The Arizona (dead-tree) Chainsaw Massacre

My mom will have a heart attack when she sees these pictures of her daughter wielding a chainsaw. She is fearful that I will cut off a toe or my whole leg.

The only near-accident that occurred is that, while I was cutting one end of a propped-up tree and Paul was cutting the other, my end snapped back and almost knocked me out cold to the ground. Almost, Mom. My superhero-like reflexes had me ducking before I took a punch to the face.

What a tiring but fruitful wood-getting day! Next time, Paul can take other men and boys with him. I'll stay home and bake cookies instead.

Oh, What Do You Do with a Two-year-old?

Oh, what do you do with a two-year-old

who puts ear swabs in the sink?

Do you spank him away,

saying no all the day,

or just laugh and go buy some more?

Without a two-year-old, life would be a bore.

Oh, what do you do with a two-year-old

who hits and kicks and cries?

Do you try a time out,

or scream, swear, and shout,

or tell him that it's not nice?

Flopping on the floor myself, I've done once or twice.

Oh, what do you do with a two-year-old

who makes a shrill sound at Wal-Mart?

Do you wearily smile

at the people in the aisle,

or duct tape his mouth quickly?

I hurried out of the store, but that's just me.

Oh, what do you do with a two-year-old

who's addicted to Nemo and Cars?

Do you watch them again,

letting him win,

or see if he'll play in his room?

I'm hoping he will love Up, pretty soon.

Oh, what do you do with a two-year-old

who blames his toots on his Da-ee?

Do you laugh right along,

making up a song,

about how your husband's gassy?

This sounds like it might be fun and sassy.

Oh, what do you do with a two-year-old

who rules your house and lives?

Do you let him be in charge

and a pain-in-the-rear that is large,

or do you give him boundaries?

If you know how to do the latter, tell me please.

Oh, what do you do with a two-year-old

who sweetly says "Mom" often?

Do you kiss him a lot

and be grateful you got

a son whose personality shines bright?

Even if he takes off his diaper at night.

The REAL (really?) Housewives

I have a confession to make. I watched this past season of "The Real Housewives of New York." In a moment of weakness and alone-time, I was channel surfing and looking for something mindless to have on in the background while I read a book. TRHONY had a marathon going on that day, so I decided to give it a try as my white noise.

I had never seen an episode of any of the REAL housewives, so I expected women doing dishes, changing diapers, and doing the laundry, ala a housewife. Um. Nope. Here were these glamorous women going to fashion shows, attending cocktail hours with their friends, taking a jaunt on a yacht, launching new skin-care products, inventing cocktails, and dressed to the nines each day. Of course, being women, there was no shortage of cat fighting, name-calling, backstabbing, and psychotic episodes, which makes it so entertaining, right?

I got hooked. My husband looked at me in dismay last night when he saw the three-part reunion show set to record on our DVR. I justified to him that it is good to have idiotic shows on while I exercise each morning because it makes it go faster. Truthfully, I have to see what Bethenny says to Jill about their damaged friendship and if Ramona makes her weird-eyes face again. Will Kelly flip out like she did on Scary Island? I have to see!

Don't judge me.

It did get me to thinking, however, that "The Real Housewives of Apache County" might be the next big thing. Move over, Orange County, Atlanta, and even New Jersey, here comes the REAL thing. Apache County it must be for two reasons: It sounds better than "The Real Housewives of St. Johns," and, if we fail to produce enough excitement, the crew could venture off to RV, Alpine, and Sanders for more stories.

What do you think, ladies? Shopping at Wal-Mart and Alco, lunch at Speedy B's, on a canoe at Lyman Lake, making homemade oatmeal and avocado paste face masks, getting a snow cone, and dressed in sweats scrubbing the toilet. Hey, we could even throw in a scene or two of Mom and Tot swimming hour for kicks.

We would just have to make one change to the way we currently conduct our female relationships here in our small town. We would actually have to confront one another face-to-face about issues and problems instead of psst-ing it behind backs.

There's the kicker.

Even though TRHONY are catty and mean to each other, at least they have the decency and courage to be honest with one another. Heck, some of them even fight and make up and forgive. Gasp! Some of us have so many knife wounds in our backs that we don't even want to sit down in public anymore for fear of additional pain.

