There are those among us who never make mistakes.
They're rather dreadfully dull.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
ahh...icy hot!
On Sunday, I had the wonderful opportunity to play racquetball for the first time since...umm...January-February 2003. I'd been missing the game something fierce recently, and was able to hook up with the coworker of a friend to try out the beautiful new facilities at the downtown Y. We had a great time. I was pretty extraneously rusty for a few minutes, but as we warmed up, it all started coming back. Ish.
He creamed me the first game, but I made a comeback. Well, ok, I still lost, but he had to work for it. I enjoy playing with guys--the intensity they tend to bring prompts a similar reaction in me, one I don't often get to cut loose. Let me put it this way: when your opponent is shouting and whooping, it frees you up to do the same. Ha. Really. I have sound effects. I can reign those in if it doesn't feel appropriate, but on Sunday I didn't have to. I didn't have to tone it down or take it easy or worry about running someone over...not that I didn't nail the guy a couple times, but when you pretty much bounce off the other person, it's impossible to feel at fault.
There was certainly nothing tentative about our play. We were whaling the ball--I was caroming off walls and diving onto the floor. We played for a solid hour. I was hot-fuchsia-faced and literally dripping with sweat and...I already knew I would be catastrophically sore.
And I sure am. My racket arm did not want to hold the blow dryer up this morning. I'm all rubbed up with Icy Hot--hopefully, anyone coming by my office will simply think I've got a thing for peppermints.
Still, it's a beautiful thing. Thank God for little square rooms, short handled rackets, and blue rubber balls.
He creamed me the first game, but I made a comeback. Well, ok, I still lost, but he had to work for it. I enjoy playing with guys--the intensity they tend to bring prompts a similar reaction in me, one I don't often get to cut loose. Let me put it this way: when your opponent is shouting and whooping, it frees you up to do the same. Ha. Really. I have sound effects. I can reign those in if it doesn't feel appropriate, but on Sunday I didn't have to. I didn't have to tone it down or take it easy or worry about running someone over...not that I didn't nail the guy a couple times, but when you pretty much bounce off the other person, it's impossible to feel at fault.
There was certainly nothing tentative about our play. We were whaling the ball--I was caroming off walls and diving onto the floor. We played for a solid hour. I was hot-fuchsia-faced and literally dripping with sweat and...I already knew I would be catastrophically sore.
And I sure am. My racket arm did not want to hold the blow dryer up this morning. I'm all rubbed up with Icy Hot--hopefully, anyone coming by my office will simply think I've got a thing for peppermints.
Still, it's a beautiful thing. Thank God for little square rooms, short handled rackets, and blue rubber balls.
Monday, July 28, 2008
just...
Just another blue-eyed girl. Just another apathetic dreamer. Just another bit of commotion. Just a little bit of brain, a little bit of heart, a little bit of quickening in the spirit. A little dash of possibility. A pinch of perhaps. Just nothing. Just everything. Just me.
Monday, July 21, 2008
the fine art of keeping your clothes on
I don’t really have much of a problem with this. In fact, the only time I choose not to practice this art is when I’m home, especially when it’s so freaking hot outside. But at home, I’m safe from the eyes of everyone but the deer. And nosy turkeys.
However, more and more each day I realize that there are many men and women who do not seem to be able to stay clothed. Just look at all those guys walking down the street with their pants falling off! I doubt their ability to dodge if a car came careening around the corner and up over the curb. Nope—they’d just be plastered to the bumper, baggy pants and all. Or perhaps sans pants—perhaps the force of the blow would dislodge them from their precarious perch.
And don’t even get me started on the women. Maybe they are all just really, really poor laundresses, and they keep shrinking everything. And I do mean everything. That’s one of the only downsides of going to the beach—having to watch all the girls in ill-fitting suits walk by. Didn’t their mamas ever pull them aside and teach them how to dress their bodies appropriately? Sigh. I guess that’s a rhetorical question.
Still, it’s obvious that these teens are trying to look sexy—don’t they realize that they just look awful? Another rhetorical question.
However, no matter how bad teen girls are, the wounds to my eyes are always worse when the beach culprit is an adult. The stupidity and lack of thoughtfulness inherent in teenagers gives them a little bit of slack. but grownups have no such excuse. Come on, ladies! Just because you can wear a mini-kini doesn’t mean you should. And look at what you’re teaching your daughters!
