The best part about bowling: the shoes.

 

A circle of blue bowling shoes taken by my very tall friend K

Though I blame their ridiculousness for my poor score.

To stop the sobbing that started the moment Tom Brady went down on the field with a knee injury in the first quarter of the first game of the season, I’m trying to focus on the positive. Because hey, my Sundays have just opened up. Football season is so demanding anyway–sure, for the players, but equally for the fans. First, it’s a huge time commitment: several hours every Sunday afternoon or occasional marathon Monday night throughout the fall and winter. Who needs that kind of distraction? Second, it’s a heavy emotional investment, which, after the catastrophic end to last season, cannot be overstated. Suffice it to say, I’m at risk for high blood pressure and have a defibrillator on hand for the games. Third, the time off will give Brady some quality time with his son and model girlfriend, paparazzi-free, because really who will care where they’re buying a house or going to dinner or what he’s wearing: if he can’t throw the football, he’ll be lucky to rate a segment on Access Hollywood.

Oh, what’s this? Backup QB Matt Cassel has thrown for two touchdowns, and the Pats are on top 14-10. Maybe things will be OK (flashback to a young Brady coming in for an injured Bledsoe and getting the job done). And wait, now the Chiefs’ QB is down too? Damn, there go my Sundays.

New England's Tom Brady (12) fires a pass downfield just as Kansas City's Bernard Pollard (out of the photo) hits his leg and buckles it. (Winslow Townson/Associated Press)

It’s come to my attention that we have a lost a puckery little soul this week and one of my favorite readers: Manny the goldfish. Manny, who belonged to my married couple friends, was a beautiful, sunset-colored fellow with bug eyes who was once featured in this column for his penchant for floating upside down feigning death. Well, Manny is feigning no more. 

Goldfish lives are fleeting, but I can say with confidence that Manny enjoyed a rich life in the Northern Massachusetts village of Hill de Haver, often tempting his owner to throw some extra flakes his way. In the spirit of his namesake, Manny was indeed being Manny until the end. He is survived by his friend, Trot.

The beach I frequent is tranquil and idyllic, revered for the solitude it provides. Last weekend though, despite a 7:30 a.m. departure for the Cape, the parking lot was chock full when my friends and I arrived at 10:00. Once on the sand, we were met by a gusty wind on a mission that pelted us with sand, sand that burrowed its way into every crevice in an annoying way but that a fellow beachgoer tried to spin as a free exfoliation. All told, I think I lost a full layer of my epidermis.

Everywhere though, unnaturally fit men and women traipsed down to the shore wearing wetsuits, harnesses, and carrying enormous pieces of equipment that looked like pterodactyl wings; the kitesurfers had descended. It was as if every novice and amateur kite surfer had woken up, sniffed the air, and quickly threw their gear in the hatch before barreling down to the beach. They spread out across the beach like sand flies, leaving no room for sunbathers and swimmers. We tucked ourselves away in a dune of questionable protected status (seriously, I wouldn’t sit on a piping plover), away from the chaos and at least minimally sheltered from the assaultive wind. 

The preparation involved in this sport was staggering: inflating the parasail-like kite part, getting it in the air and stabilizing it by holding a trapeze-style bar connected by heavy cables–hard enough on land, but near impossible on the water. Next, a surfer wades into the ocean and secures his feet in a snowboard apparatus (this is when I gave up any hopes of trying), keeping the kite aloft, and then somehow get up on the water, only to be immediately pulled at high speed by the wind. Holy. 

We watched a small-framed guy glide across the water at frightening speeds, gasping when his board lifted above the water, suspending him in midair–child’s play to him though, as his next run involved tricks that made it look like he was skateboarding above the water. Tired of watching all this exertion, I finally rolled over and succumbed to the most perfect beach nap, cushioned by baby turtle eggs.

 

A rainbow of kitesurfers on the Cape

   

Miss Ladybug, the ladybug

Originally uploaded by jessica anne matthies

Since the spring, I’ve shared my bedroom with a rusty red ladybug. I’d swear it was the same one that bunked with me in the fall (they could be twins—the red body, the black spots…), but that seems unlikely. Either way, this one enjoys resting on my warm lamp, occasionally taking flight and reminding me she’s there. Given that ladybugs symbolize luck, I leave her alone and feel grateful that she’s chosen to grace me with her lucky presence. I can’t imagine my place is nutrient-rich, so it’s a wonder she’s alive. Ladybugs feast on other tiny pests, so here’s hoping my room has a family of aphids or some tasty dust mites.

When I left for work today, she was still perched on the lamp, so I was a little surprised to look down at my blouse on my morning walk and discover that yet another ladybug was clinging to my sleeve. Apparently, I’m a magnet for the lucky bug.

Now if I could just get lucky…

Though commentators would have you believe that the speeches at this year’s convention are not compelling, not on target, not flashy–I have to disagree; the normally staid Democrats have seduced me with their speeches. Sorry, but I’m a sucker for good rhetoric and there were some effective lines in Hillary’s speech Tuesday night like “No way, no how, no McCain” punctuated by humorous moments like her reference to her “sisterhood of the traveling pants suits.” (And seriously, media slackers, enough about the outfits unless you’re prepared to waste equal time on the men’s ties.)

