Foolery

Fan Is Short For Fanatic, You Know

While watching The Today Show this morning in the kitchen, I found yet another reason to yell at the TV through a mouthful of cereal.

Matt Lauer was interviewing Andrew Morbitzer, the man who caught Barry Bonds’ 715th career home run Sunday (which put Bonds one past Babe Ruth’s career home run record, and second only to Hank Aaron at 755). Morbitzer’s story was memorable because he was waiting in the beer line at the time, and just happened to look up as the ball came down. He didn’t have a lot of competition for the ball, he admitted, because – paraphrasing here – "most of the smart people were in the stands watching Bonds."

Matt Lauer asked the question that any normal non-brain-damaged person would ask: "What the Hell kind of fan goes to buy a beer when Barry Bonds is on deck?" Okay, I embellished that a little, but just a tad. Morbitzer marvelled at his own strange decision, but assured Lauer that he was in fact a "big fan" of the Giants.

Okay. I hear this all the time. "I’m a huge Raider fan, dude!" and variations of same. Chas tells me that while he is at work watching a snowy black-and-white TV and barely able to distinguish his beloved Rams (or Lakers, or Angels, or . . . ) from whomever they’re playing, people come into the store, see the game on, and ask the score. They usually claim to be HUGE FANS of whatever game they’re currently missing because they’re out spending money.

Am I alone here? HELLO-O-O-O . . .

Let me tell you what a HUGE FAN is. Ever see the movie Diner? One of the key scenes in the movie shows a young woman being quizzed by her fiancee’s buddies, only it’s not so much a quiz as a pass-fail, do-or-die, gatekeeper moment of her life. The quiz topic is sports trivia, and what’s at stake is her engagement to her betrothed. If she fails the test, the wedding’s off. Now that fiancee was kind of a jerk, but he was undeniably a HUGE FAN.

Then there’s my dad. Dad grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area and has been a life-long Giants fan. Except that when he was first a fan, the Giants were in New York. Dad skipped class to listen to the game in which Bobby Thomson hit the Shot Heard ‘Round the World. He also had the announcer’s recording of that event on LP (that’d be "long-playing record" for those under 30). Dad is a HUGE FAN of the Giants.

Dad is also a 49er fan. He and Mom went to 49er games at Kezar Stadium in the 60s. He suffered through the disastrous teams of the 70s, grimly watching every second of every game. When things turned around for the Niners in the 80s, Dad was ready – he’d earned it. He started the first season with Joe Montana in the fold by taking the family down to Rocklin to watch training camp. It was some kind of fan photo-op day, so there were thousands of people scrambling to get Joe’s autograph. Not Dad. He was there to watch the guys work out, to study the roster (which he'd already gotten from the newspaper), and to evaluate the newbies and the walk-ons. He encouraged us to have our pictures taken with Leo Biedermann, Scott Hilton, Scott Stauch, and others whose names are known only to their mothers and to my weird family.

Did I mention that training camp was in Rocklin? Rocklin is not a temperate place in the summer. In August it’s hotter than Hell, and there’s no shade along the chain-link fence we leaned on to watch the endless drills. Dad continued to go to training camp at least once a season, until they moved to a cooler facility closer to San Francisco.

Finally, there were the quizzes. As we ate breakfast most mornings of football season, Dad tested our knowledge of and loyalty to the 49ers. It got to the point that Dad threatened to withhold breakfast if we didn’t pass the tests, though I think he was teasing. I think. At least no one’s nuptuals were riding on my testing ability.

I have to admit to being a rabid 49er fan into my college years, when other things began to turn my head and I began to wriggle free of the Niners’ iron grip. Or Dad’s, maybe. While I knew all of the players’ names, positions, numbers, and even quite a few of their alma maters (definite quiz material), I really couldn’t spot an ineligible man down field or holding to save my life. Apparently I missed that gene, so the game was easy to let go.

I tell people about the quizzes, about Dad pulling his chair right up to the TV screen, about Mom and Dad arranging their travel plans around football and baseball seasons, about Dad watching the entire two-day NFL draft extravaganza on TV each year, and they think I’m kidding, or exaggerating. Nope. Dad is a HUGE FAN of his San Francisco teams.

So when Andrew Morbitzer (remember him? There’s a story about him) said that he didn’t know that Bonds was coming up to bat because he couldn't see the JumboTron screen behind him, I yelled at the TV. Cereal even dribbled down my chin a little bit. "Tell it to my dad, Newbie!" What, is he new here? When did he THINK Bonds batted -- last?! A huge fan, indeed. Dad could probably recite the batting order for every Giants team clear back to Leo Durocher and beyond. And you know, if you asked him, he probably would, so don’t ask him.