Let the cameras roll...Let's show them what a REAL housewife is. REAL vacuuming. REAL kids driving us nuts but making us grow. REAL smiles. REAL laughter. REAL tailgate parties. REAL casseroles to the neighbors. REAL manure on our shoes. REAL hugs. REAL friendships. REAL niceness. REAL empathy for our sistas going through the same things we are. REAL reality.

BRAVO won't really pick it up, but maybe we could pretend the cameras are watching anyway, because they truly are...

...in the lenses of our children seeing and aping how we treat each other.

...through the scope of young people trying to find out how to act like a grown-up.

...and in the clear ever-watchful eye of the most important Viewer of our lives.

Holy Macaroni!

I am shocked that I haven't posted anything since January. I knew it had been a long time, but this is ridiculous. It is definitely not that I have nothing to say. I have too much to say, believe me. Stay tuned... there are thoughts a plenty coming soon.

My Husband's New Mistress

On Saturday, a young man came to our home, took down our old satellite dish, installed a new dish, removed our old receiver, connected a new receiver, and made my husband the happiest man alive.

Yes, he has a new love, HDTV.

We have had the televisions capable of such a picture for over two years now, but we had never upgraded. Bless his heart, he said it was okay, that we didn't need to spend the extra money. Yet, when I said he should call to get it done, he moved faster than I have seen him move in the over three years we have been married.

I left early that afternoon and returned later that night, after my girls' time, and I don't think he knew I was gone.

"Can you see the difference?" Not really, I want to say. "Yes, sure, dear. I can see the armpit hair on the UFC fighter. That's neat."

"Football tomorrow. mmmm. Good."

He has resorted to grunts for conversation as he ogles the crisp picture.

At least he is happy with it, which makes me just grin. He deserves it, and I really can tell that it is much better than what we had, even though I am the girl who was happy with my fifteen-year-old Funai T.V. when we were first wed. Yes, I know, you ask, what in tarnation is a Funai? Exactly.

A true friend tells you when you have a booger in your nose and other tales of honesty in sisterhood...

Once upon a time there was a woman who wanted to join a dance class.


As the instructor of said dance class told the woman about this new opportunity, the woman felt her stomach fill with butterflies in anticipation. "It is good if you can kick up to your hip at this point," the instructor told her. Well, I can kick up to my shoulder easily, the woman replied in her head, flipping her hair to show her confidence. "We will be learning one eight count a week in class." Five, six, seven, eight. She counted in her head, envisioning herself picking up on the moves so quickly that she was assisting others with their own learning. "If you can keep your arms and hands positioned correctly, you will be ahead of the game." Who? Me? HA! I was cheerleader captain for THREE years in high school, thank you very much. "We will be performing in May at the dance recital I hold for all of my classes." What?! Are you serious? I am going to shine! Look at me! Look at me! "We will change formations often, so the same women aren't in front the whole time, so nobody is self conscious." Whatever. I'll stay in front the whole time. Me and my cheerleader smile. "It would be great if you would join us." There is not a doubt in my mind that I will be there. I will be your star student. Look at her, you will say. Watch her. She knows how to do it.


Oh, the butterflies were about to take over the woman's body, but she retained her calm, cool exterior. "Let me talk with my husband, and I'll get back to you," she told the maker of her day, her year, her decade. Whatever, let me talk with him. I am doing it. Woohoo! Five six seven eight. She danced back to her seat.


She sat down next to her friend. She shared her great news, bouncing up and down as she spoke, trying to release those internal winged flappers. "And, and, and ..." She told her everything, waiting for her support, her excitement to match hers, her nodding head. She waited for that response. And waited. And waited.


Chirp. Chirp.


"No. You. Are. Not." was the reply she finally received.


"What?" The woman shockingly retorted. "Why not?"


"Um, you are not going to dance in front of everyone."


"But, but, but..." The tears swelled in the former cheerleader's eyes.


"No. You are thirty-seven years old. That is for little girls. Little cute girls."


"But I am cute."


"You are a WOMAN."


"I am going to do it."


"I will drive by the dance class to see if your car is there. If it is, I will go in and drag you out by your hair."


"Then I will just get a ride."


"Um. No. That was twenty. TWENTY. years ago. Grow up, and let it go."


Silence. Bubble burst. Recycled dream squashed like a little gnat.


