Eye of the Tiger

The other day I received the following letter in the mail:

Dear Coach Soulier,

Most people wake up in the morning and can't start their day until they have had their morning cup of coffee. I can't start my day until I do my 20 wall balls on the concrete wall outside my house. I want to learn to play the best lacrosse I can play. I want to play lacrosse in college.

This absolutely awesome letter also included a glamour shot and one of the coolest highlight reels I've ever seen. (Picture a girl scoring at will while "Eye of the Tiger," by Survivor, plays in the background. I don't even think in my wildest dreams as a video editor could I come up with something more powerful.)

Now before you think I'm a heartless soul, please know I do feel bad for ragging on this girl, but COME ON...I can't offer this girl a single dollar, help her with admission or even promise a spot as my stat keeper.

Therefore, Sue (name has been changed) may I just say wherever you are...keep up that wall ball and remember:
It's the eye of the tiger, it's the cream of the fight
Risin' up to the challenge of our rival
And the last known survivor stalks his prey in the night
And he's watchin' us all in the eye of the tiger

* Last thought: To whoever might be listening up in heaven please don't punish me with an uncoordinated child for this entry.

Indiana Jones: The Search for Intelligence

Typically, I'm a pretty patient person when it comes to stupid people. For example, I try not to laugh when I see someone sneaking a finger up their nose or walking innocently down the street with their fly wide open. I even attempt to feel bad when around three o'clock this old Asian woman attempts to parallel park outside my apartment and manages to hit every single car around her and the sidewalk repeatedly. (I mean, we are talking several attempts, several dings and even some car alarms...and, I don't laugh. Okay, snicker, but there's a difference).

Now, before you think I'm a regular saint, you must know I also have my limits. Take for example, the dollar theater in St. George, Utah. Last weekend, during a wild and crazy girls' weekend, me, my mom and my sister decided to go see the new Indiana Jones movie. I thought this would be an enjoyable movie to see in a quiet and dark theater. Unfortunately, I didn't realize we were actually attending an "interactive" theater. Don't know what an "interactive" theater is? Well, basically it means that during the entire movie you are allowed to talk to your neighbor in a normal voice...even loud if you like. For example, if you are worried Indiana has finally met his match you can ask in a nice, loud and clear voice, "What's going to happen to him?" Or if you are excited to see another movie with Shia Labeouf in it, you can exclaim, "Another movie with Shia?! Alright!" And lastly, if you are hungry, you had better let everyone know in the theater that you are about to go get some popcorn and soda.

After fifteen minutes of this interactive crap, I was ready to kill someone. However, with only my keys as a weapon, I was forced into my second strategy of attack. (You know, basic angry looks to my neighbors, hands up in the air, labored sighs and moving to different seats). Unfortunately, none of these passive aggressive techniques seemed to work. Therefore, I turned things over to Barb. After another loud comment from the person in front of us, my wonderful mom hissed an awesome, "SHHH!!" and then yelled, while pointing at them, "Stop it!" Instantly, silence graced our row. I don't know what was more awesome, the people in front of us slouching down in their chairs in defeat, or hearing my mom say in a triumphant voice, "I can't believe I just did that."

Attention stupid people in St. George: We've moved into Entrada and we would like it if you would keep the stupidity to a minimum.

Dreams Do Come True

Well, it finally happened. Dan is now, officially, a married man.

The above picture is how I feel with Dan getting a ring. Below is how Dan feels about his new leash.

The Debate Champion

In high school I played four years of basketball. For some reason, unlike the other sports I played, I was never a "powerhouse" in the good ol' b-ball game. Maybe it was because my coach, who was an African American but named Mr. White, always pulled me out after I missed a shot, or maybe because, when you got down to it, I was just a lonely white girl trying to play a game I was never intended to master. At any rate, during my freshmen year, I was christened with the nickname of "Chicken" because I would never shoot. Consequently, for the next three years, I tried almost everything to overcome my fear of shooting and embarrassing title.

