Ever heard of drunk dialing? Well, in my husband’s case, he likes to drunk sign…up for stuff like the Ironman. Really. Give Grey a couple brewskis and leave him alone to his own devices while watching the Universal Sports channel, and before I know it, he’ll have signed up for three triathlons and a 10K. He gets so inspired while watching these amazing athletes do things like climb Mount Kilamanjaro with nothing but a leotard and a jock strap that then he decides he too needs to do this.
Now don’t get me wrong, I want him to be healthy and I love to see him exercise. BUT, the other night Grey actually signed up for a half Ironman next June. Um….that’s a 1.2 mile swim, 56 mile bike ride, and a half marathon run! He’s done triathlons before, but this just seems masochistic. At least he has nine months to prepare!!
Oh well, I guess Grey could do a lot worse. He could stay up all night watching poker and calling 1-900 numbers and stuffing his face with Pringles, so I really shouldn’t complain that he just wants to kick back with the Triathlon World Championship Series and some lite beer.
Ollie and I went out to support Grey in his last triathlon adventure. He always does amazing at the swim and he's a good runner, but with a ghetto booty like his, I wonder how he'll handle 55 miles on a tiny bike seat???
Yesterday, Grey, Ollie and I headed to the Baltimore Ravens Stadium for the Navy/Maryland football game. I must say, pregnant tailgating is a much different beast than the non-prego kind. Being with-child at a tailgate, I found myself facing a serious dilemma. To drink lots of liquid or not to drink lots of liquid??? I mean, I’m constantly thirsty (probably since I’m always so darn hot), but also have to pee every two seconds as little fetus feet are kicking me in the bladder. So, I’m left to decide whether to dehydrate myself on purpose to save my swollen sausage feet the long walk to the disgusting port-o-potty, or just drink up and deal with the trek.
However, with Cruzin Cooler, my problems are solved! If you haven’t seen them before, the Cruzin Coolers are iceboxes with wheels. It’s like a motorscooter that you can store a few cases of beer in. So yesterday at the game, perched atop Cruzin Cooler, I could not only keep beverages handy right under my ever-growing maternity booty, but also easily haul myself to the bathroom without having to walk. It’s the best invention since the lightbulb!
In fact, the highlight of my day at the tailgate was driving Grey’s friend Bubba’s cooler around the parking lot. A pregnant girl on a ridable ice chest is just so wrong it’s actually right. Although it did make me a bit uncomfortable having strangers taking my picture and videotaping me (I’m sure if you search “pregnant lady” and “cooler-bike” on YouTube you’ll now see some crazy strangers’ amateur video of me), I loved scooting around the parking lot waving to people as if I was a human float. Does it get better than that?
I considering using a cornhole game as a ramp to launch the Cruzin Cooler off Dukes of Hazzard-style, but then thought better of it.
Can you believe it’s the end of August already? Where did the summer go? If I was still an English teacher, I’d probably be starting school tomorrow and having the worst case of Sunday Blues imaginable. Luckily, I’m not working full time anymore, but I still think there’s something bittersweet about the end of August. Kids go back to school, football games start up again, and the weather chills — something I was reminded about last night as we watched the Ravens/Skins game.
There’s something about football season that I love. Oddly, the actual football has nothing to do with it. I still couldn’t tell you how much a down is worth or who the quarterback is for the Chargers (didn’t he date Jessica Simpson?). However, I love all the things that come along WITH football being back in the stadiums and on TV. I’m reminded of all of fall’s bounty — things like apple-picking, turning leaves, cornucopias, and tailgates where you binge eat hot wings and Bud Lite until you barf in a nasty Port-o-Potty. This IS autumn to me.
This year, I am really really really looking forward to fall. Not only will I finally be able to stop sweating my ass off every time I step outside of the realm of air conditioning, but I’ll also be able to meet this little baby I’ve been brewing for the last 6.5 months. Not that I wish summer to be over right this second; I’m still anticipating many more pool and beach days, but I gotta say, being pregnant, this hot weather has been killing me. Bikini season and 90+ degree weather every day is not fun when you’re toting around a basketball in your stomach and your thighs look like Sequoia trees.
Plus, in just a few weeks, all the tourists will be gone and we’ll get to experience our little Delaware beach town for what it’s like the majority of the year. I’ve heard the streets empty out and the locals once again resume control of the restaurants and the shops. There’s a lot to look forward to this year!
I especially like these stormy-looking fall days by the water! This is in Erie last autumn...I can just imagine the chill in the air! AH -- to finally not have sweat coming out every pore of my body! CAN'T WAIT!
And tailgating!!! Can't wait to cheer on Navy and Penn State this season!!!
There are some sports out there that I will never understand how to play. Football, definitely one of them. Curling? I have a higher comprehension of rocket science than I do curling. Biiathlon? Why should anyone on skis have a gun? And that’s why I love baseball. America’s pastime is so easy for all (except my Belgian mother) to understand. You hit a ball, run around some bases, people cheer, and tah-dah! That’s America for you.