Her friend was right. What had she been thinking? The leg kicks would hurt her hip, anyway. She got tired just thinking about the number of eight counts they would be doing. That part of her life was over long ago. Now, she just danced for herself in front of the mirror. Or for her son occasionally. Sometimes an interpretive number to an Enya song for her husband after a particularly inspiring episode of So You Think You Can Dance. But not in front of a crowd of people who had come to see their little girls, with pigtails and without other developed parts, perform.


She flashed her never-to-fade-no-matter-how-many-years-pass cheerleader smile at her true friend, the one who slapped her back into reality and back into 2009, and she said, "Thanks."

NOYB

Isn't it time for another one?
You need to have a little girl.
When is the next one coming?
He needs a brother or sister.

I just don't understand why other people think they know what I, my child, and my family need. I don't question your decision to have no kids, two, or ten, at least to your face, so please leave mine and my husband's choice in our hands. It is so nosey, so rude, and so annoying to hear this over
and over
and over again lately.

Not even my mom asks, nor my sisters, not to mention my closest friends.

Maybe we had trouble conceiving the first time, and our child is a miracle. Perhaps we have been told we can't have more children. It may be that we have received confirmation from above that we are a complete family. There is always the possibility of the snip-snip already being performed. Or we just want one kid.

Whatever the reason or reasons, how insensitive for those not in our shoes to ask.

Mind your own, please, and I will mind mine.

Fall in St. Johns

This scene in my backyard made me smile: a living, blooming flower amidst the snow.

Only in St. Johns can you get such different ends of the weather spectrum within days. I love it. It keeps me guessing and on my toes. Flip flops or my winter coat? Turn on the AC or build a fire? Lemonade or hot chocolate?

Like Forrest Gump said, "You never know what you're gonna get."

Blah Blah Blah Blah Blog

Sigh.

I have nothing about which to blog. I'm not saying my life isn't full of experiences - the good, the bad, and the ugly. In fact, my existence offers moments upon moments of joy, sadness, anger, and amusement. I just don't see most of these times as blog-worthy. Perhaps I am just uninspired by my current goings-on.

Or - Oh, perish the thought! - am I just BLAH?

I mean, does anyone really care what I ate for lunch? I wolfed down, and I mean w.o.l.f.e.d. down, two of the best-ever wheat rolls, made by my bread-making friend who would win a yellow fair ribbon easily with these.

Does anyone care that the football teams for whom I fervently cheer are not doing all that well right now? I need more Tums to get through this season.

Does anyone care that I made up a great recipe for crab quesadillas last night? They were yummy.

Does anyone care that I am quite enjoying creating and delivering sugar cookies? The looks on the recipients' embarrassed faces entertain me to no end.

I am busy. I have a wonderful life. My days are full of love and laughter. I don't need to blog, or tweet tweet tweet, or put my face in a "book" to know that, nor to tell others that. Still, I eagerly await that time when something happens - something major, something that causes a pensive mood, something heart-wrenching or gut-busting - that time which will bring me out of this blah blah blah blah blog funk.

Until then...

What Comes Around ...

I have to apologize to all the stay-at-home moms out there. I used to think you did nothing all day. I bought into the stereotype of bon-bon eating and soap-opera watching. I would think to myself, "She has the time to take a meal to so-and-so or bake bread or paint her nails. I work. I don't have the leisure time to do all that."

Oh, was I wrong. Very very wrong.

I have had a to-do list for over a year now. Some of it is accomplished; some is not. I am hoping not another whole year will pass with unchecked items. I now know how much time the kiddos take out of a day. I eagerly await naptime, when I can sit down and finish a task without interruption, when I can clean or do laundry or cook without chasing Mr. Busyman from another possible danger or disaster.

I am so extremely sorry for thinking you had all the time in the world. We don't. This is my karmic slap in the face. I get a lot of them lately.

The worst part of it all is that I judged my fellow women, my sistas out there who are doing the best they can. Aren't we all? We really can't win. We stay home with our kids, and there are those who think we are lazy bums that aren't contributing to our family's finances. We go to work, and there are those who wonder why we aren't home with our kids, nurturing and guiding them as we mothers should.

What is the answer? I really wish I knew, but I think it is different for everyone, and not one of us should question another's choice. I know this is the right choice for me, to have quit my job and stay home with this sweet boy of mine.

