Yesterday I got an unexpected call from my massage therapist. “Hey, I’m looking for Doug. He hasn’t shown up for his appointment yet and I can’t reach him on his phone. I’m just wondering if he’s lost.”

Lost? In Livingston? This was theoretically possible since it was his first appointment with her, but I thought I had provided adequate directions the night before when he asked me if I knew how to get to her house.

“Oh, she lives just down the street from Mary,” I said, with a wave of my hand as if that wave would fill in the necessary details.

“She said something about turning down an alley,” he muttered.

I should have known then that I needed to be more explicit.

He called me fifteen minutes after his appointment had passed and I asked, “What happened?”

‘”I’ve just spent a half hour driving around a three block area,” he said. I could tell he was frustrated. “I still don’t know where she lives. I finally flagged a woman down in her yard and asked her, ‘Do you know a woman named Allison? She’s petite? Blonde? She gives massages.’”

The woman denied knowing Allison even though they lived next door to each other. “Don’t you get it?” I laughed. ”She probably thought you were a stalker!”

“Especially since I drove around the block slowly for a half hour.”

Anyway, Doug had to reschedule his appointment because he was so late, and he’s certain to have started a neighborhood watch alert in the process, but this is not something that typically happens to him. It typically happens to me.

My sense of direction is literally nonexistent. When I have to guess, it’s almost always the wrong guess. I once got lost during a run where I only made two right turns, and ended up causing my in-laws to be late for their daughter’s wedding rehearsal dinner. 

 This happens to me all the time. In fact, I now have to deliberate over whether I should go the other way just because my intuition told me the opposite.

My mother has this problem (so it’s inherited), but she is absolutely sure she’s right when she’s telling you which way to turn while driving. “Right, turn right,” she commands, and you do it, and then you spend 15 minutes trying to get turned around so that you can go left again.

Whereas, my brother inherited my father’s directional gifts including a superhuman talent that enables him to find his way anywhere in any city around the world without a map. He’s like a walking GPS unit.What I could do with this power!

I, on the other hand, struggle to grasp the concept of north, south, east, and west. Right now, I am in terror of anyone asking me which way is north in Bozeman. Seriously.

 Combine this lack of direction with the unwillingness to ask for directions (my pride will not suffer such a fall) and you usually have a recipe for disaster. Let’s just say that I have to add in an extra half hour for any appointment at a new place, and I could use a GPS unit in my car. Doug wouldn’t need one if I gave better directions.

How many different ways can you dress people up as Mounties?  Why ever would you use your national police force as Las Vegas dancers?

Other than Neil Young’s performance (the only redeeming event), it was an evening of sad stereotypes with Bob Costas forced to deliver one-liners like, “We always love a little large inflatable beaver.” Oh Bob, really? Or when he couldn’t identify the electric horses in the middle of a large globe rolling around the stage. “They said there would be horses,” he said, and then finally, ten minutes later. “Oh, there they are!” At any moment I felt like he would announce that we were actually watching Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

Anyway, Canada, we give you the hockey and ice dancing titles, but you lose the ceremonies until you can prove you can do something better.

In the meantime, I’m onto my last week of television watching before we shut it off for the season. Doug and I like to take regular tv breaks, so that we can get bored enough to entertain each other by dancing around the house to Steve Earle songs (you’d have to be there). Seriously, we take a six month break after football season, and would have shut it off on Monday if not for the last episode of Big Love, which airs this Sunday evening. I’m dying to know what secret J.J. is hiding and whether the polygamist clan will come out of the closet, so to speak. You’d have to be a fan of the show to speak this language.  Anyway, I’m happy to return to my regularly scheduled sleeping time and the less dramatic world of life without television. Thanks to all who gently reminded me I was off of my regularly scheduled blogging too.

I’m giving up watching male figure skating for Lent. It’s really not fair to make fun of them. Honestly, it’s like shooting fish in a barrel (not that I even think shooting fish in a barrel would be that easy, let alone fun to do, but you know what I mean).

But before I purge, I need to binge. Here’s a sample of our in-home commentary watching the Olympic male figure skating competition last night.

Doug says, “It’s hard to believe that’s a triple, huh?”

I say, “It’s hard to believe that’s a man.”

The real commentator says, “That was hot.”

I came of age in the era of Elvis Stojko and Kurt Browning, when male figure skaters still had some sex appeal to women. But sadly, things have changed, and I’m finding it more disturbing than sexy.

Last night I discovered that the new trend in male skating costumes are fancy gloves, the kind your grandmother wore to hide liver spots, not to keep her warm. If this wasn’t bad enough, some skaters wore oversized mittens, as if the skater suffered from chicken pox and needed to wear gloves to keep from scratching himself during the event.

Even the “most masculine” of the United States figure skaters, Evan Lysacek, wore gloves with feathers on them. When he put his hand up to his face he looked like he was holding a feathered fan. It wouldn’t surprise me if he wore a feather boa in the long competition tomorrow night.  

To keep cringeworthiness down, I think at least one judge should be completely dedicated to rating the costumes, and deductions should be given for any costume that inspires you to say things like, “I think he’s wearing a bodice. Is that a bodice?”

Close to the end of the competition, one skater appeared behind the rink to talk with his parents and from what I could see of his top half I thought he might provide some relief. He didn’t have his hair gelled, and his shirt was flannel. What I couldn’t see was the bottom half of his costume, which was meant to look like a carpenter’s overalls, only with one of the suspenders hanging uselessly by his side, making me think he was really going to put on a stripping show on ice.

Despite the temptation, the commentators largely ignored the flamboyant costumes and provided such wise directions to viewers as, “His costume looks overpowering. It almost looks burdensome for him, but look past that.” This was the man who was dressed like a medieval soldier in a ballet. He was wearing skates that looked like leather go-go boots. It’s hard to look past that, let alone at that.

But, one commentator summed up the evening perfectly with this statement,  ”He just rocked the tassle.” Yes, indeed, of that I’m sure.

After we watched the Winter Olympic opening ceremonies last night, I could hear Doug chuckling spontaneously for a couple of hours. He wasn’t laughing about the technical failures of the torch lighting (anyone who has ever had a powerpoint presentation fail on them right before the presentation feels sorry for all involved). He wasn’t laughing about Bob Costas and Matt Lauer’s comments that organizers discovered Canadian talent “at the circus” and “on YouTube” or that so many Canadians seem to be Scottish dancers recently released from prison.

Heck, he wasn’t even laughing about kd Lang, whose body was hidden somewhere in a giant white suit. By the way, just as an aside, if they were going to show someone while they were singing, why couldn’t it have been Joni Mitchell? I’m not sure that Joni was actually there, but I would have put her up on the stage if she was.

Anyway, back to Doug’s chuckles. He was really laughing at the look on Anne Murray and Bobby Orr’s face as a Canadian opera star ruined the Olympic Hymn and scared everyone involved. She looked and sang like a woman on fire. At least her hair looked like it was on fire. And I like Opera!  It was hilarious how uncomfortable all of the special Canadians holding the Olympic flag were. You could see they just wanted to lean over and say to the next person, “Can you believe this shit? I think she’s off her meds!”

I must admit, I cried during “We Are the World,” and the prairie dance to Joni Mitchell, and the moment of silence for the fallen Georgian athlete, but I also cried laughing over that Olympic Hymn. If that was a hymn, it might have scared a few people away from singing at church tomorrow. Wow!