When life gives you lemons...

Lest, based on my last post, you thought the husband infallible, we decided we'd best try the Frisbee golf thing again.

In Justin's brain it is the most logical thing in the world: you go throw a Frisbee in a basket eighteen times. Like golf, but cheap! (Actually, no. Not cheap. After driving around a park we saw several dudes playing Frisbee golf. They had a backpack: a specially designed Frisbee golf back pack with slots for all your nifty discs [like a putter, a driver, and a mid range. Someone drunk invented this sport.] And a drink holder... cause we being sweaty? In comparison, what Justin and I have been calling Frisbee golf is akin to whacking a gopher in a hole with a tree branch, and calling it golf.)

This whole issue has become rather personal for my man. He can throw anything: baseballs, boomerangs, footballs, javelins, pint-sized wife... I'd fight back if I could find some stilts and a muscle suit. We even play Frisbee in the backyard, and he does a fine job of it. However, when confronted with a basket nestled 425 feet away... this happens:

 



This may appear to  be a man stoically pondering the mysteries of the universe in a serene rural setting. But it is in fact a man searching for his Frisbee.

Ah ha! Found it!

 

What? You don't see it? It's green. That should help.

Or maybe that's the orange one... nope, I'm pretty sure the orange one was up river a few yards. This must be the green one.

Ever creative and never one to give up, my husband decided to retrieve a long stick from the middle of the river and use it to lever the Frisbee back to safety. Having no success in acquiring the long stick, the man determined to snag a longer stick in order to retrieve the long stick, in order to lever the Frisbee out.

 

The pictures don't offer his efforts fair credit. The embankment was six feet high. And his children were continually lining up in lemming fashion to jump off the edge, which distracted from the delicate rescue and recovery process.

Justin claims to be a realist, but there's some certain part of him, which wins key battles and allows optimism to peek out into the bright light of day. Life stole the Frisbees, it muddied his flip flops, cut up his baby girl on some branches, and sullied his masculine "I'll rock any sport" pride...

But God gave him a new walking stick.

Weekend activities in Middle Earth

My Mac died. It was a wonderful little Mac. And cheap, because I'm a girl, and really what is the point to being a girl if you can't conjure up a few sniffling tears and get $150 knocked off the price of your already discounted laptop? Nurturing, artistry, fierceness, and beauty? Is the trouble of femininity really worth these virtues? No, but 150 bucks certainly is. Because I have my head on straight. And a scathing sense of reality.

Back to the point: my Mac died. And it made me sad. I've been a-coaxing and a-conjuring, a-begging and a-threatening with various sized mallets, but she won't comeback to me. The need to blog has finally outweighed my despisal of Justin's Intel. I don't like it, but I have no choice. My muse has the flu again, and words are just vomiting out everywhere... it's been a long time, I need to get back into the swing of not being a weirdo. Bear with me.

One final excuse before we continue: the spacebar on this maleficent, Windows 10 monstrosity is a wee bit sticky. (Kind of like that Farside cartoon where one sinner in hell murmurs to the other, "Man, the coffee's cold. They thought of everything!" Windows 10 left no pang unprodded.) Ergo, if you come to a word that is a paragraph long, know that I am not just making things up again. I am being thwarted. By a machine. Which is poetic, and maddening... and rather cliché.

It was bone-chilling cold here, so Justin decided it was a perfect day to take up Frisbee golf. We put several coats and hats on everyone and soldiered out to a Frisbee golf course. I'm not sure if this has ever come up, but I am a dis-embodied Frisbee-ist. When a human being loses their proprioceptors, they are no longer able to act physically in the world without visually focusing on the limbs/joints needing to move. (It's a thing. Again, I'm not making this up.) The brain via it's five primary senses has to willfully urge the body to act. That is how I play Frisbee. My eyes scream rather telekinetically at my wrist to break with enough whip to project the Frisbee forward, but to stop before I throw the rebellious disc into the next county off to my right. Disc games are exhausting. So much effort.

