A Very Special Night with Mark Madsen

There is a period of my life that I don't often talk about, and that is because I don't want to brag. I know you guys are already very impressed with my glamorous teacher-mom lifestyle, so it feels cruel to mention that, at one point, I was even more sophisticated than I am today. But I think it's time to come clean:

I once worked for an NBA franchise.

Yes, it's true. For one season, way back when I was an actual stand-up and not just a lazy one, I had the opportunity to be part of a "dynamic group of performers dedicated to improving the experience of NBA ticket holders." Well, I'm proud to say that after a grueling audition, I landed the part.

And then I threw T-shits for six months.

Now the reason I bring this up is not to gloat about how many T-shirts I did or didn't throw that season. I bring it up because something funny happened one night at a game, and it taught me a little bit about the subtleties of the English language and the importance of word choice.

Allow me to set the scene:

There I was, at the game, getting ready to improve the experience of NBA ticket holders by way of T-shirt throwing, when the actual basketball players walked by on their way to the court. It was very thrilling, because they are so tall and good at basketball.

I've never been much of a sports fan, I was still excited when the players put out their hands for high-fives -- something about touching the ginormous hand of a rich stranger, I guess. Unfortunately, however, it was pretty crowded, so I didn't receive any high fives.

That is, until power-forward/center Mark Madsen came by.

Mark Madsen, circa the time of the incident.

When Mark Madsen walked by, he put his fist out. Instinctively, I put my fist out. Then, as if in a dream, our fists made brief, forceful contact. It was special.

That night, I was on the phone with my boyfriend and excitedly told him, "Guess what? Before the game tonight Mark Madsen fisted me!"

And he was like, ". . .What?"

And I was like, "Yeah, Mark Madsen fisted me tonight before the game!"

And he was like, "Stop saying that."

And I was like, "Why? I'm not joking! Mark Madsen totally fisted me, and it was awesome!"

And he was like, "You don't know what you're talking about."

And that, friends, is when I learned that fisting and fist-bumping are not at all the same thing. So just remember that the next time an NBA player holds out their fist to you.

Olympic Nonsense

Hi what's up? I finished grading those papers and now my brain is broken. So anyway, if you are procrastinating and immature, you will enjoy these Olympic-themed links.

1. Figure Farting

2. Faces of Figure Skating




P.S. I respect figure skating and figure skaters.

Hustle and Fail

Well, I coached my first basketball game last night, and let me just tell you, it did not go well.

Here are a three things I learned about coaching basketball:

1. After the other team scores, and your girls are about to bring the ball down the court, that is NOT an okay time to call for subs. If you call for subs at that time, the ref will stop the game and come over to yell at you. You will feel very stressed and confused, and you'll feel like you might cry, but you won't actually cry (thank god).

2. You should definitely know the difference between Rachel and Lauren. If you don't, then you might accidentally tell Lauren to go in and sub for Lauren. Then she will look at you like "Oh, you're insane" or "Oh, you don't even know my name." Neither is really great for player morale.

3. If you are bad at coaching, you might at one point catch the coaches from the other team laughing at you. It will bother you a lot -- you will (again) feel like you're going to cry. But you don't. Later, you cry in your pillow as you go to sleep.




The worst part is we have another game right now. I am sweating preemptively.

Soccer Mom

You guys, I'm a soccer mom.

Pretty soon I'm going to go buy a big minivan and get one of those stick-figure families to stick on the back window and a sign that says "This is how I roll" with the picture of a soccer ball.

It's happening!

No really, I am a soccer mom because my three-year-old plays soccer once a week for 45 minutes and I go and I watch and it's the most amazing part of my week.

His team is made up of four boys and, I don't want to brag, we're UNDEFEATED. It's a pretty big deal obviously. And while it is of course a team effort, each child does bring his own skill set to the field. Allow me to introduce them:

THE DREAM TEAM:

Player 1:

Strengths: Kicking the ball far, being better than everyone else
Weaknesses: NONE
Average Goals per game: 25-50

Player 2:

Strengths: Understands what soccer is
Weaknesses: Bit of a flopper.
Average goals per game: 2.5

Player 3:

Strengths: Playing the game with both hands in pockets
Weakness: Not really into soccer in general
Average goals per game: 0-1

Player 4:

Strengths: Wearing the orange cones as a hat
Weakness: Staring at his mom the whole time
Average goals per game: Was not aware there were goals














With a line-up like that, it's tough to say who's the MVP. Clearly each boy is playing a key part in this team's success. And I'm not going to brag about which child is mine (Number 4) but I do think his charisma is giving the team a certain something. I mean, when he picks up a stick and plays it like a guitar while the other children run past him, it's like I see David Beckham standing before me. Or another, much better soccer player whose name I don't know.

It's magical. 

From now on, if you need me, I'll be in my minivan.

Someone needs a talking to.

A long time ago I wrote this joke:

Having a baby is like riding a bike; they both really hurt your crotch.

Eh? Whaddaya think? Pretty good, right?

I was thinking about that amazing joke because over the weekend I participated in a large-scale bike ride (it was NOT a race, so it's not a big deal that I came in last), and it was intense. I was on my bike for over three hours, peddling, alternately loving and hating life depending on the grade of the road.

The entire experience was actually great except for one moment. One small incident that irked me and is causing me to write a blog entry about it. I was CHASTISED.

There are few things in this world that I dislike more than getting in trouble. (It's a unique attribute, and I am special because of it.)

