It's not official, but we may be up for an award for Couple Spending the Most Amount of Time in the Artificial Christmas Tree Department--Without Buying Anything.
But that would not quite be true. We DID buy a tree. Sort of.
We are in this predicament because of our last Christmas tree, which gave up the ghost after several years of silently enduring being pushed and shoved in and out of the attic, twisted into just the right position for the placement of ornaments, and snarled at for being too large and not fitting nicely back into the toothpick-size container in which it had come. Near the end of its life, it had only a few working, prelit lights as its spirit slowly diminished and, finally, left altogether.
Let not tree purists think that they are the only ones who search for the perfect tree. In our own search for an artificial tree, we have been to five stores (six if you count going back to the same one again), agonizing over a choice that will from henceforth affect our Christmas cheer. A forever tree.
The Hero likens it to choosing a life partner: "Do you, Princess, take this tree, committing to its care for its natural-born days, loving it through its faults..."
But the problem was I didn't WANT it to have faults (just to clarify, we are talking about the tree here). The forever trees I was willing to commit to were no longer available, and the others had, shall we say, special needs. Or they required soaring cathedral ceilings, where we could offer them only cottage-type surroundings.
(As an aside, are makers of fake trees on a quest to make trees that look, if possible, even MORE fake? We have noticed a disturbing tend wherein there is more than one type of branch on a particular tree. I have my doubts that this trend was inspired by nature.)
It was a slow night at the last store we visited, and we debated so long over the trees on display that no doubt the employees were placing bets as to whether we would 1) actually take home a tree or 2) leave with no tree AND in separate cars.
If trees were people, the Hero wanted a Lilliputian. I wanted Gulliver. We ended up with Charlie Brown.
Yes, for roughly $21.99 you can buy an authentic Charlie Brown tree, complete with one decorative bulb that makes the top branches bend over so charmingly. We were sorry to disappoint the store employees who had placed bets; the Charlie Brown tree wasn't exactly a tree, but neither was it not a tree.
It just needs a little love, as the side of the box proclaims. Which we will give it, at least until next year, when the trees are on sale again and we can find our perfect, forever tree. With just one type of branch, please.
Thursday, December 11, 2014
Monday, December 1, 2014
The Thanksgiving games
Like many families on Thanksgiving, we partook of the bounty before us as though we were the original Pilgrims: overworked, underfed, and unsure of when -- or if -- we were ever going to see so much food in one place again. We therefore loaded up on turkey and gravy and dressing and vegetables and four kinds of potatoes, and just to be sure our bodies would have enough to see us their through the long, difficult Black Friday ordeal, we consumed several pies and numerous cookies. (Technically the latter were the Little Persons' desserts, but in a society where food is so uncertain, everyone needs to share.)
But after dinner, the Little Persons extracted their revenge for the forced sharing. Taking advantage of the adults' brain-deadness, they hosted a magic show, which we were all urged -- indeed, compelled -- to attend. The magic involved was, er, less than magical, unless one considers the difficulty of accommodating five young egos on the same stage.Truly, THAT was magic.
When a large ball materialized, the action heated up. The magicians were transformed into two teams fiercely trying to keep the ball away from each other. Perhaps it was our brain-deadness, but it was difficult to follow the action, what with arms appearing where legs should have been and heads sometimes disappearing altogether.
Within the space of several minutes the game was forfeited by both sides, owing to the number of injuries that left too few players able to play. Sadly, the injuries also overwhelmed the onsite clinic, which was caught embarrassingly short on ice packs and had to rotate them among the patients, enforcing a strict 2-minute limit per patient.
The non-injured Little Persons, resourceful and quick thinking, hastened to put on a skit wherein both players played multiple parts as animals, or possibly fairy godmothers. It was hard to tell sometimes.
First a duck appeared. It seemed to be overly influenced by A Christmas Carol, as suggested by its urgent message:
"I am the Duck from the Future. I am here to tell you what will befall all ducks. (Pause.) It is not good. The ducks will die if you feed them. Do NOT feed them!"
Here the duck disappeared, to be replaced by an elephant who looked at us gravely. "The ducks are lying. Feed them! And feed us too! Otherwise we will starve!"
