Tuesday, May 30, 2006

turquoise and coral and lapis, oh my

The holiday weekend was another one of those long weekends in which you plan to do 100 productive things and do none of them.

We managed a trip to the Rankokus Indian arts and crafts festival, at which I wept openly at the jewelry that I can't afford. I'm not sure why I put myself through this ordeal...walking around the tables, lusting after the turqoise and coral and lapis, nestled in heavy swirls of sterling. (I'm not a diamonds and rubies kinda gal.) And I stop at each booth, pick stuff up, try it on, feel the heft of a ring or a bracelet...and then gingerly, apologetically, put it back, mumbling something about coming back to purchase it later...knowing that I don't NEED the ring or the earrings or the bracelet (LOVE the bracelet) and then sadly, move on empty-handed. I hate being so realistic sometimes.

But if I hadn't been walking around admiring the jewelry, I would not have seen this t-shirt.


Yeah. Native Americans surely got a bum deal. These festivals are good for driving that point home.

And, as a bonus, here's this guy:

A strange thing though, and I'm not sure why I noticed it, but I would guess that more than half of those attending were either overweight or obese. And once you notice someone who's really obese, you tend to notice others.
The national average for obesity is about 31% and overweight is roughly 34%, depending on what charts you read. So that's about 65% of Americans who are overweight or obese, and that's probably about what I saw. People can do what they want, I don't care, but...it was just a little startling to see this little snapshot of an overweight population.

Thursday, May 25, 2006

what's a gal gotta do?

I took to the highway (more accurately, a busy road) for part of my walk this morning. Usually the only people to travel on foot on this route look like guys who look like they've been passed out in their cars after drinking the night before, and woke up to realize they've forgotten where their keys are so they're walking home, wherever that may be--usually an unfurnished apartment over a rundown auto repair shop.

I had on black stretchy gym pants and a blue Nike workout T. And a Phillies hat. I hate hats. And sunglasses. Now, I don't cut a bad figure in my gym clothes, really. I mean, I'm nearly 6 feet tall, blonde, I'm fairly lean but not skinny...you'd think that I might be worthy of a passing wolf whistle. Just one. From front or behind, I don't care.

Granted, the sports bra pretty much pulverizes the girls. I'm not one to show off, and the sports bra understands this and does its job, mashing down my breasts to eliminate unsightly bounce yet creating cleavage that reaches my neck. So from the front, I guess I understand the lack of interest from passing truckers and building contractors. In fact, if they did honk, it would probably be just as a warning to other drivers to avert their eyes.

And the ass is nothing special either. Asses are probably the most ridiculous part of the human anatomy. I mean, everybody's got one, what's the big deal.

So I walked for 2 hours and not one wave, no honking, no yelling out the window...nothing. What, everybody's too busy talking on their cells and drinking their Wawa coffee to honk appreciatively my way?

I guess so. So to remedy this, I'm going to advertise the cause. Get me a couple of pink shirts and put the website on 'em. That oughta get 'em honking. Either that, or the buttless leather sport chaps I'll be wearing (made with microfiber, they wick away sweat!).

Tuesday, May 23, 2006

you are so beautiful

In my ongoing attempts to be nice to people I don't know and overcome some of my innate unsociability/shyness, I actually spoke to the Red Cross people at the recent church blood drive. (Now, some people who know me think I'm actually pretty outgoing, and I am in the right situation. But I tend to like to keep to myself in places in which I'm surrounded by strangers, and sometimes try to physically make myself seem smaller by hunching, or simply sitting there very tightly. I mean, not that I'm a frigging sociopath and I hate people, that's not it at all. I just have a healthy regard for other people's space, and I expect that in return. But if you're a 4-foot-8 old woman and you need help getting something from the top shelf in the supermarket, please, don't hesitate to ask.)

