CURLING is the Sport for Olympic Sissies Like Me

Chuckle #395 | February 24th, 2010
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I like the Olympics. Talk about great reality TV for the whole family. If it weren't for the bloodcurdling horror of the accidents and injuries, I would really enjoy watching. As it is I gasp and flinch every two minutes, cover my head with a blanket and bite my nails every time some poor kid crashes on the Super G or breaks their tailbone on the ice rink. The Olympics, I have decided, are stressful. Even for us couch potatoes.

Then there is CURLING. A fascinating sport(?) invented by a bored Scot circa 1510. Curling is dominated by people with British-y accents, Viking ancestry, and/or by countries with perpetually frozen lakes, low population density and high rates of alcoholism.

I used to think that Curling was simply Shuffleboard on ice. That is, until I stayed up past midnight last Saturday to watch the heavily promoted blood match between Canada and Great Britain. On the surface it looked cordial enough, you know the Brits, always in control. But beneath the apparent camaraderie, I got a vague sense of rivalry (even disaffection) between the two teams. Their centuries old enmity was born out in raised eyebrows and cold inimical stares. What can I say? The Curl-Off was clearly over-hyped. NBC can't help that Curlers are by virtue of good breeding, genteel.

For those of you not familiar with Curling, it is a bit like bocce, horseshoes, croquet, and yes, shuffleboard (except slower.) Each team "shoots" their 44lb "stones" (big polished rocks with handles) across the "sheet" of ice (at .5 mph), attempting to land closest to the target, while knocking the opposing team's stones out of the "house".

You really have to see it to understand it, and even then, I recommend reading the 40 page Wikipedia explanation first, because Curling announcers never explain ANYTHING. (Note that even the Curling announcers make fun of Curling, which I find to be appallingly unsportsmanlike Wayne Gretzky.)

Sounds boring? Don't be fooled. Players are constantly at risk for serious groin injury and hernias. Those granite "stones" weigh a ton. I'm also pretty sure Curling is a drinking sport. I'd be willing to bet pre-bailout dollars that those guys hit the pub after every match. So if the sport itself doesn't get them, the liver damage eventually will. Exciting stuff.

Once you become an aficionado, you will quickly realize that Curling is a demanding sport requiring NASA-like precision and superior hand-eye coordination. A physics degree and some basic geometry can't hurt. However, unlike many other Olympic sports, cardiovascular fitness is unnecessary, hence the prevalence of "paunch". The best Curlers (e.g. Canadians) are rumored to cross train with low impact activities like yoga, light housekeeping, and "pint pressing".

But things CAN get ugly. There was actual blood on the ice during one recent Olympic Curling match. Judging from the reaction of the Curling announcers, this was the MOST exciting thing ever witnessed during a Curling event. Until they realized it was a simple nosebleed.

Despite its excruciating lack of speed, the sport is growing on me. Unlike downhill skiing where I get VERY tense as bodies fly into barricades and kid's dreams are shattered along with their femurs, CURLING does not maim and destroy. It's much more relaxing to watch than ANY other Olympic sport. (Ok, except maybe ICE DANCING.)

Yes, I am an Olympic SISSY. And I am not ashamed to admit it. I don't know how the parents of Olympians can watch their kids compete in the winter games. I'm unrelated and can barely stand it. The worst is when NBC has the "foresight" to do a 10 minute background video on the kid who ultimately ends up in a full body cast. I'd rather not know that his dying grandfather's final wish was to see him compete at the Olympics. FYI, I don't like sad movies either.

So Curling is "my" sport. As a bonus, the fans are rabidly entertaining. Because they drink a lot there's often as much (if not more) action in the stands. The main appeal of Curling might be that the fans can easily picture themselves as the bald, middle-aged shooter, or the slightly paunchy sweeper. It's a lot harder to imagine yourself blasting down the Giant Slalom.

So here's to the Olympics and the venerable sport of CURLING. If only Bocce could get the Olympic Committee nod. Then we Olympic Sissies would have something to watch during the summer games.
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A Tale of Bad Hair, Blunt Scissors & DEEP Remorse

Chuckle #394 | February 10th, 2010
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Some women drink, others redecorate, most of us shop. But when I’m feeling particularly blue, I grab the nearest pair of scissors and start cutting my hair. I’ve done this since I was in high school. (Whether or not this is a healthy way to cope with stress, I’d prefer not to know.) I have sported some pretty bad haircuts over the years. But this latest one might well be the worst.

Yesterday I attempted to add layers to an 8 month old professional cut that had already undergone two previous hack jobs. My husband called the results “disheveled”. It’s not a good look. If I were in a rock band it could work. But I’m not. Or if I were more adept with gels and blow dryers, I could make it presentable. But I’m not.

So now I have to beg my hairdresser for an appointment before I fly off to Florida disguised as a middle aged harridan. Or risk being mistaken for a Yes Groupie or Susan Boyle, pre-makeover. And just between you and me, I’m pretty sure SHE cut her own hair too.

Part of my problem is that I’ve got “summer” hair vs. “winter” hair. My hair looks best in the heat. My winter hair is thin, flat, and lifeless. In summer I have gorgeous humidity induced waves. Any cut looks good on me in summer, even the ones I give myself. In winter, the flaws in my cutting technique (and my bad judgment) are far more obvious and painful to behold. As in, right now. Luckily it is cold enough to wear a hat.