The elephant had scarcely left when the duck flew in again, squawking, "Don't listen to the elephant! He's the one who's lying! The food in the future will be ... " -- the duck searched for an apt description of the food of the future -- "poisoned! Do not feed it to the ducks!"
The pace quickly accelerated until we could scarcely tell the duck from the elephant, and were further confused by the appearance of a fairy godmother whose role seemed to be to grant wishes to cowboys who longed for a horse. We did not know whom to believe. Did we want to have our conscience burdened by dead ducks if we fed them poisoned food? We did not. Thus we continued in our brain-deadness, which we found pretty convenient. We were too tired to feed anyone.
Who knows what heights of drama and theater may have been reached had not the excitement been cut short by the father of several injured Little Persons, who declared it time to go home. Yet the possibility of further injuries remained: On the way home, they were stopping at Old Navy.
But after dinner, the Little Persons extracted their revenge for the forced sharing. Taking advantage of the adults' brain-deadness, they hosted a magic show, which we were all urged -- indeed, compelled -- to attend. The magic involved was, er, less than magical, unless one considers the difficulty of accommodating five young egos on the same stage.Truly, THAT was magic.
When a large ball materialized, the action heated up. The magicians were transformed into two teams fiercely trying to keep the ball away from each other. Perhaps it was our brain-deadness, but it was difficult to follow the action, what with arms appearing where legs should have been and heads sometimes disappearing altogether.
Within the space of several minutes the game was forfeited by both sides, owing to the number of injuries that left too few players able to play. Sadly, the injuries also overwhelmed the onsite clinic, which was caught embarrassingly short on ice packs and had to rotate them among the patients, enforcing a strict 2-minute limit per patient.
The non-injured Little Persons, resourceful and quick thinking, hastened to put on a skit wherein both players played multiple parts as animals, or possibly fairy godmothers. It was hard to tell sometimes.
First a duck appeared. It seemed to be overly influenced by A Christmas Carol, as suggested by its urgent message:
"I am the Duck from the Future. I am here to tell you what will befall all ducks. (Pause.) It is not good. The ducks will die if you feed them. Do NOT feed them!"
Here the duck disappeared, to be replaced by an elephant who looked at us gravely. "The ducks are lying. Feed them! And feed us too! Otherwise we will starve!"
The elephant had scarcely left when the duck flew in again, squawking, "Don't listen to the elephant! He's the one who's lying! The food in the future will be ... " -- the duck searched for an apt description of the food of the future -- "poisoned! Do not feed it to the ducks!"
The pace quickly accelerated until we could scarcely tell the duck from the elephant, and were further confused by the appearance of a fairy godmother whose role seemed to be to grant wishes to cowboys who longed for a horse. We did not know whom to believe. Did we want to have our conscience burdened by dead ducks if we fed them poisoned food? We did not. Thus we continued in our brain-deadness, which we found pretty convenient. We were too tired to feed anyone.
Who knows what heights of drama and theater may have been reached had not the excitement been cut short by the father of several injured Little Persons, who declared it time to go home. Yet the possibility of further injuries remained: On the way home, they were stopping at Old Navy.
Tuesday, November 25, 2014
The great turnip experiment
Okay, so it wasn't really great, and it wasn't REALLY an experiment since I used a recipe. But it did involve turnips.
It is a fact universally known to people who manage a CSA that their customers must be in want of foods they do not particularly like, or of whose identity they cannot be absolutely certain. And so the customers receive those foods. In GREAT quantities.
Some of these foods demand creativity to make them palatable. Sometimes the customer pairs them with other foods they DO like (I personally recommend copies amounts of chocolate). Or pairs the foods with other foods that go well together, such as more chocolate. It the foods have parts that must be removed, such as leaves or skin, the customer throws herself exuberantly into peeling or deleafing, sometimes resulting in more of the food going into the disposal or garbage than is strictly necessary. In extreme cases, she pretends the food has gone off on a Great Adventure in the bowels of the refrigerator, and expresses surprise and regret -- sometimes real, sometimes feigned -- when it emerges, months later, inedible and must be disposed of.