First of all, I was thrilled to be the FIRST one there. I'm NEVER the first one. The gatekeepers, Jan and Helen here, gave me what amounted to a small textbook of warnings to read. Are you a male who's had sex with another male with hepatitis who's had sex with a tattooed whore who's traded sex for money or drugs that were made in Europe between 1977 and 1995 on the day they discovered Creutzfeldt-Jacob disease? There are a zillion different reasons to be deferred, and I had very nearly taken an aspirin the day before. That would have knocked me out of the box.

Robyn took my information, pricked my finger, dropped the blood into the vial and...oh NO. It's floating! I try to do one simple thing for humanity, and my iron's low! What a loser! No, wait, she's spinning it...no, it's OK! "The first one usually floats," Robyn tells me, with no explanation why. But here's something new: instead of having to sit there and listen while they very rapidly ask you the very same questions you read among the warnings 10 minutes ago ("haveyoueverhadsexwithamalewho'shadsexwithanothermalesince1977"), you can answer them on their puters. A nice option for those of us who are still working on shyness issues.

Finally, phlebotomist Simplico leads me to the table and prepares my arm. Simplico is a little guy, foreign in some respect, but it was slightly unnerving that in all the years I've been donating blood, this was the first man to take it. But he does everything ok, and in fact begins to sing along with the radio-- Joe Cocker's "You Are So Beautiful," which, well, I couldn't help but believe he is actually singing it TO me, given how beautiful I must have looked lying there in my provocative flip flops with tubes and wires hanging out of my arm, my blood quickly racing to the pint bag hanging below. The scene just screams sex.

I'm constantly squeezing and rolling the squeezy thing in an attempt to shatter the world speed record for donating blood. As soon as they hook me up, I'm done. Simplico is kind enough to go rummaging through my purse for my camera, and he takes the shot.

That's followed by the best part, of course, which is the snacks. Here's the one minute out of the day when somebody gives you something for virtually nothing, and tries to treat you like you've just created a cure for cancer. Kay hands me an apple juice. I decline the pretzels and the Chips Deluxe. And then she asks about my shirt.

I was wearing a Harp and Thistle t-shirt from my favorite pub in St. Pete. That started a converstation--with Kay, this lovely old lady--about Ireland and pubs and Guinness and lousy Irish food. Usually I bolt from the snack table in about 30 seconds. This time, I hung out for a few minutes and just mostly listened. It's a start.

Thursday, May 18, 2006

Bush rants and letters

Finally, all my anti-Bush diatribes while driving my boys around from sport to sport have paid off.

At first, once I got going on my rants, the boys kind of rolled their eyes and gave me that "Mom, you're an idiot, you KNOW we're not listening to you" look. I launch into these things nearly every time I have them captive in the van. We'll roll by the tank farms, and that leads to a discussion about W's past as an oil baron. A trip past the house with the solar panels inevitably leads to a discussion about W's failure to commit to other clean sources of energy, and his sorry record on the environment. At the baseball field, they get to enjoy the story of W's attempts at blackmailing Texas Rangers fans. A ride to the liquor store always merits a mention of W's alcoholic past, and an aside on Laura's tragic, uh, killing of another driver. (Not because she was drinking, of course, but because she was--as we all are, at some time or another--stupid teenagers who sometimes grow up to be severely misguided, delusional First Ladies.)

So, through no fault of their own, they have obtained by osmosis Mom's highly cynical, bordering on--well, hatred is too strong a word, I don't hate anybody (except litterers and cart deserters)--very intense contempt of our president and his current administration. And Congress in general. And probably 95% of politics.

So I was filled with pride during the last presidential election, when J made this drawing. W as Satan. Nice, huh? It hangs in my kitchen still, and I don't see it ever coming down.

And, I was thrilled to pieces tonight when E said he wants to start a letter-writing campaign in his school. To: George W. Bush. From: all the kids at the elementary school. Re: your stupid mishandling of the Iraq war.

He's a good kid, my kid. Yup. Saw me standing in his doorway at bedtime, I'm a little teary-eyed...there was this picture in today's paper. The wife just looks so empty, resting her head on her husband's coffin. So he asks why I'm teary-eyed, and of course I launch into this rant about the war, and oh, great, Mom's crying again, I HATE it when she does that...but he sits there on the side of the bed, quietly taking it in, processing my obvious bitterness and upset...and that is his answer. A letter-writing campaign. He hopes that will make me feel better. We'll tell HIM a thing or two, won't we, Mom?

