Inju-wii-es
For the three months that Mark and I were wii-less but still very "in tune" with the wii media buzz, we would frankly ridicule those stupid people who somehow managed to get so engrossed in their game that they would:
a) put their arm through a window
b) backhand a friend and break his or her nose
or
c) throw the controller through the television screen
So we were loathe to accept that we had become one of "them" when Mark first had an accident involving a framed picture of a Newfoundland Fjord, an expensive wii-mote, his right hand and several knuckles. It's truly astonishing how emotionally invested one becomes when one's status as a wii-tennis pro is at stake and you find yourself set to play the dreaded computer-simulated Natalie and Suki duo.
We were even hesitant to give ourselves the status when I hit the wall with my fist when playing doubles with Joe.
However, today, when my front hand swing connected with Mark's back hand swing and the contact left me with the vague notion that my pinky might be broken while Mark's forearm bore the evidence of a six-inch welt, I felt the realization creep in.
We are there.
We are the wii-engrossed accident-prone ridiculous.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Friday, February 23, 2007
The Perfect Man and his two teeny flaws
I have a co-worker and friend, whom I will give the pseudonym Nej. And she has a husband, Dahc, who is the topic of many conversations when Nej and I go running together. Of course, Kram is equally a topic of conversation at these times, but today, it happened to be Dahc we talked about. And she divulged a few secrets (it’s okay, Dahc, breathe) that were comforting to say the least.
(Now, don’t worry Dahc, I have cleverly disguised your identity so as to protect your privacy.)
Why were these secrets comforting? Well, there’s a rumour going around that Dahc is a perfect husband. Yes, Nej will be the first to admit that she is often astounded to have won such a superb prize of a mate. Not only is he a lean-mean running machine, he’s a great father and has a very sensible grasp of finances (good thing, because he’s an accountant) and Nej appreciates all these things. However, today I learned two (I hesitate to call them flaws) imperfections that just make him wonderful in that Ikea-As-Is sort of way. Flaw #1: Dahc does not love doing laundry. Apparently he sometimes forgets which settings to use on the washing machine (a difficulty I’m sure we’ve all faced from time to time). Flaw #2: He’s very good at ironing. Ah ha! I know what you’re thinking. But it IS a flaw, and he will realize that next time I have a pile of wrinkly shirts and he discovers them in his basement on the ironing board, waiting quietly and patiently for his skilled hands.
The aforementioned Flaw#2 has, in fact, gotten him into some hot water at one point many years ago (at the tender young age of 23 – how can any of us be judged for what we did at 23?). It was during a busy time in the Nej-Dahc household. And Nej thought to herself (she was also very young and idealistic and energetic), “I think I will give Dahc a wonderful treat! I will iron 5 shirts for him! One for every day this week.” And she did. And he seemed pleased. And Nej felt very good about herself and this good thing that she had done. Some time passed. And Nej found herself one night with a lot of time and restless hands. So she thought to herself, “I remember how grateful Dahc seemed last time I ironed shirts for him. I’ll do that again.” However when she told him of her plans, he got a funny look on his face. A funny tentative, strained look and he said, “Um. Maybe I could give you some tips….”
I think that this is the point in the story where you are shaking your head and thinking….NO DAHC, DON’T OFFER HER TIPS!!!!
And Nej pursed her lips in that way which probably made Dahc think, “Good heavenly father, what have I done?”
And she said very quietly, “I don’t think I’m in the mood to iron shirts anymore.”
And for three years after, Nej did not iron any shirts.
Don’t be sad though, because some good has come of this. Dahc irons his own shirts mostly and he is happy with how they come out. Also, Nej can sometimes get her shirts ironed if she leaves them on the ironing board when she suspects Dahc might be about to iron one of his things. And, of course, he does a Level 4+ job.
She suspects that, due to his realization of his mistake, Dahc continues to do her these small ironing jobs out of some residual guilt. However, after reading this blog….he might not feel he owes her any more ironing jobs.
Love you both, Nej and Dahc.
I have a co-worker and friend, whom I will give the pseudonym Nej. And she has a husband, Dahc, who is the topic of many conversations when Nej and I go running together. Of course, Kram is equally a topic of conversation at these times, but today, it happened to be Dahc we talked about. And she divulged a few secrets (it’s okay, Dahc, breathe) that were comforting to say the least.
