KICK

Far Post

2011-12-31T18:12:00.000-08:00

This is my 100th and final blog post on Kick Soccer Mom (at least for now). Thank you to those kind and faithful souls who read, reposted, commented on and liked my blog these last two years – I truly appreciate and value the time you took out of your busy lives to read my silly stories. Who knew that something I started on a whim one day after reading a newspaper article about how there are no funny women out there would become 100 blogs long? Here’s some stuff I learned along the way:

Not all blogs get famous and turned into books. Julie and Julia was the model for me – the story of the woman named Julie who blogged about cooking all of Julia Child’s recipes and then got her blog profiled in the New York Times, got a book deal, and had her bestselling book made into a movie starring Meryl Streep. I figured I’d probably follow the same path....I mean, sure, Meryl is a little old to be playing soccer, but so am I-- and I know she likes to tackle challenging, different acting roles. Alas, it was not meant to be. But it doesn’t mean I can’t turn my blog into a book. Forcing myself to write something every week for almost two years means I’ve got loads of material written already...and then when my book gets famous and Meryl comes crying to me, wishing she had found me earlier-- I can give the movie role to some younger actress. Suck it Meryl, with your phony baloney foreign accents. I don’t need you after all.

The internets like pictures, not words. According to my stats, my blog has been looked at 16,640 times since I created it, and if I had to break that down, I’d say that roughly 40 of those times someone was reading it, 600 times someone was looking at a pictures of Jesus playing soccer that I illegally used last year, and 16,000 times was me looking at my blog to see if anyone else had looked at it.

Playing drop-in soccer with men is more fun than playing soccer in a women’s league. Of course I may be biased on this point, because both times after university that I played in women’s leagues, I almost immediately tore my ACLs. But regardless of that, the most joy I’ve felt playing soccer was when playing drop-in games with mostly men. I suppose it is because I would much rather play with people who are better and faster than me-- their passing is so good that it makes me look like a much better player. I’ve found most of them to be unfailingly generous teammates, and they tolerate me by treating me like that untrained pet that it’s hard to stay angry at. We have a lot of laughs. It feels like high school gym class – or maybe cutting class-- we’re all shirking our responsibilities with our jobs and kids and running around getting a little fresh air, often in the middle of the day on a weekday. Indeed, it is so much like gym, that if we ever chastise each other for being late, the response is usually “It’s okay--I brought a note from my mom.”

Physiotherapists have a lot of power. Turns out telling your physiotherapist about your blog after writing about how mean and demanding your physiotherapist is can be very, very punishing indeed. Even other patients were like “Wow, you have to do 3 sets of 50 squats? Whoa. Why?”

Time can go by really fast. When I started my blog I used to worry my dad would see it and be angry at some of the personal stuff I was making public, but now his dementia is so profound he can’t read the word ‘Vancouver’ on a Canucks poster and doesn’t know who my sister is. We were never close, and he never told me that he loved me or was proud of me, but he is still my dad- - the only dad who repeatedly showed up with a truck to help me and my friends move all those times while we were in university, and who took me to Holland after I endlessly pestered him about it when I was ten years old, the way some dads will break down and take their kids for ice cream. (Why Holland? Who knows? I think clogs were popular and windmills seemed cool at the time.) Instead of writing silly soccer blogs, I need to sit with him when I can and listen to him tell the story, once again, of how he hit two home runs in one baseball game. Each time this story is more fantastical than the last time he told it and it is hard to hear. Is this me, in 35 years, telling tall tales of soccer goals I scored? I hope my daughters will sit with me and listen patiently.

My husband is a very tolerant person. I know it’s not normal, this constant running off to play soccer at my age when and I could be advancing my career and earning more money, or I dunno, at least cleaning out our closets or something. But sometimes when we have tons to do and the kids are being psycho and the house is a mess, but the sun is shining, I will slip guiltily downstairs in my soccer gear, and look worriedly at Steve, and he always, always just smiles at me and says, “It’s okay. Go play. Have fun.” I know, ladies, that I’m playing with an unfair advantage. He is my biggest score.

Soccer is everywhere. Not only is soccer the most popular sport in the universe, it may, in fact, be the universe. Several years ago, a mathematician published an article in the prestigious journal Nature, which claims that ”the universe is small and spherical, consisting of curved dodecahedrons that together create a shape akin to a soccer ball.” That’s right people, in my very last blog post I decided to casually drop in the word ‘dodecahedrons’. I’m that good. Enough said.

Still Kicking

2011-12-23T11:45:00.000-08:00

Instead of the usual request for money from its alumni, last week when I opened an email from UVIC, I received an invitation to a special ceremony to celebrate this year’s men’s varsity soccer team because they won a national championship. The team is called the Vikings, or Vikes, and apparently I am a special guest of Vikes Athletics for this event. It’s because I used to be a Vike myself, for the women’s varsity soccer team. I graduated from UVIC over 20 years ago, and this is the first time anyone has ever acknowledged that I used to play there. I’m totally going.

I don’t know anyone else who will be there, but I’m wondering if I’ll see any of my old teammates. I was only 17 when I played there, so along with many, many other mistakes I made back then, one foolish error I made was not to keep in touch with anyone from the team. We shared a lot of sweat together. The field and hill where we used to run sprints and take shots now has a building on it. I doubt that the same chain link fencing we had to climb over to run the stairs of the men’s stadium is still there either. (I do not miss that chain link fence; it earned me the nickname ‘Alpine Groome’ since I was so terrible at scaling it. Where the hell were all my teammates from, anyway, that they were so good at climbing tall chain link fences and dropping effortlessly to the ground on the other side? Curious. Also, couldn’t anyone have given our coach the keys so we could enter the stadium the normal way? Grrr.)

Those same girls I played with also concocted elaborate fake ID schemes to get me into the bar for our rookie player initiation, held up my 80s David Lee Roth style hair so I could throw up more efficiently, and probably paid for my taxi ride home too. We shared hotel rooms together on road trips and they taught me that if you eat fast food almost exclusively, your food per diem can also pay your bar tab later. Why can’t I remember more of their names? Many times I’ve both wished that Facebook existed back then so we could still be in touch, and simultaneously been so thankful that Facebook did not exist back then to forever document our dodgy exploits.

Many other UVIC soccer memories came flooding back too. I was known for always walking in and out of the first year residences carrying my cleats, and was once introduced by one fellow to his out of town friend thusly: “This is Cathy - she’s a soccer player. Check out the bruises on her shins. Can you believe it? They always look like that!” Once back in my room, my roommate was always bemoaning the fact that our garbage can was filled to overflowing with used, stinky, white athletic tape from getting my weak ankle taped before every practice and game. And then there was the fact that twice a week my practices were scheduled for the exact same hours the residence dining room was open for dinner, which meant my dinner was late and consisted of either air popped popcorn I made in my room, or kraft dinner made in the tiny ‘hot pot’ my friend had for boiling water for tea. (Oh carbs, we had some good times, didn’t we? I think I miss you most of all, carbs.)

I realize the acceptance of this invitation is directed at the elder, stately me. They are going to raise a banner in the gym in celebration at half time at the Vikes Basketball game at this event, so I imagine me and all the other former soccer players who go will be herded into one section of the stands and will at some point be asked to stand and be acknowledged. When this happens, we’ll all struggle to stand up on our crappy knees and half wave to the crowd, and people will think look at all the old farts. Am I ready to be identified this way, as one of the grand dames of the Vikes soccer past? I’m 42. I googled pictures of UVIC soccer girls now and they look impossibly young. There’s no way I could deal with slide tackling anymore. Perhaps I am ready.

But...I did score two lovely goals this week in a pick-up game where I had some sweet give-and-gos with a few superfast teenage boys that joined our game. I’m not quite done. I don’t need a cane just yet. Can I be the stately elder who still takes a sweet corner kick?

Maybe I am only ready-ish.

RIP Hitch

2011-12-16T15:37:00.000-08:00

Feeling melancholy on hearing that writer and critic Christopher Hitchens died yesterday. He was a formidable intellectual who I didn’t always agree with, but I will miss seeing him stumble onto talk shows in a rumpled jacket with a cigarette, a glass of whisky, and an attitude. In recent years, he has been known mostly for his staunch atheism-- a complicated thing to write about, especially in America-- but no matter what your religious views are, there’s something everyone can take away from this Hitchens quote I saw today:

The only position that leaves me with no cognitive dissonance is atheism. It is not a creed. Death is certain, replacing both the siren-song of Paradise and the dread of Hell. Life on this earth, with all its mystery and beauty and pain, is then to be lived far more intensely: we stumble and get up, we are sad, confident, insecure, feel loneliness and joy and love. There is nothing more; but I want nothing more.

Whatever your religious views, let us all be as unflinching as Hitchens is about life. Use it. Do not go gently. Find that thing you’re passionate about, whether it’s soccer or stamp collecting, and be unrelenting in your pursuit of it.

Risk more.
Feel more.
Try more.
Fail more.
Learn more.
Love more.
Give more.
Laugh more.
And finally, if that thing you’re passionate about is soccer:
Play more.

We have all the time in the world, until we don’t.

How Lovely Are Thy Branches

2011-12-07T23:13:00.000-08:00

This morning I was cleaning out my soccer bag, and along with a cup and a half of tiny black rubber turf bits and a stinky sock, I found my mouth guard. I don’t wear a mouth guard to play soccer -- I need to leave my mouth free for all the trash talking – so this must have been in there from the few slo-pitch games I played last summer. The mouth guard was not in its case. Naturally, I thought of Christmas.

The year after I finished university, when I was waitressing and renting a house in Victoria with my friends Richard and Ted, we decided to pitch in together and get a tree. Of course, being young and without full time jobs, we quickly discovered that our budget was tapped out after buying the tree itself and two strings of lights. It smelled great, but looked sad.

Richard went to his room, saying “We must have some stuff we could put on the tree to decorate it.....” and Ted went off downstairs to see what he could find too. We did pretty well, actually. Did you know that a Labbatt’s keychain, the kind you get given free in a bar, can look just like a Christmas ornament? My old dangly earrings that had lost their partners were also good because they were sparkly. Fairly soon though, we ran out of festive stuff like this and basically decided that anything hand sized or smaller was good enough to be an ornament – a pencil sharpener, a potato peeler, beer bottle caps, the can opener. And yes, Richard’s old football mouth guard.

When you stood back a bit, the tree looked awesome. Our other equally broke and young friends would come over and freak out – “You guys got a tree?!” and then say “It’s so pretty!” and then, in a different tone, “Wait, is that someone’s mouth guard?” On the top, instead of an angel, we hung Ted’s Doonsbury Uncle Duke action figure, the one based on Hunter S. Thompson, who has a cigarette dangling from his lips and a machine gun in his hand. I’m pretty sure we’re all going to hell.

So, back to modern day: I notice in all the store flyers that tree ornaments are sold in themed groupings now – the country-style quilted ones are called ‘Homespun’ and the elegant metallic ones are called ‘Prestige’. Our tree has never had a theme. I’m thinking of scooping up these black rubber turf bits and gluing them into my mouth guard to make an ornament. If you squint, it kinda looks like caviar in a unique, u-shaped crystal bowl. I’ll hang it on the tree with all the other homemade ornaments we have, the ones the kids made out of spray painted macaroni. Our theme can be ‘Reminisce’.

The can opener is staying in the kitchen though. It would be a pain to have to go into the living room every time I had to open cat food.

This is how I spent my evening...crafting this for your viewing pleasure.

HO HO EWWWW!

Lucky Girl

2011-12-02T14:22:00.000-08:00

Sun.

Soccer.

Good.

Four Reasons Why a Soccer Ball is Better Than a Fork

2011-11-25T15:12:00.000-08:00

I've shamelessly stolen this idea from the blogs The Oatmeal and Hyperbole and a Half. You should read those blogs instead. They're hilarious.

1. A Soccer Ball is More Fun to Play With

Soccer Ball:

Fork:

2. Heading a Soccer Ball Doesn't Hurt, But Heading a Fork Does

Soccer Ball:

Fork:

3. Round Things That are Kinda Soft are Often Better Than Sharp, Pokey Things

Soccer Ball:

Fork:

4. Both Soccer Balls and Forks Can Be Used To Eat Pie

Soccer Ball:

Fork:

THE END

Painted With the Same Brush: Marketing Soccer to Women

2011-11-18T12:57:00.000-08:00

The paint company CIL solicited advice from the public to come up with some new names for its colours. I think this is probably just a grab for free publicity, but their press materials say that they feel that men ‘give the final nod’ in a couple’s paint colour decisions, and would more likely choose a paint colour called “Beer Time” instead of “Butterscotch Tempest”. Some of the other new CIL paint names meant to appeal to men:

Midlife Crisis
Brute Force
Deathstar
Old Sweat Pants
Pimpin’ the Trans-Am

What, no “Let One Rip”, “Four Beer Belch” or “Remote Control”?

As imperfect as this list is, it’s given me an idea, and I need your help. I’d like to get more women out to Monday night soccer, since lately I’m the only one (Chrissy, where are you?) and I’ve decided, like CIL, that perhaps it’s all about how it’s marketed. How can I appeal to women to come play with us?

I looked at the covers of a number of women’s magazines for research on marketing. Most headlines are related to:

Weight loss
Glowing skin
Make-up
The latest boots for fall
Saving time
Meeting men
and uh, pleasuring men.

Apparently, as a woman, this is what I care about. (Really? Both this and the CIL list are depressing. Neither men nor women want to all be painted with the same brush as their entire gender.) However, if, like CIL, I’m going to follow the norm and work directly from this list, I can create my own headlines to advertise Monday night soccer to the fairer sex. (I apologize in advance that all my headlines end with exclamation marks.) What do you think?

Kick Those Pounds to the Curb with our New Soccer Workout! (This is obviously not true because if playing soccer was all you needed to thin out then I’d be down to my birth weight. But nearly every exercise weight loss claim is bogus, so let’s go with it.)

Get Glowing Skin in Time for the Holidays! (Technically true, since ‘glow’ is the old-timey term for female sweat.)

Makeup Secrets from the Pros! (To be fair, these secrets would probably be things like “Jeez - don’t play soccer if you want your make-up to look nice!” and “If you play, you will get chunks of mascara all your cheeks, even if you use ‘turbo proof’ washable brands – what were you thinking?!”)

Falls Latest Boots! (These would be soccer boots, obviously.)

Save Time with Soccer! (Like every single ‘time-saving’ invention introduced in the last few years, anything I could come up with here will not save us much time for long. But before you’ve proven yourself to the guys, I guess you could get a lot of mental planning done while you run up and down the field, not getting passed to.)

A New Way to Meet Interesting Single Men! (You will not meet interesting single men if you come to Monday night soccer with me. You will meet sweaty, sarcastic, married men. I guess there’s a chance one of them might bring a recently divorced, middle-aged friend though. He will also be sweaty and sarcastic. Single ladies: try to contain your enthusiasm.)

The Touch that Gives Him Pleasure! ( Most of the dudes at Monday night soccer would definitely be pleased if you had a great ‘touch’ with the ball and could do a sweet cross from the left wing so they could head it in and take all the glory for the goal. Can you do that? If so, please, please come out and play with us. I don’t care if you’re a man or a woman. We need you.)

The Finches, 1977

2011-11-12T13:24:00.000-08:00

My mom was clearing some things out of my childhood home this week and found this letter I wrote to her and my dad. I think it comes from 1977 or 78 when my parents went on holidays to Hong Kong, and my grandmother might possibly have been looking after us. It was the first year I played soccer and was on a horrible team called the Finches which lost every single game by a wide margin; in this letter you can see my fledgling love for both the game of soccer and the run-on sentence. I've typed this up exactly as it appears - same spelling, grammar, everything. I wish I could emulate my curlicue penmanship in typing form.

Reading this makes me miss my old dog, Beau. He was tiny, and white, and yappy and most poorly trained dog you have ever seen. Also, one more thought: chores, much? Sounds like my parents worked me to the bone.

Dear Mom and Dad,
Everything is fine here. We ate our dinner and it went fine. Grannie called at about 7:30 and said she'd call back after 10:00. Meg and I both washed our hair. When Meg and I were making your bed the door somehow got open (?) and Beau ran outside. I called and he came but he had dirty feet and a dirty beard. Meg and I gave him a bath. After he had been dry for a few hours we let him out on the deck. When he came back in he had dirt on both sides of his tail he is still like that because we didn't think we should give him another bath. I have something to report to you. We have some spiders in this house. There is one in the bathroom wastebasket and there is one on the sliding door downstairs. I tidied the house a bit and did the dishes. Right now I am under the hair dryer. As you know we lost the soccer game 7 - 1, some people said it was 6-1. I guess they didn't want to know the truth. I really don't think we are ever going to win. I mean it! At least I enjoyed it. I'm definetly taking it next year so is Meg. Well I'm closing now.
Love From,
Cathy
P.S. When you get here come into my room and wake Meg and me up.
P.S.S. Sorry I didn't sweep or vacuum!

Three Sucky Things About Soccer in Iran

2011-11-04T14:54:00.000-07:00

1.

A professional Iranian soccer player groped his teammate’s butt earlier this week during a team goal celebration. Who cares, right? What makes this news is that each player involved has been fined $40,000 for this ‘inappropriate’ behaviour, could go to prison for two months, and receive 74 public lashes on the soccer field. They’ve also both been banned from playing indefinitely. In a country where ‘chastity squads’ can impose fines for things like wearing nail polish, I guess it’s not that surprising. How burned is the guy who got groped though? He didn’t do anything – except, I suppose, have a butt- and he’s still on the hook for all this. Seriously tough break.

2.

Did you know that Iranian women are forbidden to attend soccer games? They’re banned from both stadiums and movie theatres that show matches. From what I can understand, the rationale is that the environment is too unseemly for women, and besides, it is argued, they wouldn’t be able to see anything anyway, since in public women have to ‘lower their gaze’. On occasion, women have insisted on being allowed to watch a match by blocking the entrances, demanding to be let in—and they’ve had modest success, although one woman I read about had her leg broken in the melee when she tried it in 2005. Holy crap. That’s a lot to endure just to see some ass grabbing.

3.

The Iranian women’s national soccer team was shut out of competition for the Women’s World Cup in 2012 because the outfits they must wear to satisfy their country’s Islamic standards are considered too religious for FIFA. Could this not have been discussed before they attended a serious six month training camp and flew to London to play? Many Iranian women left the soccer field in tears during this fiasco. I can’t say I wouldn’t have reacted the same way, although in part I might have cried because I was embarrassed to be dressed like a Q-tip. (Sorry ladies, no disrespect. Go do your religious thing, it’s cool with me-- and take comfort in the fact that you ladies in white could kick my butt on the soccer field.)

Shall we sum up? In Iran, women can’t play or watch soccer, and men who do play, sometimes have fun with it and tease each other, only to be punished severely. Do they realize that when you break it down, it’s just a bunch of people kicking around a polka dotted ball? How do officials decide what’s ‘inappropriate’? How do they feel about the impression they’re making on the rest of the world with severe punishments like public lashings? Perhaps Iranian officials should be looking at the bigger picture. Or as one commenter said: “A muscular, athletic guy getting whipped in a men-only environment? Nope, nothing gay about that.”

Magnifique: My Interview with Bruce Constantineau

2011-10-28T12:20:00.000-07:00

I was at a networking event recently and met Bruce Constantineau, the fellow who writes about the Whitecaps and other soccer news for the Vancouver Sun. Well, we didn’t meet exactly- I overheard someone I had met talking about soccer with him, and found out who he was just as I was leaving, so I didn’t get the chance to introduce myself. Instead, the next day I brazenly sent him a link to the blog I’d written about attending a Whitecaps game with my daughter and asked if we could talk. Naturally I expected nothing from this encounter, but he was very kind, and responded by saying he’d read the link and said he’d be happy to answer my questions. Nice!

It doesn’t take much encouragement for me to get excited about things related to soccer and writing. Here was someone with everything I didn’t have – a paying writing gig, connections, journalistic integrity – paying attention to my blog! As I waited for him to call, I began to treat this impending event the way some might plan for a visit with say, Nelson Mandela, or the Beatles. I checked to make sure my cellphone ringer was on approximately every twenty seconds. And during this time, I may have let my imagination get the better of me. Keeping in mind that I had never actually met this person and know almost nothing about him, I began to picture Bruce and me attending soccer games and writing about them over the years, eventually growing old together. What kind of last name was Constantineau anyway - French? Perhaps we’d move to Paris and get a little apartment there. Bruce would be well connected with the French soccer scene so, of course, we’d become friends with the famous former player Zinedine Zidane. On Saturdays, Zinedine would come over with a bottle of expensive red wine and I’d spend all day making Coq au Vin for us. I guess my husband Steve could come too – in my fantasy I’d sort of temporarily forgotten that I’d already planned to grow old with someone – but this was France! (As I understand it, you can get away with all sorts of things there.) The four of us would sit around an old rustic table in our little garret, drinking wine and looking out at a perfect view of the Eiffel Tower as the sun went down. Zinedine would promise to keep the head-butting to a minimum. Magnifique.

And then the phone rang and I had to actually talk to him.

Bruce was a consummate professional, dutifully answering all my dopey questions about the Whitecaps coaching changes, the players, the stadium, traveling with the team, his son's successes and how he got into writing about soccer. For about twenty minutes he generously spoke with me as though I were an equal, telling me I was a good writer and encouraging me to keep it up.

He did not offer to whisk me away to France though.

If I had to describe it now, I’d say my relationship with Bruce is in a holding pattern, in which I remain happily married to my husband and Bruce continues to do a great job of reporting on soccer in Vancouver and completely forgets about me.

I don’t mind, though, because we’ll always have Paris.

The Six Million Dollar Man, the Seventies, and Soccer

2011-10-21T16:10:00.000-07:00

I think my sister got the worst of it with the Six Million Dollar Man shoes.

They were bright blue running shoes, with a little plastic picture of Steve Austin’s face stitched on the outside of each shoe, the tread just the word BIONIC in huge letters that went from toe to heel. I’m guessing they were picked up at $1.49 day in a bin at Woodwards- my parents also bought my Mork and Mindy rainbow suspenders that way. The year was 1979 and the TV series The Six Million Dollar Man had just worn out its welcome the year before. The shoes were decidedly NOT cool.

Meg was in grade 7 and unfortunately for her, the shoes fit her best. She tried to get out of wearing them: she picked her old, holey runners from the garbage can and tucked them into her school bag but she got caught doing it and my parents took the old runners away. She tried destroying them: she rode to school, steep downhill all the way, by not once using her actual brakes to slow down, just dragging her feet. She amended them: she swiped my mom’s sewing scissors and picked out the stitches surrounding the little patch on each shoe that contained Steve Austin’s face, and threw the patches away, but it was no use. Like Steve Austin, those shoes were built to last. The kids at school were merciless and still whispered “de-ne-ne-ne”, the bionic sound effect from the TV show, and made slow motion karate chop moves every single time she moved in class.

Of course, I had mortifying clothes too – since neither of us were allowed to wear jeans to school I remember my mom sewing us drawstring pants and matching reversible vests, creating a kind of 72-year-old- woman-in-a-pantsuit aesthetic that didn’t exactly fit in with the way everyone else sported sexy Le Cullotier jeans with a round handled wide toothed comb slipped casually into the back pocket. Our hair was still cut bowl style by my dad, with super high bangs, while everyone else was either feathering or opting for the long, straight, babysitter style hair that Gwenyth Paltrow now favours. I remember being asked by the cool girls more than once, “So...the vest is reversible? Wow. What about the pants? Are they reversible too?” followed by a lot of giggling. Let’s just say style was not my strong point.

Except at soccer.

As any private school parent will tell you, uniforms are the great equalizer. At soccer, I looked exactly the same as everyone else. Oh sure, I had magazines tucked into my socks for shin pads, since there was no way my parents would spring for the real thing – but no one could really tell, since of course the socks came up to my knees. At soccer, everyone had to wear the same hideous, used, polyester jerseys and short shorts. Everyone on the team had ugly black cleats. Everyone had sweaty, bad hair.

It was glorious.

Here's me, rocking my bowl cut and home-made clothing look in the seventies. I still totally remember how itchy the trim on this dress felt. As far as I can tell, no pictures exist of the BIONIC shoes. Sadly, we cannot rebuild them....we do not have the technology.

The Emperor's New Cleats

2011-10-14T16:32:00.001-07:00

Women take a lot of flak for their love of expensive shoes. Some of it's justified – every third store on Robson Street in Vancouver is now a shoe store and their products can definitely be a little unusual and expensive. Just look at these crazy double heeled things from Alexander McQueen:

But here’s a little secret ladies....men’s soccer cleats are almost as bad.

Check out these men's offerings from Nike (sometimes favoured by Cristiano Ronaldo) and Adidas (who claim these shoes are worn by Lionel Messi):

I know the stars get free shoes, but how do regular guys decide which ones to get? It would be hard for me to choose between cleats whose colours are described on their website as 'anodized purple and electricity’ and ‘cherry, dark obsidian and metallic’, but it’s mostly because I don’t know what some of those words mean.

