I have a confession to make.
I am a sneak. Yep, you heard right. I am a horrible sneak.
I wish I could tell you just how sneaky I am, but I can't, so I'll just give you a sneak (get the pun?) preview into my life as a sneak.
I was standing in the hallway that separates my bedroom from MP's. From the noises coming from her room, it was clear that MP either, a) had a friend over, or b) is practicing voice overs for a future career in radio advertising. Considering that MP is an aidel maidel who doesn't even listen to the radio, I figured it was the former. I could have barged in to say hi, but I decided to live up to my sneakiness. I stood behind the slightly ajar door to listen to what two MP's talk about in their leisure time.
Well, I wasn't TRYING to eavesdrop. I was waiting for an invitation. I'm not much of a barging-in type...
So anyway, the voices came wafting through the door. "Oh hey! Look at this juicy! It's nicer than the one I usually wear, no?" "Oh, yeah, hey, I like it! And look, it's only $98!"
At that point, I was laughing to myself, so it was hard to make out the conversation going on. I strained my ears and heard and indignant MP associate complain. "I can't believe they're selling this Juicy for 130 dollars! I just paid $158 for it!"
Aha, I thought to myself. Online shopping. It's what MP's do in frizzy-hair weather. I decided not to wait for an invitation any longer. I knocked and walked in. Sitting at the desk in MP's room was a friend of hers, who, to put it succinctly, makes MP look less-than-perfect.
I peered at the screen, though I'm not sure I had to at that point. Neiman Markus. Niiiiiice. They continued shopping for a minute, and then they noticed me. "Oh, SD!" said the highly Perfect Person. "I'm so happy to see you!" [Ed. note: ?!] "I need help putting songs onto the mp3 player on my phone." [Ed. note: oh.] And then she went on, "I wish I could get an iPod. I can't afford one." She chuckled, I snickered. I wanted to tell her that she should skip the "Juicy" and buy an $8 sweatshirt like the one I always wear, and then she could afford an iPod. But she must have a bit of a propensity towards ADD, cuz she went right on as if she hadn't asked me anything. "MP, I can't decide where I'm going for Chanukah vacation. I'm debating between LA and Florida. Wanna come?"
My ADD side kicked in too. I started looking around the Perfection Den. "MP, what's this?" I held up an odd looking water bottle. She snatched the bottle away, muttering "its just a water bottle." I held it just long enough to catch a glimpse of the printing on the side. Nordstrom. "Where'd you get it?" I wanted to know. She was slightly embarrassed. "Oh, some store...I don't really remember which."
Musta been a remnant from a non-frizzy-hair weather day expedition...
Monday, November 16, 2009
Thursday, November 12, 2009
My-Newest-Skill
This post is going to be one of those I-am-really-glad-my-mother-doesn't-read-my-blog-posts. It will also be one of those you-should-stop-right-now-if-you-are-a-mother-of-teenage-children-who-use-your-car posts. It will also be a you-shouldn't-be-reading-this-post-if-you-don't-like-self-glorification-by-bloggers kind of post.
The good news is, after the following line, it will not be one of those every-word-is-separated-with-a-dash-and-making-you-really-nervous-posts.
And so, with that glorious introduction, I invite my non-mom (oops! Did it again!) readers to read about my newest skill.
First, let me tell you how long its been since I first set my mind to learn it. I was in tenth grade, and my brother got engaged. One night, he had driven myself and a couple of siblings to a few stores. On the way home, we stopped for ice cream. ("Shhh, don't tell Mommy!") he sent us into the store, and we promptly came out with enough ice cream to make my mother wonder why we weren't touching her supper. My brother issued a command: all ice cream must be finished before we get home.
And so, we set our minds to the task at hand. For most of us, it was a pretty easy one. For my brother, it wasn't so simple. For starters, he had a newly transformed brido-sapien on his hands. Obviously, he had to continue texting her, lest she turn into a fearsome bridezilla. ("Why is my chosson ignoring me??? He probably doesn't like me!!!!) That occupied one hand. His other hand was busy with ice-cream eating endeavors. The problem is, he also had to drive, which takes at least one hand.
Do that math folks! 1+1+1=3 arms required to multi-task. To ordinary 2-armed people, this would be a monumental problem. My brother doesn't have a reputation as one of the brightest boys in his yeshivah for nothing. He texted with one hand, ate ice cream with the other, and steered with his knees.
Brilliant, huh? That was the first time I witnessed the amazing feat of knee-steering, and I haven't forgotten it since. Last night for the very first time, I achieved that lofty goal. I steered with my knees! It was such a liberating feeling! Here I was, driving, both hands free to do with them as I pleased. I still haven't figured out how to turn corners with my knees, but I'm totally proficient at bends in the road.
Anyone wanna go with me for a little drive?
The good news is, after the following line, it will not be one of those every-word-is-separated-with-a-dash-and-making-you-really-nervous-posts.
And so, with that glorious introduction, I invite my non-mom (oops! Did it again!) readers to read about my newest skill.
