We interrupt this programming for a brief announcement. Before I get abused for skipping a post, I had internet failure yesterday. I had to re-cycle the router, re-authenticate, and other stuff that Eric told me to do. Now, on with the blog (and don’t think you are getting 2 today)…

I love a good mash-up: peanut butter & chocolate, stars & stripes, Peaches & Herb. Usually the more surprising the combination, the better. But sometimes the connection is so apparently nonexistent it really makes me wonder what the intent was. I can only assume it was controlled-substance induced.

For example, a store in Chicago advertising boats, pets, and a plant nursery. I guess I can see pets and plants together, they both require water and food, some pets could be useful pruning the plants, but boats is the stumper. I’m trying to imagine the value from the consumer point of view, “my pansies are languishing, and while I’m out I’ll pick up that multihull sailing yacht. It will save me a trip.”

Here in Texas there is a feed store (which I understand sells agricultural equipment and supplies) and archery range. Maybe you can take target practice on the staff driving the tractors? Or perhaps you can shoot while manning a skid steer loader. (See, I do my research). On second thought that seems oddly satisfying.

And just today I saw a truck advertising a business which “Specialized in Custom Drapery and Pool Supplies and Servicing.” Apparently they are unfamiliar with the word “specialize.” I envision sitting in on that business loan meeting at the bank.

Banker: “I see you are looking for a loan to start a business. That’s great. What kind of business?”

Draper maker/pool cleaner: “I really can’t decide. I make gorgeous drapes, but I own black algae.”

Banker: “Well, diversification is good. Doing both could expand your customer base.”

DM/PC: “Good point. I can accidentally put my skimming pole through the window tearing down the ugly existing window treatments!”

Banker: “Sounds like a good business model to me! Projected income?”

DM/PC: “Uh?”

Banker: “Just kidding. Industry joke. Approved!”

Like Shooting Fish in a Barrel

This expression brings up so many questions, I don’t quite know where to start.

First, exactly who is in the barrel? You, the fish or both? If you are in the barrel, shooting anything is awkward although scores points for entertainment value. If the fish are in the barrel, why are they there, and if you have them contained in a barrel, why do you need to shoot them? I don’t think I need to point out if you are both in the barrel why shooting them is ill-advised.

Secondly, I know this expression is supposed to mean something is easy. But, I’ve watched CSI, and that qualifies me as a ballistics expert. Water stops bullets. Mythbusters reports that you only have to be 3 feet underwater to be safe from a bullet fired at a 30 degree angle.

And finally shooting fish, if you could hit one, is messy and not the preferred method for a nice fillet. I’ve never seen it done on “Chopped,” so I know it’s not sanctioned by chefs or probably the ASPCA, for that matter.

So, I propose that “like shooting fish in a barrel” actually means something so stupid you would never actually do.

Immutable Candy Law: The appeal of any particular brand is directly proportional to elapsed time since Halloween and inversely proportional to the remaining volume.

Here is the candy hierarchy in our house, from most to least desirable.

1. Kit Kats

2. Twix

3. Nerds

4. Heath Bars

5. Hot Tamales

6. Snickers

7. Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups

8. Sweet Tarts

9. M&Ms

10. Laffy Taffy

And yes, there are even some things we won’t deign to eat. Poor, sad Junior Mints.

At lunch last week, my good friend B relayed her tween’s announcement, “You know, 12:17 is my freak-out time.” And apparently it was. She saved her particular brand of crazy for that moment and let it fly. My friend couldn’t say she wasn’t warned.

I am all for it. In fact, I think we should expand the concept. The school I went to had a “primal scream” the Sunday before finals at precisely 9 pm, which some took as the indicator to start studying.

So, let’s say each of us has designated, pre-approved points during the day where we get a free pass. My day might look something like this:

5:57 Passing amount of guilt for not getting in early morning work-out

7:19 Mini-tantrum regarding packing school lunch

8:58 Undirected, unspecified panic

10:23 Spark of brilliance

11:47-1:38 Lost time spent trying to recover spark of brilliance

4:16 Resignation that nothing else productive will happen today

5:29 Inspiration to start new hobby

5:31 Decision to abandon new hobby

5:57 Slow realization that Child Protective Services does not consider frozen waffles a suitable meal

8:32 Buoyant appreciation for 2+ hours to myself to practice yoga, play piano, start and finish the book club book, re-work 4th grade art project, catch up on Newsweek, watch last month’s DVR selections, take my turn on Words with Friends, and start a NYT crossword

8:33 Deep despair and recalibration of expectations

10:40 Blog about it

Some days I’m looking for a fight, and I want my GPS to stand up to me. Don’t just recalculate no matter what boneheaded move I make. I am trying to get a reaction out of you. Tell me I’m an idiot, take over the steering wheel, eject me out the moonroof. Anything.

