I never finished telling what happened after I locked my keys in my car last weekend.
I discovered the error of my ways at 4:00 PM on Saturday. My first choice was to dial 911. That's when I learned the cops wouldn't come unless there was a baby inside or the engine was running.
Insead I asked the cops not to tow me. Ever helpful, they put me in touch with the locksmith who couldn't come until Monday.
The next morning I returned with a hammer to break one of the windows. I have twelve windows to choose from on my Jeep. I figured I needed my windshield. And there were heat sensors in the back window that had to cost a lot of money. Trying to be logical, I whittled my choices down to the four smallest windows.
In the end I chose the very smallest window to break because I could reach into the car and get to my keys the easiest that way. Without having cold air or street debris flying in my face while I drove to get it fixed.
All this decision making took a nanosecond or two, which was longer than it took to break in. I put a piece of plastic over the window and hit it at about half speed. All I succeeded in doing was making a lot of noise. The second hit got the full force of whatever's left of my softball arm and suddenly I had hundreds of tiny glass particles all over the front seat, floor, console, and it turns out, my butt, since I sat in some.
Big mistake. I picked THE MOST EXPENSIVE window of the whole bunch to break. But that's how my decision making tends to go. Usually if I've made a decision that turns out to be a mistake I can just make another decision to undo it. Not this time.
Turns out I should have had the car towed to my mechanic who could then use a funny sounding balloon like instrument to open the door for me. But I didn't know this until I brought it in, plus I couldn't even call him to ask for advice because he closes at 1:00 PM on Saturdays. Did I mention the window I broke is more expensive to fix than being towed?
There must be an addendum to Murphy's Law which says that not only will all things go wrong that can possibly go wrong, but this will always occur on Saturday afternoons after closing time.
Meanwhile, what a nice new window I'm gonna have.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
It's My Birthday and I'll Blog If I Want To
The editor I'm working with has the same birthday as I do. Cosmic, no?
Yesterday I had a new asphalt driveway put in. You could call it a birthday present to myself, but not really. It was scheduled for a couple of weeks ago, but got delayed. First we had some rain, then one of the trucks broke down, and by the time they got to my house that day, the asphalt was too cold to spread.
Yesterday, right after my new driveway got laid [there's a visual] I went outside to look at it and suddenly noticed how warm it was outdoors. Until I realized that it wasn't the air that was warm, it was the asphalt. So warm, in fact, that as I got closer I had thoughts of what it must be like to hike along the edge of a volcano.
Hope it cools off before Halloween, I mused, or I could have my very own La Brea Tar Pit, filled with children dressed in dinosaur costumes.
Which brings me to this morning. My neighbors have a lawn service. This time of year, it is largely a leaf blowing service. Because my driveway was still trying to cool off from last night, I had to park down the street a bit. As I drove back by my house on my way to work, I watched a leaf blower guy blowing all my neighbor's leaves over onto my driveway. Won't that look nice, I thought. My new driveway will be coated with a permanent pile of leaves stuck to the asphalt. I slowed to a stop and watched as the leaf blower guy continued to blow more and more leaves onto my driveway. Finally, like the hemorrhoid commercial, I was no longer able to contain myself and I honked.
Yoo hoo -- what the f**k are you doing? I said in my sweetest voice, knowing that the only word they understood was f**k, since, in my experience, that's one of the first words learned by people who speak English as a second language.
The rest of our conversation was conducted successfully in sign language as the guy who had been blowing the leaves from my neighbor's yard onto my driveway quickly began to blow them back again. Just in case, I took the name of the company they work for if I should happen to find the leaves back on my driveway again. Or I could just have my leaf blowers blow the leaves their leaf blowers blew onto my driveway back over to their lawn. This could get ugly.
In the meantime, I can contemplate what it means to turn sixty-four. Hmmm. Let me get back to you on that.
Yesterday I had a new asphalt driveway put in. You could call it a birthday present to myself, but not really. It was scheduled for a couple of weeks ago, but got delayed. First we had some rain, then one of the trucks broke down, and by the time they got to my house that day, the asphalt was too cold to spread.
Yesterday, right after my new driveway got laid [there's a visual] I went outside to look at it and suddenly noticed how warm it was outdoors. Until I realized that it wasn't the air that was warm, it was the asphalt. So warm, in fact, that as I got closer I had thoughts of what it must be like to hike along the edge of a volcano.
Hope it cools off before Halloween, I mused, or I could have my very own La Brea Tar Pit, filled with children dressed in dinosaur costumes.
Which brings me to this morning. My neighbors have a lawn service. This time of year, it is largely a leaf blowing service. Because my driveway was still trying to cool off from last night, I had to park down the street a bit. As I drove back by my house on my way to work, I watched a leaf blower guy blowing all my neighbor's leaves over onto my driveway. Won't that look nice, I thought. My new driveway will be coated with a permanent pile of leaves stuck to the asphalt. I slowed to a stop and watched as the leaf blower guy continued to blow more and more leaves onto my driveway. Finally, like the hemorrhoid commercial, I was no longer able to contain myself and I honked.
Yoo hoo -- what the f**k are you doing? I said in my sweetest voice, knowing that the only word they understood was f**k, since, in my experience, that's one of the first words learned by people who speak English as a second language.
The rest of our conversation was conducted successfully in sign language as the guy who had been blowing the leaves from my neighbor's yard onto my driveway quickly began to blow them back again. Just in case, I took the name of the company they work for if I should happen to find the leaves back on my driveway again. Or I could just have my leaf blowers blow the leaves their leaf blowers blew onto my driveway back over to their lawn. This could get ugly.
In the meantime, I can contemplate what it means to turn sixty-four. Hmmm. Let me get back to you on that.
Monday, October 29, 2007
All the Signs Are There
I'm trying to remember. Who were the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse? Flameout, Foulmouth, Fernbreath and Flatulence? Or was it Asshead, Asswipe, Assface, and Smartass?
For those of you who would smote me in the eye with a poker for making Biblical fun, let me assure you that I already feel ike I've been ridden by Fire, Pestilence, War, and Death since Bush arrived, and I was just trying to lighten things up around here.
Yesterday I heard an environmental group proclaim that the Great Lakes are evaporating faster than fishermen can pee into the water. Atlanta is having a drought which threatens to end the entire landscape industry in Georgia. Apparently the Army Corps of Engineers didn't get the memo. They continue to siphon off billions of gallons of fresh water every day from a soon to be empty reservoir to keep a bunch of endangered mussels from drying up like prunes downstream. New Orleans, in case you haven't noticed, is still digging out from the flood of the millennium, just as wildfires in LA and San Diego sent 2000 houses up in flames. And don't forget, Yellowstone isn't just a national park, it's the cap on a bottle of magma that is so shook up it could explode any time and take three states with it.
On a positive note, a mere 69 school children have been killed in Chicago this year. Unfortunately, the lucky kids that survive the shootings have to contend with locker-rooms, lunchrooms, and doorknobs infected with antibiotic resistant MRSA -- the scourge of small cuts and scratches that makes AIDS look like a bad cold.
Meanwhile, I'd like to know why gasoline is selling at over eighty dollars a barrel, but prices at the pump are still under three bucks.
The financial reporters announced with much tribulation that sales of existing homes are down eight percent, a chance for doom and gloomers to predict a coming recession, but the next day, sales of new homes were reportedly up a surprising four percent.
Nothing makes sense. Even pumpkins. Those big yellow squash are no longer just gourds for children to carve on Halloween. They've now been grown to gargantuan size, itself an American tradition, so that they can be [choose one]: carved out to use as boats and raced down a river, dropped from enormous heights to crush a pick up truck, served to elephants so they can stomp them to death, and finally, weighed in a contest to see if someonecan grow one that tops 2000 pounds. 1600+ is all they could muster this year. Okay, it's world record size for a pumpkin.
Why do we care about things like that?
It's my birthday tomorrow by the way. A guy I've known since high school has the same birthday as I do. Today he sent me an MP3 of the Beatles singing "When I'm 64." The first time I heard them on the radio was in '64. Does that qualify as a full circle moment?
For those of you who would smote me in the eye with a poker for making Biblical fun, let me assure you that I already feel ike I've been ridden by Fire, Pestilence, War, and Death since Bush arrived, and I was just trying to lighten things up around here.
Yesterday I heard an environmental group proclaim that the Great Lakes are evaporating faster than fishermen can pee into the water. Atlanta is having a drought which threatens to end the entire landscape industry in Georgia. Apparently the Army Corps of Engineers didn't get the memo. They continue to siphon off billions of gallons of fresh water every day from a soon to be empty reservoir to keep a bunch of endangered mussels from drying up like prunes downstream. New Orleans, in case you haven't noticed, is still digging out from the flood of the millennium, just as wildfires in LA and San Diego sent 2000 houses up in flames. And don't forget, Yellowstone isn't just a national park, it's the cap on a bottle of magma that is so shook up it could explode any time and take three states with it.
On a positive note, a mere 69 school children have been killed in Chicago this year. Unfortunately, the lucky kids that survive the shootings have to contend with locker-rooms, lunchrooms, and doorknobs infected with antibiotic resistant MRSA -- the scourge of small cuts and scratches that makes AIDS look like a bad cold.
Meanwhile, I'd like to know why gasoline is selling at over eighty dollars a barrel, but prices at the pump are still under three bucks.
The financial reporters announced with much tribulation that sales of existing homes are down eight percent, a chance for doom and gloomers to predict a coming recession, but the next day, sales of new homes were reportedly up a surprising four percent.