Smedley on a Roll

It’s been a good week for Smedley Quotes.

Monday, as I was helping her dress her Barbies, she had to give me a lot of direction because I was apparently doing it wrong, big surprise. Especially with one little dress. “It fits that doll that looks crazy and has a hole in her back,” Smedley informed me. Would that be Bellview Barbie?

Friday morning it was finally Chas’s turn to be insulted, since it’s ALWAYS my turn. "Daddy, you're kinda like my Grandpa 'cause you're so old."

And now it’s Saturday. I just came into the house to commit this to history, and when I’m done I’ll go back outside with the family. It’s a glorious May day and Daddy is taking a crack at putting together the new swingset Grandpa and Grandma brought home for Sparky’s upcoming birthday. (On a different day I’d be helping Chas with the swingset, but I’m coming down with the stomach flu which plagued the girls all week. So I’m enjoying the sun before the barfing sets in.)

Before I came out Smedley asked Chas, “Where’s Mommy? Where’s the one who cooks?”

I settled myself in a patio chair with a book, though I knew better than to think I would be allowed to read. 

Kids, cats and a goat all competed for my attention. Sister, the lovely outside cat who was born wild but tamed herself, was wrapping herself around my legs, so I picked her up. Apparently being picked up was outside of her comfort zone today, and she bit me on the face. I have a nice big puncture wound on the apple of my cheek, but the impact hurt far more than the puncture. Should be a nice purple bruise tomorrow. Back inside to clean up the blood.

Returning to the warmth of my adoring family, I was greeted by Smedley, who gave me a big hug because I don’t feel good and because I have a hideous facial owie. She pulled back and looked in my eyes -- uh-oh, now what? Directness from Smedley can’t be a good thing.

“Mama, I hate to tell you this,” she began, with a well-practiced look of worry. “I mean I don’t want to hurt your feelings or anything, but . . . it’s just that . . . well, I kinda like Daddy more than you.”

I know this, of course, and was fighting back a smile. “Really?” I asked.

“Yes, because Daddy’s just, well, he’s PRETTIER.”

All my pretense of seriousness went out the window, and I had a good hearty laugh. I sit before you now, typing this up for my future grandchildren to use to torture their mother Smedley.

My One And Only Feminist Rant

Yet another unfair facet of the female condition:  the sense that we as females owe our servitude to the males of the species, because Good Golly Gosh, They DESERVE Our Enslavement!

Okay, I’m stretching this to make a point.

Here’s the story.

Smedley called out from her dark bedroom a little while ago, asking for a drink of water.  Totally predictable behavior.  But following the weekend we lived through, her request set my teeth on edge.  The weekend was a busy one, full of fun things to do, all of which involved Mommy and a buttload of patience.

Saturday morning while Chas was at work, the girls and I headed over to Chico to Cal Skate for a birthday party.  Now, the girls at 5 and almost 3 have never been on roller skates.  Smedley has my sense of adventure and athletic prowess, which is to say she flatlines on both counts.  I dreaded the drama which would come from me strapping those skates on her feet, and she didn’t disappoint.

The birthday party was very nice, and the kids had a great time.  It was grueling for the parents, but we got through.  The girls were invited by the birthday girl's parents to come up a little later for a water slide party.  Because Smedley and Sparky had heard this invitation, I couldn’t get out of it.

We got caught in the Chico State graduation traffic on our way home, and it took forever to get back to Orland.  Once home, the girls wouldn’t nap.

After the nap attempt was abandoned I changed the kids’ clothes, repacked the kid bag, and walked up the street to the neighbors’ house for the water slide adventure.

Their new Costco inflatable water slide was truly wonderful -- if there had been such a thing when I was growing up I may never have gotten off of it.  But, as I predicted, Smedley was intimidated almost to the point of tears.  Sparky flat-out refused to try, though I hoisted her up several times and washed her down.  She didn’t get upset, but she didn’t warm to it, either.  But once Smedley got past a critical fear point, she was unstoppable, and she played for an hour.

