It's football season, Charlie Brown

It's a cool, rainy morning in the Northwest.

A perfect day for football!

 It's officially fall. At 3 pm PST today, there will be the first kickoff of the 2013 season.

There is new hope! All the disappointment and frustration of last season matters no more because it's a new season.

A new season, but the same old superstitions are observed.

My superstitions involve not speaking of my superstitions.

And with a new season you have new hope.  And because it's my team I normally have the Charlie Brown moment, of believing this time, this season it will be better.

And like Charlie Brown this always happens to me:

 

 

The ball represents my hope and dreams for the season, which are always pulled out from under me because my team is a jerk and likes to cause emotional pain.

 

Just like Charlie Brown believing Lucy will not pull the ball out from him, every year I think it will be different.

 

And like Charlie Brown, it is always the same. Lying on the floor and wondering why I got my hopes up again.

 

And I'm depressed and sad for rest of the season.

 

 

 

Some people don't understand the seriousness of football season.

 

They have these silly sayings of "It's just a game." Or "It doesn't really matter."

 

But no. No, it is way more than a game. And these games do matter.

 

It's very serious, this football thing.

 

It's so serious my happiness of the week revolves around the outcome of a game. So by saying football doesn't matter, you're now saying my happiness doesn't matter.

 

And I may have taken the football a little far with that last sentence. And it may be a little nutty but it's okay because IT'S FOOTBALL SEASON!

 



So from here on out I'm busy on Saturdays and Sundays from about 9am to 8pm, and you can find me on my couch yelling at players and coaches like a maniac.

But that's okay too.

You know why?

IT'S FOOTBALL SEASON!

Acrophobia

There is something to be said about the security of my feet on the ground. It's where my feet are supposed to be and I like them there.

I didn't read "Wuthering Heights" in high school because the idea of a strong gust of wind blowing me off a cliff is a real fear.

So when the opportunity arose for us to go to a high (55ft in the air) ropes course this past Saturday, of course I said yes.

I've ziplined in Mexico, and completed the high ropes course in my hometown, I've bungeed jumped, and skydived, why shouldn't I do the high ropes?

Because of the small detail of I hate heights.

How much do I hate heights?

This much:


























Please note the tears.

And the "I'm going to be sick" look.

I would have loved to have backed out and played it safe. But I had already paid, and you can't get your money back if you're being a wimp.

So then I do this:

Granted, liquid courage was needed on two of the tree, and peer pressure took effect while skydiving. But I did it, and was happy I did it, and so glad I survived.

And I'm so glad I did it, I can actually admit I had fun, even if I was so terrified I could barely walk my legs were shaking so bad.

So at the base of the high ropes as my friend looks at me in shock and says, "You're afraid of heights?"

I nodded, because my voice stopped working in fear.

She had, after all, seen me jump off a cliff a month ago. I was the last person to jump, and I was so scared I forgot to breathe.

It's a common thing. The same thing happened on the ropes course as I walked ten feet on a tightrope wire. The poor staff member probably thought I was going to pass out and he would have to save me, as I dangled 55ft above the ground.

I'm like the worst  Acrophobia person ever, because I'm terrified of heights, and still think going up into the air is a good idea.

"Need a pep talk? I'm awesome at them!"

She really is. She had to give me one while I was standing on a cliff.

I shook my head, as Chris answered: "She'll be fine."

And I was fine, even if I thought I was going to puke while looking over the edge of the first obstacle.

I gave a whole new meaning to tree hugger but I was fine.

I made sure all my safety lines were properly secured, and I made sure I always had a firm grasp on the wire lines wrapped around the tree. And I hugged the life out of those trees. I'm pretty sure you can see my body indent on some pine trees.

"The tree is shaking," someone said.

Yes, yes it was.

But not because I was hugging it so hard.

What's that old adage, if a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it still make a sound?

I don't know, but I do know I'd be making a sound if the tree fell over with me in. It would sound like this:

EAAAAAEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAKKKKKKKKKKKRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHH

"We could die from here."

Shut up.

"These cables could snap at any second"

Shut up.

"This tree is ready to fall"

Shut up.

The only thing I could say the entire day was "shut up" in various tones.

Everyone was very nice in they never tried to shake the line or obstacle I was on.

They were very mean in speaking everything I was convinced would happen.

Luckily, they did not.

