Paul Tagliabue Where are You?
Dear Paul,
First let me say congrats on your retirement! I know you’re worried about who will be running the ship when you’re gone so I thought I might make a suggestion, Condoleeza Rice. Stop laughing, I’m serious. I know she has said publicly that this opening came around at the wrong time but I think you should really consider making the push. She has everything the NFL is looking for in a commissioner including a cool nickname, “warrior princess”. That ought to scare TO straight.
Now, I read somewhere that in 2004 only about half of your players had a college education. Condoleeza graduated with a degree in political science at the tender young age of 19. When she assumes the helm perhaps the NFL could start actively encouraging players to get their college education first as something to fall back on when their careers end in their twenties or thirties and they’ve blown every dime on fancy cars and women. Great idea huh?
You’re thinking no way, she’s a woman. Paul, 43% of your fan base are women. You add some of that Mrs. Munster, I’ll eat your heart out with a big gap toothed smile Conleeza style to the NFL and I’m seeing millions more in merchandising. It’ll be the greatest thing since the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders.
Paul, come on, take one for the team. Team America! Get this woman out of the white house before she is on every news station defending the fact that we’re at war with the rest of the world.
Thanks,
Team America
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
World Traveler
In May, 1994 I did something so uncharacteristic it truly amazed everyone that knows what a wimp I am, I enrolled in a student exchange program in Campeche, Mexico. Below are excerpts from a journal I kept while in Mexico that only recently resurfaced when my mother (cold hearted space hog that she is) decided at thirty-five I really shouldn’t be storing stuff at her house any longer.
Regarding the shower in my room: “It took me ten minutes to get it working because there are four knobs and two have to be on, one off, then when you turn the other water comes out.”
In reference to being a passenger in the car: “No one must take drivers ed around here because riding in the car is terrifying.”
The bathroom again: “I tried working the bidet. Not a good idea to turn it on while bending over it.”
Later in the trip, lowering our standards or perhaps just getting used to a different way to describe full service hotel: “We went to a hotel in Ticul which looked great from the outside. The rooms were painted bright turquoise. The bathroom had no toilet seat or shower curtain but there was hot water- a plus!”
Rocking the palapa bar: “They had four American cd’s Def Leopard, Bryan Adams, Ace of Base (of course) and The Mutant Ninja Turtle soundtrack. Steve, Cindy, Kim and I danced on the small dance floor.” (I wish I could remember which of this wide array of music we danced to but alas the memory died at an early age of consumption)
From my follow up entry titled aptly “Things I forgot until now”:
Should have practiced Spanish before going: “The family kept calling me “Linda”. I thought they didn’t know my name but it means beautiful in Spanish.”
Disco dancing: “The disco had a ship theme with wooden columns, a small dance floor, 350 pesos for a bottle of champagne.” (Note to reader: on two previous occasions before our last night at the disco I had called my parents requesting additional funds. The fact that I was spending 350 pesos a pop for a bottle of champagne shames my adult heart but truth be told I’d do it again. I girl has to have priorities.)
How the other half lived: “Kay’s neighbors had pigs, chickens and goats. Mary Lou’s shower was in the middle of the room and the toilet was hidden from view by a curtain that blew up with the wind.”
At last the sun sets on Campeche: “Our last night before going to the disco we got a six pack and sat on the malacon for awhile, while we doing so a rat ran up from the ocean.”
In May, 1994 I did something so uncharacteristic it truly amazed everyone that knows what a wimp I am, I enrolled in a student exchange program in Campeche, Mexico. Below are excerpts from a journal I kept while in Mexico that only recently resurfaced when my mother (cold hearted space hog that she is) decided at thirty-five I really shouldn’t be storing stuff at her house any longer.
Regarding the shower in my room: “It took me ten minutes to get it working because there are four knobs and two have to be on, one off, then when you turn the other water comes out.”
In reference to being a passenger in the car: “No one must take drivers ed around here because riding in the car is terrifying.”
The bathroom again: “I tried working the bidet. Not a good idea to turn it on while bending over it.”
