"Isn't that random?"*

I've had lots of disparate thoughts going through my brain lately and it seems this post is a reflection of that.

First off, astrologists recently found a giant quasar that appears to be not only the brightest object ever found, but also the most distant and earliest quasar ever detected. Quasars are of particular interest to me because they are found the center of young galaxies and surround black holes (you all should know by now how much black holes fascinate me). Who doesn't want to learn more about a super-bright object that is massively powerful and full of energy?

On an artistic discoveries, check out this cartoon called "Born Like an Artist." I wonder what the anthropomorphic personification of my artistic soul looks like? I'm not sure it would be an animal. I think it might be something more abstract...maybe some kind of squiggle or a bouncy, round face.

And to combine two of my intellectual loves, here's a periodic table of storytelling. A couple of "elements" that caught my eye are Jhg, 1wa, Mpb, and Gtb.

Over at Diversity in YA Fiction, the authors are challenging readers to diversity their reading choices. Publicly post an essay about your diverse reading experience and you have a chance at winning "a giant collections of fabulous MG and YA books."

Finally, a third love of mine (soccer) is being showcased on a worldwide stage this summer. The FIFA Women's World Cup 2011 earlier this week. I was pleased to see that the women's games are getting just as much TV coverage as the men did last summer.

Where have your thoughts been taking you lately?

*311

“Somebody help me breathe”*

“Take it to breath” is something my yoga (one of the few sanctioned exercises for pregnant ladies!) instructor says during her classes. Now admittedly, yoga can be a little touchy-feely at times, but this phrase has resonated with me lately.

I interpret “take it to breath” to be a sort of mantra you can use when feeling stressed. For those things you don’t have control over or the things that stress you that can’t be changed, stop worrying about it, and “take it breath.” Breathe in and understand that this thing is stressing you out but there’s nothing you can do about it; breathe out and let it go.

Not that I really believe that you can just breathe away all your stresses, but I think having a way to identify the source of the stress and trying to rid your mind of it is helpful. And beyond visualizing this happening to have an action to go along with it (if you can even call breathing an action) solidifies the technique.

So to all my stress sources (worrying about being healthy for The Boy, getting ready for The Boy’s arrival, my hubby’s health and well-being, work, frustration over my writing, and all the million other little things that pile up over the course of days, weeks, and months), I am taking a deep breath in and now I am exhaling you all out Big Bad Wolf style (I don’t even think the third pig’s brick house would stand a chance with me!).

If that doesn’t work, surely a weekend away with the girls in Newport, RI should help. What do you do to relieve the stress?

*Nickelback

"The Little Things Give You Away"*

Sometimes it's nice just to think about the little things in life that bring you joy. Here are some of mine:

My favorite tea has a kick-ass name: Black Dragon Pearl (I always want to add "Coming to theaters this summer" after I say it and then do a perfect round-house kick). Plus the tea leaves come packed as balls, which only adds to my amusement.

Thunderstorms never stop being scary/exciting.

When it comes to my indoor co-ed soccer team, the "that's what she said" joke never gets old...ever!

The spin-cycle on my Scandinavian dryer (maybe we're somehow related!) sounds like a plane taking off. This one's a double-edged sword because it can also be annoying...like when I'm trying to watch TV or listen to music, or you know, have a conversation or something...but it's still pretty cool to have it sound like an airplane is taking off in your laundry room.

When my little niece and nephew say the word "rude," it sounds like they're saying "wooed." And they're still young enough to always be happy to see me.

My older nephew still likes hanging out with me!

I buy Land O' Lakes American cheese from the deli and the package is labeled LOL cheese. How could you not smile about that?

I'm always wonderfully surprised at how tasty food is when you grow/pick it yourself.

And this is only a sampling of the little things in my life. It's interesting how many of them are about food...maybe I'm just hungry. Oh, and in case you were curious, my soccer team won again yesterday (we crushed Danbury 6-1), so we're in the finals next Saturday.