In fact, I think I’d like my GPS to be moody – so I never know who I’m going to encounter when I get in the car. I’d call her Sybil.

Some days, she’s passive aggressive. “Sure, you could turn right here. I’ll just be over here when you need me to get you out of this self-imposed mess.” Insert exasperated sigh.

Sometimes she is needy, “You asked my opinion and then ignored it. Why do I even bother?” Tears. Sometimes she is smothering, reminding me to call my mother and make sure I have on clean underwear.

At times I need validation. “I’ve seen people go this way, but you know best. What do you think? Have you lost weight?”

I think my favorite is Mafia thug, “I don’t think I can impress upon you enough – you REALLY do not want to exit here. Turn the &$%# around.” And of course, snarky: “Are you kidding me? That is by far the slowest possible route. I hope you packed a lunch.”

Whiny is the hardest to take. She is always asking me to get her something in the drive thru.

At the risk of being cornered in the frozen food aisle and clubbed with frosty jalepeno poppers, I’m just going to say it…baseball is not a sport.

Saying this during the World Series with the home team in the game is ill-advised, and some might say provocative, but I have thought this through and constructed a completely logical argument.

In fact, this is the sustaining discussion of my marriage. Eric and I have had this on-going philosophical debate for over 15 years. I really think it is the glue that keeps us together. Eat that, Hallmark.

So over the years, we have devised an elaborate rubric about what is and is not a sport. Eric’s rules are somewhat draconian, but form the basis of our evaluation system.

Eric postulates that a sport has to have 2 opposing teams or individuals, struggling against each other for counter purposes, which have to be scored objectively. So, that rules out any individual activity where there is judging, such as gymnastics or diving. Those are exhibitions. It rules out anything where you don’t have an opponent other than yourself, like golf. That is a pastime. And anything where you are racing against a clock trying to better your own time, like downhill skiing, is a competition. Why? Because you can do better than everyone else that day and still suck in general. Basically, his rule includes soccer, which I agree, is the holy of holies.

It’s a pretty good rule, but it still leaves room for things I think are stupid, and that cannot stand. So, I have amended the rule to include a physical requirement for a sport. You have to be acting under your own power. Nascar is out. Firstly because it’s stupid and secondly because the car does all the work. Now I know some will say that Nascar takes amazing strength and agility. Maybe, but if simply resisting G forces is the basis for sporting, then my last bout with the stomach flu qualifies me as some mega athlete. So, Nascar is out.

Secondly, some physical exertion is required. This is where baseball falls down. You cannot be an elite athlete at the top of your game and be tubby with a face full of chaw. Sorry, but baseball is a pastime and a boring one at that. If there were a lions chasing the runners and a pit of hot coals under the pitcher, I would be willing to reconsider. But as such, baseball is hereby denied sport status.

Lastly, there is a clause around being generally annoying. This clause doesn’t render an activity completely sport-less but it does demote some to sub-sport status. Can’t stand the squeak of basketball shoes on the courts, but I also can’t deny those people are athletes, even though most of their ability comes from a genetic accident of freakish height. And any American football teams wearing silly throw-back outfits is temporarily suspended from sport hood.

So with that settled, Go RANGERS (and I do mean the Scottish Premier League Soccer Team).

When I mention to anyone of my generation that I was a gymnast in my youth, I see their eyes glisten with stars and stripes. Mary Lou immediately comes to mind, and I immediately skyrocket in their estimation. Slightly below Jesus, Mary Lou is.  What they can’t fathom is that I was a particularly bad gymnast.  After all, how could anyone who spends 10 or so years devoted to something not be dazzling or at least smart enough to quit?  They apparently don’t know me very well. I should like to say that I “dabbled” in gymnastics. That would accurately reflect the results, but it sounds too whimsical and carefree. Instead I met gymnastics head-on, quite literally. There wasn’t an apparatus that I didn’t fall off with amazing consistency. And it’s not like you want to “just miss” the bar, beam or vault.  You want to hurl yourself completely clear of that bastard. So, I concentrated most of my time on the floor–harder to fall off, but turns out your head serves effectively in interrupting momentum. So does your coach. I still feel badly for kicking him in the jaw on that convulsive back flip.  Brings new meaning to “stick the landing.” So, while there are no tri-color ribbons or trophies cluttering up my garage, I do have shot ankles and some short term memory loss.  So, I’ve got that going for me.