What’s worse, the ads for these cleats imply that you will actually play better if you buy them. Apparently the lace cover on the pink ones creates a ‘large inviting strike zone’, while its ‘dual density injected studs allow effortless cutting and instant acceleration’. The purple ones have a ‘new stud configuration that improves your balance at top speeds’. Gosh, why bother training? The shoes can do it all for you. And am I the only one who's giggling at all the dual-injected-stud talk?

The websites for men’s cleats also offer this weird looking thing called a ‘comfort chasis’:What does it do? I can only assume it is meant to go inside the shoe and lift you up so that your body can physically match the size of your ego.

At least the Alexander McQueen shoes ads do not exaggerate their life altering qualities or provide over the top descriptions. Black is black, and not 'obsidian'. A search though the shoe details on his website offers only the basics, saying things like ‘black velvet embellished wedge sandal’ or ‘suede pump with rubber platform’. Should I be proud, as a woman, that do they do not pander to us and say ‘buying this embellished shoe means you will never gain another ounce as long as you live, while it’s rubber platform gives you the oomph to throw spectacular birthday parties for your kids, making you the envy of all the other mothers’? I don’t know.

Because if it did do all those things, I would so totally buy them.

Kesler/Solo: What Were They Thinking?

2011-10-07T13:38:00.000-07:00

I’m pretty sure you’ve all seen this picture of hockey player Ryan Kesler already. But do you know where it’s from? It was taken for the “Body” issue of ESPN magazine that comes out today, which also features naked photos of other athletes, including the beautiful US Women’s National soccer team goalie, Hope Solo.

I would think most folks would be a bit nervous about posing for photos like this, but Kesler has spoken to the media saying he ‘had a great time’ doing it. Here’s how I imagine Kesler’s inner monologue as the photo shoot unfolded:

Wow, it’s stormy up here on Mount Olympus with all the other Greek gods. Look at the sky! No wonder it feels so humid. I’m getting really warm, I think I’ll just take this robe off....okay...much better. You know what? I don’t know why, but I have this weird desire to move this giant boulder over here. I think I’ll just lean on it a little and see if I can budge it....hey what was that small crash over there to my left? Is that a middle aged soccer mom who just dropped her binoculars? Who let her in here?

Now here's soccer star Hope Solo's picture:

Solo doesn’t look like she’s having a great time. What’s happened to her eyes? Is she turning into a vampire? She is really lovely, and super fit, so I think they could have got a better picture. As a female athlete, I know she wants to look strong, and beautiful, and fierce – it’s not like I thought she should have been posing in some coy, soft porn shot with oversized goalie gloves providing privacy or something - but instead, she just looks kind of angry to me. It’s like she’s thinking:

Crap. Why are they making me speed skate, naked and barefoot, over to the other side of this room to retrieve my clothes?

This is one of the cover shots for the magazine. The alternate shot they took of Solo had her standing naked in someone’s front yard, watering the lawn. What the hell? Who came up with these ideas? And why stop there? Why not get her nakedly opening pickle jars?

Maybe I’m just jealous of Solo, she of the ripped abs and poetic name; and I’m clearly biased, as a heterosexual female – but I think Kesler’s picture is better. This time even I'll agree- hockey wins.

Jumper's Knee and Other Ailments

2011-09-29T13:41:00.000-07:00

Gavin told me at soccer this morning that he used to have something called Jumper’s Knee and to treat it he was told to take a year off from sports and do nothing physical. He’s back now, and he played great, so I guess it worked, but have you ever heard of a more fake sounding condition? It sounds like some kind of hillbilly town where people roam freely in overalls without shirts. But I looked it up, and it’s a real thing, with a proper Latin name as well.

I’ve uncovered some other medical conditions I personally experienced with my recent ACL knee surgery and subsequent return to soccer. I’m thinking of submitting them to The New England Journal of Medicine. (I’m not 100% sure on my Latin though.) They are in chronological order, as follows:

In-between fifteen (fattus assus)– refers to the pounds you gain when you use food as a crutch and eat obsessively due to depression. Usually occurs between MRI diagnosis and surgery itself. Symptoms include feeling sorry for yourself since you can’t play soccer for months and months, and tight pants.

Mom bomb – (riddance inheritance ) another name for what happens when well-meaning, kind-hearted, mother and mother-in-law types come to ‘help’ after surgery and almost make things worse by not knowing what you like anymore and doing weird things like bringing you DVDs you would never want to watch and putting butter on ham sandwiches. Who puts butter on a ham sandwich? Ick. Important: questionable casseroles are common in this condition. Note: Mom bombs can last for days and days.

Kafuffle shuffle – (screwus translinkus) this condition occurs shortly after knee surgery, when you can walk again, but not very fast. It’s very specific: you’re about to miss the bus and you do this ridiculous shuffle-y kind of run to the bus stop so you won’t be late for work. Once you’re on the bus you realize you were flustered in the moment, and you chastize yourself, thinking, what the hell? I’m not supposed to run yet...I am an idiot.

Glorious Victorious – (glitterous unicornus ) That delicious, amazing feeling you get when you are finally allowed to play again and you tentatively lace up those cleats and head back out onto the field to see if you’ve forgotten everything or if some parts of soccer stick when you take a whole year off. Metaphorical rainbows, unicorns, and glitter sometimes surround you during this phase, and you mince around smiling smugly like an old guy in a Viagra commercial, both on and off the field. Downside: Can be short-lived.

High gear fear – (wimpus limpus) – terror of stepping up your game to pre- surgery level and playing high level soccer with much younger and better players again. (Well, being tolerated when playing with much younger and better players.) Can be somewhat abated by buying a fancy customized carbon fibre brace. This condition can come and go at will.

Fraction overreaction - (frightus arthritis) – this occurs when you do finally strap on that brace and go play with all the good young punks and something tweaks in your knee and then you panic and basically rock back and forth in the foetal position for days. Sometimes accompanied by highly irrational thoughts, such as chopping your whole leg off yourself with a pocket knife so you could get one of those cool fake legs with the hook for a foot and play soccer again, probably even better than before.

Condition is somewhat relieved by being told later by the physiotherapist that it’s likely nothing, you’re just – ahem- old, and have arthritis in your knee, and you should just slow the hell down because you’re not an 18 year old college star, and you should probably play less often, ice it afterwards, and take anti-inflammatories.

Prognosis: Getting old sucks. End of story.

Beckham on Ellen II

2011-09-21T10:20:00.000-07:00

Check it out: David Beckham shows us his show-tune voice while undercover at Target.

2 things:
- Becks is such a good sport, isn't he? (Didja get that pun? Didja? Ha!)
- I love it that he gets recognized. Does this mean soccer is gaining popularity in North America?

Hot Soccer/Hot Yoga

2011-09-14T13:40:00.000-07:00

While playing soccer at high noon in the 28 degree weather last week, sporting an unbreathing polyester fitness bra and two sweaty neoprene knee braces underneath all my clothes, I started to get delirious from dehydration and question the wisdom of what I was doing. Why on earth were we playing in such hot weather, and at that time of day? It was almost unbearable. We quit early – and we never do that. And then I began to think about the millions of people who do hot yoga. They exercise in the hot, hot heat by choice.

No, hot yoga is not called that because of all the scantily clad cute babes who practice it– it’s where people of all shapes and sizes contort themselves into weird poses in a humid, 40 degree room. Why? Apparently, according to its founder Bikram Choudhury, it’s ‘rejuvenating’. Hmm. From what I understand, it’s also riotously farty. (There’s even a pose called the Wind Removing pose.)

I know I’m not the only one who is suspicious of hot yoga’s popularity. Even the writer of Bikram Choudhury’s Wikipedia page displays admirable, ample skepticism, as evidenced by his or her repeated use of the word ‘claims’ in describing hot yoga’s benefits. (Choudhury “claims the heated studio facilitates deeper stretching and injury prevention”; “claims that his system stimulates and restores health to every muscle, joint, and organ of the body” and “claims this helps in the prevention of heart disease and organ failure.”) Choudhury also declares that he has worked with NASA, Richard Nixon (no one has been able to prove these assertions), and the Beatles-- in 1959-- somehow, miraculously, the year before they even formed.

Even though I don’t know much about him, you can probably tell I’m not a Choudhury fan. Perhaps it’s just the influence of my parents’ working class upbringing, but I am leery of people who collect Bentleys and who are openly giddy about how much money they’re making.

But.....I also know there's probably something legitimate about this yoga thing. A lot of talented, respected athletes do hot yoga. The list of devotees includes Kobe Bryant, John McEnroe, Wayne Gretzky, David Beckham, the Williams sisters and last but not least, my beloved Pele. Actors and performers like hot yoga too – apparently George Clooney and Lady Gaga are fans.

I like to picture them all in a Bikram yoga class together. Lady Gaga is in the front row, all superior and ignoring everyone else, wearing a headband made out of meat. Becks is only half into it, mostly distracted by his sweaty, glistening tattoos, which he looks at with quiet awe. Next to him is pasty Richard Nixon, struggling to bend any limbs at all. Lennon and McCartney are elbowing each other, fighting for mat space, while nearby Ringo just lies on his mat, not even pretending to try. The Williams sisters grunt loudly whenever they finally get the hang of a new pose. Just when it finally gets really quiet, George Harrison rips a really loud fart, prompting McEnroe to yell “You cannot be serious!” and Gretzky and Pele to giggle quietly together. Clooney winks suggestively at Kobe, and flashes his killer smile.

Wait, what was I writing about again? Oh yes, hot soccer. Let’s just say I’m glad the weather’s cooling off a bit. Those of us who exercise outside like to get sweaty purely from effort. Namaste.

Sometimes They are Penalty Kicks

2011-09-08T13:23:00.000-07:00

My dad’s once stalwart, avionics-engineer-brain is now a swiss-cheesy mess. At 78, the dementia is setting in for good; all that knowledge about flight recorders and airplane wiring diagrams is gone forever. When I visit, he often interrupts my attempt to tell him about his grandchildren to ramble on about the new task they have given him in his carehome: taking the metal tabs off the top of pop and juice cans. To hear him tell it, this is a top-notch role he’s been given. How did they previously get along without him? I try my best to nod and listen, and enquire about these amazing cans.

It’s said that dementia allows a person to retain the essence of their former personality. People who have a kind and sweet disposition when they are young are still sweet, although addled by the disease in other ways. Of course, controlling and difficult people retain that too, and that’s unfortunately what my mom sees when she visits: Dad yells at her to take him home and regularly threatens to divorce her in front of any and all who will listen. (One of the nurses actually followed her outside the other day to ask if she was okay.) The gist: my dad was a very cold and demanding man when I was young, and he is now. He does not give compliments, ever, to anyone. But for some inexplicable reason when he talks to me about soccer, now, he’s different. He’s not sweet, just ...respectful. And very, very misguided. It’s like he is making up the things that he wished had really happened. It often goes something like this:

“I used to come over to Victoria pretty much every weekend to watch you play when you were in University over there....”

“Uh, Dad, I don’t think so, but yeah, you came sometimes.” (He might have come twice in my entire collegiate soccer career. I don’t mind—he lived on the mainland and I was on the Island—but let’s face it, if we’d lived in the same town, I doubt he would have been much more interested.)

“Yeah, I remember I came to the second game you ever played over there (no, he did not) and you had to take a corner kick, and you scored from the corner kick, with your right foot. And your coach was so shocked and happy at what a big kick you had. And then later in the game, you took another corner kick from the other side, with your left foot, and you scored with that one too. You got two goals. Your coach couldn’t believe it. ”

Hmm...he might not be the only one. I don’t believe it either. I’m ashamed to admit this, but I can remember an embarrassing amount of detail about most of the goals I’ve ever scored (usually embellished with loud fan cheering and liberal doses of the chanting of my name) so I’m sure I’d remember scoring twice in one game, from corner kicks, using both feet.

“Uh, yeah, dad? I do not remember that.”

“Yeah, the goalie, he was really pissed off.” (Hmm, why was the goalie a ‘he’ in women’s varsity soccer?) “You just put it right over his head.”

“Wow, cool.”

“And when you took the goal kick, it just went right by him.”

“Wait – what? It was a goal kick? Not a corner kick?”

“Yes, they were goal kicks.”

“I scored twice in one game from goal kicks? Once with my left foot?” (This is impossible.)

“Yeah.”

We have variations on this theme. Sometimes they are penalty kicks. Sometimes the goalie is a girl. And this muddy, circular conversation is the closest thing to praise I have ever received from my dad, a man whose fallback communication with me, as a kid and a teenager, was to tell me I was lazy and stupid. He still seems to be aware that UVIC was many years ago, and that now I just play for fun, both indoor and outdoor, with both men and women. He also tells me elaborate details about watching the Whitecaps play the Canucks on TV. Of course, we don’t have to talk about soccer—there is always the riveting pop can tops to discuss—but he is often the one to bring it up.

The other day one of the carehome workers happened by, and my dad tried to introduce me to him, saying, “This is my daughter, Cathy. She still plays soccer. With men.” And the person looked at me and smiled, his face relentlessly cheerful, and said the things my father never could say: “Wow, that’s great. Good for you. Your dad must be proud.”

I’ll take it.

That's What She Said

2011-08-30T13:42:00.000-07:00

I don’t know how to say this, so I’ll just come right out with it: there’s a lot of soccer mom porn on the internet.

Who knew, right? I clued in when I checked my blog’s statistics and found that strangers are googling variations on the phrase ‘hot soccer moms’, along with some, er, more dodgy stuff and finding my blog. (Examples: ‘old women squatting’ and ‘clown sex’ have brought them to me. Sniff. So proud....) I was wondering if my blog might have accidentally seeped into a pornographic genre, since, after all, you can read the subtitle in a pretty suggestive way– Stories from a Different Kind of Soccer Mom could mean anything, really - so the other day curiosity finally got the better of me and I decided to google the phrase ‘soccer mom porn’ to see if my blog came up. (For the first time ever, Steve offered to help me with research for my blog! How thoughtful. )

I declined, however. I figured I could probably handle this on my own. Nervous, I googled, and then I only opened one eye and peeked at the screen. That phrase did bring up over 5 million hits. Mercifully, there were no pictures (since I didn’t follow through and click on anything), but I did read some charming introductory sentences about coaches helping teach soccer moms how to score and how some soccer moms get punished in intriguing ways for not remembering to bring oranges at halftime. Many were really descriptive, pointing out that soccer moms have all different colours of skin and hair and come in all sorts of shapes, with uh, soccer ball sized, uh, attributes. And did you also know that some soccer moms are grandmas?

So...even though my blog appears to be safe for the time being, I’m playing around with some different blog headings. Scroll up and check out my new title and subtitle. [Kick (a soccer ball): Stories from a different kind of (fully clothed) soccer mom] Thoughts? The brackets might be a little too much. When you say it all together, it’s a bit of a mouthful. Jeez, this is really hard.

Crap. Everything sounds pornographic when you think about it.

Summer Soccer Stuff

2011-08-21T19:23:00.001-07:00

Oh, hi - was I supposed to be writing a blog? Dang. The weather's been so beautiful that the idea of sitting inside and typing has not held any appeal. Don't worry, I'm still a sucker for soccer, as evidenced by these three recent soccer items I've acquired:

First up:

You can read, so I guess you know it's a bicycle bell. To ring it, you pull back on the soccer cleat and let it go, and it kicks the ball and makes an old-timey clangy sound. I know it's ridiculously twee. I would never actually put it on my bike, because my bike is cool and new and smokin', and this bell would definitely take it down a notch. I just like carrying it around, walking up behind Steve and making the clanging sound to annoy him.

Next:

Soccer kleenex for my purse. Yup, nothing says you love something like blowing your nose on it.

And finally:

This soccer wine bottle stopper was a gift. A gift from someone with the quaint, misguided idea that I might open a bottle of wine and not consume the whole thing in one sitting. Preposterous! But thoughtful.

Hope you are enjoying the lazy summer days as much as I am.....

Darth Vader and Me at Scrimmage Soccer

2011-08-12T10:23:00.000-07:00

I’ve been calling my new custom knee brace Darth Vader, since it’s black moulded plastic and looks very imposing and badass. (It also cost about the same to make as a Star Wars movie.) Since it is super boring to write about wearing a brace, I started thinking about what it would be like to have the actual Darth Vader and his storm troopers show up for one of our Wednesday morning scrimmage soccer games, and thought I could write about that instead. After all, anyone is welcome. Here’s how I imagine it playing out. (Since DV is so menacing, I didn’t think I could write any dialogue for him, so I’ve taken all his lines taken from the actual Star Wars movies.)

Me, to Sue: Where is that ominous music coming from? She shrugs.

I turn and greet the storm troopers and Darth Vader: Hey guys, are you here to play?

DV: You may dispense with the pleasantries, commander.

Me: Um, okay. Wow, are you guys all on the same team or something? Nice uniforms. What are those, shin guards and uh, thigh guards? And almost everyone has matching white cleats and helmets? You are gonna get hot playing. Wild.

DV to the storm troopers, pointing at me: She is as clumsy as she is stupid.

They all laugh, although it’s hard to hear it through their helmets.

Me: Trash talking already, eh? Okay, I can take it. And how did you know I was clumsy? You haven’t even seen me play yet! Hehe, you’re probably right though. But seriously, you’ll have to wear this white pinney if you want to play on the same team as your friends.

DV, reluctantly: As you wish.

DV puts on the pinney. It snags on his helmet on the way over his head and is quite ill fitting with the cape sticking out the bottom and all the buttons and lights and stuff on his chest and belt kind of poking through. He sighs heavily and I notice his heavy breathing.

Me: Dude, are you okay? You’re already huffing and we haven’t started playing yet! Maybe you want to take off the cape? Don’t want it to slow you down, right?

DV stares at me. I think he is mad now. I realize he might be the kind of guy who can dish it out, but can't take it. Now I notice there’s some kind of metallic robot with all of them, trying to offer him a tray of oranges, perhaps to appease him.

DV: You don’t know the power of the dark side!

Me: “The Dark Side”? Is that your team name? Cool...but ...you’re the only dark one. Everyone else is in white. Shouldn’t you be called “The White Side”?

DV grabs an orange off the robot’s tray, but then realizing he can’t eat anything with his mask on, throws it angrily to the ground. The robot starts to fret.

DV angrily points a finger at me: The force is strong with this one.

Me, confused: Wha? Whatever. Just--- no slide tackling. The other players head out to the field. And do you want Gerry for your goalie? He’s already wearing white and he’s pretty good.

DV: He will join us or die.

Me: Dude! Die? Stop talking so crazy cray. Let’s just get going here. Uh, I guess we’ll start with the ball.

DV shakes his head and starts to take a small metal thing that looks like a remote control out from under his cape.

Me: Hey what is that thing? Is that some kind of linesman flag? We don’t need flags, it’s just pickup soccer—honour system sort of deal.

A stream of light comes out of this thing, like a sword.

DV: I am altering the deal. Pray I don’t alter it any further.

Me, backing up slowly with the light mere inches from my face: WTF?! Fine, you guys start with the ball. Take it! I throw it at him.

DV, carrying the ball, walking away from me, pointing his sword at me like a mafia kingpin: Only your hatred can destroy me.

Me: Why are you talking like that?! Dude, it’s scrimmage soccer. Just here to have fun. Relax!

DV takes the ball and throws it on the ground in front of him and dribbles with it towards our net. Some of the storm troopers run with him calling for the ball, but he is a hog and doesn’t pass to anyone. (Jerk.) When someone from my team tries to check him, he holds out his hand towards the defender from several feet away and the defender is lifted off the ground, holding his throat. DV scores easily and then tries to get some of the storm troopers to high five him, but they don’t seem too eager. When DV has his back to the storm troopers, one of them gives him the finger.

One of the young guys on my team, Luke, plants his face in his palm: Oh God. I think that’s my dad. How embarrassing.....

Silent But Deadly?

2011-08-05T15:33:00.000-07:00

Until this week, I had never heard of silent soccer.

Some Ontario kids teams are trying it out-- it’s where parents and coaches watch their kids play soccer without any verbal input. Nothing negative is said, but nothing positive either—just nothing at all. Clapping is the only thing permitted.

Perhaps as a result of being silenced on the field, parents and coaches are sounding off about it a lot in the media, with people seeming to feel strongly both for and against it. The parents and coaches who like it seem to think the kids have more freedom to play without constant verbal assault, that it’s good for self esteem, and that the kids communicate better with each other in the game. The ones who don’t like it say watching your kids soccer game is boring enough without sucking all the fun out of it, and isn’t it better to yell encouragement than stare at your blackberry while you’re supposedly spending quality time with your kid?

At first I didn’t know what to think and I wanted to make this blog an artsy statement piece in which I brought up silent soccer and then was silent about it- perhaps doing an interpretive dance instead- but then I realized I have few enough readers as it is, and I can’t afford to alienate them with weird crap like that. (Also, really, no one needs to see me do that.) But when the Globe and Mail interviewed Silken Laumann about it, I knew I had to step in, because come on guys, she’s a rower. What the hell does she know about silent soccer?

So, for what it’s worth, here’s what I think: unlike a soccer ball, this is not black and white. As a coach of 7 and 8 year old girls, I must say that it would be really hard to stand on the sidelines unable to say anything while a kid ran in the wrong direction with the ball, which, especially early in the season, happens more than you think. But I also think there are some real jackass parents out there who will not shut the hell up. They get so worked up they physically fight with other parents, or sometimes make teenaged refs head home crying from their abuse. (I read about one ref for whom things had gotten so out of control that he made every parent on the team spend the remainder of a game in their cars.)

But, to borrow a word from another parent on this subject: I also object to the wussification of sport by parents. If kids honestly can’t handle talking during a game then I doubt they are going to get very far in life. And if talking is so politically incorrect, that what else in soccer is next?

- Oranges at halftime could become taboo, since we live in cold Canada and oranges cannot be locally sourced. Maybe our kids should only be permitted to quench their thirst with rainwater gathered in barrels made from wood chewed by free range Canadian beavers.

- Uniforms unattractive? Perhaps your child doesn’t look good in yellow. To prevent loss of self esteem, maybe every kid could just wear whatever felt most comfortable and flattering for them- sure, no one would know who to pass to during the games, but we can’t have any hurt feelings.

- I’d also be willing to put in a vote for replacing the permitted clapping with finger snapping. No reason – I doubt any kids ears, already ravaged by ipods, are too sensitive to the sound of two fleshy palms, smacking together – but I just think finger snapping would be more groovy. Especially if we did it while we wore berets and smoked unfiltered cigarettes without using our hands.

Wait, now just like those yelly parents, I’ve gone too far. But you know what? I don’t need rules to reign me in. I’ll shut up now.

Are We Coddling Women in Sports?

2011-07-28T09:02:00.000-07:00

Bryant Gumbel of Real Sports took a gamble recently when he said women in sports are coddled. After the #1 ranked US women’s soccer team lost to Japan in the World Cup Final, he took issue with the heroes welcome they received upon returning home – and perhaps felt they didn’t earn their places in congratulatory skits on The Late Show with David Letterman or The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, since in Gumbel’s eyes, ‘they choked’. The US Men’s team he felt, would, under similar circumstances, be subjected to much harsher comments, instead of empathy in defeat.

That dude has balls.

Not a lot of men would make a comment like that. This is his best line from the show: "If the definition of true equality is treating folks honestly -- without regard for race and gender -- then it's time to start critiquing women athletes the same way we do the men," he said. "I'm sure women won't like it, but blind praise is worthless in the absence of fair criticism."

Now, I don’t entirely agree with Gumbel, for two minor reasons, although I think he makes an excellent point. Where does my opinion differ? First of all, from what I watched, the US team played amazingly well. (The headers I saw Abbie Wambach get are some of the best goals I have ever seen in men’s or women’s soccer.) They definitely had control of the ball for the better part of the final, and even though they screwed up on their penalty kicks, no World Cup final should ever be decided by five meagre kicks of the ball. Secondly: why is Gumbel so “sure women won’t like it” when we are criticized fairly? No one likes to be patronized.

Besides, I’ve found on the playing field it doesn’t happen much anyway. I’ve played mostly with men for years and they never seem to hold back in telling me when I screw up. (And I screw up a lot.) A few years ago in my indoor league when I took a turn in goal and let in a few quick ones, Adrian, one of our better players, came racing back to take my place, smiling and saying “Oh my god, Cathy, get the hell out of there. We might as well have a wooden plank in net. ”My reaction? I was thrilled. (Although that might have mostly been because I didn’t have to play goalie anymore.) I laughed. I certainly wasn’t going to cry. Other times, when I’ve received a perfect pass about five feet in front of an open net and still somehow manage to mess up the shot I’ve heard almost everything from the guys: “Christ, Cathy, what was that!?” or once, at the pub after the game, over beers: “Cathy, that was such a perfect pass that if you had done any other thing with that ball besides what you did, it couldn’t have helped going in the net.” These guys aren't being jerks. I'd say the same things right back to them if the situation were reversed. Unless that makes me a jerk too? Wait, don't answer that.

What bothers me is not what Gumbel says or what the guys I play with say to me, but the internet comment streams surrounding this story. Haven’t we heard enough unfunny jokes about how the talented female soccer players must all be lesbians, or how it’s fun to watch girls boobies bounce around in tight jerseys when they run? Come on boys, be like Gumbel-- grow up and grow a pair.

Jon Stewart: "Soccer is like Nutella."

2011-07-20T16:14:00.000-07:00

Recognize anyone you know?

