Humble Pie

It is only now that I can talk about what happened Wednesday night.

To say that I lost every game of Scrabble that I played at Scrabble Club 247 would be an understatement.  To say that I got hosed by a series of elderly women; that would be closer to the truth.

Did you know that there are 101 2-letter words in the official Scrabble dictionary?  Did you know that every member of Scrabble Club 247 has them memorized?  In fact, the woman sitting next to me during my second game let it be known that she had finished memorizing her "threes" and was working on her "fours."  I thought that knowing fancy words like "hame" and "tisane" would get me in good with the Scrabble folk, but the members of SC247 couldn't have cared less about my eclectic vocabulary.  As soon as I revealed my average Scrabble score they handed me a cheat-sheet and ushered me away from the Experts' table.  

I played my introductory game against Richard, one of the founders of SC247.  The man couldn't have been nicer as he showed me that the namby-pamby Scrabble I had played with Grandma wasn't going to cut it anymore.  Tournament Scrabble is different from casual Scrabble in a number of terrifying ways.  First and foremost, you can challenge your opponents' words.  That means that when the 86 year old woman you are playing against lays the word "squod", you had better call bullshit.  Since "squod" isn't a word, she will have to remove it from the board and lose her turn.  On the other hand if your opponent plays the word "buqsha" and you challenge, you lose your turn, since everyone knows that's a word, you moron.  

Now, I know that some people play this way in their homes, but my family learned long ago that if you want dinner conversation to remain civil it's best to play friendly Scrabble.  With family harmony in mind, words that don't turn up in our battered 1982 edition of The Official Scrabble Dictionary are removed from the board, and players are allowed to retake their turns.  Playing with challenges is stressful!  The message behind a challenge, as far as I'm concerned, says one of two things to your opponent:  you are a big cheater pants, or you're a dumb ass who doesn't know his buqsha from his squod.  I'm uncomfortable with confrontation in almost any situation; sitting across from an old woman who's wearing a muumuu and telling her I think she's stupid isn't something I'm prepared to do.  Yet.  

The other big difference is that tournament Scrabble is timed.  At SC247 each player gets 25 minutes on their clock.  Games take a little over 50 minutes to play, though Expert players usually need much less time.  When I play Scrabble with my friends there is often a bottle of wine or three involved.  It takes a little longer to lay a word when your tiles are swimming in front of you.  My friend Jon and I used to play Scrabble while we were watching TV.  I had a turn during one of our games that took 45 minutes; we got distracted by a Cyndi Lauper concert and took a time out to have a dance party.

My final opponent on Wednesday night was Gloria, the oldest active member of SC247.  I sat at our board and waited as Gloria positioned her walker, then we began our game.  The three people I had played before Gloria had been very friendly; they gave me pointers and congratulated me when I made strategic plays.  Barb, my second opponent, brought me a chocolate chip cookie.  Gloria was having none of that.  Gloria studied the board and fingered her pearls silently between her turns.  We traded words and kept the score pretty even through the first half of the game.  I pulled ahead with "avidly" and was even entertaining heady thoughts of winning, when she laid "squod."  

I would hate to imply that anyone would play an illegal word in the hopes of taking advantage of a beginning player.  I would further hate to imply that an 80-something year old woman would use her apparent decrepitude to hoodwink people into underestimating her intellect.  What I will say is that when Gloria dropped "squod" I looked at her tremulous smile and I didn't challenge the word.  I never regained the lead, and Gloria beat me with a score of 305 to 239.  To add insult to injury Gloria couldn't seem to grasp the fact that she had won.  After we finished our game she congratulated me on winning; I told her she had won in the gentle voice I reserve for people who are losing their grip on reality.  

My foray into competitive Scrabble was humbling.  I walked in thinking that I would be competitive at the beginners level; I walked out thinking that old people are tricky and not to be trusted.  But I'm definitely going back.  I don't look forward  to staring across a Scrabble board into Gloria's steely gaze again, but I had a weirdly fantastic time.  I don't think that I'll ever finish memorizing the "threes" in the Scrabble dictionary ... I don't think that I'll ever start memorizing the "threes" in the Scrabble dictionary; but I'm all over the two-letter words.  My goal is to beat Gloria before she hits 90.