Even though I know this is what I am supposed to be doing, that doesn't make it easy. It is back-to-school time. I'm not going back. I have had a couple of the nightmares that always accompanied this time of year for me - students running awry, lessons unplanned, etc., but I am no longer a teacher.

I miss planning a new lesson.
I miss seeing a kid understanding a concept.
I miss being called Ms. Baca/Mrs. Hancock every day.
I miss my friends. A lot.
I miss decorating my classroom.
I miss the butterflies of a new year and the possibilities that await.
I miss complaining about the administration.
I miss Chinese food Thursdays.

I have read about the allergy to work that is going around, and I marvel how I am experiencing the opposite.

I guess the grass is always greener, right?

However much I miss teaching, though, I will keep my grass. My grass with some yellow spots, some weeds, but a whole bunch of green. My green grass of my husband, who would work five jobs to keep me at home with our little guy. My green grass of awaking each morning to exercise, not to hurry off to the middle school. My green grass of having a little extra time to make those cookies for my friends. And my pure green grass of seeing curiosity in my son's eyes, satisfaction when he figures out how to put those colored doughnuts on the yellow stand, and joy as he drags a book to me to read to him.

I suppose I am still a teacher, after all, but this time my lessons are for a class of one.

Cough cough sputter sputter

I hate smokers.



Okay. I should correct that. I hate rude smokers. You know, the ones who think that they have the right to MAKE me inhale the poison they CHOOSE to inhale. I would rather not have lung cancer, thank you. Plus, I have mild asthma, and smoke of any kind will bring on an attack or worsen my ability to breathe. Once I got older and grew a partial spine, I have coughed with much emotion, held my breath in an obvious manner, and occasionally said something loudly to whomever I am with, so that the offender would notice that I didn't approve of his/her puffing around me.



Now I have a child. Gloves off. Spine complete.



I have the Arizona anti-smoking reporting line programmed into my cell phone, and I am not afraid to use it. It is listed under NO SMOKING!. I laugh every time I scroll down and see it. I have already gone into two businesses and informed them that there were smokers outside their stores breaking the law. Businesses are required to take care of it, or they may be reported and eventually fined. Both times, the employees were clueless. I didn't care. I proceeded to tell them the laws of which they were ignorant. They looked at me like I am a crazy woman. Better crazy than chemo, I say. Better crazy than my sweet baby having to walk through a cloud of tobacco dust.



My latest experience with rudeness took place this past Saturday night. I was with my husband at a hotel in Phoenix, where we were celebrating his birthday with a weekend getaway (fun times!). We had a little pool all to ourselves for awhile, which gave me time to practice the only skill, the clam shell, I remember from my synchronized swimming lessons one summer in high school. I would do the clam shell, and he would give me a score from one to ten, like in gymnastics. My highest was a 9, my lowest a 2. Oh yes. Do we ever really grow up? I can't wait to earn a ten!Come to think of it, I only took ballet for one year, as well. I didn't really want to stick with these things, I guess. They taught me some great skills for entertaining, though, I tell you.



Back on track ... a woman and her two cute little boys joined us in the pool. We were all swimming, swimming, having a nice time. I smelled smoke, so I asked my eternal companion if he did. I didn't have my contacts in, so I had no idea from where it came. I asked loudly, by the way. He said, much more quietly, that he saw it. Once I knew it was the mom of the boys, who had exited the pool, we decided to adjourn to our room. As we walked out of the area, past the cancer-spreader, I plugged my nose and coughed. Only part of my backbone was working then, I suppose. Why didn't I say something? I kick myself.



I don't know the law for smoking at pools, so I didn't really have any firm ground on which to stand. I will learn it, however, mark my words, and next time, watch out!

Baby Steps

My son took his first steps tonight (sniffle, smile, sniffle, smile), which put me in a contemplative mood.

He stumbled, leaned too far forward to keep his balance, tried to go too fast, and needed his dad and me to be there to catch him. He went back and forth, back and forth, his face a smile, our excitement contagious. We all clapped, we all laughed, we all cheered. I wish I could bottle those five minutes and drink it up every day.

Isn't this how we all are throughout life?

We try something new, a career, marriage, a baby!, a friendship, opening our hearts, forgiving someone, embracing who we are.

