Know Your Enemy, or at the very least, Know Your Onion

It seems like every time I read the paper these days (which is every day because it appears in our driveway--and except for far too much time spent on roller derby matters, I am unemployed), some public official is denying accountability for not realizing who "the enemy" was before it's too late. Even 36 years after the sage words of Walt Kelly "We have met the enemy and he is us," appeared in his comic strip Pogo, we continue to elect morons whose resumes seems to be defined by their unique ability and long history of smoothly, articulately passing the buck. "We didn't know the war would be bad." "We didn't realize Iran was actually the country that was amassing nuclear warheads faster than some kids can grow their pog collection." Actually, I don't know if kids collect pogs anymore. But Iranians sure love them some nukes!

Even in Nacogdoches, a recent city ordinance, specifically written to insure that those annoying electronic flashing billboards don't change Texas's Oldest Town into its tackiest one, is being totally ignored in favor of granting variances to significant donors, i.e. any one with ANY amount of money. The city motto could possibly be "Got $20? We've got a variance for you!" This is not just the trend in Nacogdoches though. All around the world, and especially in the U.S. and China, the overall well-being of cities and towns is being ignored in favor of cash-rich corporations who may bring a few, minimum wage jobs to town in exchange for wreaking total havoc on the peace of the town. Not exactly a fair trade.

The more I read of this book Can't Buy My Love, the more I am horrified to discover the extent to which we have all become commodities for sale. I don't just mean politicians accepting a mere five spot for a little pull in small town billboard shenanigans. And I don't mean the egregiously corrupt maneuvers of people like Rick Perry who wishes to mandate the HPV vaccine for all school-aged women (!!!) thanks to the continued campaign support from drug manufacturer Merck. I am talking about you and me, pallio. We've become numb to the fact that practically every piece of food packaging is a lie that we're willing to buy anyway. 0 grams of trans fat, you say? That's interesting that practically everything on the ingredients label is partially hydrogenated anyway LAYS POTATO CHIPS.

And cell phones! God, do not get me started on cell phones--which, in case you missed any of my past vehement, spitting posts about cell phones, I hate. (I am now started on cell phones.) You don't even have to not actually have one to test this out. Just try telling people you don't have one. You are immediately considered a misfit and a rabble-rouser for simply choosing to only have a home phone. Either that, or you are to be pitied because you're obviously too poor to text message or wear Nike shoes. Yes! I am not kidding when I tell you that is the reaction I have gotten since I dispensed with my cell a few weeks ago. Would this have happened 10 years ago? Of course not--but then, 10 years ago, you had not yet been paying Cingular a monthly fee to slowly own your soul. Am I tending towards hyperbole? I really don't think so.

It's true cell phones have come a long way since then, but only because companies have seen that the market for them was rich and financially rewarding. I mean, the microchip was invented long before the RAZR, people, but it took awhile to get away with being able to charge $150 dollars and a two-year contract for them. Can you imagine asking the equivalent of that price and commitment in the cash-rich, "idyllic" 1950s? You'd have been run out of town wearing tar and feathers. I am not claiming that that oppressive time was more forthright than this, a differently-oppressive time, only that business was not done in glitter. The global economy was not there and hence, neither was the technology. We gasp at the way people were marginalized because of race, gender, and social class in those days, but are we really so highly evolved now?

I am white, educated, upper middle class, and not withstanding my unfortunate posturing as a woman, I should be enjoying the prime of my life with all the social freedoms allotted a person of my "status." And admittedly, I don't have to go to different waiting rooms or stand in a different line, or have my meals below stairs, or expect beatings, but I am instantly pitied because I don't have a cell phone. Not that big of a deal, right? Maybe not. But marginalization can begin small and soon all school-age women are lining up for their HPV vaccination and hey, maybe we should take the right to vote away from these disease carriers, not to mention revoke any decision-making privileges they should have about carrying a child in their bodies. Do you see where this goes?

So my non-cell phone having self is a misfit--and that's fine. Maybe being a misfit will act as the toothpicks that apparently need to pry my--our--eyelids right open so we can see that magazines we love to read in check out lines are pandering to their advertisers with "10 appliances you never knew could kill you" and outrageous stories of irons and washing machines gone horribly awry, while an ad for cigarettes, that killer of 400,000 people year in and year out is not-so subtly blanketing the entire back cover. How do you like that?

