To Pee or Not to Pee

I must confess that Olympic swimmer Ryan Lochte makes my pulse quicken.  Yes, I’m a Marylander who should think all things aquatic begin and end with our own Michael Phelps.  Phelps is a genuine sports legend, but Lochte is medal-worthy in both swimming and looks IMHO.

If you watched his recent interview with Today show’s Matt Lauer, Lochte isn’t as adept at interviews as media-savy Phelps.  But he IS disarmingly honest.  When he admitted to Ryan Seacrest that he has, in fact, peed in the pool, stating that “sometimes you just gotta go,” it elicited a comment from none other than British Prime Minister David Cameron who was not amused. 

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 “I’m surprised to hear that,” Cameron said.  “It’s not OK to pee in the pool.”  Lochte’s laid-back approach to the art of cryptic interview answers must be inherited.  His mom recently stated that he didn’t really have time for developing relationships with girls due to his packed schedule, and had to make do with ‘one night stands’.  Ryan laughed when he heard what his mother said, knowing that she meant he didn’t have time for more than a date here and there.

So unphased was Lochte that when comedian Will Ferrell contacted him about doing a “Funny or Die” YouTube clip on pool-peeing, Ryan jumped right in.  Tongue firmly in cheek, he remarked that he plans on writing a book called “Fifty Shades of Yellow” and producing a series of podcasts redubbed “peecasts”.

http://www.funnyordie.com/videos/bbf2c287fe/peeing-in-pools-with-ryan-lochte?playlist=featured_videos

Whether they will publicly admit it or not, most people have peed in the water during recreational swimming.  And until a safe, urine-activated marker is invented for chlorinated pools to embarrass swimmers into compliance, it will continue.  Note here that it is an urban legend that a substance has already been invented.  Despite their parents’ instructions, kids are prone to use the pool rather than disrupt their fun to seek out a restroom.  And, I suspect it isn’t restricted to the under-18 age group either.

If you’ve ever wondered about how safe it is to swim with the bladder-challenged group, just keep your mouth closed while you read the following.

Think chlorine kills everything?  It does kill many germs, but when it mixes with urine, it can cause irritants that produce a skin rash and red eyes.

Remember the once-ubiquitous signs that demanded everyone shower before entering the pool?  Few people shower with soap before entering a pool, but it does help prevent illness by removing germs from the skin.  And the nether regions of our bodies can pack a germ-filled wallop.  Also, cryptosporidium bacteria are chlorine resistant and are the main cause of gastroenteritis from swimming in pools.  While the proper amount of chlorine will kill most bacteria within a minute, it’s worth noting that during public pool inspections, one in eight pools are shut down temporarily for improper chlorine levels, according to the Center for Disease Control.   

So, although I doubt he'd be interested, I'd swim with Ryan Lochte anytime.  I'm just not going to do it with my mouth open. 

I'll Take One PATROLMAN QUAD-RAIL QRP .223 REM, Please.

As I watched the horrid news of yet another massacre of innocent people, I wasn't surprised to read that the accused gunman found it all too easy to obtain his weapons.  In fact, we all may have subsidized their purchase.  Before he withdrew from the doctoral program he was enrolled in, James Holmes' financial aid included a $26,000 annual stipend for living expenses.  He reportely acquired his guns, ammo and tactical garments legally.  And I can personally attest how easy it is.  I went online and was able to order both weapons and anmunition without any type of background check or permit requirements.  There are even assault rifles for sale or barter on craigslist. 

At the risk of bringing the Second Amendment wingnuts out of the woodwork, I'll just state my opinion.  The right to bear arms, whether for hunting or personal protection, should not include weapons like grenade launchers, assault rifles, or other explosive devises whose only purpose is to wound or kill multiple living targets.  I understand that they can and should be used by the military, but I see no reason for civilians to possess them.

I'll gladly give up that freedom rather than see the periodic slaughters roll across my television screen:  Aurora, Columbine, Virginia Tech, University of Texas at Austin, Cal State Fullerton, San Ysidro, California McDonald's, Edmond,Oklahoma Post Office, Jacksonville, Florida GMAC, Killeen, Texas Luby's cafeteria, Springfield, Oregon's Thurston High School, Northern Illinois University, Fort Hood, Texas, and more.  And these are just the large-scale mass murders.