~M

I Get By With a Little Help From My Friends

Sorry for the hiatus; I'm still settling into the rhythm of life here in Madison.  So far that involves methodically working my way through my brother's vast DVD collection, decorating my apartment,  and releasing job applications into the ether.  Yesterday's big event was the acquisition of a world map.  B and I hung it in our living room and decorated it with star stickers denoting places we've traveled.  Owning a world map decorated with star stickers has always been a dream of mine, so I suppose one could say that my dreams are coming true here in Madison.  Yes ... let's say that.

Later tonight I'll be fulfilling another long cherished dream when I become a member of Scrabble Club 247.  I've been thinking about joining a Scrabble club ever since I read Word Freak a few years ago.  Before that I didn't know that scores of intelligent, competitive, disturbingly obsessive wordsmiths got together to play my favorite game.  In my naivete I thought that winning my family's Thanksgiving tournament was the height of Scrabble glory.  I was very mistaken.  I'm looking forward to my first Scrabble club experience; I think that of all the harebrained schemes I have come up with in an attempt to make friends, this one has the most likely chance of succeeding.  

I seem to follow a familiar pattern when I move to  a new city; at first I'm all fresh faced and bright eyed and full of plans.  I greet people on the street, I locate the neighborhood coffee shop, I take long, exploratory walks, and I search for groups to join.  Over the course of the past 5 years, in 6 cities, I have researched the following: ballroom dancing lessons, cooking classes, gym memberships, basketball teams, soccer leagues, taekwondo lessons, scuba diving instructor certification, roller derby, trivia nights, writing co-ops, wine tasting clubs, choirs, Bible studies, softball leagues, volleyball teams, scrapbooking classes, painting lessons, and countless book clubs.  The idea, of course, is that I will join one of these groups, meet fabulous and interesting people that are members of said group, and end up with fabulous and interesting new friends.  We will engage in witty banter as we sip wine and paint ... or play basketball.  Then I won't be lonely!  The reality is that the few times I have roused myself enough to actually join one of these groups, the results haven't been pretty.  

In Madison in 2003 I attempted to start a Madison Moose Club with my co-workers.  After a few too many Moose cups two of my female co-workers started kissing one another, causing one of the guys there to run out of my apartment crying because his girlfriend was a lesbian.  The party ended as the rest of my guests poured out of my apartment to chase him down, hellbent on convincing him that he should encourage his girlfriend to experiment.  That was the end of Madison Moose Club.  In Grinnell in 2006 I briefly joined a roller derby team.  Though I was intrigued by the idea of being able to knock someone on their ass in a sanctioned arena, I quickly realized that I didn't have the edge needed to be a roller derby queen.  And by "edge" I mean "desire to do meth."  I also couldn't get over the fact that someone had already claimed the nickname Ivana Tripabitch.  Roller derby, it turned out, was not for me.

The truth is, my initial bursts of enthusiasm inevitably end with me sitting alone in my apartment, reading a good book, blissfully happy that I'm not surrounded by weirdoes.  What I can never seem to remember until the frenzy of relocating has run its course is that I enjoy being alone.  I get cranky if I don't have time to myself.  The other factor that renders my attempts at making friends funny rather than tragic is that I'm lucky enough to have fabulous and interesting friends.  Unfortunately none of them live in Madison, so they don't do me much good when I want to sit at a cafe and judge people with some like-minded soul.  Just the fact that they're out there, though, makes it easier for me to explore these new and bizarre avenues without fearing the result. 

With that in mind, I'm off to take a shower and get ready for Scrabble Club 247. What does one wear to Scrabble Club?  I'm thinking sequins.

~M

Things That Keep Me Up At Night: 1

I've decided to start a new tradition here on my blog.  Every weekend I'm going to try to answer one of the questions that has been floating around in my head, slowly driving me insane.  If I'm successful, my weekend posts will answer questions ranging from "Who invented sparkle jelly shoes and how did they become so popular? " to "Why was Miranda Harris such a bitch to me in kindergarten, and has karma kicked her ass yet?"  The excitement, I'm sure you'll agree, is palpable.

