Weekend, you taunt me.

With no “sorry,” no “farewell.”

Me: Three-way tie: Aromatic, Radiant, Discount

Lipton: What is your least favorite word?

Me: Three-way tie: Moist, Juicy, Meaty

Lipton: What turns you on?

Me: The unexpected, sincerity, French fries.

Lipton: What turns you off?

Me: Non-game related charades, over-inflated egos, onions.

Lipton: What sound or noise do you love?

Me: The “sleepy sounds” emitted by my dog when you squeeze loves on her at night.

Lipton: What sound or noise do you hate?

Me: Slamming doors.

Lipton: What is your favorite curse word?

Me: Fuck. (Of course.)

Lipton: What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?

Me: Veterinarian. Or, novelist.

Lipton: What profession would you not like to do?

Me: Department of Motor Vehicles employee.

Lipon: If heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?

Me: “Nice job, kid.”

(Silence.)

I miss-hit a completely within-my-reach backhand which results in the ball rocketing from my racket frame and soaring above my head and out of my sight. I shake out my wrist, which now aches.

LoBCNTCToCP: “Ah, hell yeah. I love you! What you doin?”

(Pause.)

I lunge for a cross-court forehand and despite the force behind my swing, the ball does not clear the net and it audibly punctuates my failure with a “fwap.” I forget I’m playing a polite sport and utter “fuck” under my breath.

LoBCNTCToCP: “Smokin a blunt?”

My opponent’s lob floats over my head after a well-crafted approach shot brings me to the net. I turn around and watch it land well within the baseline. I call, “long!’

*end scene*

That, dear reader, is how you play the privileged, dominantly white sport of tennis on inner-city courts. Word.

When I realized the four, awkward, smart-as-hell snarky teens were laughing AT me, not WITH me, it was a bit of a whoa-moment. I took off the shades, stepped back, took a good look and realized I was like 30 and not cool. Out of touch, old.

I was writing an article for the small-town paper on a group of teen boys who were producing some short films. They were students at a local public residential high school for exceptionally bright students from across the state. They entered a few pieces in some area film festivals and were getting good reviews. It was meant to be a fun, feel-good story. And, apparently it sucked.

The boys ran a message board on their production group’s web site. I checked in after the story ran. Turns out, the article was not well-received. I think my favorite comment was something along the line of  ”I can’t say I hated the story. That would be like hating a drawing by a five-year-old.”

The feedback bruised. But then again, I hadn’t professed to be Hemingway.

I continued to write shitty city council stories and the like while in the employ of that paper. These days I primarily write news releases — it’s been a while since I’ve taken a stab at anything substantial.

Lately, I’ve been feeling a little inspired by Paul Varjak – I sorta feel like taking a “wild boyish fling at writing.”

1. Cupcakes from Sunflower Market

2. Mondo Vino wine club membership

3. This sweatshirt

4. Sunshine

5. Freshly bathed dog

6.  Open windows and fresh air

7. An afternoon with which I can do absolutely nothing

Three things currently ruining my day:

1. All the dog crap in the back yard.

2. The dark circles, bags under my eyes.

3. Work week picks up again tomorrow.

I was on skis, blasting down a mountain, it was cold, there was wind. It could work. I didn’t feel like discussing the source of my tears with my friends. Happy hour was imminent and I desired to make it as much.

The truth was, near the end of my second day on skis in 15 years, I could hear Dad. He told me to bend my knees, keep my poles out front and “Punch it! Punch it!”

Honestly, I’m not sure if Dad ever gave me those pointers. Someone did. It could have been him. For the purpose of reveling in the joy I had just rediscovered in skiing, and in light of my need to cling to any memories of Dad I can muster, I’m going to ascribe that advice to him.

If he were around today, he’d say I never took any of his advice. He’d be wrong.

Love you, Dad. I miss you every damn day.

Well, 2009 sure has been a busy year!!! We are truly blessed to have had such a wonderful year.  Violet turned three (21 in dog years!) and Stewart is now considered a “senior” at nine. Hard to believe they are getting so old! They still don’t really see “eye to eye.” Oh, how you wish your “children” would get along! (lol!)

Violet went on a TON of walks this year and several camping trips. She hiked to the Ice Lakes in a brand new Columbia jacket from the Outlet Mall that no longer fits. Guess we need to stop stuffing her full of Bones!!! She made friends at the kennel during a few trips we took out of town but was always happy to come home and sack out on the couch. What a couch potatoe!!! She continues to impress us with how smart she is and has learned new tricks this year. Her favorite is “raise the roof” where she jumps up on her hind legs and puts her front paws in the air. It’s hilarious.

Stewart was diagnosed with diabetes this year. It was tough news to get, but he’s on insulin shots now and seems to be doing fine. His little back legs have weakened and he’s lost four pounds, but we’ve got him on some new protein-rich cat food and think he’ll be back to his “fighting weight” in no time. Grandma Barb sent him some great new toys for Christmas and he’s been chasing mice until the cows come home. We think he’s got at least another “nine lives” in him.

We hope our best to you and yours in 2010.