Up and Over!

(In which I contemplate the sports gene, and Teen Demon kicks high jump ass)

TeenDemon nails 5'1" at the high jump bar.

Up and OVER, hell yeah!

Track season is over. And I'm like, "What? Already?" I should be relieved -- it's a hell of a schedule. I never thought I'd be one of those "sports parents." I always thought I was lacking the sports gene. My sister and I didn't do organized sports growing up. Neither did my parents as kids. Neither did my ex.

The Bohemian's sport is the piano. Girl has some buff fingers.

I remember playing H-O-R-S-E with my dad. That was fun. It was also the extent of my sports experience. Let's just say the Army was a rudeass awakening for my behind. In hindsight, my sister and I really missed out. I think I probably would've been some crazy sports chick, had it been encouraged as a kid. I have discovered a wildass competitive inner bitch, even while just spectating. (Yes, watching the Seahawks is a sport in and of itself.) I guess I had latent sports genes.

Who knows, I could've been an Olympic Curling Champion.

Anyway, track season is over for the two younger offspring, and I'm sorry to see it end. There's something about seeing your kid accomplish something physical, seeing them interact with their teammates, seeing the coaches interact with your kid.  Seeing them feel proud of themselves.

There's also something about seeing your kid friggin' trample every other kid out there, and come out The Champ, The Beast, Yeeaah, GoGoGo, It's All Yours Baby, You've Got This, YES, HellYeah, What Now, Bitches, WHAT NOW ....... oh. So, anyway, yeah, great for a kid's self esteem and responsibility and all that.

Kickassery at the high jump bar:  the 5'0" & 5'1" jump sequences:

5'0" run up

5'0" jump

5'0" landing

5'1" run up

Up & Over, 5'1"

5'1" landing (What now, bitches?!)

Did I say she kicked ass? She was so happy! Her smile was brilliant. So she ended the season as 1st in District, 2nd in League South, and came close to qualifying for State, which is her goal for next year. Her coach says she'll do it, too. (Watch her.) Hell yeah!

She was selected for one of the team's Athlete of the Year awards, which was a very cool surprise for her, and she'll be a Captain for next year's team. You go, baby!

And (rubbing hands gleefully), she got her first letter from a college actively recruiting her based on "recent athletic achievements"! Now that's what I'm talking about, that's where it pays off. She's writing her own ticket, right there. Combined with the letters she's already getting for her grades, she'll hopefully snag a nice scholarship package.

Damn right I'm proud of that shit -- kid works her ass off.

Jump your way right into university, baby, hell yeah.

Okay, that's enough parental bragging for now. Next installment: Dear Son's 400-meter-relay photo finish.

Rain, Rain, Go Away ...

... screw with me some other day.

Betty Udesen/The Seattle Times 2006

It's raining again.

Goddamnit.

It will continue for the rest of the week, although we could see occasional "sunbreaks".

The newscasters last night breathlessly announced that comfortable sleeping conditions would once again grace the Puget Sound area. They seemed actually relieved that real summer conditions were apparently just a fluke. Flash in the ol' pan. Fuckers. I wish they could see me flipping them off through the TV.

In other news, my sunburn is worse than I thought. I'm slightly feverish. I actually stayed home from work today. (yeah, yeah, you told me so. Whatever. Still worth it.)

You know how when you lose a buttload of weight, and it takes a while for the mental image you have of yourself to catch up with the new physical you? Like even though you're now thin, you still feel fat, you still think of yourself as fat, you still carry yourself as fat, you still won't tuck in your damn shirt? I think I've got a similar thing going on here with the whole sun tolerance thing. I still think of myself as one who tans easily, doesn't burn much. You know those skin guides? Very fair, light, medium, olive, deep -- that deal? I always thought of myself as toward the light end of medium.

Medium, however, was taking into account a certain level of base protection with the old melanin, there. Medium is long gone. Seattle has brought my Norwegian genes to the surface.