Yup, this is Comedy Central’s Jon Stewart in the eighties when he played collegiate varsity soccer for William and Mary University. (Coincidentally, I also played collegiate varsity soccer in the eighties, wore number 11 on my jersey, and had this same haircut. {I had less chest hair though.} Mercifully, no soccer pictures of me exist from that time.) Back then, he was Jon Liebowitz and although short, he was a successful striker. The W&M soccer team still has an award they give out every year named after him, the ‘Leibo’, which is given to the player who makes everyone laugh the most.

Check out his leg muscles in this shot:

Who knew that behind his desk on the Daily Show, he had legs like that? (This picture makes me marginally less embarrassed that Stewart is my one permissible celebrity cheat. Steve wisely chose Salma Hayek for his. Look at Stewart’s hair. What was I thinking? )

Along with the pictures, I found an interview with Sports Illustrated that Stewart did five years ago in which he talks about soccer. Here are some quotes:

On soccer’s popularity:

“[Soccer is] ...like Nutella. The rest of the world clearly loves it and puts it on everything, but here in America we’re like “I don’t know, man, it tastes like almonds.”

On whether or not he still plays:

“Dude, I’m 43 and smoked for 20 years. I’m just happy to go out of the house without an inhaler.”

On his style of playing:

“Even Pele would agree I was not playing the beautiful game. I was playing the annoying game.”

On if he would be willing to go head to head with bowtie wearing Tucker Carlson in a UFC battle if Sports Illustrated sponsored it:

“Let me explain something about the frailness of my physical condition. You could put big dollars on the line there and I wouldn’t do it.”

Sigh. Isn’t he dreamy?

Yeah, maybe no. Funny though. I’m going to keep watching his show but I can't say for sure that I'm not going to switch to Salma Hayek too.

Harper Seven Beckham

2011-07-13T09:46:00.000-07:00

The nursery has been done in pink
Becks will likely get new ink
Have you not heard? Give this a whirl:
Posh and Becks now have a girl.
With three big brothers, it's truly nice
That there's a different baby spice
The only thing that I find lame
is Harper Seven Beckham's name.
Why did they need to name her that?
For our PM is such a twat.
Yes Harper with his helmet hair,
his wet-lipped face, his vacant stare
Has made asbestos sales turn brisk
(Ignoring pesky cancer risks).
Her middle name is not much better
For it's a number, spelled in letters
That once was on his soccer kit
And George Costanza wanted it.
Guess rules of naming all need bending
To make a name that's twitter trending.

The Forest for the Trees

2011-07-06T16:44:00.000-07:00

I was raised on a steady diet of hot dogs, kool-aid, tv dinners, and reruns. As kids, our summer days were spent loafing in front of the tube watching game shows while the sun blazed outside: the Price is Right, Family Feud, and whatever the one was where you yelled ‘no whammies!’ Our exercise was strolling to the kitchen to get a bag of Oreos. We also raised our heart rates by complaining vehemently when our siblings stole the good spot on the couch while we were in the bathroom. Sure, at night, sometimes we practiced cartwheels in the front yard, or played hide and seek with the neighbour kids. (Why did our parents let us use the fire hydrant as home base? Ewwww!) And, we did organized sports. Like soccer.

My husband Steve’s family, although he was also brought up in the same era, might as well have been raised on another planet. They had a cottage at the lake--with no tv. He spent his free time swimming, hiking, paddling the canoe and playing cards, and creating an elaborate pinecone fort in the woods behind his house in which the pinecones were people. As far as I can tell, very few of the seven kids ever did any organized sports. I once asked my mother-in-law if Doug, Steve’s dad, had ever been a sporty guy. “Well, when he was younger, he did some gymnastics. You know, tumbling.”

Tumbling? As in....falling down? (I think I showed admirable restraint and respect for my in-laws when I only thought this and did not say it out loud.) Of course, my father-in-law was one of the fittest men I’d ever seen, who canoed down the Yukon river in his late 70s, portaging the canoe and sleeping outside every night for weeks. Once, when we were all at the lake and Doug was maybe 80, he took his shirt off and Steve cringed, whispering to me “Look, my dad is more buff than me.” Meanwhile everyone in my family who has done years of playing on sports teams ages badly, our pathetic knees disintegrating like the weak legs of the crappy TV trays we used so often.

I’m telling you this because the other day, while my kids were at swimming lessons, I went for a walk in the woods. Now, this wasn’t the first time, of course. I was in Brownies as a kid, and I seem to remember going on walks sometimes with them. Most of the time I’d be needling the kid beside me to try to get a reaction while we were supposed to be learning about slugs or something. But as an adult? By choice? As a form of exercise? Bah. But it was......nice. It was quiet and green and I could hear birds chirping. It was cool in the forest and even I’ll admit, smelled much nicer than the chlorine-y pool we all endure while we watch swimming lessons. It looked like there were berries and stuff growing in there and I wondered when they would ripen. I was just starting to see the whole up-side to this nature thing when I tripped on a tree root and twisted my ankle. Damn! Shouldn’t they pave this and smooth it all out like a turf field? Someone could get really hurt in here!

As I limped back I began to imagine the conversation I would have about this with Steve:

“I went for a walk in the woods while the kids were at swimming lessons,” (me to him, while he only half listens and reads a book on Greek philosophy.)

“Who did? You?”

“I know, right?”

Steve is now actually paying attention and looking at me. “What happened, did a soccer ball accidently roll in there or something?”

“Har Har.” But then I started to think. You know what? It would probably be really good practice to dribble a soccer ball through that forest path. Hmm...

Now I’m starting to get this weird rash on my arm. Do you think it’s poison ivy? Also, does poison ivy just float around in the air, or do you have to actually touch the plant? Can it tell when you’re scared, like a horse, and pick on you? It’s all Greek to me.

Confessions of a Jeter Cheater

2011-07-02T14:50:00.000-07:00

Derek Jeter cheats.

Yes, the 37 year old, future hall-of-fame baseball player, the Yankees shortstop who just signed a 51 million dollar contract to stay with the team another three years, was called out for cheating in the New York Times Magazine last weekend. I’m not talking about his tax dispute with New York State from 2008. I’m talking about the way he plays.

Cheating, in baseball, is what older players do when they make slight adjustments to their playing style to cope with their diminishing skills. It’s perfectly legal. They swing a little earlier at bat, since their eyesight might not be as good as it once was, or perhaps they try to hit without a stride to add precious seconds to their time at the plate. Since baseball is a game of statistics, people notice. (This year Jeter came dead last amongst shortstops in a couple of defensive statistics.) And aging as an athlete in front of millions of fans cannot be an easy experience.

Even though I’m a soccer player and not a professional ball player, I cheat too. Now Jeter and I make marginally different salaries (I don’t own a 30,000 square foot home nicknamed ‘St. Jetersburg’), I may have slightly less fans, and I have not been romantically linked with anyone with a title that includes the words ‘sexiest’ or ‘universe’, but otherwise, we’re identical. My soccer game, since my ACL repair, is more passing and less shooting. When it’s time for my team to take a corner kick, I often find it’s time for me to concentrate on tying something on my shoelace so that someone else will take it. It makes me glad no one is keeping track of my statistics, or writing national magazine articles about my cheating.

Can you spot the difference?

(Large aside: The more you think about it of course, the more you realize that almost everything we do in life as adults is a form of cheating-- sometimes to make up for our diminished capabilites, and sometimes because we run out of time. For example:
- Recently I bought one of those supermarket roast chickens and served it to my family as though I had prepared it myself. Cheating? Sort of. Although it is a bit of work to cut the meat off of there.
- When I put on makeup, I’ve noticed in the last year or so I don’t bother looking in the normal side of the round mirror- I always flip over to the magnified side. Cheating? Yup. Sometimes I even start out of the magnified side and don’t realize it, and then try to flip the mirror over to the magnified side only to find that everything has miraculously shrunk. What’s going on?
- I wear black almost all the time. This is double cheating, really. We all know black is slimming, so that’s a cheat for sure, but another reason I wear black is that I am filthy (and not in a good way.) Black hides almost all dirt. The other day as I was just about to leave the house, I dropped half a cup of coffee and splashed it all over myself. I swore, grabbed a towel and dabbed at the coffee on my black clothes, then said ‘meh’, and left the house without changing. Total cheat.)

Overall, the New York Times Magazine article about Jeter was totally depressing. Do I need to be reminded that aging sucks and that we all adjust to cope with it? But there were a couple of sweet spots in the article, and I will share them with you: the first is that the Dallas Mavericks, an aging basketball team, beat the much younger and much more hyped Miami Heat in the NBA finals recently. How? According to the article, “Crafty older players find ways to compensate for their loss of quickness. Cleverness matters.” I love it that sometimes, experience trumps youth.

Secondly, I love this: “...(the modern thinking is that) today’s players, who condition themselves year-round – often with the help of private trainers, the most up-to-date scientific methods, nutritionists and massage therapists- play longer and have more years of peak performance. It makes sense. It’s also not true.” Wait, WHAT?! Yup. Babe Ruth, who they lovingly call ‘rotund’ and ‘hard-living’, played longer professionally than many current ball players and is largely considered to be the greatest baseball player of all time. Do you think he had a nutritionist? Pfft.

To celebrate these small victories for us middle aged folks, I am going to have a milkshake. Don’t worry, I will wear black, in case I spill anything. Then maybe I'll play some soccer. Care to join me?

Happy

2011-06-22T18:09:00.000-07:00

You know what I did today? I did not volunteer to walk with the grade three class over to the library. I did not visit my dementia dad in his carehome. I did not unload the dishwasher. I did not make any penguins or people out of fondant icing. I did not sew caterpillar and cardsmen costumes for the school play. I did not volunteer to go into work to help move stuff between classrooms. I did not read the paper and try to make thoughtful comparisons about soccer news that I was hoping you would find interesting or entertaining.

Instead I put on my cleats (that not unlike my knees, are held together with pins),

and I played soccer.

And I am happy.

(And sweaty.)

But seriously, why didn’t I unload the dishwasher? That takes like two seconds. Now my kitchen is a mess. Sigh.

Pull Yourself Together

2011-06-17T11:26:00.000-07:00

As someone who writes about soccer, known for its hooliganism, I can’t help but weigh in on the Stanley Cup riots of this week. But what’s left to say? Like you, I’m embarrassed and angry. I love sport- but this week, some of the good things that go along with sports—endorphins, excitement, and national pride—all turned ugly. Why?

In his excellent book “How Soccer Explains the World”, Franklin Foer writes about how some feminists like Susan Faludi have tried to explain away soccer hooliganism as being a product of “downsized men....deprived of traditional work and knocked off patriarchal pedestals”, who “wanted to reassert their masculinity.” But Foer disagrees and says that the most notorious English hooligan soccer gang’s members include “middle-class thrill seekers.” That’s what we saw on Wednesday. Well dressed, middle class young men (and some women) who can not only afford hundred dollar hockey jerseys, but can afford to toss them onto burning cop cars as they photograph themselves doing so with expensive camera phones. UBC sociologist Rima Wilkes, looking at Wednesdays rioters in Vancouver, says “they weren’t even angry. They were having fun.”

To me, more than anything else, it speaks of boredom. And the thing is I remember some of those feelings of boredom from when I was young. Even though it was 25 years ago, I remember being a frustrated teenager and wanting to get drunk and do stupid, stupid things—just so I could feel something. But like you, I just don’t understand how that feeling translates into flipping cars and smashing things.

Sophie, my 8 year old, was so depressed watching the game after the Canucks went down 2-0 that she said “I’m going to get a piece of paper and draw a picture about my feelings,” and Steve and I struggled to keep straight faces. Of course, I don’t expect that drawing pictures of your feelings is the answer for every drunk and frustrated young man, but come on. Want to feel something? Why not shave your playoff beard, if you had enough cajones to grow one (although many I see in the riot photos don’t appear to be old enough), and splash some acidic aftershave on? I bet that would hurt like a bugger. Or get a hockey stick and ball and head over to the tennis court and whack the ball against the wall for half an hour-- that feels damn satisfying. Or why not stand up to some of those crowds of bastards who are smashing things? I’ve seen great videos of a few brave souls doing just that, and boy, I bet the tension in that moment would sure make you feel alive.

As I headed downtown to work Thursday morning, I saw some red faced young guys in Canucks shirts at Bridgeport Station – heading onto buses leading out of the city, as I was heading into it. Released from their night in the drunk tank? The red in their faces was the ruddy kind you see in those that are hungover, although I’d like to think some of the red was from embarrassment too.

I work at Granville and Georgia across from the Bay, in “Ground Zero” as I heard someone call it, and I was curious as to what I’d see as I headed up from the skytrain station. Plywood where the Bay and Sears once had windows. Spraypainting on the public art that was put up during the Olympics. Charred chunks of sidewalk. Blackened garbage cans. But I also saw tons and tons of people in Canucks jerseys cleaning. For every burned garbage bin, there were four people scrubbing at it, trying to get the black stains off. And tons of positive (and only positive) graffiti on the boarded-up stores, apologizing for our fellow citizens drunken rampage. There were crowds of people around, still writing messages. Whenever people even slightly brushed against each other in the crowd, they apologized. As schmaltzy as this sounds, all of this totally choked me up. I got tears in my eyes the way I do whenever I stand with my kids and sing O Canada before a sporting event, especially when we get to the part about the truth north, strong and free.

Finally I walked by the Canucks team store at Robson and Granville. It was closed, but everything about it was untouched—no glass smashed, no spray painted graffiti—it was as though the Canucks had nothing whatsoever to do with the rioting. Accustomed to reading messages on every surface in sight, I glanced around and noticed the only word was near the handle on the door-- a sign that said Pull. I found myself thinking I was glad it did not say push—we’ve definitely seen enough pushing for now. Come on, Vancouver. I’m pulling for you.

The Internet is Scary, or, Cristiano Ronaldo calls Soccer Mom ‘Douchebag’ after Sideboob Incident

2011-06-08T20:13:00.000-07:00

I want to talk about my blog. I realize that technologically, I’ve always been a late adapter and that blogs are considered passé. It’s all about ‘the Twitter’ now. But blogs might not be dead yet: in Saturday’s Globe and Mail, in a review of a book that grew out of a popular mom blog, columnist Leah McLaren said she felt ‘wistful for the (blog’s) cyber verbiage of yesteryear’ when writers posted entries of more than 200 words. Then Sunday’s New York Times Magazine mentioned that the most prominent sportswriter in America is Bill Simmons, a blogger who sometimes posts up to 6000 words on some topics, and that his blogs are downloaded an average of 600,000 times each. Of course, these are actual writers writing about relevant things, not just navel gazing in soccer cleats, as I have been known to do— but reading about these popular bloggers made me curious about my stats. Who reads me? And then I discovered a button on my blog that can tell me just that.

Don’t worry. I can’t see individual people and I don’t know if you are ignoring me. But I do have a button called Stats that tells me which countries people are viewing my blog from. It’s totally addictive. Why? The other day I checked it to see who was reading me and it turns out my blog had already been looked at 19 times in the Ukraine since that morning . That’s more than the 12 Canadian readers I had in the same time period. The Ukraine? (Oh dear. Given my dodgy grasp of geography, I’m ashamed to admit that if I was handed a blank map of the world and forced to pinpoint the location of the Ukraine, I would kinda wave my hand over one general area, hesitantly, and I might be wrongish.) I’m also inexplicably read by a fair number of readers in the BRIC countries (other than China, who doesn’t give a damn about me.) I even have 1 reader in Zimbabwe.

Naturally, this makes no sense whatsoever.

Luckily it can be easily explained by another kind of statistics my blog gathers for me: the keywords people google which help them find my blog. Of course, there are the expected ones—people who know me and google me by name. But yesterday someone found my blog by googling ‘garbage cans that go up stairs’, because of a piece I wrote about my physiotherapist that mentioned both stairs and garbage cans.

A surprising number of people also google Cristiano Ronaldo and end up on my page. Why? Because a year ago I posted a fake interview I pretended that I had done with Ronaldo. Also, people that googled the word ‘sideboob’ found my blog because of a piece I wrote back in March. ‘Soccer Mom’, and another popular key word, ‘douchebag’, have also landed people on my page in reference to posts I wrote or a friend guest wrote, in the past. Does the title of this post make sense to you now? Cristiano Ronaldo is probably perfectly nice and did not do anything wrong; but, rather, my title might just be the tiniest shameless attempt to increase traffic to my blog. (It’s pathetic, I know. The New York Times Magazine article I referenced earlier has Simmons quoted on others sports blogs as saying “The worst thing that’s happening now is that people are writing things just to drive traffic and get attention.” Oh yeah? Suck it, Simmons, with your 600,000 readers and your ESPN masthead.)

Now I almost wish I didn’t know these statistics at all because it makes me wonder what to write about. In a ridiculous attempt to appeal to my newfound Ukranian readers I actually googled ‘soccer pierogies’ to look for a picture I could use- because pierogies are one of the only Ukranian things I can think of- but sadly, Google Images came up with nothing. (I did find a race where men dress up like pierogi mascots and run on a field {see above}, but there was no soccer ball, so that’s out. I also found a Jesus pierogy that a woman discovered one Easter in her frying pan and sold for $1775 to Golden Palace, the same people that bought the Virgin Mary grilled cheese a few years ago for a much higher price.)

The last stat I discovered is the hardest one to face: my most popular blog ever, by a wide margin, is the only one I did not have a hand in writing. Yup, my friend Frank’s An Open Letter to Soccer Douchebags is my (his) most popular blog ever, having been looked at hundreds of times. Dang.

To console myself I’m going to try to scrape the pentagram shapes of a soccer ball into an uncooked perogy so I can hopefully sell it and make millions. I clearly won’t be making any dough (pun intended) from my writing. Except, perhaps, in the Ukraine. (Wherever that is.)

Twenty for Seven

2011-06-03T14:48:00.000-07:00

I’m at the Whitecaps game with Lisa. We’ve got two 7 year old boys with us, her son Zane, and Zane’s friend Ty. They’re outfitted in Whitecaps shirts, scarves, and caps, and even though Ty blasphemously tells me that he thinks “soccer is boring”, it seems like they are having a good time while we stand and sing the national anthem and watch the fireworks go off at the beginning of the game.

It might help that they are loaded down with snacks: during the course of the game, they polish off blue slurpees, hot dogs, Sprite, popcorn, cotton candy and gum. They also flirt with three grade 1 girls who are sitting in the row behind them, seemingly parentless. Lisa finds a notepad in her purse and the boys keep themselves busy playing hangman and x’s and o’s. Once or twice their eyes might drift towards the soccer field but I’m not sure. (Of course, I am watching the game, myself, so I might not have caught it.)

In the car on the way out of the stadium parking lot it is pure gridlock. Lisa and I are chatting when we suddenly notice that the boys have their windows down all the way, elbows leaning out, and, perhaps emboldened by all the blue food dye and MSG in their systems, and their success with the grade 1 girls, they are talking to a girl in the car beside us. She’s got her hair in a low side ponytail with a flower fastened in it and probably hasn’t had her licence for long. She’s maybe 18 or 20 and in the car by herself. “Hey, were you at the Whitecaps game?” Ty asks, all cool.

She answers and they actually chat back and forth for a second.

Lisa and I clue in to what’s going on. “Ty!” I said, “That girl is, like 20! Are you flirting with her?”

“Yeah,” he admits. “Old girls are sexy.”

No Cutesy

2011-05-27T11:11:00.000-07:00

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the Canucks have not been taking a lot of shots in their series of Stanley Cup playoff games. This bothers Steve no end. As the sport-playing one in our family, I’ve endeavoured to explain to him that sometimes it is about quality of shots, not quantity, and the Sedins are just taking their time setting things up to be perfect. He ignores me, of course, and yells a lot at the TV. “Stop passing so much! Don’t be so cutesy! Just shoot already!”

The kids have picked up on all of this. We’re eating dinner in front of the TV a lot these days, watching games, and they are trying their best to cheer on our team. They just don’t know exactly how to cheer. Sometimes they say “Go Canucks Go!”, which is perfect. But the other night, deep into double overtime in game five, Hannah obsessively chanted “No cutesy, no cutesy, no cutesy, no cutesy,” for the better part of five full minutes. Since the Canucks success depends largely on my ability to concentrate on the TV screen (well, in addition to the players efforts, I suppose), I finally couldn’t take it anymore and I snapped. “Hannah! Enough! Please be quiet!” After the game, when I could exhale again, I remembered some of their other attempts at sports cheering, and I felt terrible for barking at her.

Let me explain: even though I play a lot of team sports, my family is not one of those sporty families. My kids don’t come to my games very often, and when they do, they never want to run or throw the ball around on the sidelines at my slo-pitch games-- instead, when they were younger, Steve would set up their folding chairs behind the backstop and read aloud to them. (All the catchers thought it was adorable, and when we were reading Harry Potter, I think some of them even listened in.) Once, when they were probably 4 and 6, we must have forgotten our novel, because instead, they sat there in their chairs and cheered me on. Instead of “Go Mom Go!”, or something of that ilk, the kids tried to think of something nice to say about me and ended up chanting “Skin Like Silk! Skin Like Silk!” I was giggling so much I could barely hold the bat. (Either that or my silky skin made it too slippery to hang on to the damn thing.)

So to make amends after the Canucks game chastising, I asked the girls a question. “How would you cheer me on, if you were watching me play soccer?”

“Uh, I guess ‘Go Mom Go’?”

Sigh. “That’s it?”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to yell too much Mom, since I wouldn’t want you to push yourself too hard. You’ve got to be careful with those knees.”

Oh dear. When did they get so responsible and mature? I need them to be more cutesy. What am I doing wrong?

Crash Into Me

2011-05-18T14:28:00.000-07:00

Ever since I’ve started playing soccer again I’ve found myself focusing on two things. First, it’s hard not to remember the two glorious, kickass goals I’ve scored since I’ve been back, which, I’m ashamed to admit, I’ve replayed over and over in my head an absurd number of times; the other thing is the intense worry about getting injured again. I have spent an inordinate amount of time on crutches in my adult life and it is all my own doing, and all soccer related, and I find myself replaying the worst of those crutching days over in my head as well.

Here is one of those dud memories: in 1996 when I had ACL surgery the first time, on my left knee, the incision became infected and required a second operation 10 days later. It significantly slowed down my recovery process, since I ended up spending another week in the hospital. When I finally emerged from all that, there was lots more recovery time required, all on crutches, and I quickly grew very bored of being stuck at home. My first outing was to a movie with Steve. Guess what movie we decided to go see? Crash, by David Cronenberg. (Not to be confused with the more recent movie Crash, which won the Academy Award for best pic in 2004.) We didn’t know much about it, other than that it had been nominated for the Golden Palm award at the Cannes Film Festival, and that it was supposed to be kind of dark and edgy. We ended up going to the very first showing of the film available in the city.

Do you remember this movie? It starred James Spader, Holly Hunter and Rosanna Arquette. I checked it on imdb.com this morning and here is the blurb:

After getting into a serious car accident, a TV director discovers an underground sub culture of scarred omnisexual car crash victims who use car accidents and the raw sexual energy they produce to try to rejuvenate his sex life with his wife.

Umm, omnisexual? What is that, exactly? I’m terrified to google it because of what kind of ads may start to show up in my Facebook sidebar. Also, what is with the phrase ‘car accidents and the raw sexual energy they produce’? I must admit that energy seems to be missing from any little fender benders I’ve been involved in. (Oh god, now even my use of the expression ‘ fender bender’ sounds sexual. What’s going on? Damn you, creepy David Cronenberg!) The point I’m trying to make is that this is a disturbing movie that features people who fetishize car accidents, and from what I remember, everyone in the film becomes slightly beat up looking and it’s meant to be a turn on-- Rosanna Arquette’s character has metal leg splints and a neck brace at one point and she’s supposed to be hot.

Going to this movie in the theatre was bizarre and embarrassing enough. Going to this movie on the opening day while limping in and out slowly on crutches was much, much worse. It looked like I was a wannabe character from the movie who had crashed my car on the way to the theatre and wrecked my knee on purpose so I could see this desperately weird Cronenberg movie and then go get boned by my husband in the parking lot in our smouldering vehicle.

What is the moral of this story? I’ll tell you what is not the moral: stop playing soccer because you are getting too old and get hurt all the time. Also, the moral is not ‘Patience is a virtue’ or some other cloying cliché. Here’s what I think the moral is: if you’re going to get it on with your husband after a movie, don’t do it in your car in the parking lot. No one needs to see that.

Soccer or Hockey? Hmm...

2011-05-13T14:24:00.000-07:00

So I’m not sure if you’ve heard? But I think maybe there’s some kind of hockey thing going on in Vancouver right now? It has something to do with blue and green? Nah, just kidding – I’ve watched every minute of the Canucks playoff games and I know most of you have too. But all this focus on hockey is making me feel a little sad for my beloved soccer which, I would like to remind you, is the most popular sport in the world. (Just not in Vancouver.)

This fact was really driven home the other day when I saw an ad for tickets to a Canadian soccer match which said ““Tickets so cheap you can even take people you don’t like to the game”, and below that, where you click on the link for the ticket price, it said “Seriously? From $17.00?” They are even mocking themselves for being so cheap. And it was a bit tough to see just a few hours after viewing a friend’s Facebook complaint about paying $400 apiece for Canucks tickets for the next round.