We have received turnips several times in our basket, and I have tried numerous ways to make them palatable. All were about as successful as making a chess board palatable. Weighing my options this time, it seemed a shame to waste chocolate on them, and so I chose to pair the turnips with sweet potatoes and hearty sage. In this way I hoped to obliterate the taste of the turnips altogether, given that the recipe called for 30 leaves of sage, which could pretty much obliterate the taste of anything.
After a few bites I declared the dish a success, based on 1) actually using the turnips, but 2) not actually tasting the turnips.
The Hero is extremely enthusiastic about nearly every dish I make, to the point where I once said I needed a more objective opinion to help me truly improve my cooking. He took this suggestion seriously, and now offers one of two measured, thoughtful opinions on any given dish or meal:
1) This is the best dish EVER made ANYWHERE!
2) This is not swill.*
So I fully expected one of these responses when I asked what he thought about the sweet potato-turnip mash.
"It's okay," he said, shrugging.
"Wow," I said. "That bad, huh?"
He thought it would be improved by "some spice...cinnamon, maybe."
"Hmmm," I said.
"You don't think it would be better with cinnamon?" he asked.
"Well," I said. "it wouldn't be swill."
____
*We are indebted to certain readers for introducing this word into the Hero's eating vocabulary.
It is a fact universally known to people who manage a CSA that their customers must be in want of foods they do not particularly like, or of whose identity they cannot be absolutely certain. And so the customers receive those foods. In GREAT quantities.
Some of these foods demand creativity to make them palatable. Sometimes the customer pairs them with other foods they DO like (I personally recommend copies amounts of chocolate). Or pairs the foods with other foods that go well together, such as more chocolate. It the foods have parts that must be removed, such as leaves or skin, the customer throws herself exuberantly into peeling or deleafing, sometimes resulting in more of the food going into the disposal or garbage than is strictly necessary. In extreme cases, she pretends the food has gone off on a Great Adventure in the bowels of the refrigerator, and expresses surprise and regret -- sometimes real, sometimes feigned -- when it emerges, months later, inedible and must be disposed of.
We have received turnips several times in our basket, and I have tried numerous ways to make them palatable. All were about as successful as making a chess board palatable. Weighing my options this time, it seemed a shame to waste chocolate on them, and so I chose to pair the turnips with sweet potatoes and hearty sage. In this way I hoped to obliterate the taste of the turnips altogether, given that the recipe called for 30 leaves of sage, which could pretty much obliterate the taste of anything.
After a few bites I declared the dish a success, based on 1) actually using the turnips, but 2) not actually tasting the turnips.
The Hero is extremely enthusiastic about nearly every dish I make, to the point where I once said I needed a more objective opinion to help me truly improve my cooking. He took this suggestion seriously, and now offers one of two measured, thoughtful opinions on any given dish or meal:
1) This is the best dish EVER made ANYWHERE!
2) This is not swill.*
So I fully expected one of these responses when I asked what he thought about the sweet potato-turnip mash.
"It's okay," he said, shrugging.
"Wow," I said. "That bad, huh?"
He thought it would be improved by "some spice...cinnamon, maybe."
"Hmmm," I said.
"You don't think it would be better with cinnamon?" he asked.
"Well," I said. "it wouldn't be swill."
____
*We are indebted to certain readers for introducing this word into the Hero's eating vocabulary.
Thursday, November 13, 2014
Big and bigger
Several people, upon hearing that I recently returned from Dallas, have asked how it was.
"Big," I tell them. "Big and gray."
The buildings are tall. Many, such as the convention center where I spent several days, are gray. The insides of hotels and restaurants soar up to wasted space. The overpasses, which are numerous, are tall -- and gray.
True, many of the hotels in the area are lit up spectacularly at night, such that when you close your eyes in bed at night, that bombardment of color -- blue, purple, green, red, blue, purple, green, red, bluepurplegreenred -- invades your sleep. But during the day, the city pretty much resembles a gigantic herd of oddly shaped elephants.
Just a guess, but this is probably not the image city officials were going for.
And there are a lot of hospitals. Or course this is probably reflective of Dallas being a large city, perhaps even one on the forefront of medicine. But riding in a Dallas taxi -- as it careens around town as if in a supercharged video game -- gives one a unique perspective on health care in general and emergency medicine in particular. One has occasion, although not much time, to wonder whether one will need these services as a direct result of the taxi ride.
