Take Me Out to the Ball Game...Listen to Me Complain

Well it is no wonder that B doesn't take me to the ball game* too often. First, as you know, I don't really follow sports. Second, I like to discuss what is going on around us, not necessarily what is happening in the game. Third, when I do decide to discuss what is going on in the game, I quickly become an "expert" much to the amusement and/or frustration of B. Here is a prime example:

[Scene: Baseball game around the 5th inning]

Me: Oh GREAT, Smith is up to bat? We are SCREWED.

B: Like you even know what you are talking about!

Me: Oh, I don't know? I DON'T KNOW?

Me: You know he is just going to hit it up and to the left like he does EVERY.SINGLE.TIME and then he will foul out, or whatever it is called, and then all of these men on all of the bases out there? WASTED.

Me: Yes, Smith, you will be WASTING ALL OF THOSE HITS!

Me: I mean, really. Look at his stats - they are AWFUL.

B: You don't know what you are talking about.

Me: Really? Why are his RBIs so low? Huh?

B: They are low.

Me: What are RBIs anyway?

B: {sigh}

*****

[Scene: Later in the same inning]

Me: Now THAT guy has GREAT stats.

B: HE IS ON THE OTHER TEAM.

Me: Huh.

Me: We are SCREWED.

You know what is fun though? When the guy in your row decides to walk down in front of you for the second time and then stop RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOUR FACE and say "maybe I should have gone the other way" while doing some weird back and forth maneuver RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOUR FACE that prompts your spouse to say "nice of him to wave his junk in your face" and you to say "thank God he is wearing pants" and thinking what you really wanted to say to the guy was "HEY, I think you left your penis on my face."

Finally, no baseball game is complete unless it is at or below 50 degrees. Seriously, the last three games we went to in different months? FREEZING. Here is photographic evidence:

Yes, I am wearing a sweatshirt AND a fleece AND gloves AND drinking a hot chocolate. You will also notice there is no one around me. That is because they were smart and stayed home and watched it on TV with their heat on.

I love sports.

*Or a football game. Or a basketball game. I am a bit better with hockey. A bit.

Your Mom Might Be a Lesbian If...

You have this email exchange with her...

Mom: I just used my new Cherry Chap Stick. Is Katy Perry going to come kiss me?

Me: Ha! You are NUTS!

Mom: Have you ever tried it? It is VERY cherry and smells so good. Hell, I would kiss a girl just to taste it.

Me: Please STOP! No, I haven't tried it but I will have to with that ringing endorsement.

Mom: Don't buy it, I have another one over here. The smell goes away pretty quick and I don't want some random girl grabbing you and kissing you although your co-workers might find it interesting.

Me: You are really too much right now. You need Twitter.

And you might be a dork if you have this email conversation later:

Me: Do you mind if I blog about your cherry chapstick email?

Mom: Not at all.

Me: And do you mind if I imply that you might be a lesbian but then say that you are not?

Mom: Nope.

Yes, my Mom is not a lesbian.

Yes, my Mom is hip. She raps AND knows who Katy Perry is.

Yes, I am a dork.

The One Where My Mom and I Are Mistaken for Lesbians...

With my recent car troubles, came a rental car.  It was a four door compact car which was quite a change from my midsize SUV.  No one felt the change greater than my Mom and me right along with her.

On Sunday, after getting the rental, I went to visit my Mom and we decided to go to breakfast and then out shopping. Okay, we really didn't decide that just then. That is something we do every weekend. It is our routine.  So we got in the car and routinely went on our way.

Immediately upon pulling out of the driveway, my Mom informs me that she cannot figure out how to pull the seat up.  I look over to see her sitting awkwardly with the seat back in an almost reclining position.  That doesn't look comfortable, I think. So I tell her the little lever is down the side of the seat. She cannot find it.  I tell her it is right below where the seatbelt connects.  No dice.

We approach a stop sign and I am puzzled as to why she cannot find this lever.  So I put the car in park and reach over.  Mom protests the entire time saying "it is really not a big deal." Maybe not to her, but I had a riddle to solve.  Why wouldn't her seat go up?  Considering that I was, at the time, buckled into my own seatbelt, it should come as no surprise that this whole encounter turned awkward and that hilarity ensued.  It did.

I reached over my mom and down the side of her seat which placed my face directly into her chest.  Which resulted in her gasping and making an "OH!" sound and face.  At the same time, I find the latch and attempt to maneuver it up which is no easy task seeing as how my face is in her chest and my leaning over is causing me to exert pressure into the very seatback I am trying to raise. So I decide to put my other arm around the back of her seat to lift it up.  

Are you listening?

I am at a stop sign with my face in my mom's chest, my arm around the back of the seat and she is making "OH" sounds and faces.

So not right.

As I raise the seat up, I say "see, it is working" all excited.  My mom looks mortified because she thinks she has spied a neighbor gawking at the window.  She responds with "great! You are crushing my chest."  At that exact moment I realize:

I AM STUCK!

Stuck in my mom's chest with my arm around her!

