What is a cenote?

Both novels I've written center around something called a cenote.

Of course, the first question people ask me is "How do you pronounce that word?" The next question is always, "What is it?" 

I shall explain.

The word cenote is pronounced "say-no-tay" and it comes from the Mayan word dzonot which means "sacred well." Last spring I visited several cenotes around the Yucatan. Feast your eyes:

The photo above is Cenote Zaci in Valladolid, Yucatan. Technically speaking, a cenote is a deep, naturally formed limestone sinkhole that exposes the ground water. The Yucatan Pennisula is full of them.  Cenote Zaci is one of many cenotes you can swim in if you are daring enough. The rope across the water (see the photo below) is for swimmers to hold on to if they get tired. Swimming in a cenote is refreshing and exciting. Since many cenotes connect with each other under the ground they are often explored by cave divers. 

The cenotes were a vital part of life for the ancient Mayas, since there are few rivers in the Yucatan, and in the dry season there is very little rain. Water from most cenotes is clean, clear and fresh and the ancient people relied heavily on them.

Now you are inside this old cenote (above), looking up. It used to be filled with water, but now it is the exit of the massive Loltun Cave. You enter the cave through another old cenote.  It still floods here during the rainy season, making it only possible to visit in the wintertime.
Those long rope-like things are tree roots from banyan trees. They are found in almost every cenote.

Here is probably the most famous cenote, and in my opinion the most dreary: 

It might be a little tricky to get out of this if you fell in, don't you think? This cenote is in Chichen Itza, near this magnificent and famous pyramid:

You can see the murky green water in the center. And the remains of an ancient alter. This cenote is famous not only for its location but also for its spooky reputation. Legend has it that the Mayas sacrificed people in this pool, and human bones have been discovered in the muddy bottom. Intriguing, don't you think?

Intriguing enough to write two novels on the topic . . .

My Two Secret Projects

Many moons ago I made this post. It was about the first novel I "finished."  I have now "finished" a second, though, to be honest I was working on them both at the same time. (I say "finished" because I've told my husband at least a dozen times that I have "finished" my novels only to pick them up and start working on them again.)

My little novels have been read by small circles of my closest and most intimate friends and family and so far the reviews are favorable (granted I chose people who love me unconditionally, so I know it doesn't really count.)
It has taken me over two years to get them both to the point where I am unembarrassed for them to be discussed/read/criticized in public, and finally I am sending them out like little boats upon the ocean to see if they will come back to me filled with riches and fame and glory...or struck by lightning, capsized by waves and seized by pirates.

So since I am sending them to agents now I decided I might as well give you, my two or three devoted followers, some teasers.

Here is the first book, called THE MESSENGER. It is a historical fantasy, set in ancient America and targeted toward young adults.

A rich, self-absorbed prince lives in a dazzling city where his people dine on succulent foods, enjoy every comfort of life and entertain themselves with over-the-top human sacrifices. But when he accidentally befriends an intriguing sacrifice-to-be, (who also happens to be a beautiful girl with one blue and and one brown eye who can see into the future through her dreams), she challenges everything he's ever been taught about life and love and the nature of the gods. They, of course fall in love, but that doesn't change the fact that she is scheduled to be tied and thrown into a cenote (aka ancient sacred well) at the end of the year. Does he save her? Does she escape? Do they drown together? Does he ever become king? Let's hope someday this book is published so you will find out.

The next book is also a historical fantasy, set in ancient America, but it is for the adult crowd. It is a little creepier than the novel I described to you above. It is called THE CENOTE (more on what a cenote is in a future post) and here is the gist:

Temple Mound is a village built upon the ruins of an ancient Mayan temple. This village is a happy little place where everything seems perfect. But it is not perfect because the men can hear something coming from the village cenote (aka ancient sacred well, also the only place where they can get water). To them the sounds are like beautiful, alluring voices. What do their wives hear? Nothing. The village women have no idea what the men find so fascinating about the cenote. What they do know is that every few months one of the men is found, face down in the water, with his brains eaten out. Yikes!
Of course, each time this happens the women are alarmed and upset. But the men always reassure them that it was only an accident. In an effort to save their men the women seek out the secrets of the cenote on their own. Once they discover that not only can the men can hear voices, but that the voices belong to ancient, beautiful but super-creepy ghost women who like to knaw through men's heads and suck out their minds they have varied reactions. Some try desperately to become more attractive, others become suspicious and over-protective, and some decide their man isn't worthy enough to save. In the end the story is about what we will sacrifice to save the people we love.

