Showing posts with label baseball. Show all posts
Showing posts with label baseball. Show all posts
Saturday, October 13, 2012
There Will Be Joy in Mudville
Last night, we went on a date to a sports bar for dinner. We watched the Nats limp through 4 innings where they gradually gave up enough runs to whittle a 6-0 lead down to 1 in the fifth and final game of the playoff. Driving home, we listened on the radio. We are still sick with the knowledge the Nationals ended their season in a painful 9-7 loss to the Cardinals. The O's also had their run for the World Series destroyed by the Yankees this dark Friday. To watch and love baseball is to know at any moment, it may be glorious and also, at any moment, your heart shall be broken. It is part of the "of course it's hard. That's what makes it great." zen poetry of this sport.
However this morning, my husband explained why this particular loss has more cosmic consequences than that beltway residents now must face only the perpetually disappointing Redskins and the dull soul sucking pain of election year politics:
My fellow baseball fans,
Seven hours removed from the disaster of the Nats' historic collapse at the hands of the Cards, and the O's anemic loss in New York, I have reached a conclusion:
Perhaps when the the Yankees meet to do battle in St. Louis in what will prove to be a fateful Game 7, the Mayans will finally be proven correct.
After 512 innings of improbable comebacks, 350 hits by heretofore unknown journeyman, 75 over -the-wall game saving catches, and 43 combined home runs between Ibanez and Descalso, the last man on the Yankees' bench, Alex Rodriguez, finally gets into the game, not as the highest paid hitter in history, but as a pitcher trying hold the Bronx Bombers' 1 run lead.
As A-Roid angrily strides toward the mound to face David Freese, the New Madrid fault line finally ruptures, sucking not only Busch Stadium but the entire planet into a black hole as every last ounce of the Earth's luck will have finally run out.
Wait 'til next year. If there is one.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Take Me Out of This Ball Game...
To help teach responsibility and minimize extra trips to the school after school for missing assignments, books, materials, etc, I established a policy of three strikes. Basically, my children got three times each school year when Mom would turn around or get back in the car and drive back to pick up forgotten things. After the third time, they'd win a note, "So and So forgot his homework." and face the consequences of that memo. The system worked great for the first two kids.
Kid number one, got to strike 4 and straightened up and got it together for the most part, occasionally taking a ding in the homework department until he figured out how to get everything done at school BEFORE coming home. His solution, speed. Granted, quality suffered but nothing was ever late. Kid number two, a perfectionist, opted for bringing everything home every day to ensure she never forgot anything. She needed a rolling back pack, a shoulder bag and a second knapsack to carry everything. She perpetually looked like a pack mule on safari.
Enter Kid 3 and Kid 4 to the homework every day set. Kid 3, soft spoken but crafty, figured out that while there are only three strikes per kid, there were 12 opportunities to retrieve work in reality if everyone used their three. She tried bringing her stuff home like her sister, but found that too taxing to her back. So she winged it, bringing home all of it most days, but reminding others of things they forgot if she needed a turn around so that her three strikes were never called in. Kid 4, also deal maker by nature, offered money to Kid 2 to in effect purchase her three strikes giving him an additional three times when he could relax if he forgot something. Kid 5, a forgetful one but straight shooter, burned through her three strikes in two weeks, requiring me hold an impromptu homework spot check every afternoon so that we never leave the parking lot before verifying she has all she needs.
As a mom, intuitively, I want to help them succeed. As a person, I do not want to spend my whole existence coddling them such that they never own responsibility, I have to help them become full fledged capable people. As an adult, I also do not want to set up children to fail by being obnoxious when they plead for actual clemency about forgetfulness, nor do I want to be taken advantage of such that they view mom as the ultimate sucker. The top five know all these conflicting roles and play off them with a mastery that beggars description. In other words, I may be calling strikes but as the pitcher of these ideas, I'm getting shellacked.
As a result of all these deals being brokered and multiple people to juggle, I'm sure someone has managed to get to strike number 147 in this game leaving me the sap with the seemingly unenforceable policy of three times and you're out. Now, we have a sixth doing homework. To which I can only say, call in the reliever. After six innings of play, I'm done and willing to hit the showers. Wonder if I can get busted down to double A ball?
Kid number one, got to strike 4 and straightened up and got it together for the most part, occasionally taking a ding in the homework department until he figured out how to get everything done at school BEFORE coming home. His solution, speed. Granted, quality suffered but nothing was ever late. Kid number two, a perfectionist, opted for bringing everything home every day to ensure she never forgot anything. She needed a rolling back pack, a shoulder bag and a second knapsack to carry everything. She perpetually looked like a pack mule on safari.
Enter Kid 3 and Kid 4 to the homework every day set. Kid 3, soft spoken but crafty, figured out that while there are only three strikes per kid, there were 12 opportunities to retrieve work in reality if everyone used their three. She tried bringing her stuff home like her sister, but found that too taxing to her back. So she winged it, bringing home all of it most days, but reminding others of things they forgot if she needed a turn around so that her three strikes were never called in. Kid 4, also deal maker by nature, offered money to Kid 2 to in effect purchase her three strikes giving him an additional three times when he could relax if he forgot something. Kid 5, a forgetful one but straight shooter, burned through her three strikes in two weeks, requiring me hold an impromptu homework spot check every afternoon so that we never leave the parking lot before verifying she has all she needs.
As a mom, intuitively, I want to help them succeed. As a person, I do not want to spend my whole existence coddling them such that they never own responsibility, I have to help them become full fledged capable people. As an adult, I also do not want to set up children to fail by being obnoxious when they plead for actual clemency about forgetfulness, nor do I want to be taken advantage of such that they view mom as the ultimate sucker. The top five know all these conflicting roles and play off them with a mastery that beggars description. In other words, I may be calling strikes but as the pitcher of these ideas, I'm getting shellacked.
