I was watching a Warriors NBA game recently. You probably know the one.
I freely admit I'm usually not a big NBA fan. I prefer watching the highlights rather than the entire game. But the hubs and I had been watching the Warriors recently because Steph Curry was getting close to breaking the 3 point record and we both thought it would be kinda cool to celebrate that with him from afar. We lived in the Charlotte area when he was playing for Davidson and got drafted into the pros, so we had been aware of him and his career for a while. And I mean, even if you're not a basketball fan, how can you not enjoy watching someone who is clearly not of this earth show us mere mortals what it's like to be superhuman?
Couple things I love about this half-dozen seconds of sports history. I love that he hit the shot, then kept moving (running backwards, no less) to the other end of the court like hey we gotta game to play, let's get back on defense, NBD. I love that he made the record-breaker in front of the Knicks home crowd. I didn't realize the Knicks had the pick right after the Warriors when they drafted Curry, and he wanted to play for the Knicks, and they apparently couldn't be bothered to trade up for him. As Doc Holliday says in the Tombstone movie, that's a 'reckoning'.
After Curry made his shot (from somewhere out in the parking lot as per usual), Under Armour ran a very profound tribute to their star. Here's the link to the full spot. I bring it up here for a very specific point (har, har) Curry makes:
To know what a perfect shot feels like . . . you have to earn that. The real work is what people don't see. Hours and hours of reps. Perfecting that craft.
Sure, he's talking about basketball. But it hit me that this philosophy, this grit, applies to anything. Specifically, it made me think of my fellow writers. My critique group. The gang who shows up for Anne Hawley's daily writing sprint Zooms. The writers who wake up at 5 a.m. to squeeze in a half hour of writing because they have kids and a day job and that's the only time they can do it. The writers who keep at it, drafting and editing and submitting because they absolutely, positively, will not give up.
I salute you, my friends. Hang in there. Perfect your craft. I look forward to the day when I celebrate your writing successes, just as I celebrated Mr. Curry's.
Click-O-Rama
Curry's achievement really got me thinking about the nature of excellence.
Secretariat wins the 1973 Belmont, and with it, the Triple Crown, by absolutely DEMOLISHING the small field of only four other competitors, winning by more than 30 lengths. I love that the camera has to keep backing up because the lead grows so big, they can't keep both Big Red and his closest competitors in the frame.
And in case you're thinking running races for a living doesn't take that much extra effort if you're a horse, WRONG. Racehorses spend the the latter two of their first three years training daily, usually from 6-10am. Daily, people. They have to learn other stuff besides how to run fast. The equipment, the jockey, the starting gates, the crowd noise, the other horses, which leg to lead with and when (yes, this is a thing). They work hard for their money.
Diana Nyad finally succeeded in her fifth attempt at swimming the 110 miles from Havana, Cuba to Key West, Florida. She was 64. I'll be 64 soon, and I consider it a win to make it from one end of the pool to the other.
I love this domino analogy. Stuff doesn't happen overnight. You gotta chip away at it. So many writer friends have done this without even realizing. Others know full well, and are doing a stellar job as a result.
I recently heard a snippet of this podcast and now can't wait to read Omar El Akkad. The piece on the new Kenny G doc was pretty good, too! But this quote from El Akkad really got me thinking. He was joking/not joking:
"The only reason I'm still in this racket is because other people drop out. It's not because I'm any good."
Writer friends: don't be a quitting quitter. Remain in the army of writers breathing down Omar El Akkad's neck. Work your buns off for that moment of 'overnight success'. You too, can be the Steph Curry/Secretariat/Diana Nyad of writing.
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A previous version of this post first appeared in 2016.
I blogged previously about the history of some of the world championship hardware teams earn when they win a championship. I promised to follow up with the real reason all those players are smiling as they hoist those trophies: their financial bonuses.
According to various sources, the winners of Super Bowl L (50, but as a former Latin student, I'm going old school there) won $97,000.00 each. That's right. Every player on the Denver Broncos roster earned more for winning that game than many people earn in a year. The Panthers each received $49,000.00 for losing it. That will pay for a lot of tissues for wiping away the tears on the plane ride home.
2015 Super Bowl bling
Ninety-seven grand is very grand indeed, but here's the kicker (pun intended): the Super Bowl bonus is literally pocket change for most of the players. The average player salary in the NFL is over $2 million per year. The regular season consists of 16 games, so that works out to about $125,000.00 per game. Teams who reach the Super Bowl have also received bonuses every time they advance in the post-season, so the total bonus take for the champs is closer to $165,000.00 per player. That doesn't include the ring each player will receive after several months of design and manufacture. The rings for the 2015 champs, the New England Patriots, are valued at $36,500.00 each.
