Swifter, Higher, More Nerve-Wracking

So I'm pretty sure I should never be allowed to watch the Olympics.

I don't mean that I should only be granted access to the highlights to prevent me from wasting entire days and nights watching the full coverage (which I do). I mean there should be a media blackout every two years, and only in my apartment. You may be thinking, "Why would Courtney need a Costas-free zone?  She's not athletic in the least!" Well, here it is: When it comes to the Olympics, I just get too invested.

It's those damn inspirational featurettes on all the athletes that does me in. Really, in the end, I'd rather not know what hardship or disease or injury or tragedy that ski jumper overcame to get to this point ... this twenty seconds that cost him the last twenty years of his life ... this split second that will define his entire career. It's too much pressure, for him and for me. But now I'm in it with him. Curse you, NBC!  You made me care.

Figure skating and gymnastics are almost unbearable for me, although of course I watch them, sometimes through my fingers. It's just too much heartbreak, people. Too much drama. Last night I heard myself say on more than one occasion, "I think I'm gonna throw up." This is a phrase that should never be associated with something as innocuous as a triple salchow.

These are the two things that come out of my mouth most often while watching Olympic coverage (other than outrageous bursts of profanity; much like when I play video games, I simply cannot be held responsible for my language during sporting events):

1.  "GO-GO-GO-GO-GO!"  I shout this without even knowing it, at an insane volume, and it apparently applies to all situations in all sports.

2.  "Oh, look how happy they are!" Invariably I find myself weeping along with the competitors and their families, even if I'd previously been rooting against them.

And I do root against them, because for some reason, I'm all about that effing medal count. I'm not proud of it, and I'm not typically uber-nationalistic, but I watch that tally like a hawk ... or an eagle, as the case may be.

I don't know where this competitive streak comes from, because I don't rabidly follow sports on a regular basis (with the exception of World Cup Soccer, but that's only every four years, so some spectacular enthusiasm is practically mandated). I loves me some Roger Federer, and I'm a fair-weather Twins fan, but you won't find me painted up in the stands somewhere, waving a flag like a crazy person.

Here's the thing about me, though. Maybe it's because I'm a bit ambivalent, but I can really get invested in any sport. Even if I have no idea what's going on, I just have to pick a side and go with it. When I was in Ireland, I was enthralled with cricket. In Japan, I was glued to those sumo tournaments. I can even sit with my dad and watch NASCAR for an afternoon. So maybe my mania is purely situational.

I'll end with Exhibit A for why my Olympic viewing privileges should be revoked, and I hate to admit it, but this is true. In 2004, I was watching the Athens games, and the US men's relay swimming team was battling Australia for the gold. (This was the precursor to the Phelps fever that hit Beijing in 2008, during which my friends and I cheered so loudly that we blatantly woke up a baby.)

I'm standing in my living room, crouched slightly, very intent on the action unfolding on the TV, and suddenly the US wins, and I, in some random burst of childlike joy, decide that an appropriate spontaneous celebration would be to yelp and leap into the air. With my fists stretched straight up in victory. Which, combined with my freakishly long monkey arms and my jump, made me roughly 8' 3".  I had 8' ceilings. Covered in popcorn finish.

Here's what happened: I managed not only to take a chunk out of the ceiling, but also to take most of the skin off all my knuckles. So as Michael Phelps was climbing out of the pool, I was standing amid a shower of bloody plaster. But you know what? I was still happy.

Plus, in the days that followed, when people asked me what the hell happened to my hands, I could shrug and say matter-of-factly, "Bar room brawl." And that, my friends, was as good as gold.

eM hsaW

I saw a car the other day with a fresh coating of snow on its back window (not a shocker in MN). What was interesting is that someone had taken time out of their day to carefully scrawl "Fuck Dave" in the pristine white powder. 

This wasn't a hasty scribble.  It was printed in all caps, thoughtful and neat and deliberate.

I was immediately intrigued by this for several reasons. First, who's Dave?  Is he the driver of the car?  If so, the epithet must be quite personal. Whoever wrote it has to either know which car Dave drives (a disgruntled neighbor or coworker perhaps) or, in an even better scenario, ride in that car with him often enough to think he's an asshole (a carpool buddy, perhaps a girlfriend).

Then again, the message wasn't "Fuck you, Dave," so maybe that car is just an unwitting bearer of a larger message, much as a graffitied bus bench can be.  *See my posting from September 2008, titled "Dylan, What Did You Do?"

Next question: How long do you think Dave drove around that day before noticing that he was viewing all the vehicles behind him through a smear on his good name? If the message's author had really been thinking, and if the sentiment was indeed personal, it should have been written backward, so that it was clearly readable in the rear view. It's not like the rest of us wouldn't have figured it out. Plus, it really would have packed a wallop as soon as Dave threw that car in reverse.

