Gettin' By

Please pass the ibuprofen.

A few weeks ago, some friends from our old neighborhood asked me if I wanted to play in their church volleyball league.  Now, I played varsity ball in high school and college, so I figured this would be a fun way to put some of those rusty skills to use.  And prove I wasn't a washed-up athlete.  After all, I'm still YOUNG!  And in decent enough shape.  So I signed up.

Last night was our first game.  And despite the fact that I haven't picked up a volleyball in, oh, 15 years, I did pretty well.  Made most of my serves.  Had a few killer hits.  And one perfectly executed block.  I did well enough to convince myself that I still have what it takes to compete.  I can still hang with the young players because I am not old.

Then I woke up this morning and I had to get out of bed. Oh. My. God.

Apparently volleyball utilizes several muscle groups that I don't normally use in my daily life.  Mainly abs, lower back, and shoulders.  And I'm pretty sure your knees are NOT supposed to pop and crack like a bag of microwave popcorn.  My forearms look (and feel) like someone has taken a baseball bat to them and my knee that I landed on while diving for a ball is now swollen like a purple grapefruit.  But, let me remind you, I am not old. Just bruised, battered and possibly in denial.

So today I'll be doing the 4-hour dosing of Advil while I sip my tea and ice my aching body parts.  And if you smell Ben-Gay, it's probably me.  But just remember, I AM NOT OLD.

Super(bowl) Hangover

Because isn't that really what the whole event is about - eating tons of fried, cheese-covered foods??  Luckily, we opted for the light beer, because without that, we'd likely be pushing our daily caloric intake limit.  I'm just glad this year's Super Bowl fell in February, so I was free from those pesky diet resolutions I made last month. (Oh, YOU make YOUR resolutions for THE WHOLE YEAR?  Well good for you. Ya freak.)

We watched the big game from the comfort of our living room and during the four hours of quality couch time, I was amazed by quite a few things: (None of which, coincidentally, involve the actual game itself).

• The general lack of quality advertising, with the exception of Budweiser, who, even though they make beer that tastes like donkey urine*, can really produce some fantastic ads.  Who doesn't love dalmatians, draft horses, and Will Ferrell?!
• Bill Bellichick leads an undefeated team to the biggest game of the year, broadcast world-wide, and his wardrobe choice is a sweatshirt with the arms cut off.  Classy!
• One of the commentators used the word demonstrative in a sentence.  Correctly.
• Tom Petty pulls off one of the best halftime shows in ten years.  And he didn't even have to show a nipple.

So, today it's back to work.  I had a client call yesterday wanting to know if I could pull together some publicity pieces for an event that takes place in approximately 18 days.  (Read: Can you totally rearrange your schedule and make this project top priority and create some absolutely fabulous designs with little to no direction??)  and of course, I answered that would be no problem whatsoever and I'd have proofs ready by the end of the day. (Read: My hourly design rate just tripled.)

Off to earn a living!  Happy Monday!

*Disclaimer: I have not actually tasted donkey urine, but I have had a Bud Light, and neither is something I wanna drink.

Apparently, we are OU fans.

Remember when college football was over on January 1?  I do, and I miss those days.  This extended schedule of the BCS is really messing up my evening television viewing.  Because even though we have absolutely no ties to any of the teams that happen to be playing, it is still critical that we watch the games. No, we are not from Oklahoma.  We did not attend OU.  We don't even really like the color red and we are perplexed by what a Sooner actually is.  But apparently if we don't watch, Mike's membership card to the Manly Club could be revoked. Not following the logic?  Yeah, me neither.  But since I failed to find supporting evidence as to why I must see every episode in VH1's Modelthon, our television is tuned to the bowl games.  And occasionally, I am rewarded for my compromise with priceless moments like these:

 

 

My inner 12-year old-boy is still giggling.