ponies and puckers
Someday the Icehounds will win a game. I don't know if that will be a season during which I'm actually on the team, but it will be someday. It can't be possible to lose forever, can it? If hockey is like life, please don't answer that question because I don't want to hear it.
The Sharks better shape up this weekend. They can't use "We can't skate" as an excuse the same way my D league team can. I won't be able to watch the game since I have to go ride a horse. Horses vs. hockey, decisions, decisions. I wonder if we put Penny on ice skates if he could skate around while I sit on him and push a puck with my stick. Since he has twice the number of legs he should only fall half as much, right?
I did manage to find this My Little Pony and her human doll counterpart wearing a skating outfit. I don't think I ever owned "Megan," but I did have "Sundance" and her fuzzy pink parka and dual-blade skates. I found this picture on the web, and I swear I didn't add the caption, nor do I have a comment about its suitability to this entry. But at least I know I'm not the first lunatic to have thought of ice skating horses.
This is my deep thought on a Friday. I better stop now while I'm still coherent.
The Sharks better shape up this weekend. They can't use "We can't skate" as an excuse the same way my D league team can. I won't be able to watch the game since I have to go ride a horse. Horses vs. hockey, decisions, decisions. I wonder if we put Penny on ice skates if he could skate around while I sit on him and push a puck with my stick. Since he has twice the number of legs he should only fall half as much, right?
I did manage to find this My Little Pony and her human doll counterpart wearing a skating outfit. I don't think I ever owned "Megan," but I did have "Sundance" and her fuzzy pink parka and dual-blade skates. I found this picture on the web, and I swear I didn't add the caption, nor do I have a comment about its suitability to this entry. But at least I know I'm not the first lunatic to have thought of ice skating horses.
This is my deep thought on a Friday. I better stop now while I'm still coherent.
luck
jess: wish me love
jess: i mean luck
jess: i mean both of those things
jess: i would like love more
jess: altho, if luck helps me find love, then that's fine too
dw74: i wish you love and luck
jess: i mean luck
jess: i mean both of those things
jess: i would like love more
jess: altho, if luck helps me find love, then that's fine too
dw74: i wish you love and luck
public and private
I have a public blog face. It's that censored writing style that I normally wouldn't have with friends but that is necessary when your potential audience is the whole world. While it would be flattering for about ten seconds to be that important, I know I couldn't handle the pressure, as I can't even deal with the people who I know read my blog and never respond.
To those of you who do respond, who do contact me, who I even converse with on a regular basis -- thank you. The irony of this situation is that I started this blog as a good way to update friends, but despite the addition of the comments, this has never been much of a two-way medium. Obviously I don't have the capacity to call every single person who I know reads this blog and catch up for hours. I'd get even less done at my job than I currently do. I just wanted to let those of you know who seem to have contented yourselves with reading this page once a week that this isn't all there is. If you think there's something troubling me, you're right. You know how to reach me. I'm just not going to write about it all here, as this is not the place for it. It's almost May now, and you seem to have forgotten to call me back.
My cube neighbor told me she reads palms. We sat outside Monday at noon in the 87 degree heat while she told me that my career would be stable from here on out, that I'd be in two serious relationships, the second of which would be successful, that I'd be married around 30, and that I'd have two kids. I wanted to ask what their names would be, but then I was afraid they'd be the names of someone who I used to know and couldn't stand so I decided not to ask. The list of possible names for any offspring I might spawn is getting shorter and shorter due to the increasing number of losers I meet who have tainted perfectly good names by simultaneously possessing them and being abhorrent individuals. Of course, then there are the names that are just downright unfortunate. It's like the time my friend from Indiana insisted on setting me up on a blind date with a guy named "Bernie." While I apologize (but only half-heartedly) to all the Bernies out there, that is a dreadfully dimwitted name with simian undertones, and your parents must have had a sick sense of humor. Needless to say, the date was a disaster, and Bernie ate his baked seafood rigatoni with the gusto of a famished sea otter. I had to tell him off most unceremoniously when asked for a re-date.
In any case, while everyone scoffed skeptically at my cube neighbor's less than scientific hobby, they still formed a noticeably growing line by our lunch table that listened curiously to her forecastings about the health of one of our usability engineers. "Do you drive very fast?" she asked him. "No. Why?" he said, looking pale. "You should be careful because you are going to be in a small accident," she answered. At this point, the peanut gallery started laughing raucously. "This is why I don't get my fortune told!" one of them said, as they quickly exited the seating area. She apologized. "I usually read people's palms in private because some of the information is very personal." She didn't apologize for the car accident comment. I listened for a few more minutes before I told her that I'd make her a palm readings sign for her cube as a great side project. She thought her boss might get mad and shot the idea down, but I still stand by the idea as a lucrative evening career.
By the way, I registered today for the October LSAT. My money is done and gone, and now I wait. I don't know how this changes my cube neighbor's stable career prediction. Maybe it won't.
At least the Sharks are giving me some small joy. They've been rockin'. We can play hockey out here in California; I just don't happen to be part of that skilled minority. If anyone can teach me to do a wrist shot that comes off the ice consistently, there's lunch in it for you.