*Linkin Park

"The cup of life, ale, ale, ale"*

As I sit here watching the second game of the 2010 World Cup (Uruguay vs. France), I can't help but get caught up in all the excitement. I'm a soccer player myself and a sports fan in general (you may remember some of my posts about Yankees baseball).

(That's me with the ball! Picture taken by Sir Anonymous...the Great Photographer!)

Let's face it, despite the U.S.'s reluctance to jump on the bandwagon, soccer is truly a world sport. Sure there's events like the World Series and the Super Bowl that are highly anticipated in some countries, and there's the Olympics that celebrates sports on a world stage, but there's no single sport that captivates the world as the World Cup does.

Earlier today, I think a particular clip from the first game of the Cup (host country South Africa vs. Mexico, which ended in a 1-1 tie) sums up what I'm talking about. When South Africa scored in the 55th minute of the game, Desmond Tutu did a little dance to celebrate with the over 84,000 fans in Soccer City. This is a Nobel Prize winner who has spent his life fighting apartheid, and to see him display his pure joy over a goal was a reminder of how sports allow us all, for a minute, to set aside our differences and just revel in the simpleness of a game.

(Here's Archbishop Tutu busting a move at the FIFA 2010 World Cup Celebration.)

Tomorrow I'll be participating in my own quest for a championship when my New Haven team takes on Westport in the quarterfinals of the Southern Connecticut Women's Soccer League. Then I'll be watching at the U.S. team takes on England.

*Ricky Martin

"I want to be a part of it, New York, New York"*

Last night (or maybe early this morning) the New York Yankees won their 27th World Series Title. Woohoo! If you know anything about me, you might know I'm a bit of a Yankees fan (that's me a few years ago at the old Yankee Stadium).

How big of a Yankees fan am I? Well, this year I dressed as Derek Jeter, my favorite current player. I was boycotting having to dress slutty. (Since when did dressing up for Halloween for a woman over the age of 15 mean looking super slutty?) Halloween is about living out your dreams by pretending to be whatever it is you want to be. Well, I'm already sexy, so I don't have to pretend to be that. And who wants to be slutty?

My Derek Jeter costumer really did fulfill one of my childhood dreams. When I was three, I used to tell everyone I was a boy (identity crisis...maybe?), but my reasoning was perfectly logical. I knew girls didn't play for the New York Yankees. I wanted to play for the Yankees. Therefore, if I told everyone I was a boy, I would be allowed to play.

And it wasn't just I wanted to play baseball. Nope, I wanted to play for just one team. I even went so far as to refuse to wear my red baseball cap. Red was Red Sox colors; no way were you gonna catch me in red. I was all about my little navy blue cap.

Some people might wonder why I'm so excited about a baseball team. What is so great about your team winning a championship anyway? The truth is, I'm not sure I really know. I suppose there's the living-vicariously factor and the excitement of rooting for the best team in the world, but I think it comes back to making connections.

A sports game is a good excuse to get together with your friends (and eat crappy food without feeling too guilty about it) and getting a little rowdy. I love any environment where it's perfectly acceptable to yell obscenities at the TV. Plus, when you watch or attend a game, there's a certain camaraderie between all the people watching, even if they're strangers. If you ask someone about where they were during a certain memorable game, they always have a story, and then you can share your story with them.

Last night I somehow ended up watching the game all by myself (the hubby a Red Sox fan...boo...so he went to bed). Just before the last out, my dad called from Florida (he and my mom are there on vacation). He asked, "You watching the game?" I replied, "What kind of fan do you think I am? Of course I'm watching the game." I had taken my parents to the airport earlier in the week and my dad had mentioned that he told God that he didn't care what happened with the NY Giants this year, all he wanted was for the Yankees to win the World Series.

I was really honored that my dad called me for the last out. I had turned the volume on my TV way down and had put the radio on to listen to the end of the game (something my dad does all the time). The TV was a good five seconds behind the radio, so I heard the call before I saw it. I was quick enough to hold the phone up to the radio so my dad could hear John Stirling (the Yankees radio announcer) yell his signature, "Ballgame over! The Yankees win! Theeeeeeee Yankees win!"

