We got Elsa Jane and her sister, Eleanor, as young cats. They were past the aww stage of kittendom, but were still sort of little. We adopted them while we still lived in the apartment on Grand. We already had Sophie and I am not really sure what made us think that two more cats were a necessity, but apparently it was. So we got two more kitties.
Eleanor was black and white. Elsa all black. Both polydactyl. Eleanor had a potty problem and could not continue to live with us after she ruined our leather couch and chair. Now, I am not one to give up on animals quickly, but a cat that likes to pick her own potty spot is a problem that is hard to overcome. The vet would not keep her on the medicine that helped the problem (because it could cause other problems) so she had to go back to the place hence she came.
Elsa did not have a potty problem so she got to stay.
Elsa Jane, or Janie, as she is often called is the most exotic of our kitties. She is all shiny black. In the dark, she is invisible.
She is here on me now as I attempt to type. She purrs loudly as if to drown out the typing sound. She is not very affectionate so I feel extra special when she wants the love. Kneading my tummy and rubbing up against my hand. I have to keep correcting her/my typing errors.
Elsa, with her extra toes on all her paws, is a bit of a loner. She is often found in the folds of a comforter on someones bed. Where Sophie seeks out the comfort of another, Elsa enjoys the solitude.
Elsa smokes a pack of Camel unfiltered a day. Or at least that is what it sounds like when she meows. It is all raspy and kind of bitchy like. Even when she is trying to be sweet, she sounds like a crab.
Emmitt, our other cat, is sometimes allowed to hang out with Elsa. Elsa doesn't like us to see this side of her so when we happen to walk in on the two of them hanging out, one of them (Emmitt) quickly leaves. It makes me smile to think of this cat with her street smart attitude hanging out with the sweater vest cat.
Elsa is Jacob's girl. She hangs out in his room. Comes around to rub against his leg. She is also buddies with Harlow. Elsa doesn't show her soft side to too many people. Especially if those people are little.
Our Elsa, with her disdain for most, is so sweet to us. She may appear to be mean or aloof, but she is just misunderstood. She loves her Jacob, her rolls in the sun, her treats and her alone time.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Happy Birthday To ME!!!
I'm 42 today. And I am a happy girl! This birthday was spent with Danny and Jacob. The girls are away at their big girl schools. Won't be home until tomorrow evening. Jacob and Danny took me to Puss in Boots and then we got McDonald's. It was easy and fun and it was the best because my best guys were with me. And honestly, there is nothing I would rather have for my birthday than that!
Birthdays on Park Ave had some reoccurring themes. Out to eat followed by cake and ice cream at home. I always chose Bob's Big Boy. I always got the fish 'n chips. It came in a basket with fake newspaper. I also got the chocolate shake. After dinner, we would go home and have cake and ice cream.
Cakes were generally the same, angel food cake with white frosting. Sometimes I would opt for yellow cake with chocolate frosting. But angel food was my favorite. I remember it cooling on a pop bottle. Hanging upside down on a glass Pepsi bottle back when there were glass Pepsi bottles. We had a cake plate. It wasn't a fancy glass plate, just a plate that the cakes always went on. And the cakes were stored in a silver domed cake saver. It had little locks on the side.
Anyway, back to the cake. Angel food, frosted in white. Decorated in my choice of two colors. And traditionally it looked like this. Happy Birthday Anne on the top in a semi circle on the top of the cake. Current age on the side of the cake, once on each quarter. Then a row of stars on the bottom alternating my two color choices in frosting OR two rolls of stars, one row for each color. This pattern would repeat itself at the top of the cake, too. All leftover frosting would find itself between a couple of graham crackers. Graham cracker cookies are the best part of left over frosting!
Cake got candles, we all sat on the couch, presents were neatly arranged on coffee table, photo was snapped. I look back at those photos to see the year I got my first pair of jeans (1975) or which year I got a stuffed animal (most of the '70's) or when my feet were puffy (1971).
I remember the year that Susan Kath gave me a box of chocolates. I didn't have a party, she just gave it to me. It was real grown up, too. That was pretty neat.
There was the year that I was late to celebrate because Crissy ran a stop sign or something and the cop took forever with us because he was sure that Crissy and I were twins and he needed to see both our ID's. I don't know if she ended up with a ticket but the cop must have felt pretty stupid when he saw that we were over seven years apart.
