Sounders Win Despite Best Efforts

Oz is a beast.

I'm going to confess something here, right now, because I need to get it out in the open, and what I need to confess is this: unless my team is destroying its opposition, I don't find watching soccer at all enjoyable. In fact, I'd go so far as to say it's downright agonizing. Such was the Sounders game against the Colorado Rapids last night, when we scored in the second minute, conceded a goal two minutes later, scored again late in the second half, and then spent the last 20 minutes of the game running about like it was our first day on the job while the Rapids, as our former announcer would say, "loitered with intent" in the goal box, pummeling us with shots. I spent the entire second half digging my fingernails into my palms as if expecting to find treasure. My hands were shaking. My cheeks were burning. With five minutes left I looked over at my mom and she was leaning forward in her seat, her hands clasped in front of her in what resembled prayer. When the whistle blew I realized I'd been holding my breath for a truly impressive length of time. "What does it feel like to have a heart attack?" I asked my mom, releasing the tension in my fingers and sliding back onto my seat. "Put your hands up," she told me, "and breath."

See what I mean? Not enjoyable at all. Watching soccer is the most stressful way I could possibly spend a Saturday evening. So what did I do to relax? Made some quinoa salad and sat down to watch more soccer. You see, it's fine when I don't care who wins.

I Adore the Olympics

There are times in my life when I am stoic. There are times when I am entirely in control of my emotions. There are times when you couldn't pay me to cry.

And then there are the Olympics.

I have to say, I wasn't expecting much in the way of spectacle after the Beijing Games. I was like Wesley Snipes (not the Wesley Snipes) on 30 Rock when he was expressing concern to Liz Lemon about London as a host. "We're not prepared!" he exclaimed. "Did you see the Beijing Opening Ceremony? We don't have control of our people like that!" It's true--I don't think it's possible to create a more technically and visually precise production than the opening of the past Summer Games. But if Beijing was the tight, regimented production, London was the plucky little sibling with a whole lotta heart...and a really attractive accent.

I have been enchanted by the Olympics my entire life. When I was younger my mom would let me stay up late on school nights so I could watch my favorite Olympian of all time, American figure skater Michelle Kwan, compete in the long program. Backstage before my high school graduation, my friend Jessica and I attempted to hum "Pomp and Circumstance" but could remember only the Olympic theme song, to which we hummed our little hearts out.

To me, there are few displays of human accomplishment and camaraderie more breathtaking than Opening Ceremonies. Yes, they're so long that when they finally end it's practically time to extinguish the cauldron. Yes, they always have at least one excruciating moment whose corniness makes you want to slap your forehead in anguish. But when those countries start their march into the stadium there is nothing in the world that can touch them. It's a night of such profound national pride, such celebration of human potential and accomplishment, that you'd have to be made of stone to not be moved.

Kenneth Branagh for King of the Universe

If you were to chart my tearshed like rainfall it would be a more or less horizontal line except for five hours every two years that shot off the chart. That's the Opening Ceremony, and last night was no different. I can't stress to you enough how easily I can cry. I cry while listening to Disney songs. I cry if I'm trying to relocate a ladybug outside and accidentally injure it. Last week I cried during the Tour de France. It should come as no surprise, then, that I'm still dabbing my eyes after the deaf children sang and signed the British national anthem (after which I ran into the kitchen where my mom was watching it and, sniffing like a fool, declared "Damn those deaf kids!"). I cried when Kenneth Branagh recited a short soliloquy from The Tempest. (Kenneth Branagh is like chocolate syrup to me: everything is better with it.) I cried when the children's choir from Northern Ireland sang "Danny Boy," which was the song performed by members of my high school's faculty during the memorial service for my beloved English teacher Prudence Hockley. I cried when Saudi Arabia entered the stadium with its two female athletes, marking the first time in history that women have been allowed to compete for that nation. These are the first Games in which each of the 205 countries competing have sent women athletes and, for the U.S., the first time female competitors have outnumbered men.

Deaf children singing. I'm toast.

My mom and I also put on a stunning display during yesterday evening's ceremony, but ours was of global knowledge. Highlights included when I decided I wanted to learn all the countries and their capitals and then proceeded to draw a blank on every country beginning with an H. My mom and I then promptly forgot every nation starting with I except for Ionia which is, in fact, not a country. Who knew?

My dad, clearly exhausted, had wanted to stay up to hear Paul McCartney sing. He only went to bed when we reminded him that thanks to the time difference he could have YouTubed the performance five hours before. When my mom went to sleep she told me to tell her about anything exciting that happened. Considering it was halfway through the Parade of Nations, I asked what kind of excitement she was expecting. "Oh, I don't know," she answered. "When the U.S. shows up?"