I'd be willing to bet that you'd be hard-pressed to find a friend or family member of a victim murdered by gunshot who opposes gun control.  The "controls" we have today are laughable.  How long will it take before we restrict ownership of at least the rapid-fire weapons for which there are no plausible reasons to own?  And, I'm sorry, but the Zombie Apocalypse doesn't qualify as a valid reason.

Bullet-proofing a Heart

Losing a much-loved pet is never easy.  I knew this from experience, having lost two other dogs in 2006.  Even though, as a rescue, he'd lived with me for just 5-1/2 years, we managed to bond on a deeper level.  He'd been treated poorly, possibly abused before I found him, trusting no one.  I took about 18 months before he warmed to me, finally climbing onto the sofa to curl up against me while I wrote on my laptop.  The cat learned to live on the second floor to avoid being hunted on the lower level.  Whenever I traveled, he stayed at a local veterinary kennel, much to the staff's delight.  He was a favorite, with his dense, grey-and-white, double-layered  Malamute fur, ice-blue eyes and smiling muzzle. 

While on a trip to Birmingham, Alabama about six months ago, he survived a near-death health crisis which responded to several medications.  I wrote a blog entry, worried that he might not survive.  As the months passed, I grew hopeful that we would be able to manage his illness, despite the expense of the prescriptions.  He began to climb the steps slowly and sleep more until one evening recently when he couldn't keep his dinner down.  Anyone who has a dog knows that they occasionally manage to eat something while on the daily walks that upsets their system, so I wasn't too worried at first.  But by the third day without eating and the frequent potty breaks, I knew it was time to get help.

The young vet was sober after the blood work and x-rays, obviously not wanting to deliver the news:  his liver was enlarged and the mass that we hoped was benign had grown markedly.  He was in distress and surgery wasn't likely to save this 12-year-old pooch.  So I made the decision that I'd dreaded.

His death was by appointment and I didn't want him to spend his last night in the kennel.  I brought him home for his comfort and mine, and so my seven-year-old granddaughter would have a chance to say goodbye.  After sleeping on the floor with him that night to make sure he was reasonably comfortable, I fed him a sirloin steak as his death row meal, which he ate with great relish.  The seven-year-old insisted on being present during the procedure, so with her mom's permission, she accompanied him on his final journey, stroking his fur and murmuring her love as his eyes dimmed.

It's been over a week since that day and she seems to have adjusted after several days of tears and a week of gymnastics camp. She insisted on purchasing several helium-filled balloons to send a laboriously-created love note to doggie heaven.  My own healing progress has been hampered by both physical and mental reminders of my animal friend.  I'd been trained by habit to respond to his needs and it's difficult to switch off.  After locating the toys and bones scattered throughout the house, washing and storing the bowls, leashes, and collars, I have to catch myself.  Whenever I'm gone for a few hours, a mental reminder rings that I need to go home to take him outside.  When I sleep late, I wake up with a start, thinking he needs to be walked.  I keep checking to be sure he has water.  I save the plastic grocery bags for lawn clean-ups that won't happen.  When food is dropped onto the floor, I have to remember that he's not here to automatically scarf it up.  I felt almost disloyal, cleaning his profuse sheddings from the rear car seat and releasing them to the wind.

Although I half-heartedly browse through petfinders.com, it's far too soon to consider adopting another dog.  It would seem like marrying on the rebound after the death of a spouse.  But the house is too quiet.  Bebe, the cat, is still sure that Bullet is around somewhere, waiting to pounce, so she remains in now self-imposed exile upstairs, venturing down to the sofa only at night, when she's sure he's asleep.

Thankfully, I have several trips planned that will help take my mind off of my "Hairy Potter's" absence.  They will take me through to the end of summer.  When the weather cools and I pull a coat out of the closet, I'll think of him again as I reach for the sticky-taped, pet hair roller.  Some things will never change.