Then this morning I got the girls going and we went with Grandma and Grandpa to the Glenn County Fair.  This involved packing extra clothes for all of us, as it was supposed to rain.  We had a grand time and the girls got several $3-4 two-minute rides, and they were happy.  Smedley complained bitterly about having to walk through the exhibit building, but the jaunt ended on an up note as I bought them each a Power Puff Girls balloon.  As we were nearly out the main gate, a nosy young security guard asked Smedley if she had seen the clowns.  He missed my frantic No-No-No head shake, and he then proceeded to tell Smedley all about the free circus which was scheduled to start in a few minutes.  He excused himself for a minute to check the schedule for us, during which time I was tempted to tell my mom, “If you take Sparky, I’ll grab Smedley and we can make a break for it before he gets back.”  But I didn’t.

So we were compelled to go at least pretend to check out the circus.

When we walked up to the Small Top, Microphone Man was busy hawking the show to no one in particular (they stuff the circus up in No Man’s Land, and unless you’re looking for it you won’t find it).  I looked at Mom, who said, “Well, the show starts in only eight minutes . . .”  I said, “Mom, if we sit down on those bleachers we’ll be the ONLY ONES in the audience, and we’ll NEVER get outta here!”  “Right,” she said, and we headed out a remote gate, far from Nosy Young Security Guard, a helpful young man who obviously has never been a parent.

Home for more unsuccessful naps, then I created an elaborate dinner of dishes we’ve never had before (okay, it was chicken and brown rice served with maple carrots, but we’ve never had it before, OKAY?!).  Cleaned up the kitchen, put the new clean sheets on the girls’ beds, and showered the girls (after Chas and I cleaned up a barfing Sparky, who probably has the flu, because she’s barfed four times tonight).

So this brings us back to where I started.  Dark bedroom.  Girls supposed to be sleeping.  Smedley called out to her daddy for a drink of water, then thought better of it.

“Daddy, you’ve done enough today.  You just relax.  Will you tell Mommy to go get me a drink of water?”

I am Woman, hear me puke.

Big Questions

There are a number of things on my mind lately.  Big questions.  Maybe someone can help.

How bad a first name must it be to force S. Epatha Merkerson to opt for Epatha?

Starbucks and their ilk were obviously created for people who really don't like coffee.  If you have to put a buttload of stuff into it, it must really be awful plain, so why drink it?

Does anyone else see the irony of professional basketball uniforms?  In one generation they have gone from ridiculously tiny shorts to ridiculously huge shorts.  Can we expect sane hemlines from the NBA by the time my kids are adults?

Is it possible to open a Yoplait yogurt lid without sproinging yogurt onto yourself?  And yes, sproinging is a word because, in the words of the late great Country Dick Montana, "because I say it is."

That's all.  My brain is full.

We’ve Got to Stop Using Slang Around Them

Chas took the girls over to my parents’ house to swim this afternoon, and for once I came home to an empty house. After a while the front door opened, and in walked Smedley, wrapped in a towel. Upon seeing me, she yelled, “Surprise!” and threw her arms into the air. The towel fell to the floor, revealing a bare nekkid child beneath.

“Where are your clothes, Naked Girl?” I asked.

“At Grandma’s,” she answered. Apparently when they were drying off for the walk home, Smedley announced, “I wanna go home ‘commando,’ with the towel around me.”

Why Do I Even Bother With You-Know-Who?

Addendum to today’s blog entry -- yet another thing Smedley stopped me cold with:

“Hmmm, does this taste like poison, or does this taste like tamale pie? I was thinking ‘tamale pie,’ but I just don’t know.”

Conversations With Smedley

Conversations with Smedley today:

“It’s HOT under the sea,” said Smedley.

“No, it’s COLD under the sea,” I corrected her. Smedley looked annoyed.

“No, I mean, like a teenager, hangin’ out -- you know, HOT.”

Five minutes later, Smedley had moved on to my beverage. “Mama, can I have some iced tea?” she asked, backwashing.

“Not this kind,” I answered. “It has caffeine in it, and caffeine isn’t good for kids. I can make you some decaffeinated iced tea.”

That seemed to satisfy her. “Yes, I’d like some decapitated iced tea.”

I Draw the Line at Mariah Carey

My oldest, dearest friend Cheryl and I are engaged in a strange game of “Let’s Creep Each Other Out With Bad Music.”  Actually, it’s Cheryl’s game, which I know she plays with anyone dumb enough to give her their e-mail address.  I’m just a poor pretender, and Cheryl is the game Master.

It goes like this.  Think of a song that made you cringe when it was popular.  If you can find it on the internet, send Cheryl an MP4 (music file) via e-mail.  If you can’t find it, Google the lyrics, and at least send her the lyrics.  The idea is to get a bad song stuck in Cheryl’s head, however you can achieve it.