I know, I know, the Whitecaps are an expansion team just starting out and are winless in their last 9 games while the Canucks are riding a wave of popularity ever since, well, forever, and especially since Kessler hoisted the whole team on his back and carried them through to the third round of the Stanley Cup Playoffs. I realize this is not a comparison of apples and apples. And yet, I feel compelled to make it. I know some parents who are struggling with that decision of hockey or soccer right now for their kids, so I’ve gone ahead and drawn up a comparison for you. It's completely unscientific and contains no research or proven facts at all, but you may still find it helpful.

Reasons to become a Canucks hockey player

- The pay is a lot more. A lot, lot, lot more.

- You don’t need to coerce people come to your games. Also, you win a lot.

- Apparently goals can even be scored from behind the net in hockey. (Unfortunately, most of those goals are against you, though.)

- That crazy homeless guy unshaved look is acceptable. Plus, you can save money on haircuts, since you will probably get them less often.

- There is the potential to get fashion tips from Don Cherry.

- You can play soccer with the Sedins in the hallway as part of your warm-up.

Reasons to become a Whitecaps soccer player

- You might get to keep all your teeth.

- No pesky hockey pads bulking up your svelte silhouette on national television.

- No need to worry about those behind the net goals.

- You can have a crappy game without everyone constantly talking about how you let them down.

- None of this Kessler-style-mid-game-stitches-without-freezing-and-get-right-back-out-there-nonsense. In fact, if you’re tired, just fake an injury and lie down for a while until they bring the stretcher out. You may even get a free kick out of it.

- There is the potential to get fashion tips from David Beckham.

- You get to play soccer all the time.

That last one is really the kicker. Need I say more?

To My Daughters, for Mother's Day

2011-05-04T13:57:00.001-07:00

I stole the idea for this from Tina Fey's Bossypants. It is culled from my many years of wisdom (well, mostly just from this last week) and contains advice and other things I want to make sure I pass on to my girls. (If you write your own and send it to me, maybe I can pick out the best parts and post them in a future blog. I might even give you credit.)

An Open Letter to My Daughters, on Mother's Day

- Never put white floors in your kitchen. Why do people even sell white flooring? Do they not know about gravity?

- Cooked broccoli and pasta are not finger foods. The fork is a truly wonderful piece of technology. One day, when you marry a prince, it will not only be because you are beautiful, but also funny and smart, and because you know your table manners.

- When you are a mom, work if you want to. Or don’t work if you can afford it and don’t want to. The point is not to obsess over that decision. But if you’re not going to be a mom, and you’re an adult, then for pete’s sake, work (or go to school). Work is as natural as playing or resting, and you can make good friends there. Plus, it’s good to use your brain for something. But most importantly, work because I’ll be damned if you think I’m going to let my adult child live under my roof sleeping in tiil noon every day and watching The Price is Right.

- If your house is too clean, your kids might get asthma. Or something. I read this somewhere, and I don’t have an exact source, but I’m sticking with it.

- You don’t have to play soccer to make me happy. Just do something you love to do, and don’t resent it that I played soccer so often. Whatever you choose, I want you to know the great joy of doing something fun in the sunshine with your friends. My only rule: the thing you love cannot be injecting heroin.

- I realize that taking off your socks at the end of the day can be a wonderful feeling, but do not leave those socks just anywhere. Take the two seconds to put them in the laundry. Even one day when you are Prime Minister and debating serious issues in the House of Commons, if you get the urge to remove your socks right then and there, it’s fine, but do not just leave them there by that thingy that looks like a throne. Put them in the dirty laundry basket in the corner and your elderly manservant Stephen Harper can wash them later.

- Don’t remember me as that lazy mom. Lazy is such a subjective word. Remember all those times that we lay in bed together that I wasn’t just being lazy-- we were having a lot of laughs.

- When you are a teenager and you are crying inconsolably about something, do not go look at yourself in the mirror, because the drama of your crying will just make you cry harder. You can stay in the bathroom if you want, but instead of crying, shove kleenexes up each nostril and leave them there. Then practice teaching yourself to raise one eyebrow at a time. This skill will come in handy later in life, when you are a mom and your own kids try to get some questionable stuff past you. How do you think I learned how to do that?

- Lately, you both seem to be losing your pants a lot. How does one lose pants? Please, please, don’t keep this up. When you are a teenager or young adult and are having so much fun that you actually lose your pants, have the wisdom to know that you have gone too far.

Dear Soccermom: Advice Columnist

2011-04-27T22:12:00.000-07:00

This week I have decided to take some questions from followers and become an advice columnist, a la Amy Sedaris in the Believer magazine. I've never tried this before, so feel free to let me know how you think I’m doing....

Dear Soccermom,
Running makes me queasy. Any advice?
- Couchpotatoe

Dear Dan Quayle,
You neglect to mention what you are running away from. Muggers? 1980’s fashion icons? Conservative politicians? In these situations I think the queasiness is not to be avoided but could actually come in handy. When you run, just turn your head slightly to the side and speed up a bit, so that you actually puke in their path. If you could puke up whole, unmasticated banana peels, that would be helpful too, because they might slip on one and fall. Can you do that? That would be so cool.

If you are running towards something, like a soccer ball, that is different. Forget the queasiness and suck it up, cupcake.

Hope this helps!
- Cathy

Dear Soccermom,
My children are making me insane. No matter what I say, no matter what I do, they scoff, laugh outright, or pretend to spray water out of their mouths. Is there something I missed in parenting 101?
Yours,
- At wits end

Dear Witless,
Yes. And lucky for you, I teach parenting 101, so just this once I’ll give you some freebies. First of all, forget the pretending-- spit-spray actual water back at them. (Or withhold water or other liquids from them altogether, until they become parched and feeble. ) Alternatively, you could pin them down on their backs and as you hover above them, let a long trail of your spit dangle towards their faces. Suck the spit up at the last minute. (Or don’t-- your choice.)

Another option would be to put them in some kind of after school activity they hate, just to wring all the joy out of their lives, so they are broken and sad. Not soccer—all kids love soccer—but something boring and tedious like ballet. They won’t have any spirit left to scoff at you.
Cheers!
- Cathy

Dear Soccermom,
My husband is a real sports fan, and I try to watch it with him sometimes, despite knowing next to nothing about sports. Recently we watched a soccer match. My husband began to yell, “Handball! Handball!” I didn’t know what to make of this, so I reached into his crotch. He was startled at first, then annoyed, then, I think, pleased. Apparently, I misunderstood. Are there any other soccer terms I should be wary of?
- Earnest but confused

Dear Earnest,
Don’t worry, you didn’t misunderstand at all. That’s exactly what‘s supposed to happen when someone yells “handball”, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. It also explains, to some extent, the high nature of David Beckham’s voice, and the need for handballs to sometimes be followed by “penile T kicks”. (Never learned what the “T” stood for, sorry.) Since you asked, you might want to watch out for the soccer expression “Man on”, which can signal either that another player is chasing you while you have the ball, or hot gay action, or both.
Best,
- Cathy

My Triumphant Return

2011-04-20T15:39:00.000-07:00

I’ve been waiting to write this blog for a long time. Today was my glorious, long-awaited return to the soccer field. It was...okayish.

April 20, six months after my ACL surgery, seemed like the right time to play again, partially because this is what all the ACL literature says is the right amount of time to wait, and partially because my physiotherapist told me to stop coming in. (Kicked me out, really.) The fact that April 20 is the international day to celebrate cannabis culture (“420, dude!” ) doesn’t have anything to do with it, although, when I think about it, smoking a spliff before playing might have helped me relax.

There’s not much to say. Here are the facts:

- The weather was perfect.

- I got there early and did the warm-up that FIFA recommends to prevent knee injuries. Being early also allowed me plenty of important time for worrying.

- It was truly great to see my old friends out on the field again. And it turns out my ability to take the piss out of people was not at all damaged when I hurt my knee. (Sample comment by me, when someone flubbed a pass: “What was that?!”)

- I played goal, mostly, which involved a lot more standing than playing. My choice.

- I spent a lot of time running to get the ball when it rolled off the field after someone missed a shot. I did this on purpose, since it meant I was actually getting exercise, but the likelihood it would cause me to twist and hurt my knee was dramatically less than it would have been in a game. Smart, right?

- I was responsible for at least three goals-- for the other team, mind you, not mine-- don’t be ridiculous. I let them in since I was much too afraid to dig in and defend properly.

- I left early, and when I left, a lot of my friends clapped at me, I guess congratulating me on my triumphant return, but I couldn’t help but wonder if they were actually clapping since I was leaving, and they would finally not have to walk on eggshells and could take some normal damn shots already.

In the past, I’ve always been the one who stays and plays til the bitter end. Leaving early made me feel very mature. Look at me, not pushing myself too hard! Look at me, doing the responsible thing!

But later I realized, of course, that I’m not mature. I’m a chickenshit.

But I'm a soccer-playing chickenshit. Ha!

My List: A Cure for Idle Doctor Chatter

2011-04-13T09:35:00.000-07:00

There was a front page article in the Vancouver Sun last Friday about how surgeons have been told not to chatter during surgery. A complaint was launched by a patient who felt that when his surgeon talked with the scrub nurses about hockey during his operation, there was a chance that the doctor could have become distracted, lost focus, and made a mistake. Now all BC Surgeons have been warned to cut it out. (Pun intended). In what was dubbed a “useful, important reminder with a proactive message”, they have been warned by the College of Physicians and Surgeons to stay away not only from the topic of hockey, but also to avoid other subjects that could potentially upset patients.

I don’t get it. Let it go, dude. Surgery in a hospital is one of the few times in our lives where we truly must relinquish control and trust our surgeon. When the operation day comes, we are stripped down to nothing but a thin, backless gown and groovy hairnet, anaesthetized, and put in a room full of relative strangers who can do with us as they please. Why do we do this? Because these surgeon people are quite smart and skilled. They have a lot of schooling and have been carefully vetted by their peers before they start slicing and dicing. And there’s a ton of people in the operating room, so aren’t they going to keep each other on track? In my experience surgeons generally have a good sense of responsibility anyway, and probably won’t engage in a quick iphone game of angry birds, mid-operation, just for kicks.

That said, you never know, so I’ve decided on a list of conversational demands should I ever be in the position to have surgery again. (Cross your fingers for me that that will NEVER have to happen.) Of course it’s highly unlikely that I would even be aware of what was being discussed during surgery, but just in case, I’ve got my list made as a “useful important reminder” for my surgeon. Here it is:

Things That Can Be Discussed:

- the symmetricalness of the earring holes in my earlobes (or any other positive physical traits they may discern)
- Soccer (I like soccer. Had you noticed?)
- How cute/smart/polite my kids are
- how tragic it is that someone with as bright and sweet a disposition as mine has to be cut into this way. Sympathy tears by the surgeon are also permitted, providing that they don’t seep into the incision area and cause infection.
- How smooth my legs are
- The TV Show Modern Family. That thing is hilarious!
- The operation, I guess

Things That Cannot Be Discussed:

- Jokes about throwing in some much-needed liposuction during the surgery as some kind of 2-in-1 combo deal.
- Charlie Sheen. (He is really just so over.)
- Anything about golf (yawn.)
- Clowns (self explanatory.)
- Whether or not my boobs are real or fake. (Hold on--wait--forget it. I’m moving this to the “Can Be Discussed” category instead, since if people are questioning it, it usually means your boobs are too good to be true, right?)
- Hockey (kidding. But can I stipulate that it be playoff hockey? So much more exciting. Go Canucks!)
- How stubbly my legs are (it all depends on what time I woke up that morning, you see.)

Also, my sister once told me that chewing gum during tests helps you to concentrate better, so I would also like to stipulate that my surgeon chew gum, just to make sure I’m getting him or her in top form. (But not that crappy cinnamon flavoured gum. That stuff is just gross. Peppermint only.)

See? Useful. Proactive. You should make a list too. (And, you can use it for the plumber as well, when they come over to fix the pipes under your kitchen sink- just to make sure they don’t get distracted.)

Oh, and I forgot one thing. I want my surgery for free. Oh I get that already? Right. Sweet.

Win, Lose or Draw

2011-04-08T12:30:00.000-07:00

Hannah and I went to the Whitecaps game on Wednesday night. My friend Scott gave me two tickets, and I thought it would be a good way to bond with my ten year old daughter. In the car on the way, I tell her that too. “I am excited about having some Hannah-Mommy time,” I say.

“Mom, can you just say ‘mother-daughter’ time, instead? It sounds better.”

“Yes, of course, sweets-- my bad,” I say.

“No one says ‘my bad’ anymore, Mom.”

Oh god. “Okay. Sorry. Do people still say that?”

“Mom!”

This is not a very auspicious beginning.

After a while, I ask, “Are you excited about seeing the game, Han?”

“I think I’ll reserve judgement for now,” she says. She actually says this.

“Are you at least excited that we’re going to A&W?” I ask. We’re going there for dinner on the way. We don’t often go to those kinds of places.

“Yeah!” she says enthusiastically. Well, at least that’s something.

At A&W, we both get teen burgers, her because even though she’s only 10, she’s acting like a teenager, and me because I figure eating one will give me the body of a teenager. (That’s how this A&W thing works, right? It doesn’t? Aww, screw you, confusing Burger Family!)

We walk into the stadium just as the crowd inside starts singing O Canada, and we and all the other people around us, all of us late, sing loudly along. We get to our seats just one and a half minutes into the game. The sun is setting and it is still warm and beautiful. Even in the first minute, I can tell the new Whitecaps are an exciting team. This is going to be good. I take this picture of us:

Less than three minutes later, Hannah tells me she feels sick.

“What?” I say, craning my neck around, only half paying attention to her and trying to watch the game.

“I feel barfy.”

Now she has my attention. “Are you sure, Han?” I don’t want to ask everyone who just stood up to let us in to stand up again.

Her face looks grey and she is kind of shivering.

I ask everyone to stand up again so we can get out and go to the washrooms. Well, porta pottys. We get there and Hannah goes in, but then comes out again, like 20 seconds later. I should point out that she can be kind of an anxious kid and that she hates public washrooms.

“And?” I say.

“What?”

“Are you okay?” She would not like it if I asked her personal questions about what happened in there, so I look at her. I can’t read her face. She just looks back at me. I’m desperate to go back in and watch the soccer game. “Can we go back in?” I ask.

“Okay.”

We go back to our seats. Everyone nicely stands up again. One, maybe two minutes pass. The Whitecaps are glorious. There is still no score, but they have all the possession.

“Mom, I feel sick again.”

Now, I might not have reacted in the best possible way to this news. “Are you insane?” is what I believe I said. “You are not sick. And besides I’m not asking those people to move again.” I rummage around in my purse and find a plastic bag and give it to her. “Here, puke in this.” And then I turn back and watched the game.

Super soccer mom, right? See, this is why at the top of my blog is says “Stories from a Different Kind of Soccer Mom.” It’s because I suck. A proper soccer mom would probably not have let her sick kid almost hyperventilate in a plastic bag so she could watch a match. (It was truly an awesome match, by the way. They finished the first half nil nil.) A truly proper soccer mom would definitely not take a picture of her sick kid holding a puke bag up to her mouth and post it on her blog, for all to see. Like this:

What can I say?

Half time comes and we go out and try the bathrooms again, and it's pretty crowded out there now. Hannah says she might be feeling slightly better. “Can we go back in and watch the second half?” I suggest hopefully. It’s not really a question, but I want her to think I am giving her a choice.

“Yeah.”

As we head back in, I find $20 on the ground. I ask, but no one around me will claim it.

“Can I have the money, Mom?”

“Nice try.”

The second half is crazy. A Whitecap gets sent off with a red card. Then, we get a penalty shot—and score, leading one- nil. The player who scores is so excited, in a frenzy he whips off his jersey and throws it into the enthusiastic crowd, and then he promptly gets a red card too. So we are up by one goal, but down two players. The game will need to change after this.

Hannah, I notice, is changing too-- her puke bag is balled up in her fist at her side, and not draped over her nose and mouth as she previously had it. She is also cheering now instead of rocking back and forth and moaning. She probably can’t help it—someone in the audience has brought a drum and the crowd is so into it, stomping and clapping. The Whitecaps defenders and goalie are stupendous, foiling chance after chance. It’s like a thirty minute, two man advantage power play in hockey, and the Whitecaps are rocking it. No one is getting past them. At one point, I look over at Hannah, and she is actually paying attention to the game and smiling.

The ninety minutes are up. They add four minutes of injury time.

And then the other team scores.

As we make our way out, the crowd is still crazy excited, even though it ended in a tie. I overhear a young guy say “Whoa, that was more exciting than watching the Canucks!” and I can’t help smiling, because I agree. Hannah and I drive all the way home, car dancing and singing at the top of our lungs to the White Stripes songs she picks out on my iphone.

And nobody puked. I'm going to count this as a win.

Keepie Uppie

2011-03-30T13:18:00.001-07:00

Recently in the New York Times Magazine’s Youth Issue, we were treated to articles about a 21 year old fellow who is a highly successful online poker player with a net worth of about $5 Million, and a 16 year old female freestyle soccer player who is wowing people with her talent at keeping the ball in the air while doing tricks with her feet.

Dan Cates, the poker guy, is photographed in what appears to be a windowless grey room devoid of any decoration, with grey carpet and a grey couch. He is slouched on his office chair in front of two computers, with his feet up on the armrest of the couch, underneath a blanket. His face is pasty and he looks unwell. Perhaps it’s partially the blanket thing.

Indi Cowie, the soccer girl, is rendered in a series of colourful pictures, doing what she does best- moving the ball around in the air with her feet and head, jumping and flicking it all over the place. Looking at a video of her is much more instructive than looking at a photo. Here’s a short one:

What do these two have in common? Everything.

Each has become an expert in his or her field because of practice. An insane amount of it. Both have followed the idea Malcolm Gladwell popularized in his book Outliers- that 10,000 hours of practice at something makes you quite good. That’s about 3 hours a day for 10 years-- or a lot quicker if you do more than 3 hours every day. Pick anything: learning another language, playing tiddlywinks, stitching needlepoint cats on throw pillows, masturbating—if you do it that much, you’re going to do it well.

It brings to mind Amy Chua’s controversial recent book Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, the one in which her teenage daughter has performed a piano recital at Carnegie Hall by the age of 14 but has never in her life been allowed to play with another child or have a sleepover. But of course in that situation, the mother was the driving force behind the success- she forced them to practice their instruments 3 hours a day. Indi Cowie just wants to do it. The magazine article says she sometimes accidently wakes her mom up at 5am when she’s practicing in the garage. What kind of teenager gets up at 5am voluntarily?

When she performed at her school’s talent show, Indi won handily, although in addition to the comments of “Isn’t she amazing?”, the other comments were “Who is she?” She has no friends except her 12 year old sister. And even though she’s performed at halftime at a Chelsea-Manchester United match in England and has had her talents featured in a PS3 soccer commercial, she’s a nobody at home, and her name is misspelled in the high school event program. Cates, the poker player, realizes he might have a problem and repeatedly mentions trying to achieve a “balance of life” with his magazine interviewer, even going so far as to fly to Texas to meet with a specialist who would help him understand social situations. (Personally, all I think he really needs is a bit of fresh air, vitamin D and some green vegetables, but what do I know?)

All of this mocking is just jealousy on my part, of course. No one is clearly ever going to feature me in the youth issue of anything, but it’s not just that: I want to be good at something too. (Not freestyle like Indi though – my knees could never take 3 hours of practice a day and besides, I refuse on principle to take on a hobby which is sometimes ridiculously dubbed “Keepie Uppie”.) I’m jealous of how society always rewards the experts , whether it’s with money, or prizes, or some degree of fame. Apparently being goodish at a number of different things without any kind of focus doesn’t get you anywhere.

I was lamenting this to my husband, who is, in fact, an expert himself. He’s got a PhD, won the dean’s medal in grad school, has been nominated for both teaching and writing prizes, and has been awarded a number of grants and a prestigious fellowship for his research. (Strange, since he has trouble finding the coffee filters every single time he opens the kitchen cupboard.) He said, “Look, honey, it doesn’t have to be a youth thing, you could start now. In ten years, by the time you’re 51, you could be really good at something.”

“I’m 42, not 41.”

“Oh,” he said.

Sometimes I think there’s a chance that he doesn’t even know how to spell PhD.

Amongst the Garbage Cans

2011-03-23T21:31:00.000-07:00

About two hours into my physio appointment, Travis often approaches me and says “Okay, come with me. Field trip.”

This time I had listened to almost the entire Meatloaf song Paradise by the Dashboard Lights while I did hamstring stretches, so I was eager for the change of activity—the only problem is that I knew where we were going. We were going upstairs to run amongst the garbage cans.

Now some people might think of physio as a stretchy, massage-y, relaxing appointment, and for some types of injuries, that may be true—but for me, no. I am usually dripping in sweat for a solid two hours. There aren’t really any breaks, and Travis barks a lot of orders.

The running thing always comes at the end of the appointment, when I am most exhausted. The reason I run near the garbage cans is that no one else is there; it’s nice and cool, overlooking the seating for the ice arena. Travis needs to check my running style to make sure I am not favouring my knee. “Run to the 2nd garbage can and back,” he says.

I comply. Travis stands there, arms crossed, watching me and frowning.

When I come back, he says, “Again.” I go again. I come back. “Okay, now run, knees high, to the garbage can and back.”

I go. Travis yells after me “Higher!”

I come back. The second garbage can is halfway to the other end of the arena, so I am starting to breathe a little huffily. He still has his arms crossed. Still frowning. “Now skip.”

“Skip?”

“Yup. Like a little girl.”

“Can you demonstrate?” I ask hopefully. I know what skipping is, of course, but this will buy me some time to catch my breath and make Travis look as ridiculous as me. It actually worked once before: he skipped to the garbage can and back, and secretly I think he liked it, since he did a little twirl and added some jazz hands at the end.

“Nice try, Cathy.”

“Okay,” I say. I skip amongst the garbage cans. Tra la la.

“Nice skipping,” he says admiringly when I get back. “Now shuffle side to side. 2nd garbage can.”

I shuffle side to side.

“Now in back, in front, in back, in front,” he says.

“What?” I ask desperately, huffing and puffing. “Like this?” I try to do it but I am pretty useless. You know what this is, right? Arms out sideways like an airplane, legs shuffling sideways, alternating one in front, one behind you. It feels kind of like dancing, and I’m not a good dancer. I’m an enthusiastic dancer when I’ve had a drink or two and the music is good, but these conditions are different.

“I need you to demonstrate,” I try again. He takes the bait. He shows me a little, then comes back, and says, “Come on, let’s go. Together.” We dance sideways together, in back, in front, all the way to the garbage can and back. He is much better at it than me. Still, I can’t help feeling like a clumsy, sweaty Ginger Rogers.

“Now run up those stairs,” he says.

“Travis, there’s no stairs in soccer,” I say.

“Cathy…” he says sternly.

I run up, run down. He raises his eyebrows at me. “Again,” he says.

I run again, even though I think perhaps this time he is making me do it because I am such a pain in the ass. As I go, he yells out “Knees high!” My knees are not high. They are not even highish.

Somehow I make it back down.

“Again.” He says.

I go. “Higher!” he yells. “There’s a burning child up there at the top of the stairs!”

I start to laugh. Dear god, why am I laughing about a burning child? When I get back down, I say “Travis, I don’t like that child. That child is dead to me.”

“Again.”

“Can’t the kid just jump down?”

“Again.”

I go again. As I run, he repeatedly yells “Burning!“ and again, I can’t stop laughing. I feel like I’m in the military. Is this how I would react to my drill sergeant? Maybe it’s nervous laughter since I feel like I’m in the movie Full Metal Jacket and I’m worried Travis is going to beat me with a pillowcase full of soap.

Finally, we are done with the stairs. It’s almost time for me to go home and rock back and forth in the fetal position until my next appointment. As we leave, Travis says, “You should see it when the Vancouver Giants do the stairs.” He is the physiotherapist for the semi-pro hockey team. I want to tell him I am old enough to be one of those hockey players moms—and not some kind of scandalous teenage mom, either—but I can’t talk since I am breathing so heavily, so I decide to let that one go.

I also consider asking him why he couldn’t have lifted a finger to save the poor, burning child at the to of the stairs, but then I remember I have to see him in a few days and if I am at all unkind, I’m very,very afraid of what will happen next.

A Smidge of Sideboob

2011-03-18T12:43:00.000-07:00

The Whitecaps FC is starting a new season tomorrow night in a bigger stadium, and they need to sell more tickets than ever before. They’re succeeding too, courtesy of some free publicity coming their way due to a picture of a nubile, naked young woman wearing a Whitecaps jersey rendered in bodypaint, featured in big posters, websites, and advertising all over the city. You know you want to see it. Here you go:

The image has been stirring up comment streams and a number of women are complaining about it: some have publicly threatened not to buy seasons tickets for their families because of the negative image this portrays for young women; others are former athletes who find the sexualizing of women’s bodies demeaning. The fact that the Whitecaps revealed it the day after International Women’s Day-- when everyone is in a pc frame of mind-- is a little boneheaded, to be sure, but I must admit-- this doesn’t bother me that much.

