That Mariners Show!

The Zany Sitcom Featuring
the Wacky Hijinks of
Seattle's Favorite Baseball Team

This week's episode takes place at the charming suburban home of Bon and Mr. Bon, devoted fans of Seattle Mariners baseball. Time is early one Sunday morning not so long ago.

SCENE ONE: Scene opens just after dawn Sunday morning to find Mr. Bon in the family room reading the newspaper and sipping his coffee. Sun is beaming through the window, birds are chirping. Camera one on Bon as she stumbles, bleary eyed down the stairs, gropes through the kitchen to get her coffee together. Follow to family room where she sits down next to Mr. Bon.

MR. BON: (as Bon reaches for newspaper) Hey hon, guess what?

BON: What hon?

MR. BON: The Mariner's traded Jeff Weaver!

BON: (brightly, waking up at the news) They did? Really?

MR. BON: Yep that's right! He's been traded for a high school football player out of Kent!

(insert laugh track here, maybe a rimshot)

BON: That reminds me hon, did you ever contact that clever donkey, Scott Boras?
After all, he's the one who convinced Bavasi and company to pay 8 million dollars for a pitcher whose claim to fame winning 3 post season game in what was otherwise a mediocre season. Maybe he could negotiate a more lucrative contract with your boss!

(cue laugh track)

MR. BON: Ah hon, you can't blame that whole 8 - 3 debaucle yesterday solely on Weaver. After all, our boys had 3 more hits than Kansas City and left 11 men stranded on base. It's not just Weaver who's having problems, sweetie.

BON: (hangs head in sadness) Oh hon, what will we do?

Camera pans out and fades to black.

SCENE TWO: Later that same day. Camera is on Bon in the kitchen cooking dinner, listening to the post game show.

Mr BON: (entering kitchen from back yard after mowing lawn) Mmmm something sure smells good! And sounds good too. Is that the post game show with Rick and Dave and happy totals?

BON: Yes sir! Our boys won the game today!

MR. BON: Oh Boy! Gee Willikers! What were the highlights?

BON: (while pouring two glasses of wine)

Oh Hon! Cha Seung Baek pitched a marvelous game! A no hitter all the way to the sixth!
And don't 'cha know Willie got an RBI double, that's good news! I don't want to seem critical, but his average was pretty darn low! Ichiro had a good game too! But I think the real highlight might have been Richie's single!

MR. BON: You don't say!
(counting on his fingers, with a look of exagerated thought on his face)
That's just great! You know, if he keeps this pace up he'll have ... let's see ... oh my goodness ... SIX singles by the end of season!!!

BON: (handing a glass of pinot to Mr. Bon) WOW! That is something to drink to!

(As Bon and Mr. Bon clink their glasses together with big, cheesy smiles and adoring looks, lets get a flash of light off the wine glasses and pan the camera back and fade to black.)

Greetings From Under The Rock

Clear indication that I have been somewhat out of touch came a few weeks ago while reading Tim's way cool blog. I followed the link to his so-called friend John's blog, who Tim says:

"not only can the play guitar pretty well, he's funny too."

The post about the peanut butter spreader that Tim linked us to was humorous enough that I forwarded the link (something I rarely do) on to Space.

Sensing that Tim's "friend" was either a master geek (his blog is really ripped), or possibly some kind of real musician, I asked Space if he'd ever heard of the guy. Back comes Space with the news flash that his wife has a few John Mayer CD's and their daughter sings along to his songs.
Guess I should have clued in when Bender's comment indicated that she thought it was cool that "her boy John," was one of Tim's friends too.

Okay, okay I am a former NPR junkie, people. My iPOD catalogue is limited to what the "shock doctor (I'll explain this new moniker for the eldest bonlet later)" puts up for me ... or what I download from mr. bon's and my aging CD collection. Did I mention I have poetry on my iPOD? You get the picture. I am, without a doubt, out of the loop.