Later in the trip, lowering our standards or perhaps just getting used to a different way to describe full service hotel: “We went to a hotel in Ticul which looked great from the outside. The rooms were painted bright turquoise. The bathroom had no toilet seat or shower curtain but there was hot water- a plus!”
Rocking the palapa bar: “They had four American cd’s Def Leopard, Bryan Adams, Ace of Base (of course) and The Mutant Ninja Turtle soundtrack. Steve, Cindy, Kim and I danced on the small dance floor.” (I wish I could remember which of this wide array of music we danced to but alas the memory died at an early age of consumption)
From my follow up entry titled aptly “Things I forgot until now”:
Should have practiced Spanish before going: “The family kept calling me “Linda”. I thought they didn’t know my name but it means beautiful in Spanish.”
Disco dancing: “The disco had a ship theme with wooden columns, a small dance floor, 350 pesos for a bottle of champagne.” (Note to reader: on two previous occasions before our last night at the disco I had called my parents requesting additional funds. The fact that I was spending 350 pesos a pop for a bottle of champagne shames my adult heart but truth be told I’d do it again. I girl has to have priorities.)
How the other half lived: “Kay’s neighbors had pigs, chickens and goats. Mary Lou’s shower was in the middle of the room and the toilet was hidden from view by a curtain that blew up with the wind.”
At last the sun sets on Campeche: “Our last night before going to the disco we got a six pack and sat on the malacon for awhile, while we doing so a rat ran up from the ocean.”
Monday, March 20, 2006
Would you like to sample our new scent?
Sitting at my desk this afternoon I have laughed aloud several times at a little secret that has recently come out about one of our near and dear friends. She is a sample queen. Entering a department store she heads straight for the perfume counter and begins spraying not one, but multiple scents on herself. This alone was cause for laughter but it is the image of her ripping open the perfume sample inserted in a magazine and rubbing it vigorously on her neck and wrists that has me laughing like a loon. I love the innocence of it and how it reminds me of how excited I would get when my mother would give me the samples from a shopping trip. How I would horde the tiny glass tubes in my cheap vinyl purses using them sparingly lest I run out before our next trip to the mall.
I remember my first bottle of perfume. A whole bottle?! You could fit at least a hundred of those glass tubes in this sucker. It was Charlie, no doubt purchased at the local drugstore. I have actually sniffed at a bottle or two when buying mascara or something at Walgreens. Ugh! My poor parents having to smell that scent all day every day. It wasn’t until adulthood I was told a good three or four squirts on your neck, wrists, and chest were not necessary. I was a toxic cloud of cheap perfume roaming the halls of junior high leaving my peers to gasp for air when I walked by.
Oh, and then there was Tea Rose. My mother actually gagged every time I wore the stuff. I thought it made me more feminine and again applied it like a fresh coat of paint leaving no body part uncovered. For her own part my mother to this day wears four ounces of perfume every day. She doesn’t stop there either. She buys the box sets. Perfume, lotion and bath powder. Après shower it is lotion, powder then perfume. If you hug her at 10:00 a.m. you will still smell like her at 10:00 p.m. (the next day). That is actually one of my pet peeves. If I wanted to smell like someone else’s perfume I would buy it myself. Then again I could just subscribe to a few more magazines and be set.
Sitting at my desk this afternoon I have laughed aloud several times at a little secret that has recently come out about one of our near and dear friends. She is a sample queen. Entering a department store she heads straight for the perfume counter and begins spraying not one, but multiple scents on herself. This alone was cause for laughter but it is the image of her ripping open the perfume sample inserted in a magazine and rubbing it vigorously on her neck and wrists that has me laughing like a loon. I love the innocence of it and how it reminds me of how excited I would get when my mother would give me the samples from a shopping trip. How I would horde the tiny glass tubes in my cheap vinyl purses using them sparingly lest I run out before our next trip to the mall.
I remember my first bottle of perfume. A whole bottle?! You could fit at least a hundred of those glass tubes in this sucker. It was Charlie, no doubt purchased at the local drugstore. I have actually sniffed at a bottle or two when buying mascara or something at Walgreens. Ugh! My poor parents having to smell that scent all day every day. It wasn’t until adulthood I was told a good three or four squirts on your neck, wrists, and chest were not necessary. I was a toxic cloud of cheap perfume roaming the halls of junior high leaving my peers to gasp for air when I walked by.