So there you have it. For the better or for the worse, my secret is out! More info on writing to come. . .

The Perfect Pet: A Cautionary Tale, Part 8 of 10

Most little boys want to be like Jimmer when they grow up. Danny does, too. Only not the Jimmer you're thinking of.

*****

“What is this?” Scott asked one evening. He picked up a small wrapped package that I put on his pillow.

“Just a present.” I said.

“What for?” he asked.

“Just because.” I smiled. Actually it was the first step in my “Protect Turkeyboy At All Costs” plan. Though Jimmer had proclaimed himself to be Scott’s Best Friend Forever, I had a hunch that his intentions were not what they seemed. It was up to me to keep my husband safe. Especially since Scott was completely clueless about Jimmer’s mystical powers. Scott spent hours throwing Frisbees to Jimmer, proving that Jimmer had already wiped out Scott’s ability to detect the passage of time.

Scott opened the package.

“A can of mace?” he said, his eyebrows raised. “What is this for?”

I shrugged. “You know…just in case.” Just in case Jimmer decides to go for your jugular, darling.

I pointed out that it came with a nifty little clip that could hook on to his belt loop.

“That way you can take it with you whenever you go outside.” I said.

“Gee…ah…thanks, Chelsea.” He said.

The second part of my plan was harder to carry out: making sure that Scott and Jimmer were never alone together. When I was able to, I would sit outside and watch them play. When Scott wasn’t looking I would narrow my eyes at Jimmer and make the ASL sign for I’m watching you.

You might think this was time consuming and tedious, and it was, but I worked hard to get such an extraordinary spouse, and I wasn’t going to let Jimmer take my husband without a fight. Plus, I had to hang around just to make sure Scott didn’t forget who I was.

One afternoon I was sitting on the back porch steps, chaperoning Scott and his best friend as they frolicked together in the yard. While I watched I reminisced about my pre-dog life and ate chocolate to calm my nerves.

Scott was training Jimmer with the Frisbee, hopeful that Jimmer would someday become the world’s most amazing Frisbee champion. It was hard to tell who was having more fun, the man or the dog. I heaved a sigh when I noticed Scott wasn’t wearing the little bottle of mace I gave him. Well, it is a good thing I’m out here, I thought.

When Jimmer was too tired to run anymore, Scott came and sat by me on the steps. Jimmer squeezed in between us, panting.

“Down,” said Scott. Jimmer instantly flopped to the ground and leaned against me.

“This dog is so smart. He has totally exceeded all of my expectations for dog intelligence.”

“Mine, too.” I answered.

“He already knows five commands, can fetch balls, and catch Frisbees in mid-air. And he’s only 5 months old!”

I did have to admit it was pretty amazing. And ironic. Our son Danny was 18-months-old and he still hadn’t walked yet. (Not only that, but his vocabulary consisted only of “DA!” which, with only a slight change in intensity, meant both “dad” and “dog.”)

I reached down to give Jimmer a pet (I try to pet Jimmer at least three times a day, just for appearances) and as I ran my fingers through his thick coat, thinking how it would make a lovely bathroom rug, Scott said, “He’s so soft, isn’t he? And he always seems so clean. It is like the dirt just doesn’t stick to his coat.”

I nodded and took a bite of chocolate.

“He’s such a good-looking dog, too. Just look at his eyes…you see the see black all around them?”

Yes. I thought. It makes him look like a bank robber. Jimmer looked up at me and his white teeth gleamed. No…he’s too smart to be a bank robber, I thought. More like a terrorist.

“I think he looks like Zorro.” Continued Scott. “You know, I was flipping through the channels last night and I can’t believe there aren’t any dog channels.” He was clearly perturbed about this. He scratched behind Jimmer’s ears and Jimmer gazed at him devotedly. Then after a while he said, “Don’t you think it would be fun to get Jimmer a mate and then they could have a litter of puppies?”