There was the year that Danny was in Saudi Arabia and Mom and Dad had flown me and my little belly home to Cedar Rapids from Oceanside. I turned 21 that year. Danny sent me roses. Crissy took me out to the bars so I could drink water. I got hit on that night. Guy asked why I was drinking water and I said that I was pregnant (didn't take that hint). He then asked where my boyfriend was and I told him my husband was in Saudi Arabia (took that hint)!
Danny and the kids have always made my birthday wonderful. There have been breakfasts in bed. Amazingly wrapped presents. Really thoughtful gifts. I got a surprise roller skating party for my 38th birthday and a party at the house for my 40th. Even the years that Danny and I were apart, he was making it special for me.
So tonight, as I blow out my 42 candles, I don't really need to wish. I have a man that loves me like crazy. A son that loves me so much he would go to Puss in Boots with me. Two daughters that will shower me with birthday love tomorrow. I have an amazing family that is far flung but through the miracle of Facebook, is right here with me! I have friends, old and new that support me and tolerate me. so other than the winning powerball ticket, I really wish for nothing more than this life I have and another 42 birthdays plus 8!
Birthdays on Park Ave had some reoccurring themes. Out to eat followed by cake and ice cream at home. I always chose Bob's Big Boy. I always got the fish 'n chips. It came in a basket with fake newspaper. I also got the chocolate shake. After dinner, we would go home and have cake and ice cream.
Cakes were generally the same, angel food cake with white frosting. Sometimes I would opt for yellow cake with chocolate frosting. But angel food was my favorite. I remember it cooling on a pop bottle. Hanging upside down on a glass Pepsi bottle back when there were glass Pepsi bottles. We had a cake plate. It wasn't a fancy glass plate, just a plate that the cakes always went on. And the cakes were stored in a silver domed cake saver. It had little locks on the side.
Anyway, back to the cake. Angel food, frosted in white. Decorated in my choice of two colors. And traditionally it looked like this. Happy Birthday Anne on the top in a semi circle on the top of the cake. Current age on the side of the cake, once on each quarter. Then a row of stars on the bottom alternating my two color choices in frosting OR two rolls of stars, one row for each color. This pattern would repeat itself at the top of the cake, too. All leftover frosting would find itself between a couple of graham crackers. Graham cracker cookies are the best part of left over frosting!
Cake got candles, we all sat on the couch, presents were neatly arranged on coffee table, photo was snapped. I look back at those photos to see the year I got my first pair of jeans (1975) or which year I got a stuffed animal (most of the '70's) or when my feet were puffy (1971).
I remember the year that Susan Kath gave me a box of chocolates. I didn't have a party, she just gave it to me. It was real grown up, too. That was pretty neat.
There was the year that I was late to celebrate because Crissy ran a stop sign or something and the cop took forever with us because he was sure that Crissy and I were twins and he needed to see both our ID's. I don't know if she ended up with a ticket but the cop must have felt pretty stupid when he saw that we were over seven years apart.
There was the year that Danny was in Saudi Arabia and Mom and Dad had flown me and my little belly home to Cedar Rapids from Oceanside. I turned 21 that year. Danny sent me roses. Crissy took me out to the bars so I could drink water. I got hit on that night. Guy asked why I was drinking water and I said that I was pregnant (didn't take that hint). He then asked where my boyfriend was and I told him my husband was in Saudi Arabia (took that hint)!
Danny and the kids have always made my birthday wonderful. There have been breakfasts in bed. Amazingly wrapped presents. Really thoughtful gifts. I got a surprise roller skating party for my 38th birthday and a party at the house for my 40th. Even the years that Danny and I were apart, he was making it special for me.
So tonight, as I blow out my 42 candles, I don't really need to wish. I have a man that loves me like crazy. A son that loves me so much he would go to Puss in Boots with me. Two daughters that will shower me with birthday love tomorrow. I have an amazing family that is far flung but through the miracle of Facebook, is right here with me! I have friends, old and new that support me and tolerate me. so other than the winning powerball ticket, I really wish for nothing more than this life I have and another 42 birthdays plus 8!
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
The IC Bazaar
Fondly I look back at this time of year, the week before Thanksgiving. At my house, it smelled of permanent marker and pie. It was IC Bazaar time.
Mom, as a member of St. Cecilia's Circle, would be busy in the kitchen making pies to sell by the slice from the kitchen at IC school. I don't remember what else was served, but Jan Doyle made the most amazing cupcakes. The frosting was meringue and there was a chocolate kiss stuck on top. They were like nothing I had ever seen before. Quite spectacular!