The airport, too, is large, unless you fly in to the smaller airport. This airport has a friendly, almost cozy feeling, with gate numbers like 3, or 7. This raises travelers' expectations that their luggage might actually arrive in a timely manner. Such expectations are unfounded, however, as luggage appears to travel from the smaller airport over to the larger one, take a little ride on the carousels there, and them finally make its way back to you.
In keeping with the BIG theme, food portions in restaurants are large enough that you may need another set of luggage to take your leftovers with you, but who is complaining? Grilled cheese on Texas toast, with three kinds of cheeses and ham high enough to fit under your Stetson -- what's not to love? The only regret, perhaps, is that such indulgences leave little room for dessert, which is why you have to engage in strategic food planning by having dessert for lunch.
Which is just what we did, encouraged by the free dessert provided at our convention lunch every day. But we didn't feel much guilt, because after lunch we had to hike about four miles within the convention center, and surely we walked off our lemon pie or Killer Mexican Chocolate Cake several times over.
Because, did I mention the convention center is big?
"Big," I tell them. "Big and gray."
The buildings are tall. Many, such as the convention center where I spent several days, are gray. The insides of hotels and restaurants soar up to wasted space. The overpasses, which are numerous, are tall -- and gray.
True, many of the hotels in the area are lit up spectacularly at night, such that when you close your eyes in bed at night, that bombardment of color -- blue, purple, green, red, blue, purple, green, red, bluepurplegreenred -- invades your sleep. But during the day, the city pretty much resembles a gigantic herd of oddly shaped elephants.
Just a guess, but this is probably not the image city officials were going for.
And there are a lot of hospitals. Or course this is probably reflective of Dallas being a large city, perhaps even one on the forefront of medicine. But riding in a Dallas taxi -- as it careens around town as if in a supercharged video game -- gives one a unique perspective on health care in general and emergency medicine in particular. One has occasion, although not much time, to wonder whether one will need these services as a direct result of the taxi ride.
The airport, too, is large, unless you fly in to the smaller airport. This airport has a friendly, almost cozy feeling, with gate numbers like 3, or 7. This raises travelers' expectations that their luggage might actually arrive in a timely manner. Such expectations are unfounded, however, as luggage appears to travel from the smaller airport over to the larger one, take a little ride on the carousels there, and them finally make its way back to you.
In keeping with the BIG theme, food portions in restaurants are large enough that you may need another set of luggage to take your leftovers with you, but who is complaining? Grilled cheese on Texas toast, with three kinds of cheeses and ham high enough to fit under your Stetson -- what's not to love? The only regret, perhaps, is that such indulgences leave little room for dessert, which is why you have to engage in strategic food planning by having dessert for lunch.
Which is just what we did, encouraged by the free dessert provided at our convention lunch every day. But we didn't feel much guilt, because after lunch we had to hike about four miles within the convention center, and surely we walked off our lemon pie or Killer Mexican Chocolate Cake several times over.
Because, did I mention the convention center is big?
Monday, October 27, 2014
Autumn, pumpkins, and nemeses
It is that time of year again, when the air is crisp, leaves crunch underfoot, and we commence our annual search for the perfect pumpkin. Following this, we begin our annual fight with the local squirrels, who believe pumpkins are theirs by divine right.
There are approximately a kajillion and a half pumpkins at each pumpkin patch, farm, or store we see. These places should be squirrel meccas. Yet we have never seen a bite taken out of any of these pumpkins. The day we bring our lone pumpkin home, however, the squirrels are waiting. It's like they have a Pumpkin Watch set up, manned by junior squirrels who raise the alarm: "Hey, it's here!" And like many tribes in the human world, the juniors watch, longingly, as the more mature of the bunch go off to attack and enjoy the spoils. "Next time," they tell the young buck squirrels, eager for action.
While we were searching for this year's squirrel target at a farm, a young girl stood next to me, solemnly looking at all the pumpkins in the large bin. She made occasional commentary on the ones I picked up, chiefly variations on "Hmmm." Clearly she was looking for a very specific pumpkin. Finally I asked her what kind she was searching for.
"I'm looking for the one with NO dirt on it," she announced solemnly.