My point is this: If you're going to use nature as a dry erase board of profanity, make it count. Be inventive. Have a sense of humor, like the person who wrote "SLUR" on the back of a bus seat. 

I'll give this particulr vandal props, though. Because we use snow for many things ... we make angels with it, we build men out of it, but I've never before seen the F-bomb rendered so perfectly in it.

Today's Lesson: Hot Things Are Dangerous

I'm telling the following story for only one purpose:  I'd like you to conjure this image whenever you're feeling a little down or uncoordinated, because I guarantee you'll feel better about yourself afterward.

So tonight I got home from work and decided to make supper.  Something easy, something that I could split up into individual portions and take to work for the rest of the week.  I settled on goulash and spaghetti, both lovely midwestern dishes whose recipes start (as every good dinner should) with 1 lb. of hamburger.

I was cooking away quite successfully, using three of four burners.  I'm not bragging.  On the back burner I had my goulash noodles, hamburger, onions, and tomato soup simmering, and on the front I had my spaghetti sauce warming up.  I reached over the sauce to add some cheese to the goulash, and right as my arm passed over the front pot, the molten blob of Prego inside decided to bubble up and explode.

Now, I'm not sure what went through my mind in that split second when the sauce hit my skin, but I think I may have assumed I'd been rudely assaulted in some fashion, or perhaps that an invisible cowboy ninja had stabbed me with a tiny branding iron.  The point is this -- whatever fired between my synapses, it directed my body to spasm violently backward, my outstretched and sizzling arm jerking up, hand contracting.

It's important to note that in that hand was an open bag of shredded cheese.

What resulted was a veritable downpour of monterey jack.  No, more like a snowstorm.  Except instead of the 10" currently falling outside, this one was in my kitchen, and there was no way my landlord was going to come shovel it for me.

After the explosion, I pulled myself together enough to realize what had happened, turned down the burner, and stuck my arm under the faucet.  When I looked up to find a wall covered in sauce and a floor covered in cheese, I wished as I have never wished before that, like an updated Nixon, I secretly videotaped my apartment, so that I could review the previous two minutes in slow motion. Oh, Rose Mary Woods, what treasures slipped through your fingers back in the day?

We'll never know.  All I know is that I now have a dime-sized burn glowing on my wrist, courtesy of nobody but me.  And Prego.  And that invisible cowboy ninja.

And Now, For My Next Trick, I'll Need a Volunteer

On Friday morning, my bus stopped at a railroad crossing.  The gate was down, the lights were flashing, this is not anything new.  What was new was this:  there was no train.  No train in sight, no heavily-graffitied cars rolling past at a snail's pace, not even a rumbling in the distance.

So there we were.  Waiting.  The bus driver radioed in about our predicament, and we continued to wait, watching a line of cars and trucks steadily grow across the tracks.  

"I'm sorry, but we have to wait here until this gate is fixed."  The driver was a small woman with a badass streak.  Two days before, a woman running late had risked being hit by a car to cross the street and then darted in front of the bus in an attempt to catch it.  By way of an admonishment (or punishment) the driver had simply glared through the side door and driven off without her.  Definitely no-nonsense.

I was happy for the explanation, however.  I'm always grateful to drivers who dare to actually use those speakers to give the passengers reasons for delays and alternate routes.  Two weeks ago I was asleep on the way home and didn't see that a traffic accident up ahead was causing us to re-route and backtrack. Consequently, I woke up in a panic, looking out at an industrial parking lot and assuming I'd taken the 5:15 to Murderville by mistake.

Another five minutes went by. Still no train. I don't think I can fully convey how long ten minutes is when you're sitting stationary on a bus that should already have picked up 20 more people and be on its way into downtown.  Well, it's not an hour stuck on an icy on-ramp to I-94, but that's another story for another time.

Let me just say that the waiting was not a problem for me personally.  If my iPod is fully charged, I have no problem sitting and staring out a window, lost in my thoughts. During the next couple songs, the cars that had been queued up across from us and behind us began to realize that they, too, could be here all day if they didn't take matters into their own hands, and began snaking around the gates.

Suddenly the bus driver stood up.  "I can't cross these tracks, or I might lose my job."

In my head I thought, "OK, but which one of us is going to say anything?  We just want to get to work.  I promise, if I'm grilled down at the Metro Transit station, I'll deny everything.  Even if they good-cop/bad-cop me, I won't squeal!"

She continued, "I need someone to spot me so I can back up."

Immediately, this man and woman, who at first appeared to be a couple but later turned out didn't even know each other, stood up and volunteered.  They then exchanged a few quick confirmations with the driver of appropriate hand signals, as if they were amateur traffic cops secretly waiting for their big chance or Eagle scouts looking for the perfect opportunity to earn their transit badges, before barreling off the bus into the street.

