Things

Isn't it a letdown when you see a hot movie star running like a third grade girl? This weekend, both Hugh Jackman and Ben Kingsley applied. Sir Kingsley, I'll excuse, because he's Gandhi, but Wolverine? Unforgivable. He's all duck-footed, arms flailing awkwardly. Or perhaps it's hard to run with Adamantium daggers sticking out of your knuckles?

This morning I made a fresh pot of coffee and poured in some cream only to see it congeal into tiny little sperm-like clumps. I dumped it down the drain, and started anew: clean cup, fresh pour of coffee, another pour of cream. Same thing. What gives? The cream wasn't sour. The coffee was fine yesterday. I'm still in the Northern Hemisphere. Why would it do that? I ended up chewing my way through it, but it was like a cement mixer with my toasted baguette.

Jim took the kids to his parent's cabin for the weekend and I watched two movies and read two books. It was really boring and quiet and awesome.

On Friday I had a discussion with Janet about the prohibitive cost of college, specifically private schools. At this point, I have no intention of encouraging my kids to apply to Yale. It just costs too much, and the debt incurred isn't worth it. But Janet pointed out that, unfortunately, the Ivy Leagues still get you that extra-special goose when you're looking for a job, and I sadly agreed. It's just not fair... but wait. I don't think I actually agree. Because that may be true for certain fields (academia? law? I don't know...), but I think it's really an east coast phenomena. While my degree got me a few raised eyebrows in Portland, it definitely didn't open any doors or do me any special favors. I couldn't even get a good alum contact to help me out. But I did have an engineering manager ask me in an interview, "So... you went to Yale, huh? Does that mean you think you're smarter than everyone else?" So yet another east coast/west coast disconnect. That, and asian food/italian food. And sidewalks.

I worked outside for about an hour today, clipping dead stuff and putting away hoses and all that. When I came in, all ruddy complected and refreshed, it would have been awesome if someone handed me a cider and rum and the Sunday crossword puzzle. But instead I tracked chicken shit across the kitchen floor and gagged down the rest of my congealed coffee. But in my mind it was different and I was still happy. So maybe that's the secret to life.

Mommy coaches soccer 'til her head pops off.

Ah, my blog. I've missed it in a distracted, unacknowledged way. I realized many many posts ago that this is not where my fortune would be found, and so I wrote for practice and for friendship. Blah blah blah, repeating exactly what every other person who ever wrote, then quit, then wrote again on her blog ever said, blah blah blah...

I like it. I like the subjects I can write about here, that seem too personal and flip for fiction. So yeah, a half hour, I get to talk about assholes (big and small), cute track jackets, the guy who just now walked by me who looks exactly like motherfucking Christian Bale I'm not even kidding you (and too bad I had a mouthful of lemon bar or I would've surely said something clever) (oh never mind, he walked by again. false alarm) (holy shit dude, quit walking by me). I feel like doing it again, is what I'm saying. I think I want to blog.

So here we go.

You know how it's kind of a funny old joke when a former athlete coaches his/her kid in their former sport and has all these crazy expectations and gets very/too invested in the kid's performance and the outcome of the games, even though the kid probably can't even tie her shoes properly yet? Oh, what? That's not a funny old joke? Good, because I was starting to feel like the butt of it. Me = too much. Madeleine = not so much. It kills me. I just want SALDFJDLSFJKWNCNAV KL FUCK!!! That's how I feel each and every minute of every game and practice. The anxiety I feel when I see her dribbling the ball towards the goal and another tiny little girl from the other team runs toward her, makes a feeble attempt at taking the ball away, and Madeleine slows down and lets her take the ball away - let me repeat, lets her take the ball away - I lose my shit. And I just spazzy sweated all over my keyboard thinking about it. At least the fucking not-Christian-Bale guy will quit stalking my table (but he's really not, because I just realized he works here and is Doing Something). That happens. And other, equally maddening things happen, like her not wanting to play when it's really cold. And her falling down. Yes. Believe it or not, I lose my shit when she falls down.

And I try to keep it all on the inside. But it's boiling and festering, and I know as a good coach you should always couch a criticism inside some positive feedback so mine comes out through clenched teeth like this, "Well you did a really nice job on your throw-ins today and I sure wish you could be a lot more aggressive and dribble the ball when you're out in the open and not pass to your teammates directly in front of the goal and the weird thing you do with your arm when you're running probably slows you down and thank you for helping me pick up the granola bar wrappers." It's probably not what the YMCA had in mind for a positive youth soccer experience. Please don't tell them. Or maybe you should, but just don't tell that guy who may or may not be handicapped, because I'd hate to be fired by him.

I have to quit. I have to. I have to. My throat is raw after every 40 minute game, which is some indication that perhaps my "encouragement" is a tad too vociferous. The only other times I get that hoarse is when I'm drunkenly heckling the opposing kicker at Griz football games, which is a 3-hour whiskey-fueled affair.

