Talking curling

All we did last night was talk curling. Yep. That's all we did.

We talked about the shots we missed and how that did not help the team. Yep. We did that.

The others of us, when not lamenting our own obvious and blatant fouls, assured the other guys that they didn't hurt our efforts all that much. If at all. Yep. We did that. Because that's what curlers do. We tell each other that they did okay.

Yep. It's what we do. It's the curling mindset.

I think we'd be a better world if more minds were set that way.

Crossing the street should not be life threatening

I have a very simple request this morning to all drivers: if you're going to use your turn signals, you gotta mean it.

As I prepared to walk across the street this morning, at a corner of Buchanan Avenue and Wesson in Detroit, I looked to my right then left as I should. I saw a black PT cruiser approaching on Buchanan with its right turn signal on. It was obviously slowing down too. I took that to mean that he was turning right onto Wesson. I looked back to my right one more time and started crossing the street.

That's when that PT Cruiser shot in front of me. He only missed me by inches. I'm still not really sure how he missed me at all; it was honestly that close.

Pedestrians and other drivers depend on you using your signals correctly, buddy. I don't appreciate that I trusted your obvious intent yet still came within inches of being sent sprawling. Or worse. If you were turning too early, could you at least have let me on across, or even tap on your horn? And while I'm ranting anyway you might have had the dignity to stop and apologize and make sure I was all right. You must have seen me jump backwards. You might have heard my yell. But you probably didn't, did ya, and that, if true, is the whole trouble. Pay attention when you drive, mac.

Just use your signals and mean it, drivers, and pay enough attention to the roads to actually see what's going on around you. Thank you.

The second slash double

I'm gonna tell you what. This was one of the best curling matches I ever played in, and I didn't do nuthin. The guys did it all.

They hit the line, they swept like all hell, they called the weight; they made the game. That they made me look good in the process well, I appreciate.

Every time I needed a shot, they supplied it. Every time I needed a hit and roll, they called it and swept in into place. Every time I needed a sweep, they put my rock exactly where it needed to be. They made this game.

It all turned in the second end. I called a slash double for three on my last shot. Even I, when spying it from the throwing end of the ice, wasn't sure it was there. I threw it anyway.

Brian, my vice, calling the line as he should, from that far end of the ice, made a non call. And it was a perfect non call. I wanted him to yell sweep from early on, fearing I was inside, yet he did not call it. I wanted a sweep when my stone was near the hog, the line which a stone must cross to be legally in play, but he did not call it. I wanted a sweep when my thrown rock was within two or three feet of a guard, a rock which might deflect a stone from its target, and he did not call the sweep.

And we missed that stone by fractions and made that slash double for three.

That is the greatest non call of my life. Brian saw it, and said nothing, as a vice who saw the line perfectly should have.

You, sir, are the man.

Raking in the winnings

Some guys, when they dream about hitting it big on the lottery, think they'll retire early and take big, bucket list trips. Others say they'll build that mansion on the hill and host fancy soirees entertaining foreign dignitaries. A few will shower family and friends with jaw dropping gifts. The better ones among us may even vow to become great philanthropists, helping the poor and ailing. For me, the first two words which spring to mind when I fantasize about coming into money are: lawn service.
I hate yard work. Despise it really. I like a well manicured lawn and brightly flowered gardens and great green trees. But I hate the chores that go into creating and maintaining them. I hate mowing the lawn and planting foliage and mulching gardens. And this time of year, I hate raking leaves.
Why can't we just let them rot on the ground? Isn't that simply nature's own recycling measure? Freddie the Leaf wants to become compost. He takes a bizarre, sublime, cloying delight in the thought. Shouldn't we stay out of the way and let him and his brother and sister leaves go back to be with Mother Nature as they wish? Isn't that what she wants too, to bring them home so that she can fashion them into more and greater leaves next summer?
I say, who am I to stand in Momma's way?

Buying a dog's favor

For some reason, my son's dog Gaspode and I don't quite get along. I think I'm a likable guy. But as dogs can often sense things about people which people can't sense, perhaps I should tread lightly there. I think, though, that I have found the chink in Gaspode's armor. We each share an affinity for potato chips.