I almost choked.

He smiled, “And I could quit my job at Duke and we could be full-time trainers and breeders.”

I started to cry.

“I’m just kidding, Chelsea.” Scott said, clearly remorseful. “Its okay, I won’t quit my job.” He probably would have put his arm around me, too, if the dog hadn’t been in the way.

After I pulled myself together he asked, “Hey, by the way, why do you put numbers up above Jimmer’s food bowl?”

A few weeks ago I had taken down the dog stew recipe (which Scott didn’t find humorous) and replaced it every day with a different index card. Each card had a number on it, in descending order.

“Well,” I said, “If he’s so smart he ought to know his numbers, right?” I smiled pleasantly. Jimmer looked up at me, narrowing his eyes. He could smell my lie. Actually, the numbers are a countdown. I want Jimmer to know how many days he has left before he is neutered.

“See? You are coming around, Chels. I’m glad you’ve been such a good sport, putting up with having a dog. Isn’t she, Jimmer?”

I got up and left. But not before I gave Jimmer the rest of my chocolate.

Here are some videos of Jimmer taking over Scott’s mind. I mean playing frisbee. Enjoy.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aM2Q2IbfGWQ&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wxX_4b3DB-w&feature=related

I'll Make a Deal With You

I was very surprise at the responses I received from my last post.

I had no idea there were so many other "closet writers" out there among my friends. Welcome to the party, guys!

It was inspiring to me--and I haven't been able to stop thinking about how great it is that so many of us have stories to tell. I can't even begin to say how important I think it is to stand up for what you believe, and to spread your messages of goodness or hope or truth out into this crazy world in a productive, uplifting way. That is what I am trying to do with my story. Perhaps the world will someday read it, perhaps no one but my kids will read it. But at least they will know where I stand, and that my belief is strong enough that I want it to be heard.

I doubt that anyone would really write a book with the intent to never ever let anyone else see it. If you are writing about something, that means you feel strongly about it. If you feel strongly about it, you want people to know about it. Am I wrong, people? No, I am right!

Now for the deal I want to make with you.....

In one of the many books I've read about writing I learned that when you "pitch" your story to an editor or an agent you should be able to tell them what it is about in one sentence.

I am going to be nice and let you have THREE sentences to tell me what you are writing about (or what you have written about.)

If I get more than TEN responses from people who are working on a novel or have already written a novel, I will tell you all what my novel is about.

You do not have to leave your name....you can post anonymously, if you want, but you have to be truthful.

So who will be first?

I have written a novel

It took me one year. It is 285 pages long, double spaced. I have made it through two official rough drafts, but some sections I have rewritten at least seven times.

Wonder why I hardly ever post anything on my blog anymore and never comment on your blogs? Writing. Wonder why I haven’t come to play-group in the last 12 months? Writing. Wonder why I haven’t read any of the books in bookclub? Writing. Wonder why I haven’t been to Relief Society activities or volunteered at my kids schools or done any of the gracious and good things mothers are supposed to do? Wonder why my children look like malnourished orphans? You guessed it.

Today I realized I haven’t exercised in months. I can’t remember the last time I broke a sweat. My ward split almost a year ago and I still don’t know more than half of the people’s names. I have sheepdog-hair that is constantly getting in my eyes and mouth, but I don’t have time to go cut it because I am writing, writing, madly writing!

You see, I had an idea—a darn good idea—and I was on fire. I had to get it out on paper, or at least out on my computer screen, so that I could publish it and change the world with my lyrical language, witty humor and hidden gems of wisdom.

In some ways writing has been good for me. First of all, I love it. Typing up a scene gives me a little thrill and I actually get the (misleading) impression that I am actually good at this. I am going to be just like J.K. Rowling! How many zillion billion ka-trillion people have thought that before? Second of all, it is the only hobby I’ve had that doesn’t cost anything. Scott likes that part. Perhaps that is why he has been so supportive.

I bet you want to read it, don’t you?

Yes, yes….that is what they all say. But only ONE of the undisclosed-number-of-people I sent my mss to has read beyond page 100. Did I mention this was close to 300 pages long? If the people I love can’t finish it, how would I ever expect Big Scary Mr. Publisher to even open the envelope?