One of the things I would do during the year to practice would be going to my church and shooting baskets for hours in the gym. I remember one time, after a disappointing game, I made my mom take me over to the church to practice. After thirty minutes of shooting I still felt incredibly frustrated and disappointed with myself. I remember my mom came in and watched me for a few minutes. I remember she was wearing this enormous green winter coat that looked like a comforter and a tennis warm-up underneath. After watching me miss a few shots in a row, she asked me if there was anything she could do to help.

Now, as a side note, I should mention my mom is not exactly a "huge" athlete. She's very athletic, but didn't grow up playing sports. So, when my mom asked me if she could help, I have to admit, I wasn't exactly confident with her expertise. However, she looked so sincere, I thought I would try and explain to her my problem with shooting. Sheepishly I explained, if I was wide open I had no problem shooting, however, if a defender put a hand up or ran towards me I would hesitate and not shoot.

As soon as I finished sharing my phobia, my mom dropped her purse and took off her big coat. She then asked me to start shooting. Before I knew it, my mom charged after me. Like always, I hesitated. My mom then backed up and ran towards me again, but this time yelled, "Shoot!" Which I did. This exercise continued for the next thirty minutes.

From that night I didn't turn into Kobe Bryant, but I did hear my mom's voice every time I touched the ball...and well, I did start to shoot more in games. Who knew a debate champion from Utah could be such a good basketball coach?

Thanks Mom...and Happy Birthday.

A Little Joke For Saturday

So, I don't really have anything to report or rag on. So, here's something fun - my favorite joke.

Two tourists go to New York City. While they are on top of the Empire State Building a mysterious man wearing a trench coat comes up to them. He looks out for a little while and then turns to the tourists and says that the wind is just right that if they were to jump off they would fly right back up. As you can imagine, the couple did not believe his claim and started to walk away. Therefore, to convince them, he climbed onto the ledge and jumped off. In disbelief, the tourists watched this man fall almost ten stories before he immediately flew back to the ledge. As the man brushed down his coat, he again, invited the tourists to jump. After a few seconds of thinking, the tourists said they would only do it if he jumped one more time. Immediately, the man jumped off, and this time, fell almost twenty stories before coming right back.

Needless to say, the tourists were convinced and excitedly held hands as they leaped from the building. Ten, twenty, thirty stories they fell and finally landed splat onto the street below. A crowd quickly formed around the bodies and began to speculate as to the cause of this jump.

One businessman turned to his friend and asked, "Suicide?" His friend, in response, answered, "No. Just Superman playing another practical joke on a tourist."

It's strange, I was told this joke when I was ten and never forgot it. Now that I think about it, I was kind of a weird ten year old with a morbid sense of humor.

Stop the Judging

I absolutely hate going to the dentist - and it's not because of the usual reasons. Sure, I hate the constant questions you are asked while someone has their hand in your mouth. (I never know if I should answer and almost bite their hand, or just be really expressive with my eyebrows.) And of course, who enjoys all the different metal scrappers they use to pick your teeth apart? Which by the way, what's the difference between all those instruments? All are sharp, all have little grips and all inflict horrible pain. EMad, feel free to answer that question. And lastly, of course, I hate the flossing at the end of the visit. Maybe it's just me, but I swear that floss is laced with broken glass.

No, all these things bother me, but the real reason I despise the dentist's office is the JUDGING. For six months, I brush twice a day, floss at night and wear my retainers before special occasions (I like when my teeth look straight for pictures;)) and yet, it never seems enough. Inevitably, I always have to endure this type of interrogation:

Overly Enthusiastic Hygienist: Do you floss?
Kate: Yes, pretty much every night.
Overly Enthusiastic Hygienist: Are you sure you are flossing correctly?
Kate: Yes, I go through this every time. I just have a lot of tartar.
Overly Enthusiastic Hygienist: How do you brush?
Kate: (The answer Kate wants to give) With a toothbrush. (The answer Kate actually gives) I have a Sonicare.
Overly Enthusiastic Hygienist: Hmm...I want to show you this cute little replica of some teeth.
(Overly Enthusiastic Hygienist begins to pretend to brush on fake teeth)
(Kate nods)

I think next time I go to the dentist I'm going to eat an everything bagel with lots of cream cheese and tell them I just flossed before I came.

