Sunday, October 30, 2011

Social networking forms a community. And when things turn as bad as they did Thursday night, you need a little help from your friends.
I'm writing this on Friday, my column deadline. So I don't know what will happen tonight with the Rangers, even though we know now as we are reading this.
But I'm writing about that roller-coaster ride we all took Thursday night, complete with the moment the thing went off the tracks at the end.
Part of the time I sat in my recliner and worried. Part of the time I paced in front of the TV and muttered and cursed.
Sometimes I muted the sound, and for the last inning I put a blanket over my head.
I spent a lot of time on Facebook, of course. That's where my friends were waiting and watching the game with me. And cheering. And cursing. And crying.
And then doing it all all over again.
Here is a sampling of our get-to-gether when things started going bad:
Tracy: I quit.
(nine others like this)
Debbie: Nah, ya don't.
DeAnn: Not yet!
Mike: Still quitting?
Melissa: Quitters never win, booger.
Jesse: Tracy never quits. He's just reloading.
Tracy: I'm back.
(19 others like this)

Steve: I can't take this
Snow: I hate this!
Jennifer: Ug, this is killing me.
Ronda: I'm seriously going to have a heartache.

Scott: One strike away and he throws it over the heart of the plate!
David: wtf?
Katrina: omg! Where's the Tums?
Me: Forget the Tums. Where's the tequilla?
(six other people like this.)

Katy: that was a bit heart-wrenching, but I've got faith

Robyn: Seriously, am I expected to be at work tomorrow?
Missy: One strike away. Has Feliz been watching Romo?
Monica: Woop!
Jessica: That's how baseball go. Thanks, Josh!

Me: I'm going to hell for dropping the F-bomb 40 times in the last hour
(13 people like this)
Colleen: It's OK, Donna. God is a Rangers fan.
Sherry: %$**##@!
Brian: I'm two F-bombs ahead of you. I'll save you a seat.

Dirk: Sports can be so cruel. Gotta fogt about this one quick.
Tracy: Great closer my a..
(Ten people like this)

So here it is Sunday, and we know that we lost the world series. I don't know about the rest of you, but I just sat in a stupor and watched. I had no emotion left. Thursday night was the game we lost. And we knew. That game took the heart out of us. That game took the heart out of our guys. Friday night was the game that never should have been.
At least we have basketball and the Mavs
Oh wait....
Well, we have football and the Cowboys
Well, we have next year and the Rangers. And third time's the charm!

Sunday, October 23, 2011

I have a bone to pick with Mr. Webster.
Now any editor will tell you that I am not the world's greatest speller. Kieth Shelton once wrote on my evaluation "can't spell cat," and Mike Trimble still reminds me that I once spelled the plural of Jet ski "jet skies."
But some words I always spell correctly because it was drummed into me in journalism school. You know, commonly misspelled words that reporters should never fall victim to.
One of those words was pompon. No, not poupon. That's a mustard. Pompon. The things you wave at football games at any opportunity. I have a pompon for the Mean Green and I wave it endlessly given the slightest opportunity.
I wrote about my pompons a couple of weeks ago and was surprised to see when the column was published that some enterprising editor had changed the spelling to pompoms. I was horrified. What's the use of spelling a word correctly if an editor is going to change it and make it wrong.
Turns out that pompom is now the preferred spelling.
Who knew? Editors, that's who.
The explanation - so many people spelled it that way that it became word spelling law.
Now that's just wrong!
That's like saying that so many people run red lights that going through a red is preferred to stopping. Wrong!
As for me, I will continue to spell pompon in the old, yes, correct way and make them change it if they dare. No editor worth his salt would cower before a mere reporter with tradition and right on her side.
Especially one who writes about "jet skies."

Thursday, October 6, 2011

OK, so I ate the Baby Ruth bar.
It totally blows my diet to smithereens. That chocolate and the caramel and those peanuts are probably inside me right now, duking it out with the nugat to determine which of them is going to land on my thighs and how much belly fat they can glob on.
It was just one Baby Ruth, for Pete's sake. I ate it. OK? I admit it. I ate the frickin' candy bar.
That should suck up some of the calories, that admission. But you and I both know it won't. Even as I write this in a sorry damage control effort, I can feel my butt bulging up and my ankles growing.
I've been on this latest diet for weeks now, and I've seen some results. I messaged my friend Cheryl last week - I HAVE A MIDRIFF! And it was true.
It seems like there is something perverse in me that gets nervous when I start losing and plots to stop progress. Something inside my head wants me to stay overweight.
Why is that? Why would I have a three-inch long diet bar for lunch and fried chicken for dinner? Why did I eat the Baby Ruth?
I'm going to sleep on that and let the psychoanalyst fairy sprinkle some magic dust on it and see what happens. There could be a deeply buried psychological reason for my indiscretion. Lust came into play. Sensual pleasure beckoned and set off some hidden reaction in my brain. Atoms collided. Neurons ignited. Futons formed complicated chemical reactions that led to chocolate desire.
OK. Cut the BS and admit it.
Forgive me, oh Medifast gods, for I have sinned. And I loved it.