It is hard. We stumble, we try too hard, we go too fast, but we keep trying. If we don't, we never learn to walk on our own, with our own confidence, our own faith, our own destiny.

We need others to catch us and stand us back up. Without our cheering sections, our successes are mere footnotes rather than headlines.

May we all take the steps that allow us to grow, but more importantly, may we applaud each other's efforts, even calling for an encore.

Small Acts of Kindness

You know those times when you just need to hear something nice about yourself or have something good happen? It is amazing to me that when that pick-me-up is just what the doctor ordered,

my mom emails me,

my friend sends a text,

a ward member gives me a hug,

my husband says I love you,

a friend blogs something nice,

or my Heavenly Father sends a beautiful evening to sit on the porch swing with my family.

What ever happened to customer service?

Whatever happened to the customer is always right? You would think that in this economy, businesses would be busting their butts to try to get people to spend their money at their place of commerce.

How may I help you? Thank you. I apologize for the inconvenience. I will be glad to do that. All phrases that have gone by the wayside.

What is the deal? I am irritated. If you choose to go into the business of customer service, you need to do your best to SERVE the CUSTOMER.

I was never a waitress because I wear my feelings on my face too well. If I don't like you, I can't pretend. It wouldn't make for good tips.

I have had several experiences in the past few months that lead me to this rant. Yes, I admit that this is a rant. Dish Network telling me I need a Smart Card to update my receiver, yet neglecting to get it sent for four months, while all the while messages annoyingly flashed on my screen telling me to insert the card. Oh, I'm sorry, ma'am; it was sent from Phoenix a month ago. What? By pony? We live four hours away!

A waitress literally ignoring me and my dining companions, bringing our appetizer almost with our meal, if our meal weren't delayed while all the other diners around us finished eating. Really? And I am supposed to tip you 20%?

A toy company passing the buck to another business who actually makes the toys, when my son's star stopped playing the classical music three weeks after we got it. No, we didn't drop it in water. Yes, we changed the batteries several times. Still no music. Well, let me refer you to... Um. No. Let me refer you to basic cs101. You tell me you are sorry for the toy not working properly and let me know how it will be corrected.

Verizon not working to upgrade a phone for months, even though they work on commission. Each place I went, each time I called, I got a different answer. I was willing to spend the money, if you would work out something for me. Loyal customers meant nothing.

A hotel room's thermostat breaking in the summer heat at midnight. We got moved then to another, cooler room, but they refused to let us leave our luggage in the other room. They weren't full - it was summer in Phoenix for goodness' sake. We were leaving the next day and would get our luggage in the morning. It was midnight! Sorry, but I won't be returning there.

The good news:
1. I finally got a Smart Card; I still don't know why it is so smart, either. My television watching hasn't changed.
2. The restaurant sent me a gift certificate after I sent an email about our experience there.
3. My son got a new music-playing star, which he loves.
4. I got a new phone after a kiosk employee worked a deal. He graduated from cs101.
5. My friend took the hotel night manager, chewed him out, and ate him for a midnight snack. That was worth the inconvenience to hear her on the phone with him. Memories. . .

Calling All Contestants!

I was watching Miss USA a little on Sunday night. I enjoy viewing these pageants for a few reasons: 1) I like to make fun of the: too-much make-up faces, fake boobs, stupid answers, baton-twirling talent portion, etc., 2) I want to see if they mess up, and 3) I like to cheer for the brunettes and short-haired girls (sorry, blondes, if there are any real ones out there).

In light of the fact that I'll never win that crown, nor would I ever have had the chance, what with my freckles, 5'3" height, and never-braced teeth, I am proposing a real-women pageant.

Preliminary Competition: The contestants are chosen to represent their states via the following point system: five points for each stretch mark, ten points for each size worn above size zero, and twenty points for each original body part (i.e. chest, hair color, eye color, teeth). The more points, the better.

RWP (Real Woman Pageant) Round One: Swimsuit competition: Each contestant will be given ten swimsuits in her size. She will proceed to try them all on, in a dressing room sans camera but equipped with a hanging microphone, and choose the one that she feels accentuates her positives, such as making her eyes look greener in hopes that the thighs look smaller. Points will be awarded for the most entertaining commentary while putting on the swimsuits and for the cutest flip flops (no high heels here with our swimwear!).