So what are we afraid of? Is it cancer or not looking cool in front of people with a lot of money? The answer *seems* very obvious, but the fact that we are all choosing looking cool (whether we actually come off that way or not) again and again shows our confusion. What's more, on a mission in the supermarket yesterday, I found that even with conscious effort, it is very, very difficult to fill your cart with food items that only truly, sincerely, genuinely contain food.

Am I angry? You bet I am and rightly so because it is not just me who is becoming a misfit. My family, my friends, my baby nephews, YOU, are all being targeted by a relentless parade of products and social attitudes that, to be fair have no aim in trying to kill their consumers, but equally have no regard for their genuine well-being, health, and happiness. And I do. I care. Even if I don't know you, I'm angry on your behalf and I'm going to bat for you.

Patio Dreaming

Yesterday was opening day of patio season here in Texas and I must confess that MRT and I spent it at Chili's, one of the only patios in town, where we actually had to go out of our way to be able to order food from the patio. Yet, as annual goers of opening day festivities, we would not be deterred, even if we were ordering something with the word "guiltless" in front of it. It was not the margaritas though--ho, ho, ho.

For those of you not of Houston or elsewhere that this is an observed holiday, let me explain the opening day of patio season. In my humble opinion, it is really one of the best holidays of the year.

No one calls it the opening day of patio season. In fact, I just sort of figured this term out yesterday. The beauty of opening day is that it's not on any calendars. You're never sure when to expect it. But when it comes, everyone knows.

Opening day is that first "ah, it feels like Spring!" day. The sun is shining when you drive to work and the perfect song is already in your cd player or on the radio, like kismet. And as the blue skies deepen in the late afternoon sunshine, you head to the best patios in town for drinks and snacks with your best friends and/or your best love. Restaurants and coffee shops around town fill up with everyone you haven't seen for the winter months (albeit brief in Houston). It is amazing. It is such a joyful time, so full of potential energy, hope, laughter, the promise of green lights, and sunshine.

And for the first time in a long time, I was so, so homesick for Houston yesterday and all the patio days that have been. And yet, I was so happy here in my new place with number one best husband. I hope as many of you as possible took advantage of that glorious time!

It's Springtime for Hitler and Germany!*

Thank you, Jeebus--it is finally warm here. I know it's only February still, but the cold weather was bringing me DOWN. I was tired of feet and hands turning purple in my poorly insulated house. I was annoyed at wearing a coat everywhere.

But today! Oh today--I realized that Punxsutawney Phil wasn't such a lying bastard after all!

I am wearing a skirt and flip-flops. Tra-la! MRT and I had a lunch picnic in the back yard and I am about to take Molly to gad about the neighborhood in celebration of the warmth and sunshine that doth bless us this day. Hooray! Hooray!

*For those not in the know, this is a song from The Producers, not a celebration of being a Nazi sympathizer.

Seriously, WHERE is Columbo Day?

Anyone who was reading this or this on the past Columbus day knows how I feel about craptacular holidays that seem to observed for the soul purpose of bankers and postal workers spending a day watching VH1. While I'm all for VH1, and made-up holidays for that matter, I don't think either one should interfere with getting my netflix in a timely manner, okay?

Further, I am torn about whether Columbus Day or Presidents' Day is the dumber holiday. On the one hand, you've got a day that is the birthday of a genocidal, greedy megalomaniac. On the other hand, you've got a day that is NEITHER of two great, but long-dead, presidents' birthday and is picked on the basis of being a Monday and in February. So they both have February birthdays. Big whoop. We're up to...what is it--44?-- presidents now? Obviously, we're going to have some overlap in birthday months here, people. Sure, I guess no one wants to make a big stink in September for William Howard Taft, especially when we've already got Labor Day, a glorious, equal-opportunity day off, but what about October--birth month of Rutherford B. Hayes and the distinguished Chester A. Arthur?! No, it's a stupid idea you say? Precisely.

But speaking of birthdays: Madame Furie and I were both born in August and are planning some sort of joint birthday celebration for which neither of us will take a long weekend or be derelict in our citizenly duties three days in a row. I doubt that even when we're both in the roller derby hall of fame, anyone will get a random day off in August for it. And that's in light of the fact that we share August with William Jefferson Clinton!

Can't buy my love, but I do want my stuff back

You know that perennial break-up anthem "Breaking Up is Hard to Do"? Of course you do. But the reason it is hard, and they don't reveal it in the song, is because you will probably never see some stuff you really like again. That is truly sad and lamenting song-worthy*.

