Let's see you do it, Dick Button!

Sports commentators, in general, tend to annoy me. Aside from the fact that I would much rather watch the game with my own bias in full form*, the inane comments get on my nerves. While I do bow to the experience level of most sports commentators as the trend is to use individuals who were former stars in their respective fields to lend an air of authority and, let's face it, "big name" quality to the broadcast, some of these voices of authority haven't seen the rigors of competition in years. It is in some of these circumstances, therefore, that i find myself talking back to the commentators (I know, I know - a commentary on my own mental state more than the issue at hand) incensed that they are making some of their statements when there's no way they have a hope of doing half of what the competitor is doing. I am aware that these commentators are there with the purpose of calling the game and are bound to have some editorial comments and i fully support the fact that occasionally professional athletes aren't having their best day, or even perhaps generally suck, and that fact might call for mention. I merely contend that no matter how knowledgeable Dick Button may be, I don't take kindly to his tone. The job is to report, not to condescend. I'm just saying.... Not that Dick is the only individual to hinder my viewing experience (hmmm...or would it be as fun if I weren't yelling at the announcers?) - no matter the sport I tend to find several games when my sports crazed mind has me contemplating tracking down the announcer to give him my two cents worth. True, this may make me no better than the offender, but i'm not getting paid to share my thoughts so I get to freely indulge my personal bias.


*the exception to this is the amazing and highly entertaining Bob Uecker who is, beyond a doubt, genius and the highlight to watching a Brewers game. He can say whatever he wants whenever he wants to whomever he wants. There are a few others as well, but they don't come to mind nearly as quickly and easily.

Ouch!

Okay, so why do paper cuts hurt so much more than anything else? I can forego any type of numbing agent when the dentist starts to drill and suffer barely a grimace; I can handle the burst of a cyst by curling into a ball and slowly exhaling, but a paper cut prompts a high pitched screech, immediate insertion of the injured area into the mouth for the purpose of sucking (and why do i do this? It doesn't make the pain go away. sure, i get the lovely iron flavor of my blood, but i am fully aware that my mouth is not the most sanitary option for an open cut - a fact that seemingly eludes me when presented with the sight of my own blood) soon followed by requisite flailing of the offending hand/arm. And then there's the stupid resulting skin flap thing that ensures the general annoyance of the injury for several days. Exhibit A - the three (yup, three - if i'm going for it, i'm going all the way) paper cuts I managed to get on the tip of my finger yesterday are still driving me nuts. Granted, i'm irritating my fingertip every time i type an "a", but even if i weren't typing, at least one of said cuts would still be associated with a dull throb. On a positive note, one of the three cuts was rather shallow and the flappy thing has managed to adhere (woohoo white blood cells!) but i have a feeling the other two are in for the long haul considering the largest opens up and bleeds every once in a while. It should be noted that fingertip bandages were not designed for a pinky - not that it makes that much difference considering the location of the cuts are inopportune for bandage placement of any type as the bandages only succeed in pulling one of two cuts open. arghh!

Disturbed

Dude, "dork" isn't recognized by the spell check. It's a blog for goodness sake, dork seems rather important in light of this. Ahhh, irony at it's finest.
Okay, I was done, but i hit the spell check - yup, blog isn't recognized either.