But the husband grew up throwing whatever was put in his hands, so he cannot empathize with my body's active betrayal of my conscious mind. And he brings kids back to life on a daily basis, so he gets to pick our recreational activities. ... Which is a pretty good system.

Thus we tromped. Over the frozen earth. Ears being gnawed on by the wind. To play eighteen holes of Frisbee golf. It took me nine throws to sink my "putter" Frisbee into the basket on the first hole.

It was then I lost my cherub-like demeanor.

And then this happened on the second hole.

In case that picture is unclear:

An Ent stole my Frisbee. And he put it in the 32.5 degree water down an embankment; because at some point inmy life I must have stepped on an acorn.

I would have included my lack of proximity to the hole in this picture, but the hole is behind me about three miles away on the other side of the Misty Mountains. As I trudged back up the embankment, Justin asked, "Are we done, then?" Oh, baby. Are we done.

Alas proprioception, you carried me through the Narrows in Converses, but Frisbee golf in Fangorn has bested you.

Unless Justin single-handedly reaches through the Matrix to Neo-like massage some kid's heart back to beating, I get to pick the next pass-time. And it will not involve any throwing of any kind... okay, maybe throwing pizza dough. I can't imagine how that could go wrong...

Do you think she's mad?

"Here's a hypothetical situation," my husband started as we cruised down the road toward the softball fields. "Let's say someone takes a shot to the head on the field, a line drive or something. What is your order of actions and priorities?"

As a dancer I was taught that there are no wrong answers. As the wife of a nursing student I was taught that there are only wrong answers (at least I think that was the point of the last three years). I assumed in his query that my husband was testing my knowledge of critical care and trauma procedures (because he does this for fun every now and then to prove that in the area of medical care not having to do with infants named Hannah and Noah, he is in fact smarter than me). After a moment's consideration I replied, "I would find someone on the field with a phone (our base coach is the most likely candidate) and have them dial 911. Then, I would assess the victim, checking vitals starting with bleeding, pulse, and breathing." I described what I would do if the sustainer of head trauma was bleeding, if they were unconscious with no pulse or respiration, or if they were conscious and alert x3. Justin agreed with my order of priorities, and we discussed whether it would be better to move the victim into a seated position or leave them laying flat, addressing the possible effects of each option. (Let me tell you that it is riveting to live our little lives. Our children are going to know how to properly wrap a laceration, but not know how to achieve a laceration in the pursuit of childishness... which sounds like a good thing, but I see as somewhat sad.)

Fast forward forty-five minutes. I jogged out onto the field for the start of the second inning. My husband usually plays short stop, and I am usually at second. If you are not overly familiar with base/softball playage: playing at second you actually stand back toward the grass and closer to first base. This gives you a better opportunity to get anything hit to the right side of the field, while leaving enough time to get back to the bag for a play. My point in offering this vital softball strategy education is to point out that I was standing quite a distance from my husband at short. I would have had to shout to get his attention.

Although for the purpose of attention-getting he uses other methods entirely...

I mentioned in my last post that my husband is sometimes still a thirteen-year-old boy. In my experience most guys are at various times in their adult life just kids. This is usually an endearing quality of his. I find it cute that he likes baseball, airplanes, candy, and bodily noises. I find it hilarious when his adult male mind reverts to making "pinning" jokes.

But, some things are less endearing than others...

He throws rocks at me. Junior high was not so long ago that I have forgotten that this is how boys flirt. I've taken my share of abuse in the name of 'crush'. But here's the thing: once you've got the girl, you can call off the aerial strike.

He always does this. He finds little pebbles or dirt clods and lobs them off to one side of me, just to see how long it takes me to notice. At softball games I am always just trying to impress him and make him proud. I get very focused. I ignore things like thirst and sun and projectiles. Ironic, isn't it? The very act by which I want to earn my husband's approval causes me to fail to notice his desperate plea for attention.

During this particular moment, I was shifting my weight back and forth from foot to foot waiting for my father-in-law to pitch. What followed depends entirely on the perspective of reality you choose to believe.