Sigh again. These thoughts are nothing new. I’ve said this before—and heard other artfully-clad adults say the same. I guess our voices aren’t loud enough. Maybe it’s finally time for me to grab a roll of duct tape and let my actions speak louder than words. But I don’t want to get arrested for assaulting a minor.
So, what made me think of this now, as I sit in a conservative office atmosphere? Well, I was actually thinking about my weekend. Yesterday was warm and sunny and very humid, and I was washing my car and weeding my flowers in pretty much no shirt at all. Remember—none of my neighbors can see me. (I just had to make sure I sprayed on more bug spray, with all that extra skin.)
The weather and lack of clothing reminded me of the far-gone late summer days of my youth, when we’d have basketball practice in a boiling hot gymnasium. I’ll never forget—it still needles me—we’d be sweating gallons and would toss our T-shirts to the side. Most of the time, we still had practice jerseys on; the light mesh was much more bearable than drenched cotton. So, there we were, 16- and 17-year-old butch girls, absolutely not-sexy in our knee-length shorts and high-impact sports bras, running suicides and other drills. Someone’s mother comes by, sees us, and complains to the athletic director. And we are mandated not to take off our shirts.
Meanwhile, out in the much cooler—and more public—hallways, the cheer squad is practicing in their little spandex shorts. They aren’t sweating much. Neither are they wearing shirts. Do they get yelled at? Nope.
But I’m not bitter. Oh, not at all. Nor do I think that the attitudes and actions of adults are impacting our children in harmful ways. Oh, no.
However, more and more each day I realize that there are many men and women who do not seem to be able to stay clothed. Just look at all those guys walking down the street with their pants falling off! I doubt their ability to dodge if a car came careening around the corner and up over the curb. Nope—they’d just be plastered to the bumper, baggy pants and all. Or perhaps sans pants—perhaps the force of the blow would dislodge them from their precarious perch.
And don’t even get me started on the women. Maybe they are all just really, really poor laundresses, and they keep shrinking everything. And I do mean everything. That’s one of the only downsides of going to the beach—having to watch all the girls in ill-fitting suits walk by. Didn’t their mamas ever pull them aside and teach them how to dress their bodies appropriately? Sigh. I guess that’s a rhetorical question.
Still, it’s obvious that these teens are trying to look sexy—don’t they realize that they just look awful? Another rhetorical question.
However, no matter how bad teen girls are, the wounds to my eyes are always worse when the beach culprit is an adult. The stupidity and lack of thoughtfulness inherent in teenagers gives them a little bit of slack. but grownups have no such excuse. Come on, ladies! Just because you can wear a mini-kini doesn’t mean you should. And look at what you’re teaching your daughters!
Sigh again. These thoughts are nothing new. I’ve said this before—and heard other artfully-clad adults say the same. I guess our voices aren’t loud enough. Maybe it’s finally time for me to grab a roll of duct tape and let my actions speak louder than words. But I don’t want to get arrested for assaulting a minor.
So, what made me think of this now, as I sit in a conservative office atmosphere? Well, I was actually thinking about my weekend. Yesterday was warm and sunny and very humid, and I was washing my car and weeding my flowers in pretty much no shirt at all. Remember—none of my neighbors can see me. (I just had to make sure I sprayed on more bug spray, with all that extra skin.)
The weather and lack of clothing reminded me of the far-gone late summer days of my youth, when we’d have basketball practice in a boiling hot gymnasium. I’ll never forget—it still needles me—we’d be sweating gallons and would toss our T-shirts to the side. Most of the time, we still had practice jerseys on; the light mesh was much more bearable than drenched cotton. So, there we were, 16- and 17-year-old butch girls, absolutely not-sexy in our knee-length shorts and high-impact sports bras, running suicides and other drills. Someone’s mother comes by, sees us, and complains to the athletic director. And we are mandated not to take off our shirts.
Meanwhile, out in the much cooler—and more public—hallways, the cheer squad is practicing in their little spandex shorts. They aren’t sweating much. Neither are they wearing shirts. Do they get yelled at? Nope.
But I’m not bitter. Oh, not at all. Nor do I think that the attitudes and actions of adults are impacting our children in harmful ways. Oh, no.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
that fresh-bound book smell...
Good books! I'm on the prowl for good books! I can find bad books, no problem, but lately NEW good books have been eluding me.
