There's No Crying in Baseball

Every year since 1998, I have revered April 3rd as a day of importance and remembrance. April is typically a good month for me every year as the weather is starting to grow warm and I feel a certain sense of renewal. It also typically marks the beginning of Major League Baseball. Most importantly, however, April 3rd was the birthday of my Grandpa Howard, the most diehard baseball fan I've ever had the privilege of knowing. Not a year goes by that on April 3rd I don't think of him. Sometimes it's hard to fathom he hasn't been walking on this earth for over 10 years.

My grandfather was an extremely sick man at the end of his life. He was a prisoner in his own home, tangled among the tubes that kept him to his ventilator and kept him clinging to life. I remember being afraid to get to close to him, as though my mere presence could crush him. Instead, I often joined him in the prison cell of a living room he lived in and watched the Chicago Cubs play on WGN. Thus began my baseball education and deep conversation. Well, as deep of conversation that any girl from age five to twelve is capable of making.

After he passed away, I've looked forward to baseball season. Baseball season is an anchor that holds steady from April to October. Baseball reminds of me simpler times, of happier times, of times where the world wasn't asking too much of me. There are few activities I enjoy more in the summer than hearing the crack of a wooden bat, the smell of leather gloves, and the general splendor that is feeling time pass a little slower than usual.

As I've grown older, the sport has gotten away from me. Summertime became devoted to work and school. As I become increasingly jaded about my life at the moment, I've rediscovered the solace I find in the game and the memories of my grandfather. There are days I wish he could offer me just one more piece of advice about growing up. I wish that I had come to know more people who lived as simply as he did. I wish we could watch one more baseball game together.

This obviously isn't a timely entry as April 3rd has come and gone. However, I've decided to dust this blog off and hopefully re-introduce myself to another love in my life: writing, even if it's only to my benefit.

Sand in the Vagina

Sometimes I am amazed by the lack of responsibility I seem to possess when it comes to caring for inanimate objects. Awhile back, I decided to fuck up my car. While turning my car on ice, I overcorrected my steering and slid sideways into a curb, thus obliterating two tires, two tire sensors, and two wheels. Throw in a screwed-up suspension and you have one hell of a sweet bill from your local car-fixy-place. It's also fun when your insurance adjuster calls to confirm where you have sent your broken car one morning only to not show up at confirmed location and therefore sticking you with the bill. However, car was seemingly fine after repairs and life went on...

Until about a week and a half later. Once again we find our heroine driving her beloved brand new car in wintry weather. Well, it wasn't exactly wintry at that moment but the remnants of the precipitation from the day before were still lurking. Enter in "big flying ice chunk" from semi a couple hundred feet up the interstate. "Big flying ice chunk" nosedives into the front of my vehicle on the passenger side. I worry about my tire once again being annihilated, only to discover the tire is fine but that a chunk of my front bumper around my fog lights is missing. A little part of me dies every time I walk by said damage. With any luck I'll still be alive next week.

Today, I tested out my new Christmas present: a vacuum. Please, please, hold the applause. For the first ten minutes this apparatus was among the most beautiful things I'd ever seen. Enter random strand of Christmas lights I run over with the vacuum. The air was saturated with the scent of death. When the vacuum powered down, I realized there had been two casualties: the lights and the vacuum. The vacuum is fixable as it just needs a new belt, but there will be no joy in vacuuming for me until I go retrieve said belt from a store.

Along with my dog having the runs, having no food in my fridge, and having to return to work once again tonight, I feel like someone would might they have sand in their vagina. Minus the physical sensation and much more of the angsty, emo-ridden, piss-and-vinegar-coursing-through-the-veins state of mind.

Captain Jerkface

It's getting to be that time of year when my isolationist tendencies seem to get the best of me. For most of my life, I've probably fit of the profile of someone who is a "loner." I'm not a sad, emo "loner"; rather instead I'm just someone who has become extremely comfortable and accustomed to doing things on their own. I live alone, for the most part I'm sleeping alone, I'm eating alone, I'm watching TV alone, and I do other stuff alone. When my schedule allows for it, I socialize with friends. Granted it's the same three to five people I socialize with every time, but this typically doesn't bother me.

The last time I went back to my parents' house in my hometown, it dawned on me that none of the people I was hanging out with were there because of me; they were there to see my brother. This is fine as I have purposely not kept in touch with more than a handful of people from that town, none of whom are still in that area. However, it was also then I realized that the one good friend I still had there was someone I hadn't spoken to in what's probably closing in on one year.

Long story short, I am terrible at keeping in contact with others. Everyone promises to write or call or whatever and that lasts about one go-around before you never hear from them again. I am notorious for putting the burden of friendship maintenance on the other person, a quality that has caused some to label me as distant or indifferent, neither of which I purposely intended to be.

What is the protocol for trying to reconnect with old friends? Is there x amount of time that passes by before you should just accept bygones as bygones?

Why won't you like me?

And why can't I accept the fact that it's really okay if you don't?

Hidden talent

I am addicted to Wii Fit.

I've been using it for just over a month. I haven't lost as much weight as I would have liked to just yet, but what can you do? I love the verbal abuse it offers me when my weight has shifted up 0.2 pounds. It gets upset when I don't weigh in at the same time everyday. It knows when I've skipped a day. Basically, I'm answering to a little white box with a brain. Hell hath no fury like a pissed off Wii.

