What Makes Me Laugh

My friend Amy posted this on her facebook page and I had to steal it. She says it’s her favorite commercial of all time and I have to agree. This post is dedicated to my father, who is the ultimate cowboy cat herder in our family, especially when my mom is out of town. Truly, I watched it three times and laughed every time. Take a look and have yourself a laugh too.

I’m giving up watching male figure skating for Lent. It’s really not fair to make fun of them. Honestly, it’s like shooting fish in a barrel (not that I even think shooting fish in a barrel would be that easy, let alone fun to do, but you know what I mean).

But before I purge, I need to binge. Here’s a sample of our in-home commentary watching the Olympic male figure skating competition last night.

Doug says, “It’s hard to believe that’s a triple, huh?”

I say, “It’s hard to believe that’s a man.”

The real commentator says, “That was hot.”

I came of age in the era of Elvis Stojko and Kurt Browning, when male figure skaters still had some sex appeal to women. But sadly, things have changed, and I’m finding it more disturbing than sexy.

Last night I discovered that the new trend in male skating costumes are fancy gloves, the kind your grandmother wore to hide liver spots, not to keep her warm. If this wasn’t bad enough, some skaters wore oversized mittens, as if the skater suffered from chicken pox and needed to wear gloves to keep from scratching himself during the event.

Even the “most masculine” of the United States figure skaters, Evan Lysacek, wore gloves with feathers on them. When he put his hand up to his face he looked like he was holding a feathered fan. It wouldn’t surprise me if he wore a feather boa in the long competition tomorrow night.  

To keep cringeworthiness down, I think at least one judge should be completely dedicated to rating the costumes, and deductions should be given for any costume that inspires you to say things like, “I think he’s wearing a bodice. Is that a bodice?”

Close to the end of the competition, one skater appeared behind the rink to talk with his parents and from what I could see of his top half I thought he might provide some relief. He didn’t have his hair gelled, and his shirt was flannel. What I couldn’t see was the bottom half of his costume, which was meant to look like a carpenter’s overalls, only with one of the suspenders hanging uselessly by his side, making me think he was really going to put on a stripping show on ice.

Despite the temptation, the commentators largely ignored the flamboyant costumes and provided such wise directions to viewers as, “His costume looks overpowering. It almost looks burdensome for him, but look past that.” This was the man who was dressed like a medieval soldier in a ballet. He was wearing skates that looked like leather go-go boots. It’s hard to look past that, let alone at that.

But, one commentator summed up the evening perfectly with this statement,  ”He just rocked the tassle.” Yes, indeed, of that I’m sure.

After we watched the Winter Olympic opening ceremonies last night, I could hear Doug chuckling spontaneously for a couple of hours. He wasn’t laughing about the technical failures of the torch lighting (anyone who has ever had a powerpoint presentation fail on them right before the presentation feels sorry for all involved). He wasn’t laughing about Bob Costas and Matt Lauer’s comments that organizers discovered Canadian talent “at the circus” and “on YouTube” or that so many Canadians seem to be Scottish dancers recently released from prison.

Heck, he wasn’t even laughing about kd Lang, whose body was hidden somewhere in a giant white suit. By the way, just as an aside, if they were going to show someone while they were singing, why couldn’t it have been Joni Mitchell? I’m not sure that Joni was actually there, but I would have put her up on the stage if she was.

Anyway, back to Doug’s chuckles. He was really laughing at the look on Anne Murray and Bobby Orr’s face as a Canadian opera star ruined the Olympic Hymn and scared everyone involved. She looked and sang like a woman on fire. At least her hair looked like it was on fire. And I like Opera!  It was hilarious how uncomfortable all of the special Canadians holding the Olympic flag were. You could see they just wanted to lean over and say to the next person, “Can you believe this shit? I think she’s off her meds!”

I must admit, I cried during “We Are the World,” and the prairie dance to Joni Mitchell, and the moment of silence for the fallen Georgian athlete, but I also cried laughing over that Olympic Hymn. If that was a hymn, it might have scared a few people away from singing at church tomorrow. Wow!

