Sundays in My City: Triathlon Report

So, this morning was the long-awaited triathlon. Really, I can't think of a better way to honor Paul's diligent work as a father than to allow him to do what he (and I) do best...watch our children while I chase my various flights of fancy.

I had whipped myself into a bit of a frenzy prior to the race. At the informational meeting, there was much talk of the various egregious errors that could result in the dreaded DQ (disqualification). Triathlon, apparently, is the Soup Nazi of endurance sports. One mistake and..."No Race For You!!"

Additionally, the organizer said more than once that Triathlon is a "thinking person's sport." Shit. Nobody told me this was freakin' chess. 

I managed to arrive by 6:30 AM. It was already about eighty-eight degrees. I dutifully set up my items in the "staging area." Note the socks-in-shoes awesomeness. Thinking person's sport.

 (Never mind that I had to take the socks out of the shoes to put them on...)

It takes a village for me to run a triathlon. I borrowed my friend Darlene's tri-suit, my friend Joanne's bike, and my friend Sellina's helmet. I also had an amazing team of ladies who trained and raced together:

I'm sure they will be thrilled I put this picture on the Interwebz. I'm the one rocking the camel-toe.

Something odd about triathlon racing is that they put your age on your back leg in Sharpie. Everybody wears signs, "I'm sixty-three!" "I'm forty!" "I'm twenty-seven!"

I made me realize that when it comes to telling age, I don't know a damn thing. While I was running, I was ready to kick this girl's ass...until I read that she was twelve. I was happy to see how good forty looks on so many people. Yet, if you asked me to guess, I would have been wrong almost every time. As a narcissist, I believe everybody is my age.

Except doctors. I'm too young to be a doctor. Is it possible that doctors were born in the Ford Administration?

I could go on, but I'll cut to the chase. I tried my best. I worked hard. I was happy with the results.

I also won a door prize, for something called "Heed" electrolyte drink in "Subtle Melon flavor." This made me laugh for two reasons:

1) I kept thinking of Mike Myers in So I Married An Axe Murderer, yelling at his son in a Scottish brogue, "Heed! Move! Now!"

2) If you're gonna drink Melon, why be subtle? I prefer EXTREME HARD-CORE MELON personally.

(I guess humor is subjective, because I just cracked myself up, again.)

Just 'cause, here's a picture of Joel eating a sandwich.

Happy Father's Day!

Thanks to Unknown Mami for Hosting Sundays in My City

I'm Trying to Get It.

Happy Monday, world!

I have  a post up at Laugh Out Loud about my experiences living just minutes away from a Nuclear Power Plant. 

Nothing says funny like nuclear energy. If we can split the atom, we can split your sides laughing.

Em...yeah.

I think it's best if I move on.

***
Over the weekend, Owen had another tee-ball game. Owen views the game as a wonderful opportunity to fill his cap with infield dirt and occasionally watch a ball roll by. He's four, after all.

However, at this particular game, Owen was the catcher. He spent most of the time holding hands with the base coach (in tee ball, there is usually one adult per base) and, of course, kicking the fabulous dirt.

Sadly, the duty of putting the ball back on the tee prevented him from making his customary dirt Taj Mahal.

Additionally, Owen had the job of tagging the last runner out. In tee ball, they don't keep score and the last hitter always runs the bases. This provides ample opportunity for the kids to get the ball, pick their noses, throw the ball in the wrong direction, sit down and cry in the outfield, and eventually roll the ball to home plate.

When Owen had the ball in his hand, he jogged towards the runner, prepared to tag him out. He had the eye of the tiger, the fire in his belly. He was ready to do his job.

He tagged this child with the ball.  Right in the gut. And, he, um....knocked the wind out of the kid and made him cry.

I was concerned about the kid. Owen was oblivious. Owen's coaching staff, however, was quite impressed.

His coach came up to me, his eyes bright, and said, "Owen tagged the SNOT outta that kid!"

Another coach said, "Wow, Owen, way to go! Way to be aggressive."

This, once again, demonstrates that I don't get boys or sports at all.

If I was the coach, I would have cautioned the boys to be more careful and would have made Owen apologize to the other kid (who recovered quickly, by the way). I would have suggested a high five, or perhaps a hug.

I told this to my husband, and he rolled his eyes. "Really, Nance?"

Like I said, I don't get it at all.

I recognize that this is just the tip of the iceberg as a mother of sons. Although I do think farts are hilarious and I've been known to throw worms out the window on the way to preschool, there are things about my sons and husband that I will never, ever, get.


The awesomeness of boobs.
The allure of peeing through PVC pipe in the backyard.
The Deadliest Catch. 
Tee-ball thuggery. 


Ladies: What will you never, ever get about your husbands/partners/sons?

Male Readers: (Both of you.) Help me get it.

I know, I know!

1. There's a certain cable company (that rhymes with Bombast) that is on my On Notice list, because my computer became glacially slow over the weekend. Meaning, I wasn't able to post my blogs, check Facebook or email. I came to realize that I don't just "like" my computer these days. I was getting jittery, needing my digital fix. It could have been ugly if it didn't magically correct itself. So yes, all three of my readers, everything is okay. My computer just became prehistoric.

2. I know that the bedtime prayer is "Now, I lay me," not "Down, I lay me" thanks to your watchful eyes. What can I say? I'm specific about how I sleep. I don't stand up, hang upside down, or hover when I sleep. I recline, dammit. And I want to make sure God knows it.

3. I went to a baptism of two boys (sons of good friends), and, once again, I'm struck by the fact that it's such a holy event. I get teary eyed whenever I see a group of loving people commit to teach the next generation about love, hope, justice, forgiveness, and peace--God's commission for us all. If I was a pastor, baptisms would be my favorite part of my job. That, and budget meetings.

4. The AZ Cardinals, a state joke for as long as I lived in AZ, are going to the Super Bowl. So, I'm struck. Should I pretend to be a Cardinals fan, even though I can't name a single member of the roster, since they "come" from my home state? Or, should I be a Steelers fan because I have tons of friends from the Pittsburgh area that bleed yellow and black? I know the name of the Steelers's quarterback (Ben Rothesberger--although I don't know if I know how to spell his name). I even know that Steelers fans have something called a Terrible Towel. The Cardinals have no towels, terrible or otherwise.

So, here's how I'll make my decision: A Contest! The first person that can tell me the names of 1) The three rivers in the Pittsburgh area OR 2) The name of the AZ governor impeached from office in the mid-eighties wins my support and devotion. I'll be loud and obnoxious about it. If you can name both, then you'll force me to make up my own mind.

You can either comment here on the blog or send responses to my Facebook page or email (camp1974@yahoo.com).

Until then, Go Steelials.