June 21, 2012
I’m suffering from a malady that’s threatening my peaceful summer existence. I am Detroit Tiger Conflicted.
For those of you unfamiliar with “Who’s Your Tiger?” it’s a marketing ploy that’s recycled whenever the current marketing strategy bombs or gets old. It’s successful with fans that take the team very seriously, the game slightly seriously (or not), and young children. I’m under the impression that those Tiger fans who are die-hard baseball enthusiasts feel that such a slogan is only worthy of the proletariat.
There are as many ways to choose a Tiger as there are Tigers. I’ll venture to say that some fans take the easy way out and choose the superstar that’s currently winning the media popularity contest. Others use stats, and still others have a Tiger chosen for them because they get a jersey with a name on it for their birthday. They’re stuck.
I’d like to say I choose my Tiger by logic or statistics. But I will maintain my integrity and admit I choose my Tiger based on emotions and/or hormones. I’m not proud of that, but it’s a fact of my life I’ve learned to accept. I’ve had two Tigers in my life (although Mark “The Bird” Fidrych will always hold a special place in my heart). Nate Robertson was the first (cut me some slack.) He became my Tiger in 2006 but I was loyal to him until the bitter end, (those of you whose Tiger was Brandon Inge can understand).
I tried to use a form of hormonal logic when I chose a Tiger after Nate left. I’ve chronicled my journey here if you’re interested in the sordid details. If not, suffice it to say Brennan Boesch became my new Tiger in his rookie year. And he still is my Tiger. I think.
This season I started noticing Alex Avila because he reminded me of someone. I finally realized he reminded me a cute Shih Tzu. This isn’t a slam against his manliness. Any man that can start the game clean shaven and have picture-perfect scruff by the ninth inning has no need to defend his masculinity.
I didn’t realize how dangerous the situation had become until Alex was put on the Disabled List (DL in baseball speak. I know a few things) and I missed him a lot. I started feeling guilty when Brennan came to bat and I wasn’t very interested. And I began to whine, “When is Alex Avila coming back?” (nothing against Gerald Laird). As I listened to the familiar buzz of my whining, I realized that I was indeed Tiger Conflicted.
I am a very loyal fan (as the Nate Robertson incident proves), and I will never throw Brennan Boesch under the bus.
But I am ecstatic that Alex Avila will be back in the game tonight.
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September 12, 2011
I was mulling over topics for my next blog post when my muse paid a short visit.
“How about a post on re-do’s. You know, things you would go back and re-do if you could.”
“It’s called a do-over. Not a re-do,” I informed her.
“Whatever,” she said. Then she was gone. I’ve got to learn not to get her angry.
It was an intriguing thought. What would I do-over if I could? Well for starters, I wouldn’t buy those cute $90 kitten heel mules that felt fine in the store, but turned my feet into burning hunks of coal every time I wore them after that.
And I would definitely pass on the “home hair-coloring advice” I read in a magazine. (Mix grape juice with peroxide and wash your hair with it for subtle highlights. The sad thing is I never noticed what a hideous orange it was until years later, looking at pictures).
But what about the important stuff? I’d thought about it before and sometimes a do-over of life sounded really good. Some people say they wouldn’t do anything differently because then they wouldn’t be who they are. I always thought that was a load of crap. When I was ten years old, there was already stuff I wanted to do over.
I thought about my life. Would I choose a different path in college? Would I move to upstate New York with my boyfriend (now husband) at nineteen? Would I still marry him? Would I have five kids? Would I start my writing career sooner?
My mind wanders to the night before my wedding. If I was going to change anything, it would probably be that night. And the thought is tempting. My fiancé and I lived in New York but were getting married in Michigan on a Saturday. My fiancé and one of my bridesmaids got into town on Thursday evening right before the wedding rehearsal. That left only Friday night for a little bachelorette fun.
My friends got tickets to Sexy Rexy Friday evening. I drove to meet them at the bar, in the car we’d rented to use for the wedding. Renting limos for weddings wasn’t that common back then (boy, that’s a saying that makes you feel old). Two of the couples standing up in the wedding were driving it from the church to the reception the next day.
The tickets included two free drinks of your choice. I got two Long Island iced teas because those were the most expensive drinks and I’d never had them before. They went down very easily, let me tell you, but they were very potent. I don’t remember my friends taking me out to the car later. I don’t remember being passed out for hours in the backseat. And I don’t remember throwing up. I remember the ride home, horizontal in the back seat, as my maid-of-honor and my cousin drove and friends followed in another car to give them a ride back.
