I Got My Ass Kicked by a Bird

My husband hails from the land of kangaroos and Vegemite, and his favorite sports team is known as the Magpies. When he first told me that, I experienced mixed emotions. Should I be rude and laugh at the lameness of having a songbird as your mascot, or should I feel pity at the cruel hand that was dealt to this loyal fan? Always sensitive and tactful, I laughed. Hard.

Anyway, I have since learned that there is a tremendous difference between the American version of the magpie and the Antipodean variety. American magpies are cute little happy birds that hop around merrily on their little birdy legs and sing songs all day. Australian magpies are big, aggressive, territorial fuckers that will try to claw your eyes out if they decide they don't like the outfit you're wearing. You can imagine the relief I felt once I was firmly planted back on American soil, knowing that the threat of avian assault was gone. Birds here are far too polite to engage in such abusive shenanigans. God Bless America.

Fast forward to a couple Fridays ago, when I was beating it out of the office building like my ass was on fire. As I passed some large shrubbery I heard some high-pitched squealing. I decided to investigate. I couldn't tell you why I decided to do this, but the smart money is on the fact that I am an idiot. As I stuck my head inside the shrub in an attempt to locate the source of the squeaking noises, I heard some loud squawking behind me. Startled, I turned around and was greeted with the pointed beak of some polite American bird. It flew into the side of my face and beat me about the shoulder with its spastically flapping wings. Always the epitome of composure, I dropped my purse on the sidewalk, flailed my arms around in the air like I just didn't care, and started screaming about how the "fuckers are trying to kill me." After a few seconds of trying to beat the little sparrow into submission, I knew I was whipped so I admitted defeat and started running -- still screaming, of course -- to my car. Fortunately I had the presence of mind to grab my purse and its spilled contents off the sidewalk, because I'm pretty sure the high degree of hilarity would have been lessened had I not had my purse to swing around in the air while I stumbled crying down the sidewalk. I would have hated for the numerous patrons of the adjoining restaurant, sitting outside enjoying the warm weather and various adult beverages, not to have had the most entertaining experience possible. You're welcome, restaurant patrons. I strive to provide as much enjoyment as possible. But consider yourselves lucky that it was a sparrow I tangled with. If it had been an Australian magpie you would have had to look at a bloody pulp over your appetizers, and that can really bring a person down.

The "Hi!" Car Bites the Big One

I'm on vacation this week. Unfortunately the planets aligned against me and conspired to keep my husband from taking any time off, so I'm going it alone like the total badass I am. I am loathe to rub anyone's nose in the coolness that is me, but sometimes it's just unavoidable. You can't keep this kind of light under a bushel, people!

I couldn't figure out what to do during my time off. I kicked around a few different ideas, but none of them really resonated with me until I saw an ad on television. I knew then that I had found my recreational calling. I was going to drive north and brave the wooden rollercoasters at Holiday World. So I'm sitting in a hotel room in Ferdinand, IN preparing for my adventures tomorrow. Hey, I told y'all you'd be jealous. You were warned, so don't be hating on me.

Anyway, I decided to rent a car to come up here. Mine needs its oil changed, and somewhere in my head I decided it made more sense to rent a car rather than just get some regular maintenance done on mine. I guess in order to enjoy this much coolness I had be penalized by the complete forfeiture of common sense.

I surfed around for rental cars, found a place with the best prices, and opted for the "compact" car. I was going to be traveling by myself with minimal baggage, so I just needed enough automobile to transport my happy butt for a few hours. The website said that the compact class was comprised of a "Dodge Neon or similar," so I decided that sounded like a good plan. I sure as hell didn't want to get stuck with a Dodge Neon, but in all my years of renting cars I've always been able to snag something from the "or similar" category, which is usually always better than the bargain basement selection they brace you for in case all the "or similar" cars are already rented. I toyed with the idea of upgrading for just a few extra bucks, but since I was certain I'd get an "or similar" car that would have substantially better gas mileage than the intermediate class, I stuck with the compact. Imagine my horror today when I saw a Dodge Neon roll up to the door of the rental office. Oh, the humanity.

So the craptacular "Hi!" car is parked in the lot outside my hotel, looking impotent and stupid. The interior, which is nylon and as such doesn't really even qualify as "fabric" as far as I'm concerned, smells like pee. It's like sitting on a pair of tightly stretched pantyhose that some poor sap couldn't get off in time when they made a desperate run to the toilet. The car is also equipped with a handsome cassette player, but since Dodge wasn't willing to pony up the extra $30 for a CD player and I haven't utilized a cassette tape since around 1987, I haven't been able to enjoy the full audio majesty of the Neon. More's the pity.

All complaining aside though, I'm having a fabulous time. I really wish The Mister were here with me, but the thought of riding rollercoasters all day tomorrow perks me up substantially.

