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Jordyn doesn't really like dogs. She's more of a cat person, but even in that, her affection is pretty particular to her own cat, Lucky, whom she has raised since birth.

So last night, as I was tapping furiously at my laptop, Jordyn came sailing through the door in her typical flurry of blond, exuberant fluffy feminine excitement. Think: Legally Blond, but not so airy.

"Wyatt was just out walking the streets!" she said indignantly, building up to the incensed crescendo of her point.  "I had to get him back and put him in the gate!!"

Wyatt is our family dog. Any of us would have done it, but being the anti-dog person, I suppose she felt either magnanimous or superior in her effort to help a member of the canine family.

Accustomed to her dramatic flair, I nodded and mumbled my thanks, then kept typing.

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We finally poured concrete to increase the size of our patio yesterday. I told Rob that it was great but perhaps bad timing considering the impending rain. But it's poured now, and we have a huge patio. The dogs had to be locked on the side-yard for a couple of days until the concrete dries, else we'd have puppy prints in all the wrong places.  There is no way for them to get out from behind the iron gate, which means that for the time being, they are reduced to pooping in cramped quarters in front of one another, rather than enjoying the entire pool deck and related various family areas to generously distribute their business in the way Medieval kings may have scattered gold coins to the peasants.

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I stopped typing. Concrete... dogs... iron gate.

I jumped from my chair and ran to the backyard, yelling for Jordyn to help me get Wyatt away from the fresh concrete (no matter how illogical it seemed that he could have left the yard to begin with), all the while wondering how much damage the enormous white Labrador had done to our precious new patio.

As soon as I stepped outside, I saw Wyatt with Jenny behind the iron gate, even as I was running around the pool to the fence that led to the front yard, where I heard Rob yelling ...

"WHOSE DOG IS IN OUR BACKYARD??"

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Not only does Jordyn dislike dogs, but she evidently can't tell a male from a female white Lab, and if it's walking the street, it must be our Lab.  WOW.  Wyatt has been in our family since Jordyn was 8 years old.  She is now 17, and she put someone else's dog in our backyard.

The female dog was happy and willing to become part of our family and went enthusiastically into our yard. Luckily, Rob grabbed her before she hit the concrete.

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Forget what I said about Legally Blond but not airy; I think Jordyn has now earned that description, too.

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My husband has a unique family. I can say this with authority after knowing them 20 years. They are the typical family in many ways: they fight, love, support, and spend time with each other. Nothing unique there. What didn't take long to figure out about them, though, is how important sports are.

In the way some folks may respect a Harvard grad or brag about having a doctor in the family, my in-laws respect athletic prowess above all other physical, mental, or occupational attributes. Former wallflowers in the family can quickly take center stage after a game-winning goal or making a varsity roster. After Jarret's grand slam, phone lines lit up and news reached relatives in Texas before his foot hit home plate at Centennial High School. It's like that.

You can imagine, then, the pressure of being a Martin.  You have to be good.  You have to be competitive.  You have to be the best at any sport you play.  You can't stink at bowling (just an example).

That's where I come in.

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All my life I played sports.  I played AYSO soccer before anyone in the Martin family knew the league existed (they are Los Angeles ilk).  I ran track for North High (no one in the Martin family was a sprinter). My athleticism, I am convinced, is what made me attractive to my husband. I think he looked at me and saw future generations of Olympians, or at the very least, children who were built for sports.

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So, I'm just going to say it: I stink at bowling. We are in a Sunday league that plays 26 weeks and culminates in Vegas.  When my sister-in-law asked us to join, all I heard was, "We finish in Las Vegas," and I said YES before thinking through all possible repercussions. Had I used better judgment, perhaps I would have weighed my options: Say no and preserve my reputation as an athletic stud horse, or say yes and risk weekly humiliation, watching my stock fall in the Martin family like shares in Ford Motor Co.

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I stopped having fun last week when it became apparent that sports successes aren't the only achievements telegraphed along the familial grapevine. My utter and complete failure as a bowler has evidently become weekly fodder for long distance phone conversations, made obvious when, emerging from his retirement digs in Arizona, my father-in-law saw me last weekend and asked how "the gutter ball queen" has been doing lately.

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Athleticism aside, my team loves me. Because of my shockingly low average (the lowest in the league), I have the highest handicap: I bring 80 pins to each match.  We are currently in 7th place of 18 teams.

Evidently, it pays to stink at bowling.