Salaries are just the tip of the income iceberg for many professional athletes. Endorsements are where the real money is. Peyton Manning is not only the master of the endorsements game. He's an expert in product placement. Some estimate his mention of Budweiser products in his post-game interviews to be worth billions to the company, which trickles back down to him in the form of profits at the two Anheuser-Busch distributorships in which he owns a stake. And that doesn't even include the Papa John's and Nationwide contracts and his latest entertainment ventures. (Come to think of it, I'm surprised he didn't deliver part of his canned Super Bowl speech to the tune of the Nationwide jingle.) Estimates of the elder Manning's annual endorsement income is $12,000,000.00. That's twelve million if all those zeroes are starting to make your eyes spin. Remember, that's on top of his 5-year, $96 million contract for actually playing football. That's just over $19 million per year, so it's more than the endorsements, but with the endorsements, 350-lb linemen are not threatening to separate your head from your shoulders on every play.
Is it me, or doesn't Grange favor Manning just the tiniest bit?
In the early years, football players were paid per game. Player salaries fluctuated wildly based on perceived skill as well as the budgets of the various teams. The first player to play under season-long contract was Red Grange in 1926. He was paid $100,000.00 for a 19 game season with the Chicago Bears. That may not seem like much compared to the numbers I was throwing around earlier. It's certainly less than what many players earn per game today. But factoring in inflation over the last 90 years, that works out to about $1,300,000.00 in today's money. Not bad, considering he had to wear a helmet that looks like it was inspiration for a Coneheads skit.
The players union made progress in standardizing salaries starting in the 1970s. Thanks to the popularity of the game, broadcast rights, ticket prices, and licensing revenue, there's a lot of green to go around for the players who get the hooey knocked out of them every Sunday for our entertainment. From the look of their celebration dances (and their bank account balances), they're enjoying it as much as we are.
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A version of this post was originally published in 2016.
It’s the final game of the season. The clock winds down. The whistle blows, the buzzer sounds, time runs out, and it’s over: one team wins it all. Along with the excitement and glory of finishing first, winning teams often receive a trophy to honor their achievement. For professional teams, the trophies are often beautiful works of art and quite valuable. Some have colorful histories every bit as exciting as the contests they honor.
Dirk Nowitzki posing with the O'Brien trophy.The Dallas Mavericks won the title in 2011.
Youth sports team members often receive individual trophies when their teams win a tournament or championship. But the trophies for professional sports are much too expensive for one to be made for each player (although some sports like baseball and football sometimes give each player a fancy ring to wear instead). Instead, one trophy is given to the entire team. The Larry O’Brien Trophy is given each year to the winner of the National Basketball Association series winner. Standing two feet tall and weighing sixteen pounds, the gold plated figure looks like a basketball about to fall into a net (or a fancy garbage can, if you're feeling less charitable toward basketball). A new one is made for each year’s winning team. The NBA first awarded a team trophy in 1978. It was renamed for a former NBA commissioner in 1984.
Attractive, but looks rather fragile IMO. There should be bats. Wooden, not blood-sucking.
The Commissioner’s Trophy goes to the winner of baseball’s World Series. Like the O’Brien Trophy, a new trophy is made each year. Made of sterling silver but covered with a gold plating, the Commissioner’s Trophy features thirty flags representing each of the major league baseball teams. It is two feet tall and weighs about thirty pounds. The first Commissioner’s Trophy was given in 1967.
The Vince Lombardi Super Bowl Trophy is also made each year for the best professional football team. It is a sterling silver trophy about the same size as the basketball and baseball trophies. It features a full-size football perched atop a silver column.
It's been far too long since the Cowboys earned one of these *sniff*.The Lombardi Trophy is nice, but I'm all about the bling.
Some sports don’t make a new trophy each year. Instead, there is a single trophy. The winning team gets to keep the trophy for the year they are the champions. Soccer’s FIFA World Cup trophy is given to the winner of the World Cup competition. Like the Olympics, soccer’s World Cup is held every four years. Soccer has a rich history. Its original trophy was designed in 1930. Known as the Jules Rimet Cup, it was about 14 inches high. It featured a base made of blue stone, supporting a gold woman’s winged figure with a cup above her.
The FIFA World Cup Trophy aka the Rimet Cup
The Rimet Cup led an exciting life. During World War II as German troops marched across Europe, an Italian soccer federation official hid the trophy in a shoe box under his bed to keep it from falling into enemy hands. In 1966, the trophy disappeared while on display in England. It was later found buried near a tree, dug up by an enterprising dog named Pickles. The FIFA trophy disappeared again in 1983 while in the possession of the Brazil team. It was never found and is assumed to have been melted down by the thieves.
When the original FIFA trophy disappeared, it was not the only soccer trophy in existence. After Brazil had won the World Cup for the third time in 1970, they won the right to keep the trophy forever. FIFA ordered a new trophy made for subsequent winners. The new trophy was called the FIFA World Cup Trophy and the trophy rules were changed at that time. The trophy was no longer given to the winning team. Instead, the original trophy stayed with FIFA and replicas were given to the winning teams. The 1974 design is about 14 inches tall, made of 18-carat gold with a green stone base. It features two figures standing with arms upraised, embracing the globe. The trophy is engraved with the names of past winners.
Andrew Shaw enjoying the moment when the Chicago Blackhawks won the Stanley Cup in 2013, bloody face notwithstanding. Hockey players are tough.