I can’t even type the word “tradition” now without hearing the song from Fiddler on the Roof  and wanting to follow the first with another, louder, “Tradition!”

Last weekend I traveled to Canada for the second annual mother-daughter get-together over the Martin Luther King Jr. long weekend. This year’s entertainment highlight was an Off-Broadway production of Fiddler in Calgary.  I’ve been humming, “Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match! Find me a find!” ever since. It’s really hard to get those songs out of your head and I’m not kidding.

In the vein of traditions, Doug and I stopped at my parent’s ranch before heading north. A night at the ranch means a.) the early morning wakeup call from the rooster and chickens; b.) the real wakeup call from KSEN, the local radio station my parents listen to over breakfast. I woke up during the middle of the Swap-n-Bulletin board.

“This is Sharon, and we’d like to sell our dishwasher. It runs pretty good, but it has a little problem with the soap tray staying open — shouldn’t be too hard to fix. We’re asking $50 or your best offer.”

I put my pillow over my head. I’m not a morning person.

KSEN has always had an entertaining morning radio show, complete with a police report, a discussion with the local used car dealer, and a daily polka that my mother delighted dancing to just as the school bus pulled up in front of our picture window.  Talk about embarrassing!

Anyway, it woke me up in time for us to cross the border at a little border station manned by my least favorite border guard. This guard loves to come up with paranoid theories. Even though he has seen me a thousand times (okay, maybe not a thousand, but a lot) in past crossings he has rerouted me to a different border because he thought that my nephew wasn’t really my nephew, but a man I had married to help me declare Canadian citizenship after crossing the border (Real Story: My nephew was going home from college with a lot of stuff and I was going to a conference). He also detained Doug and I because he thought he had kidnapped me because our last names are not the same.  He took Doug inside to interrogate him and asked, “Who’s the girl?” in a threatening voice. Real Story: Doug and I were just married, without passports (no need for them yet) and on our way to a Bob Dylan concert.

Once we reached Cochrane, Alberta (our final destination) we melted off our border anxieties with a trip to the salon for a mother-daughter pedicure/manicure.

I was good and relaxed before the all-female let’s-help-our-friend-get-through-her-divorce party where we sampled (I’m not kidding) drinks called Sour Pusses. Did you know they have napkins for this kind of party? Awesome!

Canadian women are lovely, but I spent a good chunk of the party either getting attacked by the hostess’s cat (I thought the cat was purring when I petted it because I couldn’t hear over all the loud female voices, but it was actually growling at me), or trying to avoid talking to a Birther conspiracist about Barack Obama  (this was my sole contribution to MLK day).

Between the early morning chickens, KSEN, the Birther theories, and the Sour Pusses I ended up so exhausted that I had to lie down on the hostess’s couch to put my feet up, hoping that I could either fall asleep or convince the rest of my party that 10:00 wasn’t too early to go home.

On Sunday, Laura and I headed to Hot Yoga for a sweaty session of stretching (if you’re curious, hot yoga is like going to a yoga session conducted at a military boot camp in Florida in August but somehow relaxing). Then we all took quick showers before Fiddler, which was awesome (thank you Mom!), and finished the day up with a fried turkey dinner cooked up by the men in our life (and no, I’m not kidding about this either).

What else would you expect from my travels?

Word to the Wise: Don’t drink rum, then champagne, and then beer unless you want to end up singing both the Doxology and every lyric of Jon Bon Jovi’s greatest hits in one night. Not that the singing wasn’t enjoyable, but the morning after hurt me bad. I think it was the champagne.

The day of my friend Kayb’s wedding could be summed up by Billy Crystal’s famous Fernando character (think  Spanish accent). “It is better to look good than to feel good.”

Whereas, my impromptu birthday bash in front of the Jon Bon Jovi cover band was all about feeling good. Too good.

But, back to looking good. I used to think that men had no idea the torture women put themselves through to look beautiful.

But then after the wedding, when we were complaining about how our feet hurt, a friend of a bridesmaid told us that he could see our pain and we did look a little like, “cripples with severe hemorrhoid problems” walking up the aisle.