This particular dressing-down came from a complete stranger which is the WORST because it's so surprising. She was passing me on her bike (probably about the 5,000th person to do so during the ride) and as she went by, she yelled "Stay to the right if you're not passing!"

Until that point, I was happy, enjoying the scenery and singing the lyrics to "Moves Like Jagger" in my head. But that one comment completely shamed me into a guilty hate-spiral in which I felt stupid but also hated that lady so much. I mean it's not like I was weaving all over the place on a busy city street. I mean I don't think I was. I mean you can't prove it.

Have you ever been put in your place by a stranger? Why is it so awful? Is it just my Catholic guilt at work or does everyone feel this way?

I really think people should email me stories of getting in trouble with strangers at thelazystandup@gmail.com and then I will create a post with everyone's stories (anonymous or not, your choice). It would be very therapeutic for all of us.

You should do it.

Yes, you.

I have another story about a time a man actually got out of his car to criticize my parking. It was bad; I don't even want to tell you, but I will -- if you share some good ones with me. See? Motivation.

Can't wait to hear from you!

Just not lest ye be judged on a stranger's blog.

We've all had moments where we've behaved in a way that would embarrass us later on in life. All of us. Don't act like you haven't. Stop it. You have.

For many of us, the majority of this unflattering behavior occurs during a time called "pre-teenager/teenager." It's expected and even somewhat tolerated during this time. However, the further a person gets from teenager time, the less accepted the ridiculous behavior becomes.

Case in point: This weekend at a baseball game I saw a grown man tear up his cash in front of a hot dog vendor to show his dissatisfaction with the vendor's slow service. To be clear: he tore up his own money.

The man was probably in his late-fifties/early-sixties, and the number one thing I felt was embarrassed for him. It was awkward and uncomfortable. I remember thinking: I can probably use this on my blog.

Of course, who knows the kind of night that guy was having. His team was down two runs, I will give him that. Maybe that vendor was actually an old arch-nemesis and he was just trying to return some money and bury the hatchet after the mining accident in Bulgaria, but when the guy blew him off, he was just like "Forget this!" and tore up the money.

You never know. 

I can say without question that I would not enjoy random strangers analyzing my stupid behavior on their blogs, or in their homes, or anywhere. But I'm sure it's happened. Especially because once I fell off a treadmill at the gym.

It's safe to say that, at one time or another, perfect strangers have sat around and told stories about something you did or said in public. Hopefully it was just a short little anecdote and not a story they tell every year at Thanksgiving.


A friend once told me a story about something that happened to her in high school (during the teenager time). She was getting ready for school one day, listening to radio, when the deejay started telling a story about a girl he'd seen in the mall the day before.

Apparently this girl was a real brat, yelling at her mother for not buying her a particular shirt. The deejay mentioned the store name, and the time of day, and described the atrocious behavior of the girl in hilarious detail.

It was my friend. The one in the story. She was listening to a stranger make fun of her on the radio. She knew it was her: the store, the time of day, the shirt . . . it was unquestionably her. She turned off the radio and never told anyone for a long, long time.

And then I told all of you. Because it's a good story.

So what do you think? Is someone out there telling a story about you right now? I bet that hot dog guy is telling a story about me . . . the nerve. 

Why I'd like to bazooka Joe.

There are three main reasons I would make a terrible baseball player. First of all, I am cowardly. I am afraid of being hit, by the ball or by other players. Second of all, I get hot easily and those uniforms do not seem appropriate for the summer months. Most importantly, I hate chewing gum and watching other people chew gum.

A lack of affinity for gum seems to be a deal-breaker in the world of baseball, where 50-year-old managers stuff their faces with enormous wads of Bazooka Joe like they're ten. Ah-no thank you.

If I had one wish, it might be that the world would come to a common understanding that chewing gum is gross. I realize I am in the minority on this one, but really, even people who chew gum must realize on some level that it is disgusting. Right? Don't you?

One time we were at a restaurant with my cousin who was about three at the time. She was taking forever to eat her hamburger. Finally she finished, so we walked down the street for ice cream. When we got there, we realized that she hadn't actually finished her dinner yet -- she'd been chewing on the same enormous bite of hamburger for twenty-five minutes. Just continuously chewing it as some insane act of three-year-old defiance. It was pretty inelegant.

Kind of like chewing the same piece of gum for a half hour.

I know I'm alienating a lot of your right now, so let me back myself up by telling you that Oprah agrees with me. Oprah. I once saw an episode of her show on which she confessed that, after she saw a dinner guest put his chewed-gum on the edge of his plate, she threw the plate in the garbage. She was so disgusted that she couldn't bear to potentially eat off the gum plate ever again.

See? I get that. I can't really afford to throw out one of my twelve dinner plates, but I get it.

The person most vexed by my staunch anti-gum policy is my husband, who I've forbidden to chew gum in my presence. He still does it from time to time, to prove I'm not the boss of him, but I make the experience so unpleasant I'm pretty sure he doesn't enjoy it. Because I'm mature.

Here's the thing: my husband is not a silent gum-chewer. He makes a lot of noise; and, on the whole, I don't tolerate mouth noises very well. Any kind of smacking, or squishy-saliva-type noises, turn my stomach. For example I hate it when you can hear people kissing in movies. Is that really necessary? I get it. They're kissing. Turn up the background music and let's move on.

So any time I hear someone moving their gum around their mouth, snapping it or popping it or whatever people do -- I can't bear it. I have to plug my ears or leave the room or make a subtle yet not-so-subtle face in hopes that they feel weird and stop doing what they're doing.

Because I'm mature.