I discovered this during Thanksgiving weekend. My son's family were in town and brought Gaspode along. On Wednesday night, as I munched on wavy potato chips, I offered the dog one. He took it, tentatively, and crunched it down. I offered him another. He took that one less tentatively. Still, he wouldn't quite let me pat his head.

The next day I upped the ante. I bought a bag of sour cream and onion chips. Gaspode walked with uncertainty to our kitchen when he heard me open the bag. He stood in the doorway, staring at me plaintively. "Rule one, dog,' I began, asserting that I was the alpha male, 'I get the first chip'. I ate one. Then I offered him one. He took it gratefully, and waited patiently for another. I had a second before giving him his second. We alternated a few more chips each before I put them away. Gaspode, though, was still slow to let me pet him.

By Friday morning, every time I walked into the pantry he would follow at a safe distance, obviously hoping that I would give him some chips. Yet even when I'd give him a couple or three he remained unwilling to let me touch him, although he had reached the point that I could pet him. He wouldn't wag his tail though. It was getting to where I was almost insulted: sure, I can feed you, but I can't pet you and not get a bit of adoration in return? And geez, I'm supposed to be avoiding potato chips, on doctor's orders, and here I am eating more of them than I have in months trying to curry a dog's favor? I'm risking my health for you, Gaspode.

I'll have his loyalty next time though. Yes, I will. I'm going to go nuclear on him, and he will become my friend. When he visits for Christmas, I'm having honey barbeque potato chips. I defy him to not wag his tail at that.

Throw them stones

It just gets into your blood. There's no other way to describe it.

I thought about not curling last night. It's been a bit of a rough week, and as I drove home from Toledo during the afternoon I was thinking, aw hell, maybe I won't curl tonight. Another player was on stand by, and the border (I curl in Canada) can be a hassle later in the week. It would have been easy not to curl. But I went on and curled anyway. I had missed last Thursday for Thanksgiving, and one Thursday before that due to car trouble. So I curled.

I'm glad I did. We caught the breaks and won, and the skip and sweepers made me look good. Go ahead: insert your favorite Marty and others make Marty curl well joke right now. I don't care. I can take a joke, and the guys did make me look as though I had a vague idea of how to play.

Few of my friends believed me when I insisted a couple years ago that I thought I was done with the game. Yet at the time, I really thought I was. I wasn't playing well. I was too intense, and it was affecting my attitude which of course will affect your game. But I was advised by a good friend to simply relax and remember why you curl.

That advice helped beyond my expectations. It got me back to the root of the game, and that was throwin' them stones. There's just something that gets into your blood about throwin' them stones and makin' them curling shots. Just relax and throw the stone.

It's a really satisfying feeling, I tell you what. I'm glad I kept playing.

The duck's back theorem of life

There are a few things he said which I try to live by. I was reminded of one such thing a few days back.

I was quoting a repair to customer A as customer B walked in. Customer A feigned a heart attack when I told him the price. He then turned to B and said that I was killing him. I jokingly told B that he may as well leave, that I wouldn't need his business after I was through extorting customer A.

Anyways, A says he'll think about it and leaves and I began to deal with B. To my delight, B being familiar with what A wanted, he first remarked, "I don't know what his problem is. That was a very good price you gave him." I said thanks. It's always nice to hear that you're actually an honest businessman. He continued, "How do you put up with that?". referring to customer's A's gyrations.

"Water off a duck's back, my Pops used to say," I told him. You can't let obnoxious stuff like that bother you. Let it seep away.

I try to remember that, because customers, hell, people in general, can be hard to deal with. Myself included, quite frankly. You just have to strive not to let it bother you. That whole incident was over in about 40 seconds. Why should it bug me? Okay, arguably I am letting it bother me right now, but to a purpose. I'm using the incident as an illustration. Don't let those things trouble you. Let them flow away like water off a duck's back.

I don't think it a bad way to conduct yourself at all. And by the way, A came back the next day and paid my price with no more issues. I like to think he realized he was being treated fairly after all.