Where the hell have I been the past 14 months????

*Moved almost all of my belongings in 8 trips in my Subie, 30 miles northwest

*stip clubs

*pole dancing lessons

*Mexico for the first time

*Christmas alone

*Vegas for New Year's

*skiing, skiing, and more skiing

*hiking

*mountain biking

*many, many, many rock & metal concerts

*Warrior Dash

*Urban Assault Ride

*Broncos games

*Buffs games

*Oddly enough, very few Avs games...hmmmm...

*Car wreck (T-boned by a texting teen)

*Skin cancer revisited

*Found myself

*Found joy

Nobody Puts Baby in a Corner!

I haven't been to a concert in a LONG time. A rock concert, that is. I've seen a lot of symphonies and soloists, ballets, operas, musicals...but it's been a long time since I was at a concert. I jumped back in this week for Augustana/Maroon 5/Counting Crows at Fiddler's. (If you haven't heard Augustana, check them out! I first heard them on Weekend Edition when Ari Shapiro interviewed them on NPR back in May. Great interview. http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=90780265 The acoustic version of Sweet and Low is...SWEET!)

I had a couple extra tickets and ended up going last minute with my friend Baby and her friend Desi. Baby is very easy going, fun to be with, funny, funny girl, who is always ready, willing and able to drop everything for a party, a concert, or a Capt'n & Coke. Desi is a hard core Crows fan. I thought he was going to crap himself he was so excited.

I hate the seats at Fiddler's so we had lawn "seats." We copped a spot with our blanket and settled in to enjoy the show. I guess I didn't anticipate all the high schoolers who would be there. We were surrounded. They thought they were really cool and sneaky for bringing in alcohol. I should give them kudos, because we paid $9/drink and they paid far less, I'm sure.

We seemed to offend the group of 7 to our right mid-way through Maroon 5. One of the jerky boys punched me in the arm and said, "HEY! Could you be quiet?? We're here to hear the show!" I was so shocked to be punched, no less by a 17-yr old punk, that I was near speechless. I just looked at him and said, "Huh? I can't hear you. It's really loud in here." Then, just as the Crows were taking the stage the same jerky boy crawls over to our blanket and tells Baby to move back a foot because we were, "invading their space." That was enough for me. I told him it was LAWN and my ticket says the same as everyone else's: LAWN. You get some lawn and I get some lawn. No defined lawn. Then I said, "Maybe you should crack open Daddy's wallet and spend $100/seat to sit up front, cry ass." He actually came closer, took his hands and measured the space from Baby's ass to the next blanket behind us, all the while crying something about there being a whole foot behind us. Baby just sweetly said, "Dude, what's the problem. I ain't movin'. I'm just chillin'." The girls to her right got up and moved. Tee hee. Age over stupidity, I guess. (The whole while Desi was trying to not piss his shorts in anticipation.)

Always bring your nose bandage and your Baby to concerts, I say. Is that a halo around us??? I'm sure it is!

Now That's Candidate I Can Get Behind!

The white sign on the lower right corner reads, "KODY FOR PRESIDENT" and my neighbors put this sign in their front yard, I'm guessing to combat all the other yard signs that proliferate neighborhoods pre-election season. Kody is our neighbor's Shiba Inu and I just might make him my write in candidate. These neighbors (funny...I know all my neighbors' dogs names but don't know the humans' names...) live in one of the last remaining Bonnie Brae bungalows. It's little. Hasn't been remodeled. Has big trees in the front and back yards. But...it's little. I'm guessing about 800 sq. ft. So they have an old VW hippie van in their drive way. They use it as an extra room. Like a guest room, I guess. Very resourceful. I like them because they walk their dog a lot and they are nice, easy going people. Would they have to move to Pennsylvania Ave if Kody wins??? They would have plenty of spare rooms then!

To quench the burning desire to know...