Nothing makes sense. Even pumpkins. Those big yellow squash are no longer just gourds for children to carve on Halloween. They've now been grown to gargantuan size, itself an American tradition, so that they can be [choose one]: carved out to use as boats and raced down a river, dropped from enormous heights to crush a pick up truck, served to elephants so they can stomp them to death, and finally, weighed in a contest to see if someonecan grow one that tops 2000 pounds. 1600+ is all they could muster this year. Okay, it's world record size for a pumpkin.
Why do we care about things like that?
It's my birthday tomorrow by the way. A guy I've known since high school has the same birthday as I do. Today he sent me an MP3 of the Beatles singing "When I'm 64." The first time I heard them on the radio was in '64. Does that qualify as a full circle moment?
Saturday, October 27, 2007
It's The Little Things
I'm not going to get to the point of this little tale for a while, so just bear with me.
Today was the final game of my friends' son's high school football career. He is being recruited by several colleges, but he has already been told by a major Division One program that he doesn't look like one of their typical running backs. Actually he's built like a lot of tailbacks, around 5'10", 200 lbs, with a lot of strength and forward speed, but he's a member of a minority in football circles -- he's white.
This afternoon his team lost in the first round of the playoffs, not unexpected since their coach sucks, but he had a great game. When the game was televised later today, the commentators couldn't have been more complimentary. We were all amazed at how thoroughly informed they were about the players from both squads. They even knew details about some of their fathers, since a lot of the boys had dads who had played for the same high school team or they had been college standouts somewhere.
After the game I got back to my car and discovered to my dismay that it was locked with the keys in the ignition. I got distracted by some friends who pulled up next to me while I was getting out of my car and didn't hear the buzzing my car makes when the key is in the ignition and the car door is open.
Unfortunately my car can't be opened with a Slim Jim -- the local police tried that once before, the only other time this has happened. A lady locksmith had to come out and snake a wire through a window to open things up.
I have an extra key for my car somewhere in my house, but I haven't seen it for a couple of years. I called the police to let them know I would be leaving it in the parking lot so they wouldn't tow it. They were nice enough to ask if a baby was inside and whether the engine was running. No and no. Okay, lady, you're on your own. They only come out for potential dead babies and cars that could drive away by themselves. They did, however, put me in touch with a locksmith who informed me that he couldn't come until Monday. 888 USA Lock. Is that a great phone number or what?
So I just left my car and went home with my friends who had invited me to their house for a party anyway. I just got there a little earlier than I planned dressed in polar fleece instead of a cashmere sweater.
Some folks at the party offered to drive me home, which was a little out of their way, but I was very glad they were willing to help me out.
Now here's the part I've taken so long to get to: when we got to my house, someone had parked their car smack dab in front of my driveway. WTF? Not that I needed my driveway tonight, since my car was parked about ten miles away at a high school in Hilary Clinton's former hometown.
But it was the principle of the thing. What if I had been driving my car? I would be inconvenienced. I would have to drive on my park way or, horrors, park on the street. The nerve!
The first thing I did was to decide not to knock on doors looking for the owner, because it was pretty late. The second thing I did was write a note to leave on the windshield. It said, "In case you didn't notice, you parked in front of my driveway." I wanted to start out "Dear Asswipe," but I decided not to. In fact, I decided not to leave the note at all.
Because I called THE POLICE instead. Yes, the very same cops who tramped through my house executing a wellness check. However, I didn't call 911, because it wasn't an emergency. I just told a dispatcher that some idiot had parked in front of my driveway and I wanted him or her or whoever to get a ticket for being so incredibly stupid. So, when you people have time, could they send a patrol officer to check out the situation.
It's been about an hour since I called. If the car is still there I'll check to see if it has a ticket on it. If it doesn't have a ticket on it I will sit on the front fender and rock it back and forth until the alarm goes off. Then I will walk away.
Here goes.
UPDATE: The car was gone. I was so disappointed. I don't know whether it got a ticket or not.
Today was the final game of my friends' son's high school football career. He is being recruited by several colleges, but he has already been told by a major Division One program that he doesn't look like one of their typical running backs. Actually he's built like a lot of tailbacks, around 5'10", 200 lbs, with a lot of strength and forward speed, but he's a member of a minority in football circles -- he's white.
This afternoon his team lost in the first round of the playoffs, not unexpected since their coach sucks, but he had a great game. When the game was televised later today, the commentators couldn't have been more complimentary. We were all amazed at how thoroughly informed they were about the players from both squads. They even knew details about some of their fathers, since a lot of the boys had dads who had played for the same high school team or they had been college standouts somewhere.
After the game I got back to my car and discovered to my dismay that it was locked with the keys in the ignition. I got distracted by some friends who pulled up next to me while I was getting out of my car and didn't hear the buzzing my car makes when the key is in the ignition and the car door is open.
Unfortunately my car can't be opened with a Slim Jim -- the local police tried that once before, the only other time this has happened. A lady locksmith had to come out and snake a wire through a window to open things up.
I have an extra key for my car somewhere in my house, but I haven't seen it for a couple of years. I called the police to let them know I would be leaving it in the parking lot so they wouldn't tow it. They were nice enough to ask if a baby was inside and whether the engine was running. No and no. Okay, lady, you're on your own. They only come out for potential dead babies and cars that could drive away by themselves. They did, however, put me in touch with a locksmith who informed me that he couldn't come until Monday. 888 USA Lock. Is that a great phone number or what?
So I just left my car and went home with my friends who had invited me to their house for a party anyway. I just got there a little earlier than I planned dressed in polar fleece instead of a cashmere sweater.
Some folks at the party offered to drive me home, which was a little out of their way, but I was very glad they were willing to help me out.
Now here's the part I've taken so long to get to: when we got to my house, someone had parked their car smack dab in front of my driveway. WTF? Not that I needed my driveway tonight, since my car was parked about ten miles away at a high school in Hilary Clinton's former hometown.
But it was the principle of the thing. What if I had been driving my car? I would be inconvenienced. I would have to drive on my park way or, horrors, park on the street. The nerve!
The first thing I did was to decide not to knock on doors looking for the owner, because it was pretty late. The second thing I did was write a note to leave on the windshield. It said, "In case you didn't notice, you parked in front of my driveway." I wanted to start out "Dear Asswipe," but I decided not to. In fact, I decided not to leave the note at all.
Because I called THE POLICE instead. Yes, the very same cops who tramped through my house executing a wellness check. However, I didn't call 911, because it wasn't an emergency. I just told a dispatcher that some idiot had parked in front of my driveway and I wanted him or her or whoever to get a ticket for being so incredibly stupid. So, when you people have time, could they send a patrol officer to check out the situation.
It's been about an hour since I called. If the car is still there I'll check to see if it has a ticket on it. If it doesn't have a ticket on it I will sit on the front fender and rock it back and forth until the alarm goes off. Then I will walk away.
Here goes.
UPDATE: The car was gone. I was so disappointed. I don't know whether it got a ticket or not.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Fifteen Minutes of Fame
My girlfriend's husband was interviewed by phone on CNN yesterday, when the fire was coming over the mountain and up the road. You can see it by clicking on this link. There's a really scary picture of his bad self that he sent to the station to make people think he just got out of prison or something. He's dressed up in his fancy California clothes -- black t-shirt, black baseball cap and Uni-bomber shades.
http://www.flashpusher.com/vid/malibu.html
For some reason the link doesn't work when I post it here. Maybe it will if you cut and paste it. Or you can just pretend you watched it.
UPDATE UPDATE UPDATE
Okay, the link works now.
For some reason the link doesn't work when I post it here. Maybe it will if you cut and paste it. Or you can just pretend you watched it.
UPDATE UPDATE UPDATE
Okay, the link works now.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Come On Baby Light My Fire
My friends in Malibu lost their home about ten years ago in one of LA's Santa Ana wind fires. They had great insurance so they rebuilt from the ground up. The new house is steel and glass with poured cement flooring. They went from rustic mountain retreat to uber-techno modern. With this week's fire now climbing up the hill just down the road, that may have been a good idea.
There are five fire trucks on their street. Most people have left the area. My girlfriend finally left yesterday. Her hubba bubba is sticking it out so far.
The firefighters have been living in the neighborhood for the last few days. I saw a reporter on the evening news with a bunch of them struggling with broken hoses on a hill above the Pacific Coast Highway. The view looked familiar. Turns out they were about half a mile from my friends. I guess the LA Times interviewed my girlfriend yesterday. CNN saw the story and now they're interviewing her husband today. They wanted to talk to her, but she'd left for her mom's. The possibility of one family losing two homes to fire in the span of ten years was just too good for the media to pass up.
Hubba Bubba's car is packed, but he's been sticking around untiil he absolutely has to leave. Once you go you're not allowed back.
As of yesterday their house is the only one with phone and internet service still. So their living room has become command central, because that single phone line is the only connection the firefighters have with their commanders. Before my girlfriend left and food ran low, she was making breakfasts for the firefighters. I guess a bunch of them are sleeping in the garage and taking showers after their shifts are over. I'd like to be a towel on those bathroom racks.
They promise to tell her husband when it's absolutely no kidding you gotta get out of here now time to leave. Or he can stay in the house with them until the flames go by. I guess they think the steel and glass can withstand the blaze if the wind changes direction and they're suddenly in the line of fire, as it were.
After the fires there are usually mudslides and/or earthquakes. It's a small price to pay for having mountains in your backyard and the Pacific Ocean out front.
Me? I like knowing that my grass and trees can't go up in flames and take my house too. And when it rains my house won't slide into a canyon on a river of mud. Not to mention getting shaken, not stirred, in an earthquake.
Weather isn't my problem. Wellness checks are.
There are five fire trucks on their street. Most people have left the area. My girlfriend finally left yesterday. Her hubba bubba is sticking it out so far.