Yes. I imagine you will. I don't dare tell him that W won't even see them.

Wednesday, May 17, 2006

the box

I decided I'd better start this marathon training in earnest, so I've been increasing the length of my walks. I mapped out a 7.2 mile route which I'd only have to do, what, 3 times, 3 days in a row, to get the feel of 60 miles. Frankly, walking's boring. Oh, sure, I try to enjoy the scenery and acknowledge other people (although I'm not quite sure the best way to go about that. A wave is nice, but since I'm in the middle of walking, I usually just lift my hand up at the wrist and give a meek little flip below the waist; not a true wave, because that would indicate a familiarity with the person, and most of the people I see are the Mexicans come to do the landscaping, delivery guys and old people I don't know. Yeah, I could actually say "hi," and I have, but with the iPod you never know how loud that'll come out, so I tend to modify it even before it gets the chance to come out too loudly, resulting in, perhaps (I don't know because I can't HEAR it), a barely audible "hi," which seems stupid given that if the person were to say "hi" back, I wouldn't hear them anyway because of the iPod. SO, it's like 2 people just mouthing the word "hi," which would look dumb to an uninvolved third party. A simple head nod would accomplish the same thing, but I think the nod is a guy thing.)

While at the lake I noticed a cleared out circular area, about 18 inches in diameter, bordered by a garden border. In the circle were some silk flowers and a small metal box. Now my first thought was it was some kind of GPS spot, but it seemed way too ridiculous to put something like that in the wide open at this particular lake. Then I thought maybe it was some kind of tribute to something. Perhaps someone buried their cat there. Maybe it's a kid's project. I walked around to it and was tempted to open the box, but felt that it wasn't meant for me so I shouldn't open it. Beetle bugs could've come crawling out, a finger could be in there, used condoms full of yuck, I dunno. But damn if I'm not wondering now what the hell's in it. I'm pretty certain that if I were to open it, I'd be disappointed, regardless of its contents. It might be empty.There'd be no answers in there.

BTW: One week later, the box is gone.

Monday, May 15, 2006

no big whoop

Another Mother's day, come and gone...and while I insist on not making it a big deal, it's the only day out of the year where everyone actually listens to me, and no big deal is made. Just a handmade card from the boys is fine with me. Really. No, really. J's card said I had eyes like diamonds, and that I was honest and brave. :)

Of course, Mother's day leads up to Father's day, which is actually just a cleverly disguised version of Mother's day all over again, in which Mom insists that Dad needs to honor Father's day by taking the kids out all day long and doing "dad" things like fishing or...fishing, leaving Mom free to do what she wants.

Ironic thing about the day was the fact that we rented The Machinist. If you've seen it, you'll understand the coincidence. I had no prior idea Mother's day was featured in the movie. See? There's a cosmic dot. I liked it, by the way; another one of those dark, disturbing movies I tend to enjoy.

That's why I don't like to rent comedies. They're mostly not quite as funny when you watch them at home; I think it helps to be surrounded by other laughter to facilitate your own. That, or maybe I simply don't find most mainstream comedies that funny. But the dark, disturbing movies are perfect for home viewing...you get to sit and think about them--brood, even--and you don't have to talk to anyone about them afterward.

Friday, May 12, 2006

kill the ump

Lost last night's game. What made it worse was the performance by the league's worst ump. I didn't realize who he was at first, because when they're dressed in those unflattering blue outfits they tend to look alike. They're all squat little smurfs.