I didn't think I was out that long yesterday. My former self would never have burned after that length of time. I guess I have to face the reality that I am no longer that person. My mental image of myself is not matching reality. I keep getting burned because it hasn't caught up. I am apparently more like those porcelain skinned red-heads who lobster up after 15 minutes. Except I don't have red hair or porcelain skin. Figures.

--------- Time out: A Sunbreak! --------------

So, is there something wrong with me, that the heat from the burn actually feels good to me? Is that sick? It feels like a built-in heating pad on my back. As long as I don't scratch it ...

The SunWhore Gets a Fix

Thank you, thank you, thank you Seattle Weather Spirits. Or Ra. Whoever.

Finally! Finally, holy shit, the sun is out! And warm! One could even say hot without being a whining Seattleite baby today! Ohmyfuckinggod, it's actually sunny today, and I can not even tell you how amazingly fucking HAPPY that makes me.

You guys have no idea; I would dose up on sunshine with a crack spoon. I don't know if it's a genetic thing that people either have or lack, but I'm pretty sure I'm predisposed to sun addiction. It is practically orgasmic for me to lay out there and feel the HEAT soaking down to the bone. I get goosebumps, no lie. In this heat, I get friggin' goosebumps it's so damn good.

I mowed the lawn, did the weedeater, planted some flowers, lay in the heat, and now I'm on the porch with my dogs, my flowers, the Buena Vista Social Club blasting some Cuban beats, and a cold beer, with no schedule. Holy shit people, if that's not orgasmic, tell me what is.

Scratch that.

Well ... only if you feel like it.

I sweated today. I'm surprised my sweat glands weren't permanently blocked up. Apparently, still functional. I got sunburned! Not good for you, I know. After nearly four years in Seattle (shootmenow) I have no base pigment. None. No protection whatsoever. My melanin has given up the ghost. In fact, "ghost" pretty much covers my look. I mean, I know I'm white, but damn. If there were paint chips based on my skin tone, I've moved past Fish Belly and am currently about at Corpse White.

Not appealing.


It pretty much pisses me off that skin protected with sunscreen, sporting a nice blotchy pallor is actually the healthy way to go, because damn, it looks so unhealthy.

Conversely, beautifully browned skin, which looks so goddamned healthy for the first howevermany years, is actually the one that will reward you with cancer or leatherface. Bastards! Fuck.

A tan covers a multitude of unpleasantries. Think about it -- zits, those black circles under the eyes, blotchiness, cellulite -- a nice tan just glosses right over that shit.

Nature's airbrush.

A girlfriend of mine and I used to have a saying, "Tan fat is better than white fat." That pretty much covers it. You all know what I'm talking about.

I know there are those pale waifs with flawless milky complexions. Usually they have huge dark eyes and dark hair. Or green eyes and red hair. They're practically translucent. They're usually the chicks who can go bald and look friggin' awesome . Gorgeous. Yeah, whatever. Too bad they make up about .01% of the population. For some reason those people never have the blotchy thing happening on their skin. I pretty much hate them.

That look does not work for me. Regular Caucasian-type folks just look healthier with a bit of a tan, I'm sorry. It feels better. The offspring have been making note of my Seattle-pallid look. I wouldn't go so far as to say they're rubbing it in my face, it's more of a subtle smartassery, but it's there. Brats.

Anyway. I got sunburned today in my zeal for getting some vitamin D. Ask me if I care.

Okay, I'm out of here, I've got to finish that shrine to Ra.

Hummingbird!

Look what Teen Demon and I saw this morning!

I would've completely missed it if not for her eagle eyes. That girl can spot cute sandals at a mile out, why should nature be any different?

Then, flight! Or should I say levitation?
Invisible wings -- now that's some fast wing action.

I wish I could've gotten to my camera fast enough. Teen Demon gave me hers (thus the lovely photos), but I'm not that familiar with it when speed is of the essence. I am so getting a hummingbird feeder.

All Hail the Creation Museum

Fear not, all ye who struggle with the whole Evolution v. Creation debate.

Behold, the Creation Museum! For the glory details, check out this link from Salon. Just interesting as hell.