As a result of all these deals being brokered and multiple people to juggle, I'm sure someone has managed to get to strike number 147 in this game leaving me the sap with the seemingly unenforceable policy of three times and you're out. Now, we have a sixth doing homework. To which I can only say, call in the reliever. After six innings of play, I'm done and willing to hit the showers. Wonder if I can get busted down to double A ball?
Sunday, June 6, 2010
The Perfect Call for This Day and Age
In case you've missed it, this past week a perfect game was lost because of a bad call. Pitcher Armando Galaraga of the Detroit Tigers pitched a game that was one bat away from history. Then Jim Joyce the umpire missed the call with the Cleveland runner and called him safe at first, when replays clearly showed him out. For those who don't love or get baseball who say it's just a game, I say "Yes and no."
Yes. The game is just one of many. Yes, it ultimately does not change the world. Yes, there are countless other more things, more exciting, more important, more vital.
And No. This was an opportunity at history, at perfection, marred by human events. So I feel for the pitcher who just gave 26 perfect performances only to have the 27th robbed as the umpire clearly muffed the call.
And No because the real story was the next day. It's part of why Baseball still matters and still means something, because there are moments like this that the broader world gets to see and given the level of vitriol, preening and self righteous puffery that we witness on a daily basis, having real people on a big stage matters immensely.
The Umpire (Joyce), went to the locker room immediately after the game to apologize and Galaraga hugged him and accepted it. He also apologized again the next day when Galaraga came out with the line up. He shed tears. He even said, "I cost this kid history."
And No again, it isn't just a game because Galaraga did not call for a reversal of the call. He did not demand his perfect game, he did not demand a pound of flesh for the loss of his moment.
There is a lesson in this moment of baseball, about the way we return to civility and class as a society, as modeled in the Pitcher and the Umpire. A mistake was made. It cost the pitcher permanently. The umpire apologized, heartfully. The Pitcher accepted. The game went on and life went on and baseball was all the richer for the absence of a perfect game that was perfect; when perfect gentlemen responded as gentlemen should.
I know there are cries for the call to be reversed, but this would be a disservice to baseball and to my way of thinking, all of us. There are bad calls. The game goes on. Life is like that; the content of our character is revealed by how we respond to bad calls, to unlucky breaks, to perfection not being recognized; to not making history.
The fact is, that there are far more men like Jim Joyce the Umpire and the pitcher Armando Galaraga than we know. They just don't make the news because peace or the lack of open conflict isn't a news item. There are far more moments when we don't make history, when we are asked to accept apologies or our own sense of right and wrong requires us to give them. The little story of a blown call gives me hope for our society as a whole. As long as good women and men keep coming forward with quiet dignity and fighting to do or say the right thing despite having the Kitchen sink thrown at them and people did boo and in some cases, threaten the umpire and his family despite calls from Armando not to be angry; civility will eventually be welcomed as a relief from the constant preening spinning, bickering and self righteous acid throwing that currently pretends to be this nation’s discourse.
Given the fact that men like Armando and Joyce exist, I can hope. Play ball.
Yes. The game is just one of many. Yes, it ultimately does not change the world. Yes, there are countless other more things, more exciting, more important, more vital.
And No. This was an opportunity at history, at perfection, marred by human events. So I feel for the pitcher who just gave 26 perfect performances only to have the 27th robbed as the umpire clearly muffed the call.
And No because the real story was the next day. It's part of why Baseball still matters and still means something, because there are moments like this that the broader world gets to see and given the level of vitriol, preening and self righteous puffery that we witness on a daily basis, having real people on a big stage matters immensely.
The Umpire (Joyce), went to the locker room immediately after the game to apologize and Galaraga hugged him and accepted it. He also apologized again the next day when Galaraga came out with the line up. He shed tears. He even said, "I cost this kid history."
And No again, it isn't just a game because Galaraga did not call for a reversal of the call. He did not demand his perfect game, he did not demand a pound of flesh for the loss of his moment.
There is a lesson in this moment of baseball, about the way we return to civility and class as a society, as modeled in the Pitcher and the Umpire. A mistake was made. It cost the pitcher permanently. The umpire apologized, heartfully. The Pitcher accepted. The game went on and life went on and baseball was all the richer for the absence of a perfect game that was perfect; when perfect gentlemen responded as gentlemen should.
I know there are cries for the call to be reversed, but this would be a disservice to baseball and to my way of thinking, all of us. There are bad calls. The game goes on. Life is like that; the content of our character is revealed by how we respond to bad calls, to unlucky breaks, to perfection not being recognized; to not making history.
The fact is, that there are far more men like Jim Joyce the Umpire and the pitcher Armando Galaraga than we know. They just don't make the news because peace or the lack of open conflict isn't a news item. There are far more moments when we don't make history, when we are asked to accept apologies or our own sense of right and wrong requires us to give them. The little story of a blown call gives me hope for our society as a whole. As long as good women and men keep coming forward with quiet dignity and fighting to do or say the right thing despite having the Kitchen sink thrown at them and people did boo and in some cases, threaten the umpire and his family despite calls from Armando not to be angry; civility will eventually be welcomed as a relief from the constant preening spinning, bickering and self righteous acid throwing that currently pretends to be this nation’s discourse.
Given the fact that men like Armando and Joyce exist, I can hope. Play ball.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
HSA Modest Proposal
With the Christmas scare of the undies wanta bomber, the Homeland Security Agency is searching for new strategies to safeguard the flying public. Specifically, they've called for suggestions on how to discern would be terrorists from the endless parade of grandparents with hip or knee replacements, honeymooners and four year old moppets with their parents on a trip to Disneyland.
How do we spot the man made disaster protagonists from the rest of the traveling people? It's not like these guys check in without luggage, pay one way in cash, have odd protruding bulges in the nether regions, or were disclosed to have become radicalized by their father. They haven’t traveled to places that are known to be chopped full of unfriendly types. They're not even Face book friends with Osama Bin Laden. Understanding Janet Napolitano’s quagmire, I am not unsympathetic.