The easy answer would be, "Yes, yes, I'm scared. I'm afraid." But it's not really true so I can't just cop to it. (True story: my middle brother got married way too young, at 19, and he and his wife had a lot of trouble the first...ah...20 years of marriage. Teenagers are apt to have trouble when they get married before they even figure out who they are, let alone what they want...but I digress. We can talk about marriage another day. At one point, she made him go to marriage counseling. He agreed with everything the counselor said to him. He agreed to make all kinds of changes. No arguing. No complaining. He just agreed to anything and everything, even though he thought it was all a colossal pile of crap. It was the one and only visit to the counselor he ever had to go to. The counselor said, "Wow, I think my work here is done. You don't need counseling." Now that's a smartie-pants brother. He and his wife just celebrated their 22nd anniversary. He extolled his wisdom to me and our older brother years ago and we all laughed and laughed. I think my other brother uses this method, too. I love those fellas!!)

And as easy as it would be to just say, "Yes, yes, whatever you say," I just can't do it. It is the path of least resistance and sometimes being stubborn out weighs being non-confrontational. Don't get me wrong. I have used my brother's methodology many, many times in my life and IT WORKS. But not here. Not now.

It's like climbing a ladder and reaching the top...now what? That's how I feel. I'm rushing up ice and my mind goes blank. "Now what?" It's just not automatic yet. I still have to think and plan and prepare, THEN I try to execute. At some point I will figure out how to let my mind go and my feet will do the rest. Just not yet, I guess. And I'm not sure that is even a conscious decision. I think it just happens magically one day. Like a light switch.

It's many things, but not fear. Try any of the following:

• apprehension


• lack of confidence


• poor execution


• limited understanding


• unwillingness


• retardation

Pick one, or all, but stop saying FEAR.
"Hallo! My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die." "Stop saying that."
My work here is done.

Ode from a Namesake

Forgive the deviation from the norm of my blog (if there is such a thing) but it's the least I can do to honor a memory...her kids have no such honor. This post is for her, and for me. I won't be sad if you close the browser now and check back later for a new post where I ramble on about inane drivel.

Even if you have kids, you could die and no one would even know it. I know a lot of people die every day and no one even realizes they were alive to begin with. But this one was near and dear to my heart, and I knew she lived. I should at least get the pleasure and honor to say goodbye. I mention the kids part because I am often asked if I have kids and why don't I have kids. My usual response is, "No, I don't have kids. Why do I need kids? I have dogs." To which, they always say, "Well, dear, who will take care of you when you're old, and who will post an obituary and host your funeral?"

This last part has been blatantly proven false this weekend. My aunt, for whom I am named, passed away. She was 62 and suffered a horrible, horrible life. She had MS and Parkinson's, coupled with early-onset dementia. Talk about the trifecta. And if those three aren't bad enough, her husband was a mean, nasty man who cheated on her (but he got his---he died of an aneurysm while he was taking a crap and no one found him for a week!!! Fucktard.) ["Who gets Prince Humperdink? No one? Jesus Christ, Grandpa, why'd you read me this stupid story??"] He treated her like shit and her three sons are sadly, like their father. Well, actually, the oldest boy is a crazy neo-nazi homeless guy wandering the streets of Frankfurt looking for any handout he can find and is near death himself, from cirrhosis of the liver. He even had some of his white supremacist rantings published a few years ago---I cannot seriously be related to him, of that I am sure. He got Hep C a few years ago and suffers from a really bad case of schizophrenia. Couldn't happen to a nicer guy. Fucktard.

She has two other sons, twins: Felix and Kristian. They are the epitome of selfish, spoiled, wannabe millionaire jett-setters. Problem is, they used their mom's disability money and their dead father's pension to fund their lavish lifestyles and dumped her in a nasty nursing home. They also sold their mom's meds on the street for extra $$$. Delightful young men. One of them, I can't remember which--doesn't matter, they are both ass clowns--married his girlfriend and got her pregnant because the German government gives married couples $4,000 Euros for each kid they have. WTF????Fucktards.