RWP Round Two: After being narrowed down to the top ten contestants, the women will don their evening down wear, as opposed to their evening gown wear. Sweat suits and pajamas will be showcased as each woman makes her way to the freezer to choose a pint of ice cream. The five women who finish their pints first will advance to the final round.

RWP Round Three: The question and answer segment will be hosted by three to eighteen year olds, who will proceed to interrogate the contestants on such things as why various things occur, why the kids can't do something, and how the family pet disappeared. After the intense interrogation, the winner will be crowned based upon who kept her cool the best and did not strike one of the children.

The crown will be made of macaroni glued together with Elmer's and decorated with sprinkles.

Donald Trump? Want to sponsor this?

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

My dear friend's daughter turned 18 yesterday. Eighteen! Where has time gone? She is a beautiful girl in every way. I admire her and have learned much from her. I am blessed to know this amazing young lady. Yesterday was a day to celebrate her and her 18 years, but it also was a day to reflect on the passing of the days,

the months,

the years.

I am always aiming to improve myself, to become better and more knowledgeable, more kind and compassionate, less selfish and stubborn. Time is my friend in this, and it is my enemy. One day I will awake and be saddened by mistakes I have made, ones that may too late to correct. I will not, however, regret the time I am spending as a mom.

Thanks for the day to realize this, you sweet girl of 18, and your sweetest mother of not-much-older. :)

I am going to leave his hand-prints on the windows a little longer, and play peek-a-boo with him instead. Those messy marks of one who will be grown in a blink will remind me of what I am doing here.

NerdFest

Every year, I volunteer my time to score essays at the state Academic Decathlon competition. Having participated on the team many moons ago, I enjoy spending a few hours helping, so that the students may compete. When we had an Acadec reunion a few years ago, my then-fiance husband remarked that I was going to the nerd fest. I rebuked him, then, and corrected him to the term geek, per the definitions of both labels. Although I pretended to be offended (how dare you!), I fondly declare myself both a geek and a nerd and am honored to be among these types.

Anyway, the geek/nerd thing was only reinforced when I showed up to score these essays. What are twenty-six adults doing on a Friday night reading the words of high school students? For free? Well, we did get "dinner," which was more of a boxed lunch. The chocolate chip cookie was perfect, soft and chewy, but the rest of the meal left much to be desired. I must say, we are not the coolest cats out there. I even travelled four hours, one way, to participate.

At my table, six of us sat. My good friend, who read forty essays that night, sat to my right. She won the contest. The very fact that we had a contest attests to our nerdiness. We also kept track of how many wrote on each of the three prompts and then figured out the percentages. We snickered at some students' witticisms and groaned at others' misspellings. We laughed aloud when one decathlete decided to use asides in his/her essay, shared the invented words of another, and we prayed that the essay in our hands would be one with subject matter from the less-chosen prompts. When it did happen, we rejoiced with each other, exclaiming, "I got a prompt two!" Wow. Geeks.

One man at our table had the answers for everything, from why a student scored the way he did to how the essays should be handled. He was the nerdiest of us all, I believe. A computer programmer and know-it-all, I did enjoy battling with him when I could, and when I had the energy.

The man in charge was a control freak, with three colored folders on each table to "help" us stay organized: purple for never-read, red for once-read, and green for finished. Thanks so much. It is so hard to figure out. The shades of organization truly made everything progress so much more smoothly. When "dinner" time arrived, Nazi essay guy shouted, "Stop right where you are! It is time to get your food." I abruptly sat upright, slammed my pencil down, and reverted back to my Scantron-testing days.


Wandering to find our nourishment, we encountered the younger nerds, looking dapper in their suits and dresses, competing on this night, what they have been preparing for all this year. They impress me every time, these scholars who study and learn and deliver an oft-practiced speech. They are the reason I continue to do this.

Well, that, and I am a nerd.

I love Mayberry!