Then I heard my mom whooping in the background (she had had a whole three beers!) in celebration. It was the middle of a night on a Wednesday in November, but the Yankees winning the World Series made it a special night. And I got to share a few moments of it with my dad.

*Fred Ebb (as performed by Frank Sinatra)

"Summer, summer, summertime, time to sit back and unwind"*

The summer solstice rolls in on June 21st, ushering in the warmest days of the year (at least for those of us in the Northern Hemisphere). This is the longest day of the year, which when looking at the symbolic meaning of lightness and darkness, means we are truly approaching the high point of the year.

My father once said that the summer solstice always makes him want to jump in a car and follow the sun north to see how long the day will last. My sister and I sort of did this one year. We actually hopped on a plane—not the one we were hoping to get on, but that's a story for another day—and headed north...first to Seattle (which we weren't supposed to go to) and then finally to Anchorage, Alaska.

We were there to run the Mayor's Midnight Sun Marathon (find our results here...look in the 5:06 range). We raised over $11,500 for The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society, thanks in large part to sponsorship by William B. Meyer, the man and the company.

We have many, many, many stories, adventures, and pictures (which are all from the pre-digital age, so they have to be scanned in before they make it on this blog) from our marathon training and that trip. You may read about it in our memoir Loose Bowels & Butt Chap (see comments). Oh wait, it's not yet published...okay, it's not even written yet. This is a good start, though.

*DJ Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince

"On a horse with no name"*

The running of 135th Kentucky Derby and the 134th Preakness Stakes, got me thinking about how horses get their names. The filly (you go girl!) who won the Preakness, Rachel Alexandra, has a normal enough name, but Mine That Bird is the name of the horse that won the Kentucky Derby. What exactly does Mine That Bird mean? (I feel like it must have some crazy subliminal message, but I just can't quite figure it out.)

Some other Kentucky Derby winners include Burgoo King, Gallahadion, Tim Tam, and Lil E. Tee. It's like they throw a bunch of two-year-olds in a room and show them pictures of pretty horseys and whatever comes out of the toddlers' mouths becomes a horse's name. (Actually, I take that back...I wouldn't want to insult my two-year-old nephew, who is actually quite an eloquent speaker.)

In honor of the running of the 141st Belmont Stakes this Saturday, here's a list of some horse names. Some of them I made up by randomly picking words from my magnetic poetry set and some are actually the names of horses running in the Belmont. Can you guess which is which?

1. Light Heart
2. Mr. Hot Stuff (Also a good name for a male stripper.)
3. Full Rhythm
4. Chocolate Candy (Very tasty.)
5. Pickle Fight (I'm so naming my next cat this, just so I can call him P.F. for short...and if he ever gets lost, I can drive down the road shouting "Pickle! Oh, Pickle Fight, where are you!")
6. Flying Private (I think I saw this movie in the adults-only section at the movie rental place...not that I ever go into that section!)
7. Memory
8. Luv Gov (This sounds like a political scandal in the making.)
9. Sour Thought Drink (Don't try to order this at a bar...I promise you it won't taste good!)
10. Summer Bird (Call me crazy, but I would've thought this name would've been better for a parrot.)

Did you guess correctly? See the comments to find out. Oh, and my pick for the Belmont is Mine That Bird because I think his jockey, Calvin Borel, is going for his own kind of Triple Crown.

*America

"Pretty Handsome Awkward"*

Highlights from my first day in Baltimore include catching up with my sister, watching my nephew (the 9-year-old) chase after cars that potentially held Yankee players, getting a ball signed by Andy Pettitte, seeing A-Rod whack a home run off the first ball pitched to him in 2009, and listening to a couple of old ladies chatter away while paying very little attention to the baseball game.

So these ladies were at the game with their husbands. I'm not sure if they had ever been to a baseball game, but they did have some astute observations. For one, they noticed that some of the K's that were posted on the scoreboard were forwards and some were backwards. They didn't know what the K's meant (one of their husbands explained that a K was posted for each strikeout the home team's picture recorded), but they thought it was nice that some were backwards so the scoreboard didn't ever show three forward K's.