To those of you who do respond, who do contact me, who I even converse with on a regular basis -- thank you. The irony of this situation is that I started this blog as a good way to update friends, but despite the addition of the comments, this has never been much of a two-way medium. Obviously I don't have the capacity to call every single person who I know reads this blog and catch up for hours. I'd get even less done at my job than I currently do. I just wanted to let those of you know who seem to have contented yourselves with reading this page once a week that this isn't all there is. If you think there's something troubling me, you're right. You know how to reach me. I'm just not going to write about it all here, as this is not the place for it. It's almost May now, and you seem to have forgotten to call me back.
My cube neighbor told me she reads palms. We sat outside Monday at noon in the 87 degree heat while she told me that my career would be stable from here on out, that I'd be in two serious relationships, the second of which would be successful, that I'd be married around 30, and that I'd have two kids. I wanted to ask what their names would be, but then I was afraid they'd be the names of someone who I used to know and couldn't stand so I decided not to ask. The list of possible names for any offspring I might spawn is getting shorter and shorter due to the increasing number of losers I meet who have tainted perfectly good names by simultaneously possessing them and being abhorrent individuals. Of course, then there are the names that are just downright unfortunate. It's like the time my friend from Indiana insisted on setting me up on a blind date with a guy named "Bernie." While I apologize (but only half-heartedly) to all the Bernies out there, that is a dreadfully dimwitted name with simian undertones, and your parents must have had a sick sense of humor. Needless to say, the date was a disaster, and Bernie ate his baked seafood rigatoni with the gusto of a famished sea otter. I had to tell him off most unceremoniously when asked for a re-date.
In any case, while everyone scoffed skeptically at my cube neighbor's less than scientific hobby, they still formed a noticeably growing line by our lunch table that listened curiously to her forecastings about the health of one of our usability engineers. "Do you drive very fast?" she asked him. "No. Why?" he said, looking pale. "You should be careful because you are going to be in a small accident," she answered. At this point, the peanut gallery started laughing raucously. "This is why I don't get my fortune told!" one of them said, as they quickly exited the seating area. She apologized. "I usually read people's palms in private because some of the information is very personal." She didn't apologize for the car accident comment. I listened for a few more minutes before I told her that I'd make her a palm readings sign for her cube as a great side project. She thought her boss might get mad and shot the idea down, but I still stand by the idea as a lucrative evening career.
By the way, I registered today for the October LSAT. My money is done and gone, and now I wait. I don't know how this changes my cube neighbor's stable career prediction. Maybe it won't.
At least the Sharks are giving me some small joy. They've been rockin'. We can play hockey out here in California; I just don't happen to be part of that skilled minority. If anyone can teach me to do a wrist shot that comes off the ice consistently, there's lunch in it for you.
why i don't online date
What are some warning signs that you shouldn't online date? When someone on the site mails you and says "What are you doing on this thing?" When your friends start forwarding you matches they so thoughtfully found for you by doing keyword searches on "hockey" and "beard"? When only 50 year old men respond to your ad?
Or maybe just when the following winners contact you.
From the distinguished profile of bachelor #1:
From the keen literary mind of bachelor #2:
From the spreadsheet of bachelor #3:
From the extensive efforts of bachelor #4:
From the ego of bachelor #5:
From the optimistic outlook of bachelor #6:
From the disbelief of bachelor #7:
From the personal marketing of bachelor #8:
From the little black book of bachelor #9:
I want my Superstar back.
Or maybe just when the following winners contact you.
From the distinguished profile of bachelor #1:
"I definately have a type of girl that I tend to be attracted to. The most important personality traits to me are that she is confident in herself and with her body, assertive in her actions, extremely outgoing and down to earth, and fairly simple in her needs. Physically she must be fit with a FIRM, ROUND butt and a flat stomach. Anything else is just a bonus."Good thing you're the type of guy who's easy to please. Let's see if we're a match! I'd like a guy who can spell the word "definitely," doesn't photograph like a top-heavy orangutan, is extremely able to recite the alphabet, and has a HUGE package. Anything else is just a bonus.
From the keen literary mind of bachelor #2:
"i AM DEFINATELY SKEPTICAL ABOUT THIS WHOLE INTERNET MEETING THING, BUT MY SISTER IS MAKING ME TRY IT. i GUESS YOU NEVER KNOW. i HAVE NEVER EVEN EMAILED ANYONE TIL TODAY. CHECK OUT MY PICS AND BIO, LET ME KNOW IF YOU ARE INTERESTEDD IN TALKING SOMETIME. THIS IS WEIRD, BUT, NONE THE LESS, I HOPE TO HEAR BACK FROM YOU"It doesn't take a genius to run the spell checker, but apparently it does take two morons to spell "definitely" wrong the same way. This guy needs to get his caps lock key fixed, or at least he needs to look up every now and then while typing. If your sister has you that whupped, no wonder your wife left you.
From the spreadsheet of bachelor #3:
"My must see TV includes CSI, Law & Order, Friends, Fraser, The Sopranos, Real World. Movies I enjoy the most are comedies and dramas. Some of my favorites are The Green Mile, Shawshank Redemption, A Few Good Men, Jerry Maguire, Good Will Hunting, Braveheart, Gladiator, Mr. Hollands Opus. I like to play as well as watch many sports. A few of my favorites would be basketball, tennis, white water rafting and rollerblading."Hey buddy, thanks for the bulleted list, but I think the web site you want is HotJobs.com. I don't take applications, and apparently you didn't read the little fact that I don't own a TV nor am I impressed by the fact that you sit on the couch 40 hours a week. I didn't know you could watch rollerblading on TV, but then, you'd know more about it than me.
