This weekend I will be visiting my gorgeous niece up in Plattsburgh; my friend Gloria lives in farm country, and it’s funny to see how “city” I look when I’m up there.
This photo is a good example of exactly that; I’m a little too flashy for farm life. Not that I couldn’t adapt, of course – I have no problem working my butt off salt-of-the-earth-style, there just isn’t much of a need for a corporate photographer to plow fields and milk cows.
Today I was able to take my first lunch break in approximately three years, and I spent it the best way I could imagine; finding some of my favorite texts from the drunken debauchery that is TextsFromLastNight.com. Added bonus: the first quote below is actually from my area code; I love when that happens…it makes me feel like I might know the anonymous person who submitted the text.
Enjoy!
*************
(518):
you left a note on your car that said ” please dont tow, im to drunk to drive. safety first!”
(337):
All I heard was “You have collect call from Lafayette Parish Jail for Dude it was awesome! I’ll tell you about it later!”
(206):
woke up to the trail of sugar cubes leading to my bed……..was i that uncooperative last night
(585):
Why was I handcuffed to the roof?
(518):
It was easier then trying to explain why you couldn’t fly
(443):
its taking every last moral i have not to steal this bike
(303):
you still have morals?
(443):
Well actually itd just be too hard to ride the bike with this large rake i just stole
(530):
I wore my underwear in the shower just in case i passed out and you had to come in and get me
(217):
The little penguins are speaking with a hispanic accent. I dont know how to feel about it. Geographically speaking, this cant be possibly. This isnt cool.
(330):
why is there cat hair all over my deoderant?
(1-330):
she wanted to smell more freshershest than you.
(304):
I tried to cut him off and he said “I was the president of a fraternity for 3 years, I could outdrink God.”
A few months ago I had posted a video of some a capella singing I had done at an open mike in New Hampshire. I realized I never posted up a more recent version I have; the first song is classical, and the second is one of my own songs. The second song starts at 2:01, for reference.
Due to the extended existential crisis I’ve been wallowing in the past two or so months, I haven’t focused much on the non-whiny parts of my life lately. It takes a lot of energy to be “not happy,” and until recently, my attention has been glued to the small melodrama that’s been constantly playing between my ears.
This whole time, I’ve been living a normal life at the same time as my little internal meltdown (shocker!!), and it’s about time I started acknowledging it again.
That brings me to softball…and what a saga it’s been.
As I referenced in this entry, I joined a softball team back at the end of April. If I knew three months ago what I know now, I might have seriously rethought that decision, as it turns out in team sports, the teams themselves are only as strong as their weakest player, which in many, many cases has been me.
Sure, it’s a blow to the ego to admit, but I don’t really do the whole “pride” thing anyhow; why start now?
It turns out that I am a terrible judge of two things: perspective of how short or far a ball in motion may go, and how tall I actually am. Combined, these two details produce quite the issue:
Since I’m so tall, people throw the ball to me well within where my reach should be. The key word in that sentence is of course “should,” as I apparently have some weird reluctance to actually stretch out and reach for a ball on the outside of my arm span. Therefore, I miss just about every other ball that comes my way.
Given the fact that I’m naturally athletic enough to be able to do just about anything sporty, this is fairly obnoxious. I miss balls that are gently tossed to me, grounders scoot right by my glove, and let’s not even discuss my challenge with fly balls.
In short, I suck WAY more than I have any right to suck.
Tonight, though, was a nice change of pace. While I certainly missed my fair share of plays, I managed to get two people out (I suppose “assisting” in getting them out is more accurate), and I did a halfway decent job considering I played second base for the first time in my life.
At one point, a fast-moving grounder slammed into my exposed palm on my glove hand, and my entire hand instantly went numb. When the feeling came back an inning and a half later, I practically passed out on the spot from the daggers of fire that were rocketing through my hand. **Note to self: forever respect the power of a single nerve.**
Even with a dead hand, I managed to awkwardly toss a ball I fielded all by myself to our shortstop, Mike, and we made an out from my play. Based on that smooth move, I got a thumbs-up, at least for this game, as second basewoman, and maybe, just maybe, I can play this position more than once and learn to be somewhat decent, or at the very least, suck less than usual.
In the end, isn’t sucking less always the goal?
I’ve had “Meet Virginia” by Train stuck in my head for a few days. I caught myself singing it on the drive back from my softball game, driving down the late-night streets of Albany, and decided that Virginia is about as close as a character in a song is ever going to get to fitting my personality:
She doesn’t own a dress, her hair is always a mess
If you catch her stealin’, she won’t confess.
She’s beautiful.
Smokes a pack a day…wait, that’s me, but anyway…
She doesn’t care a thing about that, hey; she thinks I’m beautiful.
Meet Virginia.
She never compromises, loves babies and surprises;
Wears high heels when she exercises.
Ain’t that beautiful?
Meet Virginia
Well, she wants to be the queen, and she thinks about her scene.
Pulls her hair back and she screams, “I don’t really want to be the queen!”
Daddy wrestles alligators, mama works on carburetors.
Her brother is a fine mediator for the president.
Here she is again on the phone; just like me, hates to be alone.
We just like to sit at home and rip on the president.
Meet Virginia
Well she wants to live her life, and she thinks about her life.
Pulls her hair back and she screams, “I don’t really want to live this life!”
She only drinks coffee at midnight, when the moment is not right.
Her timing is quite…unusual.
You see, her confidence is tragic, and her intuition magic.
And the shape of her body? Unusual.
Meet Virginia; I can’t wait to meet Virginia, yeah.
Well she wants to be the queen, and she thinks about her scene.
Well she wants to live her life, and she thinks about her life.
Pulls her hair back and she screams,
“I don’t really want to be the queen! I, I don’t really want to be the queen! I, I don’t really want to be the queen! I, I don’t really want to live this…”
Meet Virginia Lyrics by Train are the property of the respective authors, artists and labels.
Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self.
—Cyril Connolly
As I tried to do some cleaning today, I discovered a jar of peanut butter that was nearly empty, and I wanted to recycle the container. I grabbed a rubber spatula to scrape out the inside, and as I started scraping, Cooper began to dance next to me in excitement.
This dog is too smart for his own good sometimes.
Luckily for the Coopman, when I went to visit my older sister a couple weeks ago, I had bought homemade dog treats from a craft fair, and I took these treats and the peanut butter and crammed his little Kong full of goodies. Being Cooper, he managed to get everything out of the Kong in half the time it would take another dog, but it was a very happy half hour for him.
