Sports-4 Emily-0

I'm going to tell you a secret.

I'm not very good at sports.

Hard to believe, right? I know you're all thinking "How can that be? She moves with the grace of a gymnast! She looks like she runs 10 miles every day!"

That is not the case. What follows is a collection of some of my more finer moments in sports. All for your reading enjoyment. How'd you get so lucky?

My parents, like any good parents, enrolled me in softball when I was a wee one. I don't know if I actually enjoyed it so much as I just really liked getting a cool tshirt. And I didn't completely suck; I could definitely keep my eye on the ball and hit it almost every time it was pitched to me. The problem came when my team was in the field. Most often I was either left or right field, so that whoever played center could make up for me. I don't know what it was about being out there. Maybe it was the blazing sun. Maybe it was my active imagination. But whenever a ball was hit my way (and it always happened at least once a game), I panicked. I knew what I was supposed to do, and I actually had a pretty decent arm. But my brain never really put the connection 'catch ball, throw in-field' together. My last year in softball is a great example. I was on a team with some lame name like the Falcons or the Cardinals (why couldn't we be called the Funky Monkeys? Or the Razzin' Dazzlers? Our shirts could have had sequins and everything!) And, of course, three boys from my class were on the team with me. All I really remember is that the ball came to me in right field. I scooped it up, went to throw it, and it wasn't there. Yep. When I reared back to throw, I just let go. And those three boys? NEVER let it go.

And that was the end of my softball days. Until The Pro forced me to play some 10 years later when his company softball team needed girls in order not to forfeit.

A quick break in the story: my junior year of high school, I had knee surgery to cut some tendon that was essentially pulling my knee-cap higher than normal, allowing my joint to basically fall out at certain moments. Not so fun. After that surgery, I had to re-learn how to run. And I don't think I learned right. Because I CANNOT RUN. At all. Even though I might think I'm moving, it soon becomes obvious just how slowly I'm moving as my 7-year old cousin passes me by.

So yeah, softball and I don't really get along. Due to the whole running thing. The Pro decides that I'm going to be the catcher. Great plan. Did I mention that when I bend my knees for long periods of time (read: 30 seconds or so) they lock up? So kneeling and getting up every minute did not help the situation. And when I had to run to first base (because of course I hit the ball! I always do)? Even slower than normal, which is really. damn. slow. Needless to say, I haven't played much softball lately.

The knee problems really started back in junior high when I thought that running track might be a good thing for me. And since I hadn't had surgery yet, I really wasn't too slow. I even won a race or two (we're talking local meets, of course. Me, make it to districts? Nope. Not even close.) One of the things I'd always wanted to try though, was the hurdles. And so one rainy day, as I was talking to my friend Tara, I noticed that they had the practice hurdles out on the field. When I say practice hurdles, I'm probably talking about the ones they use for the 6th graders when they have their annual track meet. Standing maybe 2 and 1/2 feet high, made out of foam practice hurdles. I set two up in a row, stretch out a little bit, and start sprinting towards them (yes, moseying is probably a more suitable word, but it doesn't sound as exciting!). I leap off the ground, force my legs into the 'hurdlers position', catch my back leg on the actual hurdle, and face plant into the ground. Pure awesomness.

My last real foray in the world of high school sports was making the 9th grade cheerleading squad. Shocking, I know. Don't worry-I broke my arm the first month of summer practice. And those back handspring things? Totally overrated. The cartwheel and the sommersault are where it's really at.

Since then, I've kept to where I rightfully belong. In the stands, watching people with some natural talent. Every now and then, The Pro and QS will make me play volley-ball. Until they see just how uncoordinated I am, and then they are more than happy to let me off the hook.

There is one sport that I kick ass at. Swimming. Perhaps I shall tell the tale of 'The Swim Around the Buoy' next time...

Stay tuned. It's a classic.

That's what happens when I ramble...

So I really didn't mean for my post about my sister teaching in Russia to turn into a post about how I'm unhappy with my life. Apparently, rambling on and on about high school made me forget my true intention. Which was to state how fast a person can change in such a short amount of time.

Back to the sister. (Really-the high school part should have taken up merely a paragraph or so and not the entire blog. But, at least the BFF enjoyed it!) Sister used to have a very stubborn stance on drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, and even meat. She dumped my dad's scotch down the toilet. She hid his cigarettes. She forced me to eat tofu.

And then she went to college. And, of course, that all changed. As it rightly should. College is the time when you actually, sort of figure out who you are as a person. Turns out she is someone who likes beer (seriously? How are we related?), who smoked the hooka (I totally call BS on this one, because she still gives my dad a hard time about smoking. Which is totally warranted. Except if you're going to participate in a very similar activity. [And yes, I know how small the actual amount of tobacco is. It's still tobacco.]) with my cousin, and has even come back around to the dark side. Of red meat, that is (and meat in general).