(Now, don’t worry Dahc, I have cleverly disguised your identity so as to protect your privacy.)
Why were these secrets comforting? Well, there’s a rumour going around that Dahc is a perfect husband. Yes, Nej will be the first to admit that she is often astounded to have won such a superb prize of a mate. Not only is he a lean-mean running machine, he’s a great father and has a very sensible grasp of finances (good thing, because he’s an accountant) and Nej appreciates all these things. However, today I learned two (I hesitate to call them flaws) imperfections that just make him wonderful in that Ikea-As-Is sort of way. Flaw #1: Dahc does not love doing laundry. Apparently he sometimes forgets which settings to use on the washing machine (a difficulty I’m sure we’ve all faced from time to time). Flaw #2: He’s very good at ironing. Ah ha! I know what you’re thinking. But it IS a flaw, and he will realize that next time I have a pile of wrinkly shirts and he discovers them in his basement on the ironing board, waiting quietly and patiently for his skilled hands.
The aforementioned Flaw#2 has, in fact, gotten him into some hot water at one point many years ago (at the tender young age of 23 – how can any of us be judged for what we did at 23?). It was during a busy time in the Nej-Dahc household. And Nej thought to herself (she was also very young and idealistic and energetic), “I think I will give Dahc a wonderful treat! I will iron 5 shirts for him! One for every day this week.” And she did. And he seemed pleased. And Nej felt very good about herself and this good thing that she had done. Some time passed. And Nej found herself one night with a lot of time and restless hands. So she thought to herself, “I remember how grateful Dahc seemed last time I ironed shirts for him. I’ll do that again.” However when she told him of her plans, he got a funny look on his face. A funny tentative, strained look and he said, “Um. Maybe I could give you some tips….”
I think that this is the point in the story where you are shaking your head and thinking….NO DAHC, DON’T OFFER HER TIPS!!!!
And Nej pursed her lips in that way which probably made Dahc think, “Good heavenly father, what have I done?”
And she said very quietly, “I don’t think I’m in the mood to iron shirts anymore.”
And for three years after, Nej did not iron any shirts.
Don’t be sad though, because some good has come of this. Dahc irons his own shirts mostly and he is happy with how they come out. Also, Nej can sometimes get her shirts ironed if she leaves them on the ironing board when she suspects Dahc might be about to iron one of his things. And, of course, he does a Level 4+ job.
She suspects that, due to his realization of his mistake, Dahc continues to do her these small ironing jobs out of some residual guilt. However, after reading this blog….he might not feel he owes her any more ironing jobs.
Love you both, Nej and Dahc.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Rite of Passage: The Half- Windsor
There may be few occasions in a boy’s first 13 years of life when he must know how to properly tie a tie. Then suddenly, he finds it’s graduation picture day and his fairly conservative Korean mother has sent him to school in a stiffly pressed white shirt, armed him with an unraveled tie. Or maybe it somehow became unraveled between home and school. Either way, he finds himself left to his own means in securing it about his neck.
It’s second period and this young man, we shall call him A, finishes his math test early (he is very good at math and always finishes early). He then begins to fret and stew about how he will get this long black piece of fabric tied around the collar of his shirt. I watch him from my desk as he twists and loops it a few times with a furrowed brow. His friend, T, who is proudly wearing his striped brown tie, finishes his test. They know they are supposed to be absolutely silent during a test. So they proceed to have the following conversation, with arm gestures and body language only.
T: Put it around your neck.
A: Like this?
T: Yes. Now make sure THIS side is on top.
A: Okay. Is mine right?
T: Yes. Yes. Okay, now put it up through the middle.
A: Around the back?
T: NO NO Up the middle.
A: Oh, up here?
T: Yes, now take this end and hold it high above your head.
A: This high?
T: Not high enough!
A: I can’t do this! Come do it for me.
T moves his chair across the room to A. He takes both sides of A’s tie then shakes his head and whispers, “I can’t do it on you. I only learned last night. I can only do it on me.”
So I watch intently as T tries again to walk A through the steps of tying a half-Windsor. He even shows A how to tell if he’s done it correctly, by pulling the short end out and unraveling it into one twisted long fabric, instead of a knot. I wave A over to me and attempt the knot. It doesn’t look right when we’re done and I can tell A is not comfortable standing so close to a teacher. T does the unravel test and discovers that my knot is not, in fact, a correct half-Windsor. Smartie pants.