It was a secret wish of mine, too, but of course it doesn't matter whether one's pumpkin is dirty. Because the squirrels are going to eat it anyway.
The Hero is hoping not to repeat his rather scary experience from a recent Halloween. He was handing out candy and noticed a young girl in a rather odd, homemade costume that looked like -- but no, it couldn't be --
"Is she a stink bug?" he said to the father.
His tone, I am sure, suggested that he thought the situation might warrant a call to protective services. But the father, oblivious, proudly indicated that yes, his sweet daughter WAS impersonating one of the most vile members of the insect world -- the Hero's personal nemesis.
The Hero can only hope that this year, or some Halloween in the near future, some youngster, armed and dressed as the Mortal Enemy of Stink Bugs, will show up to take care of this menace once and for all. And THAT child will have all the candy he -- or she -- will ever want.
Maybe we'll throw in a dirt-free pumpkin, too.
There are approximately a kajillion and a half pumpkins at each pumpkin patch, farm, or store we see. These places should be squirrel meccas. Yet we have never seen a bite taken out of any of these pumpkins. The day we bring our lone pumpkin home, however, the squirrels are waiting. It's like they have a Pumpkin Watch set up, manned by junior squirrels who raise the alarm: "Hey, it's here!" And like many tribes in the human world, the juniors watch, longingly, as the more mature of the bunch go off to attack and enjoy the spoils. "Next time," they tell the young buck squirrels, eager for action.
While we were searching for this year's squirrel target at a farm, a young girl stood next to me, solemnly looking at all the pumpkins in the large bin. She made occasional commentary on the ones I picked up, chiefly variations on "Hmmm." Clearly she was looking for a very specific pumpkin. Finally I asked her what kind she was searching for.
"I'm looking for the one with NO dirt on it," she announced solemnly.
It was a secret wish of mine, too, but of course it doesn't matter whether one's pumpkin is dirty. Because the squirrels are going to eat it anyway.
The Hero is hoping not to repeat his rather scary experience from a recent Halloween. He was handing out candy and noticed a young girl in a rather odd, homemade costume that looked like -- but no, it couldn't be --
"Is she a stink bug?" he said to the father.
His tone, I am sure, suggested that he thought the situation might warrant a call to protective services. But the father, oblivious, proudly indicated that yes, his sweet daughter WAS impersonating one of the most vile members of the insect world -- the Hero's personal nemesis.
The Hero can only hope that this year, or some Halloween in the near future, some youngster, armed and dressed as the Mortal Enemy of Stink Bugs, will show up to take care of this menace once and for all. And THAT child will have all the candy he -- or she -- will ever want.
Maybe we'll throw in a dirt-free pumpkin, too.
Wednesday, October 15, 2014
Tour de White House
The White House, which relatives and I toured recently, is one of the few residences of a head of state in the world that is open to the public. This is thanks to our wise founding fathers, who foresaw that the American people would yearn to walk in the hallowed rooms of their leaders, behold with their own eyes the fascinating china patterns of successive administrations, jump fences and crash internationals galas, etc. They therefore set aside rooms in the White House whose only function is for public gawking.
This provision can be found in Federal Document #932A: Public Access to Executive Residence (or at Least Part of It), which states that "A percentage of Rooms in the Executive Residence, to be named forthwith, shall be preserved solely for Public Viewing; they shall have no Bearing on actual Governmental Function nor on the President's day-to-day Business. Neither the President nor his Cabinet Members, nor Members of Congress, nor any visiting Dignitary, shall ever set Foot in any of these Rooms, unless doing so as a Member of the General Public. Nor shall any Member of the President's Family do so, unless in an Emergency in order to retrieve, for example, the Presidential Dog."
On any given day, there are throngs of people from the general public lined up to view these rooms, which include the Green Room, Blue Room, Red Room, Purple Room, Striped Room, Polka-Dot Room, the Multipurpose Room, the Multitasking Multipurpose Room, the Room Decorated by the Cat in Residence, etc. You can tell that these rooms have no actual governmental function because during tours they are staffed by "Secret Service" persons, who are obviously not true Secret Service because they do not wear dark glasses. They ARE, however, equipped with little earpieces, from which they receive top-secret governmental information, such as "bottom of the ninth, two outs, and Fernandez is up..."