I made it through the course, and I lived to tell about it. Chris was ready to go into the next course, higher, and bigger, and more challenging. I was happy my feet were finally on the ground.

But if you ever get a chance, go to Northwest Trek. It's amazing!
http://www.nwtrek.org/

the jury room

*Mo Note: I'm writing this on the Surface on my lap, please excuse all typos, and severe lack of grammar.

From the time I registered to vote, three weeks before the 2004 election, I've been excited about serving on a jury. Think about it, you get to be part of the U.S. Justice system, a system so few people in the world get to experience.

They can be stoned, executed, and disfigured, but they don't get a trial.

The summons came in last year and my group was not called. Meaning no jury duty for me.

The summons came again with the date July 17 stamped on it. A week before my parents are to arrive. A week before the Portland Beer Festival. The timing was not great, but it's part of the responsibility of being a voter.

The crappy part.

And this is where my attitude changed. I became a frustrated member of a potential jury.

I think the system needs to change so people are excited about being on a jury. We should be acting like we're going to Disney, and not to the dentist.

So here I sit, in a room of 210 people waiting to serve justice. 150 of us are waiting to be called for jury selection in one case, everyone else is waiting to see where they will be placed.

There are a lot of grumpy people here.

Reginald Rose's "12 Angry Men" is being rivaled by 210 tired, whiny, grumpy, stressed, people. The title of my next book.

It is not an exciting room, a dentist's waiting room would be preferable. Yeah, and that's me saying that.

And so I sit, with a tight knot in my stomach waiting to hear if I will be stuck in a courtroom while my parents are off gallivanting.

It's not unlike waiting for a train, or plane. Although, those are more fun.

For one, you can people watch at an airport or train station, and  from experience the train station is way more fun.

Especially Newark.

The homeless are allowed to hang out in the large waiting room. Growing up in the Detroit's suburbs I saw my share of homeless whenever we went downtown for dinner, baseball games, the theatre, etc.

Basically ignore them.

My friend used to hand out stuff to Seattle's homeless, like food, soap, socks, etc. so she didn't follow the rule I do.

call me a horrible person.

Except, in Newark, you can't ignore them.

Watching the large group of homeless sleep, eat, talk, and interact with each other was kind of fun. One they took really god care of each other. Everyone shared food, coats, stories, everything.

This was a real world lesson on it can always be worse.

I could be the defendant on trial, and not the jury.

For the next four weeks I would have my life in hands of people who would rather be anywhere but in the jury box. I'm telling you, the dentist waiting room is a popular preferred destination here. For everyone.

"You can't trust anyone," is what one of the prostitutes in the Newark Train Station yelled. "You gotta take care of yourself. People are always looking to screw you over."

Now, if I am chosen for the jury I'm going to be bummed I can't spend all my time with my parents, who I only get to see about two times a year, but I'm not going to screw the person over.

So we'll see what happens.

The Ode to Costco

It is impossible to make a quick trip to Costco.

Even moving at Mo speed, Costco takes a while. And it's not just because it is a treasure hunt to find things. For the record, I've gotten very good at climbing through the shelves to grab what I need.

It's fine. The other adults have even asked me to grab them one of the items I was climbing for. Costco has yet to tell me not to.

It is impossible to stick to the Costco shopping list.

It is impossible to get in and out of the Costco parking lot.

It's just impossible to get in and get out of Costco.

In fact, if there was a fire and Costco was burning down, people would not move out of the parking lot to give way to the fire trucks because the fire trucks would be taking the premium parking spots.

I was on Costco duty today because I ignored my Costco duties over the weekend. I do have a good excuse, but I still had to make the trip today.

Strawberries, blueberries, cherries, vinegar, lettuce, apples, and milk were all on the list.

Check.

Then there was a Tshirt added. And then three books, because they needed a better home and my crammed bookcase always has room for one more, I say this as I watch it lean. It's fine. It's fine. Then there was grass seed which we really do need and while you're there you might as well grab it, just like the lemonade mix, and raspberries.

Costco is the new Target.

Amber Dusick of Crappy Pictures Blog, posted about Target a while ago.

The just of it:

But now it's more like this:

Ignore the small people in the cart, Amber drew them there, and I'm not an awesome computer drawer like her. Amber I do not know you, and we will probably never meet since my blog it teeny-tiny (seriously people, feel free to share this blog) But thanks for letting me rip off your drawing you spent a lot of time making.