A and T sit down again, face to face, and tackle the problem systematically and in exaggerated silent gestures. Meanwhile, many more students have finished the test and watch with intent interest. L unabashedly pulls his chair close, rests his chin in his hands and watches as if engrossed in a gripping movie. M, sitting on the opposite side of the class, mouths some words in an effort to express that he is willing to help if they run out of options. P steps in (also sporting a very finely knotted tie). He unravels his own tie and tries to teach A. A tries again and fails. T takes A’s tie and puts it around his own neck, ties the damn thing, loses his glasses trying to take it off his head, gives it to A, who almost loses HIS glasses trying to put it on. Four sets of hands stretch out toward A to help him adjust it to the correct length.
The ordeal is over.
No words were spoken.
But one graduate’s photo will show a perfectly groomed young man, where a boy once sat.
There may be few occasions in a boy’s first 13 years of life when he must know how to properly tie a tie. Then suddenly, he finds it’s graduation picture day and his fairly conservative Korean mother has sent him to school in a stiffly pressed white shirt, armed him with an unraveled tie. Or maybe it somehow became unraveled between home and school. Either way, he finds himself left to his own means in securing it about his neck.
It’s second period and this young man, we shall call him A, finishes his math test early (he is very good at math and always finishes early). He then begins to fret and stew about how he will get this long black piece of fabric tied around the collar of his shirt. I watch him from my desk as he twists and loops it a few times with a furrowed brow. His friend, T, who is proudly wearing his striped brown tie, finishes his test. They know they are supposed to be absolutely silent during a test. So they proceed to have the following conversation, with arm gestures and body language only.
T: Put it around your neck.
A: Like this?
T: Yes. Now make sure THIS side is on top.
A: Okay. Is mine right?
T: Yes. Yes. Okay, now put it up through the middle.
A: Around the back?
T: NO NO Up the middle.
A: Oh, up here?
T: Yes, now take this end and hold it high above your head.
A: This high?
T: Not high enough!
A: I can’t do this! Come do it for me.
T moves his chair across the room to A. He takes both sides of A’s tie then shakes his head and whispers, “I can’t do it on you. I only learned last night. I can only do it on me.”
So I watch intently as T tries again to walk A through the steps of tying a half-Windsor. He even shows A how to tell if he’s done it correctly, by pulling the short end out and unraveling it into one twisted long fabric, instead of a knot. I wave A over to me and attempt the knot. It doesn’t look right when we’re done and I can tell A is not comfortable standing so close to a teacher. T does the unravel test and discovers that my knot is not, in fact, a correct half-Windsor. Smartie pants.
A and T sit down again, face to face, and tackle the problem systematically and in exaggerated silent gestures. Meanwhile, many more students have finished the test and watch with intent interest. L unabashedly pulls his chair close, rests his chin in his hands and watches as if engrossed in a gripping movie. M, sitting on the opposite side of the class, mouths some words in an effort to express that he is willing to help if they run out of options. P steps in (also sporting a very finely knotted tie). He unravels his own tie and tries to teach A. A tries again and fails. T takes A’s tie and puts it around his own neck, ties the damn thing, loses his glasses trying to take it off his head, gives it to A, who almost loses HIS glasses trying to put it on. Four sets of hands stretch out toward A to help him adjust it to the correct length.
The ordeal is over.
No words were spoken.
But one graduate’s photo will show a perfectly groomed young man, where a boy once sat.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
SF on the Brain
My blood pressure is perilously high.
My classroom is littered with poster boards and garbage bags, mouldy bread, Petri dishes, hovercrafts, solar powered cars, name brand paper towels and no name stain removers. There are tired-looking students roaming into the building early in the morning, with arms loaded with gadgets and gizmos, parents trailing carefully behind, also heavy-laden with display equipment. The influx of concerned parental phone calls and notes has risen sharply. The school secretaries are avoiding me. Most other staff are pitying me.
It’s Science Fair time again.
My blood pressure is perilously high.