My aunt was always a delicate soul. She could barely do anything for herself her entire life. She was definitely born in the wrong century. She would have thrived in the early 1800's in the south, wearing the lavish gowns and having people bring her tea and little sandwiches. She just was not the working type. Growing up my mom did everything for her. My mom's the oldest...two years older than this aunt. My aunt was fragile and deliberate in everything she did. She was sweet and gentle and spoke in a very quiet, hushed tone. She married a man she thought would take care of her every need. Not. Anyhoo, she was never the same after the twins were born. She suffered a double-whammy batch of post-partum. And back in the early 70's post-partum was not a disease, was not recognized...it just was...not. She went YEARS without leaving her bedroom. Sad. The saddest part for me was how her husband and kids devalued her; treated her like she was addle-minded, which was so far the contrary. She was very, very intelligent. She, like my mom, spoke many languages and she was a voracious reader. She was one of the most well read people I have ever met. She could also name any classical piece of music and its composer within hearing about three notes. And she remembered the most quaint details about me, my brothers, growing up in post-war Germany...she enjoyed a good cup of coffee in the afternoons while she listened to talk radio. Sounds familiar.

I'm not sure we would have even found out she had passed away, if my youngest aunt hadn't seen one of the twins in a store. He mentioned in casual passing that Nane died and they had her cremated. No obituary. No services. He and his brother had already signed the papers to take control of her share of their parents' estate. Wow. I'm hoping they both have aneurysms in a public restroom, or in a restroom on a train....or someone pushes them out of a moving train.

They sequestered her about 10 years ago so the family rarely got to see her, if ever. They did bring her to each of her parents' funerals, so I did get to see her twice in the past six years. The last time I saw her was at my Oma's burial three years ago. She was wheelchair bound and when I went up to greet her, she thought I was her as a young girl. She thought she was having a flashback dream of her past. I didn't correct her. It would have just confused her more. So I just sat with her in the cemetery and had the most delightful conversation.

Oh, and she hated her name, too. My dad actually insisted on naming me after her. (He was in love with her many years ago and when she spurned his advances, he asked my mom out, I think to make my aunt jealous. I could not make this shit up, honestly.) She went by Nane her whole life. A nickname given to her by my mom, who as a wee child, could not pronounce her hellishly long name. I always wanted to go by a nickname. My mom refused. When my oldest nephew was born he couldn't pronounce my name so I became NeNe. My whole family still calls me NeNe.

The similarities are glaring even though we chose such vastly different paths in life. So I end my memoriam post with this:

Schlaf endlich im Ruh, meine beliebte Tante Nane

Kristiane Bettina

Benner Michnacs,

1946-2008

The Nose Knows

and it doesn't smell fear. (It actually hasn't smelled anything in three days...) "That's actually a legitimate fear! She was rifling through my shit!"

On Wednesday I had the delight and pleasure of spending four hours having cancer cut out of my nose. How does cancer decide that the side of my nose is a good place to hang out?

A little background: I had a red spot on my nose for about six months. So back in January 2008, I went to a derm clinic where I work. After the craziest, worst visit ever, the doc told me it was acne. He diagnosed me by taking a scalpel blade and cutting into my nose. "Yep. I saw pus. Definitely acne." Now, I don't know about you, but I have never had a pimple for 6 months. ["Do it Harold. It's 6 months. It's a hockey season!"] I didn't buy it. But it took four+ months for the incision he made to heal so I hoped he was right. By August, it looked BIGGER! So, I found a "real" dermatologist-plastic surgeon and within 5 seconds of him looking at it he said, "I don't want to alarm you, but that has to come off right away." WHAT? SERIOUSLY? Official diagnosis: morpheaform carcinoma. I don't like the sound of that. Acne was sounding much more friendly all of a sudden.

The morning of my surgery I played hockey for two hours, got stuck in traffic and barely made my appointment. I'm thinking Freudian lateness. I figured if you have to have cancer cut from your body, you should at least get to skate beforehand!

