I have some event scheduled for tonight at 8:00 PM. I don't know what this particular event is, as it says only, "New Event" in my calendar. It's in the "Info" category, which doesn't help much (at all) in figuring out what the event is supposed to be. I asked Kris, and he said he didn't know. I asked Doyle and Mike, and both of them looked at me in the "how would I know?" sort of look I seem to be receiving a lot as of late.

I asked the dogs, but they just looked at me slying and said, that appointment? yeah, yeah, that one, that's when you're supposed to walk us, yeah, walk us, no, FEED us, yeah, that's it, FEED US.

I asked if they wanted dinner that late, they just said, no no, that was dinner number 2 at 8.

I stopped believing them.

So, I have no idea what this mystery event is. I guess I'll wait until 8:05 tonight and hope whereever I'm supposed to be, well, someone calls me from there and lets me know where I'm supposed to be.

Happens every year. I know it does. Doesn't mean I have to like it. Or go willingly. Kicking and screaming and grabbing hold of door jams and holding on for dear life, I wandered to my yearly appointment. For the first time in I don't know how many years, I actually arrived on time to the appointment.

I was doing fine in the appointment, explaining that no, I was happy with not having kids, but, no, I wasn't going to start using birth control because, well, let's face it, if I'm not pregnant by now, I'm not getting pregnant without some serious divine intervention, and I'm pretty sure whatever deity there may be, She really doesn't care about about my fertility one minor iota. Or one micro iota. Really.

At the end of the appointment, after all the parts that I should have been embarrassed about, after the breast massage for lumps, after the scootch to the bottom of the table with my feet way up, the blinding lights warming up my nether regions, after the moments of having someone not my husband looking not only down there, but in there, too, after all of these should be, but really weren't, embarrassing moments, the doctor told me she was done and I could get dressed.

I hopped off the table, and started dressing, still talking to her when I noticed her eyes flick down and back up quickly. My eyes followed her quick look down, and I realized I was wearing perhaps my most rattiest, thread worn pair of underwear I owned. One of the very, very few which had escaped the wrath of doggie teeth.

And, at that moment, I was finally embarrassed.

Mirabelle stopped by this morning to visit with me. She sent her mother off after about ten minutes, letting her know that she would be fine, mostly by saying, "Ma! Ma? Ma. Ma. Ma! Ma?"

Mirabelle started her visit, once again, by inspecting the cleanliness of our kennels. Once she peered in, however, she discovered we actually keep dogs in our kennels. A surprise to her to be sure. Annie came out to greet her.

Mistaking Annie for a daemon, and feeling a little nervous, Mirabelle decided the best course of action was to perform an in-house rain dance, complete with sticks and drums. She set up her bowls, turned them upside down, and began a one-time-only ritual drumming.

A good first step, but the natives were still restless. What better way to sooth the savage beast than with food? And where better to find food than an organic garden? Where, indeed.

Mirabelle was incredibly giving with the tomatoes. Once I pulled a few off the vine for her and handed them to the dogs through the fence, she picked on the process very quickly, pulling her own tomatoes off the vine, then picking off the stems before handing the tomato through the fence.

We stopped when she started going after my bell peppers. Hey, they're red, too.

There just aren't as many of them.

After the feedings, Mirabelle confirmed the savage beasts were, indeed, soothed, by threatening to wrestle Annie.

Soon after the dog wrastlin', incident, we went off for lunch. Mirabelle was playing it coy.

When practicing at Cherry Chase a few weeks ago, Tyler rolled his ankle. Rather than taking care of it like any normal person would do, he continued to play on it, and the following weekend, injured it again, as well as the other ankle.

Fine. Well and good, it's his ankle, whatever.

Except last weekend, he played on it AGAIN, in a tournament, and he, what do you know? When you don't rehab an ankle, and you don't even freaking wrap the injured ankle, you injure it again. Is this surprising to anyone but Tyler? Injury + no care = WORSE injury.

Boys are dumb. Especially Tyler.

I've had some bad ankle sprains. Any idea how sucky it is to sprain your ankle playing at a park, start limping home and twist your good ankle in a hole, spraining that one, too? Well, I have a good idea what it's like, and that's the on-going story of my ankle injuries. I get them, I rehab from them, I keep playing.

So, a few days after the tournament, I checked in with Tyler. Had he started his rehab? Was he elevating his foot? Was the ankle always in compression? Was he icing regularly? Did he need any rehab exercises?

Answers? No. No. Yes. No. Heck yes.

I gave him some easy ones, like write the alphabet with your foot as big as you can keeping the knee stationary, using only the ankle joint. Do this once an hour. I also offered gentle resistance exercises with a band. Paul offered standing on one foot, building up to a minute, then doing it with eyes closed. All three brilliant suggestions.

Come practice today, had he done any of them? "I wrote the alphabet twice."

Twice.

In a week.

When I commented very loudly that no one on the team should enable Tyler's retardness further by throwing with him, he became all pissy about it. Honestly, if a player is going to be retarded, it's the team's responsibility to educate him. If he wants to run after discs on an injured ankle, it's the team's responsibility not to throw to him. If he can't take care of himself, and it's very obvious he can't, the team needs to step up and do it for him. That's pretty much why a team exists: to work together to a common goal.

Our goal should be, "Stop being retarded."

"In baseball, they don't make football analogies."

If I didn't already know Kris' favorite sport, I would now.