From the extensive efforts of bachelor #4:
"Hey, your pretty cute. Any luck so far with these personals? What do u like to so for fun? Talk to u soon and if theres any thing u want to know about me feel free to ask"Do you even make an effort to brush your hair in the morning?
From the ego of bachelor #5:
"I am considered to be intelligent, funny, ambitious, sensitive, focused, hard working, and serious."Really? By who? The American Idol staff? Or your mom?
From the optimistic outlook of bachelor #6:
"My lifestyle is so busy that I need to give this internet dating a try. No success thus far. I am beginning to loose hope and confidence that someone special is still out there. Is there anyone that can help me!!"If you find out, don't call me, I hope never to run into you in real life. If you mean "special" like you, I guarantee, there is still someone out there for you.
From the disbelief of bachelor #7:
"Do you still compete in equestrian? and ice hockey?"No, I just Photoshopped my face onto pictures of Olympic riders and NHL players. I'm really just a poser, but I didn't write that in my profile because I thought people might judge me, and as we all know, judging people by what they write is wrong.
From the personal marketing of bachelor #8:
"Hi, I am an inch under 5'11, divorced, have a beautiful 8 year old son, and 3 years over your desired age."Man, you're a train wreck! You should probably put yourself out of your misery as quickly as possible. I wouldn't suggest trying to date me, as that would only prolong it.
From the little black book of bachelor #9:
"Attractive and adventurous... I would love the chance for making a playfull lady find her satisfaction. I am just the handsome fellow that can make your taking the next step easy, safe & rewarding."I'm not sure I should even ask at this point.
I want my Superstar back.
thursday
Came in from a rainy Thursday
On the avenue
Thought I heard you talking softly
I turned on the lights, the TV
And the radio
Still I can't escape the ghost of you
What has happened to it all?
Crazy, some'd say
Where is the life that I recognize?
Gone away
Passion or coincidence
Once prompted you to say
Pride will tear us both apart
Well now pride's gone out the window
Cross the rooftops
Run away
Left me in the vacuum of my heart
What is happening to me?
Crazy, some'd say
Where is my friend when I need you most?
Gone away
- Duran Duran, Ordinary World
On the avenue
Thought I heard you talking softly
I turned on the lights, the TV
And the radio
Still I can't escape the ghost of you
What has happened to it all?
Crazy, some'd say
Where is the life that I recognize?
Gone away
Passion or coincidence
Once prompted you to say
Pride will tear us both apart
Well now pride's gone out the window
Cross the rooftops
Run away
Left me in the vacuum of my heart
What is happening to me?
Crazy, some'd say
Where is my friend when I need you most?
Gone away
- Duran Duran, Ordinary World
geek life
Even our hockey team is a bunch of geeks. I saw them using this thing during the round 1 playoffs. Only on a team from Silicon Valley would this fly. According to an insightful non-hockey-playing friend, St. Louis wasn't using it because they were still adapting to their new technology in Missouri -- running water.
Speaking of hockey, because it's been at least five whole days since I've mentioned it, I had our team's only assist last Saturday during my women's league game. We lost 2-1, but I was finally able to 1) steal the puck from someone way better than me, and 2) look before I made a pass that actually went to someone's stick. And she scored, what could be better? Maybe if I was the one getting the actual goal, but I'm not pressing my luck here. There are some days I can't even skate, so I'm just accepting Saturday as a good day.
I have to write about hockey and horses a lot because I can't write about work. Writing about work in one's blog is taboo if you want to remain employed. I also don't write about it because nothing interesting enough to document ever actually happens. I was messaging A last night, however, and we had to agree that the best part about yesterday's meeting was the instant when the InFocus projector blew up.
"It sounded like a firecracker!" A wrote. "There was smoke coming out of it," I added. "It's sad when the most exciting thing that happens at work is the projector exploding," he said. "That totally made the meeting worth going to," I typed. I guess we're not saving the world one database at a time, but we could hardly expect that when we signed up for this job.
Speaking of hockey, because it's been at least five whole days since I've mentioned it, I had our team's only assist last Saturday during my women's league game. We lost 2-1, but I was finally able to 1) steal the puck from someone way better than me, and 2) look before I made a pass that actually went to someone's stick. And she scored, what could be better? Maybe if I was the one getting the actual goal, but I'm not pressing my luck here. There are some days I can't even skate, so I'm just accepting Saturday as a good day.
I have to write about hockey and horses a lot because I can't write about work. Writing about work in one's blog is taboo if you want to remain employed. I also don't write about it because nothing interesting enough to document ever actually happens. I was messaging A last night, however, and we had to agree that the best part about yesterday's meeting was the instant when the InFocus projector blew up.
"It sounded like a firecracker!" A wrote. "There was smoke coming out of it," I added. "It's sad when the most exciting thing that happens at work is the projector exploding," he said. "That totally made the meeting worth going to," I typed. I guess we're not saving the world one database at a time, but we could hardly expect that when we signed up for this job.
the fine art of schmoozing a horse
Last week we were up at the Murieta Equine Complex, involved in that strange pastime we call horse showing. The tumbleweed and hay fever town of Rancho Murieta is about 130 miles northeast of where I live in the SF bay, and is a little known destination to even the natives, who would never venture so far off highway 50 unless they had a really good reason. By the time I steered off the highway and onto Dillard Rd., past ranch homes and fields high with spring grasses, I felt like I had never left. It was four years back, and I was in my trainer's car, turning into a rural driveway surrounded by paddocks of geese and goats. This was the road we had taken so long ago to the small farm where I found my first horse, a skinny bay gelding standing in a pen, gnawing on a piece of inedible straw.