I remember getting up on the morning of my wedding, after four hours of sleep, and scrubbing the backseat of the rental car so it could be used by our lovely attendants (The ones who actually didn’t go to the bar the night before. How unfair is that?)
Despite everything, our wedding was wonderful and I looked and felt radiant. And as I really ponder my life and things I regret, I realize I would not choose to do-over that evening or anything else, because– as some people say– I wouldn’t be the person I am right now, or have the family I’ve been blessed with.
If you could have a do-over, would you?
July 21, 2011
I’m not anal. I can let things go. I no longer care which way the paper towel or toilet paper faces when it’s in the holder. If towels are folded neatly and fit in their assigned place, I don’t care if they’re folded long way or short way first. I’m learning to ignore the twenty-three PAIRS of shoes (do the math; it’s a staggering number), scattered around the front and back doors.
Now for the anatomy. Not as in human anatomy; it’s not going to be that fun. Not as in “anatomy of a murder”; it’s not going to be that exciting. I’m talking dishwasher anatomy– not fun or exciting, maybe, but crucial.
Seven people live in this house (fondly known as my bubble). SEVEN. Three meals per day per person on average. Cups and glass usage expands exponentially for those of us under the age of forty. On a typical day, the dishwasher is run twice. That is— if I’m loading it. If I’m not the person loading, the number rises to an water-meter-spree of three or four times a day.
The purpose of loading a dishwasher seems obvious to me: to fit in as many dishes as possible, in a way that ensures they all get cleaned. Unfortunately, this logic has failed to impress itself on others in this family.
Putting the large pot where glasses belong (keep in mind the large volume of glasses used), seems a glaringly inefficient use of prime space. Putting a Tupperware lid in the optimum frying pan space also seems obviously WRONG. On the other hand, stacking three cups on top of each other may allow more dishes to be stuffed in, but the consequences are disgusting. The level of annoyance displayed by certain people in this family, on finding a dirty glass in the cabinet is ironic.
Am I the only person in this house that can look into the dishwasher and know intuitively how to load it? I can’t put together a jig-saw puzzle, but I can load a dishwasher. I’ve tried to teach this skill to others, but it is usually met with eye rolling or “I know how to do it better than you.”
I’m not alone in my zeal for a well-loaded dishwasher. The first three minutes of the following clip will explain:
I’m thinking of contacting Bill Engvall’s wife (my hero). Together, we could lead the crusade against poorly loaded dishwashers, and save the world’s water supply.
April 8, 2011
It’s just around the corner. No, not bathing suit season. Flip-flop season.
OK, this needs some set-up. I’m short (barely five feet) and I like shoes. When I was in high school with very limited cash flow, I bought cheap stilettos and wore them often. Hence my problem– Bunions.
Well, I’m still short and I still love shoes and just to make things intersting my husband is six feet two inches tall. I still wear high shoes and I still have bunions. They are not pretty.
To hide the bunions, I fought the open toe shoe craze and I never wore open toe sandals in the summer. Talk about misery. Not the bunions. Trying to find gorgeous closed toe shoes and sandals.
The only plus is nobody ever saw my feet so I didn’t have to worry about what they looked like. I could ignore that obnoxious but hard-and-fast rule that says visible toes must be polished.
Last summer I threw in the towel, swallowed some of my pride and bought three pairs of open toe sandals. Then I headed out as fast as I could for a pedicure, the second one I’ve ever had.
The nail technician doing the pedicure told me that I had to be vigilant removing the dead skin from my feet, especially my heels. That is the tell-tale sign that a person is not taking care of their feet. It is the first thing people notice, even more than the polish. Seriously?
A few weeks ago I watched a video about fashion trends (clothing trends not shoe trends). Someone left a comment that they couldn’t believe the host’s dried out heels. Ouch.
Why are feet so important? Women who have more on their minds than what they wear (for example a mother with lots of small children and very little free time), or women who are obviously not interested in fashion take the time to polish their toe nails in order to wear flip flops. This is not a comment on how they choose to dress, rather on how extremely important foot decorum is in our society.
I understand that some woman want their feet to look nice. Polished toes and smooth feet certainly are more attractive. I don’t understand why this rule applies to everyone, even those of us who could care less.
I just don’t get it. Why is the appearance of a woman’s feet so important? Couldn’t the rule be something like eyes must have mascara or lips must be glossed? It would be so much easier.