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My softball game last week was very strange.
That’s a horrible opening! The game wasn’t strange–it was a softball game. Strange is a 280-pound linebacker singing Ashlee Simpson songs in a mall while wearing a tutu. The game was noteworthy–but certainly not strange.
The biggest (and most noteworthy) event occurred when one of our players dislocated his shoulder while jogging around the second base. Mr. Fudge slipped for no obvious or apparent reason and landed awkwardly on his left shoulder. Everyone knew he was hurt bad immediately after it happened because quickly took himself out of the game. He walked back to our dugout and was in obvious pain; his face was trembling and he grimaced with every breath. “Does anyone know how to pop it back in,” Fudge asked.
Half the team told him to let a doctor do it; the other half was in shocked by the repulsiveness of the question (that sorta bravado is reserved for fictionalized action movies–not overweight, outta shape schleps who play softball). “No way,” someone said. Another person called him nuts. Someone else asked for Dr. Nick. There were a lot of chaotic suggestions thrown out until Wagon spoke up.
“This is what . . . . .
I read an article about a woman who was hit by four separate cars while trying to walk across the freeway (and you thought you were having a bad day). The first car hit her and pulled over. As the woman started to get up, another car hit her. A third and fourth car hit her as she was lying on the road. Needless to say, the pedestrian didn’t make it (further proof people are not cars and shouldn’t be walking on the freeway).
But the part that stands out most to me is two of the four drivers drove off without sticking around to make sure she was okay or talk to the police. I gotta hope there’s a special place in Hell for people that hit someone with their car and drive away because they don’t want to be held liable for their actions. I understand if someone robs a liquor store because they need the money. I can relate to someone who kills their wife for the insurance money. I can even fathom stabbing someone over a pair of sneakers. But I have no sympathy for the people who ran over this gal on the freeway. After . . . . .
Sitting at home on a Friday night, I managed to stumble across something wonderful on the television. I’m sure everyone has heard of the Lingerie Bowl–but did you know there’s actually Lingerie Football League? It’s was the most entertaining thing I’ve seen in months…and not for the reasons you’d think.
The LFL is horrible, hideous, and the most pathetic business venture I’ve seen since my parents decided to open up their own restaurant. The football was beyond bad. The announcers took their job too seriously. And the uniforms looked like a pathetic attempt at creating risqué Halloween costumes. Maybe it’s the part of me that loves watching a train wreck, but I couldn’t look away. I found myself laughing, crying, and wishing I had a bunch of buddies over so I could watch the spectacle with other train wreck fans.
Where do I begin? Wow. Speechless–I feel speechless. I don’t know what to mock first!
I guess we’ll start with the football. As gridiron junkie, I can appreciate good football like a Frenchman saviors a fine cheese. What these girls were playing couldn’t be called football–ten-year olds play better football than what I saw (at least 10-year olds try . . . . .
Real quick. I’m going with Eagles vs. Patriots in the Super Bowl. I decided it last week before the weekend games but never got around to writing it. My Eagle prediction looks shaky given McNabb’s injury, but I made this before the season started and gotta stick with it (plan B: the Giants). As usual, I never pick the Super Bowl winner because anything can happen in a single game.
I am obsessed with Tetris.* There–I said it. I played the game religiously as a kid on my Game Boy. I sacrificed many dates and opportunities to interact with real human beings because of Tetris. I would rock out to the Tetris theme in my bedroom. I even wanted to name my firstborn child Tetris. Tetris was the video game equivalent of crack. I can’t even begin to guess how many months of my life I wasted playing Tetris (we’re way beyond hours and days). There were other video games, but nothing could compete with the rush I got from a game of Tetris. It was a staple–I took my Game Boy with me everywhere I went because the great thing about Tetris was its closure: a game of . . . . .
This semester I decided to take a soccer class at the university. My foray into kinesiology was motivated by two factors: 1) I couldn’t get into the classes I wanted and 2) I got nothing better to do. I skipped softball because I’m already a master of the sport. Basketball wasn’t going to fly because short white men can’t dunk. I knew if I took yoga I’d probably break something (most likely my back). Soccer felt like the right choice because it’s a game I love and I had nothing to lose.
I haven’t played soccer in about 15 years. Despite its absence, I love soccer–played it throughout the majority of my youth (my father was Italian so it was only natural I learn the family tradition). Many kids played soccer when they’re four or five years old; very few continue playing after the age of 12. Hardly anybody plays in high school. Not only did I play soccer in my late teens, I did so at the expense of other traditional high school activities (such as football, girls, or summer vacation). The last time I played soccer was in high school and I was looking forward to getting on . . . . .