My classroom is littered with poster boards and garbage bags, mouldy bread, Petri dishes, hovercrafts, solar powered cars, name brand paper towels and no name stain removers. There are tired-looking students roaming into the building early in the morning, with arms loaded with gadgets and gizmos, parents trailing carefully behind, also heavy-laden with display equipment. The influx of concerned parental phone calls and notes has risen sharply. The school secretaries are avoiding me. Most other staff are pitying me.
It’s Science Fair time again.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Toner Incident
It was a picture so perfect that I couldn’t have dreamed it up. I walked into the office, at school, to see this:
The sixty year old blonde bombshell who drives a convertible and has been retired for three years (and has received at least three retirement gifts, and several Welcome Back gifts) who now works part time so she can continue to draw on her pension as well as satisfy her need to “contribute”, is leaned over the secretary’s desk with her bum stuck out. The secretary, a woman far too gentle and kind for her job, who ends up taking on tasks not on her job contract, such as bandaging cuts, icing bruises, dispensing hyperactivity medicine, buffering tension between administration and the other secretarial staff as well as, apparently, removing unsightly stains from the teaching staff’s asses, is frowning in deep concentration and vigorously rubbing circles into the bombshell’s heiny, while the bombshell laughs. To see a woman of such dignity reduced to these measures because she leaned against the wrong garbage can after someone had spilled toner on it was slightly humourous and very human.
It was a picture so perfect that I couldn’t have dreamed it up. I walked into the office, at school, to see this:
The sixty year old blonde bombshell who drives a convertible and has been retired for three years (and has received at least three retirement gifts, and several Welcome Back gifts) who now works part time so she can continue to draw on her pension as well as satisfy her need to “contribute”, is leaned over the secretary’s desk with her bum stuck out. The secretary, a woman far too gentle and kind for her job, who ends up taking on tasks not on her job contract, such as bandaging cuts, icing bruises, dispensing hyperactivity medicine, buffering tension between administration and the other secretarial staff as well as, apparently, removing unsightly stains from the teaching staff’s asses, is frowning in deep concentration and vigorously rubbing circles into the bombshell’s heiny, while the bombshell laughs. To see a woman of such dignity reduced to these measures because she leaned against the wrong garbage can after someone had spilled toner on it was slightly humourous and very human.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Top 10 Reasons to Join the Gym
1. Swapping bodily fluids with complete strangers.
2. More “Me” time.
3. Treadmill Running: An excuse to buy an ipod.
4. Treadmill Running: An excuse to watch way too much TLC.
5. Kickin’ pecs.
6. Free movies for two day loan.
7. Natural Adrenaline Rush.
8. Less Jiggle.
9. Have your cake and eat it too.
1. Swapping bodily fluids with complete strangers.
2. More “Me” time.
3. Treadmill Running: An excuse to buy an ipod.
4. Treadmill Running: An excuse to watch way too much TLC.
5. Kickin’ pecs.
6. Free movies for two day loan.
7. Natural Adrenaline Rush.
8. Less Jiggle.
9. Have your cake and eat it too.
10. Melissa may finally stop harassing you.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Valentine’s Day
There was this one Valentine’s Day that I remember, and it was so perfect because everyone says February should have a holiday, and I woke up to the sound of the phone ringing at 6 am, and it was a fellow teacher telling me that the schools were closed due to a snow storm. So Mark and I slept in that year on Valentine’s Day. And we were planning a trip to Vegas, so our gifts to each other were more modest than in the past. I gave him a cribbage board (although my mom had already made a comment in front of him that she and I had spent a long time shopping for a cribbage board, so he did suspect) and some chai tea and he gave me a little zen garden with real grass seed and mini gravel and stuff. And we ate Tim Horton’s sandwiches and muffins for breakfast and then we bundled all up in our winter gear and went out to shovel the driveway. The snow blew back in our faces as we shoveled, but it reminded me of being outside with my family on wintry days. I cooked dinner for Mark that year on Valentine’s Day. I made pork tenderloin with this special Lingonberry and Mushroom sauce that my Uncle Kevin gave me the recipe for, but I left out the lingonberries because I don’t know what those are. And I bought dried cranberries to put in instead, but then worried ‘cause they were sweetened and I thought that might mess up the recipe, so I left them out too. And Mark said it was the best meal I’ve ever made him. And he wanted to lick the plate, he said, but he refrained. We played a lot of Wii tennis and Mark hit one of our pictures with his knuckle, but the wiimote wasn’t broken and neither was his knuckle and neither was the picture, so we really lucked out. And he bought dessert at a local bakery, but it was black forest cake and he doesn’t like black forest cake, but when he bought it, he thought it was just chocolate cake. And we went out and shoveled the driveway a second time and it was even more fun than the first time.