However, I offer the following alternatives to the proposed full naked body scans currently being considered. It is my modest attempt to help tweak the working system so that those put in charge of maintaining our well being as a nation and safety in the air improve their chances of catching the bad guys. It will also hopefully mean I don’t have to hit the gym for six months before considering a trip.
1) Put the no-fly list on a computer database that is accessed each time a person checks in. They have these things called a "search engine." You type in the name and voila, it pulls up any matches. Now I know this is technical stuff, but you can even make partial matches so as to catch names even if someone misspelled something. I figure, if my dry cleaner can find my clothes by just typing in my name when I've forgotten my slip, the HSA can find the guys on that list if someone actually reads the darn thing and if a partial match comes up, maybe you know, do a pat down.
2) Stop worrying about kids with preschool scissors, toe nail clippers or sporks. As an alternative to stripping everyone down on what they can bring, go the opposite direction. Pretend it's Junior Louisville slugger day on every flight. A thug assassin from the Taliban would think twice about trying to overpower a plane full of 240 cranky tired and profoundly annoyed passengers armed with wooden bats.
3) The HSA and CIA and FBI had trouble collaborating, communicating and connecting the dots. May I suggest a few hours of Warcraft between the three agencies. In computer games, there are lots of quests. Because there are lots of quests, the computer keeps a tab of what you've done so you don't have to, but every once in a while, a good gamer stops to take inventory of what they have and what they need and what they're doing. It's as if the Warrior, Thief and Mage in a gaming party forgot to share objects so they could create the massive key necessary to open the treasure chest. As such, each has a useless object that they are just lugging around. A war party this stupid won't survive the game even on the easy level with cheat codes.
Alternatively, they need to go to the nearest pre-school, sit down at the crafts station and learn to connect the dots for crying out loud.
4) Everyone will be required to check all things at the gate. No carry-ons of any kind. All luggage will be sent on a second plane after being gone through by hand. Passengers will not be permitted to move or speak once they take their seats. Trained snarling Dobermans will be unleased on anyone that makes any funny moves towards the lavatory. The absence of shifted bags from the trip should make boarding and deplaning an exceptionally speedy process, though baggage claim may be something of an issue.
5) Incorporate healthcare and homeland security. When you arrive at the airport, you are required to strip down into a paper gown. The screening done for security will double as a virtual physical. Colonoscopies will be performed as needed. Blood pressure tests however will not be done for fear of skewed data.
P.S. If you implement #5, under no circumstances should you consider also going forward with the baseball bats. Good luck HSA. Hope these suggestions are helpful. Call on me anytime, I’ll be at the gym getting ready.
How do we spot the man made disaster protagonists from the rest of the traveling people? It's not like these guys check in without luggage, pay one way in cash, have odd protruding bulges in the nether regions, or were disclosed to have become radicalized by their father. They haven’t traveled to places that are known to be chopped full of unfriendly types. They're not even Face book friends with Osama Bin Laden. Understanding Janet Napolitano’s quagmire, I am not unsympathetic.
However, I offer the following alternatives to the proposed full naked body scans currently being considered. It is my modest attempt to help tweak the working system so that those put in charge of maintaining our well being as a nation and safety in the air improve their chances of catching the bad guys. It will also hopefully mean I don’t have to hit the gym for six months before considering a trip.
1) Put the no-fly list on a computer database that is accessed each time a person checks in. They have these things called a "search engine." You type in the name and voila, it pulls up any matches. Now I know this is technical stuff, but you can even make partial matches so as to catch names even if someone misspelled something. I figure, if my dry cleaner can find my clothes by just typing in my name when I've forgotten my slip, the HSA can find the guys on that list if someone actually reads the darn thing and if a partial match comes up, maybe you know, do a pat down.
2) Stop worrying about kids with preschool scissors, toe nail clippers or sporks. As an alternative to stripping everyone down on what they can bring, go the opposite direction. Pretend it's Junior Louisville slugger day on every flight. A thug assassin from the Taliban would think twice about trying to overpower a plane full of 240 cranky tired and profoundly annoyed passengers armed with wooden bats.
3) The HSA and CIA and FBI had trouble collaborating, communicating and connecting the dots. May I suggest a few hours of Warcraft between the three agencies. In computer games, there are lots of quests. Because there are lots of quests, the computer keeps a tab of what you've done so you don't have to, but every once in a while, a good gamer stops to take inventory of what they have and what they need and what they're doing. It's as if the Warrior, Thief and Mage in a gaming party forgot to share objects so they could create the massive key necessary to open the treasure chest. As such, each has a useless object that they are just lugging around. A war party this stupid won't survive the game even on the easy level with cheat codes.
Alternatively, they need to go to the nearest pre-school, sit down at the crafts station and learn to connect the dots for crying out loud.
4) Everyone will be required to check all things at the gate. No carry-ons of any kind. All luggage will be sent on a second plane after being gone through by hand. Passengers will not be permitted to move or speak once they take their seats. Trained snarling Dobermans will be unleased on anyone that makes any funny moves towards the lavatory. The absence of shifted bags from the trip should make boarding and deplaning an exceptionally speedy process, though baggage claim may be something of an issue.
5) Incorporate healthcare and homeland security. When you arrive at the airport, you are required to strip down into a paper gown. The screening done for security will double as a virtual physical. Colonoscopies will be performed as needed. Blood pressure tests however will not be done for fear of skewed data.
P.S. If you implement #5, under no circumstances should you consider also going forward with the baseball bats. Good luck HSA. Hope these suggestions are helpful. Call on me anytime, I’ll be at the gym getting ready.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
OVER Rated clap clap clap clap clap
My writing habit began with my father's suggestion that I write out my frustrations about potty training. It lead to a book of stories, "THE POTTY WARS." Since its inceception, I've added two more chapters revealing just how impossible this task remains for me in parenting. Two more children have made it to the point of no return but given my poor track record, I recognize I must jump when the opportunity beckons no matter how painful.