The firefighters have been living in the neighborhood for the last few days. I saw a reporter on the evening news with a bunch of them struggling with broken hoses on a hill above the Pacific Coast Highway. The view looked familiar. Turns out they were about half a mile from my friends. I guess the LA Times interviewed my girlfriend yesterday. CNN saw the story and now they're interviewing her husband today. They wanted to talk to her, but she'd left for her mom's. The possibility of one family losing two homes to fire in the span of ten years was just too good for the media to pass up.
Hubba Bubba's car is packed, but he's been sticking around untiil he absolutely has to leave. Once you go you're not allowed back.
As of yesterday their house is the only one with phone and internet service still. So their living room has become command central, because that single phone line is the only connection the firefighters have with their commanders. Before my girlfriend left and food ran low, she was making breakfasts for the firefighters. I guess a bunch of them are sleeping in the garage and taking showers after their shifts are over. I'd like to be a towel on those bathroom racks.
They promise to tell her husband when it's absolutely no kidding you gotta get out of here now time to leave. Or he can stay in the house with them until the flames go by. I guess they think the steel and glass can withstand the blaze if the wind changes direction and they're suddenly in the line of fire, as it were.
After the fires there are usually mudslides and/or earthquakes. It's a small price to pay for having mountains in your backyard and the Pacific Ocean out front.
Me? I like knowing that my grass and trees can't go up in flames and take my house too. And when it rains my house won't slide into a canyon on a river of mud. Not to mention getting shaken, not stirred, in an earthquake.
Weather isn't my problem. Wellness checks are.
Monday, October 22, 2007
I'm MELDING, I'm MELDING. . .
Today my work life gets melded with my blog life. One of my promotions launches today and I think it's worthy of mentioning here because one of the grand prizes you could win is a 7500 book donation in YOUR name to a school or town library. For instance, your kid's school. Or your town's library. 7500 is a LOT of books. I can't enter, but YOU can.
There are other prizes too, including a hybrid car and a vacation, but I think the books would be a great prize for a school to get, so I'm mentioning it.
Go to www.booksarefun.com and click on the WIN BIG! graphic in the right hand corner if you want to enter. You don't have to buy anything.
You can enter once a day until the end of the year. You can invite your friends to enter too -- and if they do you get more entries in your name.
Books Are Fun is a great company. They're owned by Reader's Digest, so I can't recommend them highly enough. Especially if you can read.
There are other prizes too, including a hybrid car and a vacation, but I think the books would be a great prize for a school to get, so I'm mentioning it.
Go to www.booksarefun.com and click on the WIN BIG! graphic in the right hand corner if you want to enter. You don't have to buy anything.
You can enter once a day until the end of the year. You can invite your friends to enter too -- and if they do you get more entries in your name.
Books Are Fun is a great company. They're owned by Reader's Digest, so I can't recommend them highly enough. Especially if you can read.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
I'll Be Your Mentor Too
I had a secretary once, back when people had secretaries, who looked like she stepped out of the pages of Playboy. With a few more clothes on. She had a Barbie Doll body without any help from anyone except Mother Nature. Meanwhile, the rest of her bore no resemblance to those brainless, bottled bimbettes who work as Hef's personal pets on The Girls Next Door. She could speak in coherent sentences. She was naturally pretty without makeup. She didn't dye her hair or wear hooker clothing. And the pole next to her desk was for hanging up her coat.
We worked in the Hancock building, which is a block away from the Playboy building. I suggested more than once that she think about becoming a Playmate. That's the kind of mentor I am. Get some pictures taken and walk over there I would say. I told her she could make enough money to go to college, because she was very smart. But she was worried that her dad might see the pictures. I said he'd get over it. She'd get over it too. Nope, I couldn't convince her.
Instead she became a copywriter like me, then chucked it all to get married in a tight white leather strapless wedding dress from Neiman Marcus to one of the guys at the office. Afterward they had three boys.
The other day, out of the blue, she emailed me to see if I was dead. I wrote back and said yes, but maybe we could have lunch.
That very night, I was interviewing kids for a high school video and this tall football player wearing a backwards baseball cap stepped in for his close up and said his name. It sounded familiar. I looked and I immediately knew he was his mother's kid, since he looked just like her from the neck up. He even had her extra long, black eyelashes.
Looking at him made me wonder what I would look like as a guy. I was also reminded of something a guy said to me once. He claimed he knew exactly what he wanted in a woman. "I want someone just like me with tits." I think he'd rethink that notion if he got an up close and personal view.
Aside from wondering what I'd look like as a guy, I also think there's something weirdly cosmic about my old secretary contacting me after years and years on the very same day that I run into her son for the first time.
Anyway, I did one of those adult things that's guaranteed to make a young man cringe. Hey, I know your mom and dad! Your mom was my secretary once a long time ago. You look just like her. Luckily, I didn't blurt out anything about Playboy.
He gave me a look that had EEEEEEWWWWWWW written all over it. But he gave her the message that I said hello. Now she wants to have that lunch with me and my daughters, since she used to stay with them when I had to go out of town. She hasn't seen them since they were ten and twelve I think.
With them both long gone from home, some days it feels like I haven't either.
We worked in the Hancock building, which is a block away from the Playboy building. I suggested more than once that she think about becoming a Playmate. That's the kind of mentor I am. Get some pictures taken and walk over there I would say. I told her she could make enough money to go to college, because she was very smart. But she was worried that her dad might see the pictures. I said he'd get over it. She'd get over it too. Nope, I couldn't convince her.
Instead she became a copywriter like me, then chucked it all to get married in a tight white leather strapless wedding dress from Neiman Marcus to one of the guys at the office. Afterward they had three boys.
The other day, out of the blue, she emailed me to see if I was dead. I wrote back and said yes, but maybe we could have lunch.
That very night, I was interviewing kids for a high school video and this tall football player wearing a backwards baseball cap stepped in for his close up and said his name. It sounded familiar. I looked and I immediately knew he was his mother's kid, since he looked just like her from the neck up. He even had her extra long, black eyelashes.
Looking at him made me wonder what I would look like as a guy. I was also reminded of something a guy said to me once. He claimed he knew exactly what he wanted in a woman. "I want someone just like me with tits." I think he'd rethink that notion if he got an up close and personal view.
Aside from wondering what I'd look like as a guy, I also think there's something weirdly cosmic about my old secretary contacting me after years and years on the very same day that I run into her son for the first time.
Anyway, I did one of those adult things that's guaranteed to make a young man cringe. Hey, I know your mom and dad! Your mom was my secretary once a long time ago. You look just like her. Luckily, I didn't blurt out anything about Playboy.
He gave me a look that had EEEEEEWWWWWWW written all over it. But he gave her the message that I said hello. Now she wants to have that lunch with me and my daughters, since she used to stay with them when I had to go out of town. She hasn't seen them since they were ten and twelve I think.
With them both long gone from home, some days it feels like I haven't either.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Will the Real Adrian Peterson Please Stand Up?
There's nothing as disconcerting as having the same name as someone else. It's one thing to look like someone else, because you're still you. But when you have the exact same name, it's like having your identity stolen. On the other hand there are people who embrace name sharing. Like all the people named Jim Smith who actually have a convention for themselves.
Me, I talked to someone who had my same name before I got my married one. We were the same age too. I called her up because I kept getting phone calls from guys who thought she was me. She had been meaning to call because she was hearing from guys who thought she was me, too. The whole thing creeped me out thank you very much.
A few years ago, after getting rid of that other name via marriage, I learned there is another Mrs. Linklater in the Chicago area. I learned this because an FBI agent left her card in the crook of the storm door at my house. She wanted to know if I knew someone I'd never heard of. When I said, no, she said, oh, it must be the other Mrs. Linklater.
On Sunday there was an unusual convergence of same names in a very public forum. There are two NFL running backs named Adrian Peterson. One Adrian Peterson plays somewhat anonymously behind the controversial, much-maligned Bears' running back, Cedric Benson. The other Adrian Peterson is a future hall of famer rookie who starts for Minnesota.
Yesterday the Minnesota Vikings played the Chicago Bears. The Vikings' Adrian Peterson had the kind of day the Bears' Adrian Peterson can only dream of.
The guys in the FOX Sports booth were in total awe of the Vikings' Adrian Peterson. They laid it on with a trowel so thick that one of the local sports anchors put together a bunch of their drooling sound bites for his report this morning and said, "Enough already." Not that the Bears' Adrian Peterson was terrible. He just wasn't the Vikings' Adrian Peterson.
All of the Adrian Peterson talk served to make Cedric Benson look really bad by comparison to either one of the Adrian Petersons, although his lack of production is so poor, he can do that all by himself.
Meanwhile, the Bears lost the game because the Vikings' Adrian Peterson returned a kick off for fifty yards, after the Bears miraculously tied the game with about a minute to go. Unfortunately, that kick off return gave the Vikings' kicker a chance to punch out hislongest field goal ever and win the game as time ran out.
Afterward, all the analysts in Chicago were whining and moaning about how bad the Bears' defense has been, how awful Cedric Benson is, and how all but one of the losing teams of the last bunch of Super Bowls have had terrible years afterward.
But I see sunshine among all these dark and stormy clouds. For me, watching the game from the comfort of my living room, there was a rainbow of hope. With less than four minutes to go the Bears were down by two touchdowns. In the Rex Grossman era, the game would have ended that way.
But since Rex blew it one too many times, we're now in the Brian Griese epoch. Brian, son of Hall of Famer, Bob, is a ten year veteran who has been toiling behind the Rexmeister. Yesterday, when the defense finally kept the Vikings from scoring, he was able to throw two strikes for TDs in a very short amount of time. Something the Rexonator wasn't known for.