Look at the thing. Don’t bother gazing too closely though—I expect you’ll get lost if you’re looking for her ladygarden, since she’s wearing panties underneath all that paint. Plus, that’s a real scarf she’s wearing over her upper half, so what is there to see once you look past that? A smidge of sideboob? And it’s painted sideboob. Yawn. This is no different or more revealing than the cover of any modern fitness magazine or Cristiano Ronaldo underwear ad. In fact, the few people I directed towards this picture had to be told it was bodypaint. Like me, none had given it a second glance—we all thought it was just a skintight shirt.

The video of the painting being done which went along with this picture is also pretty tame. (I'll include it at the end.) When Steve watched it, at one point he turned his head sideways and squinted, saying, “Is that T or A?” Not a good sign. It’s just a fuzzy montage full of air-brushed close ups of the bodypainting being done, sans scarf, and at the end, she kind of inexplicably rolls a ball around on her neck (why? Who knows!), and then turns to the face the camera looking ......concussed. No big payoff. Sorry, everyone. No nips.

If you’re going to get all up in (unpainted) arms about unfairness with women and soccer, how about complaining, as the Vancouver Sun’s Daphne Bramham has done, that the 9th place Canadian Women’s National Team is having an internal crisis due to underfunding—the coach is threatening to quit, the team is boycotting games in support of her-- while the men’s team, ranked 84th—is ticking along just fine?

Besides, it’s the model’s loss. She has no jersey to exchange with anyone after the game.

Dementia Dad

2011-03-09T11:15:00.000-08:00

"Did you play soccer today?” my dad asks. I think this is the fourth time this week he has asked me this. I often drop in to Extended Care to see him after my physiotherapy sessions, since they are held across the street. He is sitting in his wheelchair, looking out the window. I sit on his bed, careful to avoid the button on a cord that calls for the nurse.

“No, Dad. I had knee surgery in October.” We have this same conversation almost every time. I lift up my yoga pants legs to show Dad the scars on my knees. “This is the scar from 1998,” I say, “and this is the new one. I still have to wait at least six more weeks before I can play.”

He stares thoughtfully at my knees like this is new information. “That’s a long time to wait, isn’t it?” he asks.

Yes, oh yes.

We are quiet for a while. We’ve never had much to say, he and I. He was always the science guy, the technical guy – an avionics engineer who couldn’t connect with people very well- even his own kids. Of course, we all had our specialty niches: Meg was the smart one, James was the mullet-wearing one that he fought about haircuts with, and I was the sporty one. After I moved out to go to UVIC, the only time my parents and I ever spoke was on Sundays because that was the day of my soccer game. And just like all those years ago, once we are done with the topic of soccer, the conversation gets pretty thin.

“So, what did you have for breakfast today?” I ask. This is usually a safe subject.

“I had no stuff for my toast,” he says. He makes a triangle shape with his hands.

“Jam, you mean?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Jam.”

“Why not?”

“Well, the toast was shaped like a triangle,” he says, showing me the shape again.

What does this have to do with jam? “Cut on the diagonal?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. “Everyone else had stuff on their toast. But not me.”

He starts to make the triangle shape with his hands again, but I don’t say anything. I’m eager to get past the great toast-and-jam debacle of 2011.

“Just toast for breakfast, Dad?” I say, finally.

“No,” he says, starting to make a different shape with his hands. “There were, uh, eggs,” he looks at his hands. “They were....egg shaped,” he explains without a trace of irony.

“Okay.” I say.

“And soup,” he adds, making his hands into a circle. I guess for the shape of the bowl.

“Soup for breakfast?! Nah, I think you mean for dinner last night.”

“Well, okay, yes,” he says. “It was last night but it was for breakfast this morning. It was that small stuff with air in it. It was shaped like this.” He slowly points to the small circular holes on the medical name bracelet he wears, the ones that allow you to make the bracelet different sizes. When did his wrists get so impossibly thin?

“Rice Krispies?” I guess.

“Maybe,” he says, staring out the window.

We don’t talk for a while. I decide no conversation is better than the riveting shape-filled breakfast exchange we just had. Then he looks at me and says “I want to go home. It’s so boring here.”

My stomach lurches. “Dad, you can’t go home right now. Mom can’t take care of you there. You can’t stand up or walk, remember? “

“Yes, I can. I can fucking walk.”

“Dad, before you came in here, Mom had to call me early one morning to help her try to lift you off the floor, where you had slid down. We had to get the fire department to help us. That’s why they brought you here, in the ambulance. Do you remember being in the ambulance?”

He looks at me angrily. “I came here in an ambulance?”

“Yes. A few months ago.”

We are quiet for a long while this time. We talk a little about the gardening they are doing outside here at the hospital. Across from the garden, in the distance, I can see the field where Sophie played soccer a few weeks ago. “I have to go, Dad,” I say eventually. “I’ll come and see you in a few days.”

“Okay. Thanks for coming. Have a good trip.”

I am not going on a trip. “Thanks Dad.”

“And have a good game.”

“Thanks, Dad. I will.”

Look at Me, the Normal Mommy Blogger! Shopping! Celebrity Pictures!

2011-03-02T10:33:00.000-08:00

I’ve checked out some other mommy blogs, and it seems a large proportion of what these moms do is post celebrity pictures or mention their kids and talk about how adorable they are. Now, my kids are freaking hilarious, but Hannah is starting to get tired of her comments being fodder for my musings, since I’ve noticed lately that she keeps saying awesome, unintentionally hilarious kiddish stuff, and then following it up with “promise you won’t tell anyone else I said that." Then I actually have to promise. And pinky swear. Dang. Doesn’t she know that one of the reasons I had her was for the material?

The other thing moms seem to love to blog about is shopping, particularly shopping for handmade organic linen baby clothes or crazily expensive designer handbags. They mention the brands on purpose, in bold letters, probably because they are getting free products from the companies, and it is all a form of advertising. If I want to fit in with the in crowd, perhaps I should blog about this too, but the thing is, of course, that

1) I don’t care about stuff like that and

2) my blog is a soccer blog, and there isn’t a whole lot of soccer shopping one can do. On my recent visit to Seattle, though, I did find this one soccer thing. Granted, I had to pay for it, but it was in my price range ($3.99, American), so I bought it and plan to blog about it for you. You’re welcome.

It’s a flip book, featuring Pele, the soccer star. If you hold the handle on the top and flip through it quickly, the individual pictures of Pele playing look like a short clip of him scoring a bicycle-kick-style goal, or if you turn it over and flip through the back, Pele dribbling through 3 defenders. It is not organic or made by a designer, although the brand name on it is “Flipp Tipps”, so I guess in a way, I am shilling for them now by mentioning them. Quite an unfortunate brand name, really. How can the double p at the end not make you think of Linda Tripp, the infamous informer in the Clinton/Lewinsky scandal ? I’m going to put her picture in here, alongside a picture of Jabba the Hutt, since he also has two of the same letter at the end of his name, and because I think that is the ‘celebrity’ Linda Tripp looks most like.

Look at me, the normal mommy blogger! Shopping! Celebrity pictures! Okay, moving on: at the top of each Pele photo in Flipp Tipps is a written comment about what Pele is doing; a ‘tipp’ if you will. Of course, you can’t read these if you flip through the book since they go by too fast—you need to slow down and read them one by one. I don’t recommend this. Pele is clearly a beautiful, inspirational player, but what soccer players do is usually instinctive, and can’t be written down or else it looks dumb. For example, this is what it says:

Picture 52: Balance is another key ingredient in becoming a good dribbler.

Picture 53: To perfect your balance, you must first understand the laws of equilibrium.

Picture 54: Ask your coach. It is important for you to know WHY things happen.

Wait, what? To dribble I have to understand the laws of equilibrium? Isn’t this something to do with chemistry, and nothing to do with soccer? This sucks since I am the soccer coach, now I need to study this, since at practice tonight, perhaps one of the 8 year olds will ask me about it. Damn. Thanks for nothing, Pele. Thanks for nothing, Flipp Tipps.

What else can I say? Really, don’t buy this. It’s $3.99, American, that you’ll never get back. And instead of buying this, at the same store for only a dollar more, I could have bought band-aids that look like bacon.
How cool would that have been? Hannah has been totally chastising me since I got back for not buying those instead. Now she wants them for her birthday. She’s adorable, isn't she?

Blogging is Easy!

2011-02-23T10:38:00.000-08:00

A few of you have asked me how I have kept writing a blog all this time, and I always say blogging is easy! Mostly I say this because I want you to guest-blog for me, so I can have a week off and sit around eating chocolates. But it is true. Here are my tips for blogging, with apologies to Steve Martin, from whom I stole the idea.

You have to start somewhere, so I suggest starting with a person. People like reading about people, especially if it is gossip about a person they know. So how about this:

You know, there was this guy.

The’ you know’ part is just folksy fluff, but it hints to the reader that they might actually know the guy, even if they don’t. They might think that perhaps they can learn something secret about someone. But it isn’t quite enough. We need to use an adjective. Writers use adjectives all the time. So, let’s insert one here. A fancy one.

You know, there was this fancy guy.

Now, you might be getting bored already. I get it. Even if a guy is fancy, most readers have an absurdly short attention span, so now it might be time to insert a picture. Real writers would describe how the guy was fancy, but not bloggers. We don’t have the skills. Instead, go to Google images and find a picture of a fancy guy. Because it is a soccer blog, let’s make it a picture of a fancy soccer guy. Probably it will give you a picture of Cristiano Ronaldo or David Beckham, which is fine, since they are indeed fancy, and you can sit back and enjoy the picture along with your readers. An example:

Now it is probably time for some lunch.

Okay, after lunch, it is time to really get working on this blog thing. We already have a person, and an adjective and an image of our fancy guy. Let’s have him take some action, so we can also use a verb:

You know, there was this fancy guy who scored a goal on Saturday.

See what we did there? Our fancy guy isn’t just sitting around. He is doing stuff. And you know what people doing stuff does to bloggers-- it pisses them off. Why? Because bloggers usually never do anything themselves. They just complain about stuff that other people do. But don’t worry, it’s all good, because we can use this. Here’s our opportunity to complain:

You know, there was this fancy guy who scored a goal on Saturday. Can you believe it? What a jerk.

Why is he a jerk? Who cares? It is only important that bloggers have opinions, not reasons to back them up. Now since the blog should probably be a little longer, we can then write a few more sentences. Perhaps some vague complaining stuff, some rhetorical questions, and finally, for emphasis: when we really want to make a point, we can create a paragraph out of a sentence that probably shouldn’t have its own paragraph.

Like this.

See how important that makes it seem, when it is all on its own? Italics help too. Although don’t overuse them, like me, because then when you emphasize everything, you really don’t end up emphasizing anything at all.

Okay, I think we’re ready to add a video now. Videos from youtube are a bloggers best friend because they do all the work. Good god, why read something when you can watch it, right? I’m fairly certain there’s video somewhere of our fancy guy, the jerk, scoring that goal. Post it and you’re done.

See, blogging is easy! Besides, no one is reading it anyway.

Coaching is Hard

2011-02-16T10:51:00.000-08:00

Coach Sandra has this thing she does where she puts her finger on her nose, and all the kids know to gather round, look at her, and listen. It is the end of practice and she does just that. It works like a charm.

“Did we have FUN today?” she asks loudly, leaning in.

“Yeah!” they all respond.

“What?” she says, hand behind her ear. “I can’t hear you…”

“YEAH!!!” they all scream excitedly. I am there and even I scream, just like an 8 year old. I did have fun. How does she do it? Is it her voice? This is the mysterious power of Coach Sandra.

I do not have that power. When I am in charge of the practice, it is less fun, and it goes more like this:

Me: “Okay, Scotia, grab a ball and dribble it over to the centre circle and back.”

Scotia, unmoving: “Where is Coach Sandra?”

Or

Me: “Monica, c’mere, let me put some tape on your earrings.” (They aren’t supposed to wear earrings.)

Monica, wincing, looking around: “Can anyone else do it?”

And, of course, at the end of practice, I put my finger on my nose but I’m just standing there like an idiot. No one gathers around. “Hey!” I yell, but it sounds muffled, since I’m pressing down harder on my nose, as though that would help. “Gather round!” I finally bellow. I sound angry. They gather.

“Did we have FUN today?” I ask.

No one says anything. Finally from Sophie, my daughter, a mumble: “I guess.” Nice. This, from my own flesh and blood. Perhaps when we get home I will force her to count my stretch marks. “Fine. Go home.” I say to the team. And then, as an afterthought, as they are all walking away, “Hey, uh, good practice. See you Sunday.” Wow. Did I make even that sound mean?

The thing is, coaching is hard. Even Coach Sandra has a rough time of it sometimes. You have no idea how much time we spend during games, yelling things like “SARAH! YOU’RE FORWARD! FORWARD! NO! ON THE LEFT SIDE! UP HERE!” or, when they get the ball and start dribbling, “NO! THE OTHER WAY! THE OTHER WAY!” I’ve almost run into parents while pacing frantically down the side of the field. I think sometimes I even kick the air when I want the girls to kick the ball, just like I use my imaginary brakes on the passenger side of the car while Steve is driving.

It is also pretty tough to learn how you can spend half a practice coaching something really thoroughly, only to have them completely forget it a few days later. We taught them three basic things about throw-ins: put the ball behind your head, don’t lift your feet when you throw it, and throw it right away, before the other team is ready. We did this over and over and over. At practice, they had it down. Then during the game, I painfully watch Holly holding the ball forever on the sidelines, only to lift her foot when she finally does the throw-in. Sigh. And don’t misinterpret me -- I’m not complaining about other people’s kids- mine’s the worst for this. It’s like she thinks she gets a free pass and doesn’t have to listen or learn anything because Mom’s one of the coaches.

Once after a particularly rough week at practice I rented the Will Ferrell movie Kicking and Screaming, in which Ferrell is an ineffectual soccer coach. Just as I use parts of his holiday movie Elf as advice to guide me through Christmas (“…try to stick to the four food groups: candy, candy canes, candy corns, and syrup”), I was hoping for some delightful coaching insights. Nope. You know how his team wins, at the end? He tells his team to forget everything he taught them during the season. They emerge triumphant. How is that supposed to help me? They already forget everything I teach them anyway.

Well, almost everything. Every once in a while Maya will take a smokin’ corner kick or Maddy will quickly do the perfect throw-in, and, temporarily, all is well with the world. I guess this is why coaches keep coming back year after year. I know it’s not for the money.

Wrong Side of the Fence

2011-02-11T14:02:00.000-08:00

Have you heard that Steve Nash also likes to play soccer? Apparently he's quite good--I know his brother played for the Whitecaps-- but he might not be good enough to play with Landon Donovan, America's biggest soccer star. Check out this commercial they did together for an EA Sports FIFA videogame. How Nash feels here is exactly how I feel about getting back on the field.

Faking It

2011-02-04T09:52:00.001-08:00

Why are so many women I know injuring themselves these days? In a heartbeat I can think of 10 women I know who have been on crutches in the last 2 years. My physiotherapist says close to 60 percent of the injured people he treats are middle aged women. What gives? Is this what we women get stuck with now for a mid-life crisis? No Corvettes or Rogaine for us, just crutches. It sucks.

Of course, some of us have bragging rights to go along with our injuries-- it was really a matter of time before I hurt myself I suppose, what with regularly hurtling myself towards metal goalposts in the middle of a group of tall, fit, young men trying to head in a corner kick-- but we women even hurt ourselves seriously by walking in our yard, or down some stairs. It's like our bones are made of balsa wood or our ligaments are as weak as tiny newborn kittens. And when we do get injured, life turns completely upside down, usually for at least a year. We would never, ever, fake something like this.

This is why it is especially troubling when professional soccer players fake serious injuries to get free kicks. My friend Frank sent me this short montage called 'Football Idiots'. Try to get past the horrible music:

Now, after watching this I wanted to write something pithy about soccer injuries but I can't say it any better than this quote I found from British author Nick Hornby, author of High Fidelity, About a Boy, and my favourite, his soccer memoir Fever Pitch. He wrote this piece as an open letter to Americans, in response to the idea that they hate soccer because they can't stand the fake injuries:

"...I understand that Americans have come to refer contemptuously to the more theatrical World Cup injuries as the "flop and bawl"-- the implication being, I think, that these players are feigning their distress. First of all, you must understand that the rest of the world is more susceptible to pain than you. Our smoking, our poor diets, and our heightened sensitivities (to both literature and life) mean that even a slight push in the back can send excruciating agony coursing through our bodies. You, however, because of your all-meat diet and your status as a bullying superpower, feel nothing, either emotionally or physically, at any time. So you can sneer at our floppers and bawlers if you want, but what does that say about you?.....And secondly, these players are terrible, awful cheats."

Hee hee. At least we can laugh while we recover.

Ref like a Girl

2011-01-26T13:21:00.000-08:00

Youtube exploded early this week with the audio recording of two English soccer sportscasters, Andy Gray and Richard Keys, whose conversation about a female linesman was inadvertently recorded before a Liverpool vs Wolverampton game on Saturday. Before the game had even started, this is what they said about 25 year old female linesman Sian Massey:

Keys: Somebody better get down there and explain offside to her.

Gray: Can you believe that? A female linesman. Women don’t know the offside rule.

Keys: Didn’t we have (a female linesman) before? Wendy Toms?

Gray: Yeah. She was f*&^%$ ing hopeless as well.

Keys: The game’s gone mad.

Initially each received a one game suspension for their remarks. Interestingly, Sian Massey herself, who made fans angry over a tough offside call during the game but was later vindicated by replay footage, was also asked to suspend her referring duties for a game, due to the controversy created by Gray and Keys.

Why’d they have to go and say that? And why did all the bloggers and commenters supporting the sportscasters have to say stuff like “Yeah, they were right, women should stay in the kitchen where they belong!” They are, by association, helping ruin reputations everywhere for the good guys who support women in sport—the dads who get their hands dirty every Sunday morning putting up nets for their daughter’s teams; for the ones who play goalie in the backyard even though they’re tired and would rather be inside, flaked out, while their daughters take shots at them; even for the ones I play with who pass to me and the other women during pickup games without hesitation. Both Gray and Keys have kids. Can’t they see how young and nervous Massey looks out there in her first big outing as a premier league linesman? Couldn’t they have given her a chance, before assuming without having seen her work, that she is ‘hopeless as well’?

Despite a shoddy apology in which Gray says “I am very sorry that certain comments made by me have caused offence,” he has now been sacked by Sky Sports, because of additional footage of him behaving inappropriately towards a female co-worker last month. Richard Keys resigned today.

Good riddance. Keys says he apologized directly to Sian Massey and they ‘enjoyed some banter’ and ‘left on good terms’. If that’s true, she’s a better woman than I am. If it were me, I would find it hard not to mention the widely reported fact that he has such freakishly hairy hands he has sought laser treatment to remove it. “Really, now Keys,” I would say. “You had to pay for its removal? I am surprised the hair doesn’t just wear off when you drag your knuckles on the ground, walking around.”

But Mrs. Kelly Cates, a former Sky Sports newscaster herself who now works for ESPN said it best. Yesterday on Twitter she posted “Phew. Am exhausted. Just read about something called “the offside rule”. Too much for my tiny brain. Must be damaged from nail polish fumes.”

Sass Squat

2011-01-19T12:30:00.000-08:00

How many squats is each person allotted to do in their lifetime? A bajillion? Whatever the number, I know I must be over the amount from the sheer volume of them that I have to do at physio. Since I’m over my quota, life has obviously decided to exact its revenge on me. That must be the reason it hurts so much the day after I do them...

A day after physio squats, sitting on the toilet is such an adventure, that all I can do is stand in front of it, aim my butt for the seat, and free fall, hoping for the best. I start to wonder why couches aren’t made, you know, taller. When I walk around, I know I look exactly like Wile E Coyote after an anvil has been dropped on his head and he has turned into an accordion, but I have only one fold, and it is in my middle, from oversquatting. If I listen carefully, I think I can hear my muscles make that strained, wheezy, accordion sound.

Hmm...wait- which part of soccer involves the squat, exactly? I’ve been playing for 30 years or so, and I don’t remember soccer involving squats at all. Is this just some elaborate ruse? Perhaps it is preparing me for nothing more than a rousing game of musical chairs. Is my physiotherapist snickering at me behind my back? Let’s see if I can make her do more!

You know what? Even if I find out it is just for musical chairs, I am still going to kick someone’s ass at it. It could be yours. Watch out.

Soccer Stalker

2011-01-13T22:21:00.000-08:00

The first time I went out driving by myself after my knee operation it was a Monday night, and I found myself driving by the soccer field to watch my friends play under the lights. Since I still limped pretty badly at that point, I didn’t go on the field itself-- I felt self conscious and I didn’t want to have to answer a million questions about everything, plus it was dark and uneven in that parking lot-- so I just stayed in the car, watching them play.

Stalking, some people would call it.

Not stalking those stinky boys I used to play with, god, no—stalking soccer itself. It was so beautiful. They ran up and down the field under the lights, passing so smoothly, chesting and heading the ball, running back to defend, laughing and mocking each other for missing perfect opportunities....and all I could think was I used to be able to do this too. Much slower of course, and more ungainly and inelegantly, but still. Soccer is so pure. It really is lovely to watch.

Fine, okay, fine, fine. I might miss those stinky boys a little bit as well. They used to ease off on me just the exact right amount when I defended against them, so that I didn’t feel like a charity case. They didn’t hesitate to pass to me right in front of the net, when they could so often just have scored themselves. One night, when I scored twice, they practically fell over themselves trying to help me get a hat-trick.

But I’m pissed at them too....Monday night soccer has since folded, from low attendance. Couldn’t they have kept it going exactly as it had always been, perhaps pining for me a little, but waiting for my triumphant return? Don’t they realize that I am getting ready to come back and be even more badass than before?

Of course, there is a very real possibility that it hasn’t folded at all. Perhaps it has simply moved to a more secret location because one of them saw me out there in my car, all stalker-like, and now they’re all freaked out.

See, what did I tell you? Badass.

#@$%^ Kristine Lilly

2011-01-07T13:43:00.000-08:00

I read on twitter yesterday that a 39 year old woman named Kristine Lilly was retiring from professional soccer in the U.S. What?! 39?! Turns out she played on the U.S. National Team for 24 years, and since she has played for them since she was 16, she is both the youngest and the oldest player to ever score for them. Dang. Even though I don’t know who she is, I dislike her already.

Before I delved into the wealth of information on Ms. Lilly, the envious, competitive part of me was already consoled by the idea that since she was so busy playing all that soccer, she has probably missed out on a lot of real life stuff that I have done—you know, education, marriage, kids—all that rewarding kind of crap. I figured she probably had a thick, crop-duster moustache, and no boobs. I figured she wasn’t retiring so much as quitting and that she probably had to now get a regular job, probably at Home Depot. Perhaps cleaning the bathrooms.

Wrong.

Kristine Lilly has a bachelors degree in communications, is married to a cute fireman in Boston, and has a lovely two year old daughter. She is a pretty, petite, five foot four blonde with no moustache in sight. She has done commercials for Gatorade and works with a number of charitable organizations and has a soccer camp for young girls in her hometown every summer. When she retires she plans to do more writing. And most importantly she has never had any significant injuries of any kind in her long, illustrious career. (Even the New York Times seemed startled that she has never had ACL injuries, which are practically an epidemic amongst female soccer players.) Grrrr.

It was at this point, when I was trolling her website and silently scowling at photos of her amazing playing that Steve came in and asked what was wrong. I explained all about Kristine Lilly. “Look. She even knows how to French-braid hair.” I complained. “I never learned how to do that.”

“Yes, but does she know how to french kiss?” Steve teased, after seeing her picture.

I glared at him. “Obviously." I retorted. "She has a kid.”

Steve paused for a second and then said “Is that how you get kids?”

Soccer Junk Dot Com

2010-12-30T13:48:00.000-08:00

My friend Lisa went to Tokyo and brought me back soccer chopsticks.

I haven’t yet had occasion to use them, but I will. I do have an issue with them though: they feature a boy kicking a soccer ball with great gusto, and a girl kicking a...star? Aren’t young Japanese girls allowed to kick soccer balls? She looks pretty angry about kicking the star, as evidenced by her downturned mouth. The boy doesn’t have a mouth so I have no way of knowing how he feels about kicking the soccer ball. Perhaps he feels smug, since he got to kick the ball, while his sister had to kick a lousy star.

My sister Meg brought me an iphone protector that has the image of soccer on the back.I use it constantly. I am a clumsy, clumsy person who, according to my friends, should probably wear a helmet all the time, even just walking around—so let’s face it, using this is a good idea for someone like me. I also like the fact that when people see me use it on the skytrain since my knee operation and I’ve got my cane, they might realize that I have a sports injury and would not look upon me with such intense pity. (Although, truth be told, I don’t mind intense pity if it means I get a seat.)

These items I received are just some of the soccer paraphernalia that is out there. Of course, there are lots of useful things--jerseys and cleats and balls and things-- but I am talking about the true soccer junk one can buy online. Some examples:

Christmas stuff is very prevalent in online searches at this time of year. Worldsoccershop.com features some soccer tree ornaments: both blonde and what the site calls “multicultural” boys and girls playing soccer are easy to find.No matter what their nationality though, these soccer figures apparently don’t understand how to play soccer—why does each one have an arm raised, as though they want to ask questions? Perhaps they are keen to ask “Why is my arm up?” For those who don’t like the cute-sy Christmas ornaments, this same page also shows that one can buy a 3 pack of Manchester City tree ornaments featuring the team’s official logo, at its full price of $9.99; however, the Chelsea team ornaments are inexplicably on sale for $5.99. I guess these items are overstocked, and are not being purchased? For shame, Chelsea fans, for shame.