MRT and I were just discussing this the other day. Like me, my husband knows the very real heartache of losing a nice drill to an expired relationship, of waking up to learn you're no longer the proud owner of a particular collection of poetry and not being able to file a police report. So why am I discussing breaking up and the terrible loss of literature with my beloved, so sympatico to me in most ways (except when it comes to tidiness)? Well, I'll tell you.

I was cleaning the house and listening to my iPod (as I do) and a song came on that reminded me of the good movie that it was from. I thought to myself, "I sure would like to watch that movie...which I once owned, but now don't, because ex-boyfriend n (I use n as an interchangeable integer; I never dated anyone with a first name starting with N...I don't think) never gave it back." Though I no longer mourned the relationship, I certainly did and do, mourn my stuff. And since I was feeling (mildly) perturbed about it, I took it to MRT, where I take all stuff that I think about. Our discussion was conclusive: give us our stuff back!

On the other hand, my mom once told me that if I was able to leave something crappy, like those boyfriends, behind without having to deal with them ever again for the cost of a few material items, then I got off easily. That is perfectly true, but still, I have begun (and sent) more than one email with "I know this might seem awkward...but can I have my stuff back?" I mean, come on! ALL my David Sedaris books? A Paul Simon cd? High-quality hand-crafted items? Several pairs of socks? So the letters continued. "I want my stuff....I do not, however, want you."

But it was for naught. I am sad to say that with very few exceptions, I did not recover my stuff. Fortunately, my very own MRT has a good number of those David Sedaris books already; and since we're in it for the long haul, I can count those books among my own and start re-buying other stuff for good. And I may even get MRT a duplicate drill. Oh the felicity in knowing your favorite stuff is home at last! God bless MRT--and some of my favorite stuff, too.

*I am reading a very excellent book right now called Can't Buy My Love by Jean Kilbourne, in which she suggests that savvy advertising has made us all believe that unlike people, products and stuff are reliable and won't talk back. I love the book, but I have to say, the ads have a good point.

Question to the Universe: An Occasional Series

Is there a nice way to tell someone to get a freaking life?

Roller Derby Explained (kinda)

I haven't posted in awhile and Angela wanted to know what roller derby is, so this is my lame response to both her question and "why haven't you blogged in awhile?" I'm sure you will get a windfall later in the week when I feel inspired, but until then, a brief explanation of roller derby, mostly pirated from Madame Furie's FAQ for new skaters which I added a few comedic gems (at least I think so) to and then put my name on. But just to be clear, I hate scum-sucking plagiarizing bastards. :)

A Brief History of Roller Derby

Roller derby was originally conceived as a competition of endurance in the 1930s and has gone in and out of vogue in various incarnations since that time. The current revival of the roller derby bout as a series of jams on a flat-track began as a DIY, grassroots, skater run, owned, and operated venture in 2001 when a group of women in Austin, Texas formed the Texas Rollergirls. Their pioneering work, combined with the exposure of the A&E television series Rollergirls, catapulted roller derby to new heights.

Currently, roller derby is the fastest growing women’s sport in America, with over 150 leagues formed across the US (and Canada). Since mid-2004, a number of leagues have banded together to form the Women's Flat Track Derby Association (WFTDA), which coordinates and sets the rules that govern inter-league competition among its members.

How does one play such a game?

Roller derby is a fast-paced game of endurance, strategy, and strength. Each game is called a bout and consists of two 20-minute periods. Within the halves are individual, up-to-two minute periods called jams. At the beginning of each jam, five skaters from each team take their positions. Eight blockers (four from each team) form the pack, while one jammer from each team stands behind the pack. The pack begins circling the track after the first whistle, followed shortly thereafter by the second whistle, which marks the take-off of the two jammers. The jammer for each team is the one responsible for scoring points and she does this by making her way through the pack. The first jammer to make it through the pack is called the lead jammer and is the only one who can call the jam off (This is done when the lead jammer places her hands on her hips). Individual jams may last up to two minutes if not called off by the lead jammer or there is no lead jammer (jams may be as short as designated by the lead jammer).

The jammers can’t score any points until their second time through the pack, at which time they score one point for every member of the opposing team that they pass (as long as the jammer is in bounds while passing). Though the jammer is the one who scores points for the team, every blocker for a team is equally essential to the jam—helping their jammer through the pack with various types of assists, and making crucial blocks against the opposing team.

The official rules for roller derby are currently being revised. View the latest rules and updates at the WFTDA web site.

