No Sympathy

Mark and I recently flew down to Utah for a marathon.  Not a marathon for me to run in mind you, Mark’s the insane runner in our coupledom.  He went to race and I went to spectate.

Now before you think Mark is the more robust of us two for such daring athletic prowess, let me appraise you on the subject of being a spectator.   To be clear, this is no easy task.  In fact, after my little soliloquy here, perhaps I will have convinced you that spectating should involve shiny metals like the marathoners get--a personal cause which heretofore has fallen on deaf ears.

First off, to spectate a marathon properly one must be in peak condition.  It is important to practice polite-but-firm shoving skills and a few sets of light elbow jabbing to get yourself in prime conditioning for the clash that occurs when trying to get a glimpse at the runners coming toward the finish line.  Most importantly you’ve got to condition your calves by doing copious amounts of leg raises so you’re fit enough to repeatedly lift yourself taller so you can see over the mishmash of heads in order to spot that runner you came to cheer for.  Next comes larynx conditioning.  Even with a voice like mine, well known for its legendary and admittedly obnoxious volume capacity, it will certainly be tested to its limits. Spending a few weeks before a race hollering at random people will strengthen the voice muscles and get your lungs at their peak performance.  Finally there’s the palm conditioning.  Palm preparation is also vital. Liberal amounts of clapping can wreak havoc on ones hands, as I will demonstrate later.

No doubt I’ve blogged about my unusually loud clapping skills.  I was cursed with a loud clap (which you can be certain I all too often use to my advantage in immature and impish ways).  It's an undisputed fact that my skills are so good that if clapping were an Olympic sport, I’d be the Nadia Comaneci of clapping, elevated to that esteemed spot on the tallest podium bungling the words to my national anthem under the weight of a dozen gold metals.  My clapping is so inexplicably extraordinary Olympic officials would get suspicious and have me tested for doping.

Speaking of gymnasts, Peter Vidmar happened to be one of the runners there at this latest marathon.  Mark was all excited because people kept coming up and asking him if he was Peter.  He was pretty proud that people were mistaking him for a world-class athlete but I pointed out that there was a high probability that all they were really doing was indirectly calling him “short”, or worse, perhaps an ‘aging athlete that looked pretty good for his age’.

But I digress….

Lastly, any experienced spectator knows you must strengthen your arms.  You risk great peril if you hold up a sign overhead too long, there is a real jeopardy of putting your arms to sleep.  This is a large tactical error--prematurely weakening your arms-- which will be needed towards the end of the race in order to position your hands for the all-important finish-line clapping phase.

Over the past few years I’ve spectated at many a race.  A handful of marathons, a couple triathlons, and a few 10 mile “quickies”.  So this latest marathon was definitely not my first rodeo.  I was in prime spectating condition…or so I thought.

This time I would be cheering on three racers--far more of a challenge than I surmised. Little did I know this sort of spectating should have required me to do more extensive cross-training beforehand to adequately prepare...and perhaps I could have had on hand a little bottle of 5-hour energy…just in case.

These races always begin in the wee hours of the morning, long before it gets light outside.  This is why you’ll likely never see me enter an event such as this.  The copious amounts of cussing I do in regular life are wholly exacerbated before dawn—or really anytime before 9am.  Add that to the fact that I hate to run and you’ve created a situation prolific with profanities.  Therefore I avoid marathon running like the plague.

So at 3:15am Mark and I, and my niece and nephew Danielle and Andrea, all piled into the car and headed to the race.  I dropped the three off at the appointed spot where they would be driven by bus to the starting point.  

Not even my iphone's flash wanted to wake that early in the morning...

This marked the start of my marathon spectatorship… 

First you have to stake out a parking spot.  Some races this can be an uphill battle, despite the absurd hour you find yourself doing it.  Popular races are a nightmare to find parking even at 3am.  You need to keep a vigilant eye out for a space.  Sometimes you have to hunt really hard which requires periodic rehydration using ice cold diet cokes just to keep you in the best condition for skimming and scanning parking lots.  Once you claim a space it's imperative you get a little shut-eye and rest up for the viewing obstacles you're about to surmount.  But this is no cozy nap mind you.  You find yourself cramped in the back seat praying sleep will come despite the frigid conditions you find yourself surrendering to. You're now about to toss and turn for a hour...