Thanks, Bullet, for over five years of love and companionship.  I hope you enjoyed the ride.

The Evolution of Beach Life

Returning from five near-perfect days at the beach, I'm always surprised by how different each visit feels.  The visits are stored in my own mental iCloud like reels of celluloid film, quickly becoming more fragile each time I hold a private viewing.

The first trip I can remember was around age eight...the annual family vacation that I know my parents had saved for all year.  Slick-bottomed boogie boards had yet to be invented, so kids either had the inflatable canvas rafts or the cheap vinyl version.  People usually rented the canvas rafts, but the vinyl blow-ups sold for a dollar or two and lasted for about that many days before developing a hole.  My parents spent a lot of time waving their arms for my brother and me to stay in the area directly in front of the family blanket, as the surf constantly moved us down the coastline with each ride.  We would catch waves and ride them in repeatedly until getting caught at the wrong break of a large wave which pounded us down to the sandy bottom.  It was like being churned in a mixer, and unsure which way was up.  Gasping for breath as we finally made our way back to the surface, we would sit out for a few minutes until our courage returned.  There were no skin cancer warnings, and everyone smelled of Coppertone or cheap No-Ad suntan lotion.  There was no such thing as sunblock.  All the kids in our extended family had New Delhi street beggar skin by the time August rolled around. 

Dad took us to dinner at a restaurant twice during vacations.  One night would be at Capt. Bunting's so we could all see the big fish (usually marlin) hanging on the docks while we waited to be seated, and the other night would be Phillips Seafood restaurant.  Every year, without fail, my father would lose it when the waiter took our order at Phillips.  Everyone had steamed crabs except me.  I liked crabs well enough, but for some reason I always ordered fried chicken.  He always groused at having to pay five dollars at a time when fryers sold for nineteen cents a pound.

Vacations changed when I hit fourteen.  My parents bought a lot at Susquehanna Trails and discovered the economies of camping.  I HATED everything about camping: the musty tent, sleeping bags, smelly outhouses and all.  It wasn't confined to only the summer months, but spring and fall as well.  I'd started dating and missed untold parties and events while imprisoned in the woods of Pennsylvania.  Sulking inside the tent, I tried to sleep the weekend away to make the time pass more quickly and avoid the pretense of boring campfires and marshmallows.  Desperate to escape, I landed a full-time summer job and began working part-time the rest of the year.  The extra funds helped to avoid a wardrobe from Epsteins and the dreaded bargain basement clothing of the downtown Big Four retailers.

Eventually the summer between junior and senior year of high school, I managed to convince my mother to let me spend Memorial weekend at Ocean City, Maryland with girlfriends.  Four of us banded together to save on the room rental.  We discovered the heady power of strutting on the boardwalk in bikini-clad, tanned bodies.  Parties and beer flowed, resulting in days spent on beach blankets, tanning while recovering from the previous night's excesses.  After a few hangover sunburns, we resorted to wind-up kitchen timers to "ding" loudly enough to remind us to turn over.  A slice of 9th Street pizza and a cup of Thrasher's fries were our sole sustenance.  These weekends were what we saved and lived for in high school.

Finally, the beach visits of college arrived with no restrictions.  The numbers sharing hotel rooms increased to allow more money for beer and included both sexes.  One memorable weekend included balcony jumping at a popular motel.  Unfortunately, my last jump was an epic fail from the third floor.  As my hands searched frantically for something to grab onto during the swift fall, I hit the ground and regained consciousness to find myself surrounded by people calling for an ambulance.  Luckily, I jumped to my feet and quickly walked to the elevator back to my room.  If my parents had received a call from the local Emergency Room, I knew that would be the last beach trip as long I lived under their roof.  The next day on the beach was brutal, as I'd scraped the skin off of my fingertips, and had lovely bruises blossoming from the fall.  To make matters worse, I was so hard asleep on the blanket that a friend had to wake me to advise that part of my anatomy was hanging out of my bikini top.