Moving on.

Even when you do make it through the store quickly (this has never happened, but one day it will) you have to wait through the checkout process. There really needs to be a line for 50 items or less. Or better yet, I have my sh!t together and am not paying with pennies or by check.

I know people are on a no credit card kick. I blame the Duggars:

These people who have used their show to "share their beliefs" with America, among them being no credit cards.

I understand some people struggle with paying them off every month.

And I know Costco only accepts AmEx, but if you go through Costco you get your picture on the card. HOORAY!

but for those of us who are responsible should not have to stand in line forever while people write a check and watch it be processed.

My time is not more valuable than others, I just hate waiting in line.

Costco is the magical land where all your dreams come true.

You wish for it hard enough and you can find it on aisle 22.

Mo's Landscaping Company

I used physics and algebra for the first time since I took physics and algebra. I realized I am still very bad at it.

Because I used physics and algebra I can't lift my arms, my wrists are scratched to the point people think I should be on suicidal watch, my legs are scratched and bruised. I look and feel like I fought a bear.

Yeah, kids, watch out. Algebra and Physics can injure, maim, or kill you.

When, in fact, all I did was build a foot and a half retaining wall. That's it.

I'd hate to find out how it feels to fight a real bear.

We spent our Memorial Weekend digging, dragging, kicking, carrying, and hauling building supplies to build our retaining wall. We began early and ended late, often with us passing out on the couch at 9:30 pm, and me not eating dinner because I was to sore to move, and making an PBJ sandwich was more effort than I wanted to spend.

Everything from my toes to my ears hurt.

Anyway, the backyard is in phase 1 of about 894,850,329,274,930,927,834,973. I really wish I was exaggerating.

Here is what's been done.

The east wall, Before. Actually, all those cement brick things were in the ground. People prior to us must have gotten an amazing deal on them, because they are everywhere in our yard.

East wall After. Feel free to "ooohhhh," and "aaaaawwwww."

West wall before.

West wall after.

 

 

Impressive. Yes? Yes.

 

But this was the warm up act.

 

Our yard a second tier because a long time ago someone thought it was a good idea. The other good idea they had was to use railroad ties.

 

Here's the thing about railroad ties. They are first used by railroad companies and then when they are deemed to worn for train use they sell them off to people to use. These are our railroad ties:

 

 

Please note how the railroad ties are falling apart. They were not in great shape when we moved in last year, and after we removed our trees and had giant logs fall on them, they are in worse shape. They are also rotting and are being eaten by bugs.

 

Time to come out!

 

I found the brick/stone thing I liked and ordered it. No major story there, I figured it out without any real issue, shocking, I know. Two days after ordering the brick/stones, they arrived. Four pallets of 45 brick/stones individually weighing 60 pounds.

 

The thought process was it would take less trips and brick/stones to complete our wall.

 

I forgot to factor in how much it sucks carrying 60 pounds.

 

The husband, Chris, was not happy I chose the heaviest brick/stone I could find. Especially since he and his lead-bossman were in shock these brick/stones could weigh 43 pounds. Lead-bossman and his wife are also building a wall, but with wimpy 20 pound brick/stones. Chris wanted their brick/stones.

 

Anyway. The brick/stones arrived on Friday (5/24) afternoon as I was waking from a syrup coma.

 

Time to go to work.

 

Chris was at work, so I began doing what any normal person would do. I began moving the railroad ties.

 

 

 

Most of them were so rotten they were pretty easy to move. The ones I couldn't lift by hand, I lifted with a shovel, using it as a lever. Physics.

 

By the time Chris came home from work I had dug a pretty impressive trench. Not World War I impressive or anything, but impressive enough.

 

I also understand why trench war fare did not last. It's exhausting digging only eight inches into the ground, I can't imagine digging five feet.

 

The trench was dug, and three large roots were located. One root was larger than my leg.

 

Hey, honey how was work?

 

Good. Grab an ax.

 

And he did.

 

He became very attached to that ax. He was definitely channeling Paul Bunyan, the great lumberjack of Michigan, by the end of the project.

 

 

Look! we made a trench! All pretty and ready for the brick/stones.

 

Our first brick/stone. All level and looking good. It came out the next morning and wasn't considered permanent until day three after it had been removed seven times.