Growing up in our nation’s capital, we always went to Baltimore to watch baseball, as they were the closest thing to a hometown team. Until the Nats came in 2005 and all my loyalties shifted. Finally, a DC team! And who cares if we aren’t the greatest. Rome wasn’t built in a day! That was my mentality for a while anyway, until we acquired the Stras-burger-nator. Now I want to win every game.
I went to a game yesterday for Father’s Day, and one today with my amazing colleagues and Strasburg didn’t pitch at either. I feel robbed!
Now if my team isn’t winning the game, I can always find something to keep me entertained, like binoculars and a nice uninterrupted view of the starting team’s butts. When I was in high school and my softball team would go to games together, we brought enough binoculars to put the best birders to shame. Our seats were nosebleed and our hormones were raging. So out came the binoculars and those Orioles posteriors in the mid-90s did we ever appreciate.
So Strasburg, please do some squats to keep us happy. And then win a few games and make us even happier. Go Nats!
All our hope lies in the hands of this young man with the prominent ears and the golden arm. Yeah, Strasburg! Here's to the man who inspired a thousand and one sandwiches named after him. Even I plan on chowing down a Strasburger.
Today, on what felt like the last day of winter here in Washington, Georgia and I went to Nationals stadium to watch Nancy Brinker throw the first pitch on Mother’s Day. I collaborate with Susan G Komen often for work and just adore their staff and Nancy Brinker herself. I mean, not only did she fulfill her promise to her sister who died from breast cancer, but she turned the non-profit into a powerhouse and had the foresight to pick a very flattering shade of pink as its signature color.
So wearing said color, Georgia and I, along with other pink-clad press watched as the Nationals used pink bats to clobber the Florida Marlins. We also binged on Ben’s Chili Bowl and gave every man around us “Gentleman’s Names” like that of center fielder Nyjer Morgan. A national security expert sitting next to us became “Desmond Cashmere,” as we decided that all such names should have a distinguished name to start and then a type of fabric at the end, like Nyjer Morgan’s “Tony Plush.” Perhaps I will go by “Gwenivere Velveteen,” if I ever play pro-baseball.
Georgia is graduating from GW this weekend and I am very very sad to see her leave Washington. It was great to be silly with her for a few hours before she goes and we spent an excessive amount of time deciding on the song that would play when we were at bat, if we were to join the Nationals. This was an important conversation to have as the odds of are high. I obviously chose “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy” by Big and Rich and Georgia selected something rough and tumble from the Phantom of the Opera. Guaranteed crowd favorites! Baseball, mother’s day, girl bonding, and the battle to save boobs = a fabulous day.
Susan G. Komen on the left and her sister, Ambassador Nancy Brinker on the right. Nancy is the number one protector of boobs (and lives) in the land.
Nancy Brinker accepting the Presidential medal of Freedom from the man himself earlier this year. I was lucky enough to attend her reception afterwards at the Hay Adams and stood less than a foot away from Ann Currie. In fact, we literally rubbed elbows. She has really good skin and looks fetching in pink.
Washington National’s outfielder Nyjer Morgan is hilarious. White shiny shoes, argyle socks, big diamond earrings – he looks like he should be running a record label, not batting for the Washington Nats. And because of all this, he is my new favorite baseball player. Today, for our June philanthropy issue, we had a photo shoot with five of the Nationals players including Sir Morgan. They were all really personable and cute but Nyjer stole the show. He came in with his own camera crew and did a ridiculous pose every time our flashbulbs would go off. He even interviewed us and then told us about his work with the Kidney Foundation.
I think the best thing about famous people or pseudo-famous people is when they are tremendously silly. So many celebs take their fame soooo seriously. They would never invent an alter gentleman ego like Nyjer did with Tony Plush. He also declared that his DJ name is DJ Nij-Nnn-Nnn-Nnn-Nice, named his car Charlene because she “rides real clean,” and  is dedicated to playing baseball in stirrups. The man is a big barrel of ridiculousness and I love it. In a city that is filled with a lot of boring people in blazers, it’s nice to have a world class eccentric slugging the ball for us. We simply must start importing more people from California.
Nyger, on the left, is a lot more actor/musicianish than a baseball player should ever be. He's actually silly and hilarious, it's just not normal!
On Saturday, Karin and Craig picked up Grey and I and the four of us headed out to Great Meadow in The Plains, Virginia to spend a day at the races. Gold Cup is a steeplechase that’s been around for 85 years; the event is steeped in tradition and just oozes hunt country charm. Thousands of people flock to the race and set up tailgates that are more elaborate than most weddings: think Gorham instead of plastic silverware and Veuve Clicquot in place of Beast Ice.
Even though I’ve only been on a horseback enough times to be bucked off, bitten, and kicked in the gut, there’s something about horse racing I absolutely love. It’s a sport that has maintained its sense of charm and gentility unlike most others in America. Just look around a race track: instead of seeing most spectators wearing poly-blend t-shirts with giant corporate logos, you’ll find a sea of seersucker, madras, pink, green, and linen. And as much as I love Penn State football games, there’s something to be said about a sporting event to which you wear pearls.