Believe me, I’ve done my homework. I have read Writers Market books cover to cover. I know what I have to do to get my book out there, into the hands of the masses. I know the odds.

I bet you want to know what it is about, don’t you?

The only way you will ever know is if you see it at Barnes and Noble someday, sitting there all pretty and glossy on the center display table….but that won’t happen. Nope. Do you know why? Because I am not going to work on it any more. Do you know why? BECAUSE I HAVE FOUR KIDS. THAT is why.

Now I know mothers need hobbies and all that. Believe me, I am the mother of all hobbyists. (Did that come out right?) Long before I became a "writer" I was a seamstress, an artist, a musician, a dog trainer. But writing a NOVEL? Aye, aye, aye. My own expectations disgust me.

Throughout the past YEAR I have kept my fingers dancing away on my keyboard with the illusion that if I can just keep trucking, ultimately this manuscript will come out of its cocoon and unfold its shimmering wings. I just want to create something special. Everyone wants to do something amazing, right? To accomplish something where everyone will say, bravo, you’re cool now. That was really great. You really changed my life, Steve Jobs.

To make it worse, there is that blasted American Dream mentality which makes us think we really can do anything if we work hard enough. This is what gets me in trouble, because I am a hard worker and so I obsess over sentence structure and plot and word choice, knowing that if I just put in the time eventually everything will come out sounding like Barbara Kingsolver.

But tonight I read my story with new eyes. And you know what? I don’t think that if I wrote for a hundred years I would be able to write like Barbara Kingsolver. Or Dr. Seuss for that matter.

And you know what else? I want my kids to remember me as a face, not as a glowing apple.

Besides, my rear end is huge and I need more exercise.

Wimbledon Through the Eyes of a Non-Tennis Player

When I was in college I started dating a tennis player. I had never dated any kind of athlete before, since my crowd was made up of singers, artists, poets, writers, and musicians. I wasn’t completely ignorant of sports, though. I knew they existed. I knew there were such things as points and goals and fouls and coaches. I knew they always began with the National Anthem.

I was at a point in my life when I had had enough of dating dramatic actors and depressed saxophone players. I had never actually even known anyone you could officially title “an athlete.” Tennis was an especially mystifying sport, and this new boy with his rock hard abs and cocky swagger intrigued me from the very beginning.

He came from a home where tennis rackets were as plentiful as spoons. He had bragged a little about some of the state championships he’d won and even his siblings admitted he was the most die-hard tennis player of the five brothers and one sister.

That is why when he invited me one weekend to watch him play in the annual 4^th of July tennis tournament in his hometown I eagerly came along. I wanted to see if this he was actually as good as he seemed.

I sat on bleachers outside the courts, next to his 14-year-old brother who was clearly amused by my vast ignorance of tennis. But he was nice and patiently answered my questions and kept me updated on the score. As the tournament progressed I began to see that my date really did excel at this sport. I smiled. I stood a little taller. I flipped my hair back. If anyone asked me who I was I didn’t bother with my name. I just pointed out to the court and said, “I’m his date.”

But the best was yet to come.

During one match my date jogged up to the chain link fence and said to his little brother in tennis language, “Watch this. I’m going to “ace” him on the next serve.”

“What is an ace?” I asked loudly, not wanting to be left out.

Whispering, (because that is what you are supposed to do when you watch tennis) the little brother said with full confidence, “Just watch.”

I peered wide-eyed through the fence as my date prepared for his serve by bouncing the ball a few times and then casting a piercing stare across the net. Then he tossed the ball up in the air, at the same time bending his knees and pulling back his racket. Time stopped for just a moment as he waited for the ball to change direction and make its decent. Then, when the ball was in the perfect spot, he whipped his racket out from behind him and pounded it against the ball, hurling the ball across the court. Before his opponent had a chance to even wet his lips the ball crossed over the net, hit the corner of the service box and shot passed him, rattling the fence. Without his opponent even touching the ball, my date had scored.

Then he turned, pointed his racket straight at me and said, “That is an ace.”

And that is when I knew I’d marry him.