Headlights shined on the gigantic-redskin-head bus as it embarked over Grover's Hill, the end of its journey from the arena in Glendale. Some people emerged from the vehicles to take pictures, cheer, and wave to the passengers on the bus. Others remained in their cars and honked horns as the carrier of champions passed. The fire engine and a police vehicle escorted the bus down from the hill and into town, and all followed. The spontaneous parade continued down the main street, past the post office, the bank, Corky's, the old high school, around the Fina gas station, and back up to the high school. When the bus came to a stop, the fans formed a half-circle near the door and joined in a cheer led by one. "Where you from? St. Johns High! Who's your mascot? Redskins!" The voices filled the space of the cold winter night. The basketball team got off the bus, one by one, to cheers, hugs, and accolades. The fight song was sung. Smiles and tears, surprised faces and grateful embraces, hard-working girls and admiring spectators - these were the sights of this night. One by one the participants returned to their vehicles and their homes, a few minutes of their night gone, but a memory made forever.

Tell-tale Signs My Body is Getting Older

1. When I ate a Costco Polish sausage last week for lunch, I burped it the rest of the day. It did not taste good coming back up in vaporous form.

2. I can no longer drink a Dr. Pepper after three o'clock in the afternoon, or I will not sleep at night.

3. My shoulder hurts. My back hurts. My knee hurts. My neck hurts. . .

4. I need to have bunion surgery. Well, maybe not yet. I just looked it up online, with before and after photos, and those feet are way more misshapen than mine.

5. When I eat fast food, I regret it for the next twenty-four hours that I spend in discomfort. The bathroom must be close.

6. Staying up all night means going to bed at ten.

7. I am going to have to start eating All-Bran for breakfast.

8. Metabolism? What is that? I lost that on my twenty-fifth birthday.

9. I want to use one of those motorized carts when I go to Wal-Mart (just so I can run people down).

10. I order cottage cheese instead of fries as a side.

11. I am saving for plastic surgery.

12. El Camino beans are not a good idea.

13. Ditto for uncooked broccoli.

14. Sit and Be Fit is looking like a great exercise program to follow.

15. Bedtime Activities: Sex=10% chance, Sleep=90% chance

Ignorant Sports' Fans

I am sick of going to sporting events and hearing the fans yell at the officials. I believe people go to these competitive games and matches to cheer their teams to victory. Perhaps I am incorrect in this thinking. Maybe the real reason they go is to vent their every anger at the injustices in the world. Poverty abounds, our economy is in a near-depression, murderers and rapists commit the unimaginable daily . . . but "Call it both ways, ref!" is what some choose to use their voices to say to confront the atrocities that face us. Their loud, loud, loud voices.

I am all for disagreeing, just ask anyone who knows me, but I am not for disagreeing in ignorance, or worse, stupidity. I follow local high school and middle school sports, so I am at many games and matches. It is sickening, although somewhat amusing, to hear what people have to say.

"Holding! Holding! There was holding!" Really? On a football play? Duh! If you know football at all, there is holding on every play. EVERY PLAY! Do you really want the officials to call it all the time? C'mon now. They should, and usually will, call it only when the holding directly would impact the play.

"Foul! Three seconds! Over the back! Traveling!" and my favorite, "The foul count is off!" So, what you're telling me is this: The officials are supposed to be sitting there keeping a tally of fouls on a Post-it note to ensure that it's all even-steven? While your kid on the other end gets elbowed and begins to bleed, you want the ref. to make sure it's four to four on the fouls? Okay, idiot. By the way, there is no over the back call. Read a rule book, please.

The worst is when a fan picks and picks and picks at the officials, disagreeing with every call against his/her team and then decides to cheer for those in stripes once a call is anti-opponent. It is remarkable how quickly the refs. became good! Weren't they blind and biased just thirty seconds ago? Laser surgery and an attitude adjustment in under a minute, guaranteed!

Can you imagine if all the effort that went into screaming at the officials was transferred to cheering on the team instead, what would happen? Wow! I get goose bumps just thinking of it.

The incessant wailing at officials is getting so bad that one fan wore ear plugs to the last game. Many of us moved from our original seats to watch the game more peacefully, and - oh, the insanity!- cheer for our team.

I am not saying the officials are always right, or even 90 percent correct. I am married to one, so I know. They are human, and they will miss calls. Most of them will admit to this if you ask them. They are not, for the most part, there to hurt either team. If we didn't have them there, the contests would not be able to take place. I also know that a) your yelling will not change a call b) your yelling will not make the official start changing his/her calls and c) your yelling at an official will not help your team win.

For the sakes of all of us who are actually there to rally our teams to victory and don't want to wear ear plugs, please find some other way to release your pent-up emotions.