The horse show was at the same grounds where I had had my last fabulous competition on my old horse. When I pulled into the driveway, I saw the covered arena where I had last ridden him -- his whole body pivoting off his hind foot when I turned my head towards the next fence, his precise reactions when I spoke to him in the middle of a sea of rainbow colored jumps. He's still shiny and happy and living at the same barn where I kept him, but I don't own him anymore. I've been asked to step a new horse up, and learn to ride all over again on a different horse in a familiar setting.
Horses are as varied as the crazy people who love them. Just as in a human relationship, you will sometimes get along better with some horses than you will with others. With people, some will "click" with you, some will grow on you, and others you'll never be very close to. Horses are no different. The key with any horse you've been asked to ride or show is maintaining a good working relationship, even if you aren't the perfect match. It's sort of like that co-worker you respect, but with whom you don't always see eye to eye. Together you can accomplish great things, but you have to negotiate through the disagreements first to find a common ground.
Horses communicate almost entirely through body language, among themselves, and with you. While they do make various horse sounds (neighs, nickers), their primary method of telling you that they've understood your request, or that they are hurting, afraid, excited, or angry is through body language of varying extremes. In this sense, horses can be somewhat predictable, but only as predictable as a person you've just met who has to make a decision. If you know a horse, you know what it's going to do, what it's thinking, and typically, how it is going to react. If you are very familiar with a person, say, your best friend, you have a good idea of what kind of a decision he is going to make, or whether or not he understands what you have said.
It is just as complex with an unfamiliar horse and rider. One of the challenges that "catch" riders face is the pressure of riding a new horse to its maximum ability without knowing it. (If you are so lucky and ride well enough to be a catch rider, you are the kind of person that horse owners hire to show their horses and win.) It takes a while to establish a working relationship with a new horse, to figure out how to explain things to him and to understand what he is trying to say to you. This may sound philosophically cheesy, but it is a fact about riding that the common city slicker (or even a person with limited riding experience) would be strained to comprehend.
It was this way at the show with Penny and me. Penny is my favorite Sharks fan's prized possession, a little gelding with a ton of spunk, a mile long show record, and a multi-talented resume. He is one of the more opinionated horses I have ever met. Educated almost exclusively by my trainer, he prefers things to be "just so" and won't settle for mediocre riding or half-hearted attempts. Sometimes, he won't even settle for someone who's not my trainer. I had had a good warm up on him when I first got to the show; he was jumping boldly even while I was still figuring out how to adjust his stride. We entered the first class and abruptly had, what we call in horse terms, a "disagreement." Disagreements are usually followed by "discussions" during which I try to re-explain what it is I need the horse to do, and during which he either understands and complies, or continues to disagree. Disagreements can sometimes test the limits of one's riding ability, as horses can disagree in a number of ways in an over fences class. They can stop, run out, buck, rear, spook, or perform combinations of these disobediences. In the meantime, your job as the rider is to 1) not fall off and get yourself disqualified and possibly killed, and 2) calm the horse down and convince it that jumping the requested fences is a good idea.
In Penny's owner's vocabulary, this is called "schmoozing." You can beat some horses around the arena with a long stick, just as you can intimidate some people into compliance. Other horses and people will fire that right back at you. These are the individuals you must schmooze. Schmoozing a horse is a little bit of pressure, and a little bit of "I trust that you will cooperate with me now, with no intervention." It's just the right ratio of enforcer vs. partner, and is typically something that takes a significant amount of time to learn to balance between an unfamiliar horse and rider team. Penny and I had about two hours to figure this out.
After two challenging rounds of disagreements, he and I dropped down a level to rebuild his confidence. Upon entering the class, he promptly refused my requests again, and I laid into him with the crop to reassert my intentions. The key with Penny is not to overstay your welcome. Continued beatings do little to convince him of anything other than the immediate need to dump you on your rear end while the whole world is watching. We turned around and he was apparently convinced (for at least this fence) that it was wise to jump. He came around to the second fence and I reminded him with a snap on the shoulder that we were still in business, still on course. He was tentative; he and I were still leery of each other and neither one wanted to trust completely. Despite this, he made the brave decision to jump the second fence. I reminded him again at the third, and then, very subtly, he told me he knew what to do and to let him drive. After landing from the third fence, he stretched down and out in his neck and leaned forward into the bridle. I gave him no further reminders. His very small hint told me he had it figured out, and that I only needed to tell him where to go next. This was the same clue he gave me in the following class, when, as we rounded the turn, I smacked him a reminder and he took ahold of the bit, taking me down to the fence with profound purpose.
The best riders are the best schmoozers, and so this seems to bleed over into the rest of life. Of course, when schmoozing doesn't work, you can always beat someone over the head with a long stick. It's worked for me at least once.
nostalgic stupidity
Statistics at Cañada College, Redwood City, summer of 2002
Professor: So using the RAND function on my calculator, I get the number 8.
Student: [Raises hand] I got a different number.
Professor: Yes, that's because it's a random function.
Student: But I don't understand why my number is different from yours.
Professor: [Snappy] That's because the little man in your calculator picked a different number than the little man in my calculator.