Every week without fail

On a weekly basis I turn into a blubbering idiot (at least the weeks I'm home and I remember to turn on the TV at 8 on Sundays - or during the syndication sightings). It has even happened this week. Yes, I was watching the Super Bowl as well, but hey, one can only handle so much when the Steelers had been winning since the second quarter. As I write they now have officially won, confetti and all, arghh! So, knowing it was a repeat but not having the past viewing pleasure and frustrated that the Seahawks weren't coming through for me, I flipped back and forth to Cold Case. While I am painfully aware that the show is far fetched at best, (I can seldom remember events from last week in great detail let alone even attempt to recount what occurred 15 years ago with any type of authority, yet characters on the show have an uncanny ability to recall anything and everything about cases that took place anywhere from 10 to 40 years prior) the music is great and I typically find the stories entertaining - what can i say, i'm a sucker for the flashback premise. I admit, i get sucked in. And while i would love to be able to blame it on hormones, I believe the fact that I cry each and every time I watch (note that i don't even have to catch the entire episode - kinda like the weird ability to start watching 15 minutes from the end of A League Of Their Own and bawl for the last 5)discounts the possibility. Call it girlie, but i can't stop. I don't want to feel like a big dork and I don't go into it thinking that i'll cry (although why i don't in light of my track record is truly amazing, but my propensity toward self denial is for another post) yet at the end of the episode as the friends/family are gaining closure and the detectives are feeling all justified as they write 'closed' on the box and replace it, i begin to well up. If by some odd chance i haven't begun blubbering at this point, i'm sure to lose it as the deceased makes their final appearance. I am not an attractive crier. This all being said, I don't know why i continue to subject myself to this show on a consistent basis even if i like it, but i doubt i'll stop.
I'll blame this evening's cry on the Steelers - if they had just been losing as they should have been i wouldn't have been wiping tears and blowing my nose during the last minute and a half of the game, no matter how appropriate that may have been given the circumstances. Man, i hate the steelers! Yippy Skippy coach finally has a Super Bowl win and oooh ahhh, Jerome Bettis can leave the sport "where he began" and on a high (okay, i really am not completely immune to these moving stories, i mean, come on, i've already discussed how i cry for no apparent reason), but sheesh, the steelers?!?
What's the count down to opening day? It's a good thing i have march madness to possibly look forward to - we'll see if i actually do in the coming weeks. If nothing else it'll offer some entertainment before baseball season.

Don't pick at it!

Ughhhhh!!!! Yet another return to childhood. Yes, I picked a scab, of course I picked a scab. It was there, it itched, i scratched - a natural progression, if I do say so myself. I love how we tell children not to pick but there is not a single adult on the planet that will leave a pimple hanging out on their face when they plan on interacting with society. The scab thing may be less of a temptation for others, but i'm trying to make a point. Of course I'm attempting to make my point as a truly amazing amount of blood is continuing to ooze from the tiny little scab i picked. It should be noted that this "pick" wasn't intentional - not that this means anything in the grand scheme of life; i'm a picker, i'll freely admit it. I merely mention the lack of intent because i was caught unaware when I noticed dried blood on my arm which, of course, i had to wipe off, leading to more bleeding. It apparently (known because I more recently noticed a blood stain on my shirt - now to contemplate whether it's a good or bad thing that my chest, being larger than my stomach, obscured earlier detection) had been bleeding for a while before i noticed the dried blood and started the cycle again...because I picked. I know i'm not supposed to, we all know we're not supposed to, I have biological reasoning for not picking, but it's just so hard to resist. and i'm not so sure that's a commentary on my level of self control. The clincher - it still itches.

I shall never understand

The male mind, at any age, is completely foreign to me. I am not, nor shall I ever be male - a fact for which, despite the inescapable physical joys of womanhood, i hit my knees and fervently thank God. And why, you may wonder, do I feel the need to share the utter but very basic difference of the sexes? It isn't as if such posits are new. From our first words, or even prior, each and every human being is aware of the underlying differences between man and woman. Why then, do i marvel at the ways we choose (or are biologically ordained?) to express ourselves? I am not seeking to entertain a nurture/nature debate, although the theories are intriguing. No, I am merely executing fundamental statement of fact. Our minds do not function in the same manner, regardless of union or commonality. This, to me, is amazing.
It truly does not matter the age of the male creature, inevitably he will do or say something to which my only possible response is a look of utter confusion. While it is possible this might be indicative of a personal problem in synapse functionality, if I glance about the room, my expression is not seen exclusively on my face but instead graces the countenance of other XX bearers as well. I believe that the primary root of incomprehension on our part has to do with our incapable to conceive of a possible motive for whatever statement or behavior that lead to a confounded expression as response. Why do you persist in risking life and limb for no other reason than "it was there" or "i could"? Why does physical humor delight you so? How is it possible that you can entertain yourself for hours with a fight sequence? Young or old, alone or in packs, I will never understand men. On a positive note, I have discovered that rarely is the source of my confusion new. From birth to death there are simply variations on a similar theme. I'm not sure if this should bring me comfort or frighten me even more in the fact that i still have yet to figure it out.
Women aren't nearly this perplexing!