For those unfamiliar with my sordid past, I am a reformed religious zealot. Yes, honey, I said zealot. As in knocking on doors. As in color-coded, highlighted Bible. Washed in the blood of the Lamb. I could quote the Word on a dime. Any topic.

I was fervent, y'all.

Anyway, even with this holy background and understanding of the creationist "logic", it just amazes me to read the rationalizing going on in the Creation Museum.

Their motto: Prepare to Believe.  Their mission statement (emphasis mine):

Exalt Jesus Christ as Creator, Redeemer and Sustainer through a safe, wholesome, family-friendly center for learning and discovery that clearly presents major biblical themes from Genesis to Revelation.

This center will equip Christians to better evangelize the lost with a sense of urgency, through a combination of exhibits, research and educational presentations that uphold the inerrancy of the Bible.

This center will also challenge visitors to receive Jesus Christ as Savior and Lord and to accept the authority of the Bible by providing culturally relevant biblical and scientific answers from a biblical worldview.

Well. I can't help but wonder: how exactly is Jesus Christ "the Creator..."?  Huh? Redeemer, okay. Sustainer, sure. But Creator? Uh-uh. Jesus came later. Way after Genesis. New Testament, people -- things had already been created by the time Mary immaculately conceived.

I'm sure the Holy Trinity folks will attempt to explain that by schooling me on the whole three-in-one deal. Been there, done that, sang the hymn. I'm just saying, if I'm supposed to come to your museum and accept the creationist premise ... an inaccuracy in the first sentence of your mission statement may create a bit of a barrier to the proverbial scales falling from mine eyes.

Anyway, get the whole down & dirty at Salon, but here is a taste of how they will show you the Way (... the Truth, the Light).

We’ll then explore why the Bible—the “history book of the universe”—provides a reliable, eye-witness account of the beginning of all things.

They will do this through what they call The 7 C's of History. 

Photo : So, What Are the ‘7 C’s’ Anyway? by Stacia McKeever

So there you have it. The 7 C's. All you need to know about the how & why of history. And the folks over at Answers in Genesis, the museum's creator, have an answer for everything:

• Is the timeline figurative? (No. Everything was whipped up in 6 literal days. The Earth is 6,000 years old.)
• Is the one-man, one-woman thing figurative? (No. God created two individual humans, not a whole gaggle of Adams & Eves.)
• But ... doesn't that mean Cain would've had to marry his sister? (Yes.)
• Wouldn't that lead to birth defects and all of us being a few eggs short of a dozen? (No. Adam & Eve were created perfect, therefore, cumulative genetic abnormalities had not yet developed. Those came later, "because of sin and the Curse", so the whole incest thing would not work now.)
• What about dinosaurs, did they exist? (Yes.)
• Aha! Humans and dinosaurs didn't exist at the same time! This shoots your argument in the foot. (Wrong. Humans and dinosaurs DID, as a matter of fact, exist at the same time. It just doesn't appear that way because the Great Flood moved all the fossils around. Have faith.)

Anyway. Check it out. You can even visit. They're in the Cincinnati/Northern Kentucky area, apparently "within a day’s drive of almost 2/3 of the U.S. population ". Prepare to be evangelized.
Prepare to Believe!

Shrek the Third & Pirates (in which the women abdicate their thrones)

Disclaimer: I am not a film critic. You want a full review, talk to Ebert & Roeper. 

I love the Shrek movies. Pirates, well, two words: Johnny. Depp. Self-explanatory, folks. So, the offspring and I were all about some big spending at our local discount theater matinee.

I love me some Shrek, but the whole plot basis rankled a bit.

Here's the thing. The plot line was about Shrek inheriting the throne when Fiona's amphibious dad, the king, croaks, and the antics that follow. Yes, I did say Shrek inherits the throne.

What?

I'm sorry, but isn't Fiona the heiress heir to the throne? Yeah, that's what I thought. So why isn't Shrek the new queen's husband, with an honorary "prince" title thrown in to keep him happy?