Before entering these rooms, visitors are led along a corridor featuring photos of various presidents through the years. These photos also prominently feature presidential pets, who are often remembered fondly by visitors, even when their owners are somewhat difficult to remember. "Look, here's Him and Her! They were such cute beagles. Let's see, who was president then...Nixon? Ford?" "No, no, I'm sure it was earlier -- it was...him and..her..."
Some visitors are lucky enough to get a glimpse, as we did, of important members of the First Family during their tour. In our case it was the presidential dogs, Bo and Sunny, who made an appearance, albeit brief. The dogs were gracious but did not, following years of protocol, offer autographs.
The "Secret Service" people are full of interesting tidbits of information, such as that the room heavily decorated in green tones is known as the Green Room, or that the many pieces of furniture with eagles on them are from Teddy Roosevelt's era. ("He liked eagles," the Secret Service man offered. They certainly know their stuff, those Secret Service people.)
You will also learn, as a visitor, the number of rooms in the house (132), the number of fireplaces (28), and most important, the number of bathrooms (35). Visitors, of course, never see ANY bathrooms, they having not yet been invented when the idea for the Visitor Wing was conceived.
Despite this shortcoming, the tour is very informative and not to be missed. Of course, you could see much the same things on a virtual tour of the White House online. Maybe even a bathroom.
This provision can be found in Federal Document #932A: Public Access to Executive Residence (or at Least Part of It), which states that "A percentage of Rooms in the Executive Residence, to be named forthwith, shall be preserved solely for Public Viewing; they shall have no Bearing on actual Governmental Function nor on the President's day-to-day Business. Neither the President nor his Cabinet Members, nor Members of Congress, nor any visiting Dignitary, shall ever set Foot in any of these Rooms, unless doing so as a Member of the General Public. Nor shall any Member of the President's Family do so, unless in an Emergency in order to retrieve, for example, the Presidential Dog."
On any given day, there are throngs of people from the general public lined up to view these rooms, which include the Green Room, Blue Room, Red Room, Purple Room, Striped Room, Polka-Dot Room, the Multipurpose Room, the Multitasking Multipurpose Room, the Room Decorated by the Cat in Residence, etc. You can tell that these rooms have no actual governmental function because during tours they are staffed by "Secret Service" persons, who are obviously not true Secret Service because they do not wear dark glasses. They ARE, however, equipped with little earpieces, from which they receive top-secret governmental information, such as "bottom of the ninth, two outs, and Fernandez is up..."
Before entering these rooms, visitors are led along a corridor featuring photos of various presidents through the years. These photos also prominently feature presidential pets, who are often remembered fondly by visitors, even when their owners are somewhat difficult to remember. "Look, here's Him and Her! They were such cute beagles. Let's see, who was president then...Nixon? Ford?" "No, no, I'm sure it was earlier -- it was...him and..her..."
Some visitors are lucky enough to get a glimpse, as we did, of important members of the First Family during their tour. In our case it was the presidential dogs, Bo and Sunny, who made an appearance, albeit brief. The dogs were gracious but did not, following years of protocol, offer autographs.
The "Secret Service" people are full of interesting tidbits of information, such as that the room heavily decorated in green tones is known as the Green Room, or that the many pieces of furniture with eagles on them are from Teddy Roosevelt's era. ("He liked eagles," the Secret Service man offered. They certainly know their stuff, those Secret Service people.)
You will also learn, as a visitor, the number of rooms in the house (132), the number of fireplaces (28), and most important, the number of bathrooms (35). Visitors, of course, never see ANY bathrooms, they having not yet been invented when the idea for the Visitor Wing was conceived.
Despite this shortcoming, the tour is very informative and not to be missed. Of course, you could see much the same things on a virtual tour of the White House online. Maybe even a bathroom.
Monday, October 6, 2014
Frisbee as a contact sport
Many relationship experts recommend that couples participate in various leisure activities, even sports, together. The Hero and I try to do this, although perhaps Rearranging Cars in the Parking Lot is not quite the sort of bonding activity the relationship experts have in mind.