About ten minutes after you finally fall asleep, it's time to wake and scope out the finish line.  You see how early the crowd is amassing and whether you need to stake your claim to a small spot at the barrier.  Really jam-packed finish lines mean you won’t be able to camp yourself out in a comfy folding chair.  Often it’s standing room only for three to four hours.  But this is why you condition so hard for these epic ordeals.  Marathoners just don’t appreciate the stamina it takes to conquer the hellish conditions we onlookers are entrenched in at the finish line.

Fortunately for me, this marathon was a brand new first time ever race.  An inaugural run.  And because of this I was surprised at how easy it was to park and how sparse the onlookers were.  I got so excited I ran back to the car to get my cozy camp chair and envisioned an easy day at the races.  But boy was I wrong.

I arrived back at the finish and had my pick of the place and set out my chair.  But no sooner had I unfolded it and set it in just the right spot to shade me from the rising sun when the first finisher of the half marathon rounded the corner and headed for the finish.  The first few finishers always merit a lot of hoopla from everybody so I refrained from sitting and commenced clapping and cheering, and rooting for the first runner’s big finish.  No sooner was he gotten through when the second and third place runners rounded the corner and began their final push.  Gotta keep clapping for them too.  Soon I realized all these runners were coming in and I was the only one clapping for them.  The few people standing there were obviously being miserly and only there to clap for their runner and absolutely positively NO one else.  What the??  It is customary that runners all finish to a chorus of claps and cheers.  The sheer size of typical finish line crowd often insures that everyone there just part-time claps and somehow the roar of the crowd never stops for four or five solid hours until the last man or he-woman is through. 

Nobody at this race seemed to have read the ‘Spectating for Dummies’ book, which, clearly states that people crossing the finish deserve applause.

So there I was, epic applauder, with a major dilemma.  Do I let people finish, tears in their eyes, clinging to the last thread of life, headed for a silent finish?  It just all seemed wrong.  So I commenced clapping and never stopped for three hours strait!  Do you know what that does to your hands? Seriously. I’m not sure many people actually know the pain and suffering it can cause the palms of your poor hands.  Combine that feat with two hours of cheering stragglers on and rising up on my tippy-toes (up and down, up and down) so I could see over the selfish non-clapping people obscuring my field of vision--and you’ve got a recipe for serious palm chaffing, voice losing, calf crippling injuries.

Thankfully, Danielle successfully finished her first-ever half marathon and then both Mark and Andrea finished their marathons before I was blistered and bloody--all three finished to the single solitary applause and cheers of yours truly.  It seems there was an embargo on ebullience and I was the only one who didn’t get the memo.

Here's Andrea headed for his big finish.  Do you see anyone clapping for him out in that sparse crowd of onlookers?  Ba-humbug!

Again notice no clappers to be found in the background of this shot either... That poor guy crossing the finish did so in utter silence as I was the only clapper and I was using my hands to operate a camera to take this shot.

After the runners had a brief recovery at the finish line, I gently loaded three tired, sore, and sweaty passengers into the car and drove them strait to a burger joint so they could recover over butter burgers and icy cokes.   

 

Then it was time to get home to recuperate.  This R&R is strictly for the runners and hardly for the spectator.  That’s because there would be aching athletes to help up stairs, to tuck in beds, and to supply ice packs and aspirin to.  The finish line marks the end for the runners but not the spectators.  Spectators, I’m afraid, have a few more hours of service in which they will have to draw upon heretofore unknown tapped resources of courage and stamina, “dig deep” as Mark calls it, to provide after care to the tired blister laden athletes.  No one realizes the spectator has been doing calf raises and sign curls for three hours strait and that you may be in need of your own nap and ice pack.

They don’t notice until the next morning when you seem to be walking stiffly from sore calf muscles and see that you can barely hold onto things with your chaffed hand-clapping palms.  Then they’ll curiously inquire why you’re getting around so awkwardly.  This is when you tell them with your hoarse and weakened crowd-cheering voice, that you're actually sore from waiting at the finish line for their grand finale.

At which point, said runners will squish up their face in total repugnance and say, “How does that make you sore??”

Absolutely no sympathy.

Danielle's First Half Marathon:

Andrea's First Full Marathon, clearly re-thinking the whole idea:

Mark coming in for a strong finish. 3rd in his age division:

Fifty

Yep, Mark just turned 50.  50! Whoa!  So in an attempt to go easy on the old guy I thought I'd jot down 50 cheerful things you may find interesting for such a melancholy milestone...

First off...Fifty can't be that old.  
These young bucks are turning fifty right along with him...

