something delicious, P.E.

I golf now. sometimes.

Let me start out by saying that I was on the golf team in high school.  Impressed?  Let me rephrase that.  I was one of two freshman girls on the men's golf team in high school.  We played 9-ish holes every night after school during the spring season, never actually playing in or expecting to play in any meets, and in fact faking sick the one time I did have the opportunity to travel.  During this silly three month experiment, I learned the rules, techniques, and etiquette of the game.  I ended up retaining only a few basics on how to swing and how to keep score.  I don't recall why I signed up that year, and only that year, but I do remember enjoying the free golf and my time out on the course.  The other thing I remember is that the clubhouse smelled like deep-fried mozzarella sticks and a brandy old-fashioned.

Fast forward a double-digit number of years into the future, and there I go again... with (most of) the same clubs and the same bag from those many years ago.  I've been filling in that old 5-club set with various hand-me-downs or garage sale clubs.  In the relatively short time since I've "re-discovered" the game, I've learned that irons treat me better than woods (are they still called woods?), both on and off the tee, and I would really like to purchase a nice driver.  I like my 3, 5, and 8 iron.  I have a putter and a wedge, and that's really all I need as a beginner.

I don't practice enough or pay enough attention to technique, so my game is anything but predicable.  Every time I wind up to take a whack, it's a mystery - where will this one go?  I get lucky often enough to get on the green in a reasonable number of strokes, and by reasonable, I mean more than one and less than five...sometimes with cheating.

I used to think golf was boring...boring to watch, boring to play...and while I still believe the former is true, golf is now more about enjoying a cold beer and the company of friends, and less about old white dudes and polite clapping.  It's about finding not only your ball, but two others when poking through the woods to retrieve a slice.  It's about making that one great shot at some point during the Monday evening round to give me the confidence to show up again the next week.  And the best part is, my great shot looks different every time and nothing like that of my companions.  It might be sinking an extra long putt, or teeing off a little longer and straighter, or not splashing down in the water hazard on hole six.  I'm not picky.  One good shots erases the memory of fifteen or twenty prior shanks.  And getting par?  Well, that will hold me over for a couple of weeks.

Wishing I didn't have to return to square one

Having visited the gym today for the first time in just over three weeks, I discovered just how much of a slug I have become.  I knew it was happening, but I'm always surprised as to the degree of shape loss that comes with less than a month of exercise loss.  A month ago, that stupid elliptical machine wouldn't even make me break a sweat and this afternoon I was gasping for breath like it was my last 30 seconds on earth.

Just over three weeks ago, I sprained my ankle during the finals of the co-ed Wednesday night volleyball league.  The bad news is that I had to hobble around on crutches for a few days, on and around snow and ice, and I still haven't quite returned to my normal, agile self.  The good news is, that if a T-Rex were ever to bite off my left foot it probably wouldn't phase me.  The pain I felt directly after the fall was easily worse than anything the jaws of an 8-ton flesh eater could elicit...severed tendons, splintered bones, and whatnot.

I'd say I'm back to roughly 60% exercise capability.  Cycling, walking, and ellipticizing are cool, but no major impact or sudden movements.  We are at the height of ski season right now and that is out for at least another couple weeks.  I'll be dealing with a few more days of lung burn and after that, re-familiarize myself with the treadmill.  Sometimes it's a good thing to be reminded that feet and ankles are an asset.  They are never acknowledged when they are working properly.

fenway...more like, funway

In one of the longest days, ever, Joe and I traveled to Boston--specifically Fenway Park-- to see a Red Sox game this weekend.  Joe won a pair of tickets after entering a drawing at a kick-off party for a local internet/communications service provider company (see?  nerd).  Unfortunately, the tickets were second banana to the grand prize of a free year of high-speed internet, which is what he really wanted.  He's not what you would call a sports fan.  Though not sports fans, we were unwilling to pass up an opportunity to veer from our regular lame-o weekend routine and decided to go.  I was excited because Fenway park has been on TV!  In MOVIES!!  It's famous, famous people go there, so I might see someone famous.  Plus we would get to hear Bostonians talking like Bostonians do, which, for a regional dialects connoisseur, is pretty much as good as it gets. 

