There is a rugby player on Wheel of Fortune right now! How amazing is that? I want her to win so bad. I am sitting here helping her guess the puzzles and wishing I could sit in the audience and yell the answers to her. But she doesn't seem to need my help.
I feel like I also want her school (University of Charleston) to go to Nationals this year because she said she wants it to happen. Rugby is so great! Pat Sayjack even talks about it. Ah, what a better way to spend a Friday evening than with a beer, Vanna, and a rugby player?
Friday, February 09, 2007
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Snow Pants?
It is negative degrees outside, meaning that exposed skin can freeze and rot and fall off. While this would be a good thing for my chin skin, which is covered in pimples, I kind of want to keep my thighs and maybe even my calves. My big drama today is whether to wear snow pants or just double up the tights under my trousers when I leave for campus. This is a major decision when you are a bus rider who works in a small room with few coat hooks.
Here are the facts: I am boxing for 2 hours before work and then need to shower. So I already have to tote a towel and shower slides and all the materials required for showering PLUS my boxing gloves and handwraps, which are bulky. I also have to pack my dinner, so I have a grocery bag full of leftover Mediterranean food that doesn't fit in my gym bag.
So, do I climb into my snow pants and snugly ride the 71A before I have to pull a second-grade coat room act and remove all my crap in front of my students? Or do I wear tights and spandex pants under my clothes and walk around all night with bulky legs, sweating like an aged cheese?
I only have ten more minutes to decide. I'm leaning toward the cheesey bulk.
Here are the facts: I am boxing for 2 hours before work and then need to shower. So I already have to tote a towel and shower slides and all the materials required for showering PLUS my boxing gloves and handwraps, which are bulky. I also have to pack my dinner, so I have a grocery bag full of leftover Mediterranean food that doesn't fit in my gym bag.
So, do I climb into my snow pants and snugly ride the 71A before I have to pull a second-grade coat room act and remove all my crap in front of my students? Or do I wear tights and spandex pants under my clothes and walk around all night with bulky legs, sweating like an aged cheese?
I only have ten more minutes to decide. I'm leaning toward the cheesey bulk.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
Writing Exercise to Stimulate Creativity
Write a love letter to your favorite food. I found this in a book to help with writers' block. Here goes:
Dear Double Chocolate Cupcake:
I know you saw me notice you in the window, pressed against the glass along Murray with my mouth watering at the sight of your curves. You wore that chocolate ganache topping like a second skin as you flirted on your pedestal. It worked. I'm interested.
Nearly two weeks ago now I entered your shop and took you home with me, only to be continuously reacquainted with all your cousins in buttercream. I love how you crumble in my fingers and melt on my tongue, sliding around my mouth and filling me with joy.
When can I see you again? I know you might be a little upset with me since I took home your neighbor Key Lime on Friday. He meant nothing to me, I swear. A fleeting moment of barely-fun chewing and all I could think about was that he wasn't you, Double Chocolate. He wasn't you at all.
Or are you irritated about the vanilla incident? Trust me. Vanilla-vanilla isn't even in your league. That little sucker isn't even very moist! It's you, double chocolate, who fills my heart with passion. Your white little wrapper, the very heft of you in my hand while I wait for the bus. All of it. You are my true love and I miss you.
Hopefully you will be waiting for me this week when I stop by to pick you up. I know we have something special. I'll be there, wearing a green hat and a black pea coat. You don't have to tell me. I know you'll be wearing chocolate shavings and a puff of delicious frosting. We are meant for each other. I'll see you on Wednesday.
Love,
Katy
Dear Double Chocolate Cupcake:
I know you saw me notice you in the window, pressed against the glass along Murray with my mouth watering at the sight of your curves. You wore that chocolate ganache topping like a second skin as you flirted on your pedestal. It worked. I'm interested.
Nearly two weeks ago now I entered your shop and took you home with me, only to be continuously reacquainted with all your cousins in buttercream. I love how you crumble in my fingers and melt on my tongue, sliding around my mouth and filling me with joy.
When can I see you again? I know you might be a little upset with me since I took home your neighbor Key Lime on Friday. He meant nothing to me, I swear. A fleeting moment of barely-fun chewing and all I could think about was that he wasn't you, Double Chocolate. He wasn't you at all.
Or are you irritated about the vanilla incident? Trust me. Vanilla-vanilla isn't even in your league. That little sucker isn't even very moist! It's you, double chocolate, who fills my heart with passion. Your white little wrapper, the very heft of you in my hand while I wait for the bus. All of it. You are my true love and I miss you.
Hopefully you will be waiting for me this week when I stop by to pick you up. I know we have something special. I'll be there, wearing a green hat and a black pea coat. You don't have to tell me. I know you'll be wearing chocolate shavings and a puff of delicious frosting. We are meant for each other. I'll see you on Wednesday.
Love,
Katy
Friday, February 02, 2007
Star Struck
Holy crap! The Wrecking Dolls read my blog!!! Scary Schiavo said she would provide me with a shirt. I really don't think life can get any better than this. Several rugby friends and I have decided that if there were ever a thing to closely rival rugby for fun-ness and kick-ass-ability, roller derby would surely be it.
