Coolest Beer in the Coolest Place Photo Contest

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Beer Contest, writers, writing

The ever so talented Paige Coyle, resident graphic designer, took the Valentine’s Day “Coolest Beer in the Coolest Place” contest entries and made them all fancy-like. I submit the photos for your consideration.

For those of you who haven’t been playing along, shame on you, However, here is a recap of what the contest is all about.

My husband gives each of our girls a wad of dough for Valentine’s Day and challenges them to buy an interesting beer and then take a photo of themselves drinking the beer in an unusual location.

You lucky people get to vote on a winner. Maybe this is how we should do the presidential election from now on. I ask you . . . what is more democratic than a beer contest?

Entry Numero Uno

We were in Newport Beach (Los Angeles area for you non-California-ites) in January and it was 80 degrees. Yes, I said January. Yes, I said 80 degrees. Sorry East Coast friends. My husband named his yacht you see over his shoulder, “Rockin’ Robin.” He is sentimental that way.

 

Entry Numero Dos

Amanda took a 4-hour beer geek tour of the Sierra Nevada brewery and when the staff found out about the contest, they pulled out all the stops (literally) for her and let her drink right out of the barrel. It is just like how she used to drink milk out of the carton when she lived at home.

Entry Numero Tres (When did I start speaking Spanish?)

Jill lives in Colorado and in the dead of winter she was brave enough to don a bikini and trek through the snow to a natural hot spring. It should be noted that her name is Jill Marie and the beer she found was named J. Marie. Coincidence? I think not.

Entry Numero Quatro

Last but not least, Paige is in the final days of graphic design school before graduation. Needless to say, she is hog-tied to her computer while on the final stretch. But she has good company . . . a cold beer and our Uncle Mitchell watching over her while she does her work. For those of you who have read about my uncle, that is his photo over her shoulder.

Okay, it is up to you folks. Vote for your favorite “Coolest Beer in the Coolest Place” photo!

Doing Something That Scared Me

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Doing Something That Scares You, Learning to Scuba dive, writers, writing

My husband lives by these words . . . “Do something that scares you every day.” Sing in public, enter a bicycle race, or wrestle with a cougar ~ that sort of thing. (No snide comments about me being a cougar.)

I totally disagree with his philosophy. My words to live by are more along the lines of, “Why do something that scares you every day when you could be drinking a perfectly good glass of wine.”

Well, yesterday, I did something completely outside of my comfort zone.

I went scuba diving.

I am a firm believer in not scuba diving. Why? I hold these truths to be self-evident.

• If God wanted us to breath under water, he wouldn’t have evolved our lungs into gills. (Are you allowed to mix creationism and evolution in the same sentence?)
• (Cue the music from Jaws.) A blockbuster movie star lives in the ocean and he was capable of eating Robert Shaw and turning Mr. Shaw’s fishing boat into splinters. Mr. Great W. Shark then used one of the splinters as a toothpick.
• A bevy of creepy things live in the ocean and their sole purpose on this planet is to sting, bite, or generally smother humans.
• Why swim with the fishes when you could be reading a book?

I could go on, but you get the gist.

So why, you ask, did I go scuba diving? I asked myself the same question.

My husband and I are soon taking a much-needed break from the dreary 70 degree weather we have been having in California and are going to a resort on an atoll off the coast of Belize.

My idea of a fun time in Belize is lollygagging in a hammock on the bungalow’s veranda with a cold beverage in one hand and a good book in the other. My husband’s idea of fun is being eaten alive by a creature of the deep. It is a wonder we ever thought we were compatible enough for marriage.

My husband said, “We are going to a scuba diving mecca, so don’t you think we should scuba dive?” My first response was, “Hell, no.” That was the same response the second through one-millionth time he asked. But like Chinese water torture, he wore me down and we took an introduction to scuba class yesterday. (Side note here. He is a certified diver but went to the class with me for moral support and in case I needed CPR.)

The only reason I relented, in addition to the whole water torture thing, was I knew there isn’t enough time for me to get certified before we leave for our trip.

About half of the 3-hour class was taken up with strapping 500 pounds of scuba equipment on our backs. Call me crazy, but it seems counterintuitive to weigh yourself down before going into the deep end.

The indoor pool was 92 degrees and the consistency of used bath water. Smart girl that I am, before I dipped one toe into the pool, I checked for sharks in case the teacher wanted to give us a true feel for the scuba experience.