From my perspective:
[I stared down the approaching batter. I glowered. There are so few opportunities in life to properly glower, that I was taking the most of it. I must have looked quite fierce, like a kitten attacking a laser pointer. My eyes narrowed in concentration, my toes dug into the dirt, my...

OUCH! What the crap was that?! Did I just get shot? I think someone shot me! Check the grassy knoll! (My hand flew up to my forehead to check for the almost certain gush of blood flowing down.) Looking up wildly to see if any further sniper shots were coming, I saw my husband...

The man I have stood by for seven years. The man whose children I bore, birthed, and raised. The man on whom my hopes of the last three years of grief and trouble rested, the protector of my family, the provider for our needs, the calmer of our fears. The man I committed to for better or worse.

The man who had just rocketed a boulder into my forehead.

He came jogging over as my face crumpled into my hands. "Are you okay?" he asked covered in concern and guilt (but still chuckling at the odds of making that shot - which helped matters immensely).

"Fine!" I nearly screamed.

"Are you sure, I'm sorry, I...."

"FINE!" I roared. "I.Am.Fine. But you need to go over there." I gestured madly at the shortstop position. He tried to continue speaking. But I kept pointing and growling, "Go over there!" ... Where I can't reach your throat with my nails. Where I can't scream at you in the tongues of men and angels. Where I can't start the first fight of our marriage over something so ridiculously stupid, but still downright infuriating! GO!

Another player jogged past and asked what just happened, "He hit me with a rock!" I shrieked.

Honestly, I wasn't that angry at him. I knew it was a mistake; I was 99% sure he would never purposely try to stone me. It was shock. The unnatural volume, the seething, the green I was turning and the sudden need for stretchy purple pants; it was all shock.

The pain was minimal. The lump was mortifying. I can't go to church like this! They give me grief enough for my shoes! Maybe I can get a haircut with bangs. Maybe I can run away to New Zealand. Maybe I can never ever leave the house again as long as I live. I suppose I should cut my husband some slack; at times, I am still a thirteen-year-old girl.

My primary consolation was, although I had forgiven him the second I looked up into those remorseful blue eyes, everyone else we knew would give him grief for weeks. Because I am a paradox: simultaneously merciful and malicious.]

His perspective: (and yes, I understand that it is not fair for me to be relaying his perspective, but I am only quoting from the story he had to relay 800 times after the incident.)

[You know when you are just messing around and it goes terribly, terribly wrong? I was throwing pebbles at her. I do this all the time. I picked up one and it was really flat, like you would skip across a river. Flat cylindrical objects tend to curve in flight. I threw it a good three feet out in front of her, and watched. Hmmm. That rock is turning. It's heading for my wife. No way.

Oh crap! I just hit my wife with a rock! Good thing we talked about this on the way here.

... What are the odds? That must have been a one in a million shot. That's pretty impressive.

... Do you think she's mad?]

We were on a roll. We took a marriage class, and the leader told a story about a couple who had been married for sixty-two years. At the husband's funeral, the wife laid her hand on the casket and whispered, "62 years and he never hurt me."

That was the goal.

Now, it will have to run: "75 years (we ain't quitters), and he never hurt me." Pause. "Except that time he hit me with a rock."

I love you, my un-matchable husband. And yes, it was a one in a million shot. Go you.

My Fever Pitch

After saying that we come from very different backgrounds a coworker asked what it was that brought Justin and I together. She jokingly quarried if it was our mutual love of dance. While the Husband loves a good bit of experimental art and postmodern movement explorations as much as the next guy, no, no it was not a love of dance that drew us close. In fact, dance just about turned me into Justin's pre-ex-girlfriend.

The year was 2007. The soon-to-be husband had just returned from a year long stint in New Zealand, fall was setting in, and I was finishing my senior year in the dance department. I was immersed in aesthetic philosophy, movement-based existential ponderings, and rice (200 pounds of which was dumped on our heads as we dove across the stage... rice that is... no one dumped 200 pounds aesthetic philosophy on us... not quite sure how you would do that... unless Immanuel Kant decided to come contact improv with us). (Sorry, I'm fine arts nerding out.) I had never watched a baseball game on TV, I had never scarfed a cheese-stuffed brat, buttery popcorn, and Dipping Dots all in one sitting, I had never heard of the curse of the Bambino. I had written on a Contemporary Views assignment just days before, "NO to answers handed out with program notes to a generation never required to think." 'Cause I was a right, proper, elitist pain in the keister. (Do you ever wish you could go back in time and just smack yourself on the back of the head?)