So, welcome to a Sparkles Plenty vacation. I'm pretty sure the only way I could be cooler than I am would be to give myself a home perm and start wearing a fanny pack.

If Only There Was a Horse Named Bourbon

So next Saturday is the second leg of horseracing's Triple Crown, and I just want everyone to know that I've heard your cries. You want to know which horse is going to win the race, and it only stands to reason that you'd ask me. Everyone knows about my spectacular and legendary pick of 1994's Kentucky Derby winner, Go For Gin. Some particularly bitter people might allege that the only reason I selected that horse was that I was in the midst of a temporary love affair with Tom Collins cocktails, but those people are only haters and all smart people know not to listen to them.

No, you seekers of knowledge know that the horse I predicted to win this year's Kentucky Derby finished a dazzling 17th of 20, and you'd like to know how you can get in on that kind of prognosticating action. And Good Lord, who can blame you? I have a rare gift, people.

Rest assured that I know full well who will win The Preakness Stakes. I think we've already establshed that I am The Thoroughbred Racing Handicapper Supreme, but it's taken me years of careful examination to reach this level of expertise. I'd be remiss if I just handed all this skill to you on a silver platter. Curse me if you will, but there's only so much I can do and retain a clear conscience. Clearly I possess a dangerous amount of knowledge about the ponies, but I can't do everything for you people. With a track record like mine, you can imagine how the masses are clamoring for my insight. It's not that I don't want to help you clowns out, but I owe it to the Vegas economy to keep a few choice facts under my hat. I cannot be responsible for the destruction of the American gaming industry!

Y'all are just going to have to do some things on your own. I'm all magnanimous and shit, but I've got to draw the line somewhere.

Never Underestimate the Power of a Good Smoked Gouda

I am one of Those People who requires a ridiculous amount of time to myself. Some people might say that this is the result of being a high-strung freak. I prefer to think of myself as charmingly eccentric. At any rate, most days when I come home from work I go for a walk in the neighborhood, because a 45-minute walk results in the same amount of come-downingness as would a couple solid hours of staring blankly at the Food Network on television. Not only am I charmingly eccentric, I'm also all about the time management.

Yesterday after I got home I thought I would have to forego the walk due to the weather. I don't mind the occasional droplet of rain, but nothing quashes the recuperative powers of a good walk like being pelted with precipitation and ruining your 'do. But The Mister encouraged me to go for a walk, and after observing that the sky to the west was clear and sunny, I determined that any danger of serious rainfall had passed.

I wasn't a hundred yards from the house when it started to pour. Clearly, my meteorlogical acumen had let me down. Fortunately for me though, I live in an old neighborhood with old houses. And that means lots of old trees. I found shelter under a big maple tree and marveled at my ability to use foliage to keep dry. I watched the rain fall from a sunny sky, and admired the way the sunlight made the raindrops look like glass beads on the leaves. After a couple minutes were spent considering screwy weather patterns and how they affect nice girls who are just trying to take a walk for Pete's sake, I began to feel a little self-conscious. The tree I was standing under was in someone's yard. A stranger's yard. What if they thought I was stalking them? I couldn't bear the thought that someone might find me psychologically unbalanced, although in retrospect it's interesting to note that the thought of someone regarding me as a fool who literally didn't have the sense to come in from the rain didn't faze me in the slightest. Anyway, since I didn't want to be labeled the Crazy Neighborhood Lady Who Stands Around Under Trees That Aren't Hers, I decided that I could balance the need to appear socially acceptable and the desire to stay dry by changing trees of shelter every so often. So every 30 seconds or so I'd run down or across the street to stand under a different tree until the rain stopped. I was darting around that street like a cracked-out squirrel, but at least no one could have possibly thought I was weird, right?

After a few minutes, the rain moved on to the east and I was free to resume my walking. I glanced around at the glistening trees, and over my shoulder I saw a very bright, very pronounced rainbow. I stood in the middle of the road staring up at the sky -- once again looking decidedly normal, I'm sure -- and noted that at the end of the rainbow was none other than my friendly neighborhood Harris Teeter. Not every supermarket gets an endorsement like that. It would appear that I'm not the only being who appreciates their fine array of gourmet cheeses.

Why Mike Golic Can Suck It

I was listening to the local sports radio station on my way to work a couple days ago, and the two dudes were discussing who would be remembered as The Greatest Athletes of All Time. Several names were mentioned, and generally speaking, I agreed with all of them. Which I'm sure was very important to the two of them, because who doesn't value my opinion? Anyway, they talked about the legacies of Michael Jordan, Tiger Woods, Johnny Unitas, Carl Lewis, blah blah blah. And while I didn't necessarily think all of them would show up on The Sparkles Plenty Best Athletes EVER! list, I believe a compelling argument can be made for each of those people. But when I heard the name Dale Earnhardt, I got all twitchy and lightheaded and nearly ran off the road. Dale Earnhardt? One of the greatest athletes of all time? Oh, HELL no.