Now, I'm not an expert on this kind of thing, but doesn't it seem that sending two passengers out into the middle of mid-morning traffic, on a narrow road coated with ice and snow, to guide the bus two blocks in reverse and through a stoplight (so we could turn and take a route that circumvented the malfunctioning gate) is slightly more dangerous to their safety than rolling forward 30 feet across the tracks when clearly there is no imminent danger?  Again, not an expert ... I'm just saying.

Logic aside, we managed to make the turn amid comparatively few angry horn blasts, and the man and woman hopped back on board, none the worse for wear.  I shouted "Nice job!"  I couldn't help myself. The driver promised them free ride tickets.  I actually thought applause might have been in order. 

But then again, I think applause is always in order when you've witnessed something a bit out of the ordinary.  Or put your life at risk so that strangers can punch in on time and have yet another interesting story to tell over lunch.  And in a blog.

Never Judge a Monk by its Cover

So the other morning I was staring half-awake out of my bus window, and up ahead I saw a small car plastered with bumper stickers. Normally I'm fascinated by this phenomenon, which seems especially prevalent here in the Twin Cities, of using your vehicle to loudly proclaim your feelings about various topics (or, at least, as loudly as an 8x3" sheet of vinyl will allow) to the person waiting impatiently for you to make that left-hand turn.

I'm a bit torn between bumper stickers and vanity plates as hilarious social media. On one hand, the stickers are often clever. But on the other hand, vanity plates only allow you six or seven characters to be equally as clever. Plus there's the challenge of trying to figure them out. I keep a running list of my favorites. 

But we were talking about bumper stickers. What I love are the messages, because they are rarely ambiguous or middle-of-the-road. You never see "Peace: Sometimes It's Nice" or "Part-Time NRA." And, in the case of what I call a bulletin-board bumper, there's usually a theme. You can typically infer a lot of things about someone from their vehicular menagerie of well-worn sentiments.

I enjoy few things more than people who are willing to deface their car in the interest of provocation. My favorite sticker to date read "God was my co-pilot, but we crashed in the mountains and I ate him." Believer or not, you have to appreciate the person who thought, "Yes. When people gaze upon me in traffic, this is the sentence I'd like them to take away from that experience."

I often wonder whether there are people out there who are driving around in used cars with bumper stickers that scream things they don't personally believe. Maybe they were too lazy to remove them, maybe they wouldn't come off, but for whatever reason, they just don't apply. Do they get horn blasts or middle fingers they don't deserve?

When I was about nine, my family went to Florida to visit some friends. It happened to be Halloween, and my sister and I were invited to a party, along with these friends' kids. I didn't have a costume, so I borrowed a mask from their son, who was about my age. I didn't realize two things: 1) He'd worn this mask before, and 2) Evidently he was not well-liked. 

So I got to this party and was immediately set upon by three or four older boys, who mistakenly thought I was him. I remember thinking, "What the hell did I ever do to you a-holes?" Well, that, and "Holy crap, I'm never gonna see Disneyworld!"

The point is this: Maybe we shouldn't assume that what's on the outside accurately reflects what (or who) is on the inside. Let me take you back to the small car outside my bus window the other morning. All the bumper stickers read "Free Tibet," and I was immediately and irrationally annoyed by this, since it seems a trendy thing to advocate. (I'm all for freeing Tibet, I just don't think you should cover your car with the slogan unless you're intimately acquainted with the situation and genuinely dedicated to the cause.)  

Which, in this case, the passengers were. As the bus pulled up alongside, I looked down into the car. Chock full of monks. Touché, monks. Touché.

Fastest. Shower. Ever.

Another two weeks have flown by, and again I apologize.  In an attempt to regain focus, I will give you two very important words from this morning.  The first is "myopia."  The second?  "Spiders."  You'll see how the two relate with horrific consequences below.

I have to set this up by explaining that, since I got my first pair of spectacles at age 9, I've been bound to these frickin' things (in increasing lens thicknesses) during every waking hour.  My goal for 2010 is to give contacts another shot, since they've never quite measured up vision-wise but would spare me from the constant paranoia of worrying whether someone (or some kid) is going to whack me in the face and leave me dizzy and disoriented for the next month.

But I digress.

Suffice it to say that with my glasses on, I see about 20/15.  Without them, I see about 20/1000.  So it will be no surprise that, upon noticing a blurry black mark on my bathroom wall early this morning, I had to lean in VERY close to discern that it was, indeed, a spider, who was very much alive and none too happy with being squinted at and subsequently cursed at.