Café press features a set of shark soccer mugs you can buy for a mere $48. Why so expensive? Why sharks with soccer balls? Who knows? But the advertising copy suggests we should all “wake up and smell the advantages of this space saving stackable mug set”. Hmm.

Soccerstuffnmore.com features more in the soccer/beverage area: a “soccer happy mug” for only $7.00, which it assures you would be “an excellent choice for your favourite coach!” The mug has huge feet topped with half a soccer ball....I am not entirely sure which part of it is the ‘happy’ part. I’m not deluded enough that I think that I am anyone’s favourite coach, but I still hope no one ever buys this for me.

This site also features a “Stove Pipe Hat”, claiming “soccer novelties do not get any better than this”. I beg to differ, but at least the price is low: $5.00.

There's more! I also found a “soccer post-it note holder”.
Gone are the days of paying a surly teenager minimum wage to hold your post-it notes—a real plus in this tough economy-- when for a mere $9.95, your post-it notes can be held by this device. (The ad for this item spells soccer with an extra “c”, as in socccer. I think the extra c is for crap.) The website it comes from is entitled soccerjunk.com, which is an apt name, really.

And guess what else? You can even buy soccer condoms. A company named Pasante claims to be “putting the fun back into penetration” with their Halo Soccer condoms. (Wait—had someone taken the fun out of penetration? No one told me.) There are six designs to choose from and you get 144 condoms in a package. 144 condoms? In one package? Oh my.

When you get tired of using up all those condoms, you may wish to relax into some soccer furniture. There are these funky designs, made from recycled soccer balls (on the right) ...or for those with less esoteric tastes, this soccer chair (on the left) claims that is has “milky-soft leather-like fabric” that can be “easily cleaned” and will provide “many years of comfort and joy”. Hmm. Perhaps you could use the soccer condoms and the soccer chair together...

This is all just a sampling, of course. What my research has shown me is that with enough money and time and an internet connection, by this time next year, you could be completely outfitted in soccer clothing and crap from head to foot, including soccer bra, panties, pants, shirt, earrings, bracelets, necklace, contact lenses, stove pipe hat, necktie, socks, and shoes. Dressed thusly, you could relax in your soccer chair with a soccer blanket in front of your Christmas tree, which would be lit with soccer ball lights and decorated with soccer player ornaments of various ethnicities (although dubious playing abilities), eating off of soccer plates and drinking out of soccer/shark mugs. A soccer device could be nearby, holding your post-it notes at the ready. And the soccer condoms….well, how and when you would choose to use those is up to you.

Jesus Kicks

2010-12-22T14:15:00.001-08:00

It's almost Christmas-- who has time to write blogs? I have decided that even though I am not religious, I know some of you are, so I give you this: Jesus doing a bicycle kick. I especially like it that he is wearing shin pads. Who would kick Jesus in the shins?

Impressive, right? Bicycle kicks are hard. Man, that Jesus could do anything.

Merry Christmas.

Tabletop Karate Chop

2010-12-17T09:53:00.000-08:00

The place I go for physio is covered in framed sports team pictures and team jerseys, all with handwritten notes of thanks from players who are now presumably injury free, and back doing their sport of choice. This is a good thing, because it is a reminder that you won’t be doing this kind of tedious rote exercise forever, and the annoying stuff that you’re doing right now isn’t permanently replacing fun kinds of exercise, like, uh, soccer.

The people working there are all impossibly fit and cheerful, and laugh as they see your face when they tell you to do 150 squats, hamstring and butt lifts, or to kneel on your knee mere weeks after someone cut and drilled into it. Unlike us regular folks, none of them have ever been injured; they look like the kind of people who treat their bodies as finely tuned machines, which they re-energize with fuel every two hours by perhaps eating a half a cup of chickpeas or a handful of kumquats, or a spoonful of mashed yeast. Travis, my physiotherapist, does iron man triathlons in 12 hours. How frustrating it must be for him to deal with us mere mortals all day who refuel with beer and bacon sandwiches. But he tries with us, he really tries.

The other day, Travis pulled a rope ladder out of a drawer and showed it to me after I’d been riding the stationary bike for a while. “Are we escaping to somewhere?” I asked hopefully.

Alas, no. He put the rope ladder on the ground and asked me to walk along inside it, stepping in each square with one footstep. While he watched. Frowning. When I finished, he said “Okay, do it again.”

I did. Then he said “Try lifting your injured leg higher, like marching.” Apparently, he explained, I’ve been dragging my injured leg around like a suitcase with wheels, and my hurt leg needed to do some work of its own, by marching. I get the idea behind it. But I feel I don’t speak only for myself when I say that sweaty, limping people who do not look especially great in workout gear aren’t too keen on being watched and frowned at while they march in squares under fluorescent lights.

After the marching, he was still frowning. “Okay, now try sideways,” he said. At this point, when I realized I was both sidestepping and goosestepping through the flat rope ladder, I might have scoffed, because Travis tried to make light of what he’d asked me to do. “Think of it like dancing,” he said. “I learned all my best dance moves by doing exactly what you’re doing right now.”

Stepping 12 steps to one side, and then back again? “Travis, you must be a terrible dancer,” I said.

“What?! No way,” he said. “You haven’t seen my tabletop karate chop.”

“That’s true,” I admitted.

Even with all the frowning, I’m so thankful he taught me to walk again. And in a few months, he’ll teach me to run again, and then soccer is just around the corner. I was thinking of taking him some xmas cookies as a thank you, but then I realized that surely he would never eat anything unhealthy like that. I’m thinking I'll just put the cookies together with my thank you note and frame them and he can hang them in the physio room with all the jerseys.

Not That There's Anything Wrong With That

2010-12-10T14:33:00.000-08:00

Recently I ran across an Onion News video about soccer and I was thrilled, mostly because I am a lazy, lazy blogger and I hoped it meant I could repost it on my blog and wouldn’t have to write anything this week. It was pretty disappointing though. After the promising headline “Soccer Officially Announces It Is Gay”, I ended up only snickering a little at the idea that “deep down, soccer is about a bunch of guys running around, not touching a polka-dot ball with their hands…”, and yawning at the usual easy swipes that can be made at David Beckham.

I got the sense that someone there at the usually humourous Onion just threw the video together quickly and angrily when they found out that the U.S. didn’t get chosen as the host country for World Cup 2022, as they had hoped. Sour grapes. But calling soccer gay? What are they, jealous 9 year old boys? That’s not insulting; it’s pretty normal these days to be gay— I mean, there are gay people everywhere and in every sport.

The video clips they used from soccer were so...regular. The players didn’t look foppish or anything, they were just uh, playing soccer. Besides, don’t they know that there is a wealth of “gayish” (not that there’s anything wrong with that) photos of famous soccer players they could have used? For example:

There's this one:

or this one:

And here's another:

Now, in case you are starting to get worried that perhaps the Onion is right and everything about soccer is gay, I give you this. I don't like to perpetuate stereotypes but must admit that no self-respecting gay man or woman that I know would give themselves this haircut.

But, let's finish with a winner:

Feed Me Peeled Grapes

2010-12-01T14:11:00.000-08:00

Sophie cried the other day when we had all the snow and she found out her soccer game was cancelled again. Literally, tears and everything. “I haven’t played in almost two weeks!” she sobbed.

I sat on her bed, with my bum leg bent as much as it would go (which isn’t much) and fixed her with the devil stare I have perfected in the ten years since I became a parent. How I managed to hold in what I was thinking (something along the lines of ‘Are you joking?! Shut the f-- up! ‘), I have no idea; as it was, I believe I said “Soph, babe—enough. No crying. How do you think I feel?”

Although she stopped crying and hugged me, it was not my proudest parenting moment. She is allowed to have her own suffering and I don’t get to one-up her suffering with mine (which, by the way, is clearly worse.) And I totally get where she was coming from. All I wanted to do was sob along with her, and then possibly knock the stuff clear off her dresser for dramatic effect, and then look up at the sky and scream “Why?” like in the bridge of the Cee Lo song with the unprintable title. Then perhaps, minions would come out of nowhere, with deep, deep sympathy in their eyes, and rub my feet gently, brush my hair, and feed me peeled grapes, all the while murmuring in hushed tones about how much I was suffering since I haven't played soccer in six months.

But nothing happened.

Instead, I hugged Sophie back and limped downstairs and watched Glee. It was not almost as good as playing soccer. Nothing is.

Point/Counterpoint: When Are You Going to Finish Writing Your Damn Guest Blog vs. When I'm Good and Ready

2010-11-24T12:19:00.001-08:00

The Onion news often has articles called Point/Counterpoint which delve into two sides of an issue. I thought it would be fun to write one of these about soccer coaching with someone, so back on Sept 27 I asked my ex-boyfriend Jim to guest blog about it for me, since he has been coaching his sons for many years and I am a newbie coach for my daughter. It didn’t turn out exactly the way I planned, but here are the results.

POINT
When Are You Going to Finish Writing Your Damn Guest Blog

By Cathy Collis, victim of recent ACL Reconstruction knee surgery

So sometimes, people ask other people to do things, and they, like, just don’t do them. I’m not talking about any one particular incident or anything, just putting the idea out there. Like let’s imagine for a second that someone has recently had knee surgery, and they’re battling through doing even the basic necessities of life, like showering and stuff, and then someone else with perfectly good knees and all the time in the world to go for bike rides breezily agrees to guest write something for the first person's blog—can you imagine the relief that provides for the original person, knowing they don’t have to write their own blog for a week? Considering they are on some seriously addictive painkillers and are not supposed to operate heavy machinery? But wait! Then he doesn’t do that thing. Months go by. He uses lame excuses, like work, and his kids having the chicken pox, and coaching soccer.

Clearly the original person should have known better than to ask the kind of person who would make plans to take his girlfriend to Olive Garden, and then later bail on those plans by saying he felt sick—only for the girlfriend to find out later that he was fine and at the pub with his buddies for a guys night thing. Even if that thing was 18 years ago.

Just saying. Hypothetically.

PS. Does anyone want to buy some leftover painkillers?

COUNTERPOINT
When I’m Good and Ready

By Jim Martell, ex-boyfriend

First of all, I am a beautiful, flawed middle-aged man with a host of emotional disabilities and only the most tenuous grasp on my sanity, but I am fairly sure that when my doctor tells me I am not supposed to operate heavy machinery he is not referring to a computer keyboard. In any case, I am easily overwhelmed when I have multiple tasks concurrently on my “to do” list. I become paralyzed, curl into a metaphorical ball and proceed with none of the work, regardless of impending deadlines and negative consequences. The one thing I always show up for is my soccer coaching duties: coaching kids is interactive, physical, and (at this level) uncomplicated. Frustratingly, my younger son’s routine on game days is as follows:

Pre-game: “Do I HAVE to go to soccer todaaaay?”

Half-time: “Is it almost OVER? I’m sooooo tired!”

Post-game: “I’m glad THAT’s over for another week!”

Why is his immediate reaction always avoidance? He’s not the best player on the team, but certainly not the worst. It fills me with dread at times that he would rather “not do” than “do.” I worry that this lack of engagement will spill over into all aspects of his life, that he will never develop a healthy enthusiasm for anything, and that I am failing as a parent by not instilling in him a sense of urgency to get going on something. Anything.

My suspicion is that he is probably feeling just like his dad: overwhelmed. But he doesn’t have a family to feed, a house and yard to maintain, bills to pay, teams to coach...or a guest blog to write. On the other hand, he does have school to attend, homework to do, extracurricular lessons, chores, personal relationships to maintain with his family and friends. Maybe on Saturday mornings, he just wants to be left alone to have a rest. I know how he feels.

I can never get everything done, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be able to get anything done. I feel like everywhere I look, I see someone whom I am letting down: wife, kids, boss, friends...I just cannot seem to spring into action. But at least now I have obliged my ex-girlfriend by spending fifteen minutes on this. That’s got to count for something, even if it probably doesn’t make up for the Olive Garden thing.

Sure wish I had some prescription painkillers.

Lentil Salads be Damned!

2010-11-18T12:33:00.000-08:00

Walking by a newsstand the other day I saw a magazine called Fit over 40, and since I reached that milestone relatively recently, I decided to have a look at it. It’s filled with earnest looking women in their lululemon gear, grinning idiotically as they do various yoga poses or grip tiny stainless steel weights. (So this is my demographic. I hope they don’t miss me.)

I flipped right through to the end of the magazine, so I know there was no page in it with a gasping woman bent over, leaning on her knees in the driving rain, while wearing an ill-fitting yellow pinney, as I would have been at soccer six months ago. I should point out that in this particular memory I was also smiling idiotically, laughing really, but it’s because I had just run down the wing and done a splendid cross to Ron, who headed it into the net, and since it was his first goal since he had started playing with us, he was so excited that he was jumping and whooping it up like a kid.

The Fit over 40 healthy lentil salad recipes also don’t compare to the two pints I sometimes used to knock back after soccer either.

So…the only thing that's comparable between 40 year old me and the 40 year old women in the magazine is the smiling.

But now really, who was having more fun?

Alternate Tweets for Cristiano Ronaldo

2010-11-10T12:18:00.000-08:00

So, I just joined twitter and decided to follow, amongst other famous people, Cristiano Ronaldo. In case you didn’t know, he’s rather attractive, the world’s highest paid soccer player-- he has over a million followers-- and is the most boring tweeter in the world.

I’ve only been on there for a few weeks, but all I’ve seen him post is plain-old boring blah stuff (“going to bed before a big game”), self-promotional fluff (“buy these new cleats I designed” or “check out my new Armani ad”) or scores (“Real Madrid 2, AC Milan 2” ) Yawn. Granted, he is amazing at soccer, but he can’t be amazing at everything-- so now I like to imagine him as some kind of cro-magnon caveman in front of the computer monitor, his pretty face contorted into a buck-toothed guffaw while he picks up his keyboard and his mouse and slowly bangs them together while trying to tweet. (This image I have was solidified when I read about that fact that his son was the result of a one night stand he had with a waitress in New York, whom witnesses say he seduced by walking up to her directly and saying only one delightfully romantic line: “Me, you, f-ck, f-ck”. That’s a direct quote. I’m serious. Look it up.)

In any case, shouldn’t he spice up the tweets? Doesn’t he have some obligation to entertain those millions of followers? He could at least expand them by using the full 140 character limit. He’s got to tweak those tweets. To that end, I’ve written some suggested alterations for him to try out.

Instead of :

“Check out my new cleats...”

I like:

“Buy my new Ronaldo cleats. You won’t play better, but if you do buy them, I’ll be able to buy that 4th Ferrari I’ve really been needing.”

Instead of :

“Heading to bed before the big game”

I like:

“Spent the day counting the $ I’ve made, but couldn’t finish--so I pushed some piles of eruos together to make a pillow and fell asleep.”

And of course, instead of:

“Real Madrid 2, AC Milan 2”

I like:

“I use only four words to say the score, and I use only four words to score with a woman. Impressive, no?”

I’m still working on one for the Armani ad. Here it is. I was thinking something along the lines of:

"Check out my new Armani ad. Maybe you can tell me why I'm doing crunches while standing up."

Thoughts?

Dia-Blog

2010-11-03T10:34:00.000-07:00

This is a 3 minute movie I made from the transcript of an actual conversation I had with my husband Steve about sports. The program strips all the nuances and sarcasm from my delivery so I come across as a stone cold biatch, but I think it's okay because I got to make myself look like Keira Knightley. Also, I got to force Steve to wear a tie which he would never do in real life.

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Beckham on Ellen

2010-10-27T10:13:00.000-07:00

I like Beckham and Ellen even more now....please watch.

You're So Vein

2010-10-21T15:55:00.000-07:00

I am in the patient area of the hospital, waiting for my knee surgery. I am wearing two thin blue bathrobes, one forwards and one backwards, with papery blue shower caps on my feet-- and nothing else. At least 7 other people in here are already dressed this way, and we are reading free metro newspapers while the TV is playing, inexplicably, 100 Huntley Street. I definitely feel a little vulnerable dressed like this, with nothing to hold up my naughty bits--to strap me in, as it were-- but I suppose the gowns aren’t exactly form fitting, and most of us in this room are in the same predicament. I find myself bending my knee a lot while I sit there, because I can. I know soon I won’t be able to. I am a long way from the soccer field now.

After I get settled into my hospital bed, a young anaesthetist comes over to set up my IV. I explain to him that last time I had an operation, they didn’t have the easiest time with this part. We look at my hands and arms and he agrees – I don’t have a lot of visible veins. I can tell he’s a student, since he’s so thorough – he listens to my heart, and my breathing, and then he asks me to open my mouth to see how wide it can open. (Is it just me, or does that last request seem a bit dodgy?)

As he messes around with his needles and tubes and things, he smiles and holds my hand and asks, looking into my eyes, “If you weren’t here, what would you be doing today?”

I am a busy married woman of a certain age. No one ever holds my hand and gazes at me, asking me questions like this. We start chatting a lot about the Sutton Place Hotel, where I used to work – and to someone else, it would probably appear that he and I are having a ‘moment’. He’s holding my hand and rubbing my wrist, and saying how he recently went to the chocoholic buffet there at the hotel. More gentle wrist rubbing. Why does it feel like we should be sitting across from each other at a romantic candlelit restaurant? I’m wishing I had my wedding ring back on.....and then wham – suddenly there’s a big needle in my wrist, and beside the needle, a tube is being inserted. What was all that talk about chocolate? Dang, he was totally playing me. I can hear him now, telling the other students -- dude-- the older women - talk to them about chocolate, you should see the dreamy look they get in their eyes. Then you’re free and clear to jab them. He walks away and makes notes on my chart and walks past without smiling. I guess our little moment is over.

His boss comes over a few minutes later to check on my IV and says it is fine. He also asks me to open my mouth as wide as I can. What’s with these guys? He explains, unprompted, that they need to know how wide I can open my mouth because they’re going to be putting an anaesthesia tube down my throat. Oh. The boss also asks, less suggestively, if I have any loose teeth.

“Uh, no.” Apparently they don’t want to knock any of those out with the anaesthesia tube either. Wait. Just how hard are they jamming the tube down there?

He tells me I look nervous. I want to tell him that it could be because they are going to put me under and then attack me with a tooth-busting tube, but instead I say “I’m about to have knee surgery, you know.” I say it behind my hand, confidentially, and he plays along with “Oh, you don’t say?” and we all have a laugh. It isn’t funny at all, of course. I guess I am nervous.

Eventually as my bed is wheeled into the operating room, a nurse introduces himself as Brett. He comes out and grabs my hand—and I decide I am not falling for anything this time, I am watching this one-- but I don’t see him holding any sharp objects to poke me with. Brett speaks in the exact same accent as the character Chase on House. It makes me glad he is the hand-holding nurse. The room is impossibly bright, way, way too bright – and there are at least 8 people in there.

I ask Brett, “Are all of you going to be working on me?”

“Of course! And there’s a student watching. ” The student waves, but I can’t wave back. My anaesthetist chocoholic buffet guy and his boss are there, and they are now holding my other hand and worrying about my IV input spot.

The next thing I know I am waking up shuddering and shaking like a junkie in the recovery room and my knee really hurts, and my operation is finished. How did that all happen so fast? Apparently the operation took 2 hours, but it felt like less than a minute. Anaesthesia is crazy powerful.

Once I finish my anaesthesia comedown, I start to take stock of things. First thing: oh good, they did the correct leg. Whew! Second thing: my IV spot is no longer where it used to be, but instead, there is the beginning of an enormous Oreo cookie-sized black bruise beginning to form there. I check the other arm – there is dark bruising and a hole on the back of my hand there too – but still, no bandage – and finally in the crook of my other arm, I see it – the remnants of a third IV spot, the one they actually used. They had to move it twice during surgery.

Damn chocoholic buffet guy. Shouldn’t he have been studying instead of skipping class and visiting expensive hotel dessert bars?

That week with the shoe

2010-10-13T08:46:00.002-07:00

Starting Thursday I’ll be on crutches for two weeks. Ever done this? I have and I must tell you, I am not super excited. To put myself in the crutching frame of mind, I googled pictures of people on crutches and found all sorts of crazy stuff:

- I found a picture of a teenage girl on crutches, on her skateboard. She had her bandaged leg on the skateboard, steadied herself with her crutches, and pushed with her good leg.

- I found more than one picture of a stripper, stripping while on crutches.

- I found pictures of Jessica Alba, Baby Spice, and Lady Gaga on crutches.

- And I found tons and tons of pictures of soccer players on crutches. Beckham in particular. Did the guy stay at home at all when he was hurt, or just crutch around for the paparazzi?

Dear god, what am I doing? This is madness. Last time I had ACL surgery on my other knee I was 28. Back then my mom chastised me for recklessly playing soccer and hurting myself by saying “You’re not 18 anymore, you know.” Now I desperately wish I was that young, young, 28 year old again.

Plus I keep remembering this horrible week I had during my last ACL injury that I now think of as that week with the shoe. We were living in Victoria and Steve had just started going to SFU and was gone except for weekends. I worked full time in an office at a hotel with a pretty strict dress code. When I hurt my knee, getting ready for work and even crutching down to the car and driving myself to work was okay, but shoes were a huge issue. My knee hurt too much to bend it. My foot also swelled up to the size of a small football. One week, before he left for the ferry late on a Sunday night, Steve jammed a ballet flat on my foot and I slept with it on that night…..and then I kinda kept it on until he came back on Friday and he took it off.

I know.

I couldn’t take that damn shoe off for five days because I couldn’t reach it. And even if I had managed to pry it off with a crutch, how would I have jammed it back on to my gnarly foot by myself? I was not going to go to work in my office with bare feet. When I showered, I had to sit on a chair in the shower and stick my leg out of the curtain, so it wouldn’t get wet. The toe of the shoe got caught on the blankets all the time when I tried to sleep. At the end of a long day, taking off a suit while unable to bend my leg and wearing a shoe was not the most graceful thing. (No wonder that crutching stripper in the photo looks a little awkward.)

After it had happened and I could laugh about it, I told this story to some friends and co-workers who felt bad I hadn’t asked them for help. They said “Oh my god! I would have come and taken off your shoe for you– why didn’t you call me?” but really, think about this for a minute – you’ve wedged your sweaty swollen bare foot into a leather shoe for several days - would you want your friends to smell-- I mean see you like that? I think not.

It’s not going to be like that this time, right? Everything is going to be fine, right? I may have just the teensiest amount of pre-surgery jitters.

Battle with Transvestites

2010-10-08T12:53:00.001-07:00

Once when I was practicing penalty kicks with Roger and I scored a particularly sweet swisher in the upper left corner, he asked “Cathy, how do you get so much power behind your kick? How can I teach the girls team I’m coaching to kick that hard?” My first reaction, which I did not express to Roger, was “um, have you looked at me?”

I am not exactly a delicate flower.

Of course, I’m not one of those scary soccer women I sometimes used to play against, the ones with full, thick moustaches who hork big mouthfuls of spit on the grass between plays. I wear makeup. Once or twice, I have watched Grey’s Anatomy. I know most of the words to the songs in the Sound of Music. But I also love sports and I have very big, powerful legs.

Now big strong legs are not good for very many things. They are not good for pool parties, days at the beach, looking hot in jeans, wearing shorts of any kind, kicky little summer dresses, trying on bathing suits, or pencil skirts, or being thought of as cute, or dainty or sweet. But they are good for kicking. Big feet – same thing. I have to do battle with transvestites to get any nice shoes in my size and routinely choose footwear that makes my feet look smaller, not because it is comfortable. But big feet can help you control the ball.

My screwed up physique is engineered so that I am supposed to play soccer, the way those tiny, thin little things are meant to be gymnasts or the way that lithe, long necked girls are meant to be ballerinas. That’s not to say that all the women on the soccer field are strong girls like me – we get those skinny types too.

They just can’t kick as hard. Sorry Roger.

Knee Scars

2010-10-01T15:48:00.000-07:00

I’ve had ACL surgery once already, years ago. It was also from a soccer injury. I asked the kids to draw a picture of that knee now so you could see the scar: the big colourful one that makes my knee look like a centipede crawling on a 2 by 4 is Sophie’s and is not an exact rendering of my leg, but pretty close. Hannah’s is smaller and more detailed, and she has insinuated that not only do I have cankles, but also numerous rainbow and flower tattoos on my leg. I don’t. (Well, the cankles, maybe.) I bet she’d probably have drawn a unicorn on there if she had time. I didn’t want to put an actual photo of my leg up there. I don’t know if you can handle seeing it.

The reason my knee looks so gross is that it got infected. After the surgery, the doctor ignored my calls asking for more painkillers. For ten days. (It had to be re-operated on. This is why the scar is worse than other ACL scars.) He admitted later he should have listened to me, but said that doctors have to account for the ‘wimp factor’ and he thought I was just being cranky. He also offered to pay for plastic surgery to make it look nicer, but said that he didn’t think I seemed like I “was the type of girl who cared about stuff like that.” It took me a long time to realize how insulting a comment like that was.

