As the holiday season approaches, each of us steels ourselves for the one thing that causes the most stress, ups the violence statistics, and acts as a trigger for chronic depression episodes – yes, I mean Christmas newsletters.
These seemingly innocuous missives started off innocently enough – little notes to catch you up with friends and family far and near. They have turned into E!News biographies on the unbelievable, incredible, completely unsubstantiated and improbable conquests and successes to rival that of Donald Trump, Bono, Angelina Jolie, and Bill Gates.
We once received a newsletter that was two full pages, single-spaced, 8-point typestyle that regaled us of a litany of activities that would take two lifetimes to complete, much less 12 months since the last bulletin. I didn’t leave the house for three days.
I try to be happy for others and their accomplishments, really I do; but I find myself looking for chinks in the armor. Their kid’s a straight-A student? I’ll bet he doesn’t have any friends. They’ve travelled to Europe? Probably picked up a bug that hasn’t surfaced yet. Ran a half-marathon? Oh, too lazy for a full marathon? Loser!
But in the spirit of the season, I’m going to try to take the high road and express my joy at my friends’ good fortune – right after I untangle these $%^*%^&% Christmas lights!
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Female Football
I know this is likely to send the women’s movement back to pre-suffrage status, but risking all that, I’m just going to say it: I do not like listening to a woman football commentator.
I don’t know if I am secretly jealous that this woman is an insider with access to such privileged information such as “I just spoke with Brett Favre, and he said it is vital that the Vikings get off to a fast start in this game,” or the fact that, I don’t know, I simply do not believe she knows anything at all about football.
Don’t get me wrong, I believe there are women out there that truly enjoy the strategy of football and follow it as eagerly as a Labrador retriever waiting for a doggie biscuit. But these women do not look like the one on the TV talking to me right now. Take that camera and pan the spectators. That’s what a woman looks like who really follows football. She looks a lot like her husband or boyfriend who follows football. A bit husky, dressed sensibly for the weather, drinking a beer with team colors painted somewhere on her face or body.
She does not look like the perfectly coiffed, Burberry clad Barbie wannabe speaking so authoritatively from the field. Oh, she may have access to the players, but trust me honey, the only football plays they are talking to her about are after the final buzzer has sounded, if you know what I mean.
So I say, put these true female fans on the field and let them tell me about the game. At least when they are talking, I would (for a short time at least) be able to get the attention of my own husband.
I don’t know if I am secretly jealous that this woman is an insider with access to such privileged information such as “I just spoke with Brett Favre, and he said it is vital that the Vikings get off to a fast start in this game,” or the fact that, I don’t know, I simply do not believe she knows anything at all about football.
Don’t get me wrong, I believe there are women out there that truly enjoy the strategy of football and follow it as eagerly as a Labrador retriever waiting for a doggie biscuit. But these women do not look like the one on the TV talking to me right now. Take that camera and pan the spectators. That’s what a woman looks like who really follows football. She looks a lot like her husband or boyfriend who follows football. A bit husky, dressed sensibly for the weather, drinking a beer with team colors painted somewhere on her face or body.
She does not look like the perfectly coiffed, Burberry clad Barbie wannabe speaking so authoritatively from the field. Oh, she may have access to the players, but trust me honey, the only football plays they are talking to her about are after the final buzzer has sounded, if you know what I mean.
So I say, put these true female fans on the field and let them tell me about the game. At least when they are talking, I would (for a short time at least) be able to get the attention of my own husband.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Alternate Lifestyle
"Whirlwind romance" is not exactly the way I would characterize my husband's courting style prior to our getting married. Glaciers, tectonic plates, and evolution all whizzed by as my husband ruminated on whether I was the "one."
We dated for 7 years - which I believe is the approximate time it takes for the entire cell structure and all the layers of the body's skin to completely regenerate itself. This means that by the time he decided I was the "one," I was actually the "two."
Now, I'm a patient gal, but about 3 or 4 years into this I queried my then-boyfriend stating, "You know, honey, I'm in no rush to get married or anything but I just would like to know our relationship is moving toward marriage. I want to be sure you're not interested in some alternate lifestyle."
He responded innocently, "No sweetie, I'm not interested in an alternate lifestyle...'Single' is just fine with me!"
What finally got him to pop the question? His mother asked him if he was ever going to marry me. His reply? "Gee, Mom, I didn't even know you liked her!"
I had a ring the next week.
But my long suffering endurance has paid off. This year, when we celebrate our 23rd anniversary, I'll be lobbying for the traditional 30th wedding anniversary gift which happens to be pearls. And a trip to Hawaii. You know why?