• Eddie Murphy
• George Clooney
• Michael J. Fox
• Laurence Fishburne
• Ralph Macchio
• Wayne Gretzky
• Vince Neil  (of Motley Crew)
• Fabio
• Dennis Rodman
• Steve Young

And here's ten reasons Mark sure doesn't act like a 50-year old:

• He can wakeboard 360 degrees around the ski boat.
• He can ride a wheely on his quad for miles.
• He's pulls off some crazy moves on the trampoline.
• He skateboards around the house (yes inside the house!)
• He's placed second in his age division in every triathlon he's entered.
• He was just three minutes shy of qualifying for the Boston Marathon.
• He can jump wake to wake on his wakeboard. 
• Connor's baseball coaches had him pitch to the kids during practices cause he's still got a mean fastball.
• He's always the first to propose a game that involves danger and the possibility of trauma, scars, and or bruises.
• He avoids buffets like the plague.  Old, cranky, senior-discount plagues.

But then again, 
there's ten reasons we can't deny that he really has gotten older:

• At 50, he's actually old enough to join AARP.
• All the LITE radio stations are programmed into his radio's auto-tune buttons.
• When he grows a beard it comes in gray.  I rather fancy it though.
• He wears his readers anytime, anywhere, and doesn't care who sees.
• Slippers have become his favorite footwear.

• He likes to wear his noise cancelling headphones even when there's hardly any noise to cancel out.
• He lingers longer when flipping channels and pauses on trivia game shows.  It's only a matter of time before he just tunes in for the whole show and shouts out the answers.
• If you write him a love note, better do it in large print.  Or at least scan it and send it to his ipad.
• He's rather fond of the weekend nap.
• If someone teases him about his age he turns into                 Mr. Crankypants.  We tease him anyway.

Although, turning 50 does has its advantages...

• You're actually old enough to join AARP.
• Krispie Kreme gives you 10% off their donuts.
• You can save 20% off your monthly Gold's Gym membership.
• Sea World gives you $3 off a one-day ticket.
• and so does Busch Gardens.
• You can save 25% off at National Rent-a-Car
• You now qualify for K-Mart's "Gold K Prescription" discount program.
• Every Tuesday you'll save 10% at Goodys.
• and 10% off on Tuesdays at Michaels Craft.
• and now you can dress like your always on an African safari with your 10% discount at Banana Republic.

And if that's not cool enough...here's ten more interesting things about 50:

• 50 is the score on the center of a dartboard known as a "bullseye".
• The Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim retired the number 50.
• 50 is the atomic number of tin.
• An ant can lift 50 times its weight.
• The Roman Numeral for the number 50 is "L".
• The 50-move rules in chess: if there have been 50 consecutive moves of white and black chess pieces without any piece taken or any pawn moved, then a player can claim a draw.
• Back in 1986, Nevada’s Highway 50 was named the “Loneliest Highway in America” by LIFE Magazine.
• The U.S. Senate vote result in a tie 50-50 is the only situation that the U.S. Vice-President has a chance to cast his vote to break the tie.
• The critical speed in the movie “Speed” is 50 mph.  
• Londinium in Britain was founded by the Romans in the year 50 AD.

Happy Birthday Mark! 
You're still young to me.

My 'Icy Hot' Hubby

Mark just ran his first Marathon. After doing Triathlons for the past few years he decided to park his bike for a season and focus on his footwork.  He decided he wanted to run in the St. George Marathon and finish with a 3:25

On race day, he was off to a great start and ran with the 3:15 pace runners for the  
first 22 miles--something I couldn't do even if I was in a car.  Then, at 22 1/2 miles his calves started cramping up and it was all he could do to walk slowly to the aid station up ahead. When he limped in under the canopy, it was there that Mark learned the miracle of extra strength Icy Hot.

He said the best part of the race was there at that aid station when he got his calves slathered in icy hot.  He was in so much pain he said he didn't even care if he was getting a calf rub down by "two dudes". 

At this point, I will tell you that this is exactly why you aren't gonna catch me running a full marathon anytime soon.  When the best part of your race happens at an aid station, that should tell you something.  And although getting my calves massaged by "two dudes" does sound enticing to me, it's just not enough to lure me into the whole deal.  SO, as for me and my muffin top, we shall remain happily contented at the finish line with camera and sign in hand.  And as an experienced race sign holder, let me just say that cheering on racers is a highly under-appreciated job.  It takes a lot of stamina to stand in the hot sun and hold up a sign while you wait for your man to come through the finish.  Next time I'm bringing more electrolyte drinks to power me through that whole ordeal.