Hey, Prince Rainier handles it. It's not "King Rainier" and "Princess Elizabeth", is it?  Um, no. The prince knows who holds the royal papers, and presumably, his balls are still intact. He's fine.

So why not Queen Fiona?

Why? I'll tell you why. Fiona can not possibly inherit the throne, because Fiona, being now barefoot and pregnant, will not have time to reign. She has been relegated to royal breeder. Fiona, heir to the throne herself, must now concentrate on producing a real (read: male) heir while her husband takes the reins. So, Fiona waved from the dock, incubating her brood, while the men sailed off for adventure.

Welcome to Happily Ever After, honey.

Yes, the movie is called Shrek, not Fiona. Like I don't know that. So what. The queen did not give birth to Shrek; any stretchmarks marring that royal belly bear Fiona's name. Who the hell is Shrek? He's just a guy who came along decades later and jumped on the royal bandwagon.

Those are some fucked up laws of royal succession, right there.

All the work I've put into raising my daughters, I'll be goddamned if some guy is going to come along after the terrible twos, the terrible twelves, the teenage years, all that, and say, "Hey, thanks Mom -- can I call you Mom? I'll take that crown from here." Fuck that. You're the sidekick here, mister.

What if he starts bringing in concubines? What if he spends the gold on NASCAR and beer? What if he lets them eat cake? What happens to her family's legacy then? Sorry. You handed over the keys to the kingdom. He's king now, honey.  Ain't nothing you can do.

Enough. Fiona was no simpering girlie-girl princess. Fiona showed little girls that they don't have to settle for fawning over some prince and building up his ego. What disappoints me about Shrek 3 is that it reinforces the idea that once you're a wife, step aside, sweetheart, your main duties are to breed and stand by your man. I liked the kickass princess a hell of a lot better.

The filmmakers did redeem themselves somewhat with a side-story, in which Fiona turns her helpless band of captive girlie-girl princesses into a badass troupe of animated whoopass to keep the napoleonesque Prince Charming from stealing the throne. (Again though, keeping it safe for the menfolk's return)

Other than that, it was fun. I'd have liked to see Puss in Boots play a bigger role, but hey, that's just me.

______________

Pirates, basically same deal.  Pirates = Johnny, and therefore, good. Again, not outstanding. Third in a series. Yada-yada, same stuff, different locations.

However: Elizabeth, through many plot twists and turns, becomes King of Pirate Lords.

Yes, honey, I said KING.

Fuck that girled-up queen shit, I said Elizabeth became King of the Friggin' Pirates. Hell, yeah. Okay, so she had some stilted and predictable dialogue going on there. Who cares? King. Badass.

So, short and sweet: what is it with the barefoot and pregnant thing? Can't the woman just be King and leave it at that? No. She cannot. She must return to land and bear a child. She must also bear the responsibility for raising that child while the menfolk sail the high seas. Whatever. Bastards.

Anyway. Other than that, it was fun. It's Pirates, of course it was fun.

I will say that Orlando was looking damn fine in this one. Most times, I'm just like, yeah, sure, he's hot. And that's that. (Now Johnny, I'm all about some Johnny. Goodgawd but that man does sexy down to the bone.) Anyway, the one exception for me was when Orlando was Legolas. Which is weird, because I am not, as a general rule, attracted to quiet, pale blonds with pointy ears.  Legolas though -- so damn appealing.

It's a mystery. Far be it from me to question the yearnings of my loins. Anyway, Will Turner is hotter than a little bit in Pirates 3. Not Johnny, but very appealing all the same.

So, that's my nonreview. Kings and queens are evidently not for girls, but hey, it's the movies, right? Still fun.

The (Burger) King's Lair

I think I've discovered where The King lives.

I Like It Spicy, Baby. Now, Anyway.

Holy smokes. My mouth is on fire.

I brought Indian food for lunch today. Okay, it was in a package from Trader Joe's, but still. To be fair, it did boast a spicy aromatic sauce. But come on -- grocery store spicy is usually along the lines of mild taco sauce.  Grocery store packaged delights don't pack much heat, regardless of that thermometer graphic on the box. Unless you're in the ethnic section*. Then you might find something spicy.