Hockey’s trophy also has a colorful history. The hockey trophy is known as the Stanley Cup, named for Lord
Stanley, Earl of Preston, one of the game’s early supporters. The first Stanley Cup was awarded in 1892. It was not designed by an artist or sculptor – Lord Stanely just went out and bought a silver cup for the princely sum of $50. It resembled the bowl-like piece atop today’s trophy. Winners’ names were simply scratched into the silver with a knife or a nail. The original cup is now on display at the Hockey Hall of Fame in Toronto.
From 1890-1930 thick silver bands were added to the base of the cup to accommodate more winners’ names. The trophy underwent some changes, but eventually came to its modern form in 1958. It is by far the largest of the major sports trophies, at three feet tall and about 35 pounds. The largest silver bands, or rings, that make up the base take thirteen years to fill with the names of the winners. Once a ring is filled, it is removed and sent to the Hall of Fame for safekeeping. It is replaced with a blank ring and the process begins again.
The Stanley Cup is given to the winning team for the year they are champions. Each team member is allowed to take the trophy home for one day to share with friends and family. This has resulted in some interesting adventures for the cup while it is in private hands, including being drop-kicked onto the frozen Rideau Canal during a post-championship celebration in Ottawa.
Despite wars, thieves, and enthusiastic athletes, these trophies from the world of sports hold great meaning for the fans and players of the game. Hoisted aloft, glittering in the glare of camera flashes, they truly represent the fun and excitement of winning. That's all well and good, but in my next post which btw is just in time for the Super Bowl, I'll explain why they're really smiling by sharing with you the amount of money the players earn when their team becomes league champion.
Handy size comparison. FIFA trophy is not shown, but would be the smallest of the five.
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Some Broncos fan worked hard to carve that snow in the background
When I was a kid growing up in Dallas, Texas, there was a show on television called Bowling For Dollars. I rarely watched it as bowling was not super popular at my house. But somehow the name of the show stuck with me. I find it a handy metaphor for situations where people are trying to earn money, sports-related or otherwise. As time has passed, it has inadvertently circled back to a literal meaning when bowl season rolls around (see what I did there?).
When I watch a sporting event of any kind, my brain kicks into History Mode and I start thinking about its prehistoric precursors. Competition springs from our deepest survival instincts. We no longer have to run for our lives from saber-toothed tigers. But some of us still have incredible physical skills designed for survival. Technology has outrun evolution. The only hunting most of us do is digging through the sale bin at the local Piggly Wiggly. So instead of Usain Bolt chasing deer on foot, he chases world records. He runs fast for the same reason: to outrun whatever or whomever is chasing him. He probably still feels an incredible sense of relief and accomplishment when he succeeds. But today his prize is a paycheck. His prehistoric counterparts had to settle for not being eaten alive.
It's also human nature to want to watch. We want to see feats of greatness. Some part of our dinosaur brain wants to see the train wrecks, too, bless our hearts. We want to see the outcome, the drama. Sports is a world-wide, multi-billion dollar industry built on the most basic of human instincts. And long ago, someone figured out people will pay to watch. The Greeks had their Olympics. The Romans had their gladiators. Aztecs had their wacky, tongue-twisting soccer/basketball hybrid, ullamaliztli. Medieval knights jousted. Men sailed and jumped and ran and wrestled and swam and fought. And, sporting short-sleeved shirts and crew cuts on a small, snowy black and white TV screen, they bowled.
The TVs have changed (thank goodness). Some of the haircuts have changed. The 'bowling' has changed. The paydays certainly have changed. But it still all boils down to the same thing: some people wanting to prove they're better than the other people. And we still like to watch them prove it.
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I went 60+ years without breaking a bone. But in one brief moment of inattention, both the streak and my right ankle went to pieces. I was on crutches for a couple of months after surgery and hobbled around in a boot for a few more weeks after that. So I had plenty of time sitting around to contemplate this unexpected turn of events. Plenty. Of. Time. It was definitely a learning experience; to wit:
Don't let that smile fool ya
Crutches aka Death Sticks are the devil's handiwork.
Crutches and bifocals are a match made in hell.
Crutches and stairs? Fugghedaboutit.
When on crutches due to injury, prepare a fun fictional answer for how the injury happened - especially important if the truth is boring, or makes you look like a fool. You will get asked again and again by well-meaning strangers. Skydiving and skateboarding come to mind. Level of risk should be proportional to your age (the higher your age, the higher the purported risk).
Crutches will give you a new and profound appreciation for handicap parking spots, accessibility ramps, and grab bars.
You will also get a newfound appreciation for good quality public facility design. For example: why are some handicap accessible stalls all the way at the end of the row, furthest from the entry?
Oh, and thanks for heavy doors with pull handles on public restrooms - NOT.
However, I must say crutches come in handy for pushing bathroom doors closed.
Had to go with the Cowboys Blue
Your quad in your healthy leg will get a workout. All those squats at the gym finally pay off. Also I think whomever invented yoga was probably on crutches before doing so.
Baby wipes are your friend. Bath tubs/showers are not. 'Nuff said.