Professor: So using the RAND function on my calculator, I get the number 8.
Student: [Raises hand] I got a different number.
Professor: Yes, that's because it's a random function.
Student: But I don't understand why my number is different from yours.
Professor: [Snappy] That's because the little man in your calculator picked a different number than the little man in my calculator.
friday free food
Too much wine at work. Going home now. I have to say the Valduero Crianza was good, if you're interested in a Spanish red.
how about them sharks
On my ride down from the 10th floor today at noon, two guys got on at the 8th floor and were speculating wildly about the playoff schedule for round 2. Funny you should mention that, I almost said, I was just avoiding work ten minutes earlier by reading the playoff coverage at ESPN.com. I wanted to chime in, but I wanted lunch more so I strode away briskly when we hit the first floor.
Everywhere you go, all the talk is about the Sharks. Pretty amazing for a state in which most of the natives who own SUVs have never driven in snow, let alone know how to skate. You'd have to sell your soul for a round 2 playoff ticket at the Shark Tank. A couple of round 1 tickets sold for $700/pair on eBay last week.
By the way, if you want to read something really funny and totally unrelated to this post, check out L. Ditty's Wednesday entry about Nascar Ballet.
Everywhere you go, all the talk is about the Sharks. Pretty amazing for a state in which most of the natives who own SUVs have never driven in snow, let alone know how to skate. You'd have to sell your soul for a round 2 playoff ticket at the Shark Tank. A couple of round 1 tickets sold for $700/pair on eBay last week.
By the way, if you want to read something really funny and totally unrelated to this post, check out L. Ditty's Wednesday entry about Nascar Ballet.
live life
We'll have to file this one under "Rules I wish I broke before I left Pittsburgh." What's life without a few risky chances, after all? I still wished we'd jumped the fence at Schenley and skated around in the dark.
A procrastinating coworker of mine stopped by my cube the other day and said that he was bored with his Ferrari. "Really," I said, "what are you going to do now?" "I think I'm going to get into watches," he said. "Oh, those fancy watches you were talking about before? Is that going to keep you interested?" "Probably not," he answered.
He proceeded to tell me that there are three things that make up life (and no, expensive watches aren't one of them) -- family, career, and your love interest. Not everyone can find all three happy and satisfying, but you should at least strive for two, especially if one of those things is already messed up. "Now if two of those things aren't too good, you have a lot of work to do," he said. What about three? I thought worriedly as he walked away. I wanted to run after him and pose the question, but alas, he was no sage, just a guy who has a car seat on wheels in his office that he uses as a computer chair.
Maybe the key is working on one thing at a time. I don't actually believe people are capable of multitasking, despite what bosses and psychologists say. Once, in a job interview, I answered "I get very focused on one project and don't put as much effort into concurrent projects," to the question "What is one of your weaknesses?" The interviewer quickly tried to clarify. "Oh, so you can't multitask?" "That's not what I said," I snapped. I wanted to say "You can't multitask either," but in the interest of getting the job, I kept my mouth shut.
We choose to put effort into things that are important to us, and we choose to put less effort into other aspects of our lives. Sometimes I think we choose to focus feverishly on two out of the three, not because it's less important, but simply because the third isn't working out and we don't know what to do about it.
did i say that?
One night in San Jose, I was having dinner with one of my photographers.
"How can you be sad? Doesn't it give you an ego boost that so many men must want you?" he said.
"I don't care about all those people; the one person I want to want me back, doesn't, and that's all that matters."
"So you're telling me that if Johnny Depp walked through that door right now and asked you to go out with him, you'd say no?"
"Well I guess I wouldn't say no..."
"See?"
"But if I had a choice between him and my ex, I'd choose my ex." I paused to refold my napkin. "The hell with Johnny Depp."
sports conflicts of interest
I mildly sprained my ankle yesterday leaping off the back of a small half-Arabian mare who was convinced the trees on the trail were going to eat her. I'm far past "hero" stage in my life, and I know when and where to pick fights with large animals. In the middle of Mountain Home road with cars speeding by is not the opportune place to beat sense into a horse. We were hardly to Larry Ellison's new house before I had to jump off again because she didn't want to walk through a small mud puddle and nearly fell off the edge of the trail. How this horse would cross the deserts of Saudi Arabia if we were to actually transport her there is beyond me. Of course, maybe there are no trees or mud puddles in the desert so she'd do just fine.
I still went to hockey last night, because of course, my ankle wasn't really sprained, and my boot would keep my ankle from bending anyway, right? I had a pretty good game until my bum knee popped out (and back in again) and it was about that time I decided I had to make a choice. Show my favorite Sharks fan's horse this week up at Rancho Murieta, or kill myself playing hockey and call her to inform that I'm in the hospital with my leg in a splint.
I'm taking it easy until the horse show is over, but I'm still bringing my skates to work on Monday, because you can beat sense into a horse but not into me.
I still went to hockey last night, because of course, my ankle wasn't really sprained, and my boot would keep my ankle from bending anyway, right? I had a pretty good game until my bum knee popped out (and back in again) and it was about that time I decided I had to make a choice. Show my favorite Sharks fan's horse this week up at Rancho Murieta, or kill myself playing hockey and call her to inform that I'm in the hospital with my leg in a splint.