After I married and had kids but no money, the death march camping vacations returned.  I never considered packing, unpacking, cooking, cleaning up and swatting mosquitoes while chasing a two-year-old very relaxing.  This past week's trip was less work than those, as I stayed in a hotel with my daughter and grandkids, but the seven year old wraps herself around me like a vine whenever we sleep in a shared bed.  On the drive home, I mused that since I soon will have more free time on the weekends, I might enjoy a date or two.  Despite her selective hearing loss, the seven year old responded, "EWWW...at YOUR age?"

Maybe someday I'll again share a room with someone closer to my own age, toss back a few drinks and stay up past bedtime .  But no more balcony jumping.     

The Pilot Light

The phone rang yesterday.  I wasn't home, so the blinking red light on the answering machine called to me when I returned.  As I listened to the recording, a tousled blonde voice jerked my heart back half a century to a silver-grey Vespa piloted by a six foot tall teen Adonis.  He called to find out when "The Body War" - the sequel to my book, "Ednor Scardens" - would be available.  The first time he read it out of curiosity, wondering what lay between the covers of a story written by someone he knew.  Satisfied, he put it aside until recently, when he read it again more slowly, dissecting the clues buried in the main characters: a certain phrase, an expressive description, or a setting that no longer exists. Unable to resist, he had to ask how much of himself had been poured into the young alpha male of the story, Michael Kelsey. 

He is still happily married to his lovely wife with whom he has several adult children.  I am not, having unwisely married my childhood off-again, on-again boyfriend who had traded me in for a newer model some years back, so I couldn't help a bittersweet 'what if' moment.  My caller had been the love of my life when I was fifteen, until an unfortunate convergence of misunderstandings brought our relationship to an abrupt end.

We were at a dance and a mutual male friend approached during a band break.

"I always wanted to go out with you," the friend said, out of the blue.  Caught off-guard, I blurted what I thought was a polite reply.  "I always wanted to go out with you, too."  And the evening spiraled out of control from there.  The traitorous boy wasted no time repeating my meaningless (to me) comment to Tousled Blonde, who announced in a wounded, aggrieved voice, that I was now free to do exactly that.  Weeks of varying degrees of anguished tears followed as I banished myself to my tower on Rexmere Road, sadly writing his name in bubble letters in my wire-bound spiral notebooks. 

We both moved on, to very different lives and parts of the country, until I saw him again last year when he stopped by unexpectedly to pay his respects at my brother's funeral.  Still handsome and remarkably unscathed by time, he told my sister-in-law that I once had the ability to stop traffic by simply standing on the curb.  Well, lots of women have that effect, and make a lot of money at it, but his rose-colored assessment still made me blush.

Even as I compose this, the strains of the songs we danced to...the Ronnettes' "Be My Baby'' and James Brown's "Try Me" float softly through my brain.  I told him that the character, Michael, was a composite of boys I had known: the star athlete, the wealthy son, the cheat, among others.  He was not those.  But the devilish humor, kindness and compelling good looks...well, I've been outed.  Now I'm going to be embarrassed, wondering what he'll think as the characters mature into more adult activities in the four-book series.  

You know who you are, and you are welcome.  You've been immortalized and I know I've just made your day.  Hell, at our age, I may have made your year! ;)

A GREYHOUND WHO STILL WOOFS! Reflections on the decades of talent out of Loyola University (Md)

As the afterglow of the Loyola University (MD) Cinderella story begins to cool, much has been made of the unlikely convergence of talent at the small Jesuit school at the corner of Cold Spring Lane and Charles Street in Baltimore.  It is a testament to the deep roots the sport has in the Free State.  

Although the game was first documented by Jesuit missionary Jean de Brebeuf in Ontario in 1636 when he observed the Huron tribe playing the strange sport, other tribes throughout the U.S. and Canada were also playing “The Creator’s Game”.  The Iroquois played it for the enjoyment of The Creator and, in special ceremonies, to heal tribal members.  But it was the French Jesuits who dubbed the webbed stick “le jeu da crosse” for its resemblance to a shepherd’s crook or a bishop’s crosier.  It took another quarter of a century before W. George Beers set down the rules, standardizing the game.  And that was fifteen years after then-Loyola College had been founded.  

