In which I alienate half of my family

So there we were last weekend, watching basketball. Lots of basketball. Too much basketball. Perhaps everyone got a little tired of basketball.

Maybe because we were bored, we had a drink. Or two. Or three. The conversation started to get a little strange. Before I knew it, in an odd convergence of pop-cultural references, we were discussing basketball, Twitter, Howie Long, "On Golden Pond," and Rosie O'Donnell.

But that wasn't the strange part. The strange part was when my brother-in-law Dustin felt compelled to share (out of the clear blue sky): "You know, I think Stephen Colbert is my man-crush."



It immediately got stranger when my husband added, "I'd have to say that, from an avuncular* standpoint, Warren Buffet is my mine."

All I can say is that I love it when people hand me blog posts on a silver platter.

_________
*Avuncular meaning "like an uncle." Truly, I don't want to know why my husband associates "uncle-like" with bromance. Do not think for a minute that this doesn't disturb me.

Oh, and my sincerest apologies to Stephen Colbert, Warren Buffet, and Photoshop.

Oh, and: Truce?

Death by Five Iron

Last night I had the opportunity to play Wii Golf. Most people wouldn't guess that I was on the golf team in high school. Nor would they guess that I was a bit of a cheerleader. But I was both. And I'll tell you what: that Wii Golf is a (frighteningly) realistic game.

In tenth grade, for reasons even I don't understand, I joined the golf team. I lived in a tiny, nine-hole-course-in-the-middle-of-a-cornfield kind of town. You didn't have to try out for the team, although I'm guessing they re-thought that policy after I left.

I had never even teed off, much less played nine holes, much less eighteen. My parents weren't small-town country club people, so I hadn't even golfed casually. But I'm a quick study and I was determined, so I got myself a cheap set of clubs and hit the links.

It. Sucked.

It was boring. God, was it boring. (The only thing more mind-numbing than watching golf on television is actually playing golf.) It took hours of my time after school every night. Because it was Iowa in the spring, it was freezing. We had fluorescent golf balls because sometimes it snowed. The coach was 27 different kinds of mean. And most of all, I was the worst golfer who ever golfed.

I'm not just saying that for effect or to be modest. If memory serves me correctly, my career best score on a podunk nine-hole course was 97. (Which may also be my career best bowling score. Coincidence? I think not.)

But I wasn't a quitter. I stuck with it.

For a while.

Until The Meet Which Shall Remain Nameless, in a town about an hour away. I was assigned to golf with three girls from the other school, which for a 16-year-old girl is a fate worse than death. I hit divot after divot, lost ball after ball. I got so mad that I threw my club, which the coach conveniently witnessed. (He yelled at me.) It was 45 degrees and I was miserable.

I was down to my very last ball. And I hit it. Into the creek.

There was no choice but to retrieve it. So I climbed down the muddy banks of the creek, reached over to get my ball... and fell into the water.

Immediately I decided I didn't really need that ball. Because right then and there, I realized my brief but storied golf career was over. I climbed out of the water, grabbed my clubs, and turned my back on a life of pseudo-elite ugly shoes and stupid little skirts and sun visors. I walked quietly back to the bus and that's where I sat until it was time for the long ride home.

So back to Wii Golf, last night. We played for a while, and I finished 14 over par. After two holes.

Like I said: realistic.

How Jensen saved the Olympics

I have a sarcastic streak. Matter of fact, sometimes I'm downright cynical. Which is why, maybe two weeks ago, I declared the Olympics to be Dead to Me. (I love you, Stephen Colbert.)

Dead to me, despite the fact that I'm a complete sports freak.

Dead to me, despite Nadia Comaneci's 1976 gymnastics performance (I still remember the lovely polka-dotted leisure suit I wore while watching her).

Dead to me, despite my love for the city of Beijing (I lived there in 1993).

But dead, for lots of reason. The shallow media reports. The blind nationalism (American, Chinese, or otherwise). The competitors who have the nerve to be bitter about winning a silver medal. The imposition of politics.... Performance-enhancing drugs....

So, Olympics? Ciao. {sigh}

Enter Jensen. He'll watch anything Olympics-related and love it. He's equally enthusiastic about shot put, rowing, gymnastics... to name a few. His unabashed affection for Michael Phelps is understandable, but he's just as excited about, say, volleyball.

His enthusiasm is contagious, too. Every night, I watch a little more. The other night, he actually had me cheering for the Romanian woman who absolutely creamed her competition in the marathon. And we cheered for the woman who came in seventh, too. He said, "I don't care which country wins-- it's so much fun to watch!"

Point taken, kiddo.

So the attached photo is when he won a gold medal in our small-town gymnastics tournament, about a year and a half ago. He was happy as a five-year-old can be-- which is pretty damn happy.

This is what it's all about. This is what he's taught me this week. It's okay to get caught up in the moment. It's okay to get goosebumps watching the winners cry on the medal stand. It's okay to be naive, just for a minute or two.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go watch Usain Bolt set a world record in the 200.