We were up early to make the 3-hour drive to the train station (because we're county folk and too chicken to try to navigate downtown) and it was pouring.  Hydroplaning, can't-see-out-of-the-window, hope-we-don't-hit-a-moose, pouring.  Thank you, tropical storm Ernesto.  About halfway into the drive, I decided to call the "soxline" to see what was up with the game, and found out that it was scheduled two hours later than the start time on the tickets, due to weather conditions.  Initially annoyed, I realized that this meant two more hours to shop at Target!  Target is conveniently located off the same exit as the train station, and a good place.  I bought Joe a Red Sox t-shirt for $9.99 so he would fit in with the other fans.  We also found a new ceramic water bowl for the dogs with an adorable paw print on the bottom.

We found our way to the ball park using various means of public transportation, managing to avoid most of the urine puddles in the less-than immaculate subway system.  The park was very cool, to put it in the words of a 12-year-old.  Other than the smell of peanuts and crackerjacks, if you were just walking by the park, say out for a stroll in Boston, you might not know it was there. It is completely urban.  My previous ballpark experience is of the suburban nature, involving huge expanses of perimeter parking lot and pre-game tailgate parties...something that most New Englanders only associate with football. 

My first impression, once inside, was "awwww...it's cute".  It is quite a small park...a very intimate experience for the lovers of the game.  The smallness means that even though we were sitting six rows from the back, we were still able to make out the players' facial expressions.  It was semi-drizzly, so we felt very lucky that the luxury boxes over our heads were shielding us from the weather.  Joe had a couple of $7 beers, I had a hot dog and crackerjacks and almost bought a foam finger.  I'm still kind of wishing that I had.  Oh, and we watched the game too.  They lost.

It was really great to be there and I know I'm old because I said it out loud more than once:  there's so much history at that place.  One thing though...Does anyone else think it's creepy that Red Sox fans refer to themselves as "Citizens of the Red Sox Nation"?  It sounds a little bit militant to me.  Can't they just be "fan club", like all the other good little sports fanatics?

burritos: more than just for eating

I'm sitting here with my right leg up on my desk with a frozen burrito clipped to my new pants because I took a line-drive to the kneecap last night during our softball game.  We played Team Serious last night (one guy was chewing...gross!) and played relatively well, as in we actually scored a few runs and did not get the mercy rule invoked before the end of the game (mercy rule being the game ends if the other team is ahead by more than 15 runs by the 5th inning).

It was dog night at the ballpark last night.  One of my teammates brought her border collie, who would bark twice after a pitch that the umpire called "ball" and bark once after a pitch that the umpire called "strike".  It was cute for the first four innings.  Another teammate brought his pug puppy, so tiny you could scoop him up in your ball glove.  He thought he was tough shit though and even took Joe down once by weaving a figure eight around the giant's legs with his retractable leash.

So back to the frozen burrito.  I can barely bend my right leg.  I'm not sure how this is going to fit into my running schedule because now I'm going to have to at least take today off and I'm schedule for a seven.  The burrito is starting to thaw and now I can contour it around my knee.  That is nice.

ball scratchers

This evening marked the first softball game played in the IBM softball league, 2006 season--a delayed start resulting from 5 consecutive mondays of rain and one national holiday.   Thanks to my new "wife" status, I am now eligible to play in the many sports leagues offered and organized by Vermont's largest private employer.  It was a lot of fun, we had a double header and now the back of my neck is a nice, crispy red.  Let me tell you a little about my team.  Eight men and eight women ranging in talent from one large, heavy hitter with an arm like the hulk, to an eighty pound giggler who skips around the bases.  Everyone else exhibits mediocre skills.   Just a ragtag bunch of statistics-loving engineers, wives, and wife engineers who happen to not be employed by IBM.