I certainly felt crippled after a day in heels and a dress that seemed to dig into me in all the most uncomfortable places on my body.

The pain began with the curling, ratting, twisting, and pinning of the hair. Then there was the underwear – which included itchy cheap pantyhose since none of us got the memo to bring black instead of nude hose and thus Kayb’s brother-in-law had to save the day (bless the man, buying ten pairs of pantyhose at a Walgreen’s is not exactly on the list of things to do to boost your male ego. Hopefully the store clerk didn’t think he was a pantyhose-obsessed tranny).

There were also the boobs — which in strapless outfits can be painfully smushed in several different torturous ways. Two bridesmaids managed to breastfeed while wearing it so I guess strapless had some advantages. Between the squeezing of my rib cage and the screams coming from the balls of my feet I think I felt more pain getting ready for that wedding than I did while running a half marathon.

Fortunately, the pain was for a good cause. The bride and groom are genuinely besotted with each other, and perfect for each other in every semi-strange way. Kayb’s quite petite (5′3″?) and he’s not much bigger (in fact, she said he’s only one inch taller). They looked like little wedding cake toppers together.

The clincher for me was his allergies. Kayb has an allergy to gluten, and has had friends (including me) and others in her life with many food sensitivies. So, she took it completely in stride that Will is deathly allergic to all foods derived from a cow (dairy and beef) and committed herself to a near-vegan-wheat-free existence for their marriage. Think a lifetime supply of chicken stir fry. Now that is love!

The gorgeous rehearsal dinner

Ocia, Kayb’s sister, made a delectable-looking gluten-free, dairy-free cake for the two of them to eat at the reception. Will couldn’t eat his Star Wars-themed groom’s cake (which actually looked like it could have doubled as a  Lord of the Rings Mordor cake). I’m just hoping they survive their Italian honeymoon. So much butter and cheese to avoid!

Cassie, one of the bridesmaids who actually is a southern belle, saved the day in so many ways. She made the stressed bride laugh with a throaty rendition of “Delta Dawn” and when she found out it was my birthday she came up with a plan to celebrate. She asked her friend Jimmy to make a stop at the liquor store and buy some rum shooters for us before the reception. We tossed them back behind the Christmas tree and it eased all of the pain and stress of the day away instantly.

After “buffeting it” — as they say in the South, at the reception, Cassie and Jimmy took me out to see the best Jon Bon Jovi cover band in Chattanooga (well, maybe all of the U.S. – who knows – I’ve never seen another Jon Bon Jovi cover band). The lead singer had had reconstructive surgery to look just like Jon so it only took a few beers for me to get my clogs a dancing while still in my bridesmaid’s dress (I shed the high heels) — playing air guitar and singing “Living on a Prayer” at the top of my voice. All I can say is, those southerners sure know how to show a girl a good time on her birthday.

P.S. I didn’t take photos of the actual wedding, because I was in it, so y’all will have to wait for Kayb to return from the honeymoon for the wedding photos to appear.

I’m leaving for Tennessee tomorrow for what may be my final appearance ever as a bridesmaid or bridesmatron (I know, you’re drying your eyes right now, aren’t you?). I expect to experience both culture and culture shock in the South, and hope I don’t get lost (I’m getting a handy GPS unit for my car just in case).

Doug is not traveling with me this time, which makes me both sad and relieved for him that he won’t have to experience any of the new airline security measures (including a ban on bathrooms and anything in your lap). Hopefully I won’t have to experience them either since I’m only traveling domestic flights.

I’m planning to stay calm, cool, and collected while flying, even if I have to grab the stranger’s hand sitting next to me upon takeoff. Keeping the bride calm is also one of my duties (as noted in the final instructions sent by the bride last eve). I plan to keep on reminding her that fortunately I’m not helping her prep for a spinal tap or a terrorist attack. It’s only a wedding!

Meanwhile, I’m going to summon my inner Southern Belle and my inner Buddha (is it possible for both to reside in the same body?) and try to keep calm as I deliver a toast, wear a dress that is slightly too tight for breathing, and wear heels while nursing a knee injury from my Christmas ski (don’t ask, it’s too embarrassing to tell you that it happened right after I got off the lift – before any real skiing had even begun). Oh, and I’m taking notes, lots of notes. While keeping calm.