A Tricky Test

For seven glorious years I have enjoyed a "test free" life. No LSAT, no MCAT, no GRE and no GMAT. Unfortunately, this carefree life had to come to an abrupt end as I foolishly entered the DMV yesterday. (Yes, I'm going to try to work in some kind of acronym in every sentence, OK?)

After waiting two hours in line I was directed to the "testing center" of the DMV. There I was greeted by an angry DMV worker who, while picking her teeth with a pencil, threw a test at me and snapped, "You can only miss 6 questions. If I see you talking to anyone, or using your cell phone I will fail you on the spot. Do you understand?" Her tone and tattoo on her protruding chest should have shut me up, but I couldn't resist. Therefore, with the best smile I could muster, I asked, "So, I don't get any lifelines?" (Okay a random joke from Who Wants to Be a Millionare?) Anyway, before she could take my test back or beat me with my own bag I sat down in the cramped desk and started my first test in seven years.

As I read through the questions I could only think about the poor Asian girl I had once seen at the Salt Lake DMV, who was told in front of everyone, that after failing the test four times in a row, she would not be issued a license today or anytime soon. I remember watching her pack up her things and shamelessly walk out the door. I swore that day I would never be that Asian girl. However, as I began to second guess myself in regards to construction zones and turning signals, I feared humiliation was imminent.

So, after ten minutes of talking myself through situations and using my hands as cars, I stood up and waited in line to find out my results. In front of me was a girl who blatantly didn't speak English, and behind me, was a guy who, while slurring his speech, told me he had already failed five times and was getting sick of these "tricky questions." Seeing these two morons reminded me that I was different. I was not the Asian girl in Salt Lake, I spoke English and I found nothing "tricky" about these questions. Therefore, with a renewed confidence, I stepped up to the desk and handed in my test.

Now, I would like to say I received a perfect score and the entire DMV thanked me for coming in. Unfortunately, this wasn't the case. Apparently, speaking English and being completely sane doesn't guarantee a pass. Fortunately, on the second try it does.

What would you do if...

* This blog is about Dan, but this picture really has nothing to do with it. It only shows his rockin' stache from our trip to St. George. (This picture was taken after Dan built an amazing unicorn pinata)

* Dan deleted the original picture I chose for this entry. Therefore, please enjoy a wonderful picture of Dan at Pearl Harbor.

I don't know why I haven't blogged about this before, but my husband loves to play this bizarre game of "What would you do if...?" This game can range from: "What would you do if you found out that I was really a woman?" to "What would you do if you came home and I left you a note saying 'I had joined the circus?'" To be honest, I don't know where this game came from. It's not like we were on a long road trip and started asking each other all these thought provoking questions, while watching the sun set, and the game just continued. Instead, I think this game has evolved more into a bizarre interview Dan has been conducting with absolutely no goal in mind and no end in sight.

Therefore, I have resigned to the fact that I have two choices of action. One, I can, slap him every time he presents one of his ridiculous situations. Or two, I can take the higher road, and explore these intriguing questions. For example, I can ask in return, "Now that you are a woman, will you have our baby?" Or when he asked me, last time we were at the beach, what I would do if he disappeared swimming and then called me ten years later and told me he was really in Canada the whole time - I could ask, "Why did you choose Canada? Why not swim somewhere warm?"

So, I know what you all are thinking. Yes, I'm a lucky girl. And, yes, I'm prepared for anything that might hit my marriage because we have literally talked through every situation. Dan now knows my limits and my reactions, and that is through simple communication. Come to think of it, without Dan's constant and loving inquiries we might not have the honesty and trust we have in our marriage.

So, I encourage you, next time you are with someone special you ask them this: What would they do if you murdered their brother or what would they do if, while they slept, you tattooed their face with a giant pirate. Not sure how they would react? I know what I would do. Come on people, start talking and listening.