Oh, and then there was Tea Rose. My mother actually gagged every time I wore the stuff. I thought it made me more feminine and again applied it like a fresh coat of paint leaving no body part uncovered. For her own part my mother to this day wears four ounces of perfume every day. She doesn’t stop there either. She buys the box sets. Perfume, lotion and bath powder. Après shower it is lotion, powder then perfume. If you hug her at 10:00 a.m. you will still smell like her at 10:00 p.m. (the next day). That is actually one of my pet peeves. If I wanted to smell like someone else’s perfume I would buy it myself. Then again I could just subscribe to a few more magazines and be set.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
64,999 Screaming 8 Year Olds and Me
I have a serious case of the guilts today. My grandmother called and very sneakily during the conversation managed to slip in that my stepmother is going out of town tomorrow so she will not be able to take my sister to see Hillary Duff at the rodeo. I was aware of all of this information as the topic arose during my father and stepmother’s birthday dinner and my grandmother knew that when she mentioned it again. There was a time she would have stepped in to take Morgan herself, like the time she took me to see Flashdance because no one else was interested, but those days are long gone. So, I am left to weigh my options.
On the one hand I would score BIG points with my father, my stepmother and my sister. I would be the hero, the big sister who is fun and cool. It might be fun to take her to the carnival and torture her with rides that scare the sequined jeans right off her. At least I would have someone there that has the same insane passion for junk food that I do. This is a girl who dips her Thanksgiving turkey in ketchup! Also I took off from work the day after the concert so it really isn’t that big a deal if I stay out late.
On the other hand, Hillary Duff doesn’t have a ton of fans my age. I picture me and thousands of other mothers walking back to our cars with the glazed eyes of the living dead, our eardrums still ringing from the shrill cries of joy at seeing the anti-Britney. Would I show my age if I wore my bright pink foam earplugs? Is there anything worse than going to a concert where you don’t know one word from one song the artist is performing?
I just can’t get the picture out of my mind of Morgan going with my father who doesn’t even like music let alone preteen pop music. Decisions, decisions. I’ll let you know how the concert goes.
I have a serious case of the guilts today. My grandmother called and very sneakily during the conversation managed to slip in that my stepmother is going out of town tomorrow so she will not be able to take my sister to see Hillary Duff at the rodeo. I was aware of all of this information as the topic arose during my father and stepmother’s birthday dinner and my grandmother knew that when she mentioned it again. There was a time she would have stepped in to take Morgan herself, like the time she took me to see Flashdance because no one else was interested, but those days are long gone. So, I am left to weigh my options.
On the one hand I would score BIG points with my father, my stepmother and my sister. I would be the hero, the big sister who is fun and cool. It might be fun to take her to the carnival and torture her with rides that scare the sequined jeans right off her. At least I would have someone there that has the same insane passion for junk food that I do. This is a girl who dips her Thanksgiving turkey in ketchup! Also I took off from work the day after the concert so it really isn’t that big a deal if I stay out late.
On the other hand, Hillary Duff doesn’t have a ton of fans my age. I picture me and thousands of other mothers walking back to our cars with the glazed eyes of the living dead, our eardrums still ringing from the shrill cries of joy at seeing the anti-Britney. Would I show my age if I wore my bright pink foam earplugs? Is there anything worse than going to a concert where you don’t know one word from one song the artist is performing?
I just can’t get the picture out of my mind of Morgan going with my father who doesn’t even like music let alone preteen pop music. Decisions, decisions. I’ll let you know how the concert goes.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
White Shoes, White Rabbits and White Chocolate
As a kid I looked forward to Easter with an excitement normally reserved for bigger holidays. To my mother’s dismay it had less to do with the Father, Son and the Holy Ghost as it did with clothes, a visit from the Easter bunny and chocolate.