I'm taking it easy until the horse show is over, but I'm still bringing my skates to work on Monday, because you can beat sense into a horse but not into me.
double trouble
Saturyne's in town until Sunday! I called her incessantly yesterday until she showed up at the sports bar by Ice Chalet in San Mateo last night to watch the first Sharks playoff game with me. I forgot I was in a restaurant and was screaming instructions and profanities from a table near the back of the room, away from the huge projection TV. When they won again in OT, I threw my hands in the air and hooted and clapped with no regard for anyone sitting near me, just like the yinzers back east do in public places.
When we left the bar, the zamboni was making slow, sweeping ovals around the rink outside. "I wanna skate," Saturyne said. "Me too," I said. "Let's beat up the zamboni driver." We paused for a moment to evaluate the potential rewards of that idea, but since we didn't have our skates, we agreed silently to leave the rink.
I went skating today on my lunch hour to counteract any violent tendencies I might have from not having skated since last Saturday. It must be spring break for the kids or something (how quickly I do forget these things), because the rink was overrun with figure skaters, small and large. The problem with being around a lot of figure skaters is that I get the desire to....well...figure skate. (Bet you thought I was going to say check people, but that is woefully not the case.) I'd do it if I didn't fear skating in something with a toe pick that would stick and send me flying. They just skate so much better than me, and they do cool tricks. I did tell someone once that I refused to involve myself in any sport where I had to wear a skirt. I wonder if I have to adhere to that promise now that he doesn't talk to me anymore. Maybe I should just take up watercolors instead to try and curb the princess predilection.
When we left the bar, the zamboni was making slow, sweeping ovals around the rink outside. "I wanna skate," Saturyne said. "Me too," I said. "Let's beat up the zamboni driver." We paused for a moment to evaluate the potential rewards of that idea, but since we didn't have our skates, we agreed silently to leave the rink.
I went skating today on my lunch hour to counteract any violent tendencies I might have from not having skated since last Saturday. It must be spring break for the kids or something (how quickly I do forget these things), because the rink was overrun with figure skaters, small and large. The problem with being around a lot of figure skaters is that I get the desire to....well...figure skate. (Bet you thought I was going to say check people, but that is woefully not the case.) I'd do it if I didn't fear skating in something with a toe pick that would stick and send me flying. They just skate so much better than me, and they do cool tricks. I did tell someone once that I refused to involve myself in any sport where I had to wear a skirt. I wonder if I have to adhere to that promise now that he doesn't talk to me anymore. Maybe I should just take up watercolors instead to try and curb the princess predilection.
very cute things
This is the cutest puppy in the whole wide world -- my trainer's blue merle border collie, Cheyenne. Posting this pic reminds me of the fake mail a friend of mine got from an online dating service, with a link to a web site with photos of "her dog" and, when you scrolled to the bottom, her age verification service that prevented you from going any further without a credit card. Seriously, if posting photos of cute animals actually worked and got me dates, my site would be nothing but puppies, kittens, and the occasional baby cow with huge eyes. And I wouldn't even charge a monthly fee. I mean, shouldn't this site be getting me something other than stalkers by now?
Hi, my name is Jessica and I'm 27, 5'4", 115 lbs. on a good day, a Libra, and single, although not necessarily by choice. I cook a strange blend of pan-asian-italian, I draw cartoons, I can skate, and I often sing in the car. Also, there is a picture of a cute puppy here, although it's not mine. What else do people write in these things? I'm afraid I'm not any good at this.
four, no five
There seems to be such a following now of procrastinators reading this blog that I've realized I should probably try using it for educational purposes and seeing if I can't teach my audience a few new tricks. Now, don't get me wrong, this isn't going to turn into a textbook. I'd be the first person to stop reading it if I thought I had to actually remember something. But since you're obviously reading this because you're trying to avoid doing something else, now you can say you learned some new words. It's a little bit like claiming that TV is educational.
By now, you know a little bit (or a lot) about hockey. What I forgot to mention a few days ago, due to the Sharks melee, is that Saturday I scored my first game goal! Granted, it was with Shrek goaltending, but a goal is a goal, and my women's league team captain even remembered to pick up the game puck for me at the end. So it's in my car now, replacing the other puck that mysteriously disappeared during the cross-country move.
I thought I'd take a little diversion and tell you a story about my other sport, the one I've actually been involved in for fifteen years and because of this familiarity don't seem to mention much. My favorite Sharks fan has actually gotten me back in the saddle, and I'm reinventing my riding again after a year of being far away and nearly forgetting the smell of a horse's summer coat and the step of a canter stride beneath me. It's invigorating and depressing at the same time, as anyone realizes who has returned, after a long while, to a sport they once excelled at. Your mind knows what to do but your body doesn't seem to quite remember how.
I have a funny story to tell you but you'd have to understand some horse jargon. So here's my attempt at explaining it (you'd think I'd be good at this after teaching lessons for four years, but we'll see). As with any sport, riding gets very technical very fast, and anyone who thinks we're just kicking a bunch of old nags around a ring are in for a big surprise. I went out to the barn Monday night to school a horse (and myself) over fences. "School" is just an equestrian term for train. When we jump horses over fences, the fences are typically arranged in a pattern called a course. The course consists of a path you have to follow, and you must jump the fences in the proper order. Some fences are "singles," that is, they stand alone in some part of the ring, and some fences are part of a "line." A line is typically two fences in a row that you must jump in succession. (A line with more than two fences is a combination, but you don't need to know that for the purposes of this story).