Cheryl’s version of the game: think of a song which has always made Laurie’s skin crawl, or, more likely, made Laurie cover her ears and babble “I’M NOT LISTENING!  I’M NOT LISTENING!  BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH . . .”  Once you download the song, send it to Laurie at work with a “ha ha” message.

After a couple of weeks of this, you and Cheryl should have a large stockpile of truly awful music.  Then you can burn CDs for your other friends (if you still have any), who will wonder why you happen to have Paul Anka’s singularly awful “Havin’ My Baby” in your collection (that’s one of the ones whose lyrics I sent Cheryl).

This whole game also works very well with funny music.  Cheryl sent me Ray Stevens’ “Guitarzan” a couple of weeks ago.  I’m listening to another of her little gifts right now – the Kinks’ “Apeman,” which I own on vinyl and have always loved.  Hey, there seems to be a hairy primate theme going here (especially when you consider Paul Anka).

Must go finish my lunch, to the accompaniment of Lulu’s “To Sir With Love.” Ta Ta.

More Bad Women Drivers

You know the other day, how I was ranting on and on about women drivers? Well, this is a follow-up – and it’s NOT a retraction.

The final stretch of my morning commute is through a fairly high-traffic area, with a high concentration of commercial driveways accessing each side of the street and no traffic lights to help. It is a major pain in the butt, with lots of squirrel-y behavior to watch out for.

So I was only somewhat startled to see a car jack-knifed (if that’s possible) in my lane ahead. I think the driver was trying to find the bank driveway (which can be a little tough to see from the left-hand turn lane approach), and she couldn’t see it. BUT SHE TURNED ANYWAY, heading right for a curb. Inches from the curb she realized her mistake. She came to a dead stop angled across the lane. She should have pulled the car flush with the curb, even though she was pointed the wrong way, let the traffic pass safely, then move her car quickly out of there.

Oh, no. Too easy. Too logical.

She backed up some, probably just as a show of bravado to the drivers behind her. She then pulled her car full into my lane, driving right down the middle THE WRONG WAY, and made her left turn. She never once looked my way to see if I saw her, if I could safely avoid her, if I had a gun pointed at her, or anything. Thank heavens the lane is wide, and traffic was slow enough.

It’s not like I lie in wait for awful women drivers so I can pounce and post scathing articles on my blog. Women drivers are everywhere – you may even know one; you may even BE one.

I know I am.

Be careful out there. Leave your gun at home – the temptation is just too great. Instead, keep your windows rolled down and a carton of eggs on the seat, the better to express your displeasure, and send me your Bad Women Driver stories.

Good Ol’ Sparky

Once or twice a month the girls get to go to a drive-through for dinner. I know, I know -- I’ve seen “Supersize Me,” but still . . .

So while riding in the car Monday night, Smedley and Sparky couldn’t agree on where to go for dinner. Smedley wanted Burger King, but Sparky wanted Taco Bell. Things were very cordial, but I told them if they couldn’t solve it then we’d go home and have oatmeal instead. All of a sudden Sparky changed her mind. “I want Burger King, Mama.”

“Thank you, Sparky,” I said, relieved. “That was very nice of you.”

“Sparky just came over to my side,” Smedley added. “Good ol’ Sparky.” That won’t happen next year, but I’ll take it while I can still get it.

Toro Toro Toro

Conversation tonight with Smedley at bedtime.

“When we were wrestling with Manny and Daddy, Manny backed up, then ran at Daddy like a bull," Smedley told me. "It was funny.”

“Oh, you guys should be careful," I said. "Daddy might get hurt that way.”

“Yeah, that’s what happened," Smedley answered. "Daddy got hurt.”

“Oh, you don’t want that to happen," I scolded. "You’ve gotta take care of him -- he’s your only daddy.”

After not a second's hesitation, Smedley offered, “There’s always Grandpa.”

I Hate Women Drivers

Driving home last night muttering under my breath and swearing out loud, one eye on the road and one eye on the rearview mirror.  Two bimbos in a Honda were riding my bumper so close I thought they might be trying to impregnate my car.

That sounded better in my head.

Anyway, they were so close I could count the pores on their noses.  If only I were a lip-reader, so I could tell what song they were singing so vigorously.  About the only activity NOT taking place in the front seat of that car was driving.

I hoped it might get better (how could it get much worse?), but it got worse.  They began taking pictures of themselves while driving at 65 mph.  The driver – the DRIVER!  Hey, why not, she had nothing going on – would hold the camera up to her rearview mirror, both girls would lean together, and SNAP! A picture, the better for their families to ID them with at the morgue.