How is it possible that there is so much bad fiction in the world? Granted, I'm probably pickier than most. And am somewhat setting myself up for it by turning away from good, solid nonfiction (got a huge stack of that waiting) in favor of a fluffy story. But still. Good night, Nancy! Ninety-nine percent of all popular fiction--who reads this stuff? It sells like hotcakes, but I can't even get through a chapter with a straight face. There are exceptions, of course, but in general it makes me want to yack.
So...if y'all have read any good fiction lately, let me know. And if I hate it, I promise not to tell you. Or at least, I promise not to ridicule you publicly. Every one has different tastes in literature, for better or for worse.
There. I've vented. I feel better now. And I managed not to mention any of my employer's titles by name. Success.
How is it possible that there is so much bad fiction in the world? Granted, I'm probably pickier than most. And am somewhat setting myself up for it by turning away from good, solid nonfiction (got a huge stack of that waiting) in favor of a fluffy story. But still. Good night, Nancy! Ninety-nine percent of all popular fiction--who reads this stuff? It sells like hotcakes, but I can't even get through a chapter with a straight face. There are exceptions, of course, but in general it makes me want to yack.
So...if y'all have read any good fiction lately, let me know. And if I hate it, I promise not to tell you. Or at least, I promise not to ridicule you publicly. Every one has different tastes in literature, for better or for worse.
There. I've vented. I feel better now. And I managed not to mention any of my employer's titles by name. Success.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
yum!
Always on a quest for culinary adventure, last night I ventured into uncharted territory and made...Pineapple-Black Bean Enchiladas. They are absolutely fantastic. And quite healthy, with whole grain tortillas and fiber and whatnot. I think next time I'll add a bit of cooked chicken, but even vegetarian they are wonderful and tasty. Not too spicy, so I may also kick it up with more spices next time.
Here's the link: http://www.recipezaar.com/154388.
Perhaps I should have taken a picture; they even looked quite pretty. Occasionally I make things that taste delicious but don't quite look it.
Speaking of delicious, just wait until I get a post up here with a picture of my new dining room set! I'm almost done painting the last chair. Of course, then there's the small matter of getting the seats reconstructed...but at least I have the fabric already. Of course I do.
Here's the link: http://www.recipezaar.com/154388.
Perhaps I should have taken a picture; they even looked quite pretty. Occasionally I make things that taste delicious but don't quite look it.
Speaking of delicious, just wait until I get a post up here with a picture of my new dining room set! I'm almost done painting the last chair. Of course, then there's the small matter of getting the seats reconstructed...but at least I have the fabric already. Of course I do.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
snippets
I think it's time to present a fun little snippet of story. At some point there will hopefully be more to this scene, but for now it's still quite short. Regardless, I think it has good potential for mischief. Enjoy!
She looked sideways at him, vastly annoyed. What right did he have to look so broad-chested and magnificent—godlike, even—with the evening sun beaming golden and kind against his face, turning his skin to honey gold, his eyes to deep pools under the strong jet-black brows. Even his beard was handsome, with his decisive cheekbones—and she hated beards. The light evening breezes were stirring, rippling his dark cloak. Nancy tore her eyes away before she could be caught staring, and took a reflective, perspective-restoring inventory of the condition of her fingernails. Such nonsense. Such annoying nonsense.
The wind that cast Ardeth’s clothes dramatically about him only made her hair blow into her eyes and sent a fine wave of grit into her nose and mouth. She rubbed her face with a sleeve, then raked her hair back and held it away by clamping her hand down on the top of her head. She had a moment of self-pity at her own lack of romantic suitability for the scene, then jerked herself loose and focused on the view, which was admittedly very fine whether she fit into it or not.
She looked sideways at him, vastly annoyed. What right did he have to look so broad-chested and magnificent—godlike, even—with the evening sun beaming golden and kind against his face, turning his skin to honey gold, his eyes to deep pools under the strong jet-black brows. Even his beard was handsome, with his decisive cheekbones—and she hated beards. The light evening breezes were stirring, rippling his dark cloak. Nancy tore her eyes away before she could be caught staring, and took a reflective, perspective-restoring inventory of the condition of her fingernails. Such nonsense. Such annoying nonsense.
The wind that cast Ardeth’s clothes dramatically about him only made her hair blow into her eyes and sent a fine wave of grit into her nose and mouth. She rubbed her face with a sleeve, then raked her hair back and held it away by clamping her hand down on the top of her head. She had a moment of self-pity at her own lack of romantic suitability for the scene, then jerked herself loose and focused on the view, which was admittedly very fine whether she fit into it or not.
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