Doesn't matter where you stash your crutches. When they start to fall over (and they will), they will fall in such a way to cause maximum havoc.
When well-meaning friends and family offer to help stash your crutches away, they will always be stashed out of your reach.
Well-meaning friends/family will try to 'help' you by holding onto your body or clothing for 'support'. Don't Let Them.
If you're on crutches, chances are pretty good you might also have a cast somewhere. Casts are your friend. Having your injury immobilized while it heals is a good thing.
While we're on the topic of casts: casts are now high tech, fast, non-messy, and come in fun colors like Cowboys blue, Barbie pink, GI Joe camo, unicorn rainbow vomit, etc. - go for it! Life's too short for a plain white cast.
One more about casts, then I promise I'll stop: having the plaster cast sawed off can def get the heart rate up. They swear the saw they use to do this will stop running before it cuts into your flesh . . .
The warning label on the prescription painkillers is more terrifying than your injury.
If your hair is longer than a couple of inches, either get a haircut or wear a ponytail or find a favorite hat. Hair falling into your eyes while you're on crutches is not your friend.
West Texas is no place for crutches unless you gain 20+ pounds for ballast.
Titanium is your friend for sure
Wear clothing with pockets. If no pockets are available, your bra/manssiere is a handy substitute. If you don't have pockets, you can toss a bag with a strap cross body, or tuck items into your waistband like a kangaroo. Do what you gotta do to keep your hands free because crutches. I confess I did use my neck and my teeth to hold stuff a couple of times. This is Not Recommended. One of the nurses recommended I try a backpack, the kind that comes with a belt to secure it around your waist and keep it stable back there. This is a good idea in theory, especially for folks who have to return to work or school while still on crutches. However, in practice, it is a PIA to get to the stuff in the backpack if you are on crutches.
Do not use pockets. Pockets are hazardous. They only really work well for small, light weight items like one tissue or a sticky note. Or if you're an actual kangaroo. If you overload side pockets, it throws off your balance. This is the same balance you have just worked for days if not weeks to get used to on crutches without factoring in the effect of improperly balanced loads in your pockets. And of course there is that tendency to overload the pockets so that you make fewer trips. This is a trap. Full side pockets interfere with the swing of the crutches. Just Say No. Also note the kangaroo pouch idea only works best with very tight fitting garments. Otherwise, with all the swinging and swaying motion of the crutches, the item could easily fall through your 'pouch' and trip you, or break, or both.
Worst chore on crutches so far: maybe not what you might think (bathroom trips). Bathroom trips are pretty heinous, but I'm gonna go ahead and go with making the bed. All that bending/stretching/ tugging is exhausting. Now you might ask, why on earth am I insisting on making the bed when I'm on crutches? I have no good answer. I'm not right in the head.
Stepping on the scales was a pleasant surprise after I got my cast off. Seeing my pitiful little chicken leg after getting the cast off was not. Losing weight is totally not worth losing muscle mass.
If your injury is on your lower leg like mine was (ankle), getting a 'Barbie foot' is a thing and to be avoided if at all possible. A properly fitted cast and professional physical therapy techniques can help you avoid this.
I really don't want to jinx you, but if you are on crutches, you will probably need to learn how to perform a controlled fall. Especially if you have young children, pets, or Legos in your living space.
Startles are bad for balance. Your practical joker neighbor is not your friend.
You might be wondering why there are no photos of me on crutches in this post. That's because I let it be known there was a fate worse than death in store for anyone who took unapproved photos of me during my recuperation. Death Sticks photos were not on the Approved list.
I still have the Death Sticks in the garage. Being on crutches for two months is not something I want to repeat. Ever. I should probably donate them, but I'm afraid as soon as I do, I'll need them again. I got the crutches because I wasn't watching where I was going. I'd like to say I learned my lesson, but I tripped over something yesterday, so, maybe not. I guess they better stay put.
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One of the bright shining lights of the University of Georgia student population published a very handy how-to on hunting/gathering a husband while at college. Her article includes a wealth of information on how to meet the right kind of men, how to compete with other females for their attention, how to maintain their interest, how to cement the deal, and so forth. Ladies (and gentlemen, I suppose), this is the De Beers Mine of relationship advice.
It occurs to me single women my age could also benefit from this type of advice, but do not often find themselves enrolled in college surrounded by scores of eligible bachelors. One must adapt! Step by step, here are my tweaks to the original.
Step 1. Location, location, location! The author emphasizes the importance of attending college because, after all, that's where the men are. News flash: the female 50+ demographic is woefully underrepresented on campus. I suppose you could take the original advice and enroll in college, but I wouldn't recommend it for two reasons.
I don't know about you, but college has become hella expensive in the 30+ years since I last stepped foot in a student union.
Even if you do have the dough, colleges are overflowing with nubile female 20-somethings. You will have to spend at least the cost of tuition on nips and tucks to have a prayer of competing with them, even if your surgical end result is the (figurative and hopefully not literal) mother of all cougars.