The first pass was thrown to a spot in the middle of the field. If you look at the replay there is nothing where he threw it, but air. Suddenly Mussan Muhammed appeared out of nowhere in between two defenders to snatch the pass and take it in for the touchdown. The other pass was a deep toss over the shoulder to Devin Hester in full stride. Hester had already scored a touchdown on his first kick return of the day and this one tied up the game. It was BEEYOUTIFULL!!!
No way Rex could have made those throws. Griese makes faster, better decisions, more accurate throws, and he can find his alternate receivers before his protection breaks down. Rex supposedly has a stronger arm, but Joe Montana won a few Super Bowls with his "weak" arm. And Griese is no Joe Montana. I mean that in a good way.
So the Bears lost, but there was some good news too. Brian Griese is looking like the NFL quarterback everybody thought he could be before he had drinking problems. But everybody was too busy dumping on the defense and Cedric Benson to notice.
Of course, IF the Bears just hadn't kicked off to Adrian Peterson after that last TD. . .IF the special teams players had only stopped him sooner during his runback. . .IF IF IF.
Now if only the Bears' Adrian Peterson could get a chance to start in place of Cedric Benson.
Me, I talked to someone who had my same name before I got my married one. We were the same age too. I called her up because I kept getting phone calls from guys who thought she was me. She had been meaning to call because she was hearing from guys who thought she was me, too. The whole thing creeped me out thank you very much.
A few years ago, after getting rid of that other name via marriage, I learned there is another Mrs. Linklater in the Chicago area. I learned this because an FBI agent left her card in the crook of the storm door at my house. She wanted to know if I knew someone I'd never heard of. When I said, no, she said, oh, it must be the other Mrs. Linklater.
On Sunday there was an unusual convergence of same names in a very public forum. There are two NFL running backs named Adrian Peterson. One Adrian Peterson plays somewhat anonymously behind the controversial, much-maligned Bears' running back, Cedric Benson. The other Adrian Peterson is a future hall of famer rookie who starts for Minnesota.
Yesterday the Minnesota Vikings played the Chicago Bears. The Vikings' Adrian Peterson had the kind of day the Bears' Adrian Peterson can only dream of.
The guys in the FOX Sports booth were in total awe of the Vikings' Adrian Peterson. They laid it on with a trowel so thick that one of the local sports anchors put together a bunch of their drooling sound bites for his report this morning and said, "Enough already." Not that the Bears' Adrian Peterson was terrible. He just wasn't the Vikings' Adrian Peterson.
All of the Adrian Peterson talk served to make Cedric Benson look really bad by comparison to either one of the Adrian Petersons, although his lack of production is so poor, he can do that all by himself.
Meanwhile, the Bears lost the game because the Vikings' Adrian Peterson returned a kick off for fifty yards, after the Bears miraculously tied the game with about a minute to go. Unfortunately, that kick off return gave the Vikings' kicker a chance to punch out hislongest field goal ever and win the game as time ran out.
Afterward, all the analysts in Chicago were whining and moaning about how bad the Bears' defense has been, how awful Cedric Benson is, and how all but one of the losing teams of the last bunch of Super Bowls have had terrible years afterward.
But I see sunshine among all these dark and stormy clouds. For me, watching the game from the comfort of my living room, there was a rainbow of hope. With less than four minutes to go the Bears were down by two touchdowns. In the Rex Grossman era, the game would have ended that way.
But since Rex blew it one too many times, we're now in the Brian Griese epoch. Brian, son of Hall of Famer, Bob, is a ten year veteran who has been toiling behind the Rexmeister. Yesterday, when the defense finally kept the Vikings from scoring, he was able to throw two strikes for TDs in a very short amount of time. Something the Rexonator wasn't known for.
The first pass was thrown to a spot in the middle of the field. If you look at the replay there is nothing where he threw it, but air. Suddenly Mussan Muhammed appeared out of nowhere in between two defenders to snatch the pass and take it in for the touchdown. The other pass was a deep toss over the shoulder to Devin Hester in full stride. Hester had already scored a touchdown on his first kick return of the day and this one tied up the game. It was BEEYOUTIFULL!!!
No way Rex could have made those throws. Griese makes faster, better decisions, more accurate throws, and he can find his alternate receivers before his protection breaks down. Rex supposedly has a stronger arm, but Joe Montana won a few Super Bowls with his "weak" arm. And Griese is no Joe Montana. I mean that in a good way.
So the Bears lost, but there was some good news too. Brian Griese is looking like the NFL quarterback everybody thought he could be before he had drinking problems. But everybody was too busy dumping on the defense and Cedric Benson to notice.
Of course, IF the Bears just hadn't kicked off to Adrian Peterson after that last TD. . .IF the special teams players had only stopped him sooner during his runback. . .IF IF IF.
Now if only the Bears' Adrian Peterson could get a chance to start in place of Cedric Benson.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Can You Say Shellacked?
Guess who didn't win the game last night? Guess who not only didn't win, but got squashed like a bug?
The conference championship was on the line. My old high school vs. the six-time conference champions. The place was jammed with people who thought they were going to see a clash of the titans. Ha. The game was over after the first quarter.
Actually I thought the game might be over when the teams came on the field, since the six-time [now seven] champs usually wear red and black. But last night they came out in all white with red lettering. Not intimidating at all. My old high school trotted out in retro green jerseys with white pants. Make that OFF white pants. They were slightly yellowish compared to their bright white socks.
So, neither team won the battle of the uniforms.
Here's the real difference between them -- NOTE: These are not the actual stats, just the way it felt sitting in the stands.
Their quarterback completed 49 of his 50 pass attempts. A bunch of them for touchdowns. Ours only managed one completion because he spent most of the night scrambling around trying to find someone to throw to. They used ten different receivers. We used only one, who kept dropping everything. Their coach had at least twelve running backs marching down the field ten yards at a crack. We had one who ran for a fifty yard touchdown, the only score. Oh yeah, on the opening play of the second half, special teams managed an exciting gazillion yard kick off return to the ten yard line. But that ended like everything else -- first and goal and they couldn't get it in.
All the prep sports writers were there. So were the TV boys. Someone said this was the game of the week on high school sports cable. And it turned into the biggest buttkicking ever dealt in the history of the rivalry. Even worse for the losing team, it happened during homecoming on senior night at the coach's last home game of his career.
On the other hand, there are those of us who think it couldn't have happened to a more deserving coach. Seventeen years of never winning the ones that mattered. I knew they had a losing program when I heard his philosophy of coaching. For him it has never been about winning, it's about having fun.
The other team was unbearably arrogant too. Rude and unsportsmanlike.
Normally the visitors come out to warm up first. There's a protocol to all this. But the visitors refused to take the field first. Score one for the visitors.
After halftime the visitors warm up on the south end of the field, where they also warm up before the game. But the visitors starting warming up on the north side of the field until the home team made them move. Score one for the home team.
After the game, the visitors usually gather in a corner near the end zone. Not last night. They gathered near the fifty yard line, within a few yards of the team they had just humiliated. Then they did a loud, long cheer for themselves. They were really rubbing it in. Looks like another score for the visiting team -- but wait.
Finally, with the stands empty, and just the two teams left on the field, one of the losing captains walked over and told the winning team to get off their field. Seventy players turned to face one angry lone ranger. And they walked away. Score one for the home team.
It was probably the best play of the game.
The conference championship was on the line. My old high school vs. the six-time conference champions. The place was jammed with people who thought they were going to see a clash of the titans. Ha. The game was over after the first quarter.
Actually I thought the game might be over when the teams came on the field, since the six-time [now seven] champs usually wear red and black. But last night they came out in all white with red lettering. Not intimidating at all. My old high school trotted out in retro green jerseys with white pants. Make that OFF white pants. They were slightly yellowish compared to their bright white socks.
So, neither team won the battle of the uniforms.
Here's the real difference between them -- NOTE: These are not the actual stats, just the way it felt sitting in the stands.
Their quarterback completed 49 of his 50 pass attempts. A bunch of them for touchdowns. Ours only managed one completion because he spent most of the night scrambling around trying to find someone to throw to. They used ten different receivers. We used only one, who kept dropping everything. Their coach had at least twelve running backs marching down the field ten yards at a crack. We had one who ran for a fifty yard touchdown, the only score. Oh yeah, on the opening play of the second half, special teams managed an exciting gazillion yard kick off return to the ten yard line. But that ended like everything else -- first and goal and they couldn't get it in.
All the prep sports writers were there. So were the TV boys. Someone said this was the game of the week on high school sports cable. And it turned into the biggest buttkicking ever dealt in the history of the rivalry. Even worse for the losing team, it happened during homecoming on senior night at the coach's last home game of his career.
On the other hand, there are those of us who think it couldn't have happened to a more deserving coach. Seventeen years of never winning the ones that mattered. I knew they had a losing program when I heard his philosophy of coaching. For him it has never been about winning, it's about having fun.
The other team was unbearably arrogant too. Rude and unsportsmanlike.
Normally the visitors come out to warm up first. There's a protocol to all this. But the visitors refused to take the field first. Score one for the visitors.
After halftime the visitors warm up on the south end of the field, where they also warm up before the game. But the visitors starting warming up on the north side of the field until the home team made them move. Score one for the home team.
After the game, the visitors usually gather in a corner near the end zone. Not last night. They gathered near the fifty yard line, within a few yards of the team they had just humiliated. Then they did a loud, long cheer for themselves. They were really rubbing it in. Looks like another score for the visiting team -- but wait.
Finally, with the stands empty, and just the two teams left on the field, one of the losing captains walked over and told the winning team to get off their field. Seventy players turned to face one angry lone ranger. And they walked away. Score one for the home team.
It was probably the best play of the game.