Musically speaking though, I am moving forward. Have you heard the "new" song from Norah Jones, Don't Know Why. I heard it for the first time last week at work. Our screen printer, Ink Boy as I like to call him, can't do his job without music blasting. So whenever I visit the print room I'm treated to something new; new to me anyhow. One day last week, all conversation to ceased when Don't Know Why came on. I'd never heard it before, and thought it was pretty great. The very next morning, on my way to the factory, I heard it again on am 880 KIXI, The Music of Your Life. Again, hearing this song on this radio station that boasts it's Drive Time show hosted by Peter Marshall (yes that Peter Marshall of Hollywood Squares fame) should have been a clue.

When the song ended, Peter congratulated Norah on the fifth anniversary "of this terrific tune." I'll admit, I was more than a little crushed that the song had probably been introduced, then overplayed and then relegated to the likes of KIXI all with out my knowledge. But then I realized I had latched on to a song from this decade! Sweet progress.

Hey, did you know that Hillary and Barack are running for the democratic nomination?

Sorry

Sorry is the color pink
when you are embarrassed.

Sorry is the feeling you get
when you hurt someone.

Sorry is the taste
of salty tears.

Sorry is the feeling
that you messed up.

Sorry is sadness
and begging for forgiveness.

Sorry is like depression,
only for that moment.

Sorry is when you feel like silk
and are easily hurt.

Sorry is the warm you feel
when you have made up.

The last one is what I'm asking for.

What is sorry without these things?

~ the eldest bonlet
june, 2006
age 13, at the time.

My Love Grows Deeper

Remember the scene in Bull Durham when Kevin Costner joins the team? The coach, or maybe it was one of the players, describes Costner's character, Crash Davis, with disappointment: "he reads books without pictures, man!"

Crash Davis was definitely my kind of guy - hot and smart.

The M's hottie in center field has something in common with Crash. Turns out he more than fulfills the requirements to be placed on the Bon's Registry of Hunks .

Yep, that's right, not only is Ichi a hottie, he's a smartie too! Not to mention his mad skills on the ball field. But during those dry months between October and March, my "back-up plan" keeps himself pretty busy.

Check out his off season hobby back in old Nihon. I always hoped he had more than baseball drills going on inside that cute little head of his.

Doh!

Couldn't have said it better myself.

I forgot: one must be on the Edit HTML tab to upload images.
Did I really forget?
Was it that way before?
Oh the joys of menopause.

Calling All Bloggers

"Come in Bloggers, come in."

"Can you read me?"

"Need urgent assistance with Image Upload."

"Party in question switched to the new blogger some time ago and hasn't been able to complete Image Upload since conversion."

"Come in bloggers, do you read me?"

"All available units please respond immediately."

"Possible mayhem to ensue; several images roaming blogosphere unruly and detached from any sort of blog!"

"Come in Bloggers, do you read me?"

"Over."

Sayonara, Ichiro

Ichiro Ponders Free Agency and a New Team


Who can blame him?

The hottie in center field cites more than money as the reason he's considering free agency.

What a concept. Ichi just wants to have fun doing what he considers his "hobby." Odd as it may seem, his definition of fun includes winning games and fan enthusiasm.

Remember 2001? Seattle was a baseball town that year. That's what #51 is looking for in a team.

Note to Bavasi: I'll get the fans, you get the wins. Uh... you should know, your end of the deal would probably require you to sign someone who isn't a has-been and who has some decent, RECENT stats to back up that handsome picture on the back of his baseball card.

Note to Suzuki-san: If baseball is your "hobby," what exactly, is your vocation?

In Which Daring Resolve Leads to My Consumption of a Thousand Year Egg.

The truth is, I wanted to snap the old man's head right off.

I'm telling you I could have done the deed right there on the spot with my own bare hands. You see, lately I've been experiencing these surges of rage. I underestimate. I think I mean to say, 'maelstroms of violence aching to get out occasionally course through my body.' Anyhow, when in the midst of these so-far-internal, outbursts, I believe it is entirely possible for me to decapitate someone.

In the end, I decided the best way to avoid a prison sentence, was to relegate my primal inclinations for physical destruction to the gym and show this curmudgeon, who I happen to know has a heart of gold, what a kind soul I am known to be by the rest of the world. In other words, rather than the quick, violent and potentially messy demise I'd fantasized about earlier, I altered my course and wisely resolved to kill him with kindness.