Once Mark got his calves massaged he was off and running again.  His finish time goal had already slipped by from having to walk, or more like limp into the aid station, but he was determined to finish the race with a decent time.

Here he is crossing the finish:

...and not a bad time either...

Here's Mark after downing several ice creams, a chocolate milk, and a gallon of Gatorade after his finish. 

As fit as my Marathon Man seems to look in this picture,  Mark was so sore it took him a half hour to walk two blocks to our rental car.  It seems he only moves fast when there's a shiny metal to reward him.  Meanwhile, I was so hot and sweaty from waiting at the finish line I wanted to pick up the pace and get in the air conditioned car.  But not Mark, he could barely walk.  So next time I plan on getting him to the car faster by bringing a dollar store medallion and luring him to the car faster by telling him he can earn a metal if he can get there in under two minutes--and if he can do it in under one, I'll throw in an ice cream.  That should do the trick.

My favorite memory of the whole race adventure was back at the airport two days later on our flight back home.  After they announced our flight was ready to board they invited anyone who needs assistance or extra time boarding because of disabilities to come forward and board first.  That's when my 'Icy Hot' hubby slowly rose to a decrepit standing position, muttered "I think I qualify today for that",  and then shuffled his way forward towards the plane while I followed behind carrying his bags!

Shopping with Boys

Just a few days before school started I decided I'd better get serious about back-to-school shopping.  I'd put it off long enough,  which is a classic move on my part.  I always seem to wait to the very last minute to shop for school because I detest it so much. The reason?  This loathsome ritual is the horrific sign that the end of summer is near.  And while most parents loooove sending their kids back to school, I rather like having mine around and being free from school schedules that seem to get in the way of fun family adventures.

But school was just around the corner and some shopping needed to be done.

This year's Back-to-school shopping quest was quite different because I had no daughters with me--this time it was just the boys. Four of them in all.

• Mark (playing the part of 'mature parent')
• Nick (cast in a supporting role as 'helpful friend')
• Connor (playing 'the little brother' in this scenero)
• Mitchell (cast as the lead as the 'college bound student who is in desperate need of some new jeans').

• Oh yeah, and me (playing the part of 'woman perilously trapped shopping with F-O-U-R boys')

Our first stop was for, of course, for jeans.

No sooner had I zero-ed in on the size we were looking for and had forced Mitchell into a dressing room with a pile of pants to try on, I begin to hear a ruckus coming from somewhere in the store.  Naturally I ALREADY KNOW who's probably behind all the noise and I go to investigate. This is what I find:

Nick ('supportive friend') is outfitting Connor and making him pose with the store mannequins.  Mark ('mature parent') decides he's not letting Nick outfit him in real clothes but eventually agrees to try on the entire mannequin by posing behind the headless ones. By the time Mitchell found the right jeans Nick had Connor in several outfit combinations and paraded him around the store to pose by the remaining mannequins and scare the customers.

Then we were off to the shoe store.  How much trouble can you get in there??

The answer is:  A LOT.  We weren't even in the store for more than two minutes when this debacle happened:

The pairs that fit Mitchell's enormous feet were
a wee bit too high up for Mark to reach:

And instead of him smartly asking Nick

who stands at 6'4" and CAN reach the box...

 (apparently Nick was too busy trying to get Connor 
to try on the goofiest looking shoes in the store.)

...Mark just tugs at the lower ones...

Mark spilled the entire stack of shoes!  Unfortunately my stealthy i-phone camera skills didn't reach the crime scene in time to capture all the shoes that fell to the floor. Mark had managed to stuff a few back before I got there because he knew I'd be coming with my camera. [These folks have been blogged too many times to let their guard down anymore-dang it!]

I may not have gotten the optimal photo shot but I did get the last laugh...

When we went to buy the shoes, the lady at the checkout, with a scoffing look, loudly told all the boys that 'this is the very reason why, when customers buy a pair of shoes, we always check that both shoes are the same size.' 

[secret message received.] 

After that crazy outing I made the boys take me out for some chocolate.  It was while sitting there eating chocolatey goodness amidst a pile of shopping bags I realized that while our summer adventures may be over, I've learned that if I'm really in the mood for an escapade,  and school's still in, all I need to do is take a bunch of boys shopping...and bring my camera.  Almost as entertaining as a summer road trip.

Turncoats

Yet another confession...which comes in two parts. First, the easy one: Mark and I graduated from the same high school--not much of scandalous confession there, right? Then comes the second part of the confession where I tell you we never even knew each other in high school because we didn't attend it at the same time. While Mark was courting the ladies at his senior prom I was still in the sixth grade sporting pigtails and twirling on the monkey bars. How's that for some scuttlebutt?