Happy New Year!

Sleighbells Ring. Are you listening? In the Lane. Snow is glistening.

Personally, my favorite Christmas Carol is “All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth.” It just says so much about a child’s mental anguish, doesn’t it? No toys, just my teeth please. Plus, you get to sing with a lisp, and who doesn’t want to try that at least once in her lifetime?

It’s hard to write about Christmas without sounding like a cross between Dickens, a southern Baptist preacher and a hedonist on a binge. On the one hand, I’m supposed to write, “Eat, drink, be merry!” on the other I should write, “Eat, Drink, Go to Church, and give some money to the man holding the cardboard sign outside of Costco!”

I would give some money to the man holding the cardboard sign outside of Costco except for the fact that I saw that same man get out of a new Ford pickup truck at the local park. It makes one kind of cynical, especially since I know there are people who aren’t scamming others who need a break.

But anyway, back to the truffle recipe I’m planning to try and make tonight. At the Holden/Blaine household we have established a tradition of skiing on Christmas day, and eating like we’re planning to ski every day for the rest of our lives. We’re planning to watch Young Frankenstein, play some mean games of Scrabble, entertain Cocoa and Peaches, and possibly sing a few tunes together. We will not be exchanging presents, as every day together is a gift (that was a joke, all right?). Let me try that again. We will not exchange gifts because that’s part of our tradition. No gifts, just skiing, some rest and relaxation, a few good laughs, and as little traveling as possible. In sum, we sort of opt out of holiday-stress. If you sent me a card, thank you, I’ll be sending you a card sometime in the New Year (it’s a surprise). The closest I get to stressed this time of year is anticipating holiday parties. The introvert inside of me screams, “No more small talk!” And then when I get stressed, I just turn to chocolate.

Did I mention truffles?

My mother had three cures for all of my childhood illnesses. I either opened up for antibiotics, downed pepto bismol, or rubbed Vick’s vaporub (otherwise known as mentholatum ointment) on my chest if I was sick. If those didn’t work, the threat of washing massive amounts of dishes seemed to do the trick.

At the first sign of a sore throat, she’d make me gargle with salt water, then wrangle a wool sock around my neck, clasping it with a heavy safety pin, to keep the Vick’s from drying out. I can’t say that I was a devotee of these methods as a child, but it’s funny, I abide by them now, and they do seem to help.

Doug’s family’s version of the wool-sock-around-the-neck trick includes a cold wet sock underneath a larger wool sock, and no Vick’s VapoRub. I thought this was shocking until I read in my gym’s newsletter that naturopaths recommend you wear cold wet wool socks to bed if you have a sore throat. I mean, who comes up with these ideas? I can just hear some guy saying, “Yeah, I passed out drunk and my socks were all wet and I woke up and my sore throat was gone! It must have been the socks.”

When I came back from Vegas, I caught a bad cold, which quickly turned into a nagging, hacking cough. When I shared my frustration with eau de VapoRub on facebook, a few people wrote in about the magic of garlic (chop up raw garlic and take 3-5 times a day for 5 days), and ginger infusions. My cousin has often recommended a boiled lemon ginger reduction for colds. Then, there are other people who promise complete recovery with vitamins and herbs. Echinacea, goldenseal, D3, tinctures, elderberry, Vitamin C, Zinc, you name it, it’s a cure for someone.

I’ve come to believe that all of our cures have at least some element of the placebo effect. We need something, anything, even if it’s swallowing the most unbelievable gross tasting tincture, to believe that we’re receiving the medicine we need. But I could be wrong, so share your dead-fire-sure cure for the common cold in the comments section. Maybe I’ll try it next time.

As for my cold/cough? I ended up at the doctor’s office this week wondering why my cough wouldn’t disappear, and she sent me home with the real cure for my upper respiratory tract infection: antibiotics and codeine. My mom was right once again.

I’m a little road weary from the trip and sore from the run (I silently scream at the sight of stairs) but I couldn’t wait to share the Vegas blow-by-blow since it’s so good.