Through the years, Loyola University of Maryland has produced a wealth of fine athletes, in spite of its lack of big money and endorsements.  The emphasis is on producing students grounded in spirituality and the Jesuit tradition of service to their fellow man.  Recruiting isn’t always easy, competing with the powerhouse machines of much larger universities like Duke, UNC, University of Maryland and many others.  Still, this small, private, catholic school has produced over 90 All-American men’s lacrosse players since 1959…and the number is higher if you count the players who were named over multiple years such as the Greyhounds’ coach, Charley Toomey in 1989 and 1990.

Looking over the long list, I recognized several names from my own college years and, in a “where-are-they-now” moment, I decided to track one down.  His name is John White, All-American lacrosse middie from 1967.  One of the most natural athletes of the 1960’s, John played three sports as a 14-year-old freshman:  football, basketball and baseball at Loyola High School (Blakefield) during ’59-’60, a year that brought state championship titles in all three of those sports.  He modestly describes the achievements as “harmonic convergences, where a couple of outstanding coaches accidentally hooked up with a couple of outstanding players”.  He doesn’t include himself in that group, saying that the championships weren’t due to any efforts on his part.  But the real significance of that year was the introduction of lacrosse to Loyola High by coach Eddie Miller and, aided by Gene Corrigan, the enthusiasm that the men brought to the “new” sport made John White want to be both a player and a coach.

Intrigued, John dropped football and basketball in his sophomore year, concentrating on lacrosse and baseball.   He laughs when asked about his lacrosse beginnings.

“There’s an old Joseph Campbell quote, ‘Follow your bliss’.  I was nuts about lacrosse but could barely cradle the ball, pass or catch.  I had no idea what the rules were.  But my uncle Harry (Nance) was All American at Hopkins and played crease for the Mount Washington Lacrosse Club.  He was one rugged dude and nearly as fast as Gene Fusting.  He gave me one piece of advice:  learn to go both ways and they’ll never be able to shut you down.  It worked.  I came up with some stupid moves, but they always got me open.  I practiced shooting at my brothers in the backyard.”

And John’s “stupid moves” worked so well that by his senior year, he was named All Maryland midfield. 

He headed to then-Loyola College and played short stick middie for four years.  When asked how his equipment differed from what players use today, John explained:

“We didn’t have the perfectly-balanced replaceable plastic heads.  We had old wooden crosiers that you bought at Bacharach Raisin and hoped to hell you didn’t break.  We’d stick popsicle sticks in the wall and shellac it overnight.  For the pocket, we used Neatsfoot oil.”

Ever-humble, John feels the reason for his lacrosse success was dominated by conditioning.

“The only reason I was ok at college lacrosse was because I did a lot of running.  I did NOT want to woof my cookies in the 4^th quarter with the clock on the field.  We ran three midfields.  You went both ways in those days – no platooning.  I didn’t drink until after I graduated.”

When asked how today’s lacrosse players differ from those of his college years, John replied,

“Everybody today has great stick work and generally is buffed.  It wasn’t like that when I played.  It was more of a party atmosphere.  But, make no mistake, the great players of that era would be great whenever they played.  My idols (too many to mention) played for Mount Washington, Hopkins, Navy and Virginia.”

John White’s favorite game of his college career was also his last.

 

“It was at Penn State in ’67.  I think we tied 13-13, but I had 5 goals and a couple of assists.  A month later I was backpacking through Europe and when I got back to the states, the All American list was out…and I was on it, way down at the bottom with the barely mentionables!”

So what has life held for All American John White since his glory days as a ‘Hound?

“I served in the army and when I was 29, I moved to California and became a tennis pro.  I didn’t even know how to play tennis, but if you do something you love every day, all day, it’s amazing how quickly your skill level improves.  I’ve been a tennis pro, running clubs and teaching, in California, Arizona and Maryland for 37 years and I absolutely love it.  And forty years after Eddie Miller introduced me to lacrosse at Loyola High, he became one of my tennis students!  I didn’t pick up a lacrosse stick again until, after 21 years out west, I returned to Baltimore and started “Affordable Sports” where I taught tennis, lacrosse and golf.  Shots and dodges were my favorite thing to teach in lacrosse, but nowadays it’s just tennis and golf.”