Now don't get me wrong, because I certainly don't want to take anything away from what that gentleman accomplished before his untimely death. He was at the top of his profession for years and, if bumperstickers are to be believed, had a buttload of fans all over the place. Was he skilled? Without a doubt. Talented? Definitely. Courageous? I'd say so. A great sportsman? I'll spot you that one. But a great athlete? Come on. Sitting behind the wheel of a car doing laps really fast doesn't make you an athlete. It makes you a good steerer.

And then, to add insult to injury, when one of the sports radio dudes mentioned Secretariat, the other (Mike Golic, who I generally don't have a problem with, but on this particular day I found him to be a gigantic tool) had a reaction very similar to the one I had over Dale Earnhardt. He didn't consider Secretariat an athlete because he was a horse. (Secretariat was a horse, not Mike Golic. Although maybe it works the other way, too. Who can say?)

Disclaimer #1: I love me some ponies. When I was younger, we went to the racetrack with what many would consider alarming regularity. It was alarming because I was no older than nine. You don't see too many toddlers and young children at the racetrack, but considering how stupendously well I turned out, maybe you should. Anyway, my parents would place the occasional bet, but our going to the track was much more about enjoying the experience than scoring some extra cash. So because a I spent a big chunk of my formative years at Hollywood Park and Santa Anita, I grew up to be a rabid fan of horseracing. I still can't handicap worth a damn, but there is nothing that gets my blood pumping like watching thoroughbred racing. I will watch anything on television that is related to racehorses, no matter how tangentially. The "biography" of Seabiscuit on A&E? Seen it. Four times. I can recite the call of the 1973 Belmont Stakes ("Secretariat is widening now! He is moving like a tremendous machine!"). You could not keep me away from the television on the first Saturday in May if you strapped dynamite to my ass.

Disclaimer #2: I loathe NASCAR. To me it's nothing more than souped-up El Caminos or Monte Carlos or whatever the hell, driving in circles over and over and over again. I understand that there's much more to it than that, because if it involved just doing loops in a Buick any old yahoo would be out there making millions of dollars, and this particular yahoo would be leading the parade. So I know that there's so much more to NASCAR than I know or understand, but that doesn't make me hate it any less. Maybe it comes from not being from the south. Maybe it's like iced tea. You've got to be born here to appreciate it.

Several years ago a friend of mine said, "Horseracing is just NASCAR for rich people." I couldn't have been more horrified if he'd said that he enjoyed kicking puppies in his spare time. But I do understand why people don't find horseracing as utterly fantastic as I do. I understand the point that Mike Golic was making about Secretariat not being a great athlete because he was just a damn horse. I understand these things, but I don't agree.

I have a ridiculous tendency to personify animals. And I do it with all animals, not just the higher-functioning varieties. I see birds and wonder what they're thinking about. I have to stop and tell myself it's a bird for chrissake, and it probably spends most of its days struggling to tell the difference between twigs and worms. I do the same thing with dogs, cows, squirrels, and horses. That's probably why I don't draw a huge line between human athletes and racehorses. And maybe I should, but there are times that I wonder how far apart the two species are.

In any given horserace, the overwhelming majority of the racers are running simply because it's what they've been bred to do. They get led to the gate by the nose, they take off when the gates open, and then they run hell-bent for leather because some tiny bastard on their back is whipping their hind leg. If they lose, they're all, "Finally! Back to the stable to take a load off and eat my oatey flakes." But every once in a while you might get the privilege of seeing a horse run a race not just because it's all they know, but because they love it and by God they want to win. You'll know who these horses are because they just appear different than the others. They reach farther, stretch longer, or somehow just look more determined. Their gait changes when they see another horse come up beside them. They put their head down and prick their ears and keep going, even though you can tell they have nothing left other than sheer stamina and the desire to be the best. No one is going to beat them because they simply will not allow it to happen. Maybe they aren't human and they can't drive cars, but if that's not a true athlete, then what is?

So on Saturday a group of us will get together to watch The Most Exciting Two Minutes in Sports. (I will be making mint juleps. I will not partake in said juleps, because the last time I did I capped off the Kentucky Derby festivities by spraying the contents of my stomach all over my friend's sister's concrete driveway.) When the horses are loaded into the gate, I'll search to find the one that has The Look in its eyes. I will get all goosebumpy when the gates open and I hear the deep rumble of their hooves on the dirt. But best of all, I will see my horse-racing-is-NASCAR-for-rich-people friend jumping, flailing, and cheering his horse on just as stupidly and obnoxiously as I will be. And that's when I'll know that my work here is done.

Oh, and Mike Golic? You're next, buddy.