Fall semester I was selected to perform in Ghostship, a work choreographed by my mentor, a brilliant and very lost professor. It was an incredible opportunity. It was exactly what I wanted to do, and several times I tried to convince said mentor to create a dance company and hire me to kick dance butt day in and day out.

At the time I was into Justin. Really into Justin. (In the same way that lobster is really into butter, Noah is really into bubbles, and baptists are really into coffee.) When the time to perform came I invited him to come to the show. In some small way I wanted him to understand what I do and to believe it to be incredible. Somehow, I thought 200 pounds of rice and a few knee-sades later, he would be smitten.

The night of the show came. I danced. It was awesome. He did not come.

I wasn't devastated. I just assumed this was some kind of sign. He just wasn't that into me, and I actually believed I could be okay with that. He chose not to come. We could still be friends. We were okay...

Until I saw him the next day. "So you weren't able to make it last night," I tried to roll out casually. I expected maybe an awkward moment, maybe a shrug, and then the mutual acceptance that life would continue much as it had, and, after every friend I grew up with was married off, I would run away to New Zealand, and live with the possums in the trees of Whangerei.

However, with barely a pause the Adonis replied, "Yeah, the Red Sox were playing."

I tried not to look like a semi-truck had just side-swiped my heart, backed up, and hit it dead on just to be sure it didn't try anything so foolish as love again. I tried to not narrow my eyes and turn very Gollum-like and wish death to Beckett, Ortiz, Papelbon and anyone else on the planet who wore socks of any shade of redness.

I was not entirely successful in masking the massacre of my heart. Justin suddenly seemed to realize he had said something not entirely endearing. "It's the World Series." He added for clarification. My face must have taken on a deadlier pallor.

The mean part of me, that part that I contain (but not overly well) spat out, "It's called a DVR." Justin muttered something else about this being the World Series, and his Red Sox, and a quarry on what my problem might be.

We started dating not too long after this incident. (After the Red Sox had defeated the Diamondbacks and in fact clenched the Series.) Awhile into our relationship I brought this incident up. I asked Justin if he liked me at the time. "Well yeah, of course," he replied. Apparently the confusion was written on my face. "It's the Red Sox," he re-iterated. As if all those months ago I hadn't heard him quite correctly. As if I should have been slapping my forehead with an 'Oh, it's the Red Sox, how silly of me, of course that's worth breaking the heart of your betrothed over.' Exasperated, the poor man declared, "We weren't even dating at the time!"

Somehow, that makes it worse.

But obviously not bad enough to break us up. Because here we sit, seven years later, he having attended a fair amount of dance concerts, and me knowing the Red Sox line up front to back as well as most of the bull pen. And in spite of our Fever Pitch beginning, we've managed to create something truly amazing:

A Red Sox fan, and












                               a dancer.

Scrubs, Socks, Mittens, and the Wizard

A glance at the current state of our family through four articles of clothing(ish):

Scrubs - The Husband: Justin is embroiled in a tear down, drag out, shoot 'em up street fight with nursing school. This semester is the peak before we start getting to head downhill to the blessed light at the end of the tunnel. He has to wear scrubs to every class and his clinical rotation. The thing is, despite being given high blood pressure and elevated cortisol levels from school, my husband is built like a Greek statue. He keeps grumbling about stress (and my cookies) making him fat. Right, like if the 'David' put on a couple after arm wrestling a bear and a lion. He is tall and trim. Ever since I've known him he has been tall and trim. There are certain less civilized regions of the world where men have been executed for lesser crimes. Like Hollywood. I digress. We buy him size X-Large scrubs because he can't stand the tantalizing glimpse of tube sock peeking haughtily out from under his cuffs. While X-large pants are long enough (barely)*, both he and I and Dumpster could stand in the waist with room to spare... now there's an image. And here's one: my scrubby clad adonis:

(He's the tall cute one in the back.)

