Tweeting for gold ⁰

Every evening, Scott and I watch the primetime Olympic coverage and talk about what events we might have done well in, had we pursued them at a younger age.

Scott probably would have had a pretty good chance at swimming, water polo, and possibly rowing or kayaking.

And if I had played my cards right, I just might have been one of the dancers who performs in between beach volleyball matches. (Dare to dream, Katrina. Dare to dream.)

Clearly, Scott is the one with the majority of the athletic ability in this relationship.

Although I’d argue his best shot at Olympic glory would be winning the gold in tweeting.

Please tell me I’m not the only one who would pay good money to see Scott riding on Ryan Lochte’s back as if he were his own personal dolphin? (While carrying a Trident, obviously.)

Liked this? Then try these:

My Date with Katniss

Somebody won't come out of the closet

A little bit crazy

Diamonds are a man’s best scapegoat ⁴

While watching the Olympics last night, Scott pointed out that the headband I was wearing made me look like a cancer patient.

I argued that it actually made me look like an Olympic Swimmer, donning the signature Team U.S.A. black swim cap.

I then suggested that to be believable as an Olympic Swimmer, I’d probably need to lose a few pounds.

My observation was met with complete and utter silence.

This was either because Scott actually agreed with my comment, or was distracted by the riveting men’s gymnastics coverage.

Either way, if it hadn’t been for the fact that just two hours prior, he had taken me to the jewelry store to upgrade the diamond earrings he got me for my birthday, I just might have shanked him with a toilet brush right there during the pommel horse finals.

Liked this? Then try these:

Über Bowl

Teenage Dream

How to ruin Mother's Day. (For a duck, at least.)

Why I’ll never be an Olympic athlete ⁰

You know…other than the the reason that Turbo Kick will probably never be considered an official event, and all.

In honor of tomorrow’s opening ceremonies, I’d planned on doing an Olympic-themed post where I described my experience at the 2010 Winter Games in Vancouver, British Columbia.

The benefit of marrying a metrosexual is that he’ll one day be willing to watch figure skating with you.

Our journey to Vancouver proved to be quite the adventure. Believe it or not, I was so decked out in Team U.S.A. gear, someone actually mistook me for an Olympic Athlete.

Scott said they must have been intoxicated.

I argued that I’m totally believable as a curler, possibly even ice hockey player.

Yes, ice hockey. While I’m not all that coordinated, can barely balance on skates, and would undoubtedly flinch any time the hockey puck came whizzing within ten yards of my body, I’d probably be really good at starting fights, don’t you think?

Anyway.

Another highlight occurred during a random encounter on our bus to the ice skating compound. Anyone who knows me well understands that I am not afraid to chat up any stranger who happens to be in close proximity when using public transit. After a few minutes of casual small talk, I realized the man I’d been blabbing at for the past five minutes was a former Canadian gymnast who had competed in both Athens and Beijing. This was his first time in years simply “taking the games in” as a tourist.

“That’s awesome!” I replied, slightly starstruck. “I thought you looked like an athlete.”

He smiled, obviously pleased by my comment.

“So,” I continued, “How did you do?”

“Oh, you know…pretty good.” he replied bashfully, kicking his sneakers across the floor of the bus. ”I won.”

He won.

As in an Olympic gold medal, you guys.

Kyle Shewfelt, I’d like to formally apologize for not immediately identifying you as true Olympic royalty.

I didn’t recognize him without the spandex

I’d also like to apologize for sneezing all over your luggage.

Twice.

(The worst part is that I think it was designer.)

As if one celebrity sighting wasn’t enough, Scott and I bumpeed into Donald Sutherland at the ice rink an hour later.

I hope my hair looks like Donald’s when I’m old.

Our shoulders brushed, and Scott squealed like a teenage girl. Apparently D. Suth is his version of Justin Bieber. (No need to thank me for conjuring the image of Donald thrusting his hips and singing “Boyfriend.”)

*******

These two antecdotes are only the beginning of the amazing day we spent in the Olympic Village — there’s so much more I’d love to share.

Like the stranger who bought the hat of my head for forty dollars. (Which was more like $45, when you account for the exchange rate at the time.)

Don’t worry — I had three other identical hats in my back pack.

(It’s kind of a long story involving my dad, a bunch of overstocked gear from the Torino games, and the Spanaway, Washington Goodwill store.)

But, I won’t be going into any more detail about any of that.

Why?

Because I have no discipline.

I’ve had an insanely busy couple of days at work, my in-laws are coming to visit tomorrow, and I still have to clean, cook, and paint my toenails so they don’t secretly think I have cavewoman feet.

(Whatever you do — never let your in-laws think you have cavewoman feet. Trust me.)

Essentially, I’m burnt out. And you’re getting a mediocre post because I don’t have the discipline to suck it up and keep working.