When I got there and checked in, I sat down to see the following:

Cosmo Girl. Reader's Digest. Seventeen. Spa. PC World (I think this one was actually the doctor's private read.) American Cheerleader. (I didn't even know there was a magazine just for cheerleaders. Really? Weird. Is there a magazine for band geeks?) I almost got up and left. All of a sudden this seemed like not the place to be. I was surrounded by older folks...in their mid-70's to 80's--the Reader's Digest was for them. I guess the young girls who read those beauty magazines come in after school? And do we NEED Cosmo Girl to reinforce to millions of girls their low self esteem and the fact that less than 1% of them look like the girls in the magazines??? I did not want a doctor who seemingly focused his practice on the beauty, or lack thereof, of young girls. Too late. They just called my name, and pronounced it correctly. That never happens. Nurses all over MT and CO have called me everything from Bonita to Beverly. Strangely enough, I answer to those names....Okay. I'll give them a second chance. If they can sound out B-E-T-T-I-N-A correctly I'll see what they have to say.

I had a Mohs Procedure, where abouts the surgeon cuts out tissue, packs the wound with a pressure dressing, sends the cancer to pathology, looks for clear margins, then goes back in right away if he missed any cells and you do it all over again. Yes, I got the pleasure of going through it twice. Yeah for me. The best part is that they "recovery" you with all the other Mohs patients in a room with a TV, magazines, games, snacks, and surprisingly good coffee. The other nine patients and I bonded by telling jokes about our cancer. After chit-chatting and joking on and off throughout the morning they taught me that it was going to be okay and you really need to live each day to its fullest. Don't settle for second best. Don't do things that don't make you happy. You get one shot at this. Make the best of it. I showed them how to text from my cell phone. Helen texted her great-granddaughter and laughed until she cried. Oh, I also found a really good butt & abs workout on the ball in one of the magazines. Geraldine thought I should just tear it out and take it but I insisted on copying it into my notebook...drawing each move with intricate detail. She laughed and said, "There is no other patient in this room that will use that workout, sweetie. You just take it! If you see any good recipes, tear them out for me." She's a wild one!

The options for closing the wound: stitches or skin graft. I'm not that vain. I don't really care if I have a scar on my nose. I have no illusion that I will ever be in a model, so wrap it up and I'm out of here. Oh, and the skin graft??? They use fat and skin from your ASS. Um, no thank you. I took the stitches. You can keep that ass meat graft. Truth be told, the doctor decided stitches were the best treatment for me. I'm not sure I could have convinced him either way.
The best part is that I have a bandage that kind of rivals that of someone who's just had a nose job. I haven't decided if hockey brawl or deviated septum is the winning response to all those who gawk.

Tips:

1. If you think it's bad, it probably is. Don't take no for an answer.

2. Have a bottle of Grey Goose on hand because there is no way to scratch an itch under that bandage.

3. It will be nearly impossible to breathe out of your nose. Plan accordingly.

4. Oh, and you'll have no sense of smell, for a while.

5. There are a lot of nerve endings in your nose.

6. Great way to spend a day off. Um. No.

Here are some of the responses I got after telling friends and family that I had cancer in my nose. (Again, it seems like a WEIRD place to get it...)

*Wow. Really? That's crazy.

*Holy shit! What? Really?

*Is that all?

*Your new nickname can be Buck Melanoma Head!!

*That's fucked up!

*Let's go to Ireland!

*She wins by a nose!

*A third nostril will enhance O2 intake and help with endurance training.

*At least you lost all that weight so you're hot now and no one will even notice the hole in your nose.

*You could just throw a stud or hoop in the hole and no one will even notice--then you'll have a really cool piercing!

*They use butt-cheek skin for the skin graft?? Can I call you Ass Face???

And finally, a few words about fear.

["The fear's too much for a duck. It--it eats away at the soul! There must be kinder dispositions in far-off gentler lands."]