That was the last Valentine’s day before we got married.
Sigh.
There was this one Valentine’s Day that I remember, and it was so perfect because everyone says February should have a holiday, and I woke up to the sound of the phone ringing at 6 am, and it was a fellow teacher telling me that the schools were closed due to a snow storm. So Mark and I slept in that year on Valentine’s Day. And we were planning a trip to Vegas, so our gifts to each other were more modest than in the past. I gave him a cribbage board (although my mom had already made a comment in front of him that she and I had spent a long time shopping for a cribbage board, so he did suspect) and some chai tea and he gave me a little zen garden with real grass seed and mini gravel and stuff. And we ate Tim Horton’s sandwiches and muffins for breakfast and then we bundled all up in our winter gear and went out to shovel the driveway. The snow blew back in our faces as we shoveled, but it reminded me of being outside with my family on wintry days. I cooked dinner for Mark that year on Valentine’s Day. I made pork tenderloin with this special Lingonberry and Mushroom sauce that my Uncle Kevin gave me the recipe for, but I left out the lingonberries because I don’t know what those are. And I bought dried cranberries to put in instead, but then worried ‘cause they were sweetened and I thought that might mess up the recipe, so I left them out too. And Mark said it was the best meal I’ve ever made him. And he wanted to lick the plate, he said, but he refrained. We played a lot of Wii tennis and Mark hit one of our pictures with his knuckle, but the wiimote wasn’t broken and neither was his knuckle and neither was the picture, so we really lucked out. And he bought dessert at a local bakery, but it was black forest cake and he doesn’t like black forest cake, but when he bought it, he thought it was just chocolate cake. And we went out and shoveled the driveway a second time and it was even more fun than the first time.
That was the last Valentine’s day before we got married.
Sigh.
Those were the days.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Little Joys
I appreciate small joys.
The other day, I was riding the down escalator at Sears with my mom. She was a few steps down in front of me. And she proceeded to put her arms on the rails, straighten her arms (lifting her up a bit) and shuffle her feet – not unlike a giddy five year old. And I asked her, “Mom, what are you doing?”
She replied, “Practicing kick-boxing.”
I appreciate small joys.
The other day, I was riding the down escalator at Sears with my mom. She was a few steps down in front of me. And she proceeded to put her arms on the rails, straighten her arms (lifting her up a bit) and shuffle her feet – not unlike a giddy five year old. And I asked her, “Mom, what are you doing?”
She replied, “Practicing kick-boxing.”
Monday, February 12, 2007
Good Things
They say bad things happen to good people, and that may be the case, but people don’t talk enough about the good things that happen to good people too.
My friend Amy Proulx is a good person. She and I were drawn together for many reasons in University. One was our adoration of Paul Simon (she once gave him up for Lent). Also, our pursuit of fluency in french brought us to the same residence: La Maison Française. And our tree-hugging tendencies probably led us both to Guelph in the first place. Whatever the reasons, we drank tea, played the guitar on the roof of our rental house and visited the Farmer’s Market together for years. Once, she found an old rocking chair at the Thrift Store, so she walked home with it balanced on her head and when she got home, she painted it red. Once she walked home from the University Community Garden with a wheelbarrow full of tomatoes and she gave a workshop on making salsa. She wrote a vegan cookbook and took all the pictures to illustrate it herself. Once she made her own pitas in our oven. Many times, she microwaved a squash and forgot it was in there.
I knew Amy through some rocky patches in her life. For a while, they thought she might have M.S. She would get tipsy and had some other neurological phenomena. But she always had a bright attitude. Instead of getting her automobile license, she bought a moped. She sometimes said she thought she was reincarnated because she knew things and she didn’t remember how she’d learned them. For instance, she would listen to Greek radio stations (or maybe it was Araibic) and she could understand but she didn’t know why. She was brilliant, but her body seemed often to not cooperate with her free-spirit. She was diagnosed with polycystic ovaries, which essentially meant that she couldn’t have babies. She took everything with a grain of salt. She had the wisdom of a three hundred year old woman. Then she ran away and married a wonderful Iranian man.