Trader Joe's does not have an ethnic section. TJ's mixes it up all over the damn place and surprises your ass. Or your tongue. Well, actually, who knows if my ass will be surprised later. 

It sure as hell was aromatic. The break room at work smelled gooood. That probably pissed some people off, but I live in the Pacific Northwest, so no one actually says anything if fire-spices singe their nose hairs.

Anyway, lunch was tasty, but brutal.

My spice tolerance quotient has actually come a long way. I can now go up to Level 3 (of six) at our favorite Indian restaurant. I can go to Level 4 when Normal Chef is on duty, but it's a crap shoot since you never know whether it's Normal Chef or Fire Chef back in the kitchen.  Fire Chef doesn't play. 

I used to be a complete spice wimp. We just did not eat spicy food in my family. I think it gave my dad gas. Then again, pancakes gave my dad gas. Anyway, when my ex and I were young newlyweds, he caught me scraping pepper off of an omelet. Regular, dinner-table black pepper was too spicy for me. (Trust that my ex got a lot of mileage out of that.) Tabasco? Cajun? Are you kidding?

Mild taco sauce was my tongue living on the edge, in those days.

My sister was even more of a spice wimp than I was. Until she moved to North Carolina in her late 20s. The kids and I visited from overseas. We stopped at Taco Hell for lunch one day. It was either that or Big Bubba's Beef Barn. Her youngest was probably two at the time. Sis grabbed huge handfuls of the "Fire Sauce". As opposed to mild, medium, or hot.

Me: What are you doing?

Sis: This is the best part. You can't eat this stuff without the sauce.

Me: Yeah, but that's fire sauce. The mild is over there.

Sis: You're in the South now, honey. Better buck up. Here you go, kids!

(My kids shake their heads, her kids grab for the sauce packets.)

Sis: Here, baby -- good stuff! (squirting hot sauce on her toddler's taco)

Me: What are you doing? He's practically still a baby! He's going to think food HURTS! That's so not funny!

Sis: (still squirting away) Boy's gotta learn sometime. Eat up, little man!

He loved it. My sister had overcome our childhood spice limitations.

I was passing our wimpiness on to my offspring. My kids watched their cousins with no small amount of awe. I realized my kids were destined to scrape pepper off their eggs if I didn't buck up. I did not buck up at that particular time, but my son did. He ate the sauce. He loved it. Or at least he made his cousins believe he did.

Anyway, I've since bucked up. My sister would be proud. Two of my kids have surpassed me, and can hang with Fire Chef at Level 4. My middle daughter carries on the spice wimp gene proudly. Her reaction to any hint of spice -- My mouth is on fire! -- has become a standing joke around the house. (Thus my opening sentence. Just a little tribute to her.)

Of course, this could have something to do with losing a bet to her uncle during the aforementioned visit, in which the loser had to eat a whole habanero chile pepper. Apparently, watching a 12-year-old child's throat lock up is all in good fun in North Carolina. I'm pretty sure that could actually damage a person's esophagus.

Bro-in-law is lucky I didn't find out about this until later. I'm pretty sure he wouldn't have liked my version of Fun With Habaneros.

*Ethnic Section: The half-aisle in a grocery store reserved for foods which are not seen as 'Murkan foods, particularly foods with roots in Mexico or China. Foods in the ethnic section are usually expensive and may sport flags, chopsticks, or sombreros on the packaging.

Big Jerry Takes the Dirt Nap

The country has been abuzz about Jerry Falwell's timely demise. Doesn't matter where you fall on the political or religious spectrum, everyone seems to have some thought on the matter. I've heard everything from "I hope he's getting bitch-slapped at the pearly gates", to "hope they ream his ass with his own personal coat hanger" to "At least he was sincere in his beliefs" to "We should never speak ill of the dead".

