I was going to write a huge post about Max Hall's post rivalry game comments. But my friends already have here and here. And I agree with them, so we'll leave it at that, except for one additional comment. In general, I think that many fans throughout Utah have a lot to learn about being classy, regardless of who they cheer for. If you don't believe me, ask one of our college athletes what the fans are like at any football school in the south or a basketball school in the east.
Still I reserve the right to go off on a diatribe about it means to be a good fan.
2009-11-29
2009-11-06
Literally
It's a pet peeve when people misuse the word literally. It started when I misused it on a paper in junior high. Like most people, I had mixed it up with figuratively. I wrote something like, "He literally killed him," when I meant to say was that the character had the crap kicked out him (which is also a phrase that should probably never be accompanied by the word literally.)
Of course, there are some times when using the word correctly is far worse than using it incorrectly. It happened to me a few weeks ago on one of these Indian summer Saturdays we've been enjoying. I was outside picking up the apples all over my backyard and cursing the tree bombarding my lawn. As I worked along the back fence, near the grape vines and pear trees (yes, my yard is the produce section), the back neighbor was out here picking the grapes (which have seeds the size of small pebbles.) She saw me flinging these apples into the trash and asked, "Are you just throwing those away?" Why yes, I was just throwing them away. As a matter of fact, that spring I liberally doused the tree with a fruit inhibitor, hoping it would keep me from having to do the picking up in which I was currently engaged.
"Well, if you're just throwing them away, can we come pick them up?" I eyed the worm riddled specimen in my hands and replied, "I guess?". So, this middle-aged woman and her mother came over with a couple of boxes to get the rest off of the lawn. I didn't really feel right leaving them out there alone, and the accompanying three year old seemed a little mischievous, so I stayed outside and worked/supervised. This of course, lead to conversation. Turns out that this woman wasn't actually my neighbor as I had thought (don't judge me), but someone who had run into my neighbor and found out about the grapes. (What that conversation was like I can't imagine.) So, she was in the backyard to pick the grapes, because, as she put it, "My kids are anal retentive, literally."
Wait, what? Really? I shuddered. She went on to explain something about the juice being good for kids or whatever. Which is fine...but I definitely didn't need to know anything about anyone's bowel movements. Literally.
Of course, there are some times when using the word correctly is far worse than using it incorrectly. It happened to me a few weeks ago on one of these Indian summer Saturdays we've been enjoying. I was outside picking up the apples all over my backyard and cursing the tree bombarding my lawn. As I worked along the back fence, near the grape vines and pear trees (yes, my yard is the produce section), the back neighbor was out here picking the grapes (which have seeds the size of small pebbles.) She saw me flinging these apples into the trash and asked, "Are you just throwing those away?" Why yes, I was just throwing them away. As a matter of fact, that spring I liberally doused the tree with a fruit inhibitor, hoping it would keep me from having to do the picking up in which I was currently engaged.
"Well, if you're just throwing them away, can we come pick them up?" I eyed the worm riddled specimen in my hands and replied, "I guess?". So, this middle-aged woman and her mother came over with a couple of boxes to get the rest off of the lawn. I didn't really feel right leaving them out there alone, and the accompanying three year old seemed a little mischievous, so I stayed outside and worked/supervised. This of course, lead to conversation. Turns out that this woman wasn't actually my neighbor as I had thought (don't judge me), but someone who had run into my neighbor and found out about the grapes. (What that conversation was like I can't imagine.) So, she was in the backyard to pick the grapes, because, as she put it, "My kids are anal retentive, literally."
Wait, what? Really? I shuddered. She went on to explain something about the juice being good for kids or whatever. Which is fine...but I definitely didn't need to know anything about anyone's bowel movements. Literally.
2009-11-05
Daylight Savings and the Human Rotisserie
When you live this far north, the end of daylight saving time means that the sun abruptly starts to go down at 5 pm. If you're like me and can't even open your eyes before 9:00 am, that means that you're awake for maybe 6 or 7 hours of naturally lit sky. And, unless you're also a vampire or WoW addict, it can be a struggle to maintain your sanity. So, I have a confession to make; I go tanning. Those few minutes of high intensity simulated sunlight really do a ton for my mood, and actually very little for my Robert Pattinson-esque winter pallor, so no one knows that I'm cheating on winter.