It is a fortunate thing that playing tennis is not a prerequisite for marrying into the Dyreng family. I luckily didn’t have to become any more athletic for him to like me. But it did quickly become clear to me that if I married this man, and wanted to stay married to him, I would have to learn to watch tennis for hours on end, give up the remote on Grand Slam weekends and learn how to understand tennis’s perplexing scoring system, which for me is up there with advanced algebra. But my love for Scott knows no bounds (or fouls or faults or penalties) and so I patiently watched and learned and kept score. I had no idea that Scott’s passion for tennis would have some pretty fun dividends down the road.

Fast forward ten years. I have observed hundreds of hours of tennis matches. I know how to keep score and can even keep track of a tie-breaker. I know the names of all the major tennis stars. I know so much about tennis now I am like a fountain of endless tennis trivia (which I will share with you from here on out).

As for playing tennis, if you watched me play tennis the first thing that would come to your mind would probably be, “Hm. She must be an artist or something.”

Scott is still as fit as ever, running, biking and playing tennis when he can. Unfortunately sometimes he has to work. But work has its benefits, too, and last year he was handed a wonderful opportunity.

He happened to be invited to a business conference to London at the same time as a certain famous tennis tournament called Wimbledon.

Interesting Tennis Fact: It is Wimbledon, not Wimbleton.

On a whim he bought a small tent for 9 pounds and decided wait in “the queue” and camp out for tickets. He did and he loved it and he vowed next year he wouldn’t go alone.

So when he was invited back again for the same London business conference he brought along me, and his mom, and most importantly his tennis-loving father, Doug.

Scott took care of everything. He bought the tickets, he packed the tents, packed the sleeping bags, he booked the hotel for the nights we would not be camping out. All I had to do was get a babysitter for our four kids and figure out what to do with Jimmer. (He’s still alive, in case you are wondering. The poison can only be administered in small doses over a long period of time.) It was the easiest vacation I ever departed on.

We spent the first four days touring London, having a jolly good time. My only complaint was that I had the Harry Potter theme song running through my head for four days straight.

We cast a lot of concerned glances up at the grey skies, though, with diverging worries: Scott and his dad were hoping that our day at Wimbledon wouldn’t get rained out, and me and Scott’s mom were hoping we wouldn’t have to camp at Wimbledon in the pouring rain. (I was glad Valerie was with me, since she also sold her soul to tennis years ago. We have a mutual understanding of what it is like to be married to men who love sports. As Scott's sister likes to say, “love” means nothing to a tennis player.)

The day came. Scott’s plan was to ride the tube to Wimbledon, get there about 2 pm and set up our tent in the queue. His goal was to get there early enough that we would get Center Court tickets because Center Court was the only show court that had a retractable roof in case of rain. That way if it rained we would still be able to watch tennis when all of the other 14 or so courts would be closed. Plus, Center Court was where they put all the big stars.

Interesting Tennis Fact: There are three types of tennis courts: hard court, clay court and grass court. You can’t play on any tennis court in the rain; puddles form on hard courts, clay gets muddy and grass gets ripped up. When this happens balls don’t bounce. After it rains you have to wait forever for the court to dry out before you can play again. At Wimbledon, the moment it starts to rain they pull a huge tarp over the lawn to protect the grass. It takes them anywhere from 22 to 28 seconds to do this.

We finally made it to the big lawn where we were to “queue up.” They told us where to put our tents; snug up against the tent of the people who arrived right before us.I could tell Scott was relieved to finally be in line, and from the looks of it we were near the front, but we still wouldn’t know if we’d get Center Court tickets for a few more hours. Before too long the queue had spread out behind us, too, in a long colorful row of neat tents full of people smoking, drinking beer, throwing tennis balls to each other and speaking dozens of different languages. Believe me, we were totally at home. :)

True, this was not our norm, especially for Doug and Val, but let me add here, that the tennis crowd is a refined group of sports enthusiasts. I would seriously hesitate, for instance, to sleep all night in a queue for a hockey game or even a basketball game. But tennis is different. It is a sport that is synonymous with respectability. The officials (called “stewards”) making sure we were behaving were mainly retired old gentlemen, dressed in suits and ties, strolling the queue with umbrellas.