THIS ump was the same one I had words with in the middle of a game last year. I was pitching pretty well, dropping them right behind the plate where they should be. Perfect. He wouldn't give me a strike there. (He might occasionally give me a strike about 3 inches inside, but that's his problem.) Finally, after several miscalled strikes, I stopped pitching and stood there and said, calmly but clearly perturbed,"What is it you WANT? What exactly is your strike zone?" And he tried to explain how the ball's descent has to pass between shoulders and blahblahblah, I KNOW this already, but that doesn't matter. Umps give you the strike if it lands right behind the plate, shoulders and knees and other body parts notwithstanding. It's understood. Right? So I tune him right out and walk toward him--at which point he would've been within his rights to eject me--still jabbering on about his inconsistent and misinformed strike zone. We share a few more words. Finally, I realize that this guy is just a short little guy feeding his puffed-up ego, strutting around wielding his mega-supreme umpire power over us women, and I back off. Jerk.

And damn! A year later, and he still sucks.

Took a walk today and was quite thrilled, if only for a moment, about the auditory confluence of ipod music, singing birds, and lakeside fountain. That warm and fuzzy feeling quickly gave way to disgust as I noticed the graffiti on the bridge and the litter lining the bank of the lake. I don't understand litter. There are several trash cans at the lake. Why is there trash IN the lake? Are these the same folks who can't return their carts, they can't manage to throw their trash in a trash can? And there are always a few of those little plastic no-name drink barrels lying about, I think you get them at the Aldi for a buck a case or something. ALWAYS those plastic barrels, especially on the banks of the Delaware. WTF. I just don't get it.

Wednesday, May 10, 2006

return the cart!

Is it really so hard to put a shopping cart back in the corral? Sorry, I'm a bit militant when it comes to returning shopping carts. I've walked far and wide across parking lots delivering shopping carts to their proper corrals: the lonely Target shopping cart, standing alone and forlorn, in the way faraway BJs parking lot; the Acme cart, only one parking spot from the corral...so DAMN close to home, but not quite. And it's not enough to just shove it into the corral, all crooked and turned halfway around. Nope, that thing shoves quite nicely into the body of the one before it, and that one goes into the one before that and on and on...it's a perfectly neat, tidy arrangement when it's done correctly, the corral loading, and creates a more pleasant shopping experience and happier store employees when they have to fetch the snuggled line of carts and bring them back to the store.

So why the HELL is it so difficult for some people to perform this one little exercise of common courtesy?

I was at BJs recently and this woman had unloaded her stuff about 2 cars down from me and left the cart there by the back of her van. She didn't appear to notice as it slowly started rolling toward my van as I was just getting out, and only looked up after the cart had finished its jaunty roll and smacked into my door. Now, if it were me, I'd be tripping over myself apologizing...but damn if she just didn't take off. She saw it, I know she did...but she just. kept. going.

Honest to god, these stupid corrals are everywhere! Are people really so lazy they can't walk a few steps to return the goddamn cart? Why, yes! Yes they are! Perhaps someone clever could design a shopping cart with some kind of radio signal in it, that could steer it back to the nearest corral. Or...maybe they could have motion sensors on them, and some automatic radio speaker thing and can sense when they've been emptied and could simply say: "If you are finished with me, would you kindly return me to my corral?" Wouldn't YOU return your cart if it politely asked you to?

Cart Deserters. Lazy-ass Cart Deserters.



Tuesday, May 09, 2006

cosmic dots

Lost the game to Schileen's tonight, not surprisingly. They beat the crap out of me.

Had a couple of messages today, one via TM and another by email--unexpected communications that I like to think reveal a more meaningful agenda. I'm always looking for ways to connect the cosmic dots. I don't know why or when the hell I started to do this. I couldn't have cared less about finding "meaning" and "connectedness" 10 years ago. Hell, even 5 years ago. But I think it's a function of getting older. Perhaps a sign of desperation, as mortality looms large. I dunno. See? I NEVER used to think things like that. It sometimes pisses me off. Why can't a thing just be the thing? Why do I have to try to assign some deeper meaning to it?

Finally, some of the parents of the littler kids on J's Minor B team are getting a little concerned because he's so tall and hits so hard that he may knock out a few teeth. They don't quite believe he's 8, because, well, he's as big as a 10-year-old. We tried to get him moved up, but the LL prez is more concerned about sticking to his arbitrary age cut-off and not pissing people off than he is about safety and addressing each child's individual skills. Is it wrong to hope a kid's teeth get knocked out to prove a point?