And none of this makes her a bad person (except for when she does this whole judgment thing she's fond of that drives me crazy!). In fact, it just makes it so we have more in common.

Sister also used to be shy. I was outgoing. She hated sleepovers, and I encouraged my friends to have them. I had (and still have) a million different friends and I love trying to keep up with them all. She was more of a homebody, which my mother was absolutely fine* with.

And then, like I said above, she went to college. And when she came back for the summer, she got a job in West Yellowstone. And worked with some crazy people. And was never at the cabin when her dear, sweet, older sister traveled many miles to hang out. Apparently, bon fires in the middle of the forest were cooler than sitting around watching Conan with older sister and dad. Go figure, right?

Which brings me to my other point. Why the heck wasn't I at the bonfires with her? She invited me numerous times and my parents even told me to go. Basically, sometime after I graduated from college, I became an old fart. And really, the appeal of the comfy chair and Conan was so much greater than drinking gross Schmirnoff Ice** in the freezing woods, while possibly being stalked by a bear or a mountain man. Add that to the fact that I would have to try and make conversation with people I didn't know and I was willing to stay home on a Sunday night and watch Charlie Rose with the dad.

And there you have it. The true story of how my sister and I switched personalities (with some me-whining-about-life thrown in for a little spice). Maybe we switched ages somewhere along the way too? Yet another old lady asked me what high school I went to today. Good thing she didn't have a cane, or I would have knocked her on her ass with it.

I kid! I kid!
Over and out.

*My mother's idea of grounding me was not letting me hang out with my friends on the weekend. "You're grounded. Now, where should we go to dinner and what movie should we see? And let's go to Target afterwards!"

**I really need to learn to drink beer. Or at least get a flask so that I can carry around my girlie hard alcohol at any time. Problems, problems.

An ode to my voice...

Hey voice! Where did you go?
Without you, I kind of sound like a freak show.
I had to use my precious sick hours at work today,
which will seriously limit the amount of time for future vacays.

I suppose it's cool that I don't really feel sick,
But I sure do I hope I get better quick.
It sucks when you have to have a translator.
Good thing the BFF owes me a favor*!

Tomorrow we are having a barbecue in the park,
And will probably play clear until it's dark.
Please, voice, come back soon.
Otherwise, I'm wrapping myself up in a cocoon.

The end.

Seriously, this is the second time in two months that I have lost my voice. And this time it's gone completely. I hope you all enjoyed my poem. There will be many more to come. I'm thinking I should quit my job and just become a poet.

*She doesn't really owe me a favor. I just needed something that sort of rhymed with translator.

I can swim to Russia right?

Something happened. I'm not sure when. And I'm not sure how.

My sister and I have switched places. Personality-wise, just to clarify.

In order for you to truly understand what I mean, let me take you back to my high school days.

It's Friday night and I'm working at Old Navy. I get off at 10:00 and have to be back again at 8:00 the next morning. What do I do after I get off? Meet up with my friends and spend the next four hours or so "cruising*." I'd eventually head to bed around 2:00 and be wide awake and ready to go a mere four hours later.

My sister? Was probably in bed before I even got off work.

Another example: it's the night before I take the ACT's. I've put in maybe three hours of studying time and instead of getting a good night's sleep before the big day, I decide it's a much better idea to hang out doing god-knows-what (most likely eating pie at Perkins. That was when it was still cool and open late).
My sister? Had probably put in at least 30 hours of studying time. And written practice essays. And taken those things called practice tests. (Did the ACT even have an essay section? Doesn't matter; she still would have written practice essays.)

Let's just say that throughout high school, I definitely applied myself much more in the areas of making friends, watching movies, and driving around aimlessly than I did in trigonometry, english, and history. Don't get me wrong-I was in multiple AP classes and head photographer and Editor-in-Chief of the yearbook. I went to pretty much every sporting event and was in as many clubs as possible, and graduated with a 3.8 GPA. I was lucky (and still am) that I was smart enough to figure out how to do the bare minimum to make myself look good. Could I have been Valedictorian at graduation? You betcha, but I wouldn't have been able to see OutCold in the theatre at least twice or go to Wendy's in my finest formal for Homecoming dinner or find the ugliest jacket ever to wear to the Rummage Romp.

And when I made my college decision, I chose the one that offered the most fun potential. Forget that I could have gotten my degree for free from UofO or gotten paid to get it at ISU. My friend's weren't going there and niether school had a sweet blue football field.