(Not that I disagreed about it being nice that there was never three forward K's in a row, but that's not the real reason why some of the K's were backwards. A forward K indicates the batter struck out swinging, and a backward K indicates the batter struck out looking.)

They also noticed how cute some of the baseball players are (hello, Derek Jeter!!!). No arguments there. At one point they asked me if my nephew was my brother, which my nephew found pretty hilarious. I wanted to say to them, "Didn't you notice my nephew calling my sister 'Mom'? If I was his sister that would make her my mom as well...not really feasible!"

Then towards the end of the game, they called my husband "the best looking fella" in the stadium, and they also said that they "may be old, but they can still look." My nephew again found all of this pretty hilarious, so the ladies turned their attention to him. "But you'll give him a run for his money in a few years. You have beautiful eyes."

I guess it's not so bad having the same taste in men as a couple of old ladies. They've seen a lot, so they probably have good taste, right? (Let's hope so for my husband's sake.)

*The Used

"Oh, say does that star-spangled banner yet wave"*

I went to Camden Yards for the first time this past weekend. I hadn't been to Baltimore since eighth grade when my class stopped there for a few hours on the way to Washington, D.C, and was pleasantly surprised at all it had to offer. My brother-in-law and my nephew (the 9-year-old) have gone there a bunch of times over the last few years and really love the ballpark.

We went to see the Yankees play the Orioles on Friday and Saturday night. I swear there were as many, if not more, Yankees fans there than Orioles fans. I guess that's because now you really do have to agree to give up your first-born child in order to pay for tickets to the new Yankee Stadium, unless you want to sit in seats with obstructed views (and I thought engineers were supposed to be smart!). I haven't even been to the new Yankee Stadium yet and I'm already missing the old one.

Anyway, back to my trip to Baltimore. Let me warn you in advance (because no one bothered to tell me) that if you do go to Camden Yards keep on your guard during the singing of the Star-Spangled Banner. Orioles fans shout "O's!" (short for Orioles) when it gets to the line "Oh, say does that..." Aside from having thousands of shouting fans scare the crap out of me, I had some mixed feelings about defiling our national anthem (who knew I was such a patriot?).

Up next: How my trip to Baltimore made me realize my observations are right in line with those of a couple of septuagenarians (scary, I know!).

*Francis Scott Key

"I get a little warm in my heart when I think of winter"*

Warmth and winter (although a nice alliterative pair) don’t normally go together. Winter is a slow and quiet death that no one notices until everything within reach is frozen. I’m not a winter person. I was born in July, and I don’t think I ever got over that first experience with the sultry summer.

I’m not one of those hot-bodied people. (Well, I like to think I have a hot body, just not in the temperature sense…except that time when I starting having hot flashes, but that was just because of this medication I was taking…I’m too young for those other kind of hot flashes!) You know those hot-bodied people I’m talking about. They wear shorts in 50-degree weather and short sleeves all year long, and you’ll hardly ever see them in a sweater—never mind a coat.

Like I said, I’m not a hot-body, and most people know it. I get sweaters for Christmas every year, there’s blankets draped all over the backs of my couches, and I have a nice collection of insulated socks. I really don’t mind playing soccer outside in the 90-degree weather, but you won’t see me outside much at all during the winter. I did take up snowboarding, but that really only gets me out a few times a year (and I’m always wearing my waterproof jacket, my puffy snowboarding pants, those awful snowboarding boots, a hat, gloves, goggles…you probably wouldn’t even recognize me under all that equipment!).

As I look out the window now, the sleet/freezing rain/regular rain has left the world encapsulated in ice. A pretty image, but one that makes me want to curl up on my couch—with one or two of my handy blankets and maybe a cup of tea—to read a book until the world thaws out again.