So the four of us had a fantastic Saturday sipping bubbly (well, water for me), and watching the track (to be honest, the people watching was as fun as looking at the horses). Plus, it was the first time Grey and Craig met and of course our two significant others bonded immediately over their shared obsession with college sports, the annoyance of always being called Greg, passion for beer, and plight of loving women that don’t leave the house without a full face of overpriced makeup. Good times.
Karin and I clearly missed the memo that pastel is king at Gold Cup. Next year it's pink feather hats and green plaid all the way!
Definitely my favorite addition to a tailgate: the stuffed fox with a real gun and pheasant. This is a masterpiece of taxidermy!
T-minus 22 days until Season 4 of Friday Night Lights begins! Craig and I spent a good part of last weekend watching Season 3 to get us ready for the Texas-sized drama that returns in May and I am over the moon with excitement. Frankly, I never thought I would like a show about football, but one day I was sitting pathetically alone on a Friday night and started watching Season 1. Seven episodes and six hours later, I was ready to pack my bags, head to Dillon, Texas and sign up to be a Panther rally girl.
The show has amazing writers, fantastic producers, a wonderful cast, good old fashioned morals, the debauchery that comes before the morals, and some really hunky football players. In a funny way, I think Friday Night Lights even made me more interested in Craig when I met him. Before I began watching, I didn’t care at all if someone played football or not. But then I became obsessed and was kind of impressed when I met Craig and he told me he had played at the University of Nebraska. It was like the show come to life!
I made him start watching too, which was a touch annoying at first because he critiqued everyone’s technique and declared the QB a pansy, but after I threatened his life, he closed his trap and became obsessed with the show too. We’re waiting with baited breath until May. Clear eyes, full hearts, can’t lose…go Panthers!
I may not understand how to play football but I do understand that really tight pants look good on hot man bods.
My favorite character is Tim Riggins. He has a wonderful...personality.
Despite dating a football obsessed man, I still have no idea how to play the game. This is actually starting to get embarrassing. I watch the show “Friday Night Lights” religiously, now attempt to watch college football with Craig, and cheer like I know what’s happening in sports bars. I like to shout things like, “first and ten do it again” to bartenders because it makes me sound like I know what that means.
Tonight I really had to try hard to pretend to understand the sport because it was this mysterious day called the Super Bowl. Craig just happens to loooove Peyton Manning and likes to tell me what a stand up guy he is and how good he is at “reading the defense.” I just nod and check Perez Hilton or the Sartorialist on my iphone and cheer when everyone else starts hootin’ and hollerin.’
But tonight I really did learn a few things. Like did you know that the quarterback doesn’t play when their team is on defense? Who knew! I figured they just kind of stayed off to the side and tried not to get hurt. I also learned that Craig played against Peyton in the NCAA National Championship and beat him. Why he doesn’t tattoo “I crushed Peyton Manning” on his arm, I do not know.
So you could say tonight was a learning experience. Along with those aforementioned lessons, I discovered that $7 Riesling is drinkable when you’ve had several glasses, that cowboy boots have no traction when walking home in the snow, and that Craig gets sad when Peyton Manning is sad. But hell, the government is closed tomorrow, we’re still rather buzzed from that horrible wine, and I have 364 days to enjoy before I have to pretend to like the Super Bowl again. Colts 2011!
I also appreciate his skill! of course. But you know, when the game is slow and the booze are gone, I'm very thankful for these tight pants.
So yesterday, I wrote a whole “I weirdly, almost creepily, love  figure skating” post. But today, I have switched from an estrogen fest to a testosterone carnival. On Sunday, after I forced Craig to watch two hours of women’s skating with me, he flipped the station to the man channel and started salivating in front of competitive bull riding. Not rodeo, but actual, “hold on to huge scary animal with one hand while screaming like a redneck and try to reach eight seconds” bull riding. I was very against this at first. It was quite an abrupt switch after cheering on nice young ladies twirling to Vivaldi. But as a supportive girlfriend, I removed my team USA skating costume, buttoned up a plaid shirt and pretended to care about the sport. Time ticked by… I started to notice that these bull riders weren’t bad looking. Then, a bull stepped on one of their heads and I remembered how much I love dangerous sports. Before I knew it, I was actually enjoying the Tecate Light Invitational.
That was when I decided that Craig should become a bull rider. The man has very good upper body strength, which I know as I made him practice mock pair skating with me moments before. Plus! He is from Nebraska. Hailing from the great plains means you are predisposed to becoming a championship bull rider.
I have been doing some research on the PBR (that’s Professional Bull Riders for you novices) website and am very attracted to their description of the sport: “Professional bull riding is a fierce, rough, and grueling sport with roots deeply imbedded in American culture.” Manly, dangerous, and patriotic. My new 2010 goal – get a bottle of Jack down Craig’s throat and get him on a bull named “man eater” or something along those lines. Stay tuned for my progress…
This wonderful photo is from the Professional Bull Riders World Finals in Las Vegas. One day I will attend!
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