Part Trois: Business Law 101

The Law of Attraction goes something like this: if you really want something and believe it can happen, it will. Oprah is a big fan, talks about it all the time. I guess that's how the boxing tournament came about -- I'd thought about it for a long time and there it was.

Funny thing, though, The Law doesn't really apply to other people. The attraction you feel toward someone is great and all, but the more you want the person and the harder you push for that person to be attracted to you, the faster the other person back-peddles. Fatal Attraction anyone?

Anyway, in terms of my life, here is what I'm wondering about The Law of Attraction and Fatal Attraction. What is it that I put out in the universe that attracts strange men who want to show me their business? Because I can assure you, it is not something I want to happen, I'm surely not willing it to happen, though I believe it can and does happen to me often. Let me be very clear: I do not like their business. I do not like their policies or agendas. I do not like what they are selling or for how much. I do not like their logo or marketing plan. I do not like them, Sam I am.

A few examples include a really creepy guy in Value Village when I was in high school and a really normal looking grandpa-type in the castle in Nurnberg. In fact, the end of the trilogy is about one of these flasher experiences, an unfriendly jogger in Mexico.

Shortly after the boxing tournament, days after actually, I flew to Mexico to study for the summer. Among other things, I brought with me the removable cast I'd been wearing since breaking my thumb in the ring. Didn't tell you that part of the story, now did I?

I'd been in Mexico long enough to know where I lived and how to get there by bus and on foot, and to stop wearing the cast. All of which was fortunate because one afternoon the bus skipped my stop and dumped me off a few miles away from my house. As I stepped off the bus I figured it was still light enough outside to walk, and saw my soon-to-be flasher and thought, "Huh, a nice jogger guy. You don't see that very often around here." Truly, I said this to myself.

I started my march home and within a few blocks the jogger ran by me. I thought, "Huh, there goes Jogger Guy, what are the odds?" Truly, I said this to myself. At the end of the block I heard a noise and I looked to see Jogger Guy had set up shop and was carrying on with his business. I half laughed and kept going. He ran by me again. End of the block, there he was, typing on his keyboard? I ignored him. He ran by me again, end of the block, printing his Excel spreadsheet? This time, I pointed and laughed.

Something I do -- and always have done -- when walking by myself is assume I'm going to be attacked and create a POA. I clock the people around me, think about where to run, etc. It sounds paranoid, but I think a lot of women do it, or at least they should. It puts you in the right mindset for the worst-case scenario and I have always hoped it would keep me from panicking and winding up hurt. Needless to say, my oh-crap-o-meter was off the charts this day in Mexico, but when he ran by me again he took off in a different direction and I thought he'd gone home for the day.

I was nearly home when I heard running footsteps behind me. I instantly thought I should step to one side and throw my arm out and clothesline the person, but I didn't think in a million years it could be Jogger Guy as he'd run away two miles back. How would he know where I was and where I lived? All my attack prep went out the window to be replaced by worrying I'd attack the wrong person. But sure enough, the footsteps got closer and I was bear hugged from behind by Jogger Guy.

But guess what? Attack prep came back. I spun around and swung at the same time. Jogger Guy narrowly missed my haymaker, but in doing so he had to throw himself backward and wound up falling to the ground.

I was pissed. Seriously pissed. In my rage I forgot all of my Spanish and found myself yelling cuss words at him in English as I kicked at him. He crab walked back as fast as he could and got up and ran off, with me chasing after him yelling something along the lines of, "Come back here and fight me like a man, you mother effer!"

Come back and fight me like a man? Really? Really. What was I thinking? I'll tell you what I was thinking. While boxing a girl while hundreds of people watched was a bad idea, killing Jogger Guy was a really, really good idea. While I was kind of scared by the whole thing, I really did want him to come back and square up. Mother effer. But let's be honest. What was he thinking? While I may be small from a few blocks away, I get bigger as you get closer. I'm not going to big myself up and say Jogger Guy was a giant. He was a person of average build and several inches shorter than I am. So what was he thinking?

In that moment I was so thankful to my brother. All those years of faux fighting were worth it. I knew my brother would be thrilled his training had saved me from who knows what, even though he wasn't terribly happy it took him 45 minutes to tie me to the china cabinet with my mom's shoe laces the last time we'd wrestled a few months before. I was thankful to the genetics that made me six feet tall, and a little fraternity philanthropy called The Smoker. I was thankful this guy wasn't bigger.

What I didn't know at the time was that this guy had been stalking some of the other girls on my exchange program. That's when I was thankful this guy chose me to attack not one of the other girls because for me it's just another funny anecdote but for someone smaller, weaker, less prepared...from that day on, none of the girls ever saw this guy again, though we suspect he was somehow linked to the host-families we stayed with because he knew where we all lived.

I'm not sure what the moral of these little stories is. You should let your kids fight? Raise a tomboy? Avoid men in running shorts? And Value Villages? And castles? I suppose in a weird way, I did will this to happen in that I wanted to let my training run its course, no pun intended, to its obvious end. And with that, I'm done with the business of business.

A Trilogy

That really has no point, but I think I can make a very vague connection somewhere...

Part I

You may know I was raised in the country, and that my parents were on some hippie seventies kick that involved healthy living. Which I find funny as they both were from meat-and-potatoes families, and entirely bypassed the '60s by going to a conservative university and in no way participating in anything to do with their generation, good or bad. But there we were, living in the barn my dad built, eating twigs and being physically active. Out in the country. It was nigh on child abuse.

If you guessed that TV, or the lack there of, was part of their deprivation, you would be wrong. My dad tried to bring us into the modern age, he really did. He bought a telephone pole and placed the antennae upon it, and luck have it, we got four TV channels: ABC, CBS and OPB twice. We were children of the '80s with no Cosby. I think they probably would have ordered us cable, but it didn't arrive on the street for another decade.