I knew my first move would be to accept a spoonful of the syrupy raspberry jam he tried to shovel into my tea the day before. Little did I know that my refusal would offend him so much that he wouldn't so much as look at me for the rest of the day, let alone cut the fabric I'd ordered the day before. But really, would you have allowed somebody to put a whopping spoonful of raspberry jam into your naturally sweet mug of licorice spice tea?

So, first thing the next morning, I marched right downstairs to his fabric cutting table, tea mug in hand, and asked, "would it be too much trouble to try your raspberry jam now?" Big smile from the old guy. With that simple gesture, I was easily on my way to his good graces. He proceeded to give me specific instructions on just how to add a spoonful of the unset, runny jam into my cup of hot tea. Who knew the specs would be so complicated?

It was reaching into the refrigerator for the "jam," that I stumbled upon the beautiful speckled eggs. There they sat, each one wrapped loosely, yet carefully, in a tiny plastic bag. Always fascinated by interesting food from different cultures I just couldn't let such a treasure go unnoticed. I was pretty sure they were eggs from arcona hens, but thought I'd just verify and maybe at the same time exhibit my wicked culinary IQ. I'm such a smarty when it comes to food, right? Wrong.

I wasn't even close. Well yes, the eggs did come from a hen, that much I got right. Tod, who is a Laotian raised in China and fluent in at least three languages explained that they were Thousand Year Eggs he'd brought in to share with me (he likes to feed my adventurous spirit regarding food), if I was interested. Was I ever!

That day at lunch, the old man (did I mention he is from somewhere in the former Soviet Union? We, his other coworkers and I, can never get out of him where exactly he immigrated from just twelve years ago, one of the 'stans' we think, most likely "pain-in-the- ass-i-stan," we figure) sat reading his Russian newspaper, all the while sneaking approving glances as Tod and I ate the black (think: obsidian colored jello) eggs that had been curing in ash for something like a hundred days. He wasn't in the least bit interested in trying the intensely eggish concoction, but I could tell I was showing him a thing or too about the Bon.

Next day, I scored a d-double-d-licious piroshki like thing that the old man's wife learned to make back in the old country. Not only that, my entire order of fabric was cut without one challenge, or question, or "you crazy, lady."

Do I Look Fat In This?

In a fit of anniversary frenzy, I gave my blog a makeover and now I'm not sure how it looks.
I mean, did I go too far?
I thought I'd lighten up the place a bit. It seemed so dark every time I came in.
And those damn palms dropping fronds everywhere; they just had to go.
But really, did I go overboard?

I chose blue to complement my eyes.
But gee, Is it a bit garish? Does it make me look fat?

What about the orange accents?
I went with Orange to punch things up; it's the new black you know.
I kept the green because well, it's my color. Plus, you know me, old gushy-in-the-blog,
I can't resist the idea of connecting the new to the old.

Do take a look at the new additions to the "Friends" list. Although I probably broke sixteen statutes of the blog etiquette protocol, I listed several new links to some entertaining blogs. Some are friends, some I've just stumbled upon while travelling the blogosphere. Let's hope the authors don't get sue me for lack of permission. Interested in the trials and tribulations of a newbie teacher? Click on Bender's Place. Want an easy-to-follow recipe? Click on Well Fed. Need a dose of exquisite humor? Click on Space's Place. Good art? You've got to click on Vera. For even more fun, check out her links. That will keep you from getting your work done. For a really random adventure check out the Cool Guy in Austria link; I'm not sure what draws me to his site, but it is worth a trip or two. Want some advice in the boudoir? Scroll way down to the bottom of the page to the Adults Only section. Smut and Stuff will help you and maybe even inspire you.

But really, all the changes aside? Do I look fat in this?

Happy Anniversary to ... Me!

I don't know about you, but when a significant event occurs in my life, its anniversary can be equally significant. Doesn't matter if it's meeting Mister Right, the first days of a new job, the extrication of my gall bladder or the birth of my children. With an eerie precision, the feelings and memories of that time gently waft their way into my conscience as the memorable, or in some cases not so memorable, date approaches.

I always make it a point to embrace these ethereal feelings because they remind me, ever-so-vaguely of who I was and who I've become in the time that's passed. My strengths and weaknesses are magnified and my intentions come into full bloom once again. It's good for the chakras I tell you, good for the chakras.