Monday, my two oldest girls have softball practice. It's already a full day with school and afterschool band, meaning I am throwing dinner together some time after 7 and homework is done in the car and anywhere I can persuade someone to sit down with a paper and pencil. Mondays are nightmares.
The plus side is I get to (while the weather is pleasant) take all my children not playing softball to a very nice playground. There are slides and rock walls and balance beams and monkey bars and everyone down to the baby (who happily pats the leaves and rolls in the grass) enjoys the break in the action.
Last week, the play time was cut short when a child needed to use the facilities which necessitated rounding up six children of varing degrees of willingness and marshalling them all to the oposite side of the field to the open school enterance and the boy and girl bathrooms. People were understandably upset.
So this week, trying to prevent such a catastrophe, I pre-emptively took everyone to the restrooms before going to the playground. Feeling like "Haha, you smart mommy you, now we can enjoy this experience," I fearlessly left the stroller in the car to be less burdened by things as we played.
Ten minutes of pure playground induced bliss and my son is dancing in his pants. I consider my options. "Use a tree." I offered. He readily complied while I winced at contributing to the crassness of my son but the memory of dragging two toddlers, one baby and two very irritated older siblings along so he could use the potty last time overrode the civility protocols.
Ten more minutes pass.
My son returns, doing a different dance.
"What's wrong?"
"I need to go." He says meaningfully.
"You just went." I'm impatient, he'd been annoying his sister by following her and her friend and I thought this was just another ploy.
"Can I use the tree for this?" and he points to his posterior.
I began collecting toddlers.
Dragging five unhappy people to satisfy one feels like bad math but by the time we get there, everyone else has decided, "Now that I'm here..." including my two year old who wears diapers. "Go potty Mom." I thought it was a command. "ME." she pointed at her chest. If this had been my first, second, even my fifth, I probably would have done a back hand spring, high fived and spent the next few minutes hearing the Halleluiah chorus.
But she's my 8th, and I'm holding my ninth. I can't help her on the potty if I'm holding a baby. "But you wear diapers." I try.
She insists that she needs to go. Steeling myself with the chide, "You can't ignore this or else you deserve another year of Huggies." I slung the baby onto one hip and one arm disrobed her. Using that same arm like a crane, I hoisted her up and onto the potty. It sounds much more seamless than it was. I waited expectantly, almost wanting praise for my part in the matter.
She sits and looks at me and after a moment narrows her eyes. "Go away Mom." she orders. "Shut the door."
I go out and wash my hands one at a time, shifting the happy squirmy baby, wondering how I'll diaper her back up. She then calls me to see that she has done nothing.
Potty training. "OVER-rated! Clap clap clap clap clap."
Monday, my two oldest girls have softball practice. It's already a full day with school and afterschool band, meaning I am throwing dinner together some time after 7 and homework is done in the car and anywhere I can persuade someone to sit down with a paper and pencil. Mondays are nightmares.
The plus side is I get to (while the weather is pleasant) take all my children not playing softball to a very nice playground. There are slides and rock walls and balance beams and monkey bars and everyone down to the baby (who happily pats the leaves and rolls in the grass) enjoys the break in the action.
Last week, the play time was cut short when a child needed to use the facilities which necessitated rounding up six children of varing degrees of willingness and marshalling them all to the oposite side of the field to the open school enterance and the boy and girl bathrooms. People were understandably upset.
So this week, trying to prevent such a catastrophe, I pre-emptively took everyone to the restrooms before going to the playground. Feeling like "Haha, you smart mommy you, now we can enjoy this experience," I fearlessly left the stroller in the car to be less burdened by things as we played.
Ten minutes of pure playground induced bliss and my son is dancing in his pants. I consider my options. "Use a tree." I offered. He readily complied while I winced at contributing to the crassness of my son but the memory of dragging two toddlers, one baby and two very irritated older siblings along so he could use the potty last time overrode the civility protocols.
Ten more minutes pass.
My son returns, doing a different dance.
"What's wrong?"
"I need to go." He says meaningfully.
"You just went." I'm impatient, he'd been annoying his sister by following her and her friend and I thought this was just another ploy.
"Can I use the tree for this?" and he points to his posterior.
I began collecting toddlers.
Dragging five unhappy people to satisfy one feels like bad math but by the time we get there, everyone else has decided, "Now that I'm here..." including my two year old who wears diapers. "Go potty Mom." I thought it was a command. "ME." she pointed at her chest. If this had been my first, second, even my fifth, I probably would have done a back hand spring, high fived and spent the next few minutes hearing the Halleluiah chorus.
But she's my 8th, and I'm holding my ninth. I can't help her on the potty if I'm holding a baby. "But you wear diapers." I try.
She insists that she needs to go. Steeling myself with the chide, "You can't ignore this or else you deserve another year of Huggies." I slung the baby onto one hip and one arm disrobed her. Using that same arm like a crane, I hoisted her up and onto the potty. It sounds much more seamless than it was. I waited expectantly, almost wanting praise for my part in the matter.
She sits and looks at me and after a moment narrows her eyes. "Go away Mom." she orders. "Shut the door."
I go out and wash my hands one at a time, shifting the happy squirmy baby, wondering how I'll diaper her back up. She then calls me to see that she has done nothing.
Potty training. "OVER-rated! Clap clap clap clap clap."
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
The Write Way to Disarm Bears
This week we saw a black bear in the wild while driving through Shenandoah National Park. It was a moment of wonder and something my husband had hoped to experience his whole life. For five minutes, we all stared at a beast from the safety of our car before it lumbered into the foliage. It was amazing how silently such a large creature could move and more stunning how quickly it could vanish from view.