Free pastries were passed out along with coupons for free strawberries and cream. Unlike most sports, tennis appeals to your inner lady or gentleman and not your inner animal. When football is on tv the commercials are full of beer and scantily clad women, but tennis is sponsored by companies like Mercedes Benz and Rolex. Game of tennis is built on the tradition of sportsmanship and fairplay and decency. The whole sport can be summed up in the word “proper.”

Interesting Tennis Fact: Tennis ball cans are sealed to keep the balls “fresh.” Once a tennis ball is about a week old it is dead, and doesn’t bounce as well. For tournaments they always start with a fresh can of balls and change balls after every 8 games. Not every 8 matches. Not every 8 sets. Every 8 games. That means very little to you unless you understand tennis, though. Think of it this way: for every match the players will go through about 8 cans of tennis balls.

So we had no problems enjoying the company of our international compatriots and British middle class as we discussed the low-lying grey clouds and munched Pringles and chocolate chip biscuits. We also spent hours playing card games with Scott’s parents (of which I lost almost every round. That is what you get when you marry into a competitive family). Scott’s only but often uttered complaint was that he wished he were in a hammock instead of a tent. (We can’t have it all, darling.)

Finally a steward came with a stack of queue cards and to Scotty’s relief we were in the top five hundred (top two hundred, actually, thanks to Scott’s eagerness), guaranteeing us a seat at Center Court. Now, even if it rained, his dreams of seeing the best tennis players in the world with his dad were about to come true.

Just look at Scott's grin. That makes me happy.

After a night of little sleep we woke to the sound of tent poles being folded up. The sun was blinking over the horizon (the sun rises at 4:30 am there) and people were everywhere, gathering their things, dropping off the big bulky items in a storage facility, and trying to make themselves look decent enough to be on international television. Before long, mass confusion had now organized it self into a “proper” queue. Now it was time to stand.

and stand

and stand,

and every now and then we'd walk.

We stood in line, inching forward for the next three hours. Finally we reached the gates at Wimbledon, and at 12:30 we were let into the grounds. We had been in the Wimbledon queue for 22 hours. (Round of applause to Doug and Valerie!)

We enjoyed a nice lunch, standing around a very nice garbage can/table, since all the tables in the inn were full. Then it was off to Center Court.

Interesting Tennis Fact: at the Wimbledon courts, even the “show” courts that are often televised, there are no sponsors’ posters for you to oogle at during the game. There is nothing to distract you. That is because Wimbledon is not about what they can sell you or what kind of advertising will catch your eye. At Wimbledon it is all about the tradition, the glory and the game of tennis. And that is also why they charge a ba-jillion dollars for tickets.

I have to admit even Valerie and I got a little giddy as we walked into the stadium. There it was: the dark green seats, the emerald-colored lawn, mowed to perfection, the ball kids standing at attention like little soldiers. It was just like we had seen it for all the years of our married lives, broadcasted on tv. Except now we were here! And we didn’t even play tennis! Ah, the irony of it all.

All around us were more wealthy spectators who didn’t have to camp because they had the means to buy the 800 pound (that is approx. $1000) tickets to this event and looked markedly more fresh and glamorous. There were many people sitting in the royal box, including Diana Ross who came specifically to enjoy Serena Williams play (of “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” fame for all you athletes).

I asked Doug and Scott if they would stand in line with Val and I for 22 hours to watch….say…Oprah (I can’t think of anything I’d stand in line for, particularly not Oprah, but I couldn’t think of any other example). I got no response. Perhaps that is because that would be their ultimate nightmare or perhaps it was because Serena Williams had stepped on to the court. Boisterous—but polite—cheers erupted from around the stadium. Serena and her opponent warmed up for a moment or two. Then a hush fell over the court. It was time to begin.

Our well-earned seats were excellent. We were six rows from the court, and from where I sat I could see straight down the base line. (I had a perfect view of the base line judge who shoutedFAULT! each time Serena foot-faulted on her serve. Luckily she didn’t threaten to “CRAM TH[AT] beep-beep BALL DOWN [HIS] beep-beep THROAT,” though.)