We started in the shallow end of the pool, which is an excellent place to not drown. We practiced various maneuvers designed to keep you alive underwater. I was all ears for that.

Once we mastered breathing underwater through the regulator (the mouthpiece thingy where you get your oxygen, that life-extending essential), filling our masks with water and clearing it out, and removing and replacing our regulators, the class set out to the deep end. I set out to the medium end and hung near the ladder.

When the panic subsided, I discovered one very important thing. The bottom of a swimming pool is pretty boring. I think that is an evil trick of the dive school. They want you to sign up for more classes so you can learn to dive where the landscape is covered with creepy things that want to sting, bite, and generally smother you.

I’ll be waving to my husband from the veranda, once I set down my cold beverage, that is.

Valentine’s Day and Beer ~ A Match Made In Heaven

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Unusual Valentine's Day Traditions, Valentine's Day and Beer, Valentine's Day Beer Contest, writers, writing

Valentine’s Day is upon us. How do I know that? While I was making dinner last night, a bell pepper told me. Who knew oracles come in the form of vegetables.

Be still my bell pepper heart.

Many traditions and symbols are associated with Valentine’s Day . . . a naked flying baby who is armed to the teeth, giving tacky heart-shaped boxes filled with inedible chocolates that are more lard than cocoa, and gifts of red roses that cost more on Valentine’s Day than what it takes to run a developing country.

Here at the Coyle house we have a long-standing Valentine’s Day tradition, and well folks; it is that time of year again.

For the third year running (perhaps three years doesn’t exactly qualify for long-standing status . . . but my blog, my rules), my husband sends each of our girls a bag of See’s chocolate hearts, cold hard cash, and issues a challenge.

In years past, the challenge read thusly:

“Take some of this money and buy a cool beer. Submit a photograph of you drinking said beer. Entries are due Valentine’s Day. No sooner. No later. Mom’s blog readers will determine the winner because they know a good beer when they see one.”

This year, because my husband is a man of few words, the challenge was this:

Nothing says Happy Valentine’s Day better than a cutthroat competition.

I will humbly submit the entries for your vote in a few days.

This Valentine’s Day Beer Challenge is soon to go viral. Click on the links below to my previous brilliant posts and you will learn how to impress your friends by starting it in your community. If I do say so myself, I’m not the brilliant one . . . the competitors are.

Valentine’s Beer Photo Contest

Valentine’s Day Traditions

Maybe I Should Write a Beer Blog

One final thought. What is up with the See’s Candy uniforms? I couldn’t work at See’s because I don’t look good in a nurse uniform and bow tie.

Robin, all ready for work!

250 Blog Posts, Beatlemania, and my Uncle are Somehow Related?

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250 Blog Posts, writers, writing

This post marks two huge milestones . . . unlike anything seen before in our lifetime.

The first, which is sure to rock the world o’blogging, is that this is my 250^th blog post.

Please hold your applause.

The second milestone is that 50 years ago today, The Beatles invaded the United States. No, silly, not a swarm of locusts, but those lovable mop-heads, John, Paul, George, and Ringo. They made their American debut on The Ed Sullivan show and once again the world was rocked. Not by one of my stellar blog posts, but by Beatlemania.

Coincidence? I think not. Cue the music from the Twilight Zone.

How could it be a coincidence that The Beatles’ most devoted fan hit 250 posts on such a momentous occasion?

Just so you know exactly how old I am, I was five-years-old 50 years ago when The Beatles sang “All my Loving” on Mr. Sullivan’s television show. (I’ll wait while you do the math.)

Well, it is rumored that they sang. No one really knows for sure if they belted out a tune or not, because screaming teenage girls drowned out every other sound with their histrionics. Old Eddy boy was screaming as well, and had to be revived with smelling salts.

Back to me as an adorable kindergartener . . .

My beloved Uncle Mitchell came to our house for a visit on the wake of The Beatles’ long-hair, guitar-playing, blasphemous debut on The Ed Sullivan Show.  Well, that review of The Beatles’ debut, of course, was according to my father.  After watching their performance on our black and white television, my Dad muttered under his breath, “What is this world coming to?”

Oh, Dad. If you only knew what was in store for us in terms of radical rock stars. Think, Lady Gaga wearing a meat dress and Miley Cyrus twerking.

Back to me as an adorable kindergartener and Uncle Mitchell’s visit . . .