Monday, May 08, 2006

photo shoot and strap-ons


Had this odd photo shoot in Cape May this weekend. Shoot was at some brain surgeon's house just across the street from the beach; lovely view of the ocean. Rumor had been circulating in town for some time that this was supposed to be Tom Cruise's house, or he was buying it, or he was looking at it, or he was using it strictly for breeding purposes, I dunno. Anyway. I don't think it went very well for me, anyway, because I hate having my picture taken.

But my shoot-mates were quite interesting. Diane, a 52-year-old computer teacher, had that classic soap opera actress look. Quite lovely and inexperienced. Ira had been a pilot, runs trading seminars, and has appeared in L&O. A mob type. Cynthia is a 36-year-old model/ballet/pilates teacher with a terrific bod, legs up to her ass, closeted gay husband, purple strap-on, neurologically-impaired son, and confidence bordering on obnoxiousness. The strap-on came about--and believe me, she volunteered this information--when she had answered an ad on craigslist that was looking for a model to perform in a dominatrix role in a film. She sent the ad to her closeted gay husband as a joke, and he ended up buying the strap-on for her. For him. Ha! Ha!

Part of the problem, I think, was that I was kind of the odd man out. The photographer didn't quite know what to do with me. So while the other three participated in this real estate "theme," in which Cynthia--in a short skirt with her legs up to her forehead--sold the house to Diane and Ira, posing as a wealthy couple...I was cast as kind of the poor, cancer-stricken relation from Alabama with a tacky scarf carelessly tied about my head.

There were other scenes in which we were all friends--or Ira's mistresses, we weren't quite sure. But while the other gals looked relatively rich and fabulous...I still came off looking like the dumpy charwoman. You'll see when I post a picture in a month or so.

It was a very long day. 4 total strangers, posing for a camera for 10 hours. We followed the shoot with a quick drink and snack at Cabanas. The conversation revolved around marriage, dreams, kids, sex...isn't it odd, how you can share the most intimate secrets with people you don't even know? No moral judgements, no fear of pissing people off...and maybe even make a friend in the process.

After that, I had to get the obligatory fudge and salt water taffy for the boys and dug my heels in the surf. There was a promenade that evening on the boardwalk, high schoolers strutting their sequined, decked-out stuff, plunging necklines, white tuxes(!)...bringing back memories--well, certainly not of MY prom, because I didn't GO to my prom, because I wasn't ASKED. Bitter? Nah. Just wasn't into it, and was in fact dating a guy who was well into his 20s by then, so I assumed he had no interest in my prom. Still. It would've been nice to have been asked. Ok, maybe just a little bitter.

Thursday, May 04, 2006

sex & softball

We had this softball meeting last night to discuss an illegal bat. There were some heated words exchanged during the game at which the alleged illegal bat was used, but we didn't lodge a formal complaint at that time. So the meeting was not really only about the alleged bat, but a call for more respect between players and teams.

In other words, it was a reason to go out and drink at a nearby bar.

The bat in question was a double-walled bat, which is illegal in our league. The gal allegedly took it out from her personal bat bag, they all used that bat in this one particular inning, hit unbelievably, and then quietly put the bat in the bag after the inning. One of our gals noticed this, and brought up the complaint.

Nothing was solved in this meeting, really…simply a gal defending herself against charges of cheating, and another gal defending herself against charges of being a sore loser.

I had nothing to say about any of it…I didn’t see it. So the other team left, which left about 7 members of our team sitting around a table, drinking. And, as often happens when women sit around drinking, the topic turns to sex. This is some of the conversation:

“I love sex. Love it, love it, love it,” said Beth. Beth’s a big girl, and to imagine Beth having sex all over her house with her husband kind of puts my teeth on edge, but that’s why I like her. “I can’t get enough sex. Sometimes my husband just has to call me off.”