Sister, on the other hand, defined "applying yourself" in high school. She didn't care about being in the newest, coolest club; she cared about starting one of her own that actually accomplished something worthwhile (and thus, the first recycling club at IFHS was born). She actually studied on Friday and Saturday nights instead of wasting gas and time on good ole' 17th st. She had great friends and she has great memories from high school; just in an entirely different form from me.

And she was Valedictorian when she graduated. And she is basically obtaining her college education at one of the countries most prestigious all-womens' school for free. And she's headed to Russia next year to teach the english language.

Me- I'm still in Boise, still telling myself that all I really want out of life is a good time. Sooner or later, however, I'm going to have to acknowledge that annoying little voice in my head that keeps asking me when my life is really going to start. And sooner or later, I will respond. Hopefully sooner rather than later.

More to come soon!

*Ahh cruising. Many nights were spent with the windows down, Britney Spears blaring, and the five coolest girls ever driving up and down 17th street. Up and down. The purpose? Meeting new people, revving your engines in a form of flirting with the cute ones, and speeding away from the creepy ones. Careful who you flip off- you might get cheeseburgers thrown at you. And don't call the football team who just lost their first game losers. The Teacher will lock your window. You will react like a mentally-challenged person. Hilarity and memories will ensue.


I am currently listening to 3Oh!3. If you don't know who they are, you need to find out. Nothing is better than 2 white boys from Colorado rapping to some tight techno beats. Unless you are front and center for their kick-ass performance like I was last night. To help you out, I've put the link to their "Don't Trust a Ho" music video on here. The video: definitely sub-par, but the song still rocks and that's what matters!

They weren't even the headliners on the tour. We also got to see Rocket to the Moon, Hit the Lights, Family Force 5 (my new fave!), and The Maine, all bands that are worth checking out. And I have excellent taste in music, so do yourself a favor! : )

The Knitting Factory was pizzacked, and my poor feet are suffering because of it. Who was a dumbass and wore flip flops to the concert? Yep, that would be me. I know better, so don't ask me what I was thinking. My legs aren't feeling too hot either, but I am totally ok with that, seeing as how jumping around and dancing for 4 hours straight is an awesome workout. Again, we were surrounded by 12 years old wearing neon of all sorts, but if I look like an 18 year old everywhere else, then I'm sure I fit right in.

One last thing: never have I ever wanted to punch someone so much as the two people who tried to stand in front of us. When we didn't move, they literally grabbed me by my belt loops and tried to move me over. My elbows had something else to say about that, however. They do come in handy every now and then. Also pissed at whoever spit their gum into my shirt, as I didn't realize it until I got home and by then, it had congealed itself to my clothing. Bastards!

Moving on. The rest of my weekend was also quite enjoyable. Work on Friday night definitely didn't count, but Saturday was Lifecoach's husband's birthday and we ate dinner at Tavern at Bown Crossing. Expensive, but delicious. And the pot roast nachos? Amazing. Don't worry, LC, I am still coming over bearing cookie gifts! How is Wednesday? Or Friday?

Also saw the movie I Love You, Man! Definitely worth seeing, maybe even in the theatre. Although I think the six of us were laughing louder and harder than everyone else combined. I'm sure it was because the humor was too complex for anyone but us. Right? Right.

So far, the week has been busy. And it's only Monday. But that just means the weekend will be here that much sooner! (I hate that I look at life in terms of when the weekend will finally get here. I should work on that.) Until then, I will leave you with this little gem of a whistle-pig. Why they are called that and why the Lifer wants to hunt them are questions I'm still working on. Stay tuned!

Whistle pigs=ground hogs, ground squirrels, etc. Very helpful information. Just in case.

To protect and serve...

...Is the motto of our beloved police force, correct? If I'm wrong, let me know. For now, we'll go with the fact that I am always right (just don't ask The BFF or The Teacher about this. They will tell you some sort of ridiculous lie proving otherwise.) In that case, I have a question. Is serving me with a speeding ticket what they were talking about when they came up with said slogan? I didn't think so.

It's true. I got my first speeding ticket yesterday. Ever. And I totally don't think I deserved it. For the following reasons:

1.The location of the incident.
Those of you that live in the city of trees know the certain stretch of road I was pulled over on. Right as the freeway becomes the connector. Before you even reach the Franklin on-ramp. Where there isn't a speed limit sign anywhere close. I don't know about you, but I don't consider myself to be on the connector until I reach the Franklin on-ramp and can see the mall to my left. That's where I slow down. And I was pulled over right before I hit that spot. Fair? I think not. I'm going to personally write a letter requesting a sign that states; "Welcome to the Connector-Home of the 55 mph speed limit. Please slow down NOW!" Seeing as how I am so powerful and convincing, I'm sure the powers that be will listen. So watch for that sign to come soon!

2. My impeccable character.
I am a very organized driver. All of my insurance cards are stapled to my registration and then stored in a handy envelope. Isn't there some sort of organization discount? If not, there's another letter I need to write.