So here's my suggestion: change the location! The author's advice to go where the eligible men are is sound. Her mistake is in assuming there is only one location to find favorable ratios of acceptable men! I am not telling you anything new by suggesting you change the word 'college' to 'driving range' and many of her tips will still apply, as you will see below. Where else can you find a man-to-woman ratio of 10:1 or better, and the admission fee is a blessedly reasonable $5 for a bucket of balls (2/$8 on Senior Tuesday)? Note I am not guaranteeing 100% of them are prime candidates, but neither are 100% of the guys you meet at college.
Step 2. Locale + attire = success! In other words, know your environment and select the proper plumage to attract your ideal mate. As when hunting live game on the college campus, it is important to appear as if you belong in the golf driving range environment. Select the right outfit, but not too right - you don't want to look like one of those bright red Gummi worms on the end of a fish hook. No! We are going more for a Venus flytrap effect - you want to attract attention, but in a very organic way.
Crocs say you have just given up
The golf world is a strange, alternate fashion universe, as anyone who has ever watched a men's pro tournament on a color TV can attest. Migraine-inducing colors and plaids are just as acceptable as drab solids. Polyester is okay, believe it or not, but absolutely no denim! At the driving range, there are a few wardrobe Do's and Don'ts that are non-negotiable if you want to sell it, girl! Some tips to ensure you blend seamlessly into the driving range environment:
Footwear - actual golf shoes are most desirable, with athletic sneakers a distant second. Avoid SAS, flip flops, and tatty house slippers. Also, nothing gives away your status as complete golf poser quite like wearing a pair of dingy, faded Crocs. In fact, best not to wear them outside of the house at all, regardless of your destination.
Collared golf style shirt - sleeveless is okay if you still dare to bare your upper arms.
Golf skirt or shorts - they should have at least two side pockets and preferably cover a large quantity of your cellulite/varicose veins. Extra points for skorts.
Shoes and clothes are important, but your best quality accessory on the driving range takes a little more effort. That would be your swing. I don't care how much Lady Hagen golf swag you score on clearance at TJ Maxx - like the man said, it don't mean a thing if you ain't got that swing.
Don't despair - you don't have to break the bank on golf lessons unless you are bored and rich, in which case you probably don't need to be reading this article. But if you are not bored and rich, just work on your swing in the privacy of your living room by imagining you have a large bucket full of horse manure which you want to pick up by the handle with both hands and swing in a modified half U-shaped arc so that it cracks that good-for-nothing ex of yours right below the jaw and spews its aromatic contents all over the $300 Ralph Lauren polo shirt his trophy girlfriend gave him on their first trip to Bermuda.
Step 3. The author's next suggestion is actually a combination of high tech and clever staging. She suggests taking plentiful photographs of one's self while out and about with friends, and using a popular photo effect app to create the right mood. One assumes these are to be broadly distributed via social networking sites.
In addition, the content of the photos must be just right - any other friends in the photos must be nearly, but not equally or more attractive than you. We want to send the message that you are indeed the prime selection in your peer group.
With all due respect to the college-age author, I just don't see 50-somethings getting overly excited about using a special effect on perfectly good photographs that make them look like something you found wedged under the cushion of a moth-eaten 60s-era sofa at the local Goodwill. So let's skip the high tech special effects, shall we, and focus on the second half of her advice: staging.
Assuming you have taken my advice to heart and acquire the appropriate attire and swing, where you place yourself at the driving range is of critical importance.
If the range has artificial turf as an option, I would definitely recommend parking it there. You are taking a risk of appearing amateurish by not selecting the more professional real grass, but chances are your balls will perform better and therefore draw male attention to your swing. Like flies to honey!
Go ahead and tee up every freakin' ball, no matter what club you are using. If you have the right swing and a little wiggle, no one is going to notice the tee, believe me.Â
Try to find a range that has half walls between hitting stations to avoid unfortunate accidents. More than one budding romance has been nipped by a shanked ball to the temple and the accompanying exchange of insurance information and ambulance ride to the emergency room. No half walls available? At least you will know up front how good their insurance is.
If you have a decent swing, you can dispense with actually hitting the ball altogether. Go ahead and buy a bucket just for appearances. Set it nearby, tip it over so that a few balls dribble out of the basket and onto the ground. Then ignore them, and swing away! So what if no one sees the flight path of any of your balls? If you have a convincing swing, observers will just assume you hit the bejeezus out of it and they lost it in the glare.Â
Strike a pose!
Equally important as the where in this phase is the who - perhaps the most valuable tip offered by the author is whom you are seen with. If you feel you need a wingwoman or three, by all means invite some friends along. But make sure you are the best golfer, or at least have the best golf swing, of the group. Leave Nancy Lopez and Annika Sorenstam at home. In fact, if you have any friends who have never played golf, they are the perfect backdrop for your debut. Next to their frenzied hacking, you will look like Babe Frickin Didrikson.
Step 4. Assuming steps 1-3 have gone swimmingly, your Oscar-worthy driving range performance has attracted your prey and the mating dance begins. The author advises some restraint here, but at our age, who are we kidding? Of course there will be sex - isn't that the point of this whole charade? - Â so don't quibble over the 'when'. Instead, focus on the quality of the act. Classy not skanky, to paraphrase the author. Your golf swing may be suspect, but there's no need for your postgame to fail.