Weeks before Easter we would hit the shops for a new dress. Something frilly with satin ribbons around the waist. White tights that by the end of the day would poke out at the knees, permanently stretched beyond their original form. The real prize was the pair of new white Patten leather shoes. The first scuff was like a dagger to the heart. Not to worry it’s nothing a squirt of Windex can’t fix. No Easter would be complete without a big, white floppy hat, preferably with the same color satin ribbon accenting the brim. At last I looked like a piece of chalk carrying a wicker basket in one hand and a stuffed bunny in the other.
Friends who joined us for Easter brunch at my grandmother’s house were always a little leery of the deviled eggs. My grandmother would always dye eggs before Easter but they were not your ordinary half one color half another color eggs. She would get the cups of dye ready, the kitchen smelling of vinegar and natural gas, then light a white candle. She would dip the blunt end of a stick pin in the wax and create intricate designs on the eggs before dipping them into the dye. I would do this with her but never with the same detailed results. My eggs had wax smears, my flowers and paisleys lopsided. Never one to waste food, she would peel and serve the dyed eggs at brunch as deviled eggs. There is something not quite right about eating a pink egg and the apprehension showed on every friend's face.
My father gave Easter Eve a sort of “too excited to sleep” kind of atmosphere. Before going to bed we would sprinkle white baby powder outside the front and back doors. That way he said we would be sure to know if the Easter Bunny visited because we would see his tracks. Once I was sleeping soundly, he would make potato stamps of bunny prints and arrange the tracks going in one door and out the other. Like rushing to see what’s under the Christmas tree, I would rush to the door to see if the Easter Bunny had visited. Once confirmation was made the search was on. I don’t know if most parents hid their children’s baskets but mine did. Would it be behind the curtains, inside my toy box, or maybe underneath the dining room table? A world of chocolate awaited me and I was not about to give up until I found my treasure.
I am thirty five years old now but sitting upstairs in a storage closet is an Easter basket my mother gave me last year. Only difference between this one and those of my childhood is I didn’t need to hunt for it, but don’t be fooled I would have done it in an instant.
As a kid I looked forward to Easter with an excitement normally reserved for bigger holidays. To my mother’s dismay it had less to do with the Father, Son and the Holy Ghost as it did with clothes, a visit from the Easter bunny and chocolate.
Weeks before Easter we would hit the shops for a new dress. Something frilly with satin ribbons around the waist. White tights that by the end of the day would poke out at the knees, permanently stretched beyond their original form. The real prize was the pair of new white Patten leather shoes. The first scuff was like a dagger to the heart. Not to worry it’s nothing a squirt of Windex can’t fix. No Easter would be complete without a big, white floppy hat, preferably with the same color satin ribbon accenting the brim. At last I looked like a piece of chalk carrying a wicker basket in one hand and a stuffed bunny in the other.
Friends who joined us for Easter brunch at my grandmother’s house were always a little leery of the deviled eggs. My grandmother would always dye eggs before Easter but they were not your ordinary half one color half another color eggs. She would get the cups of dye ready, the kitchen smelling of vinegar and natural gas, then light a white candle. She would dip the blunt end of a stick pin in the wax and create intricate designs on the eggs before dipping them into the dye. I would do this with her but never with the same detailed results. My eggs had wax smears, my flowers and paisleys lopsided. Never one to waste food, she would peel and serve the dyed eggs at brunch as deviled eggs. There is something not quite right about eating a pink egg and the apprehension showed on every friend's face.
My father gave Easter Eve a sort of “too excited to sleep” kind of atmosphere. Before going to bed we would sprinkle white baby powder outside the front and back doors. That way he said we would be sure to know if the Easter Bunny visited because we would see his tracks. Once I was sleeping soundly, he would make potato stamps of bunny prints and arrange the tracks going in one door and out the other. Like rushing to see what’s under the Christmas tree, I would rush to the door to see if the Easter Bunny had visited. Once confirmation was made the search was on. I don’t know if most parents hid their children’s baskets but mine did. Would it be behind the curtains, inside my toy box, or maybe underneath the dining room table? A world of chocolate awaited me and I was not about to give up until I found my treasure.
I am thirty five years old now but sitting upstairs in a storage closet is an Easter basket my mother gave me last year. Only difference between this one and those of my childhood is I didn’t need to hunt for it, but don’t be fooled I would have done it in an instant.
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