It's not fear, so much as apprehension. I'm a planner. I plan. ["Russians don't take a dump son, without a plan."] I want to know what's in store for my future. I know I can't know the LONG term future, but I like to know what I'll be doing, where I'll be, etc. at least for the next week. Two, three months makes me happier, but I'll settle for this week. Having never been through anything like this, I had no idea what to expect. I don't like that. I just want some inkling of what is going to happen. I run all aspects of my life like this. It is not fear of the unknown. Just...caution. Leeriness. Lack of trusting fate or putting my trust in others who can hurt me---with a needle and a very sharp knife. I'm also methodical in my approach to things. I want to see it. Feel it. Touch it. Watch it. Then try it. Try it again. Slowly. Slowly. A little faster. And a little faster still. I am a perfectionist. Problem is...most things in life don't react too well to perfectionism. You gotta roll with the punches. Now I'm rolling right into the weekend with some great plans: a mountain bike ride, some scrapping, some hockey, and maybe some BBQ'ing with friends. All will be planned, methodical, and perfect. Just how I like it! Hey, it's my weekend. Get your own.

"Fear is like a giant fog. It sits on your brain and blocks everything -- real feelings, true happiness, real joy. They can't get through that fog. But you lift it, and buddy, you're in for the ride of your life."

Just Call Me Adrian Peterson

Today I went from hockey player to football player in one spiraling analogy.
Positioned behind the middle of the line, a fullback may do some running, some blocking, and some short receiving. A classic fullback is more of a power runner than a running back. Many modern formations do not use a fullback. Most plays utilizing the fullback call for him to block, generally by running up the middle of the line, clearing a path for a running back to run while having the ball to gain yardage.
The fullback must be strong enough to break tackles and draw the attention of linebackers and defensive linemen. Good flexbone fullbacks are usually the best ball carriers on the team and receive the majority of rushing attempts.

Which is better than the old B:
the offensive tackle's role is primarily to block on both running and passing plays. The left tackle is charged with protecting the blindside, and is often faster than the other offensive linemen to stop 'speed rushers' at the Defensive End position. Like a guard, the tackle may have to "pull", on a running play, when there is a tight end on his side. Offensive linemen can not catch the ball but may run the ball if they want. In most circumstances, however, they do not. Except for the snap by the offensive center as each play from scrimmage starts, ordinarily the only way an offensive lineman can get the ball during a play is by picking up a fumble. On rare occasions offensive linemen legally catch passes; they can do so either by reporting as an eligible receiver to the referee prior to the snap or by catching a pass which has first been deflected or otherwise touched by an eligible receiver or a defensive player. Any other touching of the ball by an offensive lineman will result in a penalty.

What I'm supposed to B:
The wide receivers are speedy pass-catching specialists. Their main job is to run pass routes and get open for a pass, although they are occasionally called on to block. A wide receiver may line up on the line of scrimmage and be counted as one of the necessary 7 players on the line in a legal formation (a split end), or he may line up at least one step behind the line of scrimmage and be counted as being in the backfield (a flanker if he is on the outside, a slot if he is not). There are generally two types of wide receivers, "speed" and "possession". A speed receiver's primary function is to stretch the field, to be a deep threat, and to pull away an eighth defensive man near the line of scrimmage from moves against the quarterback. A possession receiver is generally the more sure-handed of the two types and is used to keep possession of the ball by making catches that gain first down yardage, but he usually lacks the speed to attack a defensive backfield.
Or:
The running back was formerly called "halfback". The running back carries the ball on most running plays and is also frequently used as a short-yardage receiver. Running backs, along with the wide receivers, are generally the fastest players on the offensive team. Most of them tend not to run straight ahead, preferring to make quick cutbacks to try to find holes in the defense. This, however, is a generalization, since some running backs are more power-oriented.

It went something like this:
Coach: "Here's a football analogy for your playing. You are like a fullback. They lumber and have medium strides. They head straight up the field. You used to be like an offensive tackle--slow, methodical, and very position oriented. You need to be more like a wide receiver or running back. They are fast, with long powerful strides and they run through the defense, looking for the hole. "
Me: (Speechless for three hours, which rarely happens.) Later I thought, I'd rather not be a football analogy. I think that's why girls don't play football.