The state I live in decided that up to 500 bears may be killed to curb overpopulation and prevent excessive encounters between bears and humans. This license to kill bruins only exists within Maryland, so the park where we saw our Smokey won't be affected. Given the amount of readily available food, including possibly awestruck tourists that stop to snap pictures on Skyline Drive, I'm betting that bear won't get too much wanderlust. If he's smart, he'll stay put such that anyone who takes a shot at him is committing a federal offense.
For the remaining wandering bears out there in Maryland, they still don't have too much to worry about if it's me. While any of the 350 million Americans could exercise their rights and try to bag one of these stray bears in the Free State, most of us should refrain. Shooting anything outside of a video game is much harder in real life. I remember shooting clay pigeons at a range with my Dad. It was the first and only time I've ever held/shot a gun. (I was 17). Given my score, I wouldn't trust me with a red rider or a water gun, much less an actual thing that could hurt someone.
For me, the pen shall always be mightier than the sword or whatever form of weaponry that requires hand/eye coordination one chooses. If it comes to self defense, I would probably be best served by a blunt instrument like a bat, but I wouldn't want to go toe to toe with a creature that has claws, teeth and at least 250 pounds on me if all I'm packing is a Louisville slugger.
Then again, remembering how I fare at the plate, perhaps I'll just eviscerate the bear in fiction. I'll write about the beast and it will wind up on the internet. Then, the piece will go viral. He'll be embarrassed permanently and thus unable to score with the lady bears in his vicinity. As a result, the bear population will be reduced without the need for unnecessary violence.
That'll learn him.
Now, I can concentrate on fixing the overpopulation of deer.
The state I live in decided that up to 500 bears may be killed to curb overpopulation and prevent excessive encounters between bears and humans. This license to kill bruins only exists within Maryland, so the park where we saw our Smokey won't be affected. Given the amount of readily available food, including possibly awestruck tourists that stop to snap pictures on Skyline Drive, I'm betting that bear won't get too much wanderlust. If he's smart, he'll stay put such that anyone who takes a shot at him is committing a federal offense.
For the remaining wandering bears out there in Maryland, they still don't have too much to worry about if it's me. While any of the 350 million Americans could exercise their rights and try to bag one of these stray bears in the Free State, most of us should refrain. Shooting anything outside of a video game is much harder in real life. I remember shooting clay pigeons at a range with my Dad. It was the first and only time I've ever held/shot a gun. (I was 17). Given my score, I wouldn't trust me with a red rider or a water gun, much less an actual thing that could hurt someone.
For me, the pen shall always be mightier than the sword or whatever form of weaponry that requires hand/eye coordination one chooses. If it comes to self defense, I would probably be best served by a blunt instrument like a bat, but I wouldn't want to go toe to toe with a creature that has claws, teeth and at least 250 pounds on me if all I'm packing is a Louisville slugger.
Then again, remembering how I fare at the plate, perhaps I'll just eviscerate the bear in fiction. I'll write about the beast and it will wind up on the internet. Then, the piece will go viral. He'll be embarrassed permanently and thus unable to score with the lady bears in his vicinity. As a result, the bear population will be reduced without the need for unnecessary violence.
That'll learn him.
Now, I can concentrate on fixing the overpopulation of deer.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Playing Catch Up
Exposing children to activities they do not want is rather like serving fish for dinner. Sure there’s a chance that one of them might like it. There’s also a distinct possibility that you will wash off a gallon’s worth of ketchup off each plate to reveal filets submerged beneath the Heinz if you do so.
The rule of thumb in our home for outside of school hobbies has been one activity at a time unless it slips into the schedule. For example, one year, two of my kids played basketball because their practices were back to back. One child does band in addition to her sport because it doesn’t take time out of the schedule at all. I wish others of my children would do band, then I could feel virtuous about providing parental enrichment without actually engaging in any physical effort. In the past, I have lobbied to double up kids because of the apparent benefit of multi-tasking, but repeated experiences of one child poking along not finding the needed equipment while another bounces up and down in the car saying, “Come on, let’s go!” has head me to hold fast to the “You’ve got to want it” Mantra.
These days, I’m encouraging enrichment activities that don't involve me driving anywhere. You can read a book. You can play a game of pool. You can go outside and play catch. If you play catch every day with your brothers and sisters, you’ll be as up to speed as those kids whose parents love them and sign them up to play baseball year round.
The response of the children has been similar to their reactions to food. Hot dogs served at school for hot lunch at $2.75 a plate, they’re fabulous. The same meal served at home…and I’m scraping a lot of ketchup off plates. When I point out that throwing a ball at a field is not dissimilar to throwing one in our back yard, they point out that the coach has a speedometer to measure the accuracy and rate at which one throws. I offered to make up numbers and do color commentary.
"P. is backing up to make an out from a thrown pop up....and he just missed that catch.
His sister picked it up to throw back and it's a wild throw to center field."
"MOMMMM!"
They settled for me pitching to them.
After twenty minutes of watching me throw the balls, catch and drop the balls and wince as I sometimes got hit by the balls, the children took pity on me and announced they would play catch on their own. I went inside to make hot dogs but I told them it was fish so they’d stay outside and practice longer.
The two muddy kids came in twenty minutes later, “I thought you were making fish.”
“I decided to make hot dogs instead.”
“Wow!" "That’s great!”
“Do we have any ketchup?”
“Hit the showers, dinner will be ready when you’re done.”
When they’re in the major leagues one day they’ll thank me.
The rule of thumb in our home for outside of school hobbies has been one activity at a time unless it slips into the schedule. For example, one year, two of my kids played basketball because their practices were back to back. One child does band in addition to her sport because it doesn’t take time out of the schedule at all. I wish others of my children would do band, then I could feel virtuous about providing parental enrichment without actually engaging in any physical effort. In the past, I have lobbied to double up kids because of the apparent benefit of multi-tasking, but repeated experiences of one child poking along not finding the needed equipment while another bounces up and down in the car saying, “Come on, let’s go!” has head me to hold fast to the “You’ve got to want it” Mantra.
