Meet Me Tonight In Atlantic City... [ 2006-01-20, 6:31 p.m. ]

NBC informs me that apparently, the Olympics are coming. Everyone I know informs me that apparently, We don't care. I wasn't aware that the Olympics were about to begin, even though duh, every even-numbered year now has an Olympic Games, and we are three weeks into an even-numbered year, so it stands to follow that soon The Office and Scrubs will be pre-empted for little people whirling about on ice or whirling down a hill or whirling around the ice or whirling in the air above a hill.

I'm a summer Olympics girl, with the swimming and running and decathlon and whatnot, so forgive me for not getting particularly excited about these Olympic Games. Although, now that I think about it, this week's challenge on Project Runway makes much more sense in light of the upcoming Ice Skating Extravaganza and the fact that Bravo is an NBC channel, and that clearly the hunt for America's Olympic Sweetheart has begun. But regardless, winter Olympics are the Golden Globes to my summer Olympics' Academy Awards. I can, however, appreciate hot European skiers. Or any hot skier, really. Again, we're talking about a Golden Globe to the Oscar that is a water polo player, but am not picky when it comes to male athletes. Unless they are wee and weigh less than me.

A commercial ran last night for the Olympics and as I fast-forwarded through it (I love you fake Tivo!), Kent asked me, Do you remember where we were the last time we watched the winter Olympics?

After a moment, I absolutely DID remember where we were when we last watched the winter Olympics. We were in a hotel room, in Paris , and we spent an entire day watching curling on EuroSport while I alternately stared at my new engagement ring and concentrated on not throwing up again.

Let me back up...

In February 2002, Kent and I went to Paris for vacation. It was the first time either of us had traveled to Europe, it was very lovely and romantic and we had been dating for over two years and living together for almost one year and it's possible that I pitched a big ol' fit one night in Paris because I NEED TO KNOW WHERE THIS IS GOING and WHY DID WE MOVE IN TOGETHER IF YOU'RE NOT SURE YOU WANT TO BE WITH ME and IS IT BECAUSE I'M NOT FROM OHIO AND YOUR PARENTS ARE MAKING YOU FEEL GUILTY FOR NOT LIVING THERE. It's possible. It's also possible that unbeknownst to me, a ring had been bought and smuggled to Paris via Kent 's carry-on bag, in a sock. It's possible that he was waiting for a particular moment, i.e., after the most expensive meal he or I will ever eat. And, it's possible that the fit was pitched the night before we had dinner reservations at the same very lovely and outrageously expensive restaurant.

But despite the Parisian Uprising, as we sometimes call it, he did not leave me stranded in France. He even agreed to take me to dinner the following night, and we had seven very rich courses, with wine and champagne, and much fromage - this is important, as you will see shortly. Then, we went for a walk, and Kent proposed, and I was very happy and very excited and we went back to our hotel feeling very happy and very excited and I was feeling especially excited in my stomach area and then I was feeling a little less excited and a little more nauseated and then I threw up and ruined our engagement night.

Wine, champagne, main course of rabbit, fromage, more wine, and then much excitement turned out to be an unstable mix for me. (There is a picture of me from that night, sitting up in bed, wearing Kent's t-shirt, with hair rumpled, holding my ring box. It's a nice picture, except that no one looking at it can tell that I am wearing Kent's shirt because I got sick on mine, or that my hair is rumpled on account of being held back from the toilet. Instead, I look like I've just been fucked, which is why when people ask if we have any pictures from our engagement, Kent quickly says NO.) The next day I was still feeling "unstable," and after venturing out to the nearest brasserie for breakfast, I became even less stable, and Kent and I returned to our hotel room, where I continued to wail about ruining our engagement, and he turned on the television, and we both spent HOURS watching the 2002 winter Olympics, specifically curling. (Go Scotland, woo!)

So yes, I do remember where I was when I last watched the winter Olympics. And no, the memory does not make me nostalgic enough to get excited about two weeks of Very Special Human Drama segments interspersed with 7,637 Kodak and Coke commercials, and the occasional sports event.