I feel like I felt when I was 12 and Luke Perry sent me an autographed picture in response to my stupid fan letter. Except that the Wrecking Dolls have much better hair than he did and they are tough in real life rather than playing a tough person on television.
It's very strange to be 25 years old and star struck by people in my own age group who are most likely very fun and nice. Hopefully, I haven't delved too deep into obsession and can actually think of something articulate to say if I ever meet them in person. (Something like "Hey! Where do you get your roller skates? How can I get a leopard helmet?")
I feel like I felt when I was 12 and Luke Perry sent me an autographed picture in response to my stupid fan letter. Except that the Wrecking Dolls have much better hair than he did and they are tough in real life rather than playing a tough person on television.
It's very strange to be 25 years old and star struck by people in my own age group who are most likely very fun and nice. Hopefully, I haven't delved too deep into obsession and can actually think of something articulate to say if I ever meet them in person. (Something like "Hey! Where do you get your roller skates? How can I get a leopard helmet?")
Cross Training
I haven't been talking that much about rowing this winter. This is mostly because I've had a crop of really thought-consuming student athletes to work with. But now I feel the urge to talk a little about my erg.
The past few weeks we've been doing timed rows in a group. The indoor rowing class has people ranging in age from me to an old dude who smells like bengay. There are 2 other young ladies and one young guy who wears as much Ohio State gear as I wear Penn State stuff. Also, I had signed up for the advanced rowing class because I felt cocky and wanted a better workout than they give you in the beginning ones.
So I have no idea what I'm doing and each week, Sonja the Russian coxswain and Devon the dancer spend a long time molding my body, pressing on my shoulders while I row, holding my butt still so I won't "shoot the slide." But I have endurance! And speed! Last week, in fact, Sonja said "Penn State! Please sit in the front row next to Adam." (Ohio State)
I literally said "MEEE???" because why on earth would they put a clunker like me in the front row for the other rowers to model.
"Yes, please. You have a good pace and we need to row fast today."
I started to get the edge. I was going to win at something. Beat someone. Ha!
I wanted to beat Ohio State. I wanted to beat him even more when Devon told the whole class he was certain that guy would finish first. Apparently, even if everyone is rowing the same stroke rate per minute, the people who drive harder with their legs cover more meters per stroke. I only realized this when he was finishing up and I still had 100 meters to go. But I could still be the first woman finished.
It was insane and crazy. I had to row my brains out and I just wouldn't let myself not be the first one done. I have never felt competitive with things that involve speed before. I just tend to let myself be a tight five player. Everyone understands that the tight five isn't supposed to finish first. Except in the boat house they have no idea what that means and I wasn't letting those women beat me.
And I won! Then, this week, I beat my time by 3 seconds.
After our hard workouts, we go into the tanks and work on technique with actual oars in actual water. There, I am still the delinquent rower who feathers too early and conks the person behind me with my seat and handle. And I don't care because I've only been doing this a few months.
But upstairs, where speed and fitness matters, I am kicking butt. Which foreshadows great things on the rugby field this spring. Look out Albany. The Pittsburgh tight five is coming your way.
The past few weeks we've been doing timed rows in a group. The indoor rowing class has people ranging in age from me to an old dude who smells like bengay. There are 2 other young ladies and one young guy who wears as much Ohio State gear as I wear Penn State stuff. Also, I had signed up for the advanced rowing class because I felt cocky and wanted a better workout than they give you in the beginning ones.
So I have no idea what I'm doing and each week, Sonja the Russian coxswain and Devon the dancer spend a long time molding my body, pressing on my shoulders while I row, holding my butt still so I won't "shoot the slide." But I have endurance! And speed! Last week, in fact, Sonja said "Penn State! Please sit in the front row next to Adam." (Ohio State)
I literally said "MEEE???" because why on earth would they put a clunker like me in the front row for the other rowers to model.
"Yes, please. You have a good pace and we need to row fast today."
I started to get the edge. I was going to win at something. Beat someone. Ha!
I wanted to beat Ohio State. I wanted to beat him even more when Devon told the whole class he was certain that guy would finish first. Apparently, even if everyone is rowing the same stroke rate per minute, the people who drive harder with their legs cover more meters per stroke. I only realized this when he was finishing up and I still had 100 meters to go. But I could still be the first woman finished.
It was insane and crazy. I had to row my brains out and I just wouldn't let myself not be the first one done. I have never felt competitive with things that involve speed before. I just tend to let myself be a tight five player. Everyone understands that the tight five isn't supposed to finish first. Except in the boat house they have no idea what that means and I wasn't letting those women beat me.
And I won! Then, this week, I beat my time by 3 seconds.
After our hard workouts, we go into the tanks and work on technique with actual oars in actual water. There, I am still the delinquent rower who feathers too early and conks the person behind me with my seat and handle. And I don't care because I've only been doing this a few months.
But upstairs, where speed and fitness matters, I am kicking butt. Which foreshadows great things on the rugby field this spring. Look out Albany. The Pittsburgh tight five is coming your way.
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