These days, I’m encouraging enrichment activities that don't involve me driving anywhere. You can read a book. You can play a game of pool. You can go outside and play catch. If you play catch every day with your brothers and sisters, you’ll be as up to speed as those kids whose parents love them and sign them up to play baseball year round.
The response of the children has been similar to their reactions to food. Hot dogs served at school for hot lunch at $2.75 a plate, they’re fabulous. The same meal served at home…and I’m scraping a lot of ketchup off plates. When I point out that throwing a ball at a field is not dissimilar to throwing one in our back yard, they point out that the coach has a speedometer to measure the accuracy and rate at which one throws. I offered to make up numbers and do color commentary.
"P. is backing up to make an out from a thrown pop up....and he just missed that catch.
His sister picked it up to throw back and it's a wild throw to center field."
"MOMMMM!"
They settled for me pitching to them.
After twenty minutes of watching me throw the balls, catch and drop the balls and wince as I sometimes got hit by the balls, the children took pity on me and announced they would play catch on their own. I went inside to make hot dogs but I told them it was fish so they’d stay outside and practice longer.
The two muddy kids came in twenty minutes later, “I thought you were making fish.”
“I decided to make hot dogs instead.”
“Wow!" "That’s great!”
“Do we have any ketchup?”
“Hit the showers, dinner will be ready when you’re done.”
When they’re in the major leagues one day they’ll thank me.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
If The Cubbies Win it All, Will Baseball Still Matter to Me?
For years, ever since I went to school in Southbend, I have been a closet Cub fan. I never memorized stats or line ups although my husband shrewdly figured out I thought Mark Grace in his prime was cute, but I loved watching the team on TV.
I think the pleasure began when I opted to skip a class where the poet Denise Levetov was coming to speak in favor of an afternoon game Senior year. We had seen her the day before in a special lecture where she proceeded to insult virtually everyone including my favorite teacher. I decided I didn’t want a second helping from the lady who critiqued my poetry thusly, “I’m very surprised, I almost believed this.” So, I went to the game instead.
We left a note for Harry Carey as he had a soft spot for Notre Dame and Saint Mary’s. “Our Dates came for the Sr. Formal, but we came for the Cubs.” It didn’t matter that the four of us who signed it were each other’s dates, I knew Harry would like the sentiment. He read it and our names on the air.
That Monday, my Creative Writing teacher and head of the department, a die-hard Chicago true Cubs fan called me into his office. “Sherry…we missed you on Friday. You weren’t by any chance at a Cubs game were you?”
Now I hadn’t missed or skipped an English class in four years, even when sick or having pulled an all nighter. This was my first time ever to blow off a class. “Yes.” I answered meekly.
“Good for you. I heard your name on the radio.” He smiled. I’d forgotten he tuned into every game, and this was before IPods and downloading and TiVo were possible.
While that may have been the genesis of my interest in the perennial bottom dwelling little bears from the windy place, I realized over the years, it was more of a devotion to Greek Tragedy. Being in love with a losing team that never gets to the top is similar to loving unconditionally and requires a special willingness to pour out one’s heart. It is a state close to grace in the sports world. Being the Charlie Brown who never kicks the football and tries anyway is Sisyphean, Homeric, epic in nature. I have to consider if it’s the Cubs or the relentless yearly story of constant struggle and disappointment that I enjoy.
And thus I wonder as the Cubs continue to rank first in the NL Central, if the Cubs win it all, if the happy ending for the longest suffering fans in all of America occurs, will we then become soccerphiles like the rest of the world? Will we then only seek to sate our sports desires with winning teams and no longer derive pleasure from loving organizations that do not love us back via success? Will watching a Cubs game post a World Series Winning matter to me or anyone else?
And then I remember, Notre Dame hasn’t won a championship since 1988! I get mad at them even when they’re winning if they aren’t winning beautifully. I want no penalties and no close calls and there are always tons of both to drive me nuts.
Thank God for the Irish!
Oh and, Go Cubbies!
If you liked this post and think that maybe this blog should rise in the standings, (92nd last time I checked), click Humor-Blogs.com
I think the pleasure began when I opted to skip a class where the poet Denise Levetov was coming to speak in favor of an afternoon game Senior year. We had seen her the day before in a special lecture where she proceeded to insult virtually everyone including my favorite teacher. I decided I didn’t want a second helping from the lady who critiqued my poetry thusly, “I’m very surprised, I almost believed this.” So, I went to the game instead.
We left a note for Harry Carey as he had a soft spot for Notre Dame and Saint Mary’s. “Our Dates came for the Sr. Formal, but we came for the Cubs.” It didn’t matter that the four of us who signed it were each other’s dates, I knew Harry would like the sentiment. He read it and our names on the air.
That Monday, my Creative Writing teacher and head of the department, a die-hard Chicago true Cubs fan called me into his office. “Sherry…we missed you on Friday. You weren’t by any chance at a Cubs game were you?”
Now I hadn’t missed or skipped an English class in four years, even when sick or having pulled an all nighter. This was my first time ever to blow off a class. “Yes.” I answered meekly.
“Good for you. I heard your name on the radio.” He smiled. I’d forgotten he tuned into every game, and this was before IPods and downloading and TiVo were possible.
While that may have been the genesis of my interest in the perennial bottom dwelling little bears from the windy place, I realized over the years, it was more of a devotion to Greek Tragedy. Being in love with a losing team that never gets to the top is similar to loving unconditionally and requires a special willingness to pour out one’s heart. It is a state close to grace in the sports world. Being the Charlie Brown who never kicks the football and tries anyway is Sisyphean, Homeric, epic in nature. I have to consider if it’s the Cubs or the relentless yearly story of constant struggle and disappointment that I enjoy.
And thus I wonder as the Cubs continue to rank first in the NL Central, if the Cubs win it all, if the happy ending for the longest suffering fans in all of America occurs, will we then become soccerphiles like the rest of the world? Will we then only seek to sate our sports desires with winning teams and no longer derive pleasure from loving organizations that do not love us back via success? Will watching a Cubs game post a World Series Winning matter to me or anyone else?