One of the most interesting things about tennis is that it is a quiet game. You are not allowed to talk or make noise or clap or shout or whistle until after a point is made. An unexpected exhale at an excellent shot or an involuntary gasp at a close call is allowed, but for the most part, the disciplined audience is pin-drop silent. So silent you can hear the sound of the ball kids’ sneakers as they scamper across the lawn. So silent you can hear the clicking of a camera three rows away. So silent that the chair umpire looks at me when I chew my mint.

Interesting Tennis Fact: Most tournaments let the athletes where whatever color they want, but at Wimbledon the athletes can only wear white.

It was glorious watching Serena and Aravane Rezai play in their Wimbledon whites. Standing back, and looking at the entire scene, they are the only ones dressed in white—the officials and ball kids, security guards, audience are all in darker colors. Their white skirts against the dark green back drop of the stadium and the lighter green of the lawn almost made them seem like angels. Very big, strong, and tank-like, but still like angels.

Doug and Scott in heaven.

Serena beat Rezai soundly (though she cried afterwards into her towel. Rough year, I hear.) Then we watched Roger Federer stroll out onto the court, waiving his hand like Julius Caesar. Everyone went (politely) wild.

Watching Federer play is like watching a magician. Instead of simply reacting to the other person’s shot he calculates the speed and direction of the ball as it is coming towards him and then with his racket he deflects it back, making it twirl and dance, hitting just the right angle at just the right speed to the very place where it will inflict the most wonder. If Apollo played tennis he would look just like Roger Federer. If Michelangelo’s David could move he would move like Roger Federer. To give you an idea of how famous he his, his name didn’t even come up on my computer’s spell check. That is fame, brothers and sisters, even if you yourself don’t know who in the heck he is.

During breaks Val and I went out for strawberries and cream.

more tennis (this is Djokovic),

more strawberries and cream.

Last on the schedule for Center Court was Maria Sharapova whose Amazonian grunts used to intimidate her opponent are comical when watching TV, but are down right terrifying in person. She even frightened even me. She is one scaaaaaary woman.

All in all, we saw four of the most famous tennis stars in the world wipe the first round clean as they ascend to Wimbledon glory. It is hard not to be intimidated by these gods of tennis and wonder to yourself if I had not applied my self more at something could I have been as great? But just when I get these thoughts that people like Roger Federer and Serena Williams are beyond human I look down at their feet and remember that their socks smell just as bad as anyone else’s. Or worse.

Maria Sharapova's feet

So we came, we saw, we ate our strawberries and cream and we left. We arrived at our hotel bearing sunburns, blood shot eyes and massive headaches. But we had a glorious time, and I highly recommend the experience to anyone….even if you don’t know anything about tennis. But if you can’t get there, there will be more Wimbledon drama you can watch on your telly for another week and a half before the championships are over.

The moral of the story is: marry an interesting person with an interesting hobby and you’ll never be bored.

Cheerio!

The Perfect Pet: A Cautionary Tale, Part 8 of 10

Most little boys want to be like Jimmer when they grow up. Danny does, too. Only not the Jimmer you're thinking of.

*****

“What is this?” Scott asked one evening. He picked up a small wrapped package that I put on his pillow.

“Just a present.” I said.

“What for?” he asked.

“Just because.” I smiled. Actually it was the first step in my “Protect Turkeyboy At All Costs” plan. Though Jimmer had proclaimed himself to be Scott’s Best Friend Forever, I had a hunch that his intentions were not what they seemed. It was up to me to keep my husband safe. Especially since Scott was completely clueless about Jimmer’s mystical powers. Scott spent hours throwing Frisbees to Jimmer, proving that Jimmer had already wiped out Scott’s ability to detect the passage of time.

Scott opened the package.

“A can of mace?” he said, his eyebrows raised. “What is this for?”

I shrugged. “You know…just in case.” Just in case Jimmer decides to go for your jugular, darling.

I pointed out that it came with a nifty little clip that could hook on to his belt loop.

“That way you can take it with you whenever you go outside.” I said.

“Gee…ah…thanks, Chelsea.” He said.

The second part of my plan was harder to carry out: making sure that Scott and Jimmer were never alone together. When I was able to, I would sit outside and watch them play. When Scott wasn’t looking I would narrow my eyes at Jimmer and make the ASL sign for I’m watching you.