Friday, October 12, 2007
The Late Mrs. Linklater
I come from a family that was never late to anything. Time was a master to be obeyed. I think that comes from having a nurse mom and a doctor dad who were always consulting their watches for medications, pulse rates, and time of death. Years later, my mom still wore her watch with the face on the inside of her wrist, like she used to when she was timing contractions in the labor rooms. Needless to say, for my siblings and me, nothing good ever came of not being on time. If you were late getting in, you could be locked out of the house. If you weren't ready to go, my dad was known to leave without you. That kind of stuff.
But time is just time. You have the power to make it a tool or a weapon. You can let it rule your life or simply manage it. After growing up and leaving home -- on time -- punctuality was so ingrained that it became a test of another person's character. Mostly it loomed as a sign of respect. I was pretty rigid in the beginning. A guy who said he would pick me up at 8:00 and showed up later without calling didn't get a second chance. Assuming I wasn't gone already.
Later I had an in-law who was generous to a fault, kind to everyone, devoted to her church, and the most self effacing person I have ever known, but she was always two hours late. For everything. You could set your clock by when she said she would arrive. No matter what time she said, she'd get there exactly two hours later. It never occurred to her to call, because she never thought she was going to be late. She always arrived with profuse apologies as if her ridiculous lateness had never happened before. Time, I realized later, was the one thing that was all about her.
On the other hand, I learned not to be impressed by people who show up early. They're anxious and they make me uncomfortable. Every time someone is early, it just pisses me off. Getting to my house a half an hour ahead of time for a party, a date, a ride, whatever, was and still is, just annoying. I'm never ready early. I know how long things take to be on time, so you're just messing me up. It's like someone opening the door on you when you're in the bathroom. In fact, it feels just like that.
The key is being able to hit the mark. Not either side of it. Naturally, I married the most punctual person I have ever known. We were perfectly suited for one another time-wise. Laugh at me, but I'm not the only one who lovespunctuality you know. I heard that Cindy Crawford and Richard Gere had big problems in their marriage because she was always punctual, and he was hours and hours late.
But then I had children. And from that point, until recently, I have been fifteen minutes late to everything. For years, no matter how hard I tried, that incremental quarter of an hour was attached my to my arrival time like toilet paper stuck to my shoe.
The main reason I finally got a cell phone was to let people know I'd be about fifteen minutes late. Until this year. Something has happened. Recently, I had to be at someone's house the other day at 8:00 AM. I was about to call them to say I would be a little late. But I noticed I wasn't.
The first thing they said when I walked in was "Right on time." I can't remember the last time anyone said that to me. Maybe I finally have enough time to be on time again.
But time is just time. You have the power to make it a tool or a weapon. You can let it rule your life or simply manage it. After growing up and leaving home -- on time -- punctuality was so ingrained that it became a test of another person's character. Mostly it loomed as a sign of respect. I was pretty rigid in the beginning. A guy who said he would pick me up at 8:00 and showed up later without calling didn't get a second chance. Assuming I wasn't gone already.
Later I had an in-law who was generous to a fault, kind to everyone, devoted to her church, and the most self effacing person I have ever known, but she was always two hours late. For everything. You could set your clock by when she said she would arrive. No matter what time she said, she'd get there exactly two hours later. It never occurred to her to call, because she never thought she was going to be late. She always arrived with profuse apologies as if her ridiculous lateness had never happened before. Time, I realized later, was the one thing that was all about her.
On the other hand, I learned not to be impressed by people who show up early. They're anxious and they make me uncomfortable. Every time someone is early, it just pisses me off. Getting to my house a half an hour ahead of time for a party, a date, a ride, whatever, was and still is, just annoying. I'm never ready early. I know how long things take to be on time, so you're just messing me up. It's like someone opening the door on you when you're in the bathroom. In fact, it feels just like that.
The key is being able to hit the mark. Not either side of it. Naturally, I married the most punctual person I have ever known. We were perfectly suited for one another time-wise. Laugh at me, but I'm not the only one who lovespunctuality you know. I heard that Cindy Crawford and Richard Gere had big problems in their marriage because she was always punctual, and he was hours and hours late.
But then I had children. And from that point, until recently, I have been fifteen minutes late to everything. For years, no matter how hard I tried, that incremental quarter of an hour was attached my to my arrival time like toilet paper stuck to my shoe.
The main reason I finally got a cell phone was to let people know I'd be about fifteen minutes late. Until this year. Something has happened. Recently, I had to be at someone's house the other day at 8:00 AM. I was about to call them to say I would be a little late. But I noticed I wasn't.
The first thing they said when I walked in was "Right on time." I can't remember the last time anyone said that to me. Maybe I finally have enough time to be on time again.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Ruminations
I have lots of new cement at my house. A new cement walk, new back steps, and new front steps. I wasn't here when they poured everything, so I could also have some new body parts tucked in there too. Mostly I think it's a miracle that nobody wrote their initials in the cement. Or left butt prints.
Speaking of body parts, I decided to leave my house yesterday before the smell of exhaust from my "neighbor's" van turned me into someone in need of a wellness check. [See previous entry.]
I also left them a note that said, in part, "I'm sure it was just an accident, but the next time you need to use your generator/pump motor, you may want to have the exhaust pipe from the van facing YOUR house, not mine. Thank you."
Tomorrow night is high school football night here. My old high school, which is twice the size of every other high school in its conference, if not one of the biggest schools in the state, is playing the conference champion from the last six seasons.
Every week the players' parents complain because that OTHER school always gets good press and high rankings even if they lose. So I checked their past record to see why that is.
In 2000 they won the state championship in the top division for football. Their record was 13 and 1. Here's the irony. They won the state title, but not the conference championship. Because my old high school beat them. That was the 2000 state champ's one and only loss in 2000. Meanwhile my old h.s. lost in the playoffs.
After that -- in 2001-02-03-04-05-06 the 2000 state champs were the conference champions. PLUS!! In 2003, 2004, and 2005 they made it to the state championship game again. But those times they lost.
Meanwhile, my old school gets knocked out regularly in the second game of the playoffs. They've never won the state championship. They came in second once.
More irony -- the current seniors on my old high school's team were the conference champs as freshman and sophomores. They beat the current six time conference champs twice as underclassmen. But when they get to varsity, they can't get the job done. Gee, I wonder whose fault that is?
Okay, so my part in all this is being one of the crew that videos their games and makes inspirational videos to spur them on to victory over their big rivals. It helps that my friends' son is a star on the team. I don't want to take too much credit, but they set a scoring record a couple of weeks ago after the first video I did.
Tomorrow night's game could decide the conference championship. Both teams are already eligible for the playoffs. So I edited a doozy for this game. After ten minutes of highlights from the last two games, the video ends with a two minute gut wrencher about being the underdog. I used select clips from Matthew McConaghey's You Gotta Have Heart speech from WE ARE MARSHALL intercut with team and opponent footage. I made it look like McConaghey is actually talking to the team. When he talks about their opponents, I actually went to their opponents' game last week end to get video to show how intimidating they are. Yep, I'm a geek.
For those of you who recall my theory about red and black uniforms winning the big games, you should know that tomorrow night's opponents will be wearing red helmets and jerseys with black pants, black socks and black shoes. They are truly scary looking dudes. As I have lamented many times, my old high school's team colors are green and white. I figure they've got two chances -- slim and none.
If, by some miracle, they manage to win the game, the video gets all the credit.
Speaking of body parts, I decided to leave my house yesterday before the smell of exhaust from my "neighbor's" van turned me into someone in need of a wellness check. [See previous entry.]
I also left them a note that said, in part, "I'm sure it was just an accident, but the next time you need to use your generator/pump motor, you may want to have the exhaust pipe from the van facing YOUR house, not mine. Thank you."
Tomorrow night is high school football night here. My old high school, which is twice the size of every other high school in its conference, if not one of the biggest schools in the state, is playing the conference champion from the last six seasons.
Every week the players' parents complain because that OTHER school always gets good press and high rankings even if they lose. So I checked their past record to see why that is.
In 2000 they won the state championship in the top division for football. Their record was 13 and 1. Here's the irony. They won the state title, but not the conference championship. Because my old high school beat them. That was the 2000 state champ's one and only loss in 2000. Meanwhile my old h.s. lost in the playoffs.
After that -- in 2001-02-03-04-05-06 the 2000 state champs were the conference champions. PLUS!! In 2003, 2004, and 2005 they made it to the state championship game again. But those times they lost.
Meanwhile, my old school gets knocked out regularly in the second game of the playoffs. They've never won the state championship. They came in second once.
More irony -- the current seniors on my old high school's team were the conference champs as freshman and sophomores. They beat the current six time conference champs twice as underclassmen. But when they get to varsity, they can't get the job done. Gee, I wonder whose fault that is?
Okay, so my part in all this is being one of the crew that videos their games and makes inspirational videos to spur them on to victory over their big rivals. It helps that my friends' son is a star on the team. I don't want to take too much credit, but they set a scoring record a couple of weeks ago after the first video I did.
Tomorrow night's game could decide the conference championship. Both teams are already eligible for the playoffs. So I edited a doozy for this game. After ten minutes of highlights from the last two games, the video ends with a two minute gut wrencher about being the underdog. I used select clips from Matthew McConaghey's You Gotta Have Heart speech from WE ARE MARSHALL intercut with team and opponent footage. I made it look like McConaghey is actually talking to the team. When he talks about their opponents, I actually went to their opponents' game last week end to get video to show how intimidating they are. Yep, I'm a geek.
For those of you who recall my theory about red and black uniforms winning the big games, you should know that tomorrow night's opponents will be wearing red helmets and jerseys with black pants, black socks and black shoes. They are truly scary looking dudes. As I have lamented many times, my old high school's team colors are green and white. I figure they've got two chances -- slim and none.