You may also know my mom invented a lot of things to keep us entertained. Think of it kind of like prison, where the warden gives the prisoners just enough to do to keep them from rioting. Which is how we got hog-tie-your-sibling-with-your-robe-belt game.

The problem was, my brother is almost six years older than I am. The deck was stacked against me in this, and most every game we played. I have to say, in all fairness, he was pretty good about not inflicting physical pain. It was always more the threat of it that sent me mental. So at the end of HTYSWYRB game, it wasn't that I was injured, I was just seriously pissed that I had to roll down the hallway to my parents to get untied.

Now, HTYSWYRB game, you may be surprised to find out, doesn't go down well as a topic of conversation at dinner parties. Nor does the less-funnily-named all-family-all-room-wrestling-match game. That one didn't even end when my brother spun my mom around on his shoulders then misjudged his strength and launched her not onto the bed but onto the windowsill giving her a cut on her head that probably would have required stitches had the doctor not been a 30-minute drive away. People just don't understand the severity of our isolation. You may also be surprised how difficult the fluffier all-family-hide-and-go-seek-in-an-800sq-foot-house-in-the-daylight game is, but I don't talk about that one much as it doesn't get much of a laugh in polite, or impolite, society.

What will no longer surprise you is that in 3rd grade P.E. the boys took wrestling, the girls took volleyball, and my mom had to sign a permission slip for me to do the wrestling. I might have been eight, but I wasn't stupid.

Trilogy, Part II

I am far from tough. Truth be told, like my father before me, I don't do well with conflict. We may be giants, but we're gentle ones. My knees used to quite literally shake when my friends were getting in trouble and it had nothing to do with me.

These days, I'm older and a bit harder. Not much, but a bit.

However, all that wrestling and near torture suffered at the hands of my brother left me wondering: what would happen if I got in a fight?

I like to lead a life such that no one would take issue with me. I choose to diffuse situations, not add fuel to them. It's not just that I find fighting undignified for a lady, it's more that I think only stupid people do it. And you can get in legal trouble. But I've always had this little wish to call someone out. Throw down. Have someone push me to the point that I say, "Right. You are having it." Knuckle sandwich. Junkyard scuffle. I've always imagined it wouldn't be hair pulling and slapping, but some serious knee-to-face kinda Brad Pitt in Snatch kinda sh*t up in here. Me, only hard. Me, only not afraid of the ramifications like going to jail.

Then, one night in college, it happened. I found a legal way to have a fight. Some fraternity's philanthropy for premature babies was a boxing tournament and this was to be the first year they allowed women. It was the following day, and I signed up. I didn't tell anyone.

I didn't know what to expect really. Three, one-minute rounds? Easy-peasy. A few dozen people? Over-sized, cartoon gloves? A little fun for a little money for kids?

Not so much, as it turns out. Hundreds of people were there to watch something like 10 fights, three of which were girls. They'd set up a professional ring with a real ref. The girl I was matched against wouldn't talk to me and she had "bitch" written on her mouth gaurd. None of the guys in my tent would give me any advice because they were friends with her.

The bell rang for the first guy fight, and a few punches in let me tell you it wasn't the first time I thought this is a bad idea.

Keep in mind I'd never thrown a real punch in my life.

By the time I got the gloves and head and crotch gear on it stank and was wet from sweat. Bad idea.

One of my two friends in attendance offered to be in my corner, and did this boxer/football pads/guy thing where he hit my shoulders kinda hard then slapped me in the head gear with his right hand, then his left, all of which hurt. Bad idea.

I got in the ring and looked at the crowd. For reals, yo. BAD IDEA.

You know how Zoolander is brainwashed to kill the Prime Minister when his trigger song "Relax" is played? Well, the bell rang and the switch flipped. From mild-mannered girl next door to Dolph Lundgren in Rocky IV.


I must break you.

Turns out, three minutes boxing is a really long time even when you're in good shape. Even with extra corner time because I kept knocking her headgear sideways and she needed smelling salts.

Turns out, the competition was rigged as she was friends with the judges. I was a little miffed as I'd clearly won, but I was a lot glad it was over. Then, quite proud of myself as the ref and boxing club owner asked how long I'd been boxing and were incredulous that they'd just seen the first (and last) three minutes of my career. Must have been a dozen guys gave me ye ol' pat on the back. Must have been hundreds of single guys who decisively put me on their "not in this lifetime" lists.

I got the video. Next time you're in Salem and have a VCR handy, you can borrow it off me Ma. Don't worry, she doesn't have any dags and she doesn't live in a caravan in a pikey campsite. Brad Pitt. Snatch. No? Rent it, it'll make sense.

Why I like my husband

He is the eternal helper of little old ladies crossing the street, defender of those unable to defend themselves, righter of wrongs, doer of good.

Picture this. Sunny day, posh neighborhood (obviously, not ours), coffee shop. Skirmish between Old Man, quick math during subsequent conversation puts him at 90 or thereabouts, and Guy about appropriateness of loud, long phone conversations in a public place. Not thrilled with the direction of the back and forth, but not our concern. Until.

Old man says Guy should get an office to conduct business. Guy calls Old Man "crazy." I jump in, telling Guy he's out of line. Husband "sees the red mist" as my friend describes her rage, and tells Guy to have some respect. Guy mistakenly says, "what are you going to do about it?" Husband suggests he and Guy step outside. Guy goes very quiet and won't make eye contact.

We have nice conversation with Old Man. Jewish, German, immigrated to the U.S. in 1939 and fought in the Pacific during WWII. We wait for Old Man to leave, on our way out Husband tells Guy to have a nice day, and that he's an A-hole.

I really like my husband.