 

 

We began removing the railroad ties Saturday afternoon, after Chris dug and axed out several large roots. Luckily, our friend Richard who is the lead-bossman came over to help lift some railroad ties. Again, someone had the great idea of using rebar to hold them together. It only made the process slightly more difficult.

And we dug. And we trenched. And we removed railroad ties. And this is what greeted us at the end of day two. Three cement fence posts and our sprinkling system. Morale was very low at this point. I was on the Internet that night trying to find someone to finish this for us.

 

 

We begin day three, with much more enthusiasm then we ended with. Our friend Meghan, who is becoming a professional crisis repair person, came over at the end of day 2 and assured me the brick/stones I laid that day were in fact level, and I do not suck at life.

Onward!

No joke, I left for ten minutes and Chris busted through the three cement posts. He was very proud of himself.

The cement posts were out, and I began laying stone/brick while Chris worked on the sprinkling system. He dug a very impressive hole to redirect the sprinklers. He did a very good job, the sprinklers work.

He dug and glued and played with PVC, which I have decided is the grownup version of Legos, while I continued building a wall.

Close up! Look how pretty the brick/stone is! I did like this brick/stone, one of the reasons I chose it. I had to keep reminding myself I liked the brick/stone as I carried it through the yard.

I forgot the rule of pi. Anytime you have a project you must multiply the estimated days by pi, and you will get your total number of days it will take you to finish.

Six days it took to build our wall. Six days and almost 20,000 pounds were lifted, carried, dragged, and cursed at. But we do good work.

See for yourself.

 

Now I'm just waiting for the junk people to come and take our railroad ties away, and we are completely done with step one!

 

Time to party!

 

No, wait. Never mind. The yard isn't totally done yet, but when it is? Oh, there will be a party!







Ball in the House

It's because of Chris there is a new post.

He pointed out yesterday that I hadn't written a blog post in a while. I told him I had my act together.
He said that was boring for  everyone. It's boring for me too. But on the plus side, I am being a responsible person.

Anyway.

We have a horrible basketball. Nike makes horrible basketballs and because Nike knows this it was very cheap. I bought the very cheap ball because it was cheap and who cares about the quality of a basketball when you're chucking it up at a plywood backboard. It's a pretty backboard, it took me three days to paint, see:

Blogs with pictures always have more readers. From now on I'm going to have awesome photos in all my posts.

Anyway, we had a crappy basketball and no one wanted to play with it.

So I went to the store yesterday and I bought a nice ball nearly identical to the good basketball. Only this one isn't faded, worn, and new. Awesome.

Into the cart it goes.

Now, for those of you who never were cool and were in marketing there is a thing called product placement, where companies will pay to have their product placed in an odd area where people are subconsciously thinking about it. Or you make them think about it. Either one is effective.

An example:

In case you can't see it, it's chocolate next to tampons. Product placement for the win! 

I will make my point, I promise.

But look puppy!

He's just to adorable to not have on here, even though there is no point.

Focus.

Okay. So next to the basketballs are baseball gear. I'm set for gear. I have accumulated everything I could possible need for the game of softball. Name it, I have it. But I still like to look. I'm a sports gear junkie.

On the very end of the aisle are the whiffle toys.

YES!

Now, you can't just buy any bat and ball. No, you need the bat that will give you the best distance with the proper length to weight ratio. Everyone has a different opinion on this, I say swing a couple and grab the one you like best.

The neon orange MLB Franklin whiffle bat. Except, I didn't realize the great plastic quality of the balls until one nailed Chris in the toe. Sorry!

There is a plastic bat and whiffle balls in the house, and we do not have a no <insert verb> rule about playing with stuff in the house.

At least, we didn't.

"Want to play Pepper?" I ask Chris, who was lying on the couch.

"How do you play?"

"One person underhand tosses the ball, the batter hits it, but if the ball is in the air and you catch it, I'm out."

He agreed.

I whacked the ball into the ground, nearly breaking one of his toes.

I'm not the most gentle person ever.

Instead of playing in the kitchen area where I'm about to take out the TV we move into the living room area where unless you're doing something to put a whole in the wall, have at it.

Our friends' little kids think it's great they can go nuts with a large ball and we don't care.

I think it's great too. But no one asked me.

Chris insists on a foul line, a line the ball must cross for the hit to count.

Example:

See the arching line in front of home plate? We had that, only made out of dish towels.

Chris does well.

I struggle.

It's my final at bat as we're both getting bored with the game.