Following a few incidences this summer, the Hero has put more of a premium on activities that are safe. Safe for HIM. Safe for him from ME. There was, for instance, the incident of the guillotine Frisbee. To say that I am not very good at Frisbee golf would be to insult giant tortoises everywhere, who would surely be better at it than I. Anyone observing my strategy would conclude that it is this:
1. Locate basket into which Frisbee is intended to land.
2. Do several warm-up swings to get comfortable with the force needed and proper direction.
3. Throw Frisbee in any direction but where the basket is located.
4. Retrieve Frisbee from bushes, swamp, or clump of poison ivy where it has landed.
5. Repeat steps 1-4 until Frisbee has successfully landed in basket or Frisbee partner gives up and heads for home, whichever comes first.
The Hero is very good-natured about this process, even when his patient attempts to help me improve meet with very little success. He has learned to set modest goals for me ("The basket's about 100 yards that way, but aim for that patch of grass two feet away"), and to praise me for small successes ("It hit the rock instead of going into the stream! Great!").
But neither of us was prepared for just how dangerous I could be, until on one hole I aimed straight uphill, gave the Frisbee a mighty heave, and sent it rocketing 180 degrees to my right. It just missed the Hero's head.
A few weeks earlier, my Frisbee had headed right for a friend's leg, striking it rather violently, although it did not cause any major damage. Given that incident, and now the Hero's near limb malfunction, probably my Frisbee privileges should have been revoked on the spot. But after a few words of understanding from the equanimous Hero ("Never do that again"), we decided that perhaps it would be prudent to leave the course while we still had all our limbs intact and did not require advanced medical care. And while we could still remember how to get back to our car, as the designers of this course seemed to have done their best to make directionally challenged people even more directionally challenged.
We enthusiastically told some friends -- one of whom suffered that ill-advised Frisbee blow of mine to her leg -- about this new course that we'd found, and suggested we all go sometime. They were equally enthusiastic. Maybe this time, in the interest of public safety, I'll just throw my Frisbee in a thick patch of briars and leave it there. Better yet, I'll AIM for the thick patch of briars, and maybe it will actually go toward the basket.
Following a few incidences this summer, the Hero has put more of a premium on activities that are safe. Safe for HIM. Safe for him from ME. There was, for instance, the incident of the guillotine Frisbee. To say that I am not very good at Frisbee golf would be to insult giant tortoises everywhere, who would surely be better at it than I. Anyone observing my strategy would conclude that it is this:
1. Locate basket into which Frisbee is intended to land.
2. Do several warm-up swings to get comfortable with the force needed and proper direction.
3. Throw Frisbee in any direction but where the basket is located.
4. Retrieve Frisbee from bushes, swamp, or clump of poison ivy where it has landed.
5. Repeat steps 1-4 until Frisbee has successfully landed in basket or Frisbee partner gives up and heads for home, whichever comes first.
The Hero is very good-natured about this process, even when his patient attempts to help me improve meet with very little success. He has learned to set modest goals for me ("The basket's about 100 yards that way, but aim for that patch of grass two feet away"), and to praise me for small successes ("It hit the rock instead of going into the stream! Great!").
But neither of us was prepared for just how dangerous I could be, until on one hole I aimed straight uphill, gave the Frisbee a mighty heave, and sent it rocketing 180 degrees to my right. It just missed the Hero's head.
A few weeks earlier, my Frisbee had headed right for a friend's leg, striking it rather violently, although it did not cause any major damage. Given that incident, and now the Hero's near limb malfunction, probably my Frisbee privileges should have been revoked on the spot. But after a few words of understanding from the equanimous Hero ("Never do that again"), we decided that perhaps it would be prudent to leave the course while we still had all our limbs intact and did not require advanced medical care. And while we could still remember how to get back to our car, as the designers of this course seemed to have done their best to make directionally challenged people even more directionally challenged.
We enthusiastically told some friends -- one of whom suffered that ill-advised Frisbee blow of mine to her leg -- about this new course that we'd found, and suggested we all go sometime. They were equally enthusiastic. Maybe this time, in the interest of public safety, I'll just throw my Frisbee in a thick patch of briars and leave it there. Better yet, I'll AIM for the thick patch of briars, and maybe it will actually go toward the basket.
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