“How long you been married?” asked Maria.

“Nineteen years.”

“Yeah, I’ve been married 20. How about you, Trish?”

“20.”

“And you still have sex?”

Trish wasn’t sure where this was going. “Uh, yeah…”

Maria pressed on. “Yeah, but do you have it like Beth?”

“Well, no.”

“I like it all,” chirped Beth.

“How about oral, Beth?” Maria asked.

“Oh, that’s great. Love it.”

“Yeah. Cunninglingus,” said Trish.

“What?” said Maria.

“Cunninglingus. You know.”

“Oh, that’s anal,” explained Beth.

Now, I had been quiet during this, because that’s what I do. I prefer to sit back and listen to others, and pipe up when appropriate. This way, I give away nothing, and appear to be very wise. But I was compelled to speak up at this time, because the topic went from oral sex to a clever Irish airline with just a misplaced “g.”

“It’s ‘cunnilingus’.” I said.

Maria looked at me blankly.

“What?”

“Cunnilingus. Cunn-ih-lin-gus.” I said, probably a little too loudly. I turned around to look at the bar, just in time to see two male heads with bucket hats turn my way. “You know. Oral sex, performed on a female.”

“Is THAT what it’s called?” Beth asked.

“Yeah.”

“It’s not ‘connie-lingus’?”

“No.”

“Oh, man,” said Maria. “Well, what’s the name of it again, what you do to a guy?”

“Fellatio,” I said wisely.

“Man, I can’t do that.”

“Why not?"

“I can’t swallow that shit. Just talking about it makes me want to puke.”

“Marie, you don’t HAVE to swallow,” said Trish. She paused thoughtfully.“I LIKE to give blow jobs!” she said, too loudly.

“I don’t think the guys at the bar heard you, Trish.” I said.

“Hell no!” roared Beth. “I just have a towel by the side of the bed, I just spit into it.”

“That’s right! A towel!” said Trish, and she and Beth did a high five over the pitcher.

“If God had wanted us to swallow, He wouldn’t have given us a gag reflex,” I explained. I’ve said this WAY too many times in other conversations, but it seemed appropriate here. “Besides, everyone knows once you’re married you don’t have to swallow.”

“Nobody told ME that," said Maria.

“It’s not really so bad,” I said, waving the cup of blue cheese dressing from the chicken wings in front of her face. “What’s this remind you of?”

“Ugh! Nope, I don’t swallow. It’ll make me puke.”

“Well, if you don’t want to use the towel, you can just let it dribble on his stomach,” I added helpfully.

There was a pause.

“What about anal?” I asked.

Nobody spoke for a moment, formulating their answers.

“Once,” said Beth. Then she laughed a BIG laugh, and said, “no, I got a sign back there that says “EXIT ONLY.”

We all laughed.

“I tried it once. It hurt,” said Trish.

Maria had also tried it once and didn’t care for it. I added the same.

Karen and Lisa, who were also at the table, had nothing to add to the conversation, but enjoyed it nonetheless. Jen, one of our new players, she’s 25, was there with her boyfriend, who probably enjoyed it as well.

“Well, last summer, I made out with another woman,” said Beth.

“Get OUT,” said Marie.

“Yup. A friend of mine. Our husbands wanted us to do it. So what the hell, we did it.”

“Geez, Beth, more than I need to know,” I said.

“Oh, yeah, I love sex. We watch porno…”

“No!”

“And I got toys, haha, I got my own personal vibrator…”

Loud guffaws from the table.

“And there’s these rings, see, and you put them on a penis, and there’s these feathery things that stick up from the rings, and that stimulates your clit while you’re doing it.”

“Ok, then,” I said. “What about the g-spot? Do you have one, have you identified it, and can you climax from stimulating it?” I asked clinically. “I read where women have gotten injections, collagen injections, into their alleged g-spots, to heighten sexual arousal.” I actually said this.

They looked blankly at me.

“The g-spot. That mass of tissue, located at the front of your…belly…inside, up there,” I said. “Not everyone has it, not everyone who thinks they have it, has it, and there’s really no proof of its existence. But some claim that not only do they have it, but women can actually ejaculate from it.”