Socks - The Blogger: We decided since our softball team tends to disappoint in the winning area of the game, we should try to make it excel in the fun area of the game. Step one: get Abi some awesome softball socks.

Really, what else needs to be said. I traipsed about the field all night in hot pink knee-high socks. It's a living.

Mittens - Baby Girl: Shortly after her four month doctor appointment, Hannah developed some skin problems. It started on her face and has spread to most the rest of her body. A lesser (meaning less cute)  girl would be in a sad state, but Hannah wears her rough, flaky, and red skin like a champ (an adorable champ). The worst part is she scratches at her face when it itches. For any of you who have little ones, you know how hard it is to keep baby nails short enough that they can't claw themselves to within an inch of your sanity. So, in order to save her face and my nerves we have been putting mittens on her for the last few weeks. We take them off so she can play, and if her skin has a good day. Otherwise, Hannah has some version of mittens on most of the time. Like so:

And yes, she is wearing boy clothes. That's what happens with babies: they wear everything they own in one week and then spit up on the last God-forsaken outfit... or worse. Usually worse.

The Wizard - Baby Noah: (Before we get to the explanation, I apologize that I don't have a picture for this section. I'm having a devise transferring issue. Next post about Little Man, I'll get a good Noah pic up. Until then, our imaginations are woefully underused; dust yours off and make this as cute, funny, or boring as you want.) Noah loves his blankets. He's on a sure path to being the next Linus in Peanuts. He's not partial, and will drag any available scrap of fabric around, but there is one for which he has a slight preference: It is white with blue and silver stars all over and a blue trim. Lately he has taken to wrapping this blanket around his shoulders before scampering about the house chanting all manner of incomprehensible incantations. Shy of one pointy hat, he looks like a little wizard ready to turn Dumpy into a toad (not too much challenge, really entry level magic. The same thing could be done with a razor and a bowl of water).

There you have it: us by garment.

* Justin spent a year in New Zealand. I swear he left at a respectable 6' 2", but returned at an uncanny 6'4". And this was when he was 25 years old. It is just wrong for anyone to have a growth spurt that late in life. I swear he found the One Ring that instead of unusually long life, makes someone concerningly tall.

Beauty and the Beast - meow

It's Friday night, and I am standing in my nothings staring into a dresser full of blessings (you can call them clothes if you're feeling dull). Big date with the husband? Night out with the girls? Yes and no. I'm sure Justin considers the first softball game of the season a date, and if by "the girls" you mean my hardcore fellow softball chica sluggers, then yes to both. April games are always tricky. You don't want to wear long pants and give everyone the impression that your legs haven't seen the sun or a razor since sometime in September (they have, right?). However, you also don't want to traipse out onto the field in your lil' shawty shawt shorts, and be standing on two perfectly Else icicles five minutes into the game.

Yeah, because I'm totally that girl who empties her wardrobe onto the bed looking for the perfect softball outfit to play in what weather.com claims will be a torrential downpour. And really, bright yellow jerseys built for a size small, who is six feet four inches tall: not helping.

So now I am at the softball game and the little droplets have starting splashing down. I am in knee length white shorts, a long sleeve gray t-shirt, a hoodie, and my jersey. I am wearing socks that only barely sneak over my heel and shiny black cleats. This will all come into play as I come into play.

Five minutes into the start of the game the following things will happen:
1. Friendly little droplets will turn into Hurricane Irene.
2. My gray shirt will ride up to the middle of my ribcage.
3. My batting gloves will be soaked, so there is NO WAY I am reaching up to fix said offending gray garment.
4. A player will slide into me at first spraying my white shorts with nice sandy red mud.
5. Nice sandy red mud will lodge itself between the flesh of my achilles tendon and the heel of my cleats, rubbing my ankles raw and, as an added bonus, bloody.