Today’s lacrosse players often begin as soon as they’re old enough to walk and hold a stick in their hand.  When I asked John’s advice for today’s young players and their parents, he offered this: 

“As a little guy, baseball was my passion.  Then it was basketball, then lacrosse, and now golf.  They each had their chapter.  I think if there is a secret for kids and parents, it’s to experiment with as many things as possible, whether it’s sports or whatever.  When you find your bliss, it’s not work – it’s play.  And when it’s fun, you’ll put in twice as much time and you’ll be twice as good at it.”

In closing, when asked what his goals are now, John stated,

“To stay out of trouble and hit a lot of balls…golf AND tennis.  My project for this year is to get out some ebooks and podcasts, and play a lot of guitar.  Guitar started as it did for a lot of guys…a way to get girls, but now it’s because I love it.  Another one of those ‘follow your bliss’ things.  I’ve always remembered something that Carl Jung said about picking a career.  He said it should be about as difficult as falling off a log.  Follow your nose.  That’s what you’re meant to be doing.”

John White Sports can be found at www.bouncepoint.com

Slacker Blog Post: Funny Test Answers

Due to the inordinate amount of traveling that I will be doing this week, I am going to post a slacker blog. 

As another school years rolls to an end, it’s time for some of the best test answers that teachers have submitted.  Although I could only really include the relatively clean ones, I’m willing to bet that the kids who had the guts to actually hand them in sound a lot smarter than the person who devised the test.  Note that the definition of a “best” answer doesn’t mean that the test taker received full or any credit at all.  

Q:  What do we call the science of classifying living things?

A:  Racism

Q:  Name four heavy metals and their symbols.

A:  Megadeath, Anthrax, Slayer and Metallica

Q:  What’s your greatest accomplishment so far?

A:  Starting this homework

Q:  What hasn’t happened yet that you are looking forward to?

A:  I haven’t started question #3 yet, and I’m looking forward to it.

Q:  What have you been given to start you on your journey?

A:  A pencil

Q:  What’s new, interesting and appealing?

A:  The question after this one.

Q:  What’s old, worn out, and boring?

A:  The question before this one

Q:  The first cells were probably _________

A:  Lonely

Q:  Imagine you lived in the same time as Abraham Lincoln.  What would you say to him?

A:  Don’t go see that play.

Q:  Explain briefly what hard water is.

A:  Ice

Q:  In the space below, please enter any comments about this course or instructor not covered above.

A:  If I had only one hour more to live, I’d spend it in this class because it feels like an eternity.

Q:  If Miranda cannot see anything when she looks in her microscope, suggest one reason why.

A:  She is blind.

Q:  To change centimeters to meters, you ______?

A:  Take out the “centi”

Q:  Explain the saying, “Some people don’t look up until they are flat on their backs”.

A:  It means some people can’t look up because something is wrong with their necks.  For example, if someone gets kicked in the neck by a kung fu midget, they won’t be able to look up.

Q:  Where was the Declaration of Independence signed:

A:  At the bottom

 

Q: There are 300 students in the class.  Mary and Mark want to find out the class’ favorite color.  Mary asks 30 people.  Mark asks 150 people.  Mark says that his conclusion is more likely to be right than Mary’s.  Why does Mark think he is right.

A:  Because Mark is a man

Q:  Explain why phosphorous trichloride is polar.

A:  Because God made it that way

Q:  What type of attractive force or bond holds the sodium ions and chloride ions together in a crystal of sodium chloride?

A:  James Bond

Q:  Assess Fashion House’s decision to locate its factory near Birmingham.  Is Birmingham the right location for this type of business?

A:  No, because Birmingham isn’t very fashionable.

 

Q:  Name one of the early Romans’ greatest achievements.

A:  Learning to speak Latin

Q:  Write a short story in as few words as possible.  The story must contain the following three elements:  religion, sexuality and mystery.

A:  “Good God, I’m pregnant.  I wonder who did it.” 

Congratulations to all the teachers out there who made it through another year.  You are candidates for sainthood.