If, by some miracle, they manage to win the game, the video gets all the credit.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
My So-Called Neighbors
For the past twenty some years the people who live next door to me have
been regular neighbor types. You know, a mom, a dad, kids, and a pet or
two. Last October when my most recent regular neighbors returned to
Sweden, they said a young couple with a child was supposed to move in,
but they didn't. No one did.
Recently, some kid who looks too young to own a house has been driving a white panel truck into the driveway at 10 PM and leaving in the morning at around 7:30 AM.
This morning the white panel truck's engine was turned on but nobody left. Now the engine has been running for over twenty minutes and I'm smelling exhaust fumes in my house. I looked outside and saw a bunch of hoses leading from the truck into the back of the house. The side door of the truck is open and there's some kind of generator or pump on. The engine is now revved up pretty high and the air is beginning to get pretty bad in here.
I wouldn't have this problem if they'd backed the truck into the driveway so the exhaust pipe was aimed toward their house and not mine.
The truck is still running and now I'm getting a headache.
My question is, should I sit here until I die?
I'll let you know my decision later.
Recently, some kid who looks too young to own a house has been driving a white panel truck into the driveway at 10 PM and leaving in the morning at around 7:30 AM.
This morning the white panel truck's engine was turned on but nobody left. Now the engine has been running for over twenty minutes and I'm smelling exhaust fumes in my house. I looked outside and saw a bunch of hoses leading from the truck into the back of the house. The side door of the truck is open and there's some kind of generator or pump on. The engine is now revved up pretty high and the air is beginning to get pretty bad in here.
I wouldn't have this problem if they'd backed the truck into the driveway so the exhaust pipe was aimed toward their house and not mine.
The truck is still running and now I'm getting a headache.
My question is, should I sit here until I die?
I'll let you know my decision later.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Hasta La Bye Bye
Any Chicagoans who thought that the Olympics would actually take place here on the shores of Lake Michigoome in 2016 can kiss their hopes of renting out their houses for obscene amounts of money good bye.
Peter Ueberroth, who ran the LA games, dropped the first hint of bad news. He actually came to town a few weeks ago to let everybody know that after Tokyo, Madrid, and Rio de Janeiro, Chicago would be, for sure, their first choice to host the games. I guess not everybody is charmed by deep dish pizza. Maybe we should have topless thong beaches like Rio. And those "clubs" with "hostesses" like they do in Tokyo. Or a four hour nap every afternoon like Madrid.
Then, in a gesture that is starting to feel distinctly like the business end of a broom up my butt, the foobags that run the Chicago Marathon got out their hammers and completely closed the lid on even that possibility. I wouldn't want to say that the New York Marathon people were positively gleeful, but they sure couldn't wait to point out how that what we just went through would NEVER happen at their race.
All because Chicago couldn't handle a little change in the weather. It can drop twenty degrees in an hour here. In fact, it did last night. So, instead of going down, it went up twenty degrees. Is that so difficult to deal with? Last year the race folks worried about hypothermia because it was very chilly, like you might expect this time of year. But chilly is a good thing. Chicago is a great place to set marathon records because race day usually starts out in the thirties and the course is flat.
So what is it about a sudden turn for heat and humidity that made race officials here in Chi-town lose their bleeping minds? Hawaii has a marathon. Heck, Hawaii has an full ironman, and if you recall they have warm weather all year round.
Is there a reason why the dipshitzel race officials couldn't make a decision to start the race earlier, like say, at 5:00 AM, before the sun comes up and begins to bake everyone into a potato? That's what the hot weather folks who run races usually do. Beat the sun. It's not like a new idea.
No, that would be too easy. Instead the powers that be decided to announce the day before the race that they would provide other things like cooling buses, extra medical staff, fire hydrant sprays, and a million and a half cups of water.
I did the math. At four cups per person per mile, which is what it turned out to be, they were a million and a half cups short. So they ran out, at some stations, according to volunteers, within an hour of the start. After three and a half hours, one dead body, and three hundred emergency trips for medical attention, those in charge called a halt to everything. Regardless, some people finished anyway.
At first the race-o-crats tried to blame the water shortage on the runners. Then they admitted they didn't anticipate that the participants would pour cups of water over themselves and not just drink it. That's just stupid. Hello?!! It's hot. Everybody does that when it's hot.
After thirty years of running this race you'd think they'd have a better contingency plan in place.
Instead, we have a public relations nightmare. For the race. But mostly for the city.
The race will survive. But any chance Chicago had to host the Olympics is now officially over.
Peter Ueberroth, who ran the LA games, dropped the first hint of bad news. He actually came to town a few weeks ago to let everybody know that after Tokyo, Madrid, and Rio de Janeiro, Chicago would be, for sure, their first choice to host the games. I guess not everybody is charmed by deep dish pizza. Maybe we should have topless thong beaches like Rio. And those "clubs" with "hostesses" like they do in Tokyo. Or a four hour nap every afternoon like Madrid.
Then, in a gesture that is starting to feel distinctly like the business end of a broom up my butt, the foobags that run the Chicago Marathon got out their hammers and completely closed the lid on even that possibility. I wouldn't want to say that the New York Marathon people were positively gleeful, but they sure couldn't wait to point out how that what we just went through would NEVER happen at their race.
All because Chicago couldn't handle a little change in the weather. It can drop twenty degrees in an hour here. In fact, it did last night. So, instead of going down, it went up twenty degrees. Is that so difficult to deal with? Last year the race folks worried about hypothermia because it was very chilly, like you might expect this time of year. But chilly is a good thing. Chicago is a great place to set marathon records because race day usually starts out in the thirties and the course is flat.
So what is it about a sudden turn for heat and humidity that made race officials here in Chi-town lose their bleeping minds? Hawaii has a marathon. Heck, Hawaii has an full ironman, and if you recall they have warm weather all year round.
Is there a reason why the dipshitzel race officials couldn't make a decision to start the race earlier, like say, at 5:00 AM, before the sun comes up and begins to bake everyone into a potato? That's what the hot weather folks who run races usually do. Beat the sun. It's not like a new idea.
No, that would be too easy. Instead the powers that be decided to announce the day before the race that they would provide other things like cooling buses, extra medical staff, fire hydrant sprays, and a million and a half cups of water.
I did the math. At four cups per person per mile, which is what it turned out to be, they were a million and a half cups short. So they ran out, at some stations, according to volunteers, within an hour of the start. After three and a half hours, one dead body, and three hundred emergency trips for medical attention, those in charge called a halt to everything. Regardless, some people finished anyway.
At first the race-o-crats tried to blame the water shortage on the runners. Then they admitted they didn't anticipate that the participants would pour cups of water over themselves and not just drink it. That's just stupid. Hello?!! It's hot. Everybody does that when it's hot.
After thirty years of running this race you'd think they'd have a better contingency plan in place.
Instead, we have a public relations nightmare. For the race. But mostly for the city.
The race will survive. But any chance Chicago had to host the Olympics is now officially over.
Sunday, October 7, 2007
Oral Roberts University Scandal
There's one titillating bit of information from the unfolding Oral Roberts University scandal which tickles my funny bone. For anyone who has been minding their own business, I guess Oral's son and his wife are spending a boatload of money on inappropriate things -- like a trip for their daughter and her friends to the Bahamas in the university jet. And giving free non-academic scholarships to friends. But those things are small potatoes. Nothing to get your knickers in a knot over.
Of course Junior has also been illegally funding politcal campaigns with school money and firing people that question his decisions. But even that stuff doesn't seem like such a big deal as scandalous behavior goes. Bad behavior among right wing religious nuts doesn't start to reach a critical mass until you get the distinct whiff of sexual impropriety.
That's why the Missus got my attention.
Not because of the $39,000 they claim she spent at Chico's, which is a marvel in and of itself. She couldn't shop at Saks? Chico's is to fashion what wings are to fish. I know, I shop there. Nothing at Chico's costs more than $150, not to mention that you get a discount every time you spend over $500, so she must have had to buy out a couple of stores, throwing around that kind of dough. Along with her Imelda Marcos level of shopping, you can include all the remodeling money they've spent on their house, too. How much could that be? Chump change when you consider that the family rakes in over seventy mil a year in donations to the school.
But when they said she had been text messaging underage males in the middle of the night on cell phones provided to the lads by the, uh, university, my interest was quickly elevated. Was she offering solace to young men who were confessing their sins? Or just providing some good old fashioned phone canoodling?
Perhaps when Mrs. Roberts gets around to fessing up, we will learn about a new meaning for the ORAL in Oral Roberts.
Of course Junior has also been illegally funding politcal campaigns with school money and firing people that question his decisions. But even that stuff doesn't seem like such a big deal as scandalous behavior goes. Bad behavior among right wing religious nuts doesn't start to reach a critical mass until you get the distinct whiff of sexual impropriety.
That's why the Missus got my attention.
Not because of the $39,000 they claim she spent at Chico's, which is a marvel in and of itself. She couldn't shop at Saks? Chico's is to fashion what wings are to fish. I know, I shop there. Nothing at Chico's costs more than $150, not to mention that you get a discount every time you spend over $500, so she must have had to buy out a couple of stores, throwing around that kind of dough. Along with her Imelda Marcos level of shopping, you can include all the remodeling money they've spent on their house, too. How much could that be? Chump change when you consider that the family rakes in over seventy mil a year in donations to the school.
But when they said she had been text messaging underage males in the middle of the night on cell phones provided to the lads by the, uh, university, my interest was quickly elevated. Was she offering solace to young men who were confessing their sins? Or just providing some good old fashioned phone canoodling?
Perhaps when Mrs. Roberts gets around to fessing up, we will learn about a new meaning for the ORAL in Oral Roberts.