I consider those seven long years - time served.
We dated for 7 years - which I believe is the approximate time it takes for the entire cell structure and all the layers of the body's skin to completely regenerate itself. This means that by the time he decided I was the "one," I was actually the "two."
Now, I'm a patient gal, but about 3 or 4 years into this I queried my then-boyfriend stating, "You know, honey, I'm in no rush to get married or anything but I just would like to know our relationship is moving toward marriage. I want to be sure you're not interested in some alternate lifestyle."
He responded innocently, "No sweetie, I'm not interested in an alternate lifestyle...'Single' is just fine with me!"
What finally got him to pop the question? His mother asked him if he was ever going to marry me. His reply? "Gee, Mom, I didn't even know you liked her!"
I had a ring the next week.
But my long suffering endurance has paid off. This year, when we celebrate our 23rd anniversary, I'll be lobbying for the traditional 30th wedding anniversary gift which happens to be pearls. And a trip to Hawaii. You know why?
I consider those seven long years - time served.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Quilt Bingos
One of my favorite small-town country pursuits is going to quilt bingos. These are bingo games, frequently held outdoors at town or church picnics, in which one can win a beautiful, hand-made quilt. Anyway, ignoring the fact that I've probably spent enough on quilt bingo games to invest in my own retail quilt shop, it's still my dream to actually win one.
It is, however, the bane of my bingo existence to have to deal with other bingo players. They are frustrating for the following reasons:
1. They are there. This greatly reduces my chances of actually winning a quilt.
2. When they do win, they are not nearly as excited, appreciative, or happy as I would be were I ever to win. This greatly diminishes the entire bingo experience.
If you have ever been to one of these games, you too would notice that there are several people there. People who also have bingo cards with actual numbers on them which could be called. This, of course, affects my winning percentage dramatically.
Frustratingly, I have sat into the chilly, wee hours of the morning on hard planks of plywood with a handful of visually and hearing-impaired octogenarians who seem to be sleeping, when, just as I manage to cover two numbers in a row, one frail, 72-pound, 97-year-old granny murmurs, "bingo."
Then, as she is brought her awe-inspired, hand-crafted, hand-stitched, hand-crocheted, appliqued piece of Americana artwork, she yawns, rolls her eyes and says, "Gee, I just sat down with only one card, wasn't really paying attention, didn't hear three of the numbers called, and have five of these at home that I'm not even using."
While, I, on the other hand, have the maximum amount of allotted cards filled with every conceivable algorithmic combination of numbers, listened intently to every mumbled number called, played since the inaugural game, and would do anything to seize that blasted quilt from her bony hands (honestly, I think I could take her).
Well, I'm moving on to the only logical course of action. I'm going to abandon this time-wasting obsession of mine, and get on with my life, pursuing an activity with much better odds. I'm buying lottery tickets, and then with the winnings, I'll buy a book on how to win at bingo.
It is, however, the bane of my bingo existence to have to deal with other bingo players. They are frustrating for the following reasons:
1. They are there. This greatly reduces my chances of actually winning a quilt.
2. When they do win, they are not nearly as excited, appreciative, or happy as I would be were I ever to win. This greatly diminishes the entire bingo experience.
If you have ever been to one of these games, you too would notice that there are several people there. People who also have bingo cards with actual numbers on them which could be called. This, of course, affects my winning percentage dramatically.
Frustratingly, I have sat into the chilly, wee hours of the morning on hard planks of plywood with a handful of visually and hearing-impaired octogenarians who seem to be sleeping, when, just as I manage to cover two numbers in a row, one frail, 72-pound, 97-year-old granny murmurs, "bingo."
Then, as she is brought her awe-inspired, hand-crafted, hand-stitched, hand-crocheted, appliqued piece of Americana artwork, she yawns, rolls her eyes and says, "Gee, I just sat down with only one card, wasn't really paying attention, didn't hear three of the numbers called, and have five of these at home that I'm not even using."
While, I, on the other hand, have the maximum amount of allotted cards filled with every conceivable algorithmic combination of numbers, listened intently to every mumbled number called, played since the inaugural game, and would do anything to seize that blasted quilt from her bony hands (honestly, I think I could take her).
Well, I'm moving on to the only logical course of action. I'm going to abandon this time-wasting obsession of mine, and get on with my life, pursuing an activity with much better odds. I'm buying lottery tickets, and then with the winnings, I'll buy a book on how to win at bingo.
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