This went on for a few miles, when, thankfully, my turnoff saved me.  I could relax now that I was on the canal road. 

Wrong.  Big Ol’ Urban Assault Vehicle got behind me, a woman about my age at the wheel.  She, too, rode my bumper (my car must be in heat), but not as close as the bimbos had.  I’m thinking, Hey, I’m doing over 60, and I’ve got a car in front of me, at a very reasonable distance, what do you want?

She didn’t try to pass me on the canal road, for which I was grateful, because it has NO shoulders on either side, a steep drop-off on one side, and a berm on the other.  She waited until we both turned onto Wyo Road, then she gunned it and roared past me.  Big Ol’ Stupid Urban Assault Vehicle, but at least I could relax.

I HATE woman drivers, as a category.  The woman part is a club I joined whether I liked it or not (I do), but, other than me and thee, no woman should be allowed to drive (and I’m not so sure about thee).  Never mind my STUPID-STUPID-STUPID all my fault car accident in November.

The best part of my little rant is the epilogue: an extremely rare sighting of the Cop When You Need Him bird.  Big Ol’ Urban Assault Vehicle went barreling down Wyo, apparently not noticing the car way up ahead parked beside the road.  Nobody ever parks on Wyo; there’s no reason to out in the middle of fields, pastures and orchards, and there’s almost no shoulder.  So if you see a car up ahead it’s almost always a highway patrolman.

It was.  WOO HOO!  And he GOT her.  My revenge on women drivers may have been a drop in the bucket, but it was so sweet.

Now if I can drive the speed limit myself for a while, I may avoid eating a crow sandwich.  I’ll let you know either way.

My Dream Job

Ever been asked what you might do if you could magically begin a new career from scratch? I’ve thought a lot about it. You need to take into consideration your interests, experience, strengths and weaknesses, learning curve, and willingness to put up with brand-new bullshit. I score pretty low on all of the above. Except the weaknesses one -- I rack up an impressive list there.

So I thought for all these years my answer would be “architect.”  I was a graphic design student in college, and I was pretty good in math.  Not brilliant, but pretty good.  High end of the Orland curve, which maybe I shouldn’t mention to any potential new employer.  So, architect, right?  I have an uncle and a first cousin who are architects, so maybe it’s in my blood.  My paternal grandfather was an engineer for the Federal Division of Highways (a federal precursor to California's Caltrans, before the whole leaning-on-the-shovels thing came into vogue).  My dad designed all of his own barns . . . again, maybe not the thing to let slip out.  But then this week I remembered, “Hey! You absolutely DETEST paperwork.  Especially anything relating to government, business, or insurance.  Not a lot of leeway there.  Wake up, dummy!”  Don’t be alarmed; I’m used to the way I talk to myself, it’s okay.

So I reviewed my past career choices, in reverse.

• Waitress: Not much paper work, some math, lots and lots and lots of bullshit. And I wasn’t very good.
• Graphic designer: I’m so over that. Blah, blah, blah -- Bauhaus to our house, less is more, more is more, blah blah blah. Oh, and also? I wasn’t very good.
• Store owner: Well, the hours stunk, but the money was terrible. And at least if I wasn’t very good, there weren’t very many customers around to notice.
• Retail sales clerk: Now THIS I was good at. And I liked it. So there must have been something wrong with it.
• Cashier in a restaurant: MORE MATH! Hooray! I was GREAT at it. But I had loftier plans, such as becoming a middle-aged waitress.

I could go on, but why?  I’ve decided on my new Dream Career already.  Ready for this?

Foley artist.

You know what that is, right?  You don’t?  Oh.  Well, a foley artist is the person who enriches the audio tracks of a movie.  Foley artists recreate the crunch-crunch-crunch of footsteps in snow, the slurps of swinish eaters, the delicate tinkles of jewelry as frosty leading ladies hand people their heads on platters, even the disgusting noises necessary to fancy-up a kissing scene.  (I’m guessing for that you could use some of the same noises from the swinish eaters if you wanted to.)

What I Bring To The Table: I like to make noise.  I’m good at it.  I think I know a thing or two about disgusting sounds. I’m a superb mimic, as long as you want Dad’s friend Buck, a rollicking methane explosion, or perhaps both.  If math were required, that would be a bonus.  I could be a foley artist.  Is there much school involved?  Because I just can’t go back to school.  Blecchh.  But I’m a hard worker, a quick study, and I know an architect.  Please, just don’t ask me to bring you a half-caf something something mochachico. I’m so over the bullshit.