Friday, October 5, 2007
MEMO TO ALEXIS STEWART
Awhile ago I read that your mom wants a grandchild. Lots of moms want grandchildren. But now I hear that she is willing to fork out $28,000 a month to spend on any method of invading your reproductive system to help you get pregnant. Sorry, that was crass. Let me put it another way: what kind of a control freak parent thinks they have a right to insert themselves [pun intended] into their daughter's uterus? Wait, that was distasteful. But I meant it a a helpful, caring way.
I assume that it has never occurred to you to say, "No." Or, heaven forbid, dare to declare, "I only want to have children the old fashioned way, shit-faced in the back seat of a Buick on a Saturday night."
Clearly it has also never dawned on you that Mom might need to have some boundaries set for her demands on you. You're not one of her fancy chickens, or a table that needs napkins.
On the other hand, how lucky your mother is to have such a compliant child, one so willing to endure endless discomfort just to satisfy her whim -- the hormones, the egg harvesting, the implantations, the waiting and waiting and constant failure.
Interestingly, you're also about to go on TV to talk about "it". Not to tell us you're pregnant, I'm sure. But to discuss all the money, time and effort being spent trying to fulfill her request. I wonder if you'll seem joyful and happy or clinical and detached.
The whole thing makes me go EEEEEWWW!!
Does it occur to you that maybe the reason you're not getting pregnant has nothing to do with connecting the right sperm with the right egg, but the need to disconnect your mother's control over you?
Sorry, I didn't mean to lapse into psychobabble.
But, guess what, you aren't getting pregnant. And you're really trying hard. We all know there are lots of mechanical reasons that prevent women from conceiving. Plumbing that doesn't work. Bad sperm. Old eggs.
But I remember reading once about a woman whose fallopian tubes would squeeze shut when she ovulated, effectively preventing any eggs from meeting any sperm and becoming fertilized. Talk about the mind controlling the body.
So while your mouth may be saying, "Sure Mom, whatever you want," your lizard brain may be saying "Not in this lifetime, bitch."
Just a thought.
I assume that it has never occurred to you to say, "No." Or, heaven forbid, dare to declare, "I only want to have children the old fashioned way, shit-faced in the back seat of a Buick on a Saturday night."
Clearly it has also never dawned on you that Mom might need to have some boundaries set for her demands on you. You're not one of her fancy chickens, or a table that needs napkins.
On the other hand, how lucky your mother is to have such a compliant child, one so willing to endure endless discomfort just to satisfy her whim -- the hormones, the egg harvesting, the implantations, the waiting and waiting and constant failure.
Interestingly, you're also about to go on TV to talk about "it". Not to tell us you're pregnant, I'm sure. But to discuss all the money, time and effort being spent trying to fulfill her request. I wonder if you'll seem joyful and happy or clinical and detached.
The whole thing makes me go EEEEEWWW!!
Does it occur to you that maybe the reason you're not getting pregnant has nothing to do with connecting the right sperm with the right egg, but the need to disconnect your mother's control over you?
Sorry, I didn't mean to lapse into psychobabble.
But, guess what, you aren't getting pregnant. And you're really trying hard. We all know there are lots of mechanical reasons that prevent women from conceiving. Plumbing that doesn't work. Bad sperm. Old eggs.
But I remember reading once about a woman whose fallopian tubes would squeeze shut when she ovulated, effectively preventing any eggs from meeting any sperm and becoming fertilized. Talk about the mind controlling the body.
So while your mouth may be saying, "Sure Mom, whatever you want," your lizard brain may be saying "Not in this lifetime, bitch."
Just a thought.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Sinead O'Connor is on Oprah
She of the shaved head and impulsive gesture [remember the torn up picture of the Pope?] has made her way to the Oprah show. Four years ago she was diagnosed with bi-polar disorder.
Only four years ago? Too bad she didn't ask me.I could have told her she was in deep do do way before she ever shaved her head. Except that the buzz cut was the public's first outward sign of her inward turmoil. Speaking of shaved heads -- Earth to Britney -- OMG Oprah just asked Sinead for her opinion on the miniature madwoman. What is it about cutting our long luxurious hair down to the nub that is so defining for a woman on the brink? I did it once when I was stressed out from working/commuting and raising kids alone. At least I didn't have to worry about having a bad hair day. I had the same hair every day until it grew out.
My biggest problem with these babes is that they have made babies. I can't bring myself to call them mothers because that implies nurturing, caring, and other-focused behavior.
Now Oprah is having the discussion of the drug of choice for bi-polar -- Lithium. Lots of bi-polar folks don't like it because the highs and lows are more exciting than the deadening, flatline effects Lithium creates.
All I know is that when I was asked to start a milk bank for a local hospital many years ago -- back when docs didn't think anything went through the milk no matter what we said -- almost every woman who donated breast milk was taking Lithium. I can only imagine what that nasty drug can do to a baby's brain.
I wonder if anyone else bothered to ask.
Okay, fun's over I have to get dressed for a conference call. Just kidding. [About getting dressed.]
Only four years ago? Too bad she didn't ask me.I could have told her she was in deep do do way before she ever shaved her head. Except that the buzz cut was the public's first outward sign of her inward turmoil. Speaking of shaved heads -- Earth to Britney -- OMG Oprah just asked Sinead for her opinion on the miniature madwoman. What is it about cutting our long luxurious hair down to the nub that is so defining for a woman on the brink? I did it once when I was stressed out from working/commuting and raising kids alone. At least I didn't have to worry about having a bad hair day. I had the same hair every day until it grew out.
My biggest problem with these babes is that they have made babies. I can't bring myself to call them mothers because that implies nurturing, caring, and other-focused behavior.
Now Oprah is having the discussion of the drug of choice for bi-polar -- Lithium. Lots of bi-polar folks don't like it because the highs and lows are more exciting than the deadening, flatline effects Lithium creates.
All I know is that when I was asked to start a milk bank for a local hospital many years ago -- back when docs didn't think anything went through the milk no matter what we said -- almost every woman who donated breast milk was taking Lithium. I can only imagine what that nasty drug can do to a baby's brain.
I wonder if anyone else bothered to ask.
Okay, fun's over I have to get dressed for a conference call. Just kidding. [About getting dressed.]
Monday, October 1, 2007
Not Again
When I leave the house I leave lights and a TV on. When I'm in the house I leave lights and a TV on.
Today the doorbell rang at 9:00 AM. I was not expecting anyone so I didn't answer the door. I was also not dressed. After ringing and knocking and ringing and knocking very persistently, whoever it was got in their car and drove away.
Even though I keep the lights and TV on you can't really tell during the day. The only indication that I might be home is that my car was in the driveway. That doesn't mean much either because I could be on a trip.
Three hours later there was another doorbell ring and another knock at the door. I ignored it again.
About half an hour later I got a phone call from the police. I was talking to someone else so they had to leave a message. They said a contractor I supposedly had an appointment with had come to my door twice but got no answer. He became WORRIED ABOUT MY WELFARE and contacted the cops. Based on what?! That no one answered the door?
Keep in mind that I have never met this contractor in person. We've only talked on the phone. He has no idea how old I am or what I look like. Or anything about me.
And yet, for some reason, because I didn't answer the door when he wanted me to, he felt compelled to contact the cops. Anyone else would have left. Or tried to call me on the phone. The guy has my number and never bothered. And did I mention that I had no appointment scheduled with this guy? In fact I was only home because of a fluke anyway.
Holy crapola. I told the cops several times that I did NOT have an appointment with this contractor -- in fact, after my conversation with him last week, he was waiting for me to mail him a deposit and a signed contract so they could start work.
The cops can't seem to understand why I won't answer the door. How many times do I have tell them I'm usually busy working, I am often not dressed and why bother if I'm not expecting anyone.
Then the police department informs me that an officer had already been dispatched to my home for a YET ANOTHER F-BOMB WELLNESS CHECK. I couldn't believe it. They didn't even give me a chance to return their call to my house. Hey, I was on the phone when your call came through. As soon as I checked the message I called you right back.
Too late. The cop wanted to know if I would answer the door for the officer. This got me worried, since they entered my house through an unlocked door last time. So I got up from the computer wearing only a hoody to make sure all my doors were bolted shut. Then I screamed into the phone -- NO!! Can't you people leave me the, uh, HECK alone?!!! I said heck.
Cripes. This is insane.
UPDATE: They managed to call off the dogs. I saw a patrol car drive past my house without stopping. And a memo went out to remind the "staff" to give me some time to call them back. Also no one is to ever enter my home unless there is a clear sign of an emergency.
I had a talk with the commander later. The very same commander from the last time. I've decided that he's got a lot of snappy patter and a boatload of B.S. He claimed that they had put a number of MY suggested new procedures in place.
But somehow they didn't bother to ask the contractor if he had tried to call me -- perhaps to reschedule the alleged appointment he had. The cops managed to call me this time, unlike last time, but then they didn't give me time to call them back.
Today the doorbell rang at 9:00 AM. I was not expecting anyone so I didn't answer the door. I was also not dressed. After ringing and knocking and ringing and knocking very persistently, whoever it was got in their car and drove away.
Even though I keep the lights and TV on you can't really tell during the day. The only indication that I might be home is that my car was in the driveway. That doesn't mean much either because I could be on a trip.
Three hours later there was another doorbell ring and another knock at the door. I ignored it again.
About half an hour later I got a phone call from the police. I was talking to someone else so they had to leave a message. They said a contractor I supposedly had an appointment with had come to my door twice but got no answer. He became WORRIED ABOUT MY WELFARE and contacted the cops. Based on what?! That no one answered the door?