I’m not the only one to suffer the scissors. I also randomly “trim” my dog between groomings. This annoys the dog, but saves a lot of money. He currently sports a “do” with a weird fluffy butt, and super skinny legs. Apparently it takes training to groom dogs, training which I have not bothered to obtain. It is quite possible that I cut dog hair even worse than my own. The kids say the dog looks like a miniature sheep. They claim he is an embarrassment to the family. Funny, they say the same thing about me.

When I told my husband that both I and the dog were getting hair cuts today, he asked, “Not at the same place, right?” Strangely enough, I found that to be a reasonable question. Which says a lot about how far I will go to save a buck.

The answer is that NO, I will not be getting my hair cut at the dog groomer, but it is an interesting idea. The problem is that the dog’s haircut actually costs twice as much as mine. That’s because I “go” to the local barbershop along with all the Dads and their 10 year old sons. The service is excellent and well priced. And best of all, Linda doesn’t make a fuss when I come in looking like Edward Scissorhands attacked me in the alley next to CVS. She just fixes it.

I like to think that I’ve saved thousands of dollars over the years by trimming and cutting my own hair between “real” hair cuts. With this savings, I can pretty much justify any purchase I choose to make, from furniture to clothes. I like to tell my husband that he totally lucked out in marrying me. Some women spend hundreds of dollars on their hair every month, just on coloring. For a woman, I’m awesomely low maintenance. Sometimes he even agrees.

I’m afraid that this time my hairdresser is going to have to take it short. I’ve butchered my locks so badly that repairs may dictate a pixie cut. (Or heaven forbid, a Dorothy Hamill.) I used to look good in a pixie cut…when I was 10. I’m hoping for the best. The great thing about hair is that it grows back. It just takes time, and a tolerant loving spouse – who is hopefully taken in by this blatant “shout out” homage to his good nature.

Now, if I can just find a secure place to stash the scissors for a few months, I might be able to grow out these bangs by summer…
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My Gladiator & Goat Cheese Infused SUPER BOWL Party

Chuckle # 393 | February 3rd, 2010
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I like football as much as the next woman. (If that woman also couldn’t care less about the actual game, but still wants to throw a party.) Football is the closest we come to the purest form of entertainment, Rome’s bloody gladiator battles. It’s been 500 years and we “masses” still like watching men beat each other’s brains out. The pleasure we take in other’s suffering is what makes us so charmingly human. That, plus opposable thumbs and crazy diets.

The great thing about football is that it gives us an excuse to throw a party where we don’t have to serve our guests a real dinner. A party where the all the food comes out of a bag and is dumped into bowls. And they don’t even have to be nice bowls. Hence the name “Super Bowl.” This is MY kind of party.

Super Bowl parties are indeed casual. It’s expected that the guests will bring something. The host (in this case me), assumes that the food brought will be suitably “footbally” in nature, but you never can tell. This year one of my friends offered to bring “the” goat cheese and “the” artichoke dip. You know, the classic cheese dish, eaten throughout the land on Super Bowl Sunday each year? Yeah, that’s right. Who brings goat cheese to the Super Bowl!?

Don’t get me wrong, I ADORE my friends. But maybe I should have given them a suggested list of appropriate foods…7 layer dip, wings, pigs in a blanket, nasty dips of any kind, beef jerky etc. The DOWNSCALE heartburn generators that everyone secretly craves and EXPECTS.

I'm not saying that I'd like people to bring Cheese Wiz, but it is universally assumed that the Classic Corn Chip will play the lead role on the Super Bowl buffet. That's because you need at least one food that can be safely thrown at the plasma screen when the ref makes a bad call. What if one of my guests brings sushi or caviar? Come Monday, my party will be the butt of jokes at water coolers everywhere. Oh the shame.

Oysters on the half-shell anyone?

Why the focus on food? Because I am unabashedly unashamed to admit that watching guys knock each other down doesn’t really interest me. I just DON’T CARE about football. I even had to check to see if Super Bowl was one word or two before I started writing this column. (FYI, the debate rages.) I do care however, if I run out of chips.

The one thing we can all agree on is that Super Bowl ads ROCK. My favorite ad ever was the E-trade one where the baby says he used his trading profits to rent a clown, then (with the clown in the background) he says “I underestimated the creepiness”. Maybe I’m easy to amuse, but I laugh at that line EVERY time.

This year my party has a Roman Arena Theme. The Dads will dress in Togas and leather sandals. Then during half-time, while me ‘an my peeps watch the commercials, the guys will hit the backyard and engage in a little hand to hand combat, gladiator style. Forget the football pool, I’m taking odds on the dad who’s 6’3”. He’s going to seriously bust those other guys up. I’m already stockpiling ace bandages and ice packs.

We may party lightheartedly during Super Bowl, but according to Time Magazine’s latest insightful yet scary article, playing football leads to early Alzheimer’s, death, and other brain related injuries. It shouldn’t come as news to us that getting repeatedly wacked in the head as a youth has negative long term health implications. I mean just look at that famous boxer - or any boxer. There may come a time when our insurance rates will go up based on what sports we played in high school. If they can raise rates on people who smoke or are overweight, why not because of the sports we choose to play?

So let’s agree now to help each other out. If you cover the insurance overages on my kids “chlorine induced” lung failure, I’ll spring for extra co-pays for your kid’s “headed the soccer ball too often” brain surgery…’Cause when it comes right down to it, living is risky business. And its not just football.

Now, pass the goat cheese please, it’s nearly halftime.

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