The most moving moment of the night for me came, as it often does, with the lighting of the cauldron. As each nation made its entrance into the stadium it brought with it a metal petal which was then attached to one of over 200 pipes extending from the center of the arena. Seven of the petals were ignited by the torch bearers and within moments a chain reaction had lit a fire in each petal. Once they were all lit, they slowly rose up from the ground to form a single cauldron. Two hundred five nations becoming one in the spirit of the Summer Games. It was one of the most touching, beautiful moments I have ever witnessed. When my mom asked me this morning if I'd stayed up to watch the rest of the ceremony, I told her about the rising petals. "I cried so hard!" I said. Her response: "Of course you did."

Please, no one get married, die, or award me the Nobel Peace Prize in the next week or so. I need to replenish my tear supply.

So That Happened

I ripped a sheet out of my notepad today to scribble down a takeout order before I called it in. I just got home and noticed that along the top part of the page I had written the following quote, which I overheard somewhere: "I know what you mean about being obsessed with something. I was once obsessed with hemorrhagic fevers and witchcraft in Japan." I have no earthly idea where this could have come from, so if you are reading this and either said it or know who did, please let me know.

My mom was just going through the King County Voters' Pamphlet for the upcoming elections and she started laughing. "Oh Liv," she said, "you'll love this. This guy doesn't list his elected experience, doesn't list his other professional experience. He wrote that he 'had many animals and allot'--A-L-L-O-T--'of responsibility. And here he writes 'it's soul' with an apostrophe S. He has a business degree from the U-Dumb--I mean Dub!"

I cut up some avocado for my quesadilla tonight and decided after I bit into it that warm avocado tastes exactly like baked chicken. I find this repulsive.

I was checking the grocery list on the refrigerator before I headed to the store. Underneath "yogurt" my mother had added "dog biscuits." We don't have a dog.

Somehow, a while ago, my dad got placed on some expectant mother mailing list. He's received everything from flyers on parenting seminars to free samples of Enfamil baby formula. My favorite treasure came last week, addressed to one Robert Nargoshes:

 

My dad learning how he, too, can "bust through breastfeeding."

Checking out the BabyTalk centerfold.

 I love that these people don't think twice before mailing a magazine whose demographic is only (not even primarily) new mothers, to a 61-year-old man whose youngest child graduated from college two years ago. And who, it bears repeating, is a MAN.

I'm So Popular...with the Crazies

It seems I can't go anywhere these days without total strangers deciding that I look like I need a hug and should be engaged in conversation.

I met my most recent new "friend" at the Anacortes ferry terminal while sitting in the walk-on passenger waiting area. Her name was Liz. She was messily eating a muffin and kept dropping crumbs onto her white capris. "Oh, would you look at me!" she exclaimed. "Don't eat muffins with white pants! New rule!" She guffawed--really there is no other word for the sound her mouth produced--and the entire population of the sleepy waiting area turned to look at us. As you can probably imagine, based on how much I adore attention, I was mortified.

Other noteworthy Liz moments:

1. She told me I had a "youthful, energetic" face and guessed that I was 19. I should add that she'd already told me she used to teach at Western Washington University--meaning that she spent all  her days around people my age and still thought I looked like I'd just barely graduated from high school. I've decided that I'm going to keep track of how old people think I look. Maybe if I get enough guesses they'll average themselves out to at least 17.

2. After she conned her way into getting me to confess my plans for the future, she suggested that I make a storyboard to help me write. She also said that she won a trip to England once for writing a haiku that was "absolute dog shit."

3. She saw my guitar case leaning against the bench next to me and asked what I was playing. Gee, a piano.

4. She asked if I was going to adopt a nom de plume when I was published. Now, I may be wrong, but when you hear that someone wants to be a writer is the first question you generally ask whether or not they're satisfied with their name? Yeah, I'm taking a pen name. It's Nunya Damb Isnuss.

5. When I'm in public by myself, I'm terrified of looking like a fool in front of complete strangers I'll never see again. It's completely irrational but knowing that isn't going to assuage my fear. In these instances I tend to keep a low profile, sinking down behind my open book or standing in line quietly or finding the least disruptive way to do whatever the situation calls for. No such luck with Liz. She wanted to know, loudly, if I could recommend a good place to get dinner on the island. I had no choice but to answer, with the preface that "I am no local," which I hoped was enough of an excuse to explain to any islanders within earshot that I wasn't claiming an intimate knowledge of Eastound's culinary scene. I mumbled my way through a few restaurants while Liz unfolded her map and followed along as I gave her the street names (there are literally only two).

Stay tuned for more stories of how people take pity on me because I supposedly look like I have no friends.

Words to Come

I just got back from two days on Orcas with my mom, and while I'm far too lazy to regale you with stories of the crazy woman I met waiting at the ferry terminal or how I made an ass of myself in front of an Italian who didn't understand me, allow me to tantalize your eyebuds with a few snapshots that demonstrate exactly why this island is one of my favorite places on the planet.