Here's where my mom would say, "Oh, Honey, men are from Mars and women are from Venus. It's really true. You just can't give merit to anything the Martians say."

There you have it.

2 vs 3 or is it 3 vs 2??

I'm a fidgeter. I fidget. A flibbity jibbit. I twiddle and tap. Tip tap. My foot or leg are always going. Go. Go. Go. I sway back and forth. Left to right. Front to back. I can't sit still. It's even worse now that I have all this freakin energy. I'm wondering if I've had adult ADD all along and I've just been branded a procrastinator who can't sit still. It is an actual recognized DSM-IV (or is it V?) disease/disorder. Crazy, huh? So to speak...

[Useless trivia: Not to be left out of the multi-billion dollar drug race, Ortho-McNeil Pharm has a drug just for AADD: Concerta. Wow. Really? Yes. Better living through pharmaceuticals, I guess. Oh, it's also prescribed for adults with Tourette's. Maybe Bug and I could share a script!]

"I don't think I want to know a six-year-old who isn't a dreamer, or a sillyheart. And I sure don't want to know one who takes their student career seriously. I don't have a college degree. I don't even have a job. But I know a good kid when I see one. Because they're ALL good kids, until dried-out, brain-dead skags like you drag them down and convince them they're no good. You so much as scowl at my niece, or any other kid in this school, and I hear about it, and I'm coming looking for you! Here's a quarter, go downtown, and have a rat gnaw that thing off your face! Good day to you, madam."

I wonder if this has something to do with my fascination with numbers. I make patterns with every number around me. Phone numbers. Addresses. Dates. Numbers of things on lists. The order of lists. It's kind of Rainman-esque, without the entire savant part and I can almost function in society as long as no one gets in my way.

"It's a 1949 Buick Roadmaster. Straight 8. Fireball 8. Only 8,985 production models. Dad lets me drive slow on the driveway. But not on Monday, definitely not on Monday."

"Sally Dibbs, Dibbs Sally. 461-0192. "

Don't even get me started on multiples of three...I started playing softball in the in third grade and my chosen number was 9. I wore that number for many, many years. Nine is a magic number. I know, I know, in the last post I said 300 was a magic number, but I just lose my head around numbers. They are all so wondrous.

Just make things even and in proper multiples and no one gets hurt!

So I was recently asked if I prefer two really hard workouts in a day or three medium workouts in a day. How can a number freak addicted to endorphins answer that? Two. No. Three. Definitely two. Three, right? How about, depends on the day??? Depends on what I feel like??? Some days I need three. Others, two. I choose not to choose. How's that?

She's Lady 300!!!

It’s as easy as a-b-c…1-2-3…
3-0-0 is a magic number.
“I run my unit how I run my unit. You want to investigate me, roll the dice and take your chances. I eat breakfast 300 yards from 4000 Cubans who are trained to kill me, so don't think for one second that you can come down here, flash a badge, and make me nervous.”

In 18 months I’ve taken 300 lessons. That’s 16.67 per month, 4.17 per week. Holy schneikies!! It is a serious milestone. 100 seemed huge. 200 just swept past me. Here I sit at 300, well, 303 now. I was told I’m on a plateau and I need to kick it in gear. I’m stuck on a few things, “well a bunch of things, really.” Can’t get over the hump… “the hump, my hump, my luscious lady lumps. Check it out.”

Now starts new expectations. Things will be different. (Ever notice when you think things will be different, or you HOPE things will be different…they aren’t??? I was sure when I turned 16, things would be different. 18th? Different. 21st? Different damn it!! And, no. Things were not different. I was the same. My life was the same. Same. Same. Same. And it makes me mad. So, anything 300+ had damn well better be DIFFERENT!!!) “It's going to be really special, she's just about kissed 300 guys at this point”.

