Closing the gap

Last night's floor hockey score: 11-4. One of these days we'll have a tie, and then, perhaps, a victory. It could happen. You never know. No matter that three of our four goals last night were scored by a guy who was just filling in for one game...

Found

This is a terrific site. Some of the items make me laugh out loud. I was having an absolute giggle fit over the one below.

Page 123

I've been tagged by Tami to do the following:

Grab the nearest book.
Open the book to page 123.
Find the fifth sentence.
Post the text of the next 3 sentences.
Post the name of the book and the author.
Tag three people.

Voici:

Afterward, Elizabeth May, who was a special assistant to federal environment minister Tom McMillan, was given permission to take a government jet to Haida Gwaii, and we flew off in a state of euphoria.

Our elation ended abruptly as we stepped out of the plane onto the tarmac at Sandspit, the logging community in Haida Gwaii. We were met by a mob of women pushing against the fence and screaming at us.

-David Suzuki, The Autobiography

If you aren't familiar with David Suzuki, visit his web site. He is a brilliant man whose messages are too important to be ignored.

I am tagging OrangeBlossomGoddess, Shannan and Katy.

A Tale of Two Sisters

This is not normally a "baby" blog, especially since I have no children, but you'll forgive me for posting the occasional set of adorable photos.

You first met Ava in April of last year. Ava's sister, Alexa, made her debut this past September. Look at them now:

Doubly good news

My friend Jishie and his wife, Renu, are going to be parents.... to twins! I have a couple of baby pictures of Jish. Perhaps the twins will look like this:

Congrats, Jish and Renu!

We try, honest we do.

Scott is currently taking a nice, hot bath, his reward to himself for scoring two of our three goals this evening. Me, I'm sheepishly sitting in the corner thinking about what I did (knocked a couple of opposing players on their asses).

Back in the saddle

The last time I had an official driving lesson was on October 4th. After that, more than a month passed before we finally bought a car that I thought I might be able to drive (the TARDIS). Well, almost two more months passed before I found the courage to try driving the thing. And guess what: I've completely regressed. Scott took me driving in the cemetery behind our house and the experience was uncomfortably similar to my very first attempt.

I know, I know, I assured you all that I would give you ample notice before I hit the road again, but I really didn't think there was much chance of running into you (figuratively speaking, of course) in my local cemetery. Anyhow, let's just say that our graveyard outing left Scott very, very tense and left me wondering if those official lessons with Lino were just a figment of my imagination.

As discouraging as that experience was, I knew that I had to get right back up on the horse. So I did (two weeks later). Today, ladies and gentlemen, I drove to the grocery store with Scott. I didn't drive home from the grocery store, since I didn't think that our nerves could handle it, but at least I drove one way.

The more I drive, the more I learn about myself as a driver. For instance, I've learned that trying to contort myself in order to check the huge blind spot is too distracting to be worthwhile. And my belief that rear view mirrors are useless grows ever stronger; after all, if I have to slam on the brakes to avoid crashing into the car in front of me, I certainly don't have the time to check my mirror first. What good would it do anyway? I simply don't have the coordination to look and drive at the same time. I mean, you've got pedals, the steering wheel, signals, mirrors... it's too much. I can barely pat my head and rub my tummy simultaneously. I'm doing my best to convince Scott that all I need to become a safer driver are these two signs on our car:

and

Scott's resistance to this idea puzzles me.

Introducing Evan Anthony...

...my brand-new first cousin once removed.

Evan receiving his very first kiss from his mommy.

Calamity Strikes Again

What happens when you put a Magic-Bag-type beanbag in the microwave and heat it up in order to apply it to your aching muscles? It heats up, that's what. What happens when Calamity Jenni puts a Magic-Bag-type beanbag in the microwave? Why, it explodes into flame, of course.

The entire house smells like singed popcorn.

(And yes, my aching muscles would happen to be related to the 14-2 loss we suffered in floor hockey last night.)

Pile it on

Remember this post? Probably not, but here's an update anyway. After some coaxing, our friends created a Stuff On My Kid site. It's a site whose time has come.

For a guy who hates dogs...

...Scott does some pretty strange things.

I am a child...

...which is why I giggle at signs like the one below.

False consolation

And I think that my cat is fat. This is a portrait of my parents' cat, Jake.

You don't have to understand

www.elephantthieves.blogspot.com

Cute or hideous?

I can't decide. Are pugs adorable or are they ugly? See, here this little guy looks cute...

...but here, well... What's your vote?

And so it begins.

Inexplicably, I have once again agreed to sign up for a season of floor hockey. When I think of the sport (and I snicker when I call it a sport), I think of this:

or this:

...not this:

...nor this:

...and certainly not this:

So it surprised me to find out that there are scads of adult floor hockey leagues out there. I figured that our local sports club had included floor hockey as a joke and that the staff must have been flabbergasted when people started signing up to play. Not so. Just Google "floor hockey" and you'll see what I mean. It's everywhere. There are even a number of universities with floor hockey teams. Heck, San Diego has an entire floor hockey league. What's next, competitive jumpsies? Professional hopscotch?

Floor hockey: it's not just for grade school anymore.

This doesn't mean that I feel any more grown up when I pick up a wee plastic stick and run around a primary-school gymnasium for 55 minutes. Except for the huffing and puffing and profuse sweating part. And the aching muscles the following day. That makes me feel old.

How to say thank you

What brilliant niche marketing! If you were searching for a gift that said, "Thank you for looking after my dog," wouldn't you buy this?

I would.

I wouldn't even care what was in the box, to be honest.

(It happens to be vanilla fudge.)