Eastsound, the island's main town. Painfully adorable, right?

Even with lightning and the loudest thunder I've ever heard, there was a stunning sunset.

Part of my yurt and the view from it.

The road leading away from Orcas Island Pottery.

I may or may not be a bit obsessed with sunsets...

I rest my case.

And I rest it again.

TMI, Bus Guy. T.M.I.

     I swear to God, the day I catch a bus into Seattle and don't climb off with something unusual to write about will be the day I switch my allegiance to the LA Galaxy. In other words, ain't never gonna happen.
     Yesterday I took the bus into the city to meet my brother and a couple of his friends at the Sounders game. It was hot, and after the bus doors closed behind me and I took my seat I was dismayed to discover that not only did the windows not open but the air conditioning wasn't on. We heat wimps of the Pacific Northwest don't fare well in these circumstances, let me tell you.


My bus, just so you're with me.

     The seat next to me was vacant until about halfway to the city, when a very tall, somewhat rotund man lumbered aboard and, making eye contact and smiling at me, took the empty seat. I had been listening to my iPod but paused it and took out an earbud when the man turned to me and said hello. I returned the greeting. "I'm James," he said, extending a hand, "what's your name?" It became evident that I was not going to be listening to my iPod for the last half of the ride so I turned it off, pulled out the other earbud, and shook James's hand.

     He had sad eyes--even when he smiled--and drooping eyelids, a set of crooked teeth that fanned skyward as if attempting to turn his upper lip into a sort of makeshift tent. As he began talking it became clear that he was, in some capacity, mentally disabled. His speech was slow and deliberate and he seemed content to carry on a mostly one-sided conversation with himself, turning to me only to punctuate his thoughts with the occasional one-word response. He was 34 and heading home to Tacoma and boy wasn't it hot on the bus and did I think the bus driver turned on the air conditioning, and did I think that, if the bus driver had not turned on the air conditioning that he would do so if asked politely?

     "Do you have a boyfriend?" he asked with the abruptness of someone well-versed in non sequiturs.
     When one finds oneself in a conversation with a stranger on a public bus, and when said stranger takes the opportunity to pry into one's romantic life, there are several ways to handle the situation. in my case there was only one: lie my ass off. "Yes," I answered immediately.
     I was mistaken in thinking he'd drop the subject. "How long have you been dating?" he asked.
     I took a breath, loudly, to buy myself time. "A few years," I said.
     "So what, three?" He held up three fingers "Four?" He held up four.
     I was afraid that my imaginary boyfriend would soon have to be named, his height and occupation and geneology revealed. Lucky for me James didn't give a crap.
     "Me," he said, not waiting for a response, "I've been dating my girlfriend for four years." She lived in Tacoma, too, and he was excited to see her because they had a very trusting relationship and didn't I think that trust was the most important thing in any relationship? I admitted that yes, trust was very important.
     James went on. He missed his mother, who passed away in 2009, but he still had his girlfriend and, because somehow this makes sense, his grandchildren. I did some quick mental math (which is always trouble) and figured that for him to have grandchildren that were one and two years old as his were, he would have to have had a kid at 16 and the same for his kid. It didn't strike me as a probable scenario but I wasn't going to call him on it.
     He was worried about me, riding the bus all by myself and heading into the city where there were "some pretty crazy people." Where was I going? Was I meeting someone? Was this person trustworthy? Trust is, after all, the most important thing in any relationship. He barely missed a beat before turning to me and saying, "You're cute. You have nice eyes and a nice smile." I smiled nervously with closed lips (for I have concluded that I am noticably less cute when I smile in this manner) and turned to the window. "I have a girlfriend of four years," he added, "and we have a very trusting relationship and I love her, so you know I'm not flirting with you." Why no, James, I did not know that. Thanks for clearing that up.

     Throughout the entire conversation I nodded politely and threw in an interested "Oh, really?" whenever it seemed appropriate (and even when it didn't - he wasn't paying attention anyway). But as soon as he brought up how his girlfriend's friend's boyfriend cheated on her with two people at one time I stopped finding it necessary to respond. "I mean, it's just sick," he said, "three people having sex with each other at once." Why is this happening? I thought. This is not happening. I looked around to see if anyone had heard and seemed as pained as I was, but it appeared that James and I were the only two with ears on the entire bus.

The March to the Match from Occidental Park.

     When we finally pulled up to 4th & Union James muttered something about having missed his bus to Tacoma, offered a quick goodbye, and left. I sank into my seat and stared hard at the roof of the car next to me. I couldn't remember being so uncomfortable, feeling so violated in such a harmless, oblivious way. My stop came several minutes later and I made my way down the block to Occidental Park where the Sounders band--Sound Wave--and fans congregated on the cobblestones in their blue and "rave" green. I pulled my scarf out of my bag, looped it around my sweaty neck, and breathed a sigh of relief. I was with my people, off the stiflingly hot bus, and determined to never again stand for an orgy conversation to take place in my presence.