This caused me to break into a fit of giggles. So I giggle into her chest and say breathlessly:

"I...cannot...get...out...I...am...stuck."

Now she is laughing which is causing pressure on my face.

Somehow after an eternity, or 30 seconds, I manage to wrangle my hand out from the side of her seat and we were on our way laughing the entire time to the restaurant.

I can only imagine what that gawking neighbor thought. "There goes the neighborhood, we  have dem' der lesbians making out at the stop sign."

That's us...just doing our part to slowly alienate all of those around us, laughing maniacally all the while.

*I totally giggled throughout the writing of this post. In fact, I had to stop and put my head down because I was chuckling so hard.  Luckily, no one was around to witness this.

You Can B So Judgical

Did you know that judgical is not a word? It sounds like it could be one. Kind of like dramatical which is not a word either.  Go figure.  I knew it was not a word but I ran across it in one of those annoying captcha code things on the internet and just knew it was the perfect word for the title of this post. Plus, I like made up words anyway. Unless they are being used in a professional setting or in a serious manner.

B came home the other night and said "your hair is long, it looks long" with wonderment and amazement in his voice.  Inside my head I yelled "victory!" and raised my arms to the sky.  Well, not really, but inside my head.  Why are we getting excited about my hair? Let me take you back about four years or so...

B and I were dating.  I was in San Antonio on a work trip with my friend E.  For whatever reason, I decided I wanted to cut my hair short. This may have stemmed from the fact that I have super fine baby hair that just lays there and really does not do much else.  But in any event that is what I decided.  E told me I should ask B after all he was "my boyfriend."  Okay. Sure. What the heck. I call B who says "whatever" and "it's your hair." That B. He played things really cool when we were dating. All nonchalant and relaxed.  Actually he is pretty nonchalant and relaxed. Except when it comes to my hair.  But back then? He was playing it cool.

So I cut my hair short. Pretty short in fact.  When my dad picked me up from the airport without any fair warning, his exact words were "wow that's short!" or something to that effect.  B never said a word. It was my hair after all.  This held true when I got highlights. I would get some noncommittal "whatever" before it was done and some throw away comment like "oh that's blond" when it was finished.

Fast forward to six months after we were married.  After growing my hair out for the wedding, I cut it again. B did not say a word.  By now I was used to this and thought "wow, my super cool boyfriend became a super cool fiance and is now a super cool husband."  Until the dreaded day in November...when I cut my hair shorter than it had ever been.   I remember quite well what B said to me before I left:

"Don't come home with a soccer mom hair cut."

But you see, I had a super cool husband who used to be a super cool fiance and before that a super cool boyfriend who didn't care that much about my hair because, after all, it was my hair (which he continued to say while we were married). He was nonchalant and relaxed.  I wanted shorter, cooler hair. Something with pizazz!  Wowza! Or some other crazy zingy word.  Instead I became:

Pat Benetar

I totally had Pat Benetar hair.  I am not kidding.  And I love Pat Benetar.  And I actually loved my hair. The thing is, I did not really look like me which would freak me out when I looked in the mirror sometimes.  Now, when I see pictures I think it was kind of cool (although there are not that many pictures at all). 

B hated it.

Hated it.

Every pent up feeling he had for all of my hair cuts came out in full force.  I had to sit and listen to how he told me not to come back looking like that. And queries as to whether I really liked this hair. And how long until this is fixed? And he cannot believe he let me invite my hairdresser to the wedding celebration in September.  And from there on he was going to go with me to the hairdresser EVERY TIME to insure this didn't happen.

As you can tell, he was no longer nonchalant and relaxed.  He was irrational and ticked off. It probably didn't help that he had to go on our honeymoon with me and my new hair.  Despite the fact that most people loved it (although B swears that they all lied to  me and that only he, the one who truly loved me, would tell the truth), I never quite accepted it either. I did not hate it as much as B did, but it didn't feel like me.  So I decided to grow it out.

That was over one year ago.  

I have not been to the salon in one year for fear that (a) if I trim even one little bit, it will stop growing and (b) B will want to accompany me and demand to talk to the GIRL WHO BUTCHERED HIS WIFE'S HAIR and who really wants THAT scene?  So it has grown. Not as quickly as I had hoped, but we have come a long way baby.   

So when I hear that my hair is long or looks long, yes I consider it a victory.  The longer it grows, the less we are reminded of the Pat Benetar haircut and all is well with the world.  B goes back to being the super cool husband and I go back to being the wife that does not look like a soccer mom.

Now, what color highlights should I try? After all, it IS my hair.  

The Worst Kept Secret

So, B says to me one day after glancing at one of my 3 billion celebrity rags:

B: Lindsay Lohan is gay?

Me: Um, yeah where have you been?

B: Since when?

Me: Months?

B: Why wasn't I informed IMMEDIATELY?

Me:  Because you don't like it when I send you emails, especially about celebrities and you don't bother to read them?

Apparently, he only cares about celebrities if they have been discovered to be hitting for the other team.

Also, when asked why he never wants to read my blog he said "I don't have to read it. . . I live it everyday."

Yes you do, B.  And that is why I love you.