I don't know why I had to verify what it was.  That spot isn't normally there, and what else could it be, really?  A piece of fuzz?  Hardly.  A wandering blob of mold?  Please, I keep a relatively clean house.  I guess I wanted to confirm that it wasn't anything worse than a spider, something that would require not simply hopping backward but fleeing immediately from the vicinity.  Naked.  

Did I forget to mention this was just before I stepped into the shower?

So there I was, knowing it was there but unable to do a thing about it, because the countdown clock for my bus arrival was ticking away, and I couldn't see well enough to hit it with anything.  I decided to turn a blind eye (pun intended) and brush my teeth, hoping that it would simply disappear.  I operated on the same principle that guided me safely through public bathing experiences in Japan:  if I can't see it, it's not there.  If this tenet can apply to other people's cash and prizes, I can apply it to wayward insects as well.

When I turned around two mintues later (thanks, Sonicare), the spot was gone.  "Hurray!" I shouted.  Actually, I shouted another profanity, but this is all about the pursuit of cleanliness, so let's keep it nice.  Confident that the bug had taken advantage of its reprieve and scuttled away into a dark corner, I pulled back my shower curtain ... and found it clinging to the wall, now even closer to my exposed skin than before.

And then, to make things worse, it sprang off the wall and disappeared.  Where?  How the hell should I know!  I can't even find my razor blade on the tub floor if it pops off mid-shower. There was no way I was groping blindly for this little shithead, who just took a swan dive off the tile like Harrison Ford in "The Fugitive."  For all I knew he was now bobbing around just waiting for me, and let's face it, eight legs can probably tread water indefinitely.

At this point I think I yelled something akin to "What!? You did NOT just [expletive deleted] do that!  Ahhhh!  You did NOT just do that!  Now you're in the tub?  Ahhhhh!"  In case you haven't noticed, I'm very witty and articulate at 7:30 a.m. when facing down brazen creepy crawlies.  

In the end, the worst part wasn't the fact that this thing had the balls to interrupt my morning routine. The worst part was that it used up all the soap.

It's a Friggin' Free Couch

Back from hiatus ... and exhausted by my first day back at the grind.  I've decided that the truest benchmark of whether your job is stressful is when you have two weeks off and your skin clears up. 

So, in the interest of preserving my energy (at least for today) I'm posting a Craigslist ad for a couch that a friend stumbled across and sent me for amusement.  God, I love people.

Deep reddish, almost purple-ish in color. Corduroy-type material. About 8 years old. Comes with 4 couch pillows. Does not come with the blue blanket shown in the photo (sorry, it was the best photo I could find at the moment, since the couch temporarily has some stuff stored on it while I rearrange my living room). 

PLEASE NOTE: 

Until Friday, January 1st, I will NOT BE AVAILABLE to respond to any emails or make arrangements for you to pick up the couch, so please be patient. And no, I will not measure the couch, calculate its mass or specific gravity, call you, help you move it, high five you, or even give you some sort of barely perceptible knowing nod. It's a friggin' free couch of average size. Come and get it or don't. 

Also, couch may or may not come with free awkward discretionary hug. 

Do You Hear What I Hear (Six)

Technically, this one should be titled "Do You Read What I Read," but let's just go with it, shall we?

I want you to think way, waaay back to when Facebook was but a glimmer in social networking's eye and MySpace ruled the internet universe.  Back in the day (which was about two years ago) I had a MySpace page, and I would periodically receive messages from random men looking to hook up with me.

Remember how I only get hit on by crazy/drunk men in real life?  Well, in cyberspace my demographic seems to be middle-aged black men.  I don't know why.  I'm an equal opportunity dater, but I don't skew my profile to appeal to any race in particular.

In any case, I received the following message, which I have copied and pasted verbatim below. I haven't altered this in any way.  Please keep in mind that the guy's screen name was Big Boom and his picture featured a cartoon of George Bush as a vampire sucking on the Statue of Liberty's neck.

Subject:  "You have the deepest dimples."  (Again with the dimples!)

Whatz up pretty young misses? I like your height. You look super hot and tempting. Your smile and dimples are eating away at my sould as we speak. You look like a business woman and I'm loving it. Can I talk you you? I know you are busy doing your thing and all that, but you gotta squeez me in. I'm a cool fellow. You wanna have fun then come with me. I keep the blueberry Smirnoff on deck and the VSOP lately, I’m a homeowner and I have a car too so we can do whatever. I don't need to play gamez. I just wanna have fun shit.... can I know you? Iz that too much to ask? Um just sayin though for real..whatz up..can I get a number or give you mine? I'm a young, honest and fun King looking for a proper Queen. Can you handle that?

I honestly don't know what's better -- all the z's or the fact that I had to google VSOP (Very Superior Old Pale cognac).

What can I say?  You learn something new every day.