Uncle Mitchell arrived wearing Beatle boots and I thought it was the coolest thing ever.

EV-ER.

You have to admit it was pretty cool.

Beatle Boots. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

For those of us of a certain age (old), there is no need for a definition of Beatle boots.  To humor those of a more tender age, The Beatles wore ankle-high boots with a side zipper, bit of a heel, and a pointed toe.  In the 1960s, they were considered avant-garde and edgy. By today’s standards, they were about as tame as milquetoast.

Uncle Mitchell passed away at age 93 in October. We were braced for it, but it was still a blow. His sense of humor, story-telling timing, and sharp wit was enchanting and wacky.  He found joy in every moment, loved life, and it showed.  It was contagious.  If I could have just half of positive energy he exuded, I would consider myself a lucky girl.  But in reality, where I feel most lucky is that he was a rich and colorful part of my life.

My uncle had a decades-long career on Broadway as an actor, director, playwright, and stage manager. He worked with some of the finest in the theater . . . Ian McKellen, Woody Allen, Tom Stoppard, Tony Randall, Maggie Smith, Al Pacino, and Tennessee Williams, to name only a few. In his words, Uncle Mitchell was “born to theater, drama, and performing.

That explains the Beatle boots.

To give you an idea of the kind of person he was, let me tell you a story. Uncle Mitchell never met a stranger. While he was at our house a few years ago, he called his sister and brother-in-law (my parents) to tell them to be sure to watch the Kennedy Center Honors on television. When he realized he misdialed and got a wrong number, he said to the person who answered the phone, “Let me tell you why I was calling my sister. You MUST watch the Kennedy Center Honors on television tonight. The show is supposed to be fantastic!”

He had 10-minute conversation with a wrong number. So like Uncle Mitchell.

So, in addition to this post being a tribute to my 250 posts of utter brilliance blather, and a salute to the band that changed the world of music, it is an overdue homage to my uncle.

To borrow a line from the novel The Prince of Tides by Pat Conroy, “The only word for goodness is goodness, and it is not enough.” Uncle Mitchell was the coolest guy ever and life was his stage.

Bravo, Uncle Mitchell.  Encore. You too, Beatles.

Not you, Robin. You should go sit down.

Coolest uncle ever. See above. See below.

Coolest band ever taking over the United States (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Taking it Easy with the Eagles

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The Eagles, writers, writing

My husband and I forked over half of the money in our Swiss bank account and purchased tickets to see the Eagles in concert at the Forum in Los Angeles. We wanted to see them in concert before they split up for good or kicked the bucket.

I’ve been a fan of the Eagles for more years than I can count, and I can count pretty high. The soundtrack to my high school years is an Eagles playlist.

Picture this:  I’m 17-years old, my girlfriend and I are driving home from a day at the beach, and sand is stuck to our Bain de Soleil smeared skin. With the top down on my mom’s Mustang convertible, our bikini-clad nubile bodies turned heads while we cruised home. “Hotel California” was blasting from the car’s tape deck and we were singing our hearts out until people started throwing sharp objects at us. Ah . . . those were the days.

The Eagles put on a great show and you almost forgot that they are senior citizens. But we were reminded of their advanced age when they took a 15-minute intermission for a restorative swig of Geritol and a light rub-down of Bengay. Gone are their days of a swig of Jack Daniels and rubbing cocaine on their gums during intermissions.

The only disappointment about the concert was that they didn’t play my favorite song, “Desperado.” I think it was because they forgot the lyrics.

Looking around at our fellow attendees, I was struck by something odd. If you want to feel like a youngster, go to an Eagles concert. Sure, there were a few young pups in attendance, but the majority of the crowd was comprised of people in their 50s, 60s, and 70s. And beyond. Think walkers, canes, and wheelchairs

This proves two things.

1. You are never to old to rock out.
2. I am officially old.

During the intermission, a young girl (I’m guessing 10-years-old, or so) a few rows in front of us stole my heart. As soon as the house lights went up, she whipped out her book and began to read. I was dying to ask her what she was reading. That, my friends, is an avid reader.

~That must be one good book!

The ever rocking-rolling Eagles ended their encore with “Take it Easy.” The song is 42-years-old and the band may be pushing 70, but the song made a young girl put down her book and listen to greatness.

It’s a girl, my Lord, in a flatbed Ford . . . slowin’ down to take a look at me.