At last, we come to the portion of our show where we should have an advantage over the 20-something college crowd. After 30+ years of being sexually active and the advent of cable TV, there's no excuse! Prepare ahead of time with some personal grooming and common sense protection, people. The stuff that could happen when you were in your 20s can still happen, and worse (with one notable exception - thank you, menopause!!). At age 50+, who wants to be bothered with penicillin shots and bottles of RID??
Step 5. Assuming steps 1-4 have been well executed, step 5 is when the trap slams shut. Once your prey has expressed interest, do what must be done to prevent his escape, including eliminating his desire to escape. Become the PGM - Perfect Golf Mate.
Appear content to watch any and every men's professional golf tournament on television, from start to finish. All. Four. Days.
Be able to discuss the advantages of stiff shafts without giggling uncontrollably.
Learn how to regrip clubs without passing out from the glue fumes.
Never, ever buy him anything but plain white golf balls.
Never, ever buy him cutesy cartoon character head covers. If you think the topic of head covers belongs in the Step 4 discussion, FAIL.
The little blue box
Step 6. The author's final step is formal engagement, including but not limited to: the little blue box, residential gated community, late model German auto, country club membership and full time nanny. Step 6 definitely needs some tweaking for our purposes.
Think outside the little blue box. It's fine for the never-been-married, Desperately Seeking Status demographic. Your new man will be more impressed if you prefer a vacay to Pebble Beach or the British Open.
Hang on tight to the country club membership, insisting on one with other amenities to amuse yourself while your new beau hits the links.
Trade the auto for a tricked out golf cart instead - cheaper insurance, better mileage, and maintains the PGM illusion.
For the 50+ set, it's safe to say we can eliminate the nanny - unless your prey - I mean, partner - is 20+ years your junior.
Now isn't that all better? Sometimes advice is like a vintage suit - it's not one-size-fits-all, but a few quality alterations can make all the difference. So hit the range and bag your man. Let me know if you need a wingwoman. My spastic Charlene Barkley golf swing will make you look like Arnold Frickin Palmer.I
We have a pretty cool zoo in our town. They recently added a zip line course. So when my daughter and her husband visited, we decided to check it out.
If you are not familiar with a zip line, let me lay it out for you. Think of it as a mash-up of a clothes line and Tarzan's swinging vine network (if you don't know what a clothes line is, you are too young to be reading this blog). Or maybe envision a gondola ride with only one passenger (you) and no gondola car, just you sliding down the gondola cable at about 40 mph via fancy harness and cable hook.
Zip lines have been around for ages as a quick and easy way to transport goods and people across obstacles such as ravines and rivers that would not be easily passable otherwise. Zip lines as recreation emerged in the 1990s as lines originally used by scientists in the Costa Rican rain forest evolved into lucrative tourist attractions. The first zip line in the U.S. opened in Hawaii in 2002. The idea really took off 😉 Presently there are hundreds of zip line courses around the world.
We had a great time on the zip lines. If you are considering trying it, here are a few handy tips:
The Bridge Of Doom
Find out what is involved. I vaguely knew what a zip line was. I assumed it would be fairly tame. You know what they say about people who assume.
Evaluate your priorities. I was torn about whether to take my most prized possession on the zip with me. I am talking about my phone, of course. I ended up taking it, but there were some moments during the zip where I was more terrified about what might happen to my phone than anything that might happen to me since it is at a zoo; unlike, say, at a combination bungee-jumping/parachuting/cave diving facility.
I did not plan on having to climb a rope ladder to get up to the first platform. I did not anticipate navigating a rickety bridge between zip landing stations. And I certainly was not prepared for the worst horror of all, being weighed before being allowed to participate (there is a weight limit). This was in public, people. In broad daylight. Fully clothed - including shoes! They sure don't put that in the brochure. Otherwise no woman would ever do it, guaranteed.
Dress accordingly. Don't wear anything that you would miss if you lost it. Don't wear anything that might cut off circulation once you are strapped into your harness. Don't wear anything you might ruin by soiling yourself when you realize you have to walk across thirty yards of rope bridge, fifty feet off the ground.
Choose your fellow zippers wisely. Our guide said she had seen zip liners as young as 6 and as old as 80. After we zipped and were wandering around enjoying the zoo, everyone I passed, I imagined up on the zip line with me. Believe me, there were many I was thankful had chosen not to zip that day. Not sure which would be worse, the precocious 9-year-old twins who love fidgeting with the carabiners; or the white-haired thrillseekers from the local assisted living facility.
The ideal fellow zip liner: folks like my daughter and her husband. Young, healthy, fit adults weighing well under 200 lbs each, with an expert working knowledge of camera phones. Â This last came in handy when I was trying to video my husband zipping toward me, but on account of my very short leash, my attempts to literally hug the tree I was leashed to 50 feet off the ground, and my hands shaking from adrenaline rush, I pushed who knows what button on my phone and all kinds of craziness ensued on the screen. Thanks again to my son-in-law, who pushed a couple buttons and got the thing back under control.