I have to defer to my fellow blogger over at Nine Pearls. She let Jerry speak for himself. Check it out. A compendium of Jerry's own words to the not-so-wise. Really, I think this says more about him than any of us could say.

May he be judged according to his good works.

Just Mail the Damn Card.

By now, hordes of my readers have probably been wondering, "What the fuck is up with Cowbell? Hasn't she worked out that clone business yet, so she'll have time to entertain me with her witty and interesting blog entries?"  Hey, my blog, my fantasy. In reality, probably neither of my readers has noticed, having lives and all.

The eldest of the offspring came home from college last night. Mothers' Day. Perfect timing. Nobody ever said the girl can't suck up with the best of them. High School Daughter made me pancakes and strawberries before she had to go sling fish at her place of employment. Male Offspring cleaned up for me.

The dogs didn't do anything of note.

I spent some time on Amazon.com, buying a gift certificate for my mom, because I can never, ever, get the card out on time. I love and appreciate the hell out of my mom, but I just can never get that goddamn card in the mail. Shit. Maybe not a big deal for some of you, but my mom is the queen of cards, all kinds of cards. My mom sends cards for Easter and Thanksgiving. Valentine's Day, too. I have even received a St. Patrick's Day card from my mom. We are not Irish. I'm surprised I haven't received a card for Hanukkah. Or Boxing Day.

My mom sees The Card as a way to express your innermost appreciative and loving thoughts. She does not "understand" when the card doesn't arrive on time. Of course, she does not actually show her disappointment, as she is highly skilled in Playing the Martyr. Actually, in her defense, I think she tries not to care about The Card; she knows how busy things get for us, and tries to tell herself it's just a piece of paper with a stamp and a sappy saying. But, she does care, and why the hell can't I just get the goddamn thing into the mailbox on time? It's such a little thing. Such a big deal.

Mom sent me a beautiful card. She made it with this fancy software program she has. Card software. Yeah. I'm pretty sure she thought of the words herself, or at least put some thought into editing a sappy thought into a really nice personal thought. She used nice paper and these cool scissors that crafters use. She even used a purple ribbon to connect the different papers. It made me feel warm and fuzzy inside. It also made me feel guilty as hell. She's good.

Well played, Mom.

Probably I'll never get a card from my kids once they leave home. Probably they'll live in other states or countries too, and I'll never see them or any progeny that may issue from their loins. Karma will probably take a royal chunk out of my ass on this one.

Last night I hit the airport and then IKEA. We picked up a snazzy chair/bed deal for the eldest daughter. This thing rocks -- has a decent mattress, European-style bed slats for good support, and folds in and out with one hand. We do not have room for an actual sleeper sofa in our house. The girl doesn't even have a bedroom in this house. We moved about the time she left for college. (Yes, we did give her the new address.)

My old landlord had wanted to bend me over like a porn star with a hefty rent increase. I plunged into the world of home ownership. The Seattle market was booming, y'all, I'm talking double-digit appreciation. Every damn year. Everyone told me I was a fool for renting in this market. This was our ticket to Profit Town. Buy it, stretch to make those payments until Male Offspring graduates, pocket a shitload of cash. Move to Arizona. Breathe easier about college costs. The seller didn't even own the house two full years, and he made over $100K. Hell, yeah! So I signed my life away. Borrowed from the folks for a down payment. (Those who know me know that was a very, very big deal. I do not ask the folks for money. Ever.)

Market crashed the very next month. Well, okay, Seattle didn't exactly crash. More like went stagnant. I should've let the landlord have her way with me.

So, here we are in our oh-so-tiny house. Eldest Daughter's new chair/bed thingy will go in the corner of the dining area, which is open to the kitchen. All the better to reach the fridge faster, my dear. During her other breaks this year, she slept with me. Nothing like sleeping with Mom to keep a college gal happy. She never complained, but still.

Anyway, happy Mothers' Day to all you moms out there. And that includes dog and cat moms. Lizard moms, parrot moms, whatever. If you've ever cleaned up shit behind someone smaller than yourself, you're probably a mom. Happy Mother's Day.