I just reread that last paragraph. I can't - wait, what? - is that? - I mean, wow.

Artificial tears.

Feel like crying? I haven't lately, so maybe that's why I've been seeking and devouring this kind of thing. I think sadness is an itch I need to scratch.

What else did I do?

Crud. We've got money issues in August? What has this world come to? Oh yeah, a depression. Money worries make me feel like I'm 20 again, powerless and immature. Because we (me and him) are educated and gainfully employed, any money issues we have are a direct result of our own inability to budget and act fiscally responsible. I was hoping as I typed that last line that I would feel better. Absolved in some way, but it didn't work. Maybe if I type it again... nah. You know what would make me feel better? A nice hot cup of coffee.

And so there you have it. My tiny-life drama in a world of inequity and poverty. I'm sad because I can't go to sushi for lunch, but Oh-Ho! my coffee has been replenished and Isn't everything awesome!

Things are a little turned around lately, people doing and saying the (sadly) unexpected, less cracking up and more pensive contemplation. So I don't want to be pissed at anyone else any more. I think it's much healthier to irrationally direct my anger and frustration at myself. I am actually the mastermind behind the Boko Haram killings in Nigeria. Madeleine's sheets are taking on a brownish tint because I'm an inadequate homemaker. I'm not being politically active enough and have caused the drop in Obama's approval rating.

I feel much better now.

Fine. And not.

I say 'we should' too. Monday I decided it was time to address the we-overusage and it was laughable, the conversation. He defensive, me clamming up, him trying not to be defensive, me trying to meet in the middle, resolution, then a frank discussion of everything 'we' needed to do to get ready for our trip next week. Shit. What the hell? I couldn't stop saying it.

We need to fix a thingy for the chicken coop to make it easier for the chicks to get out in the morning.
We need to call someone to feed the gerbils.
We should prepare to stain the deck when we get home.
We blah blah blaahhhbity blah blah hell junk piece of shit blahbity blah.

Okay, fine. Let's just say, sometimes 'We' can be an effective conversation starter. Sometimes it's fine to be vague about a task that needs gettin' at, but nobody wants anything to do (read: finding a new home for our noisy dirty-ever-crapping parakeets).

On another note, I sprained my LCL badly yesterday. Add this to the growing list of injuries incurred this year - injuries that can't be laughed off with a long pull at an ice-cold IPA. In fact right now I'm printing out rehab exercises that I'll have to do on vacation next week. I'm falling apart this month and it's making my stomach sour. Body, what's wrong with you? What have I not done for you lately?? Sure, I'm getting older, but the number and severity of injuries this spring and summer is Shock and Awe instead of Going Gentle into the Night. It's a real bummer, dude. But at least I have a soft baby.

Happy Father's Day

Happy Father's Day honey. You look a little femme in this picture, but I know you're not. Femme. Because I am wishing you a happy Father's Day, thus I have direct experience with your not-femme-ness. So. I love you. You do great things and you do them with determination and integrity.


xo,
Mignon

Important Information Regarding Nookie Skills

Someone bought me a shot this weekend called The Vegas. The purchasing and consumption of the drink were unremarkable, but the ensuing game invented by two drunk girls (me and someone) has got me thinking. Can you tell if someone is good in bed by just looking at them? Yes. Of course you can. See for yourself:

Characteristics of Bad in Bed:
1) backwards hats (unless it's a pirate's hat, because how do you tell if it's backwards - plus points for being a pirate)

2) meticulous facial hair (because he wouldn't want to muss it, plus it goes without saying but I'm saying it anyway, too much time in front of the mirror means too much time spent in the bathroom, means he's been in close proximity to a toilet for too long, means he's been virtually bathing in a pool of airborne fecal matter, which, hello? UTI? that's why we wipe front to back in the first place!)

3) gay (I'm sure he'd be good in bed for someone - but I'm guessing that person would not be a hetero female, even if she can throw a football really far)

4) pants pulled up too high or hanging too low (up too high is repellent in a way that screams "I have Oedipal issues" and too low screams "check my ID" or, conversely, "can you please help me find my way back to the nursing home?" - which neither necessarily indicates bad in bed, but they may result in a) jail time or b) future dates being planned around dialysis appointments)

5) playing pool well (a guy that can cradle a cue with finesse and maneuver the balls in perfect coordination has spent WAY too much time with similarly shaped objects in his hands, or he's just a dork that avoids personal interaction by playing a meaningless bar game that is cool only when you're drunk or impressing your nephews at the Elks Club at your grandparents' 50th Wedding Anniversary)

Characteristics of Good in Bed (These are less funny, I assure you, because at this point in the evening there was only one guy that didn't fall in the categories of 1-4 above and he was):
1) With a woman