Exercise Haiku

One too many flights
of stairs I have now traveled
breathing heavily

Channeling Venus Williams

Who knew gentile tennis could bring you to your knees? I should mention that until now my tennis experience has consisted of a module in High School gym class, catching the pros in action on TV every once in a while, and sporadic volleying with friends the last session of which occurred about three years ago. That all changed last weekend thanks to a recent racquet acquisition and, as you might have guessed, a new boyfriend.

Saturday morning started out with great promise. Shiny new equipment in hand, we went out to drill the basics of the games – swings, serves, and strategy. I think that it is fair to say that we provided a great deal of entertainment value for the surrounding neighborhood.

It was later that day when the trouble began. Apparently there is a certain level of conditioning involved in tennis and I do not yet have it. I found myself unable to lift all but the lightest of objects as my forearm violently protested. Two-handed drinking took on an entirely new meaning as every sip of water required a two-handed grip and nerves of steel as the glass wobbly lurched towards my mouth. Movement in general became slow and calculated. One would think that I had taken up some sort of full-body contact sport rather than something associated with country clubs and fashionable outfits.

All of which begs the question, how long does it take to get into tennis condition? Please, anyone. . .

Two Bad Tastes That Taste Bad Together

Well, someone has finally managed to make Vodka even more unappealing to me than ever. I dislike Vodka with a passion. To me it tastes like rubbing alcohol, and I much prefer the oh- so subtle herbal notes of a fine gin. Occasionally I can stomach the odd flavored vodka, but recently distilleries have gone a little off the rails looking for new and exciting flavors. I can get behind fruit. Who doesn’t love a refreshing splash of fruit in their cocktail? I understand how garlic flavored vodka could enhance a bloody mary. Herbal vodkas? Well that just brings me back to drinking gin. I can even get behind bacon flavored vodka because, let’s face it, everything is better with bacon. But an Alaskan distillery in Wasilla Alaska has managed to take the flavored vodka craze one step to far by presenting the world with salmon flavored vodka. There are so many things wrong with this concoction that I don’t know where to begin. Let me start by saying that I hate salmon. I always have and I always will. This is the last taste I want in my alcohol. In fact, add some grapefruit juice, and I would consider it the cocktail from hell. Putting my personal prejudices aside, I did and informal survey of people who like salmon, and they were beyond disgusted at this concept. Just the idea of salmon marinating in vodka in order to impart its flavor and aroma to the alcohol makes most people say ewwww!! Then we come to the color of this alcohol. Apparently imparting the unique fishy flavor to the liquor causes it to take on the pinkish, orangey hue of the salmon flesh. That, my friends, is just sick and wrong. Vodka should be clear unless it is in a dirty martini. I guess staring at Russia everyday can make you do some pretty crazy things.

Youth Culture Killed my Dog

Every few years the youth create and recreate the way our culture expresses itself verbally by creating new slang and phrases. Sometimes these words and phrases really catch on like "bling" or "p.h.a.t.". Well I say that you are never to old to impact pop culture, so today I created a new catch phrase. This phrase is "Hey, who peed in your Kool-Aid?". It is useful when someone is acting mean and crabby and taking out their bad mood on you for no good reason. If we all start using it right away it is sure to catch on! I, myself, expect to hear this phrase directed at me by my friends and family since I tend be a little dramatic with the mood swings. I would like to thank you in advance for your support.

A New Reason to Wine in Pennsyvania

I don’t know if it is an attempt to remove the messy human element from the liquor buying process or a novel way to fight unemployment by creating more useless government jobs, but Pennsylvania installed the country’s first wine kiosks in two supermarkets at the end of June. The kiosks will be open from 9 a.m. to 9 p.m. Monday thru Saturday. They will scan the customers ID and take a Breathalyzer reading. The photo on the ID will be matched with a video image of the customer at the kiosk. If the customer has a breath alcohol level of .02 or higher or the ID does not match the video image, they will be unable to by a bottle of wine. The best part is that the transaction will be monitored by a Liquor Control Board employee from a remote location. This employee will be tasked with confirming that the video matches the ID. The whole process is supposed to take twenty seconds.