Dad, as the resident artist, was commandeered to make signs. I remember laying on the old couch (the one with the two pieces) and watching him. Big sheets of white paper spread out on the floor. He would use the yard stick to make the faintest of lines on the paper so his words were straight. (Then he would smack one of us kids with the yard stick. That part was just a bonus for him.) He would again use the faintest of pressure and write out the words on the sign. It was usually the menu for St. Cecilia's. Then it was time for the markers. Standford brand, black, red and blue. Chisel tip. Smelled up the whole downstairs. My dad was the best damn sign maker. He had such a steady hand. I especially remember how he would make the 0. He wouldn't make a circle motion but instead he would make a ( and then a ). It was always perfect.
Then is was Sunday, Bazaar day! This always fell close to my birthday, sometimes on my birthday. The day before I was born was a Bazaar Sunday. My 5th birthday was a Bazaar Sunday.
IC school was an old school. The gym and cafeteria were in the lower level. The gym was also the auditorium. The bazaar was set up in the gym. A huge tarp was put down to protect the parquet floor. Tables were set up all along the wall, and in the middle. Every circle had a table. A circle, as best as I could tell as a little girl, was a group of women that got together and made stuff to sell at the bazaar. Each circle was named after a saint. And the Mexican women belonged to the Lady of Guadalupe circle. Mrs. Hernandez was in that circle. I loved the Lady of Guadalupe table because Mary was always in such pretty dresses at that table.
In addition to the tables was the Fishing Booth. OH MY GOD! The best booth ever. It was always a good prize because the people behind the booth could look out and see who it was, girl/boy and age. The other best table was the Mrs. Larkin's circle's table. That was a table with wrapped presents on it. The presents were marked with an age and sex. We would try to feel what the present was through the wrap. I got so much crap from that table!
And then it was time to eat. Other than the cupcake, I have no idea of what I ate. Then, off to mom or dad for more money so I could go fishing again.
I hung out with the Derby girls at the Bazaar. Jean Derby was in the same circle as my mom. Bill Derby was hanging out with my dad doing booster club type of stuff. I think they were usually with Father Hess shooting the shit by the back door. Dad would be in his IC sweatshirt or IC windbreaker. Father Moelner might come by in his collar but he would have a royal blue sweater on over it. IC colors were blue and white.
If we could, we would go up stairs to look at the mural outside the office door. It was a mural of life in the school. IC used to be a high school, too. So 1st grade to 12th grade were once in those halls. The mural was grand. I remember it showed a basketball player towards the end. But the story of IC is for another day.
One year for my birthday I got a trio of Sock Monkeys. Mopsey, Flopsey and Topsey. It was a mom, dad and baby. And they were genuine sock monkeys made from real socks.
There was something so amazing about those times. I knew just about everyone at that bazaar. IC was a close knit parish. Families raised their kids together. They socialized together and they made this community on the corner of 3rd and 10th. The bazaar was the start of the Christmas season. It was my birthday time. It was magical. I long for one more Sunday in November, with fishing pole in hand, hoping for something good. I long for my Mom and Jeanie Derby behind the counter. My dad sneaking out the door for a smoke. And I long for my sock monkey family, the smell of magic marker and the squeaky sound it made on the paper in the living room while I laid on the old couch.
Mom, as a member of St. Cecilia's Circle, would be busy in the kitchen making pies to sell by the slice from the kitchen at IC school. I don't remember what else was served, but Jan Doyle made the most amazing cupcakes. The frosting was meringue and there was a chocolate kiss stuck on top. They were like nothing I had ever seen before. Quite spectacular!
Dad, as the resident artist, was commandeered to make signs. I remember laying on the old couch (the one with the two pieces) and watching him. Big sheets of white paper spread out on the floor. He would use the yard stick to make the faintest of lines on the paper so his words were straight. (Then he would smack one of us kids with the yard stick. That part was just a bonus for him.) He would again use the faintest of pressure and write out the words on the sign. It was usually the menu for St. Cecilia's. Then it was time for the markers. Standford brand, black, red and blue. Chisel tip. Smelled up the whole downstairs. My dad was the best damn sign maker. He had such a steady hand. I especially remember how he would make the 0. He wouldn't make a circle motion but instead he would make a ( and then a ). It was always perfect.