This weekend's installment of "Things That Keep Me Up At Night" set out to answer the question  Who the heck is Max's mom?  Max, you'll recall, was Goofy's son on "Goof Troop," a staple of The Disney Afternoon from September of 1992 - December of 1993.  I was 11 when the show aired; torn between being too cool for cartoons and wanting to know what hilarious scrapes Max and P.J. were going to get into. Like, remember that episode where they were doing a science project and they accidently convinced the citizens of Spoonerville that the city was being invaded by aliens?  Or the one where they have to dress up as Goofy and take his place in the skateboarding demo?  Anyone?  Well I remember.  I remember the show, and I remember thinking to myself "who the hell would have sex with Goofy?"  Which is, I suppose, the real question behind this weekend's post.  What kind of character would fall in love and procreate with a socially awkward dog?  (I'm allowing myself to make the assumption that a heterosexual courtship and marriage led to little Max's birth.  This was Disney in the early nineties, after all).  I get the whole Mickey/Minnie relationship.  Minnie is a hottie and Mickey demonstrably has his shit together.  Donald Duck was sort of a jerk but it was all bluster, and with Gladstone Gander as his competition, Daisy would have been a fool not to choose him.  But Goofy?  All faux pas and foible?  All elbows and embarrassment?  He's the sidekick, not the leading man.  It never made sense.

I took to the internet to find out if Max's mom had ever been identified and quickly realized that I was by no means the first one to raise the question.  The parsing of Goofy's sexual history is fodder for several 'toon discussion boards.  My search immediately revealed that Goofy was a widower; beyond that there was nothing to be found but idle speculation.  Instead of answering the question that's been weighing on me for 16 years, my search left me with more questions.  Is Max the black haired re-incarnation of the '50s era "Goofy Junior?"  If so, does that make dog-faced Penny Max's mother?  Wouldn't the coupling of Clarabelle the Cow and Goofy have resulted in some cow/dog breed Disney wasn't quite prepared to deal with?  Who is the mysterious Glory-Bee?  Why is fanboy such a toolbox?  I leave these questions to you, dear readers.  I've resigned myself to the fact that I will probably never know who got into Goofy's pants ... and on that note I'm going to try to get some sleep.

~M

On Wisconsin

Here's the thing about people from Wisconsin; they know what they like.  Not only do they know what they like, but once they find something they like, they'll stick with it come hell or high water. Sparta's Butterfest is a case in point.  First held in 1984, the fest was named in honor of the local milk plant.  24 years later the beer tent is still bangin'... even though the milk plant has been closed for 18 years.  Need another example?  Ask a Wisconsin native to take you out to dinner on a Friday night and let me know if you end up somewhere other than a fish fry.  Still question my finely tuned insight?  Last weekend my cousin Peter, a diehard Packer's fan, was wearing a Jets cap.  Booya.  Which brings me to pickle sushi.  A few days ago I was eating dinner at a Chinese food buffet here in Wisconsin when I came across these babies.  I'd like to think that somewhere along the course of history the following conversation took place:

"What the hell is this?"

"Ahhh ... it's sushi, sir."

"Yeah, but what the HELL is inside?"

"Well that's a California roll, sir.  It's made of crab meat and avocado, and wrapped in rice and seaweed."

"We're in Wisconsin."

"Well, yes, bu ..."

"We're in WISCONSIN. Forget that California crap. What you need here is a pickle."

"A pickle? But sir..."

"Hell yeah a pickle. You see any avocado around here?  Stick some pickles in there and that'll be just the ticket."

"B ..."

"Pickles."

"Well ..."

"Pickles."

And voila.  Shut up Wisconsin haters. They were tasty.

~M

Quickie

Today, dear reader(s?), I leave you with these two quotes...

" I live so far beyond my income that we may almost be said to be living apart." ~e e cummings

and

"Success is not the result of spontaneous combustion.  You must set yourself on fire." ~Reggie Leach

That's me right now. 

Off to scan the classifieds! 

Stay tuned for my thoughts on pickle sushi and the power of inspirational desktop backgrounds.

Different Strokes

Date: Sunday, September 7, 2008

Location: Madison, Wisconsin

7:00 am:

My friend Anna begins Ironman Madison, her first triathlon.

I am asleep in my bed.

8:27 am:

Anna finishes the swimming portion of said triathlon and jumps on a bike to begin pedaling 112 miles.