She went to Iowa to do her PhD in some food-related-save-the-world plan. And now she writes me that is she going to return to Toronto (her husband is a firefighter who is at the top of the waiting list in this area now). She has heard of my wedding and has reminded me that many years ago, she promised to give me, as a wedding gift, an enormous batch of homemade pierogies. How could she know I would marry a Ukrainian man! And just when I think I’ve already heard the good news, she tells me they are expecting a baby! She went into the hospital for an ultrasound because of a kidney infection and voila! There you have it, Ladies and Gentlemen. Wonderful surprises happen to well-deserving and unexpecting people very single day. What a great life!
They say bad things happen to good people, and that may be the case, but people don’t talk enough about the good things that happen to good people too.
My friend Amy Proulx is a good person. She and I were drawn together for many reasons in University. One was our adoration of Paul Simon (she once gave him up for Lent). Also, our pursuit of fluency in french brought us to the same residence: La Maison Française. And our tree-hugging tendencies probably led us both to Guelph in the first place. Whatever the reasons, we drank tea, played the guitar on the roof of our rental house and visited the Farmer’s Market together for years. Once, she found an old rocking chair at the Thrift Store, so she walked home with it balanced on her head and when she got home, she painted it red. Once she walked home from the University Community Garden with a wheelbarrow full of tomatoes and she gave a workshop on making salsa. She wrote a vegan cookbook and took all the pictures to illustrate it herself. Once she made her own pitas in our oven. Many times, she microwaved a squash and forgot it was in there.
I knew Amy through some rocky patches in her life. For a while, they thought she might have M.S. She would get tipsy and had some other neurological phenomena. But she always had a bright attitude. Instead of getting her automobile license, she bought a moped. She sometimes said she thought she was reincarnated because she knew things and she didn’t remember how she’d learned them. For instance, she would listen to Greek radio stations (or maybe it was Araibic) and she could understand but she didn’t know why. She was brilliant, but her body seemed often to not cooperate with her free-spirit. She was diagnosed with polycystic ovaries, which essentially meant that she couldn’t have babies. She took everything with a grain of salt. She had the wisdom of a three hundred year old woman. Then she ran away and married a wonderful Iranian man.
She went to Iowa to do her PhD in some food-related-save-the-world plan. And now she writes me that is she going to return to Toronto (her husband is a firefighter who is at the top of the waiting list in this area now). She has heard of my wedding and has reminded me that many years ago, she promised to give me, as a wedding gift, an enormous batch of homemade pierogies. How could she know I would marry a Ukrainian man! And just when I think I’ve already heard the good news, she tells me they are expecting a baby! She went into the hospital for an ultrasound because of a kidney infection and voila! There you have it, Ladies and Gentlemen. Wonderful surprises happen to well-deserving and unexpecting people very single day. What a great life!
Thursday, February 08, 2007
On Winning and Defeat
Winning is relative. I’ve discovered that.
I wouldn’t consider myself a competitive person, by any stretch, however, like anyone else, I don’t love losing even the friendliest of games.
I’ve just recently (the past two weeks) begun to play squash with a friend from work at his condo. Even before I went, I asked Mark, “Do you think I’ll be able to beat Ryan?” And Mark looked at me sadly and said, “No.” I was kind of bruised by his lack of hesitation. He attempted to patch my hurt over with some explanation of my height disadvantage, “For every step Ryan takes, you’ll have to take three, Melissa.”
I nodded, but in my heart I thought I stood a chance.
So our first week of squash, we both kind of flung ourselves around the court (I tend to do a lot more flinging than deliberate running) and he beat me four games in a row. (He also hit me with a squash ball in the arm). I took some small comfort in the fact that he kind of collapsed at the end of the four games. He’ll tell you this was due to laughter, but I truly believe I exhausted him.