Yet winter is not all coldness and death; there’s still life out there somewhere. The other morning, I was driving down I-95 on my way to work and spotted a grazing dear. She was a good ways off the road and her body almost totally blended in with the naked trees, but she was alive and well. The next morning I saw a flock of mallards waddling across a front lawn. The pond behind the house was frozen, but the mallards were still around. Then, just as I was pulling into the work parking lot, a flutter of blue caught my eye. It was a blue jay, out and about on a cold morning.

Don’t think you’ll catch me mimicking those animals, though. It has to be much, much, much, much, much warmer before I’ll go outside with nothing but my skin on!

*Tori Amos

"When I strap on my boots and I slip on my suit you see the vixen in me becomes an angel for you"*

Sometimes I think I have a secret identity. Really it's more like an alter ego...or maybe it's just a split-personality disorder (just kidding...such disorders are nothing to joke about). It all started the summer I turned 18—it's all downhill after 18! I was watching the Bridgeport Bluefish (What? You've never heard of them...I bet you know who the New York Yankees are) play baseball, and I noticed I was having trouble reading the scoreboard.

Seeing as I was about to start college—and I was contributing a lot of my own money to pay for my higher education—I figured I'd better make the dreaded trip to the eye doctor (I really do dread all trips to the doctor, except the dentist, for some reason I like visiting the dentist). As I suspected, I needed glasses. Great, now I had a giant visual on my face, my previously secret nerdiness exposed.

As I got used to being a person with glasses (I know, you're thinking four-eyes), I realized the potential of it. This potential was fully realized when I became a part-time contacts wearer. With my glasses, I feel smart, like a real intellectual, like the writer me. Glasses me is an avid reader who enjoys sweet white wines and listens to NPR in the morning. With my contacts, I feel strong, like a warrior, like the soccer player me. Contacts me is an avid sports fan who yells expletives at the television and runs marathons in Alaska. (Without glasses or contacts, I'm just visually impaired me!)

Though, maybe I should've realized long ago that I had a secret identity. When my siblings and I were younger, my parents would often separate us into two group. My mom would say, "The three older ones go with Dad, and the three younger ones come with me." The problem was there was only five of us and, yes, you guessed it, I was child number three, smack dab in the middle. That's the problem with being in the middle; you never quite know where you fit in. So I made do with both roles: I tattled on my older siblings and bossed around my younger ones.

This identity crisis only got worse when I got married. I decided to legally change my last name to my husband's and to keep my maiden name for writing and other pursuits (like soccer) in which everyone already knew me by my maiden name. Not only has this caused confusion for me, but it also seems to have stymied the Connecticut Registrar of Voters.

Last week, I went to my old high school gymnasium to vote. I found my street name (which of course was split into two tables, so I had to think about whether or not my house number was higher or lower than 40) and gave the lady on the left my license. The lady on the right slid her ruler up the line of names until she reached mine...only she appeared to be confused. I glanced at the list. There was my husband's name, my name, and my name again.

"Wait," the lady on the right said. "Which one are you?" (How many ladies does it take to check-in a voter?) I wanted to say, "Didn't you listen to the other lady, who just read the correct name off my license?" Instead, I simply explained that one was my married name and one was my maiden name and somehow both ended up on the list. Apparently the government has trouble with the multitude of women who change their names upon marrying.

I should refer to all my life stories as "The Adventures of ---" (I'll fill in the blank when I figure out who I really am). Sometimes I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror when I'm not wearing my glasses and think Oh! That's the face I know. Not that stranger with the glasses. Then again, I tend to wear my glasses more frequently than my contacts. Which is my real identity and which is my alter ego? Maybe it's better if I don't know.

*Christina Aguilera

"Are you ready for some football?"*

As I've mentioned before, I'm always interested in emerging technologies. I recently encoutered a gem in the Virtual Playbook, courtesy of EA Sports and ESPN. Previously, analysts on ESPN's NFL pre-game shows simply acted out plays on a demo field. Sadly I wasn't able to find a clip to show you (if anyone does, please post a link in the comments section!).