Maria was incredulous. “What? Nobody told ME about that.”

“Well, you have 2 g-spots,” added Beth. “Your g-spot, and your clit.”

“Your clit is your clit,” I said. “The g-spot is the g-spot. Granted they’re both packed with nerve endings, but you don’t call your clit your Number 1 or Number 2 g-spot. Have you ever come from your g-spot?” I asked Beth, because she seemed the logical person to ask, given her loud and rowdy appreciation of sex.

“HELL yes!” she exclaimed. “But I have to be on top.”

“Well, that’s a better position for women anyway,” I added.

“Yeah? It is? Nobody told ME that.” Maria asked. Lovely, dense Maria. Trish shook her head, smiling.

“There was an article in the New York Times, that equated women’s orgasms with men’s nipples. There’s no reason for either one. According to the article, evolution may make women’s orgasms obsolete.” I said.

“Well, not anytime soon, I hope,” said Maria.

“No, not in our lifetime,” I assured her.

“Thank God!” hollered Beth. By this time, she was hollering.” I love sex! I love orgasms!”


Wednesday, May 03, 2006

softball and shoes

Got socked in the jaw last night with an errant ball. My TMJ is making odd cracking noises now. Next batter up hit me on the thigh, left a bruise. If only I could CATCH the damn things. Had a last inning rally, but came up 1 run short of winning. Went 2 for 4, with the usual hard line drives to left. BTW, the game's under protest because the other team may have used an illegal bat. Again, with the illegal bats. Remind me to post the "sex and softball" conversation last year that all started with a meeting about illegal bats.

Why do I have to go to Zappos to get size 10.5 shoes? Look in a catalog; you'll see half sizes up to 10, then they jump to size 11 and continue on as only whole sizes, if they even go THAT high. Sure, my feet are big enough already, I certainly don't mind going up a larger size. You know what they say about how the size of a woman's foot correlates with...uh...um..the size of her OTHER foot, I guess.

My friends and I are walking in the Breast Cancer 3-Day walk in October. 60 frigging miles. Check out the link. It's a good cause; Mar had it, beat it, but her SIL died from it earlier this year. Mar's pretty tough, it doesn't seem to faze her too much, but the idea that it might return must permanently take over a little portion of her brain. We're all a little horrified at the thought of camping out in the city with perhaps thousands of other women, vying for an alleged hot shower...and how on earth will they feed all these people? It makes me wonder how much of this money we're raising is put toward staging these events, rather than research.

Still, it's always fun to hang out with the girls, although I imagine after 3 days of walking and camping together without the benefit of liquor, we won't be needing a GNO anytime soon.

Tuesday, May 02, 2006

Ok, I'll play

Truly, I don't think anyone out there really cares about what I think, but this seems like a pretty good way to get stuff out of your system.

Took a nice walk today, followed by yoga. Feels good to get the kinks out. Hung some laundry out...I love hanging laundry out. It smells great afterward, and the smell lingers. One household chore I actually enjoy. In fact, there's another load waiting downstairs for its chance to fly.

That's what I was doing when I heard about the planes crashing into WTC. It was a beautiful, cloudless day. Perfect for hanging laundry out. My sister emailed me the news, and in the middle of her email exclaimed "holy cow, there goes another one." I felt my heart sink to the floor. Watched the news for a little bit to get a handle on what was going on, then...went outside to hang more laundry up. It was very, very quiet; I noticed no planes were flying overhead. Eerie and still and very strange. Only a hundred or so miles away.

Got a softball game tonight. We're "versing" Perfect Touch (not sure exactly what that is; I think it's a hair salon, but maybe it's a hulking team of anal-retentive masseuses.) Picked that one up from the kids, "versing" as a verb: to play against another team. Us "verses" them. Wonder if that's a local thing. Anyway, the chicks have yet to outplay the hen.

Guess I'll get to it. And hopefully I'll have more interesting things to say in the future.