I’m doling out by day, so check back for the new installments. Sorry there’s no pic for the first day – I missed my photographer (Doug) on this trip.

Friday

1:00 p.m.

What happens in Vegas does not stay in Vegas. Montana is a really big state with a population the size of a Neanderthal cave. What I’m getting at is that we all know each other, or know someone who knows someone we know, and so there are no real secrets. Which is why I shouldn’t have been that surprised when I got on the plane and locked eyes with a familiar face. I know that person. What is his name?  Peter? Tom? God, I don’t remember. All I know is, he’s from my hometown 300 miles north of here (pop. 500 or so) and I’m sure he knows my parents, as does the woman sitting next to him, who recognizes me and shouts, “Hey, what are you doing here?”  I do know her (she went to high school with me). She and the rest of the plane are going to watch the National Finals Rodeo in Vegas, and everyone laughs when she jokes, “We’re going to be doing a marathon all right, but we ain’t gonna be running.”

1:30 p.m.

Montana rednecks love to show off their scars. I’m reading Vanity Fair when I hear the man sitting next to my friend Crystal start up a conversation with her. First he asks if she’ll keep his Bud Light while he goes to the bathroom (he later tells a woman he knows not to go in ’cause he peed all over the seat), then he grosses her out with the description of his various scars. Let’s see here, he squeezed a bottle so hard that he shattered the glass and severed the tendons in his fingers. He separated his shoulder and broke his pelvis in two from a motorcross accident. He fell on top of metal post trying to break a horse when he was 9, and had a rope burn on his arm so bad it left a permanent scar from trying to swing from a tree into the lake. And those were just the visible scars. Thank god he didn’t take off his shirt! I said, “So, do you think you’re lucky to be alive?” Nope. He sure didn’t. He just wished for better times, when underage drinking was winked at in Montana, when cops just asked you, “Do your parents know where you’re at?” instead of drawing their guns.  and when an old cowboy was ready to die he just stripped off his clothes in the winter and died of exposure. To top off the conversation he took a big old pinch of chew (or snoose as we call it here) and put it in his lip in front of us.

2:30 p.m.

Planes, trains, and automobiles — My dad called with some terrible news. A big storm had hit Calgary, Alberta and my sister’s flight to Vegas had been cancelled! She had been my original inspiration to sign up and train for this run (see my post, “Oh my god, you didn’t tell him!”), and this was a sister/girls trip. I caught up with her traveling in a blizzard to a hotel next to the airport so that they (she and her friend Terry) could get up early to stand in line for the first flight out on Saturday. It wasn’t looking good.

3:30 p.m.

Bellagio Hotel to Mandalay Bay for Runner’s Expo — What do runners and cowboys have in common? They both like to wear tight pants. Seriously. The city was full of cowboys and runners when we arrived. Lycra is more comfortable than jeans, as are running shoes to cowboy boots, especially when you have to walk two miles to get from your hotel to a runner’s expo. The best Vegas advice given to me was from Blake, who wrote, “I cannot overemphasize the importance of comfortable walking shoes.” It was a 2 mile walk to Mandalay Bay, which from the strip map that I had, looked like it might be two blocks. The city should have a disclaimer that “objects in your vision are not as close as they appear.” By the time we got there we were dehydrated and in need of some cytomax. If you go to Vegas, bring your own water bottles, as they charge I’m-lost-in-the-desert-and-will-pay-any-amount-of-money for water ($3-$5 a bottle).

5:30 p.m.

Cocktail Hour

The bad thing about running a race in Vegas on Sunday is that we arrived on a Friday, which meant I had to from drinking for two whole nights. It didn’t happen. First we had a Geisha cocktail at Yellowtail lounge in the Bellagio, and it was both the best cocktail I’ve ever had and the most expensive ($14). While we were there I got another text from my sister that their trip had been cancelled! Since I’m the world’s slowest texter I called to find out the details and it turned out the morning flight had been cancelled and they wouldn’t arrive until after 6. This was only a problem because they had yet to pick up their packets to run, and there were big signs posted everywhere that “No Packets will be Given to Friends or Family. No Exceptions!” You’d think we were trying to pull off an international incident, not a half marathon run given the security at that place. I promised my sister I’d get her and Terry’s packets tomorrow by hook or crook and they booked the 12:00 flight out of Calgary.