Now, let me tell you about the first team we played this evening.  For starters, they were clearly NOT engineers and I'm pretty sure their smallest player was bigger and badder than our largest player.  I would have been scared had I not been so entertained by the seriousness with which they played.  Dudes, this is a recreational work league, not the minors--do you really need to use the nose touch and ear wiggle signals?  These guys were ball scratching, tobacco chawing, outfield pointing, meatheads.  At least six of them were wearing what I call "coach shorts", which are polyester shorts, usually in sheet-rock gray, with a wide waistband for extra beer gut support.  Generally, these shorts are worn a size and a half too small, to accentuate the presence of an athletic supporter, or cup.  Two of the players were wearing gold chains on the outside of their shirts, and one of them even kissed it when he got up to the plate to bat. 

Needless to say we lost that one--by a point spread larger than my age.  OK, we were creamed (pronounced ka-reamed, accent on the second syllable, because it was really, really bad).  It was pretty much batting practice for the other team, a contest between them of who could hit it further out of the outfield.  I managed one hit, got walked twice (come on mr. pitcher, how hard is it to throw a decent pitch in softball?), slid into home (WAY fun) and made a few plays at third.   Joe brought the puppies down to watch for a couple of innings but they had to be banished to the car because Evvy wriggled out of her collar one too many times to greet me on the field.  We could have used the extra fielders, but I think I've mentioned before that she doesn't have the "bring it back to me" part of retrieving down yet.  Plus, I don't think that Team Serious would have found it amusing.

The evening is supposed to end with a trip to the local watering hole that offers $1.50 drafts on mondays (I didn't say monday nights because I'm pretty sure they open at 9AM, so the special runs all day), but Joe and I decided to play the "dogs need to get home" card so we could order a pizza and watch t.v. in the comfort of our own living room, where our shoes don't stick to the floor.  And we did, and it was good, but now it's time to hit the showers and try to scrub a double-header's worth of grime off of my feet that had to go sockless on a dusty ball field because I woke up late this morning.

There really are two dogs in this picture.

my arms hurt

In early April I signed up for my gym's version of The Biggest Loser.  All the pain, exercising, and excruciating (attempted) avoidance of ice cream and beer, but no spandex or humiliating, over-dramatic public weigh-ins.  We had three months to meet with a personal trainer, get fit, and whittle down the fat cells.  Well, the biggest loser was supposed to win $500 and it didn't turn out to be me.  I guess if I wasn't the biggest loser then the only alternative would be for me to be the biggest winner, so nyah! winner of contest, you are a big loser and I'm a big winner...in the fat contest...maybe that's nothing to brag about...self..esteem..ddddrrrropppinnggggg.

I go to the gym daily during my lunch hour and for the past couple of months I've been meeting with three other girls and the male trainer-with-a-ponytail for weight training three times (!) a week. I'm beginning to feel the results, but I have to be careful because I'm genetically pre-disposed to huge, bone-crushing shoulders, and I don't want to get all "popeye" here.  Whenever I'm done with a workout, my arms feel huge, like I need to go through doors sideways.  My little workout gang and I are similar in that we all have lazy desk jobs, but like to stay active after work and look cute in tank tops, so we like make jokes about not wanting to overdo it, and mr. trainer please don't make us lift so much that our shoulder muscles rip through our shirts when we yawn.

I fondly refer to my gym as "Globo Gym", which really just means that 80% of the patrons look good in spandex and some women actually put on make-up to workout.  The men are decent, but you do get the occasional asshole who won't take his 60lb plate off the bench press bar just to be a dick.  There are other more down-to-earth (cheaper) places that I could go, but Globo has lunchtime classes, which = motivation.  And there are NOT  any hairy chested men wearing pink leotards and wrestling shoes, which is always nice (MTU alum, you know what I'm talking about).

Olive practicing her telekinesis