Keep in mind that I have never met this contractor in person. We've only talked on the phone. He has no idea how old I am or what I look like. Or anything about me.
And yet, for some reason, because I didn't answer the door when he wanted me to, he felt compelled to contact the cops. Anyone else would have left. Or tried to call me on the phone. The guy has my number and never bothered. And did I mention that I had no appointment scheduled with this guy? In fact I was only home because of a fluke anyway.
Holy crapola. I told the cops several times that I did NOT have an appointment with this contractor -- in fact, after my conversation with him last week, he was waiting for me to mail him a deposit and a signed contract so they could start work.
The cops can't seem to understand why I won't answer the door. How many times do I have tell them I'm usually busy working, I am often not dressed and why bother if I'm not expecting anyone.
Then the police department informs me that an officer had already been dispatched to my home for a YET ANOTHER F-BOMB WELLNESS CHECK. I couldn't believe it. They didn't even give me a chance to return their call to my house. Hey, I was on the phone when your call came through. As soon as I checked the message I called you right back.
Too late. The cop wanted to know if I would answer the door for the officer. This got me worried, since they entered my house through an unlocked door last time. So I got up from the computer wearing only a hoody to make sure all my doors were bolted shut. Then I screamed into the phone -- NO!! Can't you people leave me the, uh, HECK alone?!!! I said heck.
Cripes. This is insane.
UPDATE: They managed to call off the dogs. I saw a patrol car drive past my house without stopping. And a memo went out to remind the "staff" to give me some time to call them back. Also no one is to ever enter my home unless there is a clear sign of an emergency.
I had a talk with the commander later. The very same commander from the last time. I've decided that he's got a lot of snappy patter and a boatload of B.S. He claimed that they had put a number of MY suggested new procedures in place.
But somehow they didn't bother to ask the contractor if he had tried to call me -- perhaps to reschedule the alleged appointment he had. The cops managed to call me this time, unlike last time, but then they didn't give me time to call them back.
Mark Bechtel Doesn't Get It
I wrote a letter to the editor recently. There was an article written by a guy named Mark Bechtel in Sports Illustrated profiling a player on the Women's World Cup soccer team.The team was expected to win it all, but lost by the embarrassing score of 4-0 in the semis to Brazil.
Bechtel described the player as a "bull in a China shop." I thought it was an insensitive phrase, first because it sounded like he was making a veiled reference to her as a lesbian. For those of you who have been under a rock, "bull" is an unfortunate reference to a very masculine gay woman. Secondly, it was thoughtless because there are already way too many people who just assume that ALL strong, athletic women are lesbians, so why encourage the stereotype. I should mention that I have no idea what the player's sexual proclivities are.
But I was willing to let his reference go. Until I read the last sentence of the article, where he had the audacity to write, "She can still be a bull when she has to."
Okay, Mr. Bechtel, give it a rest. Now I'm pissed. What were you thinking? Didn't anybody proof the article?
To help anyone who thinks I'm overreacting understand the issue, remove the word "bull" and substitute a word you consider 100% offensive and maybe you'll start to understand why I took exception to his reference. Mostly because he used it twice.
As a woman who has loved sports all her life and played softball, tennis and volleyball with a number of elite athletes both gay and straight, I never heard any derogatory references. Then I took up cycling and had an experience that left me shaking my head in disbelief.
Twenty years ago I was riding the Sheridan Road cycling route from Chicago to the way northern suburbs, along with hundreds of other Tour de France lookalikes in the early morning hours on the weekends.
One Sunday I joined the crowd of mostly male riders for a long ride with a guy friend. His bike was slower than mine so I would sprint up ahead of him, then slow down and wait for him to catch up.
During one sprint I raced up ahead only to suddenly feel a drag on my bike. To keep up my speed I had to pedal harder and harder until finally, I got tired of what could only be described as pulling more and more weight so I just slowed down. At that point a peloton of about twelve riders raced by me. They had come up behind my bike in total silence during my sprint and let me lead them for as long as I was able. I had no idea they were there, so I was startled to see them swooshing past me. Usually when someone is behind you they'll let you know because it can be dangerous to have someone that close. They probably figured I could feel the drag and KNEW what what going on. Nope. I'd never led a peloton.
As the group whisked by the last guy just had to lean over to say, "Nice riding, you old bull."
What?! My feelings were hurt. First I went through denial -- Hey, I'm not that old [I was 43]. And wait a minute! I'm not a lesbian. Then there was anger -- Well, F you too! Finally I chose to take what he said as a left-handed compliment. But too bad it never occurred to him that a straight woman could ride with boys twenty years younger.
As a result, I am sensitive to people who are insensitive when they should know better. So I wrote a letter to the editors taking exception to what Bechtel wrote and the editors didn't edit. They could have been a little more enlightened.
Here's the letter:
TO THE EDITORS:
In this day and age, I take exception to Mr. Bechtel's use of the phrase "Bull in a china shop" to describe Abby Wambach or any woman for that matter, but particularly an elite, female athlete. Surely knowing that many people incorrectly assume that strong, athletic women must be lesbians, I would hope some awareness of and sensitivity to pejorative nicknames might have prevailed. Surely another metaphor could better describe Ms. Wambach's outspoken personality.
But no -- instead Mr. Bechtel couldn't wait to add gasoline to the fire. Resorting to the classic writer's conceit of tying up everything with a pointed second reference, he managed to compound the insult, "She can still be a bull when she has to."
What were you nimrods thinking? If she were black would you have described her as a "N----- in the woodpile?" Or ended with "She can act like a n----- when she has to." Probably not. Because you didn't skip school that day.
Your editorial staff in general and Mr. Bechtel in particular owe Ms. Wambach and all women of any persuasion an apology for being so stupid. Not just uninformed. Or insensitive. But stupid.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Linklater
You're probably wondering why the typeface is so large. Well, I made it large when I was proofreading what I wrote.
And I forgot to make it small again.
So, even though the email is written in upper and lower case, the VERY LARGE type makes it seem like I'm screaming at them.
I'm okay with that.
Bechtel described the player as a "bull in a China shop." I thought it was an insensitive phrase, first because it sounded like he was making a veiled reference to her as a lesbian. For those of you who have been under a rock, "bull" is an unfortunate reference to a very masculine gay woman. Secondly, it was thoughtless because there are already way too many people who just assume that ALL strong, athletic women are lesbians, so why encourage the stereotype. I should mention that I have no idea what the player's sexual proclivities are.
But I was willing to let his reference go. Until I read the last sentence of the article, where he had the audacity to write, "She can still be a bull when she has to."
Okay, Mr. Bechtel, give it a rest. Now I'm pissed. What were you thinking? Didn't anybody proof the article?
To help anyone who thinks I'm overreacting understand the issue, remove the word "bull" and substitute a word you consider 100% offensive and maybe you'll start to understand why I took exception to his reference. Mostly because he used it twice.
As a woman who has loved sports all her life and played softball, tennis and volleyball with a number of elite athletes both gay and straight, I never heard any derogatory references. Then I took up cycling and had an experience that left me shaking my head in disbelief.
Twenty years ago I was riding the Sheridan Road cycling route from Chicago to the way northern suburbs, along with hundreds of other Tour de France lookalikes in the early morning hours on the weekends.
One Sunday I joined the crowd of mostly male riders for a long ride with a guy friend. His bike was slower than mine so I would sprint up ahead of him, then slow down and wait for him to catch up.
During one sprint I raced up ahead only to suddenly feel a drag on my bike. To keep up my speed I had to pedal harder and harder until finally, I got tired of what could only be described as pulling more and more weight so I just slowed down. At that point a peloton of about twelve riders raced by me. They had come up behind my bike in total silence during my sprint and let me lead them for as long as I was able. I had no idea they were there, so I was startled to see them swooshing past me. Usually when someone is behind you they'll let you know because it can be dangerous to have someone that close. They probably figured I could feel the drag and KNEW what what going on. Nope. I'd never led a peloton.
As the group whisked by the last guy just had to lean over to say, "Nice riding, you old bull."
What?! My feelings were hurt. First I went through denial -- Hey, I'm not that old [I was 43]. And wait a minute! I'm not a lesbian. Then there was anger -- Well, F you too! Finally I chose to take what he said as a left-handed compliment. But too bad it never occurred to him that a straight woman could ride with boys twenty years younger.
As a result, I am sensitive to people who are insensitive when they should know better. So I wrote a letter to the editors taking exception to what Bechtel wrote and the editors didn't edit. They could have been a little more enlightened.
Here's the letter:
TO THE EDITORS:
In this day and age, I take exception to Mr. Bechtel's use of the phrase "Bull in a china shop" to describe Abby Wambach or any woman for that matter, but particularly an elite, female athlete. Surely knowing that many people incorrectly assume that strong, athletic women must be lesbians, I would hope some awareness of and sensitivity to pejorative nicknames might have prevailed. Surely another metaphor could better describe Ms. Wambach's outspoken personality.
But no -- instead Mr. Bechtel couldn't wait to add gasoline to the fire. Resorting to the classic writer's conceit of tying up everything with a pointed second reference, he managed to compound the insult, "She can still be a bull when she has to."
What were you nimrods thinking? If she were black would you have described her as a "N----- in the woodpile?" Or ended with "She can act like a n----- when she has to." Probably not. Because you didn't skip school that day.
Your editorial staff in general and Mr. Bechtel in particular owe Ms. Wambach and all women of any persuasion an apology for being so stupid. Not just uninformed. Or insensitive. But stupid.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Linklater
You're probably wondering why the typeface is so large. Well, I made it large when I was proofreading what I wrote.
And I forgot to make it small again.
So, even though the email is written in upper and lower case, the VERY LARGE type makes it seem like I'm screaming at them.
I'm okay with that.
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