Okay, look, people, there are two times when you really piss me off when I'm driving, and you really need to stop doing both of them.

The worst? The absolute worst?

When I'm cruising down a street, going the speed limit, and you pull up to turn in front of me, and then wait until the last possible moment before you do pull out in front of me. What the fuck are you thinking? Either fucking wait for me or go! you stupid moron. Don't wait until I'm guaranteed to slam my radiator up your car's ass, go go go!

It's the pedal on the right. The right. The long one on the right.

Use it.

And when you get onto, oh, say a freeway, accelerate! I'm not in my car to watch you inch up to 105 (65 mph). There is a reason why my speedometer goes over 135 (that would be in kilometers, Mom), and it's not so that I can watch your car's bumper at 105.

While we're at it, sometimes there's a reason why I'm going 55 mph in the fucking slow lane. When the husband hands me the car keys with 200 miles on the tank and a fuel efficiency of 55 miles per gallon, and I drive it 30 miles to realize the efficiency is down to 48 miles to the gallon, you had better believe I'm going to draft that truck and drive 55 miles per hour to get that 100 miles per gallon efficiency. Don't think for a moment I'll feel a bit of guilt on trying to get that efficiency back up.

But, when I'm in the slow lane, do not fly up to my bumper then fucking honk you idiot. I'M IN THE SLOW LANE, you idiot. GO AROUND.

Why is the world full of such retarded drivers?

ARGH.

Hmmmm... I think I broke my keyboard pounding on the keys with this post.

When I'm old and senile, in some nursing hospital with my Crazy Cousin Kelly, and we're sitting there laughing and cackling at some inside joke that neither of us really understands (presumably about some young punk with a really cute ass), none of the references in the following email from Wes will make any sense to me.

But for now, it's sheer poetry!

And completely full of inside jokes and references that I might annotate at some point when I get annotation in on this site.

Another thing to add to the list to, um, well crap, after Nationals. Or maybe, after we return from Nationals. WhoO!

Photo credit to Tim Tuttle and his "crappy cell phone."

I almost forgot my note of self-congratulations to us, for making Nationals!
I've been all overcome with emotion since yesterday and I'm still not really
sure it's sunk in yet (and if Biscuit or Sugar tells you they saw me
randomly pumping my fist this morning and/or crying a little, don't listen
to them, they are a couple of filthy little liars). It's times like this
when I wish I was talented/artsy enough to compose poetry to express what's
in my heart, but since I'm not, you'll have to settle for a player-by-player
review, in haiku:

Sick with flu? No flick?
No sweat! Still caught game-winner.
Porcelain Bullet.

Absent Saturday,
Lost two games. Present Sunday.
Good luck charm? Bridget.

Naked at Four Walls,
She undressed her defenders.
Handler Brynne Speizer.

Defense specialist?
Sure looks like his guy's shut down!
Christopher Doyle.

Who the hell is Quinn?
My best guess is he's a Smith.
Pink headband, you know.

Hair, hair everywhere
Breaks his mark like he's not there
Great throw, THE Pickett!

Very tall. So fast.
Q: How do you cover her?
You don't. Emily.

Hideous? Uh, pshyeah!
Layouts a thing of beauty.
So good, Kyle Smith.

FIRE IN BELLY!
Not indigestion! Want-to!
Superstar D: Kate.

Injured her ankle;
No effect on her huge heart.
Get better soon, Kitt.

Hey look! Backhand fake!
Oops, now you are on the ground.
Yup, that's Kris McQueen.

Tallest girl on team?
Maybe a tie. Best throws, though!
Leilani Leibert.

Like manna from sky
Her D came from Seattle.
Ah, Lisa Timmins.

Ankle? Sprained. Shoulder?
Like an MLB pitcher's.
Heart? Superb! Mark Smith.

White visor backwards
Chugging on D, flowing throws
Dr. Pei-lin Hsiung.

Hands inside his shirt
Using dump-swing as weapon
Cap. Warren Schechter.

No ACL? Hmm.
No problem! Throws are too good.
Dr. Smut Randall.

Game winner v Fish?
RSD calls her "small girl".
But she plays huge: shwu!

Orientation?
Oh no! But wait! The season!
Not over! Heidi.

All he does is score.
Well, that and win crazy bets.
Oh, and drink. Paul Youn.

Wrote essay on plane
Probably about her D:
Steffi Wu, gone wild.

Is cheer mispronounced?
Gimme a D! D! What does
That spell? Kevie hucks!

3 foot vertical
Never, ever, ever drops.
Dr. Tim Tuttle.

Catch. Dump. Swing. Break. Flow.
Like water in the river
The disc in Whit's hands.

Am I an athlete?
Take that, inner fat kid! Nyah!
Who else? It's Wes! Duh.

Did I forget you?
Tell me; I'll write two haikus.
I am old, you know.

(Hope you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing. YAY MISCHIEF!)

Wes. 

Wow.

Wow. Wow! WOW!

We're going! We're going to Nationals! We're going to the Show! Whoo! Whoo hoo!

Coming out on fire, we won our game against PFN quite handily. There was no question which team was going to win. There was no question of who was done for the day and who was still alive to get to the game to go. We beat them handily 15-6, the only game in the first round to end early (by about 20 minutes) and not be capped.

The other games happening were RFBF versus Flycoons, Beer Run versus WhorShack, and Persuader versus Wagon. In that list of teams, the best three teams we could play would be Beer Run, RFBF and Flycoons. We lost handily to WhorShack and think they are the better team (well, I thought that, and had a few teammates agree), so playing them would be surprising (because it would mean another team had beaten them) and difficult. We didn't particularly want to play Persuader, but that was for other reasons.