Now, I've always found this segment a bit amusing. Picture out-of-shape football analysts and former NFL players on a studio field (at least they had a real football) demonstrating NFL plays with the skills and speed typical of, well, out-of-shape analysts and former football players.

With the Virtual Playbook, this once technologically defunct segment has been upgraded to include analysts interacing in reality-based game scenarios involving video-game images of real football players. (See more details in this article...again, sorry about the lack of a real video.)

This technology may be able to answer such burning questions as: What if (insert name of favorite NFL quarterback) had completed that pass to (insert name of favorite NFL receiver), resulting in a touchdown for (insert name of favorite NFL team)? I know, something we were all dying to know about!

Let's hope the world of sports will continue to create technologies that allow viewers to vicariously judge the actions of professional athletes for years to come!

* Hank Williams, Jr.

“Take Me Out to the Ball Game”*

Last week I went to Yankee Stadium to watch the Bronx Bombers play the Minnesota Twins. There wasn’t anything particularly significant about this game. It wasn’t against a noteworthy rival, nor was it at a pivotal point in the season. It was simply a midsummer’s game on a Tuesday evening.

There are a few essentials for a game at Yankee Stadium: a hot dog and beer (which will only cost you $14.50, your left arm, and your first-born son), the reliable voice of Bob Shepperd (whose career as announcer has lasted more than two of my lifetimes), and the boisterous bleacher creatures (who are incredibly organized when it comes to chanting out the names of the Yankees’ starters—I would be very scared if this group ever decided to use their ability to rally folks for something useful) to name a few.

Then there’s always that fan who is so annoying that by the end of the game you want to ring his neck—or your own—just to put you out of your misery. When we first sat down, my brother and I found our prime candidate: a young boy, maybe about seven or eight (I know, how mean to pick on a little kid). But this kid was seriously annoying. He asked more questions than I thought humanly possible. In fact, I think every sentence out of his mouth was a question. Now I’m all for encouraging kids to explore and think and ask questions, but this was ridiculous.

"Who are the Yankees playing?" The Twins. "What are those things on the field?" Portable cages. "Why are they there?" To protect the players in the field during batting practice. "What's the score?" The game hasn't started yet, so it's 0-0. "What time is it?" 6:54. "Who’s Babe Ruth?" He was a baseball player. "Is he playing today?" No, he’s dead. "Who’s that on the screen?" Derek Jeter. "Is Derek Jeter dead?" No, he’s the shortstop. "What’s a shortstop?"

The questions went on and on and on. I mean had this kid ever even seen a baseball game on TV? After about ten minutes of this, my brother and I were about ready to jump off the upper deck. Anything to make it stop!

Thankfully, we realized we were sitting in the wrong seats and quickly moved one section to the right. In our new seats, the only obnoxious fan we had to deal with was some annoying guy from California who was obsessed with Goose Gossage. For all his enthusiasm, he wasn’t very smart, and he was a bit drunk. He informed us that it took a lot of guts to name your kid Goose (even though Goose Gossage’s real first name is Richard and Goose is just a nickname…but really, this was guy a huge Yankee fan!).

Like I said, the game was nothing particularly special. But maybe it meant a little more to a few of the fans. It was the first time my three-year-old niece had ever been to Yankee Stadium. And it may have been the last time some of us will ever set foot in this Yankee Stadium because pretty soon the House That Ruth Built will be torn down.

I guess the new Yankee Stadium will be state-of-the-art with all kinds of food stalls and really clean bathrooms and all, but what about all the history and memories? Yankee Stadium is where my dad, my brother, and I sat in the bleachers and watched Aaron Boone hit a walk-off homerun in the bottom of the eleventh inning in game seven of the 2003 ALCS. This game gave me a glimpse of my dad as a kid, the way he chose just the right moments to flip his hat to the rally position, only to quickly flip it back when it wasn’t needed so as not to abuse the privilege.

I can’t help but be a little sad that Yankee Stadium is going to be destroyed…out with the old, in with the new. The mystique of an 85-year-old baseball icon reduced to a pile of debris.

*Jack Norworth