The Adquanti Chronicles--yes, Adquanti

Remember in days of old (last year), when I was still under age 18--at least according to United Healthcare? Well, I had a similar encounter yesterday. I mean to say, I dealt with a customer service rep who was trying to tell me information about myself that I knew not to be true.

As I mentioned in a previous post, I recently got rid of my cell phone. This was a great coup for me in many ways, but especially in that I am leaving my provider, T-Mobile, without any hard feelings. I used to have them as a provider back when they were still Voicestream and I have to say that with only a few minor snags and absolutely no rudeness, they were great. I cannot say the same about either Cingular or Sprint. But enough product plugging...

Despite wanting to break free of the shackles of a digital leash, I still wanted a phone for safety/convenience reasons. So a couple days ago, I ordered a Virgin mobile pre-paid wireless phone from the web site, but did not activate service; I couldn't until I physically had the phone. The very next day (yesterday), I received an email, addressed to Adquanti, thanking me for switching to Virgin mobile and referencing a phone number which I discovered to be located in Northern Mississippi.

"Hmm," I thought. "My name is not Adquanti. And I live in Texas."

I decided I would relay this information to Virgin Mobile and see what they wanted to do with it. So I go through all the menus and finally get a customer service rep who is completely confused about what I'm telling her.

"Are you sure you didn't enter the name Adquanti when you ordered your phone?" she asked.
"Oh that's right! I forgot." Umm, no. I did not use the pseudonym of Adquanti.
"Maybe it's possible that Adquanti has a similar email and mistyped it."
Yes, I suppose this is possible--though I can't exactly understand why someone whose initials begin with Adquanti would use an email with my initials. But okay.

"Did you maybe give your email address to Adquanti to use?"

Thank GOD she was there to give me these brilliant suggestions. Had I known someone named Adquanti in Mississippi, it is totally unlikely that I would have connected the dots and remembered that in fact I had said "Here Adquanti, use my free web-based email for all your online commerce with my compliments."

She didn't even think to ask if I had entered my email on a public computer (which I didn't).

She was able to tell me, by my saying the last four digits of my credit card, that it was not the one being used. She also verified that, in fact, Adquanti had registered using my email address. But when I made the request that she remove that email address from Adquanti's account, she refused.

"It's not your account," she explained.
"That's not Adquanti's email," I countered. "It is mine. If someone were using my social security number, would you just keep it in there even if I identified it as fraud?"
"Well, I'd have to get a supervisor," she said.
"By all means, get one," I said.
"I mean, to change a social security number. But for an email address, I guess you could call Adquanti and tell her not to use your email address, but I can't just change the account information."
"Excuse me? I am not going to call a stranger. I feel the onus is on y'all to fix this. What if I am not able to sign up for Virgin mobile using my OWN email address?"
"Well, you can just call us if that's a problem."
"But I am calling you now. It is a problem. Please fix it."
"Well, if you don't want to call Adquanti, you can just delete the email."
Gee, thanks.

So I hung up the phone, feeling very unsatisfied with the fact that Adquanti was possibly attempting identity fraud and their solution was that I call her and ask her not to. Oh, good one. That's just like the sign I saw today on the town of Cushing's baseball park. "Help us keep the park nice. Please, no vandalism."

*Please* no vandalism? How sweet.

So I was thinking--well, perhaps this was just a bizarre and weird event that will right itself via karma or so. But then today I opened up my email and got another couple of emails for Adquanti. One was from a portraiture artist's studio newsletter in Dickinson, Texas. The other was for the Democratic National Committee, which I *just* unsubscribed from. I am worried now, but also totally puzzled. Adquanti, who are you? And why do you consider Dickinson, Texas to be a legitimate home of art?

Thank you all techie peops

This group includes, but is not limited to: Noonan, Danny, and Jen for helping me be an in-the-know web admin/blogger. Also, some guy named Dave, I think.

I now have a "favicon." So there you are. Without y'all, I also could probably not have figured out how to set up a feed for this blog, which I did, despite *still* not knowing what it does. Keep it future-y, y'all.

"If music be the food of love..."

Saturday afternoon, the Nacogdoches Rollergirls are hosting a bake sale for both purposes of recruiting and for profiting off of peoples' inabilities to stay on their diets/propensity to buy their loved ones sweets. So the last couple of hours, I have been dutifully baking cupcakes, brownies, and cookies while rocking out to my iPod. As a side note, if you like to cook a lot, may I recommend upping the ante by adding your iPod? I swear to Jehovah, everything from my pancakes to my casseroles and pasta have had a little punch of rock and roll since I've been doing this. And if you have never tasted rock and roll, please, do this immediately.