The most effective person in that convention hall though, was a woman whose only speech was to a young Joe Biden: his mother. When he stuttered as a boy, his mother assured him it was because he was so smart he just couldn’t get the words out fast enough; when he wasn’t as well dressed as the other boys, she told him he was handsome; when he came home beaten up by the older kids, she told him to well, go out there and bloody their noses. Nice! Now that’s a woman to get behind–if not for president, then at least for the Secretary of Defense. 

The Running of the Brides, the infamous bridal dress sale held twice a year by Filene’s Basement, is aptly named. It’s no understatement to compare the event to the running of the bulls in Pamplona; in fact, I’d take my chances with the bulls over a roomful of cutthroat brides with sharp elbows. Injuries aside, it’s a blast. 

At 8 a.m., the doors open and bridal party teams in matching t-shirts, some having camped out for hours, rush into the mammoth room and start grabbing dresses off the rack like they were loaves of bread in Soviet Russia. With gown prices starting at $249, it’s easy to see why a stampede might be in order. My roommate, the bride, was much more sensible, so along with another friend, the three of us sauntered in midmorning when the initial rush was over and dresses were already back on the racks. For a pack of determined brides-to-be, it was all very civilized really.

We hauled dresses over for her to try on (modesty went out the window) and fawned over each with our best girly girl squeals, delighting even more in the dresses that were ridiculous (unfortunate bows and ruffles on crack). We competed to find the absolute worst dresses and paraded around in them while other shoppers looked on, not as horrified as they should have been. Our friend put on a black and white number and declared herself Alexis Carrington from Dynasty, and we tried on matching dresses with fin-like wings, an insult to fish and birds everywhere.

In the end, we got down to business, all trying on our fantasy dresses but ultimately encouraging the bride to go with her favorite, a beautiful two-piece corset with a ruched crinkly skirt that screamed drama. I expected to battle over a dress or two with other women and had practiced my tug-of-war skills, but in just two hours, we ran around like teenagers, played ultimate dress-up, and even got a dress in the bargain; the only way it might have been better is if they had actually unleashed live bulls.

While on vacation in Maine recently, I picked up a copy of a free publication with an intriguing name: Sap Pail. Hard to resist with a title like that. Reading the local paper of the places I visit can be entertaining and enlightening. Often, I can’t help but come home with quirky little publications like this one that says its purpose is “to tap and collect the local resources of our area” and to help people “who would like to live their lives more independently, with less consumption,” in an exchange of knowledge and resources.

The feature article was on castrating piglets, which might have been a folksy, informative piece of writing had I not been eating at the time. And, had I not nearly choked on my food after realizing that anesthesia is not used. What?? The article relates step by step how to secure the pig and perform the procedure (I’ll spare you the details), and suffice it to say, it’s gruesome. The explicit photos didn’t help. Suddenly, the farmers that I had been praising moments ago for my locally produced dinner, turned sinister. 

A little research online turned up that this is a pretty common practice (uncastrated pigs are randy creatures, hard to control, and don’t taste as good, apparently), though some producers find the procedure controversial and do take measures to anesthetize the animals. Some food chains even refuse to sell meat from castrated pigs, like McDonald’s in the Netherlands, surprisingly. In fact, some supermarkets in the Netherlands reject the meat from castrated animals unless anesthesia is used, according to this article, which states that Norway and Switzerland will ban castration next year. 

Great, pig castration: one more thing I have to worry about.

I was talking with a group of friends at the beach recently about relationships (a combination of women who are married, dating, and single), and the two of us who are single were lamenting how hard it is to find the right person when my optimistic friend declared, “There’s a lid for every pot.” Such a satisfying phrase, I thought. So sensible and simple; it made me think, Of course we’ll find our lids. I’m not even looking for a shiny copper lid that matches perfectly, so it should be as easy as boiling water.

But then I got to thinking about my disorganized kitchen cabinet and how actually half of my pans don’t have lids, have maybe never had lids. Most of them are just sturdy pans doing a great job flying solo; in fact, my favorite go-to pan didn’t come with a cover and is not any less of a pan for being lidless. And you know when I think about it, I rarely even use the lids I have. What do you need a lid for? Really, are lids necessary?

lots of lidless pans

Imagine going to the beach with Michael Phelps. As you’re tiptoeing slowly into the cold water, shrieking as the water climbs higher (not the shoulders, not the shoulders), Phelps dives right in. While you manage to keep your head barely above the water as a wave rolls in, the water washes right over the Phelps machine. You tread water with your insufficient little feet and he swims laps around you with his giant feet-flippers. You frolic in the surf, oblivious to proper form, and the human dolphin speeds by you in a flash, showing off his powerful breaststroke. The lesson here: don’t invite this guy to the beach.

Also, you’ll never have his abs. In Phelps, you have the perfect marriage of the psoas, rectus abdominus, obliques, and transversus coming together to form one magical combination, a physique that takes only eight hours a day to achieve. Totally doable.

In admiration of his superhuman body, my friends and I have coined a handy phrase that we use to refer to his impressive torso: the welcome spot. You know what I mean, the ripped portion of his lower abdomen that’s almost too risque to think about—the reason we, the viewers, feel the full bodysuit should not be allowed. Think of it as his torso acting as a welcome mat to the welcome spot or Phelps saying, “You’re welcome to look at my welcome spot.” The welcome spot is represented by curving the hands inward to form an open V or a heart, or written in text as \ /

Spread it around. And now, a visual (you’re welcome):

the welcome spot