This past week, during our second squash match, I lost eight consecutive games. And it was brutal. I don’t normally become angry, or too self-pitying or bitter, but I sensed the approach of all of those emotions when he began to egg me on with, “I wonder if Melissa will score ANY points this game.” (I “mistakenly” hit him twice with the squash ball during this match.) And after an hour and a half, we were finally (and incredibly) tied 8-8. And at this point the rule book says that the player who is not serving decides whether the game will go to 10 or not. And Ryan must have lost some confidence because he called that we would go to 10. He got the next point, then I tied it up at 9-9 and low and behold, I scored the winning point! I was elated and proceeded to ride my racket around the court. (This is a trick I’ve seen Mark do on many a mini-putt course).
A few days later, Ryan goes out for beers with some of our mutual friends, and Mark. I then hear, from an unnamed source that Ryan claimed that if he had truly played his HARDEST I would never be able to beat him. Immediately, a victory is ripped from my hands - a victory which I truly feel I paid for in sweat and bruises and curse-words.
My second win of the week occurred this very evening. I was sitting on the couch in front of the television, feeling bored and rather ho-hum, when Mark came in and began rummaging through the coffee table (ours acts also as a storage for board games). “What are you doing?” (I felt like a dog who senses his owners has picked up his leash and a walk may be imminent). “I was thinking we could play a game,” he said casually, knowing full well I’d be over the moon at the suggestion that we spend quality “together” time.
So he pulled out the chess board and we began to carefully set up the pieces. I began the game, as I always do, with a sense that a loss is unavoidable. Somehow, I rarely win at anything. However, my defensive moves slowly became offensive and soon I was chiming “check”…. “check” ….. “check” and then finally … “check mate”. And no sooner did the words escape my mouth but he breathed a sigh of relief and said, “I was just WAITING for that game to be over!” And the joy of the win was again suddenly gone.
So I guess winning is relative. It’s relative to the preceeding effort. It’s relative to the opponent’s ability to gracefully accept their defeat. And it’s relative to the long-term repercussions, because I would lose 20 consecutive games of chess if it meant Mark and I could have more “together” time.
Winning is relative. I’ve discovered that.
I wouldn’t consider myself a competitive person, by any stretch, however, like anyone else, I don’t love losing even the friendliest of games.
I’ve just recently (the past two weeks) begun to play squash with a friend from work at his condo. Even before I went, I asked Mark, “Do you think I’ll be able to beat Ryan?” And Mark looked at me sadly and said, “No.” I was kind of bruised by his lack of hesitation. He attempted to patch my hurt over with some explanation of my height disadvantage, “For every step Ryan takes, you’ll have to take three, Melissa.”
I nodded, but in my heart I thought I stood a chance.
So our first week of squash, we both kind of flung ourselves around the court (I tend to do a lot more flinging than deliberate running) and he beat me four games in a row. (He also hit me with a squash ball in the arm). I took some small comfort in the fact that he kind of collapsed at the end of the four games. He’ll tell you this was due to laughter, but I truly believe I exhausted him.
This past week, during our second squash match, I lost eight consecutive games. And it was brutal. I don’t normally become angry, or too self-pitying or bitter, but I sensed the approach of all of those emotions when he began to egg me on with, “I wonder if Melissa will score ANY points this game.” (I “mistakenly” hit him twice with the squash ball during this match.) And after an hour and a half, we were finally (and incredibly) tied 8-8. And at this point the rule book says that the player who is not serving decides whether the game will go to 10 or not. And Ryan must have lost some confidence because he called that we would go to 10. He got the next point, then I tied it up at 9-9 and low and behold, I scored the winning point! I was elated and proceeded to ride my racket around the court. (This is a trick I’ve seen Mark do on many a mini-putt course).
A few days later, Ryan goes out for beers with some of our mutual friends, and Mark. I then hear, from an unnamed source that Ryan claimed that if he had truly played his HARDEST I would never be able to beat him. Immediately, a victory is ripped from my hands - a victory which I truly feel I paid for in sweat and bruises and curse-words.
My second win of the week occurred this very evening. I was sitting on the couch in front of the television, feeling bored and rather ho-hum, when Mark came in and began rummaging through the coffee table (ours acts also as a storage for board games). “What are you doing?” (I felt like a dog who senses his owners has picked up his leash and a walk may be imminent). “I was thinking we could play a game,” he said casually, knowing full well I’d be over the moon at the suggestion that we spend quality “together” time.