The distance between the first and second fences in a line is measured in "strides." Well, it's actually measured in meters, but when riders and trainers talk about a line of fences, they are interested in how many strides are between the fences. A stride is one canter step for a horse. The canter is a three beat gait at which a horse travels (the other two standard gaits are walk and trot). Obviously, horses can have different size strides, as a big horse will typically have a longer stride than a small horse. It's similar to a tall person with a long stride and a short person with a small stride. This little bit of trivia becomes key in the embarrassment to follow.
So I start my course on my friend's little bay horse, Penny. We jump into the line closest to the barn (the "near" line), and ride down very sloppily, forced to add in an extra half stride at the base of the second fence. This is known as a "chip," and is a pretty bad jumping error, not to mention it can get you killed over big fences. I do this a few more times and can't seem to figure out why the distance isn't working. My trainer remarks on it, and for some reason, I think I hear her say that this line is a "four stride." What she has actually said is that this is a four stride for a really big horse, and a five stride for a regular horse, but I conveniently misheard this.
Well if it's a four stride then we're really going to have to book it down the line, I think as I pick up a canter and come around the turn for another try at it. I smacked Penny with the crop as I approached the first fence, hoping to wake him up enough to land strongly in the middle of the line. Upon landing, I spurred him forward, trying to ask him to open his stride rather than just run down the line like a maniac. Four strides later he takes off for the second fence, just as I had asked, except that he was pretty far away from the ideal take off point. In jumping, this is called "going long."
Horse people have a lot of understated terms that mask the severity of the actual situation. The situation in horse terms, as I described above, would be "You didn't package him up around the turn, he got too strung out and went long." The situation, in normal people terms, and to the horror of the amazed spectators, would be "You were running like a bat outta hell and the horse took off a mile away from the fence and yet still saved your clueless ass."
When I landed from the second fence after this spectacle, my trainer was holding her head in apparent pain, Penny's owner had her mouth open in disbelief, and a third bystander was yelling "That's incredible!" Incredible that Penny made it in four strides or incredible that I was still alive, I wasn't sure. "That's a five stride, not a four!" my trainer finally managed to say.
"OH!" I said, "Well that explains why it wasn't working the first ten times!" I want to say that even chimpanzees learn faster than that, but that would be to say that a chimpanzee could get Penny to go around the ring, and we know for certain that would never happen. So while I'm more effective than a chimpanzee, I apparently can't count to five, even with my fingers. Let's just hope Penny doesn't hold a grudge. Thank goodness my horses have always been more forgiving than my men.
By now, you know a little bit (or a lot) about hockey. What I forgot to mention a few days ago, due to the Sharks melee, is that Saturday I scored my first game goal! Granted, it was with Shrek goaltending, but a goal is a goal, and my women's league team captain even remembered to pick up the game puck for me at the end. So it's in my car now, replacing the other puck that mysteriously disappeared during the cross-country move.
I thought I'd take a little diversion and tell you a story about my other sport, the one I've actually been involved in for fifteen years and because of this familiarity don't seem to mention much. My favorite Sharks fan has actually gotten me back in the saddle, and I'm reinventing my riding again after a year of being far away and nearly forgetting the smell of a horse's summer coat and the step of a canter stride beneath me. It's invigorating and depressing at the same time, as anyone realizes who has returned, after a long while, to a sport they once excelled at. Your mind knows what to do but your body doesn't seem to quite remember how.
I have a funny story to tell you but you'd have to understand some horse jargon. So here's my attempt at explaining it (you'd think I'd be good at this after teaching lessons for four years, but we'll see). As with any sport, riding gets very technical very fast, and anyone who thinks we're just kicking a bunch of old nags around a ring are in for a big surprise. I went out to the barn Monday night to school a horse (and myself) over fences. "School" is just an equestrian term for train. When we jump horses over fences, the fences are typically arranged in a pattern called a course. The course consists of a path you have to follow, and you must jump the fences in the proper order. Some fences are "singles," that is, they stand alone in some part of the ring, and some fences are part of a "line." A line is typically two fences in a row that you must jump in succession. (A line with more than two fences is a combination, but you don't need to know that for the purposes of this story).
The distance between the first and second fences in a line is measured in "strides." Well, it's actually measured in meters, but when riders and trainers talk about a line of fences, they are interested in how many strides are between the fences. A stride is one canter step for a horse. The canter is a three beat gait at which a horse travels (the other two standard gaits are walk and trot). Obviously, horses can have different size strides, as a big horse will typically have a longer stride than a small horse. It's similar to a tall person with a long stride and a short person with a small stride. This little bit of trivia becomes key in the embarrassment to follow.
So I start my course on my friend's little bay horse, Penny. We jump into the line closest to the barn (the "near" line), and ride down very sloppily, forced to add in an extra half stride at the base of the second fence. This is known as a "chip," and is a pretty bad jumping error, not to mention it can get you killed over big fences. I do this a few more times and can't seem to figure out why the distance isn't working. My trainer remarks on it, and for some reason, I think I hear her say that this line is a "four stride." What she has actually said is that this is a four stride for a really big horse, and a five stride for a regular horse, but I conveniently misheard this.