Do you have the visual picture? Just imagine a kitten in an over sized bright yellow smock, drowned wet, frozen cold, and starting to hiss at inanimate objects.

Now, it is Saturday morning. Formerly drenched kitten has her long hair curled/waved and pulled up Princess Buttercup style. She is in a bright pink dress (say what?!), four inch white heels with bows on the top (get out!), and she is wearing... wait for it... make up (shut the front door!!!).

In January our women's ministry team decided to hold a generations women's conference on April 26th. I must have, in a moment of temporary dissociative disorder volunteered to speak at this conference. Or they may have kidnapped me and forced me to speak at gunpoint. Someone should pat down our team for weaponry before I claim any responsibility for my actions. Either way, today I stood there in pink and heels with big hair and war paint, speaking.

It was all very surreal. In my mind I am the drowned kitten. People will say things like, "Oh you look lovely," and I have to try very hard to not stare at them like a dog listening to a high-pitched whistle. In my mind I am still the tomboy sliding through mud, and making fun of girls who do insane things like wear four inch heels they will have to stand in for forty-five minutes in front of fifty women. I suppose there are hints of our every reality marking us as we drift from form to form. Under the strappy stilettos are the scrap marks of red mud. The graceful, slender hand holding a microphone as I share a distinctly feminine story is starting to turn blue with the bruise of a misplayed out at second. And the sweeping locks falling in waves about my shoulders are only really that curly because I left them out in the driving rain far too long.

A mentor of mine once told me, "First God made you a woman, then He made you an athlete." Actually, first I think He made me His, and everything else (make up or mud) is just window dressing.

Oh... and we worshipped. Lots. Which is nice.

A Proper Tea

I’m not the tea party type. Lace gloves make no sense, tea has never been comforting or satisfying, and I believe sandwiches should not be finger foods, they should be foot longs. Growing up, my favorite color was olive green (the kind found in camo), my favorite pants were two sizes too big, and my single greatest joy was showing up the guys in… everything. Sitting and chatting with the girls over a steaming brew with little dried out biscuits sounded rather like punishment or at least a waste of a Saturday better spent looting, pillaging, or otherwise pirating.

But somehow, the tomboy got herself put in charge of the Ladies Spring Tea at church.

This evening I am off to purchase lace doilies, fake crystal bowls, and bright table clothes. I will spend some night soon figuring out how to make tissue paper flowers. (God help me.) Cute little scentsy door prizes need to be acquired soon as well. I will decorate with flowers and ribbons and glitter. I will set plates with little tarts, adorable cookies, and bite size cucumber sandwiches. I will play Celtic stringed hymns in the background with little bunny slides flashing on the power point screens.

And a little part of me will die inside.

Only to be reanimated Friday evening as I kick dirt, swing a bat, masticate unsightly amounts of Big League Chew, and throw like anything but a girl.

Because God made me a woman, and then He made me an athlete.

Announcement

I am aware that it has been nearly an eternity since I have blogged. It is difficult to write about anything else when there's a quite large something on your mind that you aren't allowed to blog about. However, the secret is out, so I can once again, merrily tap-tap-tappity on the keys.

There I stood at home plate staring down a pitcher, who I can only imagine had my utter destruction in mind. He'd already thrown a nasty twelve foot arc that only by grace was called a ball. I'm sure he was quite secure in his belief that before him stood another little girl, a bunting pansy, a softball wall flower. Poor lad couldn't have known that before him stood an Abi. A real Abi, the kind they don't make every day of the week, the kind they watch because she has no good in mind.

I glared. It's a bad habit. There's some wickedness in my subconscious that demands in the midst of battle I glower like a Greek in the face of the Persians. I'm sure it is no where near as terrifying as the picture in my mind. In my mind this is the glare that sent a thousand ships back the way they came, tails set firmly between their legs. In reality, Justin snickers every time he sees it and tells me how adorable it is. But I persist never-the-less, and glare I did with intense ferocity at said unsuspecting pitcher.