But, despite the humongous chasm in the particulars of our graduation dates, we are both Grizzly alumni. And proud of it too. Or at least I thought we were until Mark recently had what I hope was just a momentary lapse in loyalty.

This freakish display of temporary treason happened last Friday night.  We took the family down to the high school's football field to watch our Grizzly's play a highly anticipated football game that only happens every three years--and only played every SIX years here on our home field. It's the local but legendary Pacific Rim Bowl. Since 1988, our high school has been shuttling back and forth every three years to play against an all-star team from, of all places, Japan. 

And this year it was the Grizzly's turn to host the games. Mark gets especially excited about the Pacific Rim Bowl because it means
one thing: plenty of victims in town to practice his scarcely used Japanese on. 

So when we showed up on Friday night, paid our entry fees, and headed to the crowded stadium to sit with all our fellow Grizzlies, Mark shocked us all by walking right past the stadium steps and veered sharply to the right to the bleachers on the other side of the field. ENEMY TERRITORY.

Huh?

About that time he muttered something about how there was no one over there to root for team Japan and that our family needed to take up the cause.  Translation: He wanted to practice his Japanese.

With that our whole family followed him to the front of the visitors bleachers where Mark sat front and center right next to a very sparse crowd of Japanese supporters; about five in total. And among them was a  nice Japanese lady and her son.

A very dubious Mark unabashedly trading in 

the nicely shaded bleachers full of Ashland Alumni

for a sparsely populated bleacher in enemy territory. 

 Notice Mark sitting opposite what looks to be the 

entire town of Ashland.

It took him all of three seconds before he introduced

himself to this lady sitting next to him.

Soon she and Mark had our family cheering in Japanese...

loud enough for the other side to hear us.

"Nippon!"  [clap, clap, clap]
"Nippon!"  [clap, clap, clap]
"Nippon!"  [clap, clap, clap]

With no competition for good seats on the enemy side,

we were close enough to see their game plays.

 

My inner Grizzly was wishin' I had a set of two-way radios so I could alert my REAL team in on their secret plays. Though not much good that would have done since I can't read Japanese and Mark was not about to squeal.

The game got so crowded that eventually our meager little bleachers started filling up with REAL Grizzly fans. Which gave our fellow townspeople a close enough range to identify the whole of the Skillman clan as traitors.

Here's Mark and his new friends.
They talked all night but I have no idea what about.

Connor was so excited he stood at the fence
the whole night long.
(or maybe he was embarrassed that 
he was being forced to sit in cheap-side?)

Once we got there and Mark beguiled me into cheering for Japan,
I stayed committed to the cause. I shouted cheers that I had no idea what I was cheering, yelled stuff I had no idea the meaning of, and made gestures I've never made before. (I had no idea what Mark had me yelling, and a few times, from the looks the sidelined players gave me on a few occasions, I don't think I even want to know. Knowing Mark, I probably got tricked into saying some really random stuff.) Yes indeed, for a few short hours, I sadly became a willing accomplice, a traitor to my own kind, and it was kinda fun.

The only time I slipped up and broke ranks was when my nephew Tanner made two AWESOME plays. First when he tackled the receiver who had just caught the ball and then later when he rushed the quarterback and plowed him down--after they picked all the heavy brutes off the two of them it was then that we discovered skinny Tanner was at the bottom of the pile with the football clutched in his arms! A stupendous turnover! I just had to cheer! Even a diehard defector has her limits.

But sadly, all our cheering was for naught. The Grizzly's won 26-0. A crippling defeat for a couple of first time turncoats like us.

Although...the inner Grizz inside of me...she was Elated!
And now, I've officially retired from messy business of mutiny...
at least for six more years anyway.

Nothing But Sea Salt

During our little Boston jaunt Mark and I got to eat a few more lunches together than we normally do.  I began to notice that he always grabbed the same bag of chips day after day. When I asked him why he didn't mix things up a little he simply turned the bag to face me so I could get a good look at it and informed me that they were his FAVORITE chips...

Well then, there you have it. The things you learn over lunch.

A House Divided

A mini scandal broke out at the Skillman house about 15 years into our marriage.  It's an Oregonian kinda scandal but I'm sure this sorta thing happens all over the country.

The tragedy occurred when Mark and I both discovered we were fans of opposing college teams.  Obviously, if it took 15 years to discover this discrepancy, we weren't die-hard fans to begin with, but nonetheless, it was very an alarming discovery.  Beavers and Ducks just don't mix.