In season seven of “24” there’s an actress who caught my eye. While no woman could ever tame Jack Bauer, there’s something about this gal I like looking at. Now I wouldn’t go as far as calling her hot because her attractiveness falls way short of your average supermodel. She just has a thing about her–kinda of like “old lady hot.” Every time I looked at her, I found myself thinking, For someone her age, she doesn’t look bad. Her face had a wrinkle or two–but she wore it well. After two or three episodes, I became obsessed: I wanted to know more about her. What was her name? How old was she? Did she ever do softcore porn? Once again, not because she was hot–just attractive in an older woman kind of way. I dare not disclose her name because I don’t wanna be considered a granny chaser. Besides, I assumed she was much too old to be considered attractive by most standards.
Given my predetermined assumption that this woman was “older,” imagine my horror to discover she’s is only a few months my senior. This “old lady” is my age! Technically my peer and probably an ideal mate . . . . .
With my full-time return to school, I feel older and wiser than all my classmates (that’s probably because I am older and wiser). I bring about one third more life experience to the classroom–not to mention a BA in creative writing. I’m not afraid to speak my mind or do my homework because I know I can do so without thoroughly embarrassing myself (except when it comes to analyzing poetry). My wisdom really shines in Groupwork. I think because in Groupwork students are left entirely on their own with little teacher interaction. Since I am the oldest, I become the pseudo teacher of the group and often its leader.
When unaccustomed students are thrust together for the first time there’s a brief, “getting to know you” phase with an exchange of information. How old are you? What kind of music do you like? What’s your major? Since I refuse to answer the first question and name bands they never heard of (is 1995 really that far in the past?), my academic history proves to be the most topical. The majority of classmates are impressed when I tell them I already have a BA and I’m currently a graduate student. Usually . . . . .
I took a special education class in the spring and I reluctantly hafta admit that I learned something from it. I am in no way more adept in confronting or talking to handicap people–but I did learn to realize not everyone is created equally. Learning disabilities don’t mean you’re a vegetable. There are some people out there–sharp as a tack–that simply can’t learn something. I know. It seems obvious. But this is a concept that I missed somewhere in life.
I know a lot of people say they can’t do math. I never understood it because math is so simple. Even though I majored in English, mathematics is the easiest concept for me to grasp because everything is so logical. I can visualize problems and numbers and figure out the answer because I am very comfortable with step-by-step processes.
Until recently, I believed there wasn’t anything I couldn’t do in school. Math is easy. Writing is simply BS-ing. And why in the world would anyone hate to read? I never thought I couldn’t do anything because academically there was little I couldn’t do (except for spelling–but I’ll admit most of that deficiency is due to laziness on my part). The . . . . .
Remember that movie “White Men Can’t Jump?” Rosie Perez broke up with Woody Harrelson and for some reason he was really upset about it. Woody reflected upon the break up by saying “Sometimes when you win, you really lose. And sometimes when you lose, you really win.” Not only does that apply to breaking up with Rosie Perez, it can also be used to describe rec league softball.
In the city which I play softball, there are about 50 teams a night. Since the teams represent a wide range of talent (über competitive tournament squads to church-sponsored rookie teams), the league is broken up into divisions of six teams. The good teams play against the good teams. The bad teams play against bad teams. Every division winner is crowned “champion” and wins a t-shirt at the end of the season (and now you know my motivation for playing).
At the start of every season, each team plays what’s called a ‘classification game.’ The results of that game determine which division you’ll play in. My Tuesday team has been around a long time and we’re in the upper-third divisions of the city. When a new team comes into the league, they . . . . .
Sunday night around ten o’clock, I received a call from a guy who is interested in buying our used Ford. He wanted to come see it that night –an idea I wasn’t too enthusiastic about. I had class early the following morning and was hoping to be in bed before midnight.
“I’ll be free to show it anytime tomorrow after two,” I told him. Despite my offer, he wanted to see the car immediately. Ten o’clock at night meant nothing to him because he worked nights and would much rather see the car now than in the daytime.
I contemplated my options. The first rule in buying a used car is to never look at it at night–it’s a no-brainer in my book. When the sun’s down it’s a lot harder to see and you might miss something that would otherwise be obvious during the daytime. If this guy wanted to look at the car three hours after sunset, that’s his business. If anything, he would make life easier for me because I wouldn’t hafta wash it.
“I can be there 20 minutes,” he assured me.
Against my better judgment, I relented. I knew I shouldn’t be picky because . . . . .
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