So anyway, while thinking about roller derby and music, I mused back to something our referee and bout producer Sir Vex (derby widow to *my* derby wife and real-life hero Mme. Furie) said last night about the music he was planning for our bouts. He referred to having a lot of hard, fast, thumping songs. And I think in general this is appropriate for roller derby. We skate hard. We hit hard. We're hard core basically (and I am, too, in theory). But in spite of all this, if I were to choose a song that best reflects how I feel when I am out there with the derby ladies like a baseball player might choose his at-bat music, I would pick something like "I Love to Boogie" by T-Rex.

And yes, I am unapologetic about this. I don't think it makes me less hard core, especially not after reading the Top 5 Favorite Albums from a selection of rollergirls in the latest issue of Blood & Thunder. Justin Timberlake? WTF?!

P.S. Quick plug: Nacogdoches Rollergirls host their FIRST public scrimmage on Sunday, February 25 at Skatarama. PLEASE come if you are able. It will be skate-rific!

And I'll tell you something else, young person...

In most people's eighth grade school picture--you know, the panoramic one that takes 10 minutes to capture, in which the person on the front end will inevitably have run to the other end by the time the camera pans just to be in it twice? Yes, well, besides the student who is "the running man," there is also at least one person who finds showing the rude finger to be, well, hilarious. And in eighth grade, it kind of is. It's novel. Your mom has forbade you to do it. It's rebellious. It proves you're in the know about offensive gestures and you're not afraid to get pulled into detention by your ear (and you will, young person--oh, you will). Bravo. However, the lesson to be gleaned from this is that by the time you're, oh, 33 or so and no one will hold you accountable for your crude bravado, giving the finger in a photo is rather lackluster. I mean, who exactly are you rebelling against? The establishment? "Take that, establishment! I will unapologetically post this all over myspaceship!" Well done. Might try registering to vote next time, friend. And who will be offended or bothered by your sophomoric antics? Oh yeah--no one. In fact, probably the biggest response an adult-aged flipper of the bird could expect is on this blog in which I verbally roll my eyes at you. So good job!

Ch-ch-ch changes!

Hello peops,

A significant number of changes are afoot at the old Roast roost. First of all, I have a different last name, even though by the grace of God and the good sense of marrying an MRT, I am still also an MRT. (woo woo) I have been pre-occupied with the will I/won't I aspect of name change for months now, but I did it and though there was a very short-lived period of identity crisis, I'm glad I did it. I am even signing my new name to receipts and such without (much) hesitation. I would encourage anyone who is considering a name change to do exactly as they please, because it can be either a terrifying or rewarding step. For me, it was both, but I do enjoy when life is hard.

And speaking of making life hard, I have returned to the days of roughing it: the pioneering early 90s. That's right, I have dispensed with my ne'er-do-well cell phone. Despite occasionally hilarious and informative text messages (especially from Team Jo [e]), I am so happy to be rid of this overpriced ankle monitor. For matters of travel and safety, I am getting a Virgin mobile pre-paid phone that will cost me annually what I have typically paid per month. And the bonus is that I can still receive text messages when the time is ripe for them! Does anyone want an outdated, non-responsive three-year-old T-mobile phone? Anyone? Anyone?

With all this change in the air, I was brave enough to finally convert French-Roast to the "new" blogger. You have not seen evidence of this yet, but it is in the works. This is not one of those empty promises I usually make about how I am going to dramatically overhaul this site, only to make one insignificant change over a period of eight months or something. The *new* F-R will include labels, exciting links, a few boring links, and perhaps a new color scheme. Depending on how much time I dedicate to it, I might not reveal it for another month or so, but this one is big. And even if you don't care about that, I do.

2007 is a heady time! I love it.

Paging Bill Murray (who is rumored to be a crank)

Happy Groundhog Day!

Old Punxsutawney Phil *didn't* see his shadow for the first time since 1999. Thank God. Living in the house that frozen foods built this winter is giving my soul frostbite.

"It's so involved being me."