It’s less than two weeks now til I get my other knee done. I wonder what the scar will look like? They’ve changed the operation in the last 13 years so it will probably be different. Maybe I’ll do something like what my mother in law did after her hip replacement – she got a tattoo nearby the scar. She was 68 at the time, I believe, and she said “I’m tired of people asking about my scar at the pool. Now they say ‘What’s that?!’” Her tattoo is of cherry blossoms. I think it’s so cool she had it done at that age. The only thing is that she says it hurt more than childbirth, and I am getting really bloody tired of having pain anywhere around my knees.

If I get one, mine will not be flowers or rainbows or unicorns. I kind of like what Becks has done. Look closely...

Blind Soccer

2010-09-22T11:33:00.000-07:00

As soon as I start to feel wistful and wimpy and sorry for myself for not getting to play soccer, my sister sends me this link about blind soccer players. There’s a World Blind Football Championship played every few years (this year Brazil was the winner). It’s really inspiring to watch and makes me feel exceptionally guilty for complaining about my temporary injury.

If you’re like me, and wondering ‘how on earth would blind soccer work?', I’ll give you the short version. The players use a ball that has bearings in it so they can hear it coming. There’s no throw-ins, and they play on smaller fields. The goalies can see. (In the clip I watched, the goalies seem perhaps even more psycho angry when they got scored on than some of the FIFA World Cup goalies – I guess you feel like a pretty serious knob when you can see, and you’re using a smaller net than usual, and a blind player can still score on you. I even saw one goalie score an own goal. Hee hee.)

It’s all very carefully edited on youtube, of course, so we don’t see what must be part of it-- the moments when everyone is standing around and no one has the ball. (The sighted goalie has to stay in his goalie box, otherwise, I’d imagine he’d be tempted to run up and swipe it from people all the time.) I was at first a bit disappointed that I saw only individual scoring efforts—you know, someone dribbling up with the ball, and dekeing around the defenders by himself to score, rather than give and go passes—but then I had to remind myself dude, they’re blind. It’s easy to forget because they’re very good.

If I was in charge of blind soccer, there’s only a few things I would change. First of all, why must they wear those masks that look like they’ve been cut out of sanitary pads? I understand the idea of wearing a mask, naturally, because some blind people have slightly more sight than others and this could provide an obvious advantage, but can’t they make the masks cool and black, like something Batman might wear? It would be much sexier. Also, the trophy they win in the end – does it have to look like a clear glass vase someone picked up at the dollar store? I know they’re blind, but they just won the blind World Cup. Let’s give them an actual trophy. And lastly, let’s not spray them with champagne in the end, when they do win. The poor fellows just stand there kind of sadly, getting wet, because they can’t see enough to know how to escape the spray, and they’re not frolicking in the joy of it, they’re just putting up with it.

Otherwise, it’s all good. You should watch it.

I'm Gonna Be Sedated

2010-09-15T12:43:00.000-07:00

It has been 100 days since I last played soccer. (I counted.) During this dull, dull, period in my life, some minor things have changed for the better - my toenails, for example. They look amazing. The other day I had to cut them. They didn’t just turn black and fall off. Is this how normal people deal with their feet? I never knew.

But 100 days, come on, that’s, like, forever. Have I earned the right to rant and complain? Maybe. Do I miss playing? Absolutely. I have taken the liberty of making a list of things I miss about playing soccer:

I miss sunny, cool Wednesday mornings and being outside, laughing with my friends.

I miss listening to Rudie Can’t Fail by the Clash. (This was the song I always listened to before I played because I superstitiously thought it was keeping me from getting injured. Now every time I hear it, I have to turn it off. I even miss the naïve feeling that a song could somehow protect me….)

I even miss having handfuls of little black rubber things in my cleats after I take them off when I’ve played on the turf. (But I must admit, my vacuum cleaner works a lot better now that it isn’t clogged with that stuff all the time.)

I miss running up and down a field in unison with a whole field of players while we follow the play. Wait - Did I just say I miss running? Well, that kind of running, yes.

I miss feeling guilty about not taking a turn in goal because I suck at it.

I do not miss that numbnuts who plays left wing. I ran into him in Starbucks the other day and he talked my ear off about the World Cup, and he is still annoying.

I miss sitting in the pub after soccer and drinking Sleeman’s Honey Brown on Monday nights.

I miss that feeling of FREEEEEEE when I left the house on a Monday or Thursday night, with someone else watching the kids, where I could crank up the music in the car, and run around with a ball like a kid and escape being a tired old mom for a while.

I miss how we’d be on the field, running, and one of the guys would belch loudly after drinking too much water, and then yell loudly, ‘Cathy!” as if I’d done it.

I miss taking corner kicks. I saw so many lousy corner kicks in the World Cup. What were they doing?! Maybe if my surgery goes well, in four years, at the next one, I’ll be able to help them out....

I do not miss putting on my neoprene brace when it was still sweaty from playing soccer the day before. It was like having to wear a wet bathing suit. Ick.

I miss showing up a little early on Wednesday mornings and practicing penalty kicks on the turf. My god, I was good at that. Sometimes, now, I feel I can do some things somewhat successfully. I could cook something and it might taste not bad, or I could teach something in my class and my students might really get it, or I could write something okayish and people might like it– but that – kicking penalty kicks – I know I was good at that. I miss knowing I was really, really good at something.

My surgery is scheduled for October 14. Soon, right? Not soon enough.

Soccer Mom II

2010-09-08T21:40:00.000-07:00

Stereotypes suck. People don't like to be placed into oversimplified categories of others who are supposedly just like themselves. I like to imagine, for instance, that there are cops who don’t care for donuts, or Mexican folks who do not wear sombreros. As a soccer player and a mom, I am particularly troubled by the stereotype of the Soccer Mom.

Now I know some political pundits feel we probably need a patronizing term describing white, middle class suburban moms whose main duty in life is to drive their kids to after school activities in a minivan, but can’t they be called something else? Minivan Moms? At least that has alliteration.

In my last blog I posted the Family Guy clip in which a soccer mom is mistaken for a man, perhaps due to her deep gravelly voice, hairs sprouting from her chin, or the way she knocks Peter’s beer out of his hand. If you look hard enough, there are definitely some other dodgy profiles of soccer moms you will find in pop culture. Some examples:

• there is a Soccer Mom movie starring Emily Osment (the lesser known sister of Haley Joel Osment of Sixth Sense fame). I can’t necessarily give this movie a definite thumbs down because I refused to rent it after reading in its review that it was “warm-hearted”, and its story was a “wacky charade”. Sounds terrifying. I think we can all agree that things that are described as ‘wacky’ should be avoided whenever possible.

• I found a book of soccer mom poetry (!) called “Suburban Antacid: Poetry for Soccer Moms”. The blurb called it ‘the perfect cure for….those with spouses who don’t replenish the toilet paper'. Barf. It had a wacky (see above) cartoon of a driving mom on the front. I believe used copies were available to buy on Amazon for 1 cent each. Shocking.

• There is a minor character in a Tom and Jerry’s cartoon whose name is Soccer Mom. She describes her ‘likes’ in life as casseroles, gardening and Thomas Kinkade paintings. She then drives into quicksand and is unable to make any decisions about how to save herself without her car’s Onstar system. Unfortunately if I were to be drawn as a cartoon, I would look exactly like her. Here she is (see the resemblance?) , and in case you are lucky enough not to know about Thomas Kinkade, here is one of his paintings:

So I move that we get rid of the negative stereotype of the soccer mom. Can we still call it soccer mom, but have some actual soccer associated with the term? I’ll go first:

I'm a soccer mom! My 'likes' in life are:
- kicking things (if it can’t be a soccer ball, I also don’t mind kicking either casseroles or Thomas Kinkade paintings)
- ranting when things don’t go my way
- sleeping.

You?

Soccer Mom

2010-09-01T12:43:00.000-07:00

I wanted to write something about the term Soccer Mom but I got totally distracted by this clip...

The Boys V

2010-08-27T12:23:00.000-07:00

One night at the pub after soccer, instead of the usual sports, all the TVs in the room simultaneously start showing Factory Girl, the movie with Sienna Miller about Andy Warhol. It’s pretty artsy and there’s lots of nudity, and it also inexplicably stars Jimmy Fallon. (Thankfully he is clothed.) There’s a scene where they’re in The Factory, and suddenly there are topless women on every screen, everywhere in the pub.

“Oh,” says one fellow. “Boobs.”

“And Jimmy Fallon,” I point out.

“Jimmy Fallon?” One guy says with mock excitement, dramatically turning around to catch a glimpse of a TV. We laugh.

They start to debate the quality of the boobs on the other side of the table. “Hey,” says Chris, after a minute. “There are ladies present.”

We all look around to find the ladies. Even I look around.

“And Cathy,” says Steve.

Soccer Nerd

2010-08-20T10:51:00.000-07:00

The Facebook ads have us all figured out, don’t they? Before my 40th birthday, I was getting suggestions for yummy mummy product samples for women 35-39. Now the ads say “Over 40?” and promise to make me look like Jennifer Aniston. Today my Facebook ads are suggesting microbrewed beer (good), cupcakes (what a tremendous idea!) a personal trainer (mildly insulting) and a manicure (is there a camera in my computer or something? How do they know I need a manicure, and that I have needed one since about 1984? Do I now need to type with my knuckles to hide my shame?) Like you, I never click on these ads. But then there was the one that said “Think you know soccer?” Well, that one had me. Yes, I do, Facebook. And since there was a chance to win some money, I clicked on it. Big mistake.

It was a short quiz and I failed it miserably. Turns out I don’t know how many metres are between the goalposts and the penalty kick spot (although I could whomp a decent penalty kick, with either my left or right foot, before I got hurt). I have no clue who the USA’s coach was during the 2006 FIFA World Cup. I knew that Zinedine Zidane was the French player who head butted someone and got sent off in that same World Cup, and that that was the end of his career, but that was such big news I bet my mom knows that. (Full disclosure: after writing this, I actually called my mom to ask her if she knew that, and she did not. She knew there was an incident where someone head-butted someone else in soccer, but she couldn’t remember who it was. When I told her his name, she howled. “What a name!” But bear in mind my mom is 69, not a sports fan, and never watches ‘the TeeVee’, unless it is Antiques Roadshow.)

Worse still is that I had to enter my cell phone number to take part in the quiz, and then the company started constantly texting me with new quizzes to take-- quizzes about who was on Letterman last week and all sorts of things that have nothing to do with soccer-- and using up all my pay-as-you-go minutes. Jerks. Just what I needed: a constant reminder that I don’t know what I’m talking about, and a bigger cell-phone bill.

But now that I am hurt and can’t actually play, and because I may have this slightly competitive nature, I got to thinking about this soccer quiz and wondered if I could perhaps do better than I had done before. I did watch a lot of the World Cup. So, I googled ‘soccer quiz’ and I found about a million hits. One website I checked, www.soccernerd.com, features only soccer quizzes and challenges you to ‘find out if you are a bigger soccer nerd than your friends.’ (No need to take the quiz to discern that. Of course I am.)

I took one quiz and instantly regretted it. When you score incorrectly, it says “Wrong” in big bold letters at the top of the page, and since that happened a lot, it wasn’t great for my fragile ego. Granted, I did get some answers right (sample correctly answered question: Where will the 2010 World Cup be held? Maybe you should update some of the questions, there, soccernerd.) And I felt somewhat superior when I saw the poor grammar used in some of the questions (Which English team plays there games at Anfield stadium?) I decided to rally and play a few more rounds but I did not really improve, and then was told I couldn’t keep playing and move up to the next level unless I got a higher score. How much higher? I checked and today’s top scorer has amassed over 282,000 points. Granted, he played for longer than I did (I am going to go ahead and assume he was a he), but you know how many points I had? Four. And at least two of those points were from flukey, multiple choice answers.

So I can’t play soccer and I can’t win a soccer quiz. Obviously I am a different kind of soccer nerd. I know it is morning, but I think I’ve earned the right to eat a cupcake and wash it down with a microbeer, just as long as I hide my hideous fingernails and use my knuckles to open the bottle. The personal trainer will have to wait. I’m injured, you know.

The Dog Days of Summer

2010-08-13T14:49:00.000-07:00

My friend Geeta told me her dog has had knee problems and had both of her ACLs repaired. Her dog! Did you even know dogs had knees? It makes me think of that Seinfeld episode when Kramer stopped trusting doctors and got dog medicine instead...

So I decided to do a little research into this for myself. I know I’ll be waiting at least 4 more months for human knee surgery, and really, shouldn’t I explore all my options? Do dogs have to wait for surgery like we do? Since they often don’t have health insurance, how much does it cost? And most importantly, would I have to have my butt shaved, like Geeta’s dog did, if I had the vet do the surgery?

What I discovered is that there are two different dog ACL surgeries….one is called TPLO and it is a lot like the human version in some ways in that it involves using screws and drilling into the bone. The cost: only $2600. The other one replaces the torn ligament with fishing wire, and it is considered less invasive. One vet interviewed says he has been doing 3 or 4 of these surgeries a week for decades. The cost of this one: $500! There does not appear to be any significant wait time for either surgery. Dang! Dogs have it good.

There appear to be some compromises one must make in choosing the veterinary option, however. One’s butt, indeed, must be shaved for the surgery to take place. It appears to be quite embarrassing for the dog in the photos I’ve seen, but then again, my butt isn’t quite as hairy, or openly on display as a dogs’ is, and could probably be covered up by clothing. I might have to also endure a neck cone, although perhaps this would be negotiable as I can be fairly certain I wouldn’t be tempted to bite my stitches. Another letdown: my walking would be restricted to leash walking only for 4 – 6 weeks. Although dog collars and leashes on people aren’t really my thing, if it meant getting back to playing soccer sooner, I might be able to endure it. Stairs are usually a problem for dogs as well, during their recovery period. Vets recommend that you roll up a towel into a long rope, loop it around the dog’s stomach, and then lift their butt in the air while they use their ‘hands’ to go up stairs. This one might be the trickiest of all, especially when I’m at the Skytrain station on my way to work downtown. I’m not sure I could find anyone to help me, but then again, I haven’t checked Craigslist.

Of course, some naturopathic vets suggest surgery could be avoided by changing your diet and using more natural therapies to assist with repair and blood flow to the injured knee. Licorice, rhubarb, and pineapple are said to be helpful. I think they were talking about the herbal version of licorice, but I doubt I’d like that so I’m thinking of riding my bike down to 7-11 to get some twizzlers as soon as I finish writing this. I could whip them into a smoothie with the other stuff, throw in some doggie kibble, and maybe avoid the whole thing altogether. What do you think?

Cluster Cuss

2010-08-02T17:30:00.000-07:00

No, this is not an eye test. We really tried to make this image large enough...sorry. Put on your glasses, or else click on this a few times to make the image larger.

Open Letter to Soccer Douchebags - Guest Post by Man of Mystery

2010-07-27T21:33:00.000-07:00

When I am standing on a soccer field watching my children play, the last thing I ever want to hear is your grating voice.

I understand that you taught Pele and you were Ronaldinho’s personal mentor. I comprehend that your skills were at some point in time, “phenomenal” (and without a doubt still are), without you having to explain it to anyone and everyone within earshot. I do not doubt that your 5 foot 5 stature weighing in at 300lbs does indeed do little to mask the professional soccer prowess that is but barely contained within your 6-twinkie-at-a-time eating frame.

What I would like you to understand with all due respect and politeness is that I don’t give a crap. I am only there because my children are there. I’m not standing there because I like to stand in open fields during a downpour of rain. I’m not standing there because I like to suffer heatstroke and sunburn in bright sunshine all day long. And the last time I checked, I’m not there to be regaled ad nauseum by tales of your derring-do on the soccer field both real or imagined, past, present or future.

I am there because it is my duty as a father to be there for my children and take part in their activities. As well I take joy in their accomplishments and their joy makes me that much more joyous. Alas not everything on the field can be joyous all the time and again that’s where I come in to commiserate with their pitfalls and sorrows. You see this is something that I both HAVE to and WANT to do. Interacting with you on the other hand, there, Al Bundy… not so much.

I would take it as a personal favor to me and mine if you would stop your retarded comments about the skills or lack thereof, of any and all 8 year old players on the field, whether they be on your own child’s team or the opposing team.

It’s a game, they’re children, they’re here to learn and they’re here to play. It’s hard to do that with you screaming from the sidelines with your armchair coaching. If you would but stop and take a quick look around you’d probably recognize two people, one on either side- they’d be the respective team’s coaches. It’s not the World Cup. Do you see grown men running around faking injuries and dropping from imaginary invisible pianos falling on their heads? Relax yourself already. When it comes to children playing organized sports, really, if you’re THAT keen on winning, you should just go and buy a penis enlargement pump, then seek more private climes. Whatever it is, DO SOMETHING OTHER THAN MAKE ME HEAR YOUR VOICE INCESSANT OR SO HELP ME AT SOME POINT I’LL CHOKE YOU OUT WITH ONE OF YOUR OWN…I mean.. think of the children, yeah.

MRI

2010-07-22T20:08:00.000-07:00

“Hello, I’d like to book an MRI.”

“Okay, when would you like it?”

“How about next Wednesday at 5pm?”

“Okay. What’s your name?”

That’s it? When I call my regular doctor, I don’t get to just choose a day and time. I often have to wait days and days. I also notice that I don’t feel rushed on the phone booking this either, the way I do with the endlessly overworked medical assistants at my doctor’s office-- I always feel guilty bothering them because they are so busy. Here, after the receptionist gets my name, she uses my name. Over and over. Even for someone like me, who teaches customer service techniques in my hotel management classes, it was a bit much.

“My name is Cathy Collis.”

“Okay, Cathy, and have you ever had an MRI before?”

“No.”

“And Cathy what part of your body do you need to have scanned?”

“My right knee.”

“Have you ever had knee surgery before, Cathy?” And on and on and on. You get the picture. I had to answer a lot of medical questions. She must have used my name 25 times in the phone call.

Today was the day. I drove up and parked the car in the parking lot at Granville and 16th, and choked a bit at the $9.00 parking fee I’d have to pay for an hour and a half of parking. But then I realized that I’m paying $900 for the MRI, so their thinking must be that patients won’t complain: that’s just 1% of that cost of the procedure. I make my way into the building and once again the difference between a private clinic like this and my regular doctor’s office is startling.

Here, the carpet in the entryway is plush. The doors to the clinic are made of really heavy glass, with rounded stainless steel handles. I feel as though I’m walking into a spa. And indeed, that is exactly what it looks like. The walls are painted with a pattern of stripes of various widths in shades of pale blue, cream, taupe, and chocolate brown. The floor is a dark brown bamboo, and is completely free of scratches. There are real oil paintings on the wall. The baseboards are deep and white and not one of them has a scuff or mark of any kind. The ceiling light came from Restoration Hardware, I’m almost sure of it. The chairs are chocolate brown ultrasuede and very, very clean. The magazines on the coffee table are all lined up in rows.

I ask to use the bathroom, which is down the hall. This is easily the nicest medical bathroom I have ever visited – everything is clean and newly tiled, and the paper towel dispenser allows me as many paper towels as I want. Plus, the mirror and lighting make me look tanned and thinner than usual. Perhaps I will move in here.

I’m early, so I decide to look at CMI’s brochure. All the actors on it look quite old. Do I look that old? They also look considerably more well off than I do in my t-shirt, yoga pants and flip flops. The woman’s haircut and colour is expensive and the guy even has a sweater draped over his shoulders with the arms knotted at the neck. They are standing on a dock, at the seaside, presumably having just stumbled off of their private yacht, on their way to get an MRI for fun. They don’t look as if they need it.

Not only is she not overworked, the receptionist begins to make small talk with me about the weather. Then promptly at 5:03, I get called in by the MRI technician. She leads me to a little changing room with a door that locks, which also features flattering lighting and a mirror, with a leather covered bench and hooks for my purse and clothes. I change into my paper gown (Some things never change; everything up to that point had seemed so lush I half expected to be handed a silky lingerie bathrobe instead.) She locks up my things in the little change room. Then we go over to this area that has a door that appears to be an enormous bank vault. I think for a moment that this must be where they keep all the money they charge for these MRIs, but no -- inside is the MRI machine.

It looks like a huge, round, suntanning bed. I climb in as instructed by my technican, who is also named Cathy, and she asks me what radio station I would like to listen to during my procedure, and hands me headphones and a thing that looks like a turkey baster on a cord, and says if I need anything during the MRI I can squeeze the bulbous part to ring for her. And we’re off!

She leaves the room of course, and goes into her little glass cage area. Gently, I slide into the machine just like the patients do on House, although mercifully it is just my legs and not my whole body in there. She starts talking to me on the headphones. “Everything okay, Cathy?”

Yes, of course, I think to myself. I am lying down in a dimly lit, air conditioned room. How stressed out can I get? “Yup.”

“Okay, Cathy,” Again, with the names! “Are you warm enough?”

“Yes.”

“Is the music loud enough, Cathy?”

“Yes.” Although I can’t hear it much because you keep interrupting it.

“Okay, we’re going to get started.” She says. And then, a second later, because she forgot to say it before, she comes back on the headphones again and just says “Cathy.” Is it some kind of rule here? The name thing is really over the top, especially since she has the same name as me, which always makes saying it even more awkward.

Suddenly the noise is really loud. Loud like an alarm telling you to get out of a building. It is startling and I start to panic and breathe a little faster and then I remember that I’m not supposed to move at all. What about breathing? Of course, I am sure it is fine if I breathe, they can’t expect me not to breathe for 25 minutes, for god’s sakes, but it is just so expensive, and I don’t want to come out at the end of this thing and have them tell me “It didn’t work because you breathed. That will be an extra $900 please.”

The noise goes off after a few minutes and she checks on me again. “Everything okay, Cathy?”

“Yes.” Although I realize it is just now that I can hear the music again. They can’t possibly have expected me to hear the radio over the sound of that machine.

This same routine goes on for 25 minutes. Sometimes the machine sounds more like the beginning of a punk metal song and other times it sounds like a horrible alarm. And just lying there, you can’t help but start to think of a few things, for example, why is this machine so huge? It is just taking an image of my leg. Shouldn’t something this big and loud also be able to fix my leg? When I think of all the technology in my iphone, and how small it is, it makes me wonder what kind of technology is in this enormous thing? The letters on the front of the machine, right above my face, spell out the unfortunate brand name of “SEIMEN” and each of the letters is as big as my iphone.

The front sides of the MRI machine also have some kind of buttons that light up. I can’t turn and look at them though, since I’m terrified of moving. The lights seem a bit much. Couldn’t they have gone with a machine without lighted buttons and knocked 50 bucks off the price? Since I can’t see them, I have to imagine what the buttons say. Perhaps “Cancer”. And “More cancer.” Maybe there’s a button that says “your knee will be fine if you push this.” If only I had peripheral vision like a horse. I’d push that button in a heartbeat.

And this is the crux of the whole thing, really. I feel guilty as hell paying for an MRI instead of waiting for my turn with the free medical system. I know that at my regular doctor’s office not only does no one use my name, but the floor has 30 year old linoleum and ugly wooden benches with orange knit upholstery that wouldn’t look out of place in a 1978 campervan. The baseboards there are rubber and the lighting is hideous and fluorescent and dreadfully unflattering. There are no tasteful oil paintings but freebee posters explaining your anatomy. But I believe in it. I want to be like everyone else and be able to walk in there without paying. But I will do anything to fix my knee so I can play again. I am old and cannot wait years to play soccer. It is my thing. You must have a thing too, right? So please don’t judge me.

An Announcement to Make: England Wins!

2010-07-16T13:15:00.000-07:00

There is a gaping hole in my life where the World Cup used to be. But I also really miss the World Cup announcers. The English fellows who did the play-by-play had such an elegant way of talking, that I began to write down some of the things they said. Here is a montage (who doesn’t love a montage?) of some of their better comments, taken from a variety of games. For the full effect, imagine this being read aloud by an upper class English gentleman, something like Hugh Grant before the prostitute thing. Okay, scratch that – how about a male version of Emma Thompson? Got your accent ready? Read on:

“Here’s Boateng with a silky touch....this is a game with really sumptuous qualities. Their football is fascinating, breathtaking, enthralling at times.....There’s no rhythm to the England game at the moment....given away cheaply by Rooney....this is a rather ponderous buildup that isn’t going to bring England any reward. It’s all pretty untidy and shapeless.....well there’s Gerard showing a little bit of industry as he makes strides toward the Algeria goal.....he’ll not be dispossessed. This was meant to be a sumptuous feast, but we’re still munching on the bread rolls. Well there’s an encouraging ball....now it’s coming to a bit of a boil....it looks like there’s a little bit of an argy-bargy down there on the touchline. There’s the predictable quintet in the 18 yard box.“

Isn’t it lovely? One of them even used the word obdurate. Can’t all announcers talk like this? I want them to narrate my life as I wander around watering the garden. “Here she goes....well those geraniums are looking a little worse for wear....she seems a bit troubled by her right knee as she steps over the hose.....I believe she’s spraying a squirrel there.....well she’s certainly thwarted his ambitions....”