3. My impeccable character (again).
I was clearly going with the flow of traffic. And I could have been an asshole and asked him if he did his 12-point check and all that jazz, but I didn't. And he still gave me a ticket. Two, to be exact, because I didn't have my most current insurance card (which was effective March 1st or something ridiculous like that. Seriously?!). Apparently, Officer Douchebag hasn't heard about going with the flow. Of anything. Not only do I get to pay $75, but I get to take a trip to the court house and visit with a clerk to show them that I am, in fact, an insured driver. Did I mention that fact that there are at least 11 old insurance cards all stapled together? And that the last one expired on February 28? I did?! Right. Just making sure we're clear.

Really, I'm not annoyed at all. It happens to everyone. Officer Douchebag was just doing his job. Protecting and serving.

While we're on the subject of the po-lice, I suppose its a good time to tell you about my first trip to Portland. We were maybe a month into our freshman year of college. The Hot One and The Artiste were planning their first weekend trip home and asked if I wanted to join. I didn't give a definite answer, but said I would think about it. Until they asked The Roommate if she wanted to go too. With no hesitation whatsoever, she said she was in. Not wanting to be outdone or left out, I said I was in too, and that next weekend, we were off.

That weekend, in addition to eating delicious homemade food (yaki soba noodles anyone?) and spending way too much money shopping (the no sales tax thing seems like a great idea at the time!), I got the chance to truly find out who The Artiste and The Hot One really were. And my suspicions were confirmed: they were just as crazy as I thought they were.

All of their old friends from high school were in town for the weekend, and they had a huge reunion party. Keep in mind that I'm from small town Idaho; the party was out of control compared to what I was used to. The Artiste and The Backbreaker officially coined the phrase "rocking the Winnie," I was introduced to the wonders of Skyy vodka, and The Roommate decided she wasn't ready to call it a night when everyone else finally did. And so she invited the two sketchiest people at the party home with us.

I'm not making this up. In THO and TA's circle of friends and acquaintances, they were known as The Murderer and The Rapist. The Murderer was a Golden Gloves boxing champ, and had just recently spent a little time in prison for beating someone with a metal pipe.

The Rapist wasn't technically a rapist; he was just reallly creepy and reallly touchy-feely. And there were some rumors that he didn't fully understand the boundaries involved when a girl passed out from too much alcohol.

And The Roommate really invited them over. It was an uneventful end to the evening, but it still gave me great insight into who I was dealing with.

All in all, the trip was a good one. The ride home, however, was a long one, and its where the po-lice come into play.

Oregon cops are assholes. We had 2 cars on the way back-one with the 3 of us and one with The Artiste and her sister. We were a mere hour into our drive, when we rounded a bend and came face to face with a cop. TA was leading and so she got pulled over. Both for speeding (maybe 10 over the limit. Maybe) and for not having a clear view in her rearview mirror. Thankfully, she didn't get a ticket.

Because we were following her, we drove a few miles and then pulled over. Bad idea, as the cop pulled up behind us a little later. Apparently its not a good idea to wait for someone you were following, if that someone was speeding. It most likely means you were speeding too. And he did have a point. But, he chalked it up as a learning experience and we were off once again.

The drive between Portland and Boise is a long one, but not a bad one. In the day time. Because its pretty. Nightime is a different story. Being girls, when nature calls, we have to find an appropriate facility. Unfortunatley for us, there was not one in sight and nature was calling persistently. And so we pulled off and found a nice empty field. With some razorblades decorating it. Why they were there we do not know, nor did we wish to find out. We were just glad that we had all somehow managed to avoid them during the peeing process.

And back in the car we went. A short time later, still following TA, a car came racing up behind me, with headlights flashing. Not knowing what the hell was going on, we pulled over to the side of the road and let it pass. As it flew by, we recognized the familiar marking of a state trooper. 'Weird that he didn't have his actual lights on,' we thought.

A short time later, we saw the state trooper and his latest prey, 2 semi-trucks. As we passed them, the officer did the weirdest thing. He turned his flashlight on us as we passed, and hopped into his car. And pulled both of us over. The 2 semi-trucks both had to follow, so he had 4 cars pulled over all at once. And what was our crime this time? He 'paced' us and said we must have been going at least 15 over the limit. Not true in any way, shape, or form. Don't you think we learned our lesson the first time? Again, TH was leading and this time she got a ticket. And a date in court. Like I said, Oregon cops are assholes.

We did finally make it home, without any other incidents. Except for when my contact fell out as I was driving. But I think you've heard enough. And I've definitely typed enough. So until next time...

PS: Anyone else know what whistle-pigs are? Or is that an Idaho thing?