I am still asleep.

10:34 am:

Anna is still pedaling furiously.

I get out of bed and make my way to my couch, stopping for a cup of coffee as I pass the kitchen.

11:32 am:

Anna...pedaling.

I make significant headway on my Entourage marathon and eat a bowl of ravioli.

12:18 pm:

Anna keeps pedaling her way through 112 miles and curses the world.

I watch Brett Favre throw his first touchdown as a Jet and curse the world.

2:20 pm:

Anna...you get the picture.

I answer a knock on the door and meet my neighbor for the first time.  He (cute, late twenties, tall, wearing clean clothes) wants to borrow a "cooking brush."  I (cute, late twenties, tall, wearing paint spattered pajama pants and an oversized t-shirt that says "gay? fine by me") tell him I have a broom.  He reiterates, miming a brushing motion with his hand.  I brilliantly reply "we don't cook much," and invite him inside while I rummage through the kitchen.  He leaves sans brush.  I drink more coffee and wonder why I don't have a boyfriend.  I think about taking a shower.

3:55 pm:

Anna finishes biking 112 miles and starts a fucking marathon.

I meet my sister, K, at a coffee shop near the race route.  When we walk inside, a small boy wearing a cape screams "MY DADDY BOUGHT ME SOME PINK AND BLUE ICE CREAM DO YOU WANT SOME I LOVE ICE CREAM AND I CAN FLY."  We decide that we do, indeed, want some ice cream.  K and I hurry to finish the ice cream before we see Anna.

5:34 pm:

Anna runs past us!  K and I scream and cheer with appropriate awe and glee.  Anna looks great!

6:03 pm:

K and I wander the race route splitting our time fairly evenly between cheering for the Ironman athletes and mocking the Madison natives who are out for their evening jog.  Amateurs!

6:17 pm:

We see Anna again! She still looks great.

7:05 pm:

Another Anna sighting!  She's got roughly 12 miles left and says she might be walking the rest of the way.  I point out that I've been walking around all day and find it to be a fine method of transportation.  I give Anna a hug and tell her I'll see her at the finish line.

8:06 pm:

Anna is still moving!

K and I go for a 3 mile run.  Whooo-eee are we beat!  We congratulate ourselves on our good time (30 min.) and make plans to run again sometime.  In the future.  Someday.

9:03 pm:

Go Anna go!

I ice my broken foot.  Yes, I strained my arch WALKING around WATCHING Anna compete in a triathlon.  I am humiliated.  And sore.  I blame the flip-flops!  THE FLIP-FLOPS I TELL YOU.  I watch more Entourage and eat a popsicle to console myself.

10:00 pm:

Anna is runnnnnnnnning.

I convince my brother, B, to drive me the 7 blocks to the finish line because my foot is so sore.  I promise B and K not to embarrass them by limping or showing any other signs of weakness in front of Anna.

10:09 pm:

Anna crosses the finish line alongside her husband Jon.  They are beaming.  They look tired.  They look great!  I snap a few pictures and give Anna a hug.  Anna attempts to thank me for cheering, but can't string enough words together to form a coherent sentence.  Jon stumbles towards me and invites me to visit them in Minnesota.  They've just been exercising for 15 consecutive hours, and they're worrying about being polite.  Sweet Lord.  I say goodbye and watch them stagger into the sunset as I turn and begin to limp back to my apartment.

*fin*

~M

And so...

I've finally decided to start a blog.  Things that I am neglecting while I get this baby off the ground include, but are not limited to; finding a job, decorating my new apartment, paying my bills, taking a box of crap to Goodwill, calling my grandmother, buying light bulbs at Target, and cleaning my cat's litter box.  Instead, oh gentle reader, I have spent the past hour fucking with the format, choosing a color palette, and trying to pick a name that is whimsical yet appropriately angst-y. I was going to put up a picture of your lovely authoress (ahemm, myself) but I can't handle the pressure. Also, I really have to get to Plato's Closet to see if I can make rent money by selling my old designer duds. So adieu.  Next time I'm here I'll have a real post, a picture that captures both the saucy AND serious sides of my personality, and a firm grasp on colon vs. semicolon use.

'til then, I love you.

~M