I wanted to compare the World Cup announcers to another sportscaster so I decided on Don Cherry. (It’s much harder to find a comparable soccer sportscaster in this country, so he seemed like the best option.) This is taken from a Coach’s Corner this spring, and isn’t a montage but a direct quote. Now, I know you know Don Cherry’s voice already. Perhaps it already haunts you at night while you try to sleep. I found it fun to put on a bit of a rednecky accent instead. Read this while pretending you have buck teeth, a bit like Cletis from the Simpsons cartoons.

“Now watch this one. It’s exactly the same thing. What a guy! Look at dis. What a hockey player. Look at him. He does that. Remember you guys in Vancouver, it’s the same thing – little (incomprehensible mumble) look at that. Zinger in. What a hockey player!”

England may not have won the World Cup, and Canada may not have even made it to the Cup at all, but I think we know who won this contest.

Paul the Octopus and his World Cup Predictions

2010-07-09T10:17:00.000-07:00

Have you heard about Paul, the Octopus living in a German aquarium who has successfully predicted the outcome of 100% of this year’s World Cup games? Neither had I, until I read about it on Facebook. Yup, this soccer loving cephalopod chooses his food from different feeding boxes marked with flags from World Cup teams and so far, has amazing odds at choosing who will win in certain matches. In this Sunday’s final, he has predicted Spain will win. Yippee!

Why on earth would something like this start? Obviously, the octopus feeders at the aquarium have something to do with it, but after reading up on octopuses (yup, it is actually octopuses, not octopi, you can go ahead and look it up), I realize there are a lot of connections to make between an octopus and this year’s World Cup. For example:

Because he chose Spain as the ultimate winner, as I have done in my World Cup Pool, I can see why Wikipedia says octopuses are highly intelligent. And I learned that Paul, like all octopuses, moves by jet propulsion – much like Carlos Puyol did when he scored that delicious header against Germany on Wednesday – there’s just no other explanation of how he flew through the air like that. (Of course, an octopus also has a ‘hard beak’ which is another thing which allows an easy comparison with Carlos Puyol, but perhaps I should leave that one alone for now.) Also, octopuses have keen eyesight like the Spanish goalie, Iker Casillas, who has made some amazing saves. I could go on and on.

There’s always a chance I may be slightly biased in finding Paul the Octopus to be so gifted, since I do want Spain to win. I must admit that if Paul had predicted the Netherlands as the ultimate winners this Sunday, I would have written a comparison, backed up with facts, that both an octopus and the Netherlands soccer team are known to be spineless, tend to flee quickly and have a short life expectancy.

Kidding aside, do you think perhaps the biggest joke is on us? An octopus has arms bearing two rows of suckers, and you have to admit that Paul the Octopus has sucked in a lot of soccer fans with his predictions. Including me. ¡ Vaya Espaňa!

Torn Meniscus

2010-06-30T12:31:00.000-07:00

Torn meniscus are my two newest hated words. To torture myself I decided to make a list of other words that can be made up of the letters in these two words. They include, but are not limited to: cuss, mess, smite, scorn, crime, not nice, and sucs. (Okay, not really a word, but close, and the sentiment is there.) Coincidence? I think not. `

I hate being injured! It is a beautiful Wednesday morning, not too hot - and my kids are busy going swimming with some friends, and I bet there is a huge turnout of people at the soccer field this morning, and I am inside, fretting and typing.

You know how you break up with someone and every song on the radio is a perfect reminder of how much you are suffering? That is how it feels to be in my house and not be allowed to play soccer. Please, look past the dirt and watch my pain-soaked photo essay of how soccer is everywhere.

It started off innocently enough, since I was reading the paper on my couch, and I look over at my coffee table and see this, the bookmark my kids gave me as a gift. It has a tiny little soccer ball dangling from it...

Grr...at the other end of the coffee table is the infamous 'finger soccer' set, now missing one of the soccer balls. I think the cat may have eaten it.

To get away from all this soccer taunting me, I hobble up the stairs to my room, and guess what is on my bedside table? A stack of soccer books!

Fine, down to the family room it is. But curses, no World Cup games for a few more days. And what's this? Perhaps the soft Ikea soccer ball the kids and I used to punt around! (It is looking a little worse for wear. I think I might have spilled some beer on it when I saw David Villa score for Spain yesterday.)

In the kitchen I stumble across this soccer keychain on top of my microwave. It came with a bottle of South African wine I bought a month ago, before I got injured. The wine is, of course, long gone. But the theme is really emerging now. Soccer is everywhere. And what colour is my kitchen? Black and white, of course.

All I need to do is look down. This is my kitchen floor. (I probably should have washed my floor before I took this - don't look too closely.) Have you ever seen a floor that looked more like a soccer ball? Dang....

And now we are just in a complete, sneaky, black and white soccer hate spiral. Look at this bag, that I need to take back to Tina (my soccer friend)-

Soccerish, right? And also these balloons, leftover from Soph's birthday party? They're just sitting on the ground, asking to be kicked. And they're black and white.

No soccer for three weeks means my brain has begun to rot. (Not so fun fact: rot is another word that can be made from the letters in Torn Meniscus.) It's right there in black and white. This sucs!

The Boys IV

2010-06-25T10:30:00.000-07:00

Once at the bar after a soccer game, a young woman tried to pick me up in the washroom at the pub. Having no experience with this, it is the only logical conclusion I can draw from our exchange. I’ve had a few drinks with the guys, and I’ve just left the stall and am washing my hands when she comes in. “So what are you doing here?” she asks. I assume of course, that she isn’t inquiring as to why I am in the washroom, but that she means in this pub in general, in our tiny little town, on a Monday night, when there is almost no one else around.

“Uh, I just played soccer.” I say.

“Yeah?” she says, as though this is the most interesting thing in the world. She is from Calgary, she tells me, and was just out here for a friend’s wedding, and she just decided to stay an extra day and she has to go back tomorrow. I start to recognize the Calgary part – is that a western style shirt she’s wearing? – when she puts her hand on my upper arm, standing behind me, while we look at each other in the mirror. “You’re cute.” She says. “And you’ve got those freckles...” she says. I hesitate, wondering for a second if I should explain to her that they are probably age spots.

Do I look like I play for that team? I fumbled some excuse and went back out to the pub and sat with my friends. I want to look like I play for this team. Soccer. The boys. Nothing sexual, just because I am good enough. There is no way in hell that I am about to tell the boys what happened in the washroom because the teasing would never, ever end and they would probably try send her over some sexual sounding shooter, pretending it’s from me. One of those ones with whipped cream.

I tell Steve when I get home though. He sometimes wakes up and when he asked how was it? I said “I think a girl hit on me in the pub” and he is suddenly a lot more awake, even though it is 1am. “What did she look like?” he asks. Of course. Men. Geez, I don’t know, she looked like someone who made me really uncomfortable by hitting on me because

a) I’m not gay, and
b) I’ve been married for fifteen years and I don’t tend to get hit on too often.

She was tall, taller than me. She was thin. She wore that westernish shirt. She had a pixie kind of haircut, but not as cute as Tegan and Sara’s. “She looked like someone who was lonely and desperately trying to score on her friend’s wedding weekend and there weren’t a lot of women around to choose from.” When he finds out this is all that happened, it becomes less interesting to Steve. He falls back asleep, snoring.

The next week at the pub, the boys and I are talking about how quiet it is, just like last week, and now I tell them what happened to me with the girl the week before.

“Why didn’t you tell us then?” they say, all outraged. A teasing opportunity, missed.

“Because I know what you guys would have said.”

“What?!” they say, with mock innocence.

“What did she look like?” I say.

They laugh. It’s the kind of laugh that means that’s exactly what they would have said. I may not always be the best soccer player, but at least I might have played that right. Yee haw.

Physio and the Vuvuzela Theory

2010-06-19T10:41:00.000-07:00

I think we can all agree that the 2010 World Cup vuvuzelas are tortuous and mind numbing. (Thank you, Urban Dictionary, for the perfect definition.) You don’t even have to be a soccer fan to notice these – maybe you are just walking by a cafe showing a World Cup game, or scrolling through the TV channels trying to find something to watch, and you’ll start to think “am I being followed by a swarm of bees?” or, as some commentators have put it, “is a goat being lead to slaughter nearby?” or "is there an elephant somewhere passing wind?" Watch enough of the soccer, and you sorta get used to them. But you know what else is tortuous and mind numbing, and that I won’t get used to? Physio.

Physiotherapists are unbelievably smart and they know all sorts of stuff about your joints and your body that you never knew. They went to school for a long time and charge high fees for a reason. But I have had physio for my knees twice now – once in the last millennium when I had surgery on my torn ACL and once this week for this – whatever this is. And both times the physio is positively primitive and barbaric. Three times a day, for a variety of sets and reps, I must lie on my back, tie a rope around my foot, and pull on it so my knee bends. It really hurts. (Then I must cover my knees with frozen peas.) This is the best they can do, with all their schooling and advanced knowledge? Explain to me how this is different than the medieval rack. It is truly both mind-numbing and tortuous. I’d rather clean. I’d rather poke myself in the eye with something sharp. Good god, I’d rather do yoga. (He he....)

Do you detect a touch of cranky? Perhaps. I haven’t been able to player soccer for 12 days now and it just might be getting to me. I complained to Steve about my medieval torture and he thinks I should embrace the noise of the vuvuzela. He suggests that I lie on the floor and do my physio exercises in front of the TV when a game is playing, turn up the volume really loud, and put my head right by the speaker. Bring on the brutal! (I’m not sure what this would accomplish, to be truthful. Two annoying things don’t cancel each other out and make life pleasant. Imagine, for instance, listening to a very loud Rick Astley song while scrubbing your toilet.)

Do you think maybe Steve is getting tired of waiting on me?

The Knee Interview

2010-06-14T10:56:00.000-07:00

So, I got hurt. I’ve been on crutches most of the week. Because this is far too depressing to even think about directly in terms of playing soccer and blogging about it, I have decided to accept a fictional interview request from Christiano Ronaldo to explain my injury. Here he is:

Ronaldo: So here I am. Can we make it quick? I have a game tomorrow.

Me: Oh sure, try to shirk your journalistic responsibilities with some game....

Ronaldo: It’s the World Cup? The Biggest sporting event in the world? Against Ivory Coast? Drogba’s team?

Me: Oh, right. I’ve PVR’d it. Okay. I’ll be brief.

Ronaldo: Thanks. So, you hurt your leg or something?

Me: Yes, my knee.

Ronaldo: What happened?

Me: Well I was playing a soccer game for this women’s team I just joined and I sort of twisted and collapsed and it really hurts.

Ronaldo: Was it a real injury, or fake?

Me: Uh,real. We don’t do fake injuries.

Ronaldo: Why not? You can get free kicks out of them.

Me: Yes, well, but everyone can see they’re fake, right? It’s one of the worst things about watching you guys.

Ronaldo just glares.

Me again: But, uh, anyway, our refs probably wouldn’t even notice if we faked injuries anyway. They don’t run much. They just stand in the centre circle and try to see everything from there.

Ronaldo: What?!

Me: I know.

We have a shared, bonding moment of hatred for lazy, stupid refs. Look how similar we are to each other!

Ronaldo: So why is this knee thing such a big deal?

Me: Well, it’s just that this time it was my good knee.

Ronaldo: What do you mean, your good knee?

Me: Well I have had two ACL surgeries on my other knee, many years ago, so I think of that as my bad knee. Now I will have two bad knees. Even though this is hopefully less serious. Perhaps only a torn meniscus.

Ronaldo: I’ve had trouble with one ankle, but they just fixed it and it’s fine. I don’t understand the concept of part of a body being bad. My body is perfect.

Me, quietly: I know. Sigh.

Ronaldo: Pardon?

Me: Nothing.

Ronaldo: So, if it is just going to get better, what’s the big deal?

Me: Well, it is at least 6 or 7 weeks of no soccer while I do physio. So depressing.

Ronaldo: Oh, that is depressing. You know, when I get depressed, like when I crash a Ferrari, I just buy another Ferrari.

Me: How nice for you. For me, that’s not really an option. I’m thinking about making the kids get a paper route so they can earn enough money to pay for my MRI.

Ronaldo: What’s a paper route?

Me: Never mind.

Ronaldo: So you said you had the other injuries a long time ago. You’ve been playing soccer a long time?

Me: Yes. ahem. More years than you’ve been alive.

Ronaldo: With who?

Me: Well, I used to play for UVIC, but now, mostly just drop-in.

Ronaldo: What’s UVIC?

Me: Oh, it’s roughly the female equivalent of playing for Manchester United or Real Madrid.

Ronado: Oh, so you’re good.

Me: Uh, I used to be okayish.

Ronaldo: You’re a famous female soccer player, then? That's why I'm here?

Me: No, you’re here as a fictional construct that allows me to explain my effing injury without sounding too sorry for myself.

Ronaldo: Glad to be of use.

Me: If you score for Portugal tomorrow, will you dedicate it to me?

Ronaldo: No.

Finger Soccer

2010-06-02T12:35:00.000-07:00

Because I am beginning to believe that it will never stop raining, I have resorted to playing ‘finger soccer’ with my kids with this toy they bought me from the dollar store. It comes with a goalie net, a goalie that you move around by a stick that pokes into his back, two mini soccer balls and two ‘feet’ that attach to your fingers, so your fingers can play soccer.

Hannah asked to play it with me. (I am trying to get over the irony of the fact that she will never play real soccer with me when I ask her to – but that is another story.) When it was her turn in goal, she began with the asinine strategy of simply moving the goalie back and forth whether I was shooting or not. (Unfortunately, I’ve actually seen my other daughter Sophie play soccer like this in real life. Let’s just say it’s mortifying watching your kid dodge back in forth in front of the net unnecessarily when the ball is at the other end of the field.) But I decide to be quiet about it. Here I am in the comfort of my own home, not being judged by other parents, with plastic shoes stuck to my fingers, so sure, why not? Who am I to judge? Just a player for 30 years and a soccer coach, but go ahead and do your thing, I thought. You’ll learn.

But guess what? Her strategy worked. I shot, trying my hardest to time it so that it would miss the goalie and go in the net, but she actually managed to stop it. Repeatedly. It was like trying to get a hole-in-one at one of those mini golf courses with a windmill that passes in front of the hole every few seconds.

Bored by my lameness, Hannah changed her goalie strategy. She decided to do nothing instead. She placed the goalie in the middle of the net and sat back with her arms crossing her chest. I frantically finger-kicked mini soccer balls at Hannah’s goalie and none of them went in and she began to openly mock me. “Mom, you can’t even score when I do nothing.” She laughed.

(I was reminded of a statistic someone told me about real penalty kicks – that a large percentage of the time, the goalie could save them if they did nothing – no need to jump to the left or right - so many of us just kick it right at the goalie. I tried to look up this statistic and had no luck, so then I casually asked one of my English soccer friends if he knew anything about this and he said something like “Oh, you North Americans with your sports statistics. Most saves. Most minutes with the ball. Most successful passes. Rubbish.” Okay, so um....you’ll have to take my word for it. )

To save my sanity in finger soccer, I decided to reverse roles and let Hannah shoot while I played goal. But then I worried that either:

a) she won’t score either and I don’t want her to be let down and hate soccer more than she already does

or

b) she will score and I will be shown up by my 10 year old.

So I decide to play the goalie upside down. My goalie will stop everything as well! On his head! And this strategy also works. (Mostly because when Hannah shoots, she shoots off to the side and with such force that the feet fly off her fingers. Not something that happens often in real life, to my knowledge.) Because I am atrociously immature, I believe I may have yelled “in your face!” while pointing at Hannah and even high-fived my 2-D goalie after most of my saves. To her credit she did eventually manage to score a few by not really shooting so much as just pushing the ball right up next to my goalie’s head and then forcing it across the line. Not sure if that would work in real life, but I am willing to try it, since I am a major, shameless goal-suck.

I bet you’ve never read such a detailed analysis of a dollar store toy before, eh? You’re welcome.

You don't give up playing football because you get old. You get old because you give up playing football.

2010-05-28T12:02:00.000-07:00

With the World Cup just weeks away, all the pundits are polishing off their best soccer quotes. For example: “Some people believe football is a matter of life and death. I can assure you it is much, much more important than that,” (said by Bill Shankley, a Scottish football manager). Or another favourite: “You don’t give up playing football because you get old. You get old because you give up playing football,” (said by Sir Stanley Matthews, a winger). Because I spend so much time playing soccer, to the detriment of my career, my family, my knees, and perhaps my future ability to walk unassisted—I am always looking to these soccer quotes and trying to find one and use it as a metaphor for my life. It makes me seem less like a golden retriever who just likes to play fetch with a soccer ball, and more like a philosophical footballer.

The above quote about getting old has been especially important for me lately. On Monday night I played 7 on 7 with some very young quick players, and twice towards the beginning of the game, a fellow on my team passed the ball forward for me to run onto it, but about 50 yards too far forward. Both times I ran, but there was no way I was going to catch it. The second time, I just turned and looked at him and laughed. “Think slower,” I instructed.

“Way slower,” said Mike, on the other team. We all chuckled. But inside, I began to picture myself like that grandma from the Sylvester and Tweety cartoons. And then I realized that referencing Sylvester and Tweety cartoons makes me seem even older. Dang. Aging sucks.

I may not even be the slowest or worst player out there. Some nights, Tom and I will stand on the sidelines together and when we choose pinneys to see which team we will go on, we are careful not to choose the same color. “We don’t want to saddle any one team with the both of us,” is how Tom put it, I believe. But at least we know we’re bad. There’s this other fellow who is always all kitted out in a FIFA jersey who is really terrible—he plays left wing. I’ve seen kids do better crosses from the corner than he can. He shoots like he is wearing slippers instead of cleats. And when he misses (notice the ‘when’ not the ‘if’) he crouches down and covers his head with his elbows as though perhaps a bomb might go off, or he drops to his knees dramatically, looking up at the sky in a kind of a ‘why me?’ pose. (People have started to snicker.) If he gets a breakaway, no one bothers to run up the field with him because they know he can’t cross it in the middle, or that he will flub this wimpy little shot that the goalie will stop handily.

All this is fine—not everyone can be great—except that this fellow thinks he is really good. Every time someone takes a throw-in that might be less-than-perfect in form, he groans and loudly comments about how he is going to start a throw-in clinic to try to teach everyone a thing or two. He yells at people when they screw up. When someone else on his team scores, he never congratulates them, but he loudly tallies up all the assists he thinks he has made.

So, anyway, back to the metaphor thing— when I think about creating a soccer metaphor for life, I think that maybe I don’t want one anymore. I mean, this guy’s a soccer player too, and even though soccer is ‘the beautiful game’, some guys who play it are just jerks, and I don’t want him using any cool quote or metaphor I can come up with and applying it to his life.

Besides, I might be over-thinking it a bit. I bet if I asked one of my soccer friends if he had a way of looking at soccer as a metaphor for life he would probably say this: “Yes, Cathy, I do. Would you like to hear it? Listen closely. The metaphor is this: Do not pass to that numbnuts on left wing.”

Cougar Cruises

2010-05-26T14:26:00.000-07:00

I get to the pub after soccer on a Monday night and suddenly realize it is just four of us - me, and three guys under 25. Well, how does this look? Oh dear. But we had fun, in fact. We played this game where, going around in a circle, one person names a city or a country or a region, and then the next person has to name a place that starts with the letter yours ended with. You can't repeat any place names or you're out. For example: one person starts with London. Since that ends with an n, the next one starts with an n - Netherlands. Next: Saskatchewan. Next: Nanaimo. Next: Ontario...and damn if I didn't suck at this game. So much for the wisdom that comes with age. I got schooled. If I hadn't had Chris feeding me answers towards the end I'd have lost after two or three rounds. Have you ever realized how many places begin and end with A?

Several days later I am reading the Travel Section of the New York Times and I stumble upon a piece about how Holland America is having "Cougar Cruises". Yes, they are what you think they are. Well-seasoned women over 40 like myself sign up for this as Cougars, and "Cubs" (men under 30) are encouraged to join them. I think back to the other night. I am mortified. I am also curious about this cruise - not for myself, of course - although I could certainly use the opportunity to brush up on my knowledge of geography.... But realistically? Well, no, I am happily married - and still massively curious as to whether any guys sign up. What if it is all a bunch of horny over 40 year old chicks in spanx, trying to outdress each other? I bet no one gains any weight on this cruise. It's probably carb free. I wonder if they play place-name games? I am guessing not.

Questionable Magazine Covers

2010-05-17T15:35:00.000-07:00

Have you seen the latest issue of Vanity Fair? Here is the cover for your perusal. Buying this was so embarrassing that I had to sneak into the drug store late at night with my hood up, and buy some 'ribbed for her pleasure' condoms and a mondo box of tampons to dilute the shame of this purchase. At the top there, kinda behind their heads, you'll notice the words 'World Cup' - that means this is a magazine with a soccer article in it - get your heads out of the gutter, people. Steve had quite a laugh when I showed it to him. But now I think he's getting tired of it because yesterday he said, "Why do you keep leaving it on my side of the bed?"

"No reason."

The World cup starts June 11. I guess some of us are looking forward to it more than others....

My Happiness Project

2010-05-14T11:56:00.000-07:00

In case you have been wondering where my blog has been, I must tell you that I have been playing soccer instead of writing about it. Getting together with your friends and a ball on a perfect, sunny morning when the air is crisp and the sky is blue with tiny little puffy white clouds, and everyone who is responsible and important is working - and then scoring a kick-ass penalty shot against a good goalie with your left foot - it really doesn’t get any better than that.

But every once in a while, we get a brutal, rainy, sopping Wednesday morning, and then everything falls apart. My body is set up for me to exercise on Wednesday mornings, and so I find myself rambling around in my house, depressed, trying to get some endorphins in another way instead. It’s like I’m a drug addict. I’m really not that happy without them. What am I supposed to do for exercise and endorphins if I can’t play soccer? (I know what you are going to say, you yoga freaks, don’t bother - I know it’s supposed to be calming but some days it just won’t cut it - yoga won’t do the kind of calming you need when you had to drop the F-bomb before 7:30 in the morning to get your kid to choir on time.)

I read in a magazine about this woman who counsels people on how to be happy: Gretchen Rubin, who had a blog and a bestselling book called the Happiness Project. Could this be worth looking into? Rubin is admittedly pretty smart – she did go to Yale, after all – but after some research I have decided that this project in which she vows to be happier makes me want to barf.

I’ll explain. I first encountered her in a Real Simple magazine article where she talked about her year long blog project, in which each day she did small things to make herself happier and wrote about them. She somehow developed quite a number of followers, despite the smarmy advice she was doling out. In Real Simple she was being asked about the ‘happy advice’ she has given that people are responding to most. Guess what piece of advice Rubin gave that people seem to be blown away by? Make your bed.

That’s it? Make your bed? I tried it one rainy morning. Happy? Nope.

I looked into her blog and found that amid the claptrap about ‘being more mindful’ and hugging one’s kids, quite a bit of happiness appears to be related to cleaning. There’s the bed-making, of course, but here’s another suggestion I’ll quote from her blog (bolding hers): “In the kitchen I treasure my ‘special drawer’ - that’s where I keep my bills to be paid, stamps, envelopes……” argh, I can’t even type the rest of it, it’s so insipid. She treasures a ‘special drawer’ full of unpaid bills? Is she sure that treasure is the right verb to use? Furthermore, should we honestly be rewarding this woman by making her book a New York Times bestseller when she hasn’t even figured out how to pay her bills online?

Rubin is perhaps unwittingly making the point that cleaning can make you happy, but subtly, it’s there nonetheless. Is there anything to this? Possibly this is what women do for exercise and endorphins on rainy days. Clean. Clearly I am not part of this particular species of women, which would explain some things, for example: why my white kitchen cupboards aren’t ever as white as everyone else’s. (Oh, I have to sponge those down?!) Why every cupboard and closet at my house is stashed to the max, stuff crammed in and the door quickly shut to hold it all together. I suppose cleaning can accomplish two things at once, exercise and well, cleaning. But where’s the joy? The deliciousness of a beautiful shot on net? There is no deliciousness in cleaning.

You know what I do, on a rainy day? When left alone I will eat. Here is the deliciousness! On a recent rainy Wednesday morning, I found myself wondering, hmm, Is this my 4th or 5th trip to the kitchen to get a spoonful of chocolate mousse? I think 5th. It was 10:40am. If it wasn’t raining, I would have been sweating, heart pounding, bent over leaning on my knees, laughing with friends on the soccer turf. Instead I am faced with tufts of black cat hair on my carpet and cobwebs in every corner. (Is this why people get crown moulding? To cover up the cobwebs? Must check.) So this is perhaps what other moms do then. They dust. They vacuum. They wipe cupboards. It keeps them out of the chocolate mousse, and trim. I just can’t imagine it making them happy.

But you know what? I ranted to my husband about this dreadful Gretchen Rubin and her bed-making manifesto, and then came home one day after work and our bed was made. (And I didn’t make it.) At first I was a little suspicious. Has someone else been here? I didn’t know Steve could manage such a complex household chore. But then he admitted that he had been feeling overwhelmed at work and a little depressed, so he tried making the bed to see if it would make him happier.

Did it? I asked.

No. He said.

But you know what? Him making the bed did make me happier. Maybe there’s something to this after all….