So he pulled out the chess board and we began to carefully set up the pieces. I began the game, as I always do, with a sense that a loss is unavoidable. Somehow, I rarely win at anything. However, my defensive moves slowly became offensive and soon I was chiming “check”…. “check” ….. “check” and then finally … “check mate”. And no sooner did the words escape my mouth but he breathed a sigh of relief and said, “I was just WAITING for that game to be over!” And the joy of the win was again suddenly gone.
So I guess winning is relative. It’s relative to the preceeding effort. It’s relative to the opponent’s ability to gracefully accept their defeat. And it’s relative to the long-term repercussions, because I would lose 20 consecutive games of chess if it meant Mark and I could have more “together” time.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Crossing the Street
I can’t cross the street when the orange Don’t Walk sign is up. I can’t J-walk, even if there isn’t a car for miles. My friends and I will be out and they’ll glance casually to either side and just begin to head across the road, despite the fact that it’s not legit, and I am stopped dead in my tracks. It’s just a thing I have, I guess. I will apologize profusely. I can’t use reason to explain it. My legs seem to have a will of their own and they will not cross.
However, the truly ridiculous thing is that one might surmise that a person with my affliction would not often find herself skimming by glances with motor vehicles by the hair of her chinny chin chin. And yet somehow I do. One would think, “That Melissa will NEVER get hit by a car…she is SO cautious!” Yet when I do decide, sometimes, to cross illegitimately, I think I’m so jerky and spontaneous in my decision that I don’t take proper care in looking both ways. I think I suddenly decide to throw caution to the wind and then throw my fate into the hands of speed (the speed at which my panicked legs can carry me across the pavement). And that is my downfall. One might hypothesize that perhaps it is BECAUSE I have had such close encounters with bumpers that I am so very cautious. Yet, if you can follow my reasoning, I think perhaps it is my caution that has worked against me. That has made me doubt my own instincts and they have, in turn, been dulled. I have relied for too long on the digital external stimuli instead of my own keen drives and they have now forsaken me. I have lived in captivity for too long.
Either way, if I am to perpetuate by Darwin’s standards, I will use any means I must.The Gift (see earlier blog) tells me that I should just trust in the stoplights.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
The Skinny Jean Phenomenon
I consider myself a fair person. Generally, I support an inclusive environment. Let people be people. Let them express themselves as they will. Tattoos are cool. Piercings are Art. But The Skinny Jean is where I draw the line.
It struck me the other day, as I was teaching science class, that my 13 year olds, who are twig-thin, were looking slightly, well, curvy. And I’m all for curvy. Let women bear their hips with pride! However, we’re talking girls with no hips, little butt and wrist-thin thighs who were suddenly looking, well, like they’d had a lot of Krispy Kremes. At first I couldn’t put my finger on what was different. Then it hit me. The wave of the 80’s hit me….and with it, the realization that the tapered pants were back. And they had a new name: The Skinny Jean.
Any master will tell you the importance of balance when composing a piece of art. And fashion is no exception. In order to the balance the womanly hips, it is humane to lead the eye with a straight-leg down toward the ground. This premise is basic and well-known. It’s right up there with friends-don’t-let-friends-wear-horizontal-stripes mantra. And yet, some daring and innocent young kid who wasn’t old enough the last time they were in to truly appreciate the fear they instilled in the rest of us thinks she cooked up a really bright idea. Let’s re-do the 80s! And while leg-warmers have some functional aspects and layering loosey-goosey shirts with big belts and tank tops hasn’t been as upsetting as I once thought it would be, I am struck dumb at the poor choices those skinny-jean marketers have made.
So, anyway, I went shopping last night with my friend whom we will call Nylorac. And she patiently waited while I dug through pile after pile of sale jeans for my size. I picked up a pair of very inexpensive ($9.99 in fact) jeans and held them up as I carried them to the fitting rooms. “I wonder,” I thought, “why these are so cheap?” I got into the little change room and pulled the curtain. I thought it was strange that I had trouble getting my calves through the bottom part of the pants. And they seemed to feel loose in some areas that I wasn’t expecting and tight in other areas. And I turned around once in the mirror and got a very sick feeling at the pit of my stomach. I’d been tricked! “OH GOD!” I exclaimed.
“Is it that bad?” Nylorac asked.
“Worse.” I groaned.
“I’m wearing….(gulp)…..Skinny Jeans.”
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