Then is was Sunday, Bazaar day! This always fell close to my birthday, sometimes on my birthday. The day before I was born was a Bazaar Sunday. My 5th birthday was a Bazaar Sunday.
IC school was an old school. The gym and cafeteria were in the lower level. The gym was also the auditorium. The bazaar was set up in the gym. A huge tarp was put down to protect the parquet floor. Tables were set up all along the wall, and in the middle. Every circle had a table. A circle, as best as I could tell as a little girl, was a group of women that got together and made stuff to sell at the bazaar. Each circle was named after a saint. And the Mexican women belonged to the Lady of Guadalupe circle. Mrs. Hernandez was in that circle. I loved the Lady of Guadalupe table because Mary was always in such pretty dresses at that table.
In addition to the tables was the Fishing Booth. OH MY GOD! The best booth ever. It was always a good prize because the people behind the booth could look out and see who it was, girl/boy and age. The other best table was the Mrs. Larkin's circle's table. That was a table with wrapped presents on it. The presents were marked with an age and sex. We would try to feel what the present was through the wrap. I got so much crap from that table!
And then it was time to eat. Other than the cupcake, I have no idea of what I ate. Then, off to mom or dad for more money so I could go fishing again.
I hung out with the Derby girls at the Bazaar. Jean Derby was in the same circle as my mom. Bill Derby was hanging out with my dad doing booster club type of stuff. I think they were usually with Father Hess shooting the shit by the back door. Dad would be in his IC sweatshirt or IC windbreaker. Father Moelner might come by in his collar but he would have a royal blue sweater on over it. IC colors were blue and white.
If we could, we would go up stairs to look at the mural outside the office door. It was a mural of life in the school. IC used to be a high school, too. So 1st grade to 12th grade were once in those halls. The mural was grand. I remember it showed a basketball player towards the end. But the story of IC is for another day.
One year for my birthday I got a trio of Sock Monkeys. Mopsey, Flopsey and Topsey. It was a mom, dad and baby. And they were genuine sock monkeys made from real socks.
There was something so amazing about those times. I knew just about everyone at that bazaar. IC was a close knit parish. Families raised their kids together. They socialized together and they made this community on the corner of 3rd and 10th. The bazaar was the start of the Christmas season. It was my birthday time. It was magical. I long for one more Sunday in November, with fishing pole in hand, hoping for something good. I long for my Mom and Jeanie Derby behind the counter. My dad sneaking out the door for a smoke. And I long for my sock monkey family, the smell of magic marker and the squeaky sound it made on the paper in the living room while I laid on the old couch.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Night Trax...
The Eagles, Chicago and Toto, I despise them all. And don’t get all ruffled up and start to tell me what a great band The Eagles is. I know that they are a great band. Just like Tom Brady is a great quarterback and we all know how I feel about him!
I suppose I should have started this blog with some sort of disclaimer: the opinions expressed in this blog are of the author’s and you don’t have to agree with them, but they are right.
Picture, if you will, pre MTV days at my house. Music videos were on Friday nights after the Tonight Show. Aptly named Friday Night Videos. And Night Trax on TBS! That was on Friday and Saturday nights. There you have it, my two nights of music videos. If I did not catch Duran Duran and Spandau Ballet on one of those two nights, I had 6 to 7 days of just radio. No John Taylor, no Roger Taylor.
So there I am, on a Friday night circa 1984. There is no remote for this television so I must get up, walk to the box on top of the TV and make the switch from NBC to TBS. Thankfully, it was only a slight turn of the knob because TBS was channel 4 and NBC was channel 7. On a good night, I would get a heavy rotation of The Cure, Thompson Twins, Duran Duran and Culture Club and then (Son of a Bitch) The Eagles, or one of the band members doing a solo project. Well, I might sit through Don Henley, but if it was Joe Walsh or the creepy looking one, I would have to get up, take the seven or so steps to the TV, turn the knob three or four clicks and hope…
And what do I get “Hard to say I’m Sorry”. Oh, Peter Cetra, you will be sorry if you continue to screw up my Friday night with this maudlin crap! I am not interested in your 40 piece band; I would like some men in make up with better hair than me singing something poppy. So, I turn the knob again and I hope…
And what do I see, that bitch dancing up against the fence. Ok, she is probably a very nice person, that Mrs. Swayze. But get off my TV. Rosanna. Seriously, am I supposed to buy into the crazy idea that Rosanna would be interested in the likes of that ragtag group of men. Africa ? Yes, please sing about a continent. Why don’t you follow that toe tapper with some other geography based song.
