Friday, March 28, 2008
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Simply put--the sport is popular anywhere the British managed to conquer, which if you recall from your world history class--is a lot of places. Although they don't really get into it in India, which kind of makes sense --I don't really see vegetarians and scrums going together like naan and curry.
My husband is a rugby player. If you know anything about a rugby uniform, you can appreciate how menacing a six-and-a-half-foot male in booty-shorts can look when approaching you on the pitch. Maybe something like this.
Of course, he doesn't even wear the grey spandex anymore under his shorts, so the effect is even more pronounced. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, my man has thighs. However, his size is scary enough that some Utah sports writers included him in their sizeup to the game.
Now, there are all kinds of legitimate positions and elements of rugby that sound very dirty. At least they do to me. If "hooker", "scrum", "flanker","ruck", "maul", and "tap," don't sound like something out of a Spitzer phone conversation rather than a collegiate sport, you tell me.
All of it certainly puts confused looks on the poor freshman girls who flock to the friday night games, swaddled in their blankets because their oufits for the event are neither blue, white or warm. Classic.
Congrats to the BYU team for whalloping the Utes on Saturday. I hope my boy's ankle is better so he can get in the action sooner rather than later. Go Cougs.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Clothing is by nature of the sport large, puffy, cumbersome, with solid colors and enough overlapping layers to make even the most attractive and athletic people look like farily androygnous snow-beasts.
I love when I am on the moutain skiing or boarding, but hot I am not.
But, that being said, my husband surpised me last night with a completely new snowboard package--board, boots and bindings. He said it was "getting into law school present.
And I will glady take that. And yet, while I am still reconciling myself to the fact that all the pieces don't really match, especially not when the variable of snow clothes are thrown in, my stuff it hot. Especially my bindings. You can't get hotter bindings than this. Behold.
That's right. That is some faux snake skin, gold-looking aluminun plated goodness in a EVA plated binding straight from a Vegas nightclub. I love it!
I am so excited for this pacakge to get here (please UPS man don't get caught in the frustrating "can't deliver because you are in a shoebox newlywed apartment and you aren't home so we will punish your lack of a house and general adulthood by making you come and pick this up between the hours of 9-5, since we just proved you are so available then!"). One can hope. I don't know how this stuff would feasibly fit into our actual shoe-box size mail locker, but maybe I can hope for a HP miracle.
The bindings are only matched in ghetto-fabulous by yes...my boots with the fur...if only apple bottom jeans were waterproof...then I too could be the subject of a hip-hop song and set the women's movement back 50 years.
Awesome! Now, if only I can get my rugby-slave husband to go boarding with me, we can break these suckers in!
Other than that, I have had a fun time breaking into the blogosphere reading about moms with really great taste, Design Mom, Heather Bailey, MMW, other moms who are going to law school, just plain old law school students, and just about anything in between that keeps me occupied at work.
No--I am not a mom yet or even pregnant (please, don't go and say anything to my mother, it is just mean to taunt a poor woman with a beautiful canary nursery with a picturesque Land of Nod crib and no grandchildren to speak of yet), but I like reading about these women, because this is who I want to be in the next few years of my life.
The sun is out and yes, while I only know that by craning my neck outside of my cubicle to see the view from the real person, (e.g. attorney)'s office, it makes me happy. Welcome spring, please sit down and stay, especially with a few amazing spring skiing days thrown in for good measure.