First pitch I take up the middle on a scorching line drive (my hitting coach Sunny would be so proud) straight into the window blinds, in what would be a dining room.

Chris just looked at me, with a facial expression of both fear, and confusion.

"Whyyyyy?"He asks.

I just stand their laughing.

I didn't mean to take a full swing. I didn't mean to clobber the ball. I just kind of happened.

For the record, this is around the third time I've hit a window with a ball and have not broken it. My luck might be running out though.

And I am the reason why I am not allowed to play baseball in the house.

Don't worry, the rest of you are allowed to play indoors.

Again, no point. Just a touching photo.

Free Robby the Robot

A few weeks ago Chris and I became the proud owners of a robot.

He's a cute little guy, who eats pine needles and dirt four times a week. It's pretty nice having Robby the Robot Vacuum. Until he forgets he's a robot and tries to become a 4x4 SUV and drive over the lamp post and gets himself stuck.

Or when he wants to become a top, and spins himself into a corner and gets himself stuck. Or when he thinks he's a bulldozer and tries to go through the cabinets and gets himself stuck.

I've become used to coming home from the gym and hearing him beep his sad tune, for me to free him.

Hold on, he's beeping again.

Sorry, he was stuck in a verticle position against the wall. I didn't ask questions.

As nice as it is to watch a vacuum clean my house while I sit on the couch and write the next great American Novel, there are a few rescue missions.

Robby has gotten himself stuck about once per clean, which isn't horrible, but you would really think he would learn not to go where he gets stuck. And I'm always able to free him.

Until yesterday.

While the downstairs is beautifully clean thanks to Robby, the upstairs has been neglected. Mostly because I do not want to haul the vacuum up the stairs. It rarely need to be cleaned as we are hardly up there and we rarely wear our shoes upstairs. So there isn't a real reason to clean.

Until yesterday.

Softball season began a couple weeks ago and we play on astro field with the black pellets which have been dubbed astroturds. The black pellets are everywhere.

I took off my socks in the garage and since I didn't dive onto the field I didn't think of shaking out my clothes of the black turds. Somehow, the astroturds took over the upstairs hallway and some debris made it's way onto the bedroom floor.

No worries! I can take Robby up there and he can clean! HOO-RAY!

No.

I'm fairly convinced Robby has the plan of "If I do this bad enough I will never have to do this again."

I was downstairs for about ten minutes when the distinct hum of the robot came to a stop. Followed by the most sad and depressing beeps you have ever heard.

I looked in the bedrooms and my office but couldn't find him. The beeping stopped, but he remained where he was. I looked under the guest bed, and no Robby.

I looked under our King size bed, and there he was. In the middle. Just out of reach from every direction.

Mind you, I can sprawl across the entire bed, finger tip to toe and still not quite reach the edge. Combine that with the low box springs (two twins) I cannot maneuver on my own, without damaging the freshly painted walls, and Robby was stuck.

He is on wheels so I thought I could push him out.

Nope. He is on robot wheels which only turn when he wants to turn them. A few jabs with the hockey stick and ski pole and Robby remained entrenched. The Tarheels would be proud.

I got clever. What would draw a vacuum out? Cookie crumbs!

I made a nice path out from under the bed, but Robby refused to take the bait.

I cleaned up the crumbs with the real vacuum. One, I didn't want ants and two, I was hoping to make Robby jealous. He's not the jealous type.

I tried to shimmy under the bed, but I could only get so far, and every time I went to pick him up with a hockey stick, the wheels remained on the ground and his body hit the box spring. Also, when I lifted him, there was no way for me to shimmy out.

I had a vision of Chris coming home and eventually drawn upstairs by Robby's beeps and my shouts; only to find my legs sticking out from under the bed.

Hi honey.

I have learned from my past mistakes, and I decided to call Chris at work only so he didn't come home to a crane in our backyard as I tried to free the Robot.

He was not helpful. I did give him a nice laugh for the day.

I was done playing game. I dove under the bed one last time and began pushing Robby one side at a time, causing him to walk towards me.

When he was finally at the edge I picked him up to see what was going on.

"Dust me off. I can't see." His message board said.

I placed him on the floor and hit the start button.

Seven minutes later there was another series of beeps. He had closed himself in the bathroom by closing the door on himself.

Robby you can take the downstairs, and I'll take the upstairs.

Happy?