Oh, I can go on and on. Get a couple beers in me and I will. Music television wasn’t made for the likes of them. It was made for the likes of Billy Idol, WHAM, Pat Benatar and Aha! Oh, and Bonnie Tyler. Let's not forget Bonnie Tyler and her creepy school boys with their glow in the dark eyes. And the horsehead, what the hell is that at one in the morning, almost a horror flick.
Say what you want about The Eagles, tell me of all their hits, their awards, their honors and accolades. And I will tell you that they were an ugly group of men made for radio.
Her name was Rio and she danced upon the sand…
Sunday, November 13, 2011
The Dallas Cowboys
I clearly remember having procured a large piece of grey paper. It was actually the unfolded folder from a Mead three ring binder. But it was grey which was close to silver and that was going to have to do for this little art project. I was drawing a Dallas Cowboys helmet to hang on my wall. I had never tried to draw a helmet before and because I had chosen to draw the finest helmet in the world of football, no one at my house was eager to help me. Had I been working on a Bears or Packers helmet, there would have been many available hands, but I stood alone as a Cowboy.
So, how does a young girl like myself become a fan of America's team? It had to of happened prior to the 1978 season because I remember Roger Staubach quarterbacking. I remember Terry Bradshaw being my arch nemesis. I remember thinking Fran wasn't a very football player type of name, but neither was Rosey and look at him!
I remember Tom Landry and his suit. And today I look at the likes of Bill Belichick and am embarrassed for him and his flashdance styled sweatshirt. And his long haired hippie QB. (oh, that's another story!)
I suppose it was the cheerleaders that I first noticed. What girl didn't want to be a cheerleader? And to be a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader, Holy Cow. And I had already been a rhinestone cowgirl (thank you, Glen Campbell) for Tot Lot. So I am sure that that was the initial draw to the Cowboys.
In 1985-86, I jumped onto the Chicago Bears bandwagon and learned the Super Bowl shuffle. The Bears were always my second favorite team so this wasn't a big leap at all. I remember watching Walter Payton play and my dad would point out to me how he always pushed the ball forward when he was hit. Walter Payton will always be my definition of a class act.
In 1988, I fell in love with another Cowboy, Danny White. The fan, not the former QB. Though Danny was named after him. Beginning in 1991, we have successfully raised three additional Dallas Cowboy fans. Ashlyn, Hayley and Jacob. There was a period in 1994 that Hayley wanted to be a Vikings fan because she thought they were the Lion Kings. Once she understood that there was no greater team than Dallas, she came back into the fold.
It is never easy to be a Cowboys fan. If we are having a great year, we are hated. If we are having a bad year, we are ridiculed. But I continue to wear the Blue and Silver. I continue to yell at the TV, swear at Tony Romo and curse Jerry Jones for picking up Terrell Owens and letting Marion Barber go. (Good thing the Bears are my #2).
And today, we put another hash mark in the win column. Had it gone the other way, well, I would have been disappointed, but I would still love the 'boys, wear the blue and silver, be a fan of America's Team!
So, how does a young girl like myself become a fan of America's team? It had to of happened prior to the 1978 season because I remember Roger Staubach quarterbacking. I remember Terry Bradshaw being my arch nemesis. I remember thinking Fran wasn't a very football player type of name, but neither was Rosey and look at him!
I remember Tom Landry and his suit. And today I look at the likes of Bill Belichick and am embarrassed for him and his flashdance styled sweatshirt. And his long haired hippie QB. (oh, that's another story!)
I suppose it was the cheerleaders that I first noticed. What girl didn't want to be a cheerleader? And to be a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader, Holy Cow. And I had already been a rhinestone cowgirl (thank you, Glen Campbell) for Tot Lot. So I am sure that that was the initial draw to the Cowboys.
In 1985-86, I jumped onto the Chicago Bears bandwagon and learned the Super Bowl shuffle. The Bears were always my second favorite team so this wasn't a big leap at all. I remember watching Walter Payton play and my dad would point out to me how he always pushed the ball forward when he was hit. Walter Payton will always be my definition of a class act.
In 1988, I fell in love with another Cowboy, Danny White. The fan, not the former QB. Though Danny was named after him. Beginning in 1991, we have successfully raised three additional Dallas Cowboy fans. Ashlyn, Hayley and Jacob. There was a period in 1994 that Hayley wanted to be a Vikings fan because she thought they were the Lion Kings. Once she understood that there was no greater team than Dallas, she came back into the fold.