As luck would have it, we would play Beer Run, RFBF and then Flycoons again, this time in the game to go.

I think Beer Run was a little defeated when we played them in the second round from their 15-10 loss to WhorShack. Either that, or the Smith brothers were fired up to win. Or, perhaps the winds were smiling upon us. We won 15-9, but the score was 13-5 before we closed it out.

On the next field over, RFBF had taken out Persuader. Again. So, with the wind kicking up, we started our third game of the day.

It was rough, with tragic airbounces floating the disc just out of our players' hands, or dropping it fast before we could get there. I played poorly, and when we were down 9-4, gave up. I'm embarrassed to admit, I wandered off for a bit and cried.

I wanted to win that game for so many reasons. The biggest reason, however, was because, as a team, going to Nationals for Fish was just another tournament. They have been so many times (1998, 1999, 2000, 2001, 2003 and 2004), it feels (admittedly from an outsider's perspective) as if the magic had worn off for them: the wonder of making it to the top tournament in the country was gone, it was just a matter of fact, there was no question.

Yeah.

Fortunately, the rest of the team didn't think like I did.

10-11
10-12
11-12
12-12
13-12
14-12

We won.

We were in the game to go to Nationals.

The game to go.

Against Flycoons, who we had lost to yesterday, but knew we could beat. They had a second round bye, and so had played only two games at this point to our three. We knew somewhat how they played (throw short to their men, waiting for the huck to their women to open up). We knew wanted to win.

We went up 5-0 before they scored their first point. I was completely clobbered by a woman in the third point when she turned to cut deep, right into me. We full-body collided and I went flying end over end backward. I didn't think it was a foul, and said as much, but it hurt.

They brought it back to 5-4, and threw a zone defense on the next point. I was popping, which means I needed to run into the cup to reset the count and pop the disc through. Having worked their men a couple times through the cup, I went in again and somehow knew there was a defender coming up behind me on a particular throw.

The men on Flycoons are 6'5" giants. I'm not kidding. I think five of their players are over 6'4", with probably 9 guys over 6'. So, seeing the shadow of a large player coming from behind is scary when you're a 120 pound woman. I went agressively to the disc, caught it decisively, and then closed my eyes.

I was tackled from behind by the defender coming aggressively to the disc, but had to come through me to go there. He landed on my left leg in a contorted way. I had white pain shooting up my leg, and, in a terribly embarrassing moment, began screaming obscenities at the top of my lungs. I later apologized to the guy for screaming curse words at him. I wanted to hide my face.

Turns out, it was a bone bruise on the shin. Coupled with the charlie-horse on my other leg's thigh, and I was in bad shape.

Linda walked over to me and told me, "Kitt, get rid of that target on your chest. What's up with your getting clobbered? I don't know anyone else who gets hit more often than you."

Yeah.

Evetually, they went up 7-6. We took half at 8-7, then continued to 10-7. They responded going up 10-11.

We won 12-11, on a strange injury call.

We're going to the Show!

Sunday morning.

Still not enough sleep.

Still tired. Still sore.

We have the long road to the game to go, but not an impossible one. Our first game today is against Psychic Friends Network, whom we've played before at Cramp-Up in Ashland. We played them with our B roster, and had indeed lost to them.

After PFN, we'll have to play three from the set of Red Fish, Blue Fish, Persuader, Whoreshack, Beer Run, Wagon, and Flycoons.

And win each of them.

We lost our last two games today. The third game of the day was our first loss. The team played scared, so I'm actually unsurprised we lost. Disappointed, sure. Surprised, no.

But the fourth game we had the potential to win. We started off flat footed, going down 2-8 at the half.

At which point, the whole WTF thing happened, and we started playing like the team we know we can be.

We brought the score back to 11-12, game to 13, time cap on.

We lost.

It was a crazy ride. One I'm happy to have taken, I just wish the end took the right track at the switch, instead of the left switch.

Morning of Regionals (full name: The Ultimate Player's Association Club Championships Series Mixed Division Northwest Regional Tournament), and my stomach is a fit of knots. I'm not prepared at all, and I hate to go to just about anything unprepared. Maybe a surprise birthday party, but the only one of those I've ever had wasn't exactly a surprise (I clued in a bit before the actual surprise when no one would go first in the apartment - it was a good try though).

If I had prepared properly for this tournament, I would thrown at least 200 throws a day for the last six weeks. I would have gone for three mile runs twice a week, sprint drills twice a week, plyometrics twice a week, practice twice a week, weight lifting three time a week, stretching every day, and abs every day but game days.

Didn't happen.

I think I would have been happy with just the running part of it all.

Sigh.

Here's what I'm keeping in mind, though, in spite of my stomach, my nerves, and my certainty:

No one, and I mean no one, goes into an athletic performance at 100%. No one.

There is always something. The top professional athletes have injuries, major and minor, but as paid entertainers, they have support to minimize the effects of the injuries.

The same is true for the weekend warrior, minus the full support crew, and the players today. Each and every one of them is not at 100%. Each and every one of them has some issue that will adversely affect her athletic performance today.

Even if everything is in place and rockin' physically, the mental game is another matter entirely, and the perfect place for exploitation on the field.

My opponent has no idea of my weaknesses, and I have no intention of showing them to her. One strong play, and I'll be in her head.

Nothing will stop me from being open all. day. long.

Time to declare.