Fortress of Dorkitude
Inspired by Head's post yesterday, AJ and I hunkered down to ward off the Valentine's Day blues last night.
We built a fort.
Nothing in my childhood tilted my parents more than the destructification of my bedroom when I got the urge to build a fort. I was a master artisan at the craft (though, obviously, my skillz seem to have eroded with age). Well, guess who's the Daddy now?!?! Forts for everybody!
Since one "tent post" was the TV, we could sit in our little hideaway and watch the tube, which alternated between "Wallace and Grommet, The Curse of the Were-Rabbit" and the Olympics, my first gander at the quadrennial celebration this year (and which I will have more about later). We also played several rounds of Caribou, with AJ winning all of them. I almost always let him win when we play these games. In the case of Caribou, it's an easy game at which to cheat. After a half-dozen of the hatches have been opened, you can pretty much see where all the hidden balls lie if you just tilt your head at a certain angle.
AJ figured this out before I did.
So, I will ALWAYS let him win, as long as I don't catch him cheating (and, truth be told, I cheat in order to not win). Last night, he was on his most ethical behavior. At least until the decided to see if "the fort was like a trampoline" and made the entire thing come tumbling down, causing me to almost get brained by an encyclopedia.
All in all, a fabulous evening.
My oatmeal this morning was very runny. Somebody explain to me why the directions to a product would read, "Add boiling water to just below the dotted line?" Just below? Why exactly is there a dotted line if its significance is only an estimator? Might as well print recipies in hectacres.
And yes, I filled it to just above the dotted line, primarily because YOU CAN'T BLEEPING SEE the line, unless you're in a bright enough light, like...say...standing on the surface of the sun.
My orange was tasty, though.
On a related note, the past two days have seen me returning to a semblance of eating and sleeping. Both have been in short supply the last couple weeks. I lost 8 pounds and I really don't have that much to spare. My ribs are more prominent than Bode Miller's press agent.
I watched the Olympics for a good three hours last night and found them faily exciting. Ted Ligety's slalom runs had me whooping and clapping my hands, not because of some unbridled jingoism, but because he's an underdog. Furthermore, I don't know jack shit about skiing--my single attempt at getting on skis was hampered by a massive hangover thanks to puking in the cool mountain air the night before after rapidly downing a bottle of Green Hungarian wine, a peculiar vintage that my 16-year-old stomach undoubtedly disagreed with--but could plainly see Ligety had something the others did not during the slalom portion. He was obviously smoother, but the thing that stood out immediately was, and this is how my skiing-ignorant little brain explained it to the wife, "the tips of his skis seem to be bending around the gates." An optical illusion, to be sure. I'm almost certain skis aren't made out of rubber. Even so, it was fantastic. And when the Austrian DQ'd, I gave myself a high five that burned by palms for long minutes after.
Good on ya, Teddy.
I also saw some women's speed skating. There was a US skater by the name of Elle, the offspring of a former medal-winner, and when the camera first showed her, it was mostly just a face shot and I thought she was beautiful. Amazing bone structure, that was possibly enhanced by the lack of hair (you can focus totally on the face) which was hidden beneath her full racing suit. Shortly, the camera pulled away for the start and OHMYGOD! The woman is a freak of nature. She had thighs on her that would make Earl Campbell's testicles shrink in envy. Each of them was bigger around than my waist (still a svelte 34" ladies). If you sliced off her ass and grilled it, you could wipe out hunger in several African nations.
Then came the men's figure skating. I'm a guy. A guy's guy. A carborator-fixin', venison-chewin', beer-swillin' guy. Okay, I'm not. But I still don't watch much men's figure skating (I will resist the cries from the audience suggesting my fashion sense is not far from the frilly body suits one sees in such competitions). But last night, I was playin' a little Tiger Woods Golf on my PSP (I'm 38, ladies) when a young American came out for his short program. His choice of music was the theme from "Deer Hunter," the wife's favorite film, and when she pointed that out, I looked up to observe the performance. The first thing I saw his him nailing a combination jump and, suitably intrigued, I continued to watch. A short time later, he stumbled and I emitted an involuntary, but not unconcerned, "oof" of disappointment.
What followed was several minutes of good-natured mockery from the wife, expressing her surprise at my long-hidden men's figure skating fetish. Followed later by a laughing hissy fit that caused her to snort, which is when you KNOW she's really enjoying herself. It was funny. And it was nice we could laugh together.
Of all the things I love on the internet, a BG/Al, e-mail exchange is easily in the top 6.38. Enjoy.
Update (12:23 p.m.): BG kindly asked me to participate in the exchange, so I threw some crap in there. Hope I didn't ruin it.