It is never easy to be a Cowboys fan. If we are having a great year, we are hated. If we are having a bad year, we are ridiculed. But I continue to wear the Blue and Silver. I continue to yell at the TV, swear at Tony Romo and curse Jerry Jones for picking up Terrell Owens and letting Marion Barber go. (Good thing the Bears are my #2).
And today, we put another hash mark in the win column. Had it gone the other way, well, I would have been disappointed, but I would still love the 'boys, wear the blue and silver, be a fan of America's Team!
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Ready for some football
I screwed up this year. I only made it to two high school football games. One small town game and one big town game. Early in the season, Danny and I drove out to Guthrie Center to watch the Tigers play. Last night, Alice and I drove to the UNIDOME to watch another Tiger team play. Both teams won, but on very different fields.
The Guthrie Center Tigers are a Class A team with 37 players. Danny and I watched them win against Riverside. It was a great game played with a lot of heart. The GC Tigers ended up with a 2 - 7 record. But there was that Friday Night Football feeling out in the stands. The parents, bundled under blankets, the kids running amuck around the stands, the cheerleaders clapping and stomping their way to team spirit. The student section full of oddly dressed, face painted kids.
The West Des Moines Valley Tigers are a Class 4A team with 81 players. I went to the semifinals at the UNIDome with my friend, Alice. It was a great match up with Ankeny, but the game was not nearly as exciting as I hoped. I suppose the two teams were pretty evenly matched and Valley made a few too many mistakes for me. But Valley won and will play in the championship game next Friday. Their current record is 13-0.
A typical Valley home game finds you in a beautiful state of the art stadium. It feels like a college stadium and that's ok. A lot of people think it is silly, but it is built and that's that. Besides, the only real difference between the GC Tigers game and a Valley Tigers game is the size. There are more chilly parents, more kids, more cheerleaders and a lot more students.
But football is football. It is well padded boys/men trying to get a ball across a thick white line. It is how, and how often, that they get the ball there that matters. I don't care if I am watching pee wee or pros. The love of the game keeps me coming back for more. And there lies my problem, I have not watched enough football this year. I waited too long and my physce has paid dearly for it. There is no other place that I can eat a walking taco while wrapped in a fleece blanket under bright lights. All while watching the game. Where else can I mutter "getem! getem! getem!" under my breath? Followed by "son of a bitch!" when he doesn't.
Next year, I will be in the Tiger stands. Either Tiger. Small town, big town, it doesn't matter as long as it is Friday night under the lights.
The Guthrie Center Tigers are a Class A team with 37 players. Danny and I watched them win against Riverside. It was a great game played with a lot of heart. The GC Tigers ended up with a 2 - 7 record. But there was that Friday Night Football feeling out in the stands. The parents, bundled under blankets, the kids running amuck around the stands, the cheerleaders clapping and stomping their way to team spirit. The student section full of oddly dressed, face painted kids.
The West Des Moines Valley Tigers are a Class 4A team with 81 players. I went to the semifinals at the UNIDome with my friend, Alice. It was a great match up with Ankeny, but the game was not nearly as exciting as I hoped. I suppose the two teams were pretty evenly matched and Valley made a few too many mistakes for me. But Valley won and will play in the championship game next Friday. Their current record is 13-0.
A typical Valley home game finds you in a beautiful state of the art stadium. It feels like a college stadium and that's ok. A lot of people think it is silly, but it is built and that's that. Besides, the only real difference between the GC Tigers game and a Valley Tigers game is the size. There are more chilly parents, more kids, more cheerleaders and a lot more students.
But football is football. It is well padded boys/men trying to get a ball across a thick white line. It is how, and how often, that they get the ball there that matters. I don't care if I am watching pee wee or pros. The love of the game keeps me coming back for more. And there lies my problem, I have not watched enough football this year. I waited too long and my physce has paid dearly for it. There is no other place that I can eat a walking taco while wrapped in a fleece blanket under bright lights. All while watching the game. Where else can I mutter "getem! getem! getem!" under my breath? Followed by "son of a bitch!" when he doesn't.