Bottom line, two thumbs up for enjoying reputable zip lines in your area. The views, exhilaration, and camaraderie were almost worth the agony of being weighed in public. Almost.
Don't you sometimes get the urge to mix things up and do something new? As a bona fide change junkie, it happens to me all the time. One such incident not long ago was kinda far out, for me at least:Â I successfully completed a Concealed Weapons Permit (CWP) class.
I haven't shot a gun in thirty years. I am mostly against hunting unless it is wild hogs or snakes - otherwise I am too tenderhearted. But of course CWP has nothing much to do with hunting animals for sport or sustenance. It's about self defense.
I took the class because I live in a state where carrying a concealed weapon is an option. I feel like it's one of those things you do when you have the opportunity, as you never know when circumstances (or laws) may change and you wish you had done it when you had the chance. I honestly don't have plans to strap on when I go to the grocery store. But I also was dissatisfied with my growing trepidation regarding handguns. I wanted to force myself to be more proficient in using them so I wouldn't shoot myself in the foot if I had to use one.
I had a false start last year when the hubs and I went to the gun range together. As I said, it had been many years since I fired a gun. Hubs was very supportive. Maybe a little too. He was obviously very nervous about being at the indoor range with me, which of course made me nervous. He let me shoot the gun but didn't let me handle it otherwise. He did all the loading, racking, etc. I was a tolerable shot, considering. But about halfway through 50 rounds I was ready to quit - the pressure was terrible. I kept thinking about what a terrifying weapon it was, and how mishandling it could mean someone's life. I stuck it out, but privately I decided shooting was not for me.
Flash forward a few months and I decided to stop being such a ninny about the gun thing. I signed up for the CWP class. The money was due up front, so I was committed (even though the class was eight hours on a Sunday during NFL playoffs - grrrrr). The hubs came with me to the range again a few days prior to prepare for the class. Since he had taken the class previously, he knew I would be expected to hit the target from a variety of distances 35 times out of 50. We basically reprised our earlier experience, with me shooting and the hubs doing everything else for me.
Turns out this was not the best strategy, as there are no spousal helpers allowed at the CWP class. My accuracy was more than good enough to pass the test. Shooting tip: we are all deadly from 3 yards. Little did I know, what was lacking was my knowledge of handling the gun in between firing it.
Tank holster from The Well Armed Woman
Class day arrives. I also arrive, very surly due to the uncalled-for 8am start time. The class was full with 16 participants. 6 were women - almost half! I shouldn't have been so surprised. Studies indicate the fastest growing group of gun owners, is young, urban, and female. Purses and bras are now available with compartments specially designed to conceal guns. And I was worried about shooting myself in the foot . . .
Anyway - two pairs of the 16 were couples. One young couple appeared to be putting a gift to good use - the wife/girlfriend carried her gun in a girly pink and black fabric case. Fast-forward fifty years to the other couple in the class, 60 in the rear view, sharing a revolver during their turns at the firing range.
The instructors, two retired policemen, gave an overview via the obligatory Power Point presentation. As they went over the expectations, I got a fierce case of flop sweats as I realized how much I was expected to know about guns, and how far I may fall short. Magazines, racking, safeties, chambers, clips, triggers, grips, barrels, rounds, on and on. The presentation was long on talking, short on hands-on; not exactly great for us visual learners. I had briefly handled an unfamiliar 20+-year-old Ruger 9mm exactly once 48 hours earlier, in dim lighting under somewhat stressful conditions. I was now expected to handle this gun again on my own and basically figure out on the fly from all this gun talk how to not shoot myself in the foot. The stakes were high.
I was not especially worried about failing the test. I was more concerned about becoming one of the stories the instructors collected and told at all future CWP sessions. Every negative anecdote they told our class involved inexperienced female students. Apparently no male knuckleheads had ever taken this class.
At about this point, I admit I considered ducking out of the class and concocting an elaborate fantasy for my husband about why my CWP somehow got 'lost in the mail'. Unfortunately, I had agreed to carpool with a neighbor and had no way to escape.
Have I ever mentioned how good luck seems to follow me? When my confidence was lowest, the class was released to retrieve our weapons from our vehicles and prepare for the range. I had a few precious moments to inspect the weapon and ask my carpooling neighbor what he thought about my concerns about using it. Under some wonderfully glaring fluorescent lighting, I worked my way through the trouble areas. Amazing how some hands-on time improves your perceptions of what appeared previously to be dire circumstances. It reminds me of the folktales involving speaking your worst fears aloud to lessen their power over you.
All too quickly, Go Time arrived. Volunteers for the first round of shooting were requested. I said, 'eff it' (to myself) and went for it. Might as well get it over with.
I won't bore you with the details. Suffice to say I made it through the firing portion of the class and, better yet, avoided being the topic of future What Not To Do anecdotes. My biggest goof was mistaking spent cartridges for 'trash' and throwing them in the 'Trash Only' receptacle. Apparently these brass casings are considered 'money' and recycled by the gun range. Who knew?
