Something's wrong here. OK, I write for myself, at least mostly, and don't worry
who else reads this. But when I put a picture of myself up....well, that's not for
me. I don't need a picture of my own face. I've already got the face, available
for viewing in any reflective surface. So where are all the guestbook entries
saying "Dichroic, that's a goofy picture but even so I can tell you look FUCKING
HOT with the new 'do"? Where are they, I ask? Not in the guestbook, that's for
damn sure.
< /egotism > < /neediness >
Something
else that's wrong here is that after 10 and 12 years together, I still haven't
managed to convince my cats that, since I don't have fur, snuggling up to me with
claws out is really, really not a good idea. They seem to think it's a sign of
affection. The younger cat, Coxswain, seems to be quite fond of this laptop, also.
I think it's because, when he's walking on the desk the edge of the monitor is
just the right height to scratch his head on.
And one more good idea
gone wrong: tomorrow morning first thing, I will be descended upon by a horde of
women, and I say "horde", not "bevy", advisedly. Our rowing coaches, being from
Massachusetts, think of the Head of the Charles as the Holy Grail of regattas.
They take it far more seriously than any other race. The rowers who are trying out
for the women's four we'll send there have to do a 6000 meter erg piece to see if
their times are good enough. For some stupid reason, they need to have a coach
watching, instead of reporting their own scores. (Maybe not that stupid; somehow
some of these women have managed to do a dismayingly small amount of erging, for
people who are supposed to be competitive rowers, and some may not know you need
to warm up first and that you can't just stop for a drink in the middle of a
piece.)
So I asked Yosemite Sam if it would be acceptable for them to
have me watch a piece, instead of him or DI. He said yes, since after all I am
still officially a coach. I figured one or two women would take me up on it. After
all, we have an erg here, and it's an opportunity to do the piece in air-
conditioning, instead of outdoors in an Arizona summer. They'd call and arrange a
time to come over and I'd sit there and read a book while they erged. Painless
(for me, that is).
Instead, about 5 women are coming over at 8AM
tomorrow. I need to fold the ping pong table and bring the erg downstairs; theyÕll
bring over another one. I did tell them I wouldn't have time to shop (inclination,
actually) so it was strictly a bring-your-own-Gatorade affair, and Rudder
suggested they also bring their own buckets, in case of need. Puking during a race
or even an erg piece is not unknown in this sport, which gives you some idea o the
exertion involved.
Which also reminds me that I think
href="http://smartypants.diaryland.com/071901.html">Mimi Smartypants is
exactly right about pukers and nonpukers. I am the latter, and the refusal to push
myself to it may be one of the factors keeping me from excelling in my sport. (And
also in mountain biking, not that I've had much time for that
lately.)
Today I'm going flying with Rudder, riding in the backseat
which will probably put me right to sleep. (It usually does.) Next month, when
he's training an extra day a week and my credit card has recovered somewhat, I
need to do a lot more flying of my own. Before I can do that, though, I need to
read up a bit. I'm so rusty I don't even remember the altitudes to maintain to
avoid class B airspace around here, or landing speed of a Cessna 172. There's a
lot to know to fly a small plane.