Next year, I will be in the Tiger stands. Either Tiger. Small town, big town, it doesn't matter as long as it is Friday night under the lights.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Happy 236th Birthday Marines and Happy Veteran's Day
I am not a Marine, never have, never will. But I have known the Corps for most of my life. My oldest brother, Bobby joined when he was 17. I would have been eight. I remember when the recruiter came to our house to pick him up. They drove those awful mint green cars. The recruiter looked so sharp and my brother so not. He spent eight years in the USMC, going to Okinawa, Moscow and Wellington. My other brother, Dick, joined when he was 19. I was 13 and clearly remember missing him terribly. He stayed in four years and spent a lot of those years in Hawaii.
I was proud of my brothers. I liked to brag about them, especially to my friends who had brothers in the Navy. I didn't know why that was an important dig, but it was. My brothers were part of something bigger. I was a proud little sister with a stuffed bulldog and a USMC t-shirt.
When Danny and I were dating and he started to talk about the military. I was hoping that he would chose the Marines. I knew what it did for my brothers, and I was excited about what it could do for Danny. 18 months after we met, Danny headed to MCRD San Diego for bootcamp. I would not see him again until the night before our wedding.
I cannot begin to explain what the Corps means to me. For four years, I was married to it. And proudly so. I knew "if the Marines wanted you to have a wife, they would have issued you one." I was sort of prepared for the deployments and long training days. I had been warned by my brothers, by the recruiters, by every other Leatherneck that we met on our way to the altar. But I don't regret my days a Marine wife. I relish them. There is a pride, a sense of honor, an esprit de corps like no other branch of the military. And I mean no disrespect, I spent four years as an Army wife and loved every moment. But there was a difference.
I could not be any prouder of my Marine, my Army Airborne Ranger Marine. He has followed a long tradition of Leathernecks, Devil Dogs, Jarheads and so many names that I am too ladylike to repeat.
I have been to the Marine Corps Museum twice. It is amazing. It is humbling. It is gratifying to know that there are men and women, that for 236 years now, walk that line every night so that I can sleep soundly.
And tomorrow, 11-11, I will thank God, or providence or my lucky stars that I was fortunate enough to be from a nation that raises boys and girls up to men and women that want to serve and support and protect me and my family and the dirtbag down the street that doesn't do anything but put them down. It takes a person of extraordinary strength, faith and courage to say "Yes, I will protect and defend these Untied States with my life, if necessary" I am so very grateful to you and to your families. Thank you.
1992
I was proud of my brothers. I liked to brag about them, especially to my friends who had brothers in the Navy. I didn't know why that was an important dig, but it was. My brothers were part of something bigger. I was a proud little sister with a stuffed bulldog and a USMC t-shirt.
When Danny and I were dating and he started to talk about the military. I was hoping that he would chose the Marines. I knew what it did for my brothers, and I was excited about what it could do for Danny. 18 months after we met, Danny headed to MCRD San Diego for bootcamp. I would not see him again until the night before our wedding.
I cannot begin to explain what the Corps means to me. For four years, I was married to it. And proudly so. I knew "if the Marines wanted you to have a wife, they would have issued you one." I was sort of prepared for the deployments and long training days. I had been warned by my brothers, by the recruiters, by every other Leatherneck that we met on our way to the altar. But I don't regret my days a Marine wife. I relish them. There is a pride, a sense of honor, an esprit de corps like no other branch of the military. And I mean no disrespect, I spent four years as an Army wife and loved every moment. But there was a difference.
I could not be any prouder of my Marine, my Army Airborne Ranger Marine. He has followed a long tradition of Leathernecks, Devil Dogs, Jarheads and so many names that I am too ladylike to repeat.
I have been to the Marine Corps Museum twice. It is amazing. It is humbling. It is gratifying to know that there are men and women, that for 236 years now, walk that line every night so that I can sleep soundly.
And tomorrow, 11-11, I will thank God, or providence or my lucky stars that I was fortunate enough to be from a nation that raises boys and girls up to men and women that want to serve and support and protect me and my family and the dirtbag down the street that doesn't do anything but put them down. It takes a person of extraordinary strength, faith and courage to say "Yes, I will protect and defend these Untied States with my life, if necessary" I am so very grateful to you and to your families. Thank you.
Tonight I had the honor of attending the Marine Corps birthday party at a local bar. The oldest Marine was a Korean war vet and a "China Marine". The youngest was 6 days out of bootcamp. In between were a bunch of old marines, reserve marines, drunk marines. And the caption on the cake read "Old Breed? New Breed? It does not make a damn bit of difference as long as it is the Marine Breed." LtGEN Chesty Puller.
1992
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