The gun market is really catering to the female population
Ahh, sweet blessed relief as the instructor toted up my shooting score: 46 of 50. Woot! Then it was back to the classroom to get fingerprinted. Lord what a mess - fingerpainting gone wild. Thank goodness they had industrial-size pump containers of Gunk at the ready. The final portion of our instruction was all classroom, which was a comparative breeze to a nerd like me. Fifty multiple guess questions later and we are outta there in time to watch the second NFL playoff game.
I received my CWP in a timely manner. It's been collecting dust in my wallet ever since. Who knows if I will ever go to the grocery store 'carrying'. But at least if I do, I am not so worried about shooting myself in the foot.
In honor of National Golf Lovers Day, may I present Miss Katharine Harley, winner of the 1908 U.S. Amateur Golf Championship at the Chevy Chase Club, Chevy Chase, Maryland.
If you have a moment, check out this interview with Miss Harley in the New York Times. 100 years on, and hand-wringing over the future of the sport is the same as it ever was. She holds the popularity of tennis as one of the factors to blame for waning interest in golf. As more of a tennis person, I find her comments ironic. Tennis, like many other sports, is always worried about the 'leaky bucket' of players being lured away by other sports such as golf.
Miss Harley also confesses she did not take up the sport seriously until 'about three weeks' before the championship! Okay, full disclosure: she goes on to explain she had been playing golf for seven years prior to that, so I guess she had some experience to fall back on. Then, as now, the length of time a round of golf takes to play was problematic in attracting new players. Then, as now, the short game proved to be the deciding factor in her victory.
I have dabbled in golf. I had heard it was not particularly female-friendly. I am sorry to report I did find this to be the case. My female golf friends were awesome. But the chauvinistic and patronizing attitudes of the male players and golf course staff put my tail in a knot just about every time I played.
Best of luck to all the gals out on the links past and present. Go out there and represent for those of us who don't have the patience.
Recently we were at a sports bar having lunch. It was one of those places that has a bazillion televisions, all tuned to a different sporting event. I happened to be facing one that was showing a bull riding competition. I couldn't look away! It was fascinating. And I was fascinated by my level of fascination. Mainly for the bulls. They were real, and they were spectacular.
While absorbing this new experience, I noticed the poor souls responsible for making sure the bull rider doesn't get the phooey stomped out of him if he is thrown or when he exits the bull after his 8 seconds (which btw is about 7 seconds too long). They weren't dressed up as one might expect from the term 'rodeo clowns', so I did some digging.
Turns out they are called 'bullfighters' which of course brings a very different
Wait - aren't they supposed to be INSIDE the barrel? Click here for a great article on the perils of rodeo clowning
mental image to me. But they are indeed offshoots of the original rodeo clown, which debuted in the early 1900s. When they began, rodeo clowns were designed to entertain the crowd during delays in the rodeo action. Some wore silly costumes and incorporated physical humor into their comedy routines.
The role of distraction and protection emerged after about 1920 when bulls were introduced into rodeo sports. Unlike horses, who usually quit jumping and kicking once the rider makes his exit, the bulls were still a little salty, as they say here in the South, and kept twisting and snorting with blood in their eye like a bovine Tasmanian Devil. They're especially happy to keep stomping the stuffing out of the guy they just hurled to the ground. Enter the rodeo clown. Their job is to distract, and sometimes offer assistance to the rider to help him out of harm's way.
Turns out comedians/actors Chill Wills and Slim Pickens (shown here) spent some time as rodeo clowns early in their careers. Apparently he was one who preferred the term 'bullfighter'.
I wonder how that first conversation went, convincing the local comic to not only run through his rodeo patter, but also get in the ring with a literal raging bull. I assume there was a financial incentive. Turns out many rodeo clowns transitioned from rodeo competition to rodeo clown, because with the latter, they are at least guaranteed a paycheck. In rodeo, if you don't finish in the money, you go home empty handed.
There are usually two or three clowns on the job simultaneously. One is there to distract; the others are to help the rider. Over the years, they have come up with innovations to protect themselves. Legendary rodeo clown Jasbo Fulkerson (a fellow Native Texan, thank you very much) invented the iconic barrel used as a sort of rodeo clown foxhole. Many wear protective clothing under their clown costumes, padded like an NFL linebacker. And I don't blame them one bit.
It is tradition for the rodeo clowns to wear a specific style of clown makeup. White around the eyes and mouth; red on the nose. That's it, plain and simple. No feather boas or glitter for this crowd. The profession itself is returning to its entertainment roots. Those who clown are often separate from those who protect (the aforementioned bullfighters).
Click here to watch a short video of professional rodeo clowns in action
along with other rodeo stars, as well they should. If you're ever clicking around the telly and see some bull riding going on, check it out. Those clowns (and riders!) are all crazy, but I'm just crazy enough to want to watch.
This post originally appeared during my participation in the 2016 A to Z Blog Challenge.Â
Don't you sometimes get the urge to mix things up and do something new? As a bona fide change junkie, it happens to me all the time. One such incident not long ago was kinda far out, for me at least:Â I successfully completed a Concealed Weapons Permit (CWP) class.