Tonight was my first visit since May or so, and I have to say that it was wonderful. A truly guilty pleasure. And I do feel guilty because I know full well the risk I'm taking by laying down in that big UV cancer taco. And yet right now, thousands and thousands of Americans are probably doing the same thing, like so many rotisserie chickens sweating under cellophane and heat lamps. I know that sounds gross, but UV radiation is really awesome at killing germs and the like, so tanning is actually pretty hygienic. Even so, you walk away with an unmistakable scent when you're done. I imagine it's half leftover tanning lotion, half sweat, and half dead skin cells sloughing off by the millions.
It's a habit that started when I was in college. Logan winters were brutal. My dr. suggested that some light tanning might help with some of the winter blues. The risk they, they say, is not so much in the tanning but in the burning. But to me, that's kind of like saying that it's not cigarettes that kill, it's TOO MANY cigarettes that kills. Still, it's a risk I'm willing to take to a little bit of e-sunshine.
Tonight was my first visit since May or so, and I have to say that it was wonderful. A truly guilty pleasure. And I do feel guilty because I know full well the risk I'm taking by laying down in that big UV cancer taco. And yet right now, thousands and thousands of Americans are probably doing the same thing, like so many rotisserie chickens sweating under cellophane and heat lamps. I know that sounds gross, but UV radiation is really awesome at killing germs and the like, so tanning is actually pretty hygienic. Even so, you walk away with an unmistakable scent when you're done. I imagine it's half leftover tanning lotion, half sweat, and half dead skin cells sloughing off by the millions.
It's a habit that started when I was in college. Logan winters were brutal. My dr. suggested that some light tanning might help with some of the winter blues. The risk they, they say, is not so much in the tanning but in the burning. But to me, that's kind of like saying that it's not cigarettes that kill, it's TOO MANY cigarettes that kills. Still, it's a risk I'm willing to take to a little bit of e-sunshine.
2009-11-02
Sponge
I'm a sponge. No, not that nearly lifeless sea floor inhabitant (though there are similarities, I suppose), but a figurative sponge. I remember stuff. Tons of stuff. Stuff not really worth remembering. For example, today I read an article on the different types of electrical outlets around the world. And I know that some years from now, in some random conversation, I'm going to remember that it's only North America and Japan that use 110V-60Hz power. And people are going to look at me funny for knowing that.
It's my curse.
Of course, you're saying, it's really not that bad. In fact, it could probably be a talent. Well, I suppose you're right. But you see, I don't seem to have much control over what I remember. You'd think I'd never lose my keys or leave the milk out on the counter over night, but I do that kind of stuff all the time. There's no assurance that what I remember is going to be useful in anyway.
But the real problem is when I'm NOT supposed to remember stuff but I do anyway. It happened a month or two ago at a party. This girl walked past and I said, "Hi Abby!" She looked at me suspiciously and said, "How do you know my name?" At which point I had to explain that I wasn't, in fact, some sort of stalker, but that several years before we had lived in the same apartment complex in Logan. We only talked a handful of times back then, but for some reason, I remembered her name. What I didn't realize though, was that I wasn't supposed to remember her name. Instead, I should have pretended that she looked somewhat familiar, and asked if she went to Utah Sate then if she lived in the complex, and then me recognizing her wouldn't have been weird at all.
And the situation is totally exacerbated by Facebook and Twitter and blogs. Now people are posting all sorts of things online about themselves. And if I happen to read it, it may just stick in there, connect itself with other random facts, and tumble out of my mouth. So, I have to remember to filter what I remember. And I still can't find my keys.
It's my curse.
Of course, you're saying, it's really not that bad. In fact, it could probably be a talent. Well, I suppose you're right. But you see, I don't seem to have much control over what I remember. You'd think I'd never lose my keys or leave the milk out on the counter over night, but I do that kind of stuff all the time. There's no assurance that what I remember is going to be useful in anyway.
But the real problem is when I'm NOT supposed to remember stuff but I do anyway. It happened a month or two ago at a party. This girl walked past and I said, "Hi Abby!" She looked at me suspiciously and said, "How do you know my name?" At which point I had to explain that I wasn't, in fact, some sort of stalker, but that several years before we had lived in the same apartment complex in Logan. We only talked a handful of times back then, but for some reason, I remembered her name. What I didn't realize though, was that I wasn't supposed to remember her name. Instead, I should have pretended that she looked somewhat familiar, and asked if she went to Utah Sate then if she lived in the complex, and then me recognizing her wouldn't have been weird at all.
And the situation is totally exacerbated by Facebook and Twitter and blogs. Now people are posting all sorts of things online about themselves. And if I happen to read it, it may just stick in there, connect itself with other random facts, and tumble out of my mouth. So, I have to remember to filter what I remember. And I still can't find my keys.
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