My first question is why? Why does Pennsylvania need what essentially amounts to a very complicated vending machine to buy wine? Are Pennsylvanians tired of snooty wine stewards recommending fancy vintages? Do they just want to be able to buy their Ripple and TJ Swan’s in peace? Bob Marcus of the PLCB said, “We happen to be the first because we have the need. As a board, we really wanted to make this much more convenient for people.” So a giant machine that scans your ID and gives you a Breathalyzer while some nameless, faceless government employee watches you on video is more convenient? How do people in Pennsylvania buy wine normally? Where I come from, you walk into the liquor store/department and select a bottle of wine from a shelf/display. Then you walk over to the register and pay for it. Does wine buying in Pennsylvania involve some long, complicated and arcane ritual that takes days to complete?

My next question to the Pennsylvania Liquor Control Board is does this means they are hiring? Wisconsin is a very remote location from Pennsylvania and you are going to need a staff to monitor those video images. At least two people would be required to monitor the kiosks for 72 hours a week. I am sure that we could set up some sort of secure video feed to my home computer. I don’t want to move to Pennsylvania because apparently buying wine there is just too complicated.

A small town Independence Day

Another Independence Day has come and gone, and sparked in me the urge to write about why I love my small town existence.  Yes, the town in which I live has very few retail establishments and a whole lot of taverns.  Yes, I grocery shop at a store named "Piggly Wiggly."  And yes, the coffee shop would not exist were it not paired with the tanning salon.  (Guess which gets more business?)

And yet, there's no place I'd rather raise my family, and the 4th of July just underscores this fact. 

Despite the somewhat suffocating feeling that growing up in a tiny, hopelessly pedestrian community gave me, I'm choosing the same formative experience for my kids.  Partly because my job, as a parent, is to ensure that they want to get the hell out when they are old enough.  But more importantly, because having a real sense of place - - even a grudging one - - is critical to developing, in turn, a sense of self. 

I'm not suffering from the delusion that small town life has any fewer risks than life in the city.  We have drugs, bullies, and plenty of opportunity to screw up your life as a young person here in the sticks.  But there are also plenty of opportunities to do good, neat, inspired things here: like play football or star in the school play or take art classes.  And in a small town, I know from experience, you don't have to be particularly genius at any of these things in order to participate.  Frankly, there's nothing wrong with mediocrity in your youth... I'd rather have my kids take a swing at whatever appeals to them and not have to worry about being great in order to be on the starting team.

Now that I am older and have lived in a (somewhat) larger city for many years, and attended a big university, and traveled pretty extensively, I think having small-town roots served me well.  No matter where I go, I have a place that I definitely come from.  Being from a small town has not hindered my ability to appreciate the finer things in life, to mix and mingle with my sophisticated "betters," or to explore the world. 

While my small town seemed incredibly lame at 15, 16, 17, I'm now almost fiercely prideful of the things I once thought embarrassing. 

I like my 4th of July parade to feature primarily old tractors and dumpy floats cobbled together by a bunch of semi-enthusiastic 4-H'ers. I like my convertible-riding royalty to be a bit plump and pimply. And I really like that the sweaty, uninspired kids in the marching band are wearing the same polyester uniforms I remember donning a generation ago.

The corn and strawberries we eat were grown up the road.  Our politicians walk (democrats) or ride (republicans) down Main Street, waving and shaking hands with constituents who are probably mostly relatives.  We hang out our flags with unabashed sentimentality.

Our fireworks are not fancy, but the whole town comes out anyway.  And sprinkled in with the "ooohs" and "ahhhs" are a few drunken "yee-haws!" that remind me, like almost nothing else, of who I am and where I come from.