And then I remember, Notre Dame hasn’t won a championship since 1988! I get mad at them even when they’re winning if they aren’t winning beautifully. I want no penalties and no close calls and there are always tons of both to drive me nuts.
Thank God for the Irish!
Oh and, Go Cubbies!
If you liked this post and think that maybe this blog should rise in the standings, (92nd last time I checked), click Humor-Blogs.com
Sunday, July 27, 2008
An Interview with Captain Billy
Hello.
Today, we had the good fortune to make contact with Captain Billy of the Pirate Parenting Guide, (link to your right) as taken down by Tim Bete on cocktail napkins between purchases of alcohol. Tim is a parent, published humorist and organizer of the Erma Bombeck Conference. Having purchased the book myself and read a good bit of it this summer, I still had questions for the Captain for those parents out there considering the commitment involved in raising Pirates rather than mere accountants, lawyers, teachers or other civic minded peoples.
If you have a question for Captain Billy, email me and I'll see if he might give us another visit for a bottle of good rum.
1) What do we do when one child shows a predisposition to be more of an Orlando Bloom type pirate than a Jack Sparrow?
Send him to Hollywood and keep him away from yer ship.
2) How do we explain the near unwatchableness of Pirates of the Carribean II and III to our brigadeers?
I can't remember watching either of those movies. But when I find two empty rum bottles in the morning, I usually can't remember much of the night before.
3) The crew nearly muntinied over last night's dinner of turkey burgers, boiled corn and raw carrots. Any tips on how to quell such an uprising?
Kids like to help prepare their own food. Next time, let the turkey go in the backyard and give each kid a dagger.
4) The economy is bad these days, there are precious few opportunities for looting and pillaging. What's an entreprenural pirate to do for extra pieces of eight?
The economy is bad? Not for a pirate. The profit margins on plundering are as high as ever. Besides, I invested in oil company stock five years ago. I got an insider tip from am oil company executive I was about to make walk the plank.
5) Can a pirate be an O's fan?
By "O" I assume you mean "octopus." I like 'em deep fried but not when giant ones be attacking me ship.
6) When the teacher complains about the fact that our son is signing all of his papers "X," she's dissatisfied with our explanation that we are committed to raising a future generation of pirates. Has there been any court cases which might support our chosen way of life where the parents weren't subsequently sent to jail and the home/compound bulldozed?
It sound like the teacher doesn't support cultural diversity. I'd report her to the school board for insensitivity to buccaneers. You might also try bribing her.
7) Do you know where we can get good financing on a Ship of the Line?
I use the "no money down" method in which I steal another ship when its crew is in port. I can handle those kind of payments.
Thanks for your time Captain Billy. Here's the rum I promised.
I do have to admit, telling kids it's time to swab the deck or I'll Kehawl yeh is much more satisfying emotionally than saying "For the fifth time,Clean your room!"
Proud to plug a fellow writer's published pieces and help out a good guy. For more fun try Humor-Blogs.com
Today, we had the good fortune to make contact with Captain Billy of the Pirate Parenting Guide, (link to your right) as taken down by Tim Bete on cocktail napkins between purchases of alcohol. Tim is a parent, published humorist and organizer of the Erma Bombeck Conference. Having purchased the book myself and read a good bit of it this summer, I still had questions for the Captain for those parents out there considering the commitment involved in raising Pirates rather than mere accountants, lawyers, teachers or other civic minded peoples.
If you have a question for Captain Billy, email me and I'll see if he might give us another visit for a bottle of good rum.
1) What do we do when one child shows a predisposition to be more of an Orlando Bloom type pirate than a Jack Sparrow?
Send him to Hollywood and keep him away from yer ship.
2) How do we explain the near unwatchableness of Pirates of the Carribean II and III to our brigadeers?
I can't remember watching either of those movies. But when I find two empty rum bottles in the morning, I usually can't remember much of the night before.
3) The crew nearly muntinied over last night's dinner of turkey burgers, boiled corn and raw carrots. Any tips on how to quell such an uprising?
Kids like to help prepare their own food. Next time, let the turkey go in the backyard and give each kid a dagger.
4) The economy is bad these days, there are precious few opportunities for looting and pillaging. What's an entreprenural pirate to do for extra pieces of eight?
The economy is bad? Not for a pirate. The profit margins on plundering are as high as ever. Besides, I invested in oil company stock five years ago. I got an insider tip from am oil company executive I was about to make walk the plank.
5) Can a pirate be an O's fan?
By "O" I assume you mean "octopus." I like 'em deep fried but not when giant ones be attacking me ship.
6) When the teacher complains about the fact that our son is signing all of his papers "X," she's dissatisfied with our explanation that we are committed to raising a future generation of pirates. Has there been any court cases which might support our chosen way of life where the parents weren't subsequently sent to jail and the home/compound bulldozed?
It sound like the teacher doesn't support cultural diversity. I'd report her to the school board for insensitivity to buccaneers. You might also try bribing her.
7) Do you know where we can get good financing on a Ship of the Line?
I use the "no money down" method in which I steal another ship when its crew is in port. I can handle those kind of payments.
Thanks for your time Captain Billy. Here's the rum I promised.
I do have to admit, telling kids it's time to swab the deck or I'll Kehawl yeh is much more satisfying emotionally than saying "For the fifth time,Clean your room!"
Proud to plug a fellow writer's published pieces and help out a good guy. For more fun try Humor-Blogs.com
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Ten Percent Mental
Experts say that a woman’s brain shrinks during pregnancy by 10%. I don’t believe it. According to science theory, matter cannot be destroyed or created, only transformed…and to my way of thinking, grey matter is no different than any other matter for that matter.
But it is a convenient excuse.