During my foray into interactive fitness, I've stumbled upon an activity I gave up a long time ago: running. Okay, it's not really "running". It's jogging or something like that. Essentially I'm moving at a slightly elevated pace compared to walking. I was in track in middle school. I wasn't even a runner then; I just threw shotput and discus. Take that back; I ran the 800 once.

One of the activities on the Wii Fit is a Free Run. In this exercise you are allowed to run jog at your own pace. On the screen you can see yourself running on a course along side other Miis. I don't know if it's trying to make me feel better by having this ridiculously uncoordinated Mii fall down every five minutes, but whatever, at least I'm not that guy. You jog in place for a set time limit. I set it for 10 minutes the other day, thinking I'd either grow bored or hate the exercise with the fire of a thousand suns.

To my surprise, I liked it. Much of this must be credited to my iPod, but afterwards I felt as though I'd done something really good. My legs were not the Jell-o jigglers I thought they might be. I felt invigorated and moderately satisfied. I dare say I might have actually been a runner in another lifetime. I'm not quite sure if this feat could be accomplished without my iPod but I'd certainly give it a try. My goal is to work towards maintaining a steady pace and by next spring, I might just try the real thing outdoors.

In the mean time, I'll be the idiot running in front of my TV, trying not to trip over the other Miis who fail to stay upright for two minutes at a time.

Jumping off pedestals

I made a fool of myself this weekend. No, that sentence wasn't meant to be newsworthy, particularly if you've ever had the distinct fortune of making my acquaintance in real life. As it often happens, my absurd behavior was a result of me trying too hard and falling face-first into a muddy hole of regret.

In many respects, my thought processes and maturity have not progressed much far beyond what they were in high school and sometimes with x amount of alcohol in my system middle school. I haven't quite grown up into the adult version of myself. I want very much to be liked and often fail to realize such a feat can be accomplished with minimal effort on one's part.

Long story short: I like a boy. He's not a boy; I believe the proper term is man. Do other people have such difficulties seeing themselves as adults? Anyway, said person possessing Y chromosome has piqued my interest for some time now. Something tells me my awkward attempts at conversation and flirtation with him have more or less spelled this out for him. In my pathetic, dark little world I do not see him as someone I could plausibly end up with.

At least that is what I thought. I still tend to put that one special person on a pedestal. I forget they are human. I forget that all niceties aside, he is still the kind of guy that is amused by women's breasts. He likes to flirt, he likes his freedom to flirt, and he is out for a good time. Don't get me wrong, this guy is nice when it counts. He is polite to my parents (if only to their face), he goes the extra mile to help those in need, and in all honesty he's much like the rest of us in that he tries to do the right thing when he can and sometimes he does and sometimes he doesn't. He's not the perfect specimen and like other people he is capable of saying the wrong thing, breaking a heart, letting someone down, and simply not living up to perfection.

Regardless of such simple observations, I am still unimpressed and slightly embarrassed for the way I acted toward him this weekend. In the majority of life's situations, I find that I do possess self-control. I am able to filter my words before they come spilling out of my mouth. I can keep my fucking shit together no matter how intimidated or in awe of another person I might be. Such was not the case this weekend and my pride is reeling.

He is just a guy. He is not perfect, much like myself. Despite things he might have said to me to encourage my attention toward him, I could have handled that night better. I could have walked away with my pride intact. Alas, I'm fairly certain I didn't.

Pedestals are tricky. The pedestal he occupies is pretty high and despite my attempts to shake it, it's not enough to tip it over. For now, he's keeping his balance and looking down at me or at least he is in my mind. I'm trying to tell myself I should be so lucky.

Letter to Molly

Dear furry friend,

Thank you for being excited to see me about 93 percent of the time. I wish that people jumped up and down when I walked in the door and whimpered. Perhaps the latter would be frightening, but then again, maybe the jumping up and down is unnecessary as well. However, I appreciate your excitement after a long day or work or whatever event has actually dragged me out of the apartment.

I also like the fact that you like napping as much as I do. At first I felt it was unnecessary that you sleep on my shoulder/neck, but now my shoulder/neck feels exposed when you are not there. Well, at least when I am laying on the couch. However, if you could work on keeping your rear end out of my face that would be most splendid. You are a fantastic little space heater covered in fur.

It should also be known that you are quite the entertainer. I like that you're a little quirky, kind of like me. You make me laugh when you bark at thin air (except when I'm sleeping, which is usually when you're barking). I also like watching you run sprints around the apartment, usually batting around an inanimate object in the process. I love when the images on TV anger you so much you feel the need to bark at them. I'm sure the lady on the TV you swiped your paw at the other day got the message.

Molly, you're a pretty sweet dog. I'm glad that you like and appreciate me more than a lot of people I know do. I just wish you'd do more around the apartment. Like if I could give you a cell phone and call you and tell you to have stuff done when I get home from work. Pouring cereal and milk isn't hard. You know where both of them are located since you stalk the kitchen all the time in hopes a cabinet or the refrigerator will open. You could also fold laundry. I know you know where laundry is too. You sleep on my freshly-dried clothes only when you're not sleeping on my shoulder/neck. However, I assume you will keep relying on your good looks to get by. I suppose this is acceptable.

Love,
Me