This lack of discipline (combined with the fact that I possess about as much athletic ability as Miss Piggy) is also the reason I will never medal in the Olympics–despite the fact that I was actually born during the 1984 Opening ceremonies in Los Angeles. Many people took this as an omen that I was destined for gold-medal greatness. Really, I think my mom intentionally waited until that very moment, simply to test my dad. She wanted to see whether he would choose to watch the ceremonies, or my birth.

Apparently, he multitasked and did both. I’m not sure which he found to be more impressive.

So…while I’ll probably never compete in the games, there is one thing I could totally win a gold medal in.

Delusional office decor with a hint of sassy gay deer head.

Guarantee you the Swiss judge would give it at least a 9.6.

Liked this? Then try these:

While you were out

Guess where I am right now...

Life of the party

Blood, sweat and Oscars ⁰

First things first. Can we talk about my college buddy Ben dominating the Octagon last night?

Photo by Fábio Gianesi

Seriously…don’t mess with us Dana grads. You should have seen the girl I ran into last week who tried to convince me that my bachelors degree “didn’t count” as my undergraduate institution had closed its doors.

Let’s just say my revenge was similar to the involuntary tattoo scene from “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo”. Basically I scrawled “The Dana Difference” across her abdomen in pink Sharpie while Jolie licked copious amounts of peanut butter off of her face.

“How can something so wrong taste so right?”

Anyway, it looks like somebody’s definitely getting a new car from her UFC champion friend. A Bentley named “Ben” perhaps?

Relax. I certainly don’t expect Ben to buy me a new set of wheels. However, I wouldn’t be opposed to borrowing his new belt. You know, to wear out to Happy Hour sometime.

It’s big, it’s gold, it accentuates the waist. Perfect for pairing with a tunic and leggings.

Again, I’m totally kidding.

(But only because I don’t think they have Happy Hour anywhere in Smalltown.)

Also? I’m morally opposed to sharing accessories with the husband.

Scott wearing Ben Henderson's WEC championship belt

Totally would look better with leggings and a tunic, right?

In all seriousness, it feels like Christmas around here. Last night was Ben’s big fight, and tonight is the Oscars. Talk about a weekend jam-packed with fierce competition and shiny, gold awards! I’m particularly excited for tonight’s festivities as I missed the Academy Awards last year while travelling in the Caribbean.

I know. Don’t you feel really sorry for me?

It’s all fun and games until somebody discovers the free Pina Coladas.

My antics in Cozumel that day made me a shoe-in for “Best Performance in a Comedy.”

Or tragedy, depending on how you look at it.

Actually, the most appropriate title would be “Best Performance in a Hot Mess”, but that category doesn’t exist just yet. Although I’d argue that it should be added. You know, so Lindsay Lohan can finally take home an Oscar.

“I’d like to thank the academy. And the bartender.”

Photo by Rafael Amado Deras

The more I think about it, the Oscars aren’t all that different from a UFC fight…I mean, at both events, the celebrities make a grand entrance.

Sure, there are a few minor differences. Hollywood celebrities glide across the red carpet in Fred Leighton jewels and dresses worth more than my car. On the other end of the spectrum, MMA stars don plastic chains and Affliction t-shirts while storming into the arena as their ”entrance song” booms in the background.

Speaking of which, if any MMA fighters are reading this, would you please consider walking in to “Mama Mia”?

That would quite literally make my life. (“Defying Gravity” from Wicked would also suffice.)

But back to this random comparison that I promise will start to make sense soon. Once in the Kodak Theater/Octagon, the competition gets fierce.

Sure, the MMA fighters are more open about their hunger for victory, but you know those Hollywood stars are every bit as competitive.

So, when you saw Nicole Kidman politely clapping as Natalie Portman accepted the trophy for Best Actress last year, she was really thinking about going all UFC and smashing her pregnant little face in.

At least I’m assuming so.

And then there’s the speeches. Sure, Hollywood A-listers use words like “lovely”, “delightful” and “delicious” in their remarks, while UFC fighters typically climb on top of the cage and scream, before snatching the microphone from Joe Rogan’s hand and yelling something macho.

Personally, I hate when actors describe directors as “delicious”. Despite what I may have said before, cannibalism is not sexy.

Half naked men, glistening with sweat, mounting a giant cage and making primitive noises? Definitely sexy. At least Jolie seems to think so.

Jolie the chipin, licking up peanut butter

“Sweat is the only thing tastier than peanut butter.”

But the movie stars do have one advantage. They wear the previously mentioned gowns that cost more than my car.

Which is why I will watch, with bated breath, as they parade down the red carpet.

And then I will judge them in tomorrow’s blog post; picking apart every last detail of their hair, their makeup, their dresses, and their answers to interview questions.

The fact that I will be doing this while wearing stretch pants and eating caramel corn is obviously irrelevant.

So, stay tuned for tomorrow’s scathing review of all things Oscar fashion. In the mean time, win your own award by entering the most fabulous coffee giveaway in the history of this blog! You have less than two days left!