Well if it's a four stride then we're really going to have to book it down the line, I think as I pick up a canter and come around the turn for another try at it. I smacked Penny with the crop as I approached the first fence, hoping to wake him up enough to land strongly in the middle of the line. Upon landing, I spurred him forward, trying to ask him to open his stride rather than just run down the line like a maniac. Four strides later he takes off for the second fence, just as I had asked, except that he was pretty far away from the ideal take off point. In jumping, this is called "going long."
Horse people have a lot of understated terms that mask the severity of the actual situation. The situation in horse terms, as I described above, would be "You didn't package him up around the turn, he got too strung out and went long." The situation, in normal people terms, and to the horror of the amazed spectators, would be "You were running like a bat outta hell and the horse took off a mile away from the fence and yet still saved your clueless ass."
When I landed from the second fence after this spectacle, my trainer was holding her head in apparent pain, Penny's owner had her mouth open in disbelief, and a third bystander was yelling "That's incredible!" Incredible that Penny made it in four strides or incredible that I was still alive, I wasn't sure. "That's a five stride, not a four!" my trainer finally managed to say.
"OH!" I said, "Well that explains why it wasn't working the first ten times!" I want to say that even chimpanzees learn faster than that, but that would be to say that a chimpanzee could get Penny to go around the ring, and we know for certain that would never happen. So while I'm more effective than a chimpanzee, I apparently can't count to five, even with my fingers. Let's just hope Penny doesn't hold a grudge. Thank goodness my horses have always been more forgiving than my men.
go sharks
This from ESPN.com:
"Stuart got his first goal on a slap shot with 20 seconds left -- and with time running out, the defenseman charged the net and slammed home a centering pass from Damphousse with 2.3 seconds to play, sending the sellout crowd at the Shark Tank into bedlam."
I'd like to make one correction -- there were 19 seconds left, not 20, although the observation about bedlam is completely accurate. One of the best games I've ever been to, and I just narrowly missed falling into the row in front of me on the game tying goal. Those folks sitting in front of us who left early must have been very sad indeed when they got home and heard the news. The OT win was that much sweeter.
This was a better ending to the day than the start this morning, when I got hit in the face during practice by someone's backhand, cracking my face shield. I've been hearing ringing in my ears all day. I guess it's back to the old black cage for me.
"Stuart got his first goal on a slap shot with 20 seconds left -- and with time running out, the defenseman charged the net and slammed home a centering pass from Damphousse with 2.3 seconds to play, sending the sellout crowd at the Shark Tank into bedlam."
I'd like to make one correction -- there were 19 seconds left, not 20, although the observation about bedlam is completely accurate. One of the best games I've ever been to, and I just narrowly missed falling into the row in front of me on the game tying goal. Those folks sitting in front of us who left early must have been very sad indeed when they got home and heard the news. The OT win was that much sweeter.
This was a better ending to the day than the start this morning, when I got hit in the face during practice by someone's backhand, cracking my face shield. I've been hearing ringing in my ears all day. I guess it's back to the old black cage for me.
half the game is mental
The other half is being mental. After getting slammed, shoved, kicked and slashed a little too much at last night's D league game, I was sitting on the bench rather subdued at the end of third period, watching as we failed to score a goal to tie up the game in the last 20 seconds. When the buzzer sounded, a player on the opposing team shot the puck into the net long after the goalie had skated away. Now, imagine me, sitting placidly, taking a sip of water when all of a sudden, my entire team leaps over the boards, skates to the middle of the ice and starts pummeling the living snot out of this guy and the other team. I choked, dropped my water bottle, and jumped to my feet, smiling crookedly. They're really beating the crap out of each other! I thought, leaning over the boards. I was enthralled.
The best thing about boys is they do the dumbest things. I was a little depressed after first period, when Hattrick got boarded by this guy who claimed he "couldn't stop." She was out for the rest of the game (with what we later discovered was a separated shoulder), and being the only other woman on the team, I was starting to suffocate from the overflow of testosterone and macho macho hee haw that got worse as the game progressed. After twelve minutes of penalties and door slamming and cursing, I was pleased to see them finally take their gloves off and start decking each other while I stood on the bench and laughed. When the beatings subsided, I made my entrance by skating up to a guy wearing a red Team Canada jersey who was still panting from the battle, and saying "I like your jersey." "Thanks," he said, smiling sheepishly, and quickly skated away. I love boys.
I'm still leery about this league and the probability of making it to the end of the season alive. If anything, at least I won't be afraid of the girls at Ice Oasis anymore.
The best thing about boys is they do the dumbest things. I was a little depressed after first period, when Hattrick got boarded by this guy who claimed he "couldn't stop." She was out for the rest of the game (with what we later discovered was a separated shoulder), and being the only other woman on the team, I was starting to suffocate from the overflow of testosterone and macho macho hee haw that got worse as the game progressed. After twelve minutes of penalties and door slamming and cursing, I was pleased to see them finally take their gloves off and start decking each other while I stood on the bench and laughed. When the beatings subsided, I made my entrance by skating up to a guy wearing a red Team Canada jersey who was still panting from the battle, and saying "I like your jersey." "Thanks," he said, smiling sheepishly, and quickly skated away. I love boys.
I'm still leery about this league and the probability of making it to the end of the season alive. If anything, at least I won't be afraid of the girls at Ice Oasis anymore.
never called back
I need a big love
I need a phone call
I need a plane ride
I need a raincoat
- Counting Crows, Raining in Baltimore
I need a phone call
I need a plane ride
I need a raincoat
- Counting Crows, Raining in Baltimore