You might think this was time consuming and tedious, and it was, but I worked hard to get such an extraordinary spouse, and I wasn’t going to let Jimmer take my husband without a fight. Plus, I had to hang around just to make sure Scott didn’t forget who I was.

One afternoon I was sitting on the back porch steps, chaperoning Scott and his best friend as they frolicked together in the yard. While I watched I reminisced about my pre-dog life and ate chocolate to calm my nerves.

Scott was training Jimmer with the Frisbee, hopeful that Jimmer would someday become the world’s most amazing Frisbee champion. It was hard to tell who was having more fun, the man or the dog. I heaved a sigh when I noticed Scott wasn’t wearing the little bottle of mace I gave him. Well, it is a good thing I’m out here, I thought.

When Jimmer was too tired to run anymore, Scott came and sat by me on the steps. Jimmer squeezed in between us, panting.

“Down,” said Scott. Jimmer instantly flopped to the ground and leaned against me.

“This dog is so smart. He has totally exceeded all of my expectations for dog intelligence.”

“Mine, too.” I answered.

“He already knows five commands, can fetch balls, and catch Frisbees in mid-air. And he’s only 5 months old!”

I did have to admit it was pretty amazing. And ironic. Our son Danny was 18-months-old and he still hadn’t walked yet. (Not only that, but his vocabulary consisted only of “DA!” which, with only a slight change in intensity, meant both “dad” and “dog.”)

I reached down to give Jimmer a pet (I try to pet Jimmer at least three times a day, just for appearances) and as I ran my fingers through his thick coat, thinking how it would make a lovely bathroom rug, Scott said, “He’s so soft, isn’t he? And he always seems so clean. It is like the dirt just doesn’t stick to his coat.”

I nodded and took a bite of chocolate.

“He’s such a good-looking dog, too. Just look at his eyes…you see the see black all around them?”

Yes. I thought. It makes him look like a bank robber. Jimmer looked up at me and his white teeth gleamed. No…he’s too smart to be a bank robber, I thought. More like a terrorist.

“I think he looks like Zorro.” Continued Scott. “You know, I was flipping through the channels last night and I can’t believe there aren’t any dog channels.” He was clearly perturbed about this. He scratched behind Jimmer’s ears and Jimmer gazed at him devotedly. Then after a while he said, “Don’t you think it would be fun to get Jimmer a mate and then they could have a litter of puppies?”

I almost choked.

He smiled, “And I could quit my job at Duke and we could be full-time trainers and breeders.”

I started to cry.

“I’m just kidding, Chelsea.” Scott said, clearly remorseful. “Its okay, I won’t quit my job.” He probably would have put his arm around me, too, if the dog hadn’t been in the way.

After I pulled myself together he asked, “Hey, by the way, why do you put numbers up above Jimmer’s food bowl?”

A few weeks ago I had taken down the dog stew recipe (which Scott didn’t find humorous) and replaced it every day with a different index card. Each card had a number on it, in descending order.

“Well,” I said, “If he’s so smart he ought to know his numbers, right?” I smiled pleasantly. Jimmer looked up at me, narrowing his eyes. He could smell my lie. Actually, the numbers are a countdown. I want Jimmer to know how many days he has left before he is neutered.

“See? You are coming around, Chels. I’m glad you’ve been such a good sport, putting up with having a dog. Isn’t she, Jimmer?”

I got up and left. But not before I gave Jimmer the rest of my chocolate. Click here for Part 9

Here are some videos of Jimmer taking over Scott’s mind. I mean playing frisbee. Enjoy.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aM2Q2IbfGWQ&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wxX_4b3DB-w&feature=related

SPECIAL NOTE:

Maybe you noticed, but Blogger was down the day after this was posted (5/13/11). The Blogger-people-in-the-sky-took off this post --Perfect Pet #8. Later they put it back, but when they did, all the wonderful comments, especially Angie Kelly's fabulous remark about Scott saying "bad throw" every time Jimmer missed the frisbee, had disappeared.

So I'm very sorry the comments are gone. Comments are pretty special to us bloggers and it is a tragic loss.

I would say blame Blogger, but it is because of Blogger that I've even able to have a blog, so I choose forgiveness instead.

--chelsea, posted 5/13/11