What, you must be wondering, has got me all gushy-in-the-blog this time?

It's my blog anniversary! Happy Anniversary bon blog!

True to form, I've been preoccupied this past week with the joy I felt a year ago today,
when with the help of a friend, I established my own little piece of web-estate. In the weeks that followed I suffered with a kind of joy that I can only compare to falling in love and that resulted in many sleepless nights and more than a few manic bouts of extreme energy. The rush I got writing and putting a up post had become intoxicating; not to mention a bit addicting. There were days at work when I'd sneak to the computer every couple of hours to check on my blog; no small feat considering I was teaching in a classroom without a computer and the nearest "fix" was a public-domain gig located two flights of stairs away from my classroom.

Although my contributions to the bon blog have been less frequent than those first few months, I don't want you Dear Reader, to think I'm all done with this writing thing. I still experience the same lovely little rush every time I put up a post. Writing is still the thing I'd most like to do when I have a few minutes to myself. And, if I were to post a list of all the things I'd still like to write about, I'd have to create another blog just to hold all my "first lines."

And if you're wondering: Yes Dear Reader, I am still a comment whore.

Scott Boras

A Question of Ethics

Even though I loathe what he's doing to Major League Baseball salaries, is it wrong to want Boras's help negotiating my upcoming contract renewal at the 'factory?'

Congratulations Zito, I hope you'll be happy on the other side of the Bay. Oh, and could ya have Scott give me a call? I'm pretty sure he'll want to hitch a rope to my star and get some of that pocket change I'll bring in.

Lesson Learned

Okay Universe, I get it.

Life is what you make it.
Energy makes energy.
Cross your t's and dot your i's, your life is rich and full.
Fail to fill in the details and you can't help but notice that nagging feeling that something is missing. Put energy into your efforts and you will reap rewards twofold. Fail to exert energy and you will fail to have energy.

See? I get it.
What's true for life is true for anything, right?
Raising children? Friendships? Relationships? Work?
And ... Christmas?

That's why I couldn't find my Christmas Spirit.
I just didn't put enough effort into it.

Most years, I go all Martha on the family.
I make sure the lights go up Thanksgiving weekend.
I get my family out to our favorite tree farm and watch in awe as my men chop down a tree right before my eyes. And even though he resists every time, I insist Mr. bon take us for hot chocolate on the way home.

Once the tree is up, out come the twelve boxes containing our tree decorations, charming knick-knacks (some new, some even passed down from my grandma) and of course, the special, used only once a year, Christmas linens.

After the house is decorated to the nines, we start wrapping the gifts that were purchased with thought and care and place them just so, under the tree. We don't use just any gift wrap. It's usually brown craft paper festooned with bright ribbons and handmade bows, then adorned with tags handmade by the bon-lets.

If you look closely, you'll notice that everything ties together to fit the charm of our little cottage of a house. The bon's don't mess around with Christmas, people. We do it right. T's crossed, i's dotted.

This year was different.
Although the lights did go up a day or so after Thanksgiving, the tree was purchased at Chubby and Tubby on Aurora. Eegads!
The boxes came out, but only the tree decorations were used. Every other little doo-dad never even left its container and all were hauled back out to the shed. It should have been a clue, no make that a big red flag, that something was up when I told him, "I'm just not that into it," as he patiently made his way back to the shed toting the twelve oversized boxes.

Nobody seemed to notice that the gifts were wrapped differently this year. Nor did they comment on the fact that in some cases we used a "sharpie" for a tag!

In fact, if it weren't for me and my oversharing tendencies, I'm not sure others would have noticed that Christmas was different this year. The bon-lets were cool; they seemed to have a rewarding and warming holiday season in which they both gave generously and received handsomely. In some, probably many, instances, Mr bon was no doubt relieved to simplify things a bit. In my case, all those materialistic details are an indication that the forces are swirling and a certain manifestation of the spirit of the season, and of life.

Looking back, I see that I did put some out some effort. Quite a bit of effort, actually. I did fill in the details, I did charge the air with energy and I did reap rewards twofold ... I just did all that at work.

That, Dear Universe, won't happen again.
From here on out, the lesson becomes one of balance.

Dear Universe,

Yoo Hoo ... Need a little help here.