My lesson book only has a few, sacred blank pages left. What happens when you fill your lesson book? Do I get another one? I’d better! Or, do we just start over and re-do all the previous lessons?? I have questions.
“I hired a 90-lb girl to work in the stock room at Smart Tech for you, okay? I should've hired a 300-lb guy to lift the 60-inch flat screen, but instead I hired a hot girl who can't lift an iPod to bring you out of your funk.”

Things I’ve learned and observed…
Food:
“Oh, you have Tofutti! You heard what the doctor said, your cholesterol is over 300! You're... basically a solid.”
»I need to prepare to be able to perform.
»I need to eat to perform.
»I need to eat to live. Seems easy enough. Execution is the problem. (I think that’s the same issue those on death row have…)
»If you plan and prepare ahead of time, you won’t be left with nothing to eat.
»Finding the right foods that don't make me sick is a struggle.
»It’s a life-long process.
“You guys are like Butch and Sundance peering over the edge of a cliff to the boulder-filled rapids 300 feet below, thinking you better not jump 'cause there's a chance you might drown. The President has this disease and has been lying about it, and you guys are worried that the polling might make us look bad? It's the fall that's gonna kill ya.”

Hockey:
»I can put the puck in the net anywhere I want. I never, ever thought I’d be able to do that. It was like a light switch turned on the day it all finally clicked. Tip: practice the technique exactly how Coach teaches it. It works.
“Well, actually, nobody on this planet ever really chooses each other. I mean, it's all a question of quantum physics, molecular attraction, and timing. Why, there are laws we don't understand that bring us together and tear us apart. Uh, it's like pheromones. You get three ants together, they can't do dick. You get 300 million of them, they can build a cathedral.”
»I love to skate. And now I love to shoot. When I first talked to Coach about lessons I didn’t want to shoot. I didn’t want the puck. Now I want the puck all the time. More puck!
“Isn't it amazing how the internet makes everything you say sound 300 times sluttier.”
»You can’t get better if you don’t practice. Playing in games does not make you better. It reinforces your current habits and mistakes.
“No one lives forever, no one. But with advances in modern science and my high level income, it's not crazy to think I can live to be 245, maybe 300. Heck, I just read in the newspaper that they put a pig heart in some guy from Russia. Do you know what that means?”
»Try something. Try anything. Don't just stand there. Keep moving. SKATE!!!
»The game of hockey is not prescribed. You can't plan for what's going to happen. It is not a drill. You just have to react and let your instincts take over.
"In 300 years, when Evil returns... so shall we."
»If you have a particularly BAD lesson and you want to cry, wait until you get in your car. Then phone a friend: a hockey friend who takes lessons and has been there before. (Thanks, Coxie, Bug, Kimbell & Cuervho for always making me feel better!!!) Never, never, let the coach see you cry. It's not his fault you can't execute and no good can come from this.
"Are you crying? Are you c-r-y-i-n-g??? There's no crying in baseball!!! There's no crying in baseball!!!" (Substitute H-O-C-K-E-Y for baseball.)

What does all this mean? I have no freakin clue. I'm just trying to get through the day as best I can. Have fun along the way. Get a good workout. Treat people how I like to be treated. Do no harm. Get up and do it all over again until someone tells me to stop.
"Why do you keep beating your head against the wall?" "Because it feels so good when I stop."

Make that 29!!!

I've been briefly blogged on Outdoordivas.com!!!!! All for the love of skirts! Check me out: http://blog.outdoordivas.com/public
Scroll down...not the balding grey-haired guy wearing the skirt...I don't know what that was all about.

The gals at the OD tables after the race were intrigued by my love of the skirts. They took my pic while I waited for my friends to come back with our jackets from the car and I promised to send them the pic of all my skirts. The rest is history, sort of.

Oh, and yes...as of today, it's 29. I added a super cute and CHEAP Champion skirt (all white) to my collection today, complements of Target's clearance rack: $8.98!!!! I just might be out of control. Good thing I "just say no to drugs."

"This business will get out of control. It will get out of control and we'll be lucky to live through it!"