Here in Oregon, as far as college football goes, you're either a Duck fan or a Beaver fan.  And even though Mark and I never even went to either University, just being an Oregonian forces you to have an opinion on these sort of matters.  I always just assumed any sensible well educated person would naturally be a Duck while Mark on the other hand decided it was better to be a Beaver.  We discovered this small marital glitch a few years back when someone asked us who we were rooting for during the Oregon Civil War, Mark and I simultaneously AND arduously declared opposite sides.  It was shocking.  Or at least mini-shocking.

In all honesty, Mark and I are really not die-hard football fans.  Our interest peaks around play-off time but that's sadly about it.  But, despite the lack of steady interest, we can get pretty heated when the Duck/Beaver discussion gets going.

I think this is because at heart, what we're really fans of, is competition.  Choosing up sides, declaring an enemy, and, most importantly, humiliating a loser.  This is the sort of unsportsmanlike conduct is, for a lack of a better word, sportsmanlike.  It's the sort of way you would never act when it comes to real life, but when you imbed this such ill-gotten behavior into sports, well, this peaks our interest!

So when our family was invited to go to a Civil War party at the Sharps house we had to go.   I was excited about going knowing that my dear yet highly misguided husband was very likely going to be the lone Beaver in the room while Mark, he just wanted to go in hopes of being the one and only person that left the party happy should the Beavers win (fat chance).

So of course we prepared for the big game by supporting our team colors.  Here Mark has successfully convinced Chloe to be a Beaver fan by luring her with Orange Cheetos and Black Oreos.  A classic case of Beaver Bribery which, quite possibly, is the only way to lure someone to willingly become a B-word.

The Superior Duck fans brought all green and yellow snacks for the game.  And while we prefer Cheetos and Oreos over Funyuns, we swore off eating anything vile orange for the day.

Because Mark calls U of O a "hippy school", Connor decided to proudly wear a dread lock hat for the day just to annoy his dad.        [A proud moment for a mother.]

I even took off my wedding ring for the day.  This is not the time to be married to a Beaver fan.  Chloe gave me some hairbands to replace it with. Which, goes to prove her Beaver loyalties are only based on Oreos.

When we arrived at the Sharps house they had designated fan parking.  Ducks park to the left...

...And Beaver fans to the right...

Mark parked to the right of the Duck sign so I promptly got out and moved the Beaver sign over.  This officially put us smack in between.

I will pause now for a moment so you can get your abacus out to help you count the plethora of cars parked in the Beaver Zone...oh nevermind, looks like you're done counting already.

We encountered an unexpected yet serious problem when we brought in our snacks.  Here, scandelously pictured, is Ellie.  Her shirt declares her Duck loyalties while her snack choice was clearly on the Beaver side.  I warned her not to eat anything orange or black until AFTER the game.

And, as I predicted, she jinxed the Ducks who got off to a shoddy start.

Thanks to the Sharp family's electronic bonanza, we were able to segregate fans.  The Duck fans watched in the Sharps theater...

...while we segregated the Beaver fans to the living room.  Lucky for Mark a few Beaver fans decided to show up.

Then we discovered a reward system for the leading team.  A chair massage, which, you got to sit in if your team was currently leading the game.

Mark sat here quite a bit at the beginning.  Mostly because of Ellie whom I caught AGAIN trying to be snack sneaky.

I warned her of the serious dangers and forbid her from ANY snacks if she didn't stop.

Once Ellie swore off Beaver snacks things started looking up for the Ducks.  This gave the Duck fans the rights to the massage chair...

...And gave Danny something to celebrate.  He's the expert duck caller.  [Incidentally, Beaver fans do not like it when Duck fans parade through their assigned fan space after their team has failed to block a touchdown.  Especially if said parade is lead by a crazed duck caller.]

And like a curious foreshadowing, the yellow and green M&M's began to be eaten at a faster rate than the Orange and Black.  This was when I knew the "hippy school" was going to enjoy some great karma.

A Resounding Victory!

And while winning the game was great, Mark's team losing was the real exhilaration.  Not to mention the relief I felt at not having to drive all the way home from Grants Pass as the underdog. That makes for a very uncomfortable drive home, just ask Mark.

That night after Mark went to bed, I snuck in and put a sticker on his bathroom mirror so that when he woke up in the morning he wouldn't forget one very important thing...

He's a loser.

Then I put my wedding ring back on, mini marriage crisis over.