Right now I'm engaged in my annual rite of intensely absurd vanity. That's right, it's time, once again, to purchase my wall calendar for the year. A little late? A bit, yes, though not as much as you might think. During the Christmas season, when the calendar aisles of bookstores are packed with givers desperately searching for a thoughtful gift ("Ah yes! Phil loves model airplanes! I am redeemed!"), I avoid the untempting masses (though highly tempting selection) by reminding myself that they will be on sale after the first of the year. Of course, by February, a person like me is lucky if they're even FOR sale anymore, unless you go online and pay the full price, in which case: what was the point in waiting? Now I've lost a month. PLUS, in addition to this delicate time/price/crowd balance, there's the added challenge of finding a totally perfect calendar that represents my unique perspective, accomplishments, and sophisticated* world view. It must wow with its colorfully explosive pictures, dazzle with the sublimeness of its wit, and must also possess something more--a summary of all that is MaryT. Tall order? Yes, that is why this is a totally involved endeavor.

Last year, I was lucky enough to buy a 2006 Basquiat calendar at the MFAH gift shop during one of those bizarre hipster parties in the winter, easily beating my late February deadline. The year before, it was NPR's 2005 one. 2004 was chock full of pithy dog cartoons from the New Yorker. 2003 featured some exceptional black and white dog photography that hangs in my home today (no kidding, I framed it). These calendars were obviously important to me. I even remember that my 1989 one was the beautifully illustrated Berenstein Bears one. Do you even remember what your calendar was two years ago?Be honest; it's for posterity. I already know I have a problem, so you won't be proving anything.

A few hours ago, I finally stumbled upon the 2007 Anne Taintor wall calendar, from whence the title of this blog came. She is the creator of those vintage images with snarky captions. Jen gave me an Anne Taintor notepad that just slays me, featuring a smiling woman in front of a refrigerator and the caption: Make your own damn dinner, as well as pages that say stuff like "All she wanted was an umbrella in her drink." Unfortunately, this calendar is sold out and won't ship for 1 to 3 months. Bah! April is definitely past my made-up deadline.

So, since I generally sneer at any suggestion that all of life's challenges are "the small stuff," do not have any particular fetish for cats in scary poses, get zero enjoyment from scantily clad women, antique cars, the Irish countryside, or horses, I am having a particularly hard time at this sold-out time of year. Also, as my interests tend more towards the type of stuff that would be better suited for a page-a-day calendar (scrabble, foreign languages, Jeopardy, non-visual elitist snobbery, etc.) but I insist on wall calendar format, I'm a bit sunk unless I want to make my own (do-able, but boring). Another thing: I'll thank calendars.com to STOP recommending Thomas Kincaid "The Painter of Light" calendar on every page. How will that King of the Middle Brow *ever* do justice to my annual calendarly-expressed message? Oh me. Oh my. Living language Spanish phrases daily calendar, will we be together in 2007 after all?

*And by this I mean, delusional and possibly insane.

Food, Love, Hemorrhoids, and Cheer!

Today is MRT's 28th birthday (hooray!) and in honor, I have spent the better part of the day cooking up some of his favorite culinary delights in the kitchen. I love doing this, not only because I find cooking very meditative in the mixing and stirring and chopping and all, but because it is hugely satisfying to pour your time and love into something delicious that will become *part* of someone you care about. Wow!

I do some of my best thinking when I'm cooking (the meditative portion) and somewhere else, too, but it's not appropriate to mention in this post. Unfortunately, this wasn't one of my best thoughts, even though I found it hilarious. MRT was less than impressed and continued playing Zelda, so now I'm sharing it with you (free pass for his birthday). So what I was thinking was how high school cheers don't make any sense at all. For whatever reason, they were running through my mind and in breaking them down, I became kind of annoyed by how incoherent these hyperglycemic fits really are.

For example, I remember one time when the other team's cheerleaders came over and our cheerleaders yelled "Hey gang! Say gang! Listen with pride! This is _____ from the other side. And she's a big, bad (class year)!" Then the introduced person would do the kind of jump that makes the uninitiated wonder if the cheerleader's legs might have spontaneously broken in mid-air. Broken legs aside, just how might one listen "with pride"? Is this opposed to listening with utter contempt? If so, I never quite made it to the pride side. Oops.

But the one that really perplexes me is this. "All across the nation, there's a (team name) sensation that will make you want to slide...and shift from side to side." My response, the one that MRT didn't find at all funny is: is there no cure for this sensation epidemic? I mean, unless we're talking about the sensation of the Holy Ghost moving you, this sounds a lot like hemorrhoids to me.

Nice way to tie up this post about how much I love cooking for my husband, right? Oh well, in conclusion, I am very happy that I was never a cheerleader and hopeful that none of you were, either. I shouldn't expect more from people who consider "Cheer!" the ultimate edict, but I do.

Happy Birthday MRT!