So I am torn morally and mentally…I could wave off my shirking of intellectual responsibility for my own continued education based on hormones. I could rest on my dusty laurels of academic achievement by claiming to be intellectually incapable of managing. But pregnancy eventually ends. That means I’ll have to assume responsibility at some point for my own mental faculties faultiness.
The problem is, I’m a vain little thing. I dislike thinking that there is something I "can't" understand or master. I don't even like the word "Can't" in my vocabulary. And it isn't just a case of being unwilling to acknowledge the barriers of my own brain, it's with respect to the body as well. I have kick boxed at 8 months pregnant, just to show it was possible. Don’t ask me who I was showing, we all know it was me.
It’s a very simple case of pure self delusion. I dislike limitations on my intellect, talent and physical ability and seek actively to disprove them whenever they pop up. Once, I spent three days on a super hard Sudoku just because I wasn’t going to be defeated by a mental puzzle even if I had to Xerox it three times and start over to eventually get it right. I am annoyed whenever I fail to guess who done it in a mystery novel. My brain IQ may not be Mensa worthy, but my ego says it is, and that it’s just that I don’t test well.
So I don’t want to surrender even that 10% to pregnancy, no matter the facts. I have to own my sloth and slacker ways and keep trying to prove I could have been a mental contender. For example, I keep checking out Joyce’s Ulysses from the library, and trying to read it so I can then nail the book on a wall like a stuffed boar’s head trophy with the date it was successfully endured engraved on a brass plate. I never get very far before I have to return it. If I bought the damn thing, it would eliminate my exculpatory excuse for not finishing.
Every summer, I make great plans to learn Spanish and master American history the way my husband and son can recite it with love and accuracy, and settle for memorizing the list of presidents in chronological order, watching a few PBS historical documentaries and having suffered through two or three sides of a language tape, two Spanish, one French. (It’s all I could find in our collection of cassettes). Then I sniff out loud, mollifying my wounded self that is chaffing at all the work and my unwillingness to persist at the same time, “Well, I took Latin anyway, so it’s reasonable that I don’t know French or Spanish.” As if I could actually say anything in Latin.
And I eat smart food like blueberries and pomegranates and fish when it’s fresh. I read things that bore me and listen to classical music or jazz, straining in my disingenuousness to prove somehow, I’m urbane, sophisticated and elite intellectually, and not a mere suburban house mom. I want to be the kind of person who would get the jokes in the New Yorker so well, she never bothered to read them. “Too telling.” I’d sniff.
Oh. How I’d love to be able to know enough to be a snob about something; wine, politics, literature, baseball, music, art, anything at all. Someone who gets “it,” whatever “it” is.
In the meantime, I’m just assuming, whatever it is I haven’t learned or mastered, it’s because of that missing 10%.
To find the other ten percent, click on over to http://www.humor-blogs.com if you liked this post and give me a smilie...it will molify my ego which clearly is in need of some serious praise, and if not, well, humility is good for the soul.
Humor-Blogs.com
But it is a convenient excuse.
So I am torn morally and mentally…I could wave off my shirking of intellectual responsibility for my own continued education based on hormones. I could rest on my dusty laurels of academic achievement by claiming to be intellectually incapable of managing. But pregnancy eventually ends. That means I’ll have to assume responsibility at some point for my own mental faculties faultiness.
The problem is, I’m a vain little thing. I dislike thinking that there is something I "can't" understand or master. I don't even like the word "Can't" in my vocabulary. And it isn't just a case of being unwilling to acknowledge the barriers of my own brain, it's with respect to the body as well. I have kick boxed at 8 months pregnant, just to show it was possible. Don’t ask me who I was showing, we all know it was me.
It’s a very simple case of pure self delusion. I dislike limitations on my intellect, talent and physical ability and seek actively to disprove them whenever they pop up. Once, I spent three days on a super hard Sudoku just because I wasn’t going to be defeated by a mental puzzle even if I had to Xerox it three times and start over to eventually get it right. I am annoyed whenever I fail to guess who done it in a mystery novel. My brain IQ may not be Mensa worthy, but my ego says it is, and that it’s just that I don’t test well.
So I don’t want to surrender even that 10% to pregnancy, no matter the facts. I have to own my sloth and slacker ways and keep trying to prove I could have been a mental contender. For example, I keep checking out Joyce’s Ulysses from the library, and trying to read it so I can then nail the book on a wall like a stuffed boar’s head trophy with the date it was successfully endured engraved on a brass plate. I never get very far before I have to return it. If I bought the damn thing, it would eliminate my exculpatory excuse for not finishing.
Every summer, I make great plans to learn Spanish and master American history the way my husband and son can recite it with love and accuracy, and settle for memorizing the list of presidents in chronological order, watching a few PBS historical documentaries and having suffered through two or three sides of a language tape, two Spanish, one French. (It’s all I could find in our collection of cassettes). Then I sniff out loud, mollifying my wounded self that is chaffing at all the work and my unwillingness to persist at the same time, “Well, I took Latin anyway, so it’s reasonable that I don’t know French or Spanish.” As if I could actually say anything in Latin.
And I eat smart food like blueberries and pomegranates and fish when it’s fresh. I read things that bore me and listen to classical music or jazz, straining in my disingenuousness to prove somehow, I’m urbane, sophisticated and elite intellectually, and not a mere suburban house mom. I want to be the kind of person who would get the jokes in the New Yorker so well, she never bothered to read them. “Too telling.” I’d sniff.
Oh. How I’d love to be able to know enough to be a snob about something; wine, politics, literature, baseball, music, art, anything at all. Someone who gets “it,” whatever “it” is.
In the meantime, I’m just assuming, whatever it is I haven’t learned or mastered, it’s because of that missing 10%.
To find the other ten percent, click on over to http://www.humor-blogs.com if you liked this post and give me a smilie...it will molify my ego which clearly is in need of some serious praise, and if not, well, humility is good for the soul.
Humor-Blogs.com
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