The Geisha numbed my blood and brain cells enough to pay another $14 for a roller coaster ride at New York New York (which is a different experience entirely in your 30’s then it is in your 20’s). I downed a hard cider at the Irish pub, and did a bad imitation of Riverdance on the pub floor. And finally, we sang our lungs out at the dueling piano bar, where a group of Canadians managed to buy the ultimate Canadian medley (the Canadian Hockey Song, Oh Canada, and Barenaked Ladies – If I had a Million Dollars). In a gin-induced moment, I put $20 down for Piano Man, and Crystal had to throw down another $20 to get them to play it instead of country.

So, to sum up, so far I’ve spent more than I normally budget for a week’s worth of groceries on booze, thrill rides, and bribes in 8 hours. Sounds like Vegas to me!

If you are baffled by the title of this post, then you have some learnin’ to do about sports in the frozen land of the north. It’s the 97th Superbowl of Canada this weekend (otherwise known as the Grey Cup), and the Saskatchewan Roughriders and Montreal Alouettes (I know, I know, only Canadian teams would have sports team  names this lame) are ready to rumble!

Doug and I saw the Roughriders play the Calgary Stampeders in Calgary a couple of years ago while visiting my sister and so thoroughly enjoyed our discovery of Roughrider fans (the Watermelon Heads) and the Canadian Football League (the CFL) that Doug had to snap these photos.

That’s right folks. In Saskatchewan, fans right now are digging out the fruit from their watermelons, cutting the rind to fit their heads, and then lining it with aluminum foil. In fact, I found this priceless description from a fan on what to do if you want to be a Melon Head:

“What I usually do is get a larger melon and cut the bottom quarter or so off (generally I take the part that isn’t as green and throw it away). With the large piece I hollow out the melon, usually I start with a big metal spoon, and then use a table spoon to scrape all the red out of the melon, if you have red in there still your melon will not dry very well, and will attract bugs.

Bugs? Yuck. Not so cool.

Once hollowed cut out the face hole and ear holes, and Voila you have a melon head, there is a picture of one of mine on the header of this page (fat guy in the ridgway jersey). If you are making these for kids one large melon should do, just cut it in half instead of three quarters and hollow and cut to fit. If you have a lucky melon that you want to save for another game, get a can of varathane spray and get about 20 coats all around the meon and it will last untill you get mad at a football game and smash your melon on your knee. Hopefully this will help you.”

It’s tempting to have something to smash on your knee if the game isn’t going well.

Why do they do this? It’s not because watermelons are the biggest cash crop of Saskatchewan. It’s because their team wears green helmets.

You’ve heard of Cheese Heads? They have nothing on the Watermelon Heads. In fact, female Roughrider fans frequently cut  the rinds to make watermelon bikinis, which we spotted at the game, but weren’t quick enough to snap a photo so that you’ll believe us (this is the elusive Saskatchewan watermelon bikini woman we’re talking about, like bigfoot).

The game will be played in Calgary at McMahon Stadium on Sunday, and Blue Rodeo will do the halftime show. Never heard of them? Well, you, my friend, are missing out on a classic Canadian band. The Canadian Tenors will be singing the National Anthem, “Oh, Canada.” Classy, eh? Not like our stars who turn the “Star Spangled Banner” into a pop song.

At McMahon Stadium

What, you might ask, is the difference between the CFL and the NFL? Well, the field is longer (110 yards and 65 yards wide), and they only play 3 downs, which makes for a lot more passing. They also have a way to score off of a missed field goal attempt or kickoff, called a rouge. It’s like a touchback or safety. If the Roughriders and the Alouettes end up in a tie, overtime will be settled with both teams getting a possession (unlike the NFL where they flip for it). It’s a very fun game to watch, especially if the Roughriders are in town, because the fans provide entertainment all of their own. Go Roughriders!