lauren, and wishing Kristin would just quit whining.

Yeesh! What just happened? Where did my day go? And now that they’ve all graduated from high school, how will I ever know how they’re all doing? Oh, whew! There’s a continuation called The Hills. That was close.

Um, yeah. There’s got to be a 12-step program for this.

I understand that not everyone has MTV, but the channel is just an example of the number of reality shows that have flooded our airwaves. I would have been happy waiting for the next instalment of The Bachelor, or America’s Next Top Model. When they aren’t on, I feel safe from my voyeuristic tendencies. Well, except for Hell’s Kitchen. I can’t help but admire a man who makes his money screaming at people in various ways how much they suck at cooking. And the chef wannabes take it without punching him, not even once! I'd be in prison if he were my boss, reality or not. Either that or I'd be a whiny, sniveling wreck that would make me want to commit suicide, believing all the nasty crap he'd say to me.

Oh, but I love watching him scream at other people.

My point is, you can’t change channels without encountering some sort of reality. And it’s not necessarily ‘quality’ reality…if there is such a thing. A&E seems to have the grittiest in reality television, with Dog, the Bounty Hunter (a redneck’s dream), The First 48 (a real-time murder investigation with bodies and everything), and Dallas Swat (go, boys, go!). And now there’s Gene Simmons, Family Jewels (did you know he's been happily unmarried to Shannon Tweed for more than 20 years and has two gorgeous children?). How's a girl to resist? Gene Simmons? Come on!

What's sadder - that there are so many, too many to choose from, to be tempted by? Or is it worse that we watch it? Or even worse, that people are willing to sell their lives to be filmed in every little thing they do? Is my life so boring that I have to watch someone elses?

The question is, how do we get beyond this reality driven world? Why are we so invested in The Amazing Race, Treasure Hunters, or Survivor? Why are all the networks channeling their creative energy (or lack thereof) in coming up with the next (cheap to produce) reality show? Is it because there are NO new, original and creative ideas to bring about a new, exciting program? Did all the good stuff end with Friends, NYPD Blue and The West Wing? Where did it start? Was it with the yummy Matthew McConnaughey’s Ed TV? Or was it Jim Carrey’s The Truman Show?

Folks, I’ll lead by example! I’ll avert my eyes! Turn off the television! Go for a walk in the country! Oh, wait. That tongue master Gene Simmons is going to give his daiughter a talk on the birds and bees after he takes her to a stripper casting show. There's no way I can miss it. I’ll stop watching this stuff after tonight. No…really.

Friday, 1 September 2006

Mistress, Thy Name Is Soccer!

I am bittersweet about the World Cup being over. Those were some of the best naps I’ve ever had.

A passion for soccer is not something that was put into my genetic coding. It’s a great sport, don’t get me wrong. Great exercise with crazy cool skills with the feet and such. That, I get. I’ve never seen another sport that makes the sing-along of team songs almost as important as the game. And the soccer riots? Now that’s passion.

But…where I have less than zero interest in the game, my husband’s passion for soccer is limitless. He is hungry for it always. He lives it and breathes it. He’s a dynamite coach with a true love of the game. He has jerseys and ahem…balls and whistles and clipboards and videos and books, and the phone calls and the emails, the board meetings…sigh. He even referees when he’s not coaching. He looks really cute in his little referee costume, - er uniform. I’m so proud of the dedication and the pride he takes in his volunteer job. If you see him, tell him I said hi and I miss him.

So my man loves soccer. I know all you other impassioned soccer people are wondering what the big deal is. The deal is, when you add soccer to an already demanding job or 4, there isn’t much time left for his other, most important volunteer job, and that’s me. We both volunteered. Volunteers are supposed to give of their time, talent and treasures, and give freely and joyfully. I have time, talents and treasures, and I’d share them with my man, if only he wasn’t sharing his talents with soccer.

I figure that if I want to remain number two in Peter’s life, then I’m going to have to compromise. I started doing a little research. I owe it to myself to have an informed opinion on why I don’t care for soccer. I turned on the television and land on a channel with a soccer game on in all its HD glory. I sat back to watch a few minutes and try to figure out what all the fuss was about. Wait a minute….who’s that hottie running all sweaty and masculine across the field? Oh, and that hottie, and that hottie….oh my. A name flashes across the screen. David Beckham. H-e-l-l-o there, Mister Beckham! I know that some call him Blech-ham, but hey, toss a beginner a bone, okay?

Upon further perusal of this game, I discover that there are several fit, yummy, glistening, heart-pounding-from-exertion men running around on that great big green field. And most of them seem to be on Team Italy. Too many to name, but I've had friends agree. There is wonderful eye-candy on those vast green fields.

Okay, maybe I judged this soccer thing too harshly. I press record, and I know my husband will be proud of me, taking an interest in his passion, finally. I’ll still act bored when I watch the games with him, but I’ll have a secret agenda….what team does Beckham play for, and can we watch his game? I know you’re all proud of my sacrifice. But hey, if you can’t beat them join them, right?