     I must say, though, that of all the creepy compliments James paid me, his estimate that I was 25 was by far the highlight of the ride--and it wasn't even a compliment. You hear that, World? I'm not 16!

Why Me?

I'm going to air a grievance I've had for quite some time now, and I would like very much for someone to make it right.

Anyone who has spent more than seven minutes with me knows that I turn on the television for two reasons: soccer and romance in my crime and medical dramas. In this post I choose to focus on the latter.

Lately (and it should not have taken me this long to figure this out) it has come to my attention that the creators and writers of TV shows have all seemingly conspired to grind out my happiness beneath the toes of their grubby little sneakers. Every time two characters are brought together romantically, or almost brought together romantically, some unthinkable obstacle prevents the relationship from being anything close to resembling the fulfilling, love-affirming union I hunger for in my television shows. I give you the following five examples:

Olivia Benson & Elliot Stabler - Law & Order: Special Victims Unit

There is nothing I don't love about these two. I love them individually--as people and as actors--and I love them together--as partners at work and as partners in love. The only problem is that they never were partners in love. After 12 seasons of sexual tension so thick you could cut it with a towel (much of this may or may not have been invented by me), Christopher Meloni left the show and the relationship fizzled before it could even catch fire. I have boycotted the series ever since. Take that, Dick Wolf. I'm leading a groundswell.

Sara Sidle & Gil Grissom - CSI

This romance storyline is actually nearly perfect. There was sexual tension (not just in my head) and Sara and Grissom did fall in love. It just so happens that this was revealed to viewers literally two minutes before the end of Sara's very last episode on the show. Fie!

Lisa Cuddy & Gregory House - House

Oh yes, they went there. This particular scene happens to have been during one of House's Vicodin dreams and therefore not reality, but in reality boy did in fact meet girl, boy annoyed the shit out of girl, then girl realized that she couldn't help loving boy even though boy was addicted to prescription painkillers, denigrated his patients (sometimes with physical violence), and never said a kind word to a damn soul. I can't tell you how many times I've watched the scene where House and Cuddy finally become "Huddy." I also can't tell you the extent of my battered soul after Cuddy called off the relationship, House drove his car into the side of her house in a jealous rage, and Lisa Edelstein left the show.

Claire McLeod & Alex Ryan - McLeod's Daughters

(SPOILER ALERT, though I know a grand total of ZERO of you will watch this show.) This one is the most difficult for me to handle because of how unthinkable it is and how much I love Claire and Alex. I mean love. I love them so hard that no words convey the depth of my love beyond I love them. You know what I don't love? That five episodes after they admit their feelings and kiss, Claire dies when her car hits a rock (or a pothole - it was so traumatic for me that I've repressed the memory) and teeters on the edge of a canyon for several minutes before plunging to the rocks below. And, to make it worse, at Claire's wake a teary-eyed Alex sets an engagement ring on her coffin. That was the end of season three. The show went on for 8 seasons and Alex eventually married one of Claire's friends. I did not see this, though, because of the blinding cascade of tears I was so sick with heartbreak that I declared the series dead to me after the third season. If there's anything I learned from this devastation, it's that my capacity for waterworks when love is denied is scientifically astounding.

Dana Whitaker & Casey McCall - Sports Night

The very fact that it is impossible to find a decent-sized photo of just the two of them should tell you something about the ultimate disappointment of this confusing almost-relationship. (Casey's the one on the left, by the way.) Everything was glorious when they finally kissed after an entire season of agonizing denial-of-true-feelings on the part of both of them. Everything was not glorious when Dana came up with her batshit crazy "dating plan" wherein Casey would date other women for six months to gain experience before settling down with Dana. Nothing could possibly go wrong with that. And yet, when Dana realized she was a moron and finally asked Casey on a date, as proud as I was that he refused, the fact that they still weren't together at the end of the series got me thinking that maybe Aaron Sorkin is waging some sort of personal television vendetta against me. And I won't stand for it. (Though really I have no other choice.)

In one episode of Sports Night, Dana and the rest of the studio are awaiting the results of the Pete Sampras/Alberto Fedrigotti match so they can go on air. Sampras was clearly the better player but Fedrigotti wasn't going down without a fight. "This guy won't die!" became the exclamation of the studio after every Sampras serve that Fedrigotti broke. Dana was eventually forced to push the show's airtime back to wait for the match to end and she approached the anchor desk to tell Casey. "Why is he doing this to me?" Casey asked, to which Dana responded, "He's not doing it to you personally, Casey, he's doing it to me personally." And ain't that the truth.