Will the entity that burgled my Christmas Spirit kindly return it?
Promptly.
Time is running out and I do have children, ya know.

If this is some kind of joke, I consider it cruel and not funny.
Get my drift?
Now bring back my spirit, dammit.

Zeroing on Zito?

I wonder.

Occasionally, my evening commute takes me past the Mariners' front offices above Safeco Field. On dark, winter evenings I can peer into the fourth floor windows and see the dapperly dressed execs working away on... something.

When passing those windows at 6:30 on a Friday night in early December, as I did last night, I wonder, "what are they doing up there?"

Could they be receiving faxes and other important office-type communique from Bavasi who is struggling through the winter meetings down in Florida? Is he asking them to calculate how many hot dogs they'd need to sell in order to bring a big-league pitcher to the Safe?

Please oh please, Bill, give us fans a ray of hope in these dark winter months.

I'll buy a hot dog, maybe two.
Just give me a competitive team to watch while I'm eating it.

Close One

In what I can only describe as a dangerously close brush with parenting, Mr. bon and I were put to the test this week. No need to fear, I am delirious to report that we escaped unharmed. This time.

The child in question was the eldest of the two bon-lets; the boy.
Said boy was invited to this Thursday's winter blow-out concert, Deck the Hall Ball put on by the local rad radio station. Call me conservative, call me overprotective, call me what you will, but when the headliners are Gnarles Barkley and My Chemical Romance and the gig is going down at the semi-massive Key Arena, I'm going to think twice before I allow my 14-year-old -boy to get jiggy with it amongst a gazillion chemically enhanced strangers -especially on a school night.

I won't go in to all the details except to admit that the deal was pretty well thought-out by the instigator's parents and involved door-to-arena-to-door transportation. I was assured that, "security these days (since 911)" is very tight. To which I responded with, "no, I don't live under a rock" and, "yes, I have ventured beyond Lyle Lovett and gone to a hard core rock concert in the past 2 years."

And I will admit to you I did go through a full range of emotions. Which I believe it started with, though not uttered audibly, "No freaking (er, something like that) way!"

Then a sharp turn at "I don't care if I'm the nerdiest mom on the block, my kid is not staying up til one freaking (yes again) a.m. on a school night for a, yes you guessed it, freaking, concert. That definitely is not good parenting."

With a long pause at, "well maybe, if he wants to go though he better not choose this week to retreat into teen silence and shrug his shoulders when I ask the important questions such as 'what interests you about this concert?' 'who is playing?' 'is this really something you're willing to spend your hard-earned money on?' and the all important, 'is this a special girl?' "

Then finally, after a consultation with the hippest mom I know, and a fair bit of perspective and persuasion from Mr. bon, I came to, "well if he can make a case for it and show me some enthusiasm I guess it's time to make this leap and let him go."

But the kid is cool.
Way cool. Cool as a cucumber.
Cooler than ice water.
Cooler than I'll ever hope to be.
When we found a quiet moment to have the talk; you know, the one in which he would convince me that there was no freakin' way he was missing the concert? he flat out shocked me.

"I changed my mind. I don't want to go."

He went on to tell me that he wanted to be "pumped for Friday, because it's well, Friday" and that "I can stay up late listening to my own choice of music any night I want."

In a moment of rare parenting brilliance, I bit my tongue, closed my mouth, and smiled. Then I told the boy how impressed I was with his intelligent decision.

Silently, I thanked him for letting us off easy. This time.

I'm Not Gonna Lie ...

... I Walk the Line is the sweetest love song ever written.

... there are times when nothing will do, quite like a glass of red.

... there are times when nothing will do, quite like a glass of red, unless it's a cosmo.

... Mr. Bon is freaking hot when he wears a black turtleneck.

Entanglement

Why I choose to tangle with the written word,
I'll never know.
Its sticky web entraps me so.

Just as I inhale,
all the clever and apt words,
line up,

letter
by
letter,

and march right
out of my brain
through some secret portal
probably located just behind my ear.

Waiting in the wings
are the replacement words:
the evil twins.

Have you met it's and know and there?

I have.
And even so,
every time
their ticklish ways lure me in.

Hot Dog!