He let the ball fly, I swung the bat, and from the recesses of my primitivity came a grunt that would put Sharapova or Williams to shame. And that ball went. Far.

After I easily hit first, I turned to my brother-in-law and begged him for a pinch runner. He got the ump's attention, but kept throwing me strange glances. There was some atrocious to-do about getting me a runner, and in the end I don't imagine the rules were followed by said ump. Finally, my husband stepped in and defended my honor: "Give her a break! She's Pregnant!"

Well, that wasn't subtle. Nor conducive to game winning. As half our bench scraped their jaw out of the dirt, confusion ensued. It was a clever way to announce it, but I imagine the inning might not have ended on the next play if we weren't all so flummoxed.

So yes, I'm pregnant. And wishing I were dead. While quite amazing at hitting softballs, Abi's are not very good at being pregnant.

I'm sure amidst the first pregnancy as Eve held her swimming head over a hole and wretched up every good, bad, knowledgeable, and stupid fruit she had ever eaten, Adam (annoyed his own self at having to pull weeds all day) commented, "Well, that's what you get, Miss 'I-gotta-try-that'." And she promptly kicked him in his sheep-skin covered jewels, just to be sure she would not have to endure this havoc again any time soon.

Spring Rain

The drought has ended. The spring rain of baseballs has returned to soak our dry and weary land with their precious entertainment-giving flood.

The end of college bowl games to opening night of the MLB season is the sports dead zone. Absolutely nothing of interest to decent sort of folk. I've heard rumors of something called March Madness. The only madness is that this kind of basketball-ish behavior can persist for an entire month. Just play a final and end it. I know the NBA is playing. But in terms of real sports, nothing what-so-ever of interest.

(If you are a basketball fan, you must understand I never had a chance. At the tender young age when wee lasses are so impressionable [which I recognize is almost every age] I hugged my friend dearly as she sobbed in her little golden tutu. Her daddy decided to go to watch the Utah Jazz in the NBA finals instead of coming to see his baby girl dance in her ballet recital. I immediately concluded that any sport which could cause human beings to be so callous to their own little princesses could not have any value to the human race. I now know that people go to football games instead of their son's little league games, I know they flock to the stands of baseball games as young tuba players look expectantly to the audience hoping mommy might come. But basketball suffers one further blow to it's morality: it has LeBron James and Kobe Bryant. With such upstanding individuals as the stars of a culture, I don't understand how anyone who attends a basketball game can really stand to look at themselves in the mirror the next day.) Cause I'm not dramatic at all.

But the drought has ended. And with what a glorious rain: Boston leading the AL East with 5 and 2! What brilliant hope! Noah is thrilled too as you can see.

Bullseye

So when Abi is up to bat this coming softball season, perhaps a new jersey design is in order; something more like this:

We had our first practice of the season Sunday afternoon. In the ear-freezing breezes my father-in-law pitched softballs to us in turn. The very first pitch he sailed gently, leaf-on-the-wind style in my direction. I crushed it, probably flattening one side of the ball from the blow. Or maybe it was the contact with my father-in-law's shin that dented the ball. A second pitch came flying. This one seemed nye on determined to obliterate the pitcher's second shin. Once is a fluke, twice is bad luck. It couldn't happen three times.

Of course it couldn't. Because my father-in-law still has some strain of gazelle-like agility that barely skittered him out of the way of my third swing, which was headed straight for that knee of his, which needs replacing.

And it doesn't matter how much you swear up and down that you didn't mean it, after three bone shattering hits a man starts to get nervous. The poor man will probably jump every time I open a bag of chips at a barbeque now.

I really didn't mean to. Which you can tell the five inch red and blue welt on his tibia.

Sweets and sit-ups

In order to maintain my Pilates certification I have to take continuing education credits and not eat cookies. (It's in the requirements: "Trainee will pay us a lot of money, work out until her belly throws up its hands in surrender [or just throws up], and not eat cookies... Until the day she dies"). This month the trainings were "Ring Around the World" and "Small Ball Magic". ... I know you're all thinking it, but this is a family blog. Shame on you!