[Incidentally, the sudden glut of Olympic marketing does give me a chance to mention my Luge Theory. See, I'm willing to believe that everyone is good at something. I'm willing to believe that large numbers of people may actually be fantastic at certain things. But, we are limited by our stations in life, to a degree, and so what if that special gift or talent remains undiscovered? Like, I might be the world's greatest luger, but I will never know because I will never (ever) get on a luge. So, maybe my Great Talent is out there, waiting for me, and I have no way to find it. It could be papermaking or skeet shooting or fish farming or the trapeze, but at 30, what chance do I stand of becoming a world class skeet shooter, having never shot anything beyond a water pistol? The Luge Theory is kind of tragic.]

I enjoy athletics and international pageantry, and the history and honor of the Olympics Games. Still, I think the Olympics lost me right about the time Beach Volleyball became an Olympic Sport. I'm not saying it ain't hard, but sports that are usually done with a cooler and a fraternity have no business being in MY Olympics. I like a pure, spare Olympic Games; no Rythmic Gynmastics or Snowboarding or Tennis. No professional basketball players. I like sports with racing. And water polo. (Well, I like water polo players. I played water polo for about 4 seconds in college. I'm a good swimmer but am not so great with the catching and the throwing and the remembering what a pick is. I quit the real water polo team, and instead played intra-mural inner tube water polo, which was much more fun.)

This weekend I am inventing my own decathalon. It has less honor and glory than the Olympic event, but I think it is no less difficult. The categories are:

DRIVING TO ATLANTIC CITY WITHOUT LISTENING TO THE SAME TIRED MIXED CDS THAT HAVE BEEN IN THE GLOVE BOX FOR EVER AND EVER
(Extra points are added if we can go a full two hours without listening to a song by Beck, Liz Phair, Weezer, Modest Mouse, Outkast, Kanye West, 50 Cent, Beastie Boys or any other artists who has been played TO DEATH in our house over the last year. We love you but we need a break. Triple word score if husband is able to avoid playing Bruce.)

NOT FREAKING OUT WHEN WE FIRST GET THERE AND REALIZE IT'S KIND OF SKEEZY AND WE MIGHT HATE IT
(I have a feeling that when we first get there, we might freak out a little and think it's kind of skeezy and that we're going to hate it.)

PROPER PACING OF ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES
(It's a marathon, not a sprint. Er, a decathalon...)

PROFITS AND LOSSES
(If I net a negative $200 or better, I will consider this weekend successful. If I come home with even a dollar in winnings, I will fucking shout it from the rooftops.)

PLANNING OUTFITS SO WE LOOK GOOD, ARE NEITHER TOO HOT NOR TOO COLD, CAN TRANSITION FROM DAY TO NIGHT AND STILL LOOK RESPECTABLE EVEN IF WE DO NOT EXCEL AT EVENT NUMBER THREE
(A co-ed event, believe it or not.)

REMEMBERING TO TAKE OUT CONTACTS BEFORE SLEEP
(I am not competing in this leg, as do not wear contacts. But, will bet HEAVILY on my husband losing.)

ALL-YOU-CAN-EAT BUFFET NAVIGATION
(Points for both creativity and mass)

REMEMBERING TO TAKE PICTURES IN WHICH WE LOOK LIKE WE ARE SUPER FUN BUT DO NOT HAVE DOUBLE CHINS
(Also a co-ed event)

INVENTING OUR OWN SPECIAL DRINKS WHICH ARE CLEVER AND ALSO TASTE GOOD
(We already have one, The J'Mevin. I am working on The Boardwalk and the Effing Cool PJ. Don't worry about what that might mean. Mixology still a big secret.)

And finally,
COMING UP WITH FAKE SONGS THAT WE WISH WERE REAL AND ARE APPROPRIATE FOR THE WEEKEND
(Some current contenders include, "The Whore on the Corner", "Don't Get Jacked in the Parking Garage", "Cigarette Smoke Gets in Your Sweatsuit" and "The Lap Dance Is So Much Better When the Stripper is Cryin'." Which is apparently a real song.)

As you can see, the Olympic spirit is live and well.

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