Foodies. I love them.
I embrace them.
Why, I count many of their ranks among best friends.
In fact, I consider myself a bit of a foodie too; if I do say so myself.

Food, and the art behind it's preparation and consumption, has been a passion of mine since I was the summer of 6th grade. While reading Better Homes & Gardens one day, I stumbled upon a recipe for Rosemary Chicken that I couldn't pass up. What in the world I was doing reading that 'zine, I can't tell you. But while my friends were reading Tiger Beat, I was serving a delicate breast of chicken to my parents for dinner, and a chocolate mousse cake for dessert.

I am happy to report to you that the concept of foodies transcends cultural boundaries and is one of the better, and definitely unexpected, perks of my new job. Nearly every weekday morning I am the lucky recipient of some of the best Asian comfort food you can imagine; or breakfast, as the twenty-some Chinese woman who take turns preparing these delights refer to my midmorning snack.

According to some elaborate (and probably not so complicated if you speak chinese) schedule, these woman take turns making what is their first meal of the day. They are at their sewing machines making tote bags, aprons and duffels so early they don't have time to eat at home. So, ingeniously, they've pooled their efforts and have breakfast at 9:30 every morning. Yes, you could set your watch by it.

My first encounter with their collaboration was my second day of work. Shing, who normally puts zipper pulls on bags was tending to "something" in the kitchen. First, I noticed the incredible aroma that filled the whole building with the warm, comforting smell of rice cooking in chicken broth. Then, when I went to get some tea, I saw the chicken, cilantro and peanuts awaiting their opportunity to contribute. If it weren't for my status as a foodie, I would have been suspicious. Instead, I waited patiently, properly and silently for my invitation to partake.

I had to wait two, long weeks before Elaine brought me a bowl of "congee." Each morning before that, I had to endure the fantastic smell and smile quietly at the women as they passed to the kitchen to get their breakfast. The only thing holding them back from inviting me to join them was language. The only thing keeping me away, was my good manners.

When Elaine (the best English speaker among the women), finally summoned the courage to approach me with a bowl of "their" food, she offered it gingerly. It was all I could do not to pounce. The look on my face gave way to the fact that I, like them, was a food person. Didn't matter what culture it came from. I was eager to try the "soup" and she could tell. Her mission was a success, and I was accepted.

Congee, it turns out, is a rice soup. The Chinese version of a hearty porridge. The rice is cooked in an excess of broth to an almost mush state, then the chicken is added and allowed to simmer. At the very end, add the cilantro and raw peanuts. Have this for breakfast, and you won't need much for lunch. Needless to say, it is both delicious and satisfying.

From that day on, I have been treated to fantastic gingery humbow, a noodle version of the congee and an deliciously odd cake sort of thing. Think: agar- but with both sweet and savory flavors. It is tasty, but extremely rich; I can never eat more than a couple of bites.

Breakfast took a little twist this morning.

I chuckled to myself when I saw Mei, a grandmother among the sewers, walking to her work station with a catsup smothered hot dog smothered in her hand. Amused by the image, I wondered where in the heck she got that thing and why she wasn't eating with the others. After a quick trip to the fax, I came back through the sewing room and saw that each and every sewer was sitting at her machine chomping on a dog. I couldn't help but laugh out loud.

Soon, Carmen brought one to my boss, a self proclaimed, fellow hot dog lover. Before I knew it, I too, was gobbling down a dog at 9:30in the morning. And guess what? It was a delicious, foodie approved dog!

"Po-rish sau-rage I got from Safeway," Carmen told me as I munched away.

Needless to Say...

... Dubya is an embarassment.

... the GOP frightens me.

... you should V O T E today.

Shadows

I looked for you in
Portland last weekend,
but you were nowhere to be found.

I was certain you'd be at Powell's,
in the dark aisles of the Blue Room.
I pictured you mingling
with Proust and Updike,
maybe Angelou.

I wondered how it would be
to spend the afternoon strolling,
the leaf-strewn sidewalks of 23rd,
holding hands, getting close,
snuggling under autumn's cloak.

Then later, I thought, after a show,
we could stop by Elephant Deli
for a bottle of red and a late night sup,
to share back in our room
along the riverside.

I looked for you in Portland,
though you were nowhere to be found.