What the trainings should have been called and are referred to as by the goblins of fitness are "Beater" and "Biter".

After six hours of Pilates focusing on hamstrings, core strength, scapular stabilization, and mental overload, the mind encased and nurtured in said beaten and bitten body, starts to waver in its stalwart conviction that life as we know it should go on. It starts to not care that the fingers it is moving just ended that last sentence with a preposition. It starts to wonder if controlling lung expansion and contraction is really as necessary a function as hanging the mouth open and letting drool trickle out. The mind starts to mistrust a body that is so maliciously inclined that it would take a metal ring, stuff it between its own ankles and do 800 variations of Teaser followed up with a Jackknife chaser. Then it says "Ow" and whimpers... and picks up its child because six hours of abdominal curls later, it's still a mommy.

 TeaserJackknife

Justin and Little Man picked me up after the Inquisition. I noticed a plastic container in the cup holder, but didn't think much of it. The husband usually has some form of coffee within arms reach at all times. Just in case the worst should happen. A few minutes into the drive he said, "We stopped at the SweetTooth Fairy. You can help yourself." It was a plastic cup of cake bites.

Oh, I'm going to go to the special Pilates hell.

SnowBall

This weekend the husband and I played in a SnowBall Tournament. For those of you who have never heard of a snowball tournament, allow me to explain. First move to Utah, make sure it is early February so that there is an 80 percent chance of snow ready to come blizzarding down on 2 feet of permafrost. Allow the sun to appear just long enough to melt the top two inches of solid infield and turn it into a mud-wrestling ring. Then bring on the snow. Once the feeling has completely left your hands, pick up a solid metal bat coated in semi-frozen mud. Request that a man who looks like he subs for tugboats in rough harbors lob a softball at you. He will do so after he dances around like he's got ants in his underoos for half a minute. Contact said ball with said bat. Listen to the joyous sounds of every bone in your hand shattering into a million pieces, whilst feeling the ringing slither up your arm muscles into your teeth. Run to first base. Correction: Slog toward first base, get stuck, slide, watch your life flash before your eyes. Make it. Hurrah!

I was going to begin this post with some comment on how SnowBall is the ultimate in male ideology, how testosterone and cold weather don't mix, how male blood flow to male brains must be hampered by the onslaught of February.

But there I stood out in the middle of the field with the rest of the dinks. So really I have no room to talk.

And really, is there anything he doesn't make look good? Up to our knees in mud, wearing eight layers of mismatched pajamas, so cold our eyes are watering, tummies rumbling without breakfast, and he looks like a Greek god.

Whereas I have an enormous eight-layer Nacho Libre wedgie.

Why I Know who is Playing in the Superbowl this Year

When asked in Jr. High if there were any careers I didn't think I would ever excel at I replied, "I doubt I'll ever be much of a sports commentator." This is because I was overly quiet, disliked useless banter, and knew absolutely nothing about sports that weren't tennis. I could list the top one hundred men's professional tennis players in order of ATP ranking, serve speed, and bicep circumference. Other than that, I knew baseballs were round, football players smashed into one another, and they show golf on Sunday afternoon because it coincides with nap time.

Fast forward fifteen years, and the calm, mild-mannered, quiet Abi has turned into a rabid University of Utah Ute hooligan, jumping up and screaming at the TV, sitting through entire games in the freezing rain/snow, and talking about "her boys" as if she was on a first name basis with Travis, Star, Joe, and John the "Wolfman" White.

What happened?

The Husband.

And it's not just college football. Ask me anything about baseball. Who acquired Josh Hamilton in the off season? The Angels. What's a Suicide Squeeze? Only the most gutsy, awesome play in the game. What is the best possible outcome when the New York Yankees play the Tampa Bay Rays? A meteor crashing into the stadium.

And professional football. Who is the rightful 49ers quarterback? Alex Smith. What's a Wildcat formation?... I can't explain it without chalk and a board. But I know what it is. And I still know tennis, and I kind of know golf, and I begrudgingly know some basketball.

Why?

Because I am a good wife, and am rather, quite, overly fond of my husband.