First, let me tell you how long its been since I first set my mind to learn it. I was in tenth grade, and my brother got engaged. One night, he had driven myself and a couple of siblings to a few stores. On the way home, we stopped for ice cream. ("Shhh, don't tell Mommy!") he sent us into the store, and we promptly came out with enough ice cream to make my mother wonder why we weren't touching her supper. My brother issued a command: all ice cream must be finished before we get home.
And so, we set our minds to the task at hand. For most of us, it was a pretty easy one. For my brother, it wasn't so simple. For starters, he had a newly transformed brido-sapien on his hands. Obviously, he had to continue texting her, lest she turn into a fearsome bridezilla. ("Why is my chosson ignoring me??? He probably doesn't like me!!!!) That occupied one hand. His other hand was busy with ice-cream eating endeavors. The problem is, he also had to drive, which takes at least one hand.
Do that math folks! 1+1+1=3 arms required to multi-task. To ordinary 2-armed people, this would be a monumental problem. My brother doesn't have a reputation as one of the brightest boys in his yeshivah for nothing. He texted with one hand, ate ice cream with the other, and steered with his knees.
Brilliant, huh? That was the first time I witnessed the amazing feat of knee-steering, and I haven't forgotten it since. Last night for the very first time, I achieved that lofty goal. I steered with my knees! It was such a liberating feeling! Here I was, driving, both hands free to do with them as I pleased. I still haven't figured out how to turn corners with my knees, but I'm totally proficient at bends in the road.
Anyone wanna go with me for a little drive?
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Top Ten Tuesd- I mean Wednesday: A Glimpse into the Mind of a Brido-Sapien
I'm sorry this is late, as we all know that Top Ten Wednesday don't sound nearly as good as Top Ten Tuesday, and I should especially be ashamed of myself that my favorite BOS, Bas~Melech managed to get her post up in time and I, the ordinary Homo-Sapien didn't. But anyway, here are the Top Ten things on a Brido-Sapien's to do list.
If anyone wants a top ten list featured for Top Ten Tuesday (or Top Ten Wednesday, whatever the case may be) please email me.
Monday, November 9, 2009
A Noteworthy Event
I bought a new coat today.
Now, before anyone tries to tell me that my previous statement comes under the "nobody cares what you had for lunch" rule of blogging, let me explain something. That statement is a very noteworthy one, in that it affects each and every one of you.
No, it's not noteworthy that I got a wool coat for $60, though I think that's pretty cool. And it's not either so noteworthy that MP likes my coat. (Actually, I think that's something to be ashamed of!)
It's noteworthy in the same sense as my carrying an umbrella in the same city as you is noteworthy. My umbrella, though a shlep for me, is an insurance policy for the rest of the town that no rain will fall, no hair will frizz, and no clothes will get soaked. No matter what the weather forecast is, no matter what the clouds look like, if someone nearby is holding an umbrella you simply won't get wet.
And that, my friends, is why my coat purchase is so monumental to all of you. I forked over $60 so the rest of the world won't have to suffer through cold winters, through snowstorms and sleet, through frost and wind. See, I bought a coat, it won't be cold. Trust me.
You may all say thank you now.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
On A Personal Note
Listening to the live broadcast from world-champion Yankee's locker room last night, I noticed something interesting.
(If you aren't a baseball fan, please bear with me, this isn't going to be a post about baseball, I promise. If you are a bitter Red Sox fan, you probably don't even want to read this blog, cuz I do root for the Yanks.)
So I was listening as the reporters were milling around the champagne soaked locker room, asking all of the various players how they felt, how happy they are to win, and a couple other typical questions. If you think about it, it's pretty dumb. If you ask a player who has just become a World Champion baseball player "how happy are you right now?" what do you expect them to say? "Not very"? Or perhaps "I'd rather be having my tooth pulled"?
But as there aren't many other questions one could ask, the players are all asked about their state of happiness and the like. So they interviewed Mark Texiera, and asked him what it feels like. His answer stunned me. I mean, it was simple, but fascinating.
"This is what you dream about ever since you are a kid." He went on to describe how this moment is a culmination of the dreams and hopes he'd had since early childhood. Now, I could go off on a tangent about "anu ameilim veheim ameilim," but I won't bother. Instead, I'll just point out how this whole thing takes on a totally different perspective when you think of it this way.
On the surface, the Yankee win meant a swarm of hugging men storming the pitchers mound. It meant 50 thousand fans all around the stadium cheering and screaming. It meant fans from all over streaming to their nearest Modell's to purchase "World Champion" tee-shirts, despite the clock striking midnight.
But it was so much more than that. It was also about one man by the name of Mark who toiled since the age of four to strengthen his game, to make the big leagues, to win games and ultimately, to win a championship.
It's like the time I was driving down the New Jersey Turnpike, alongside Newark Airport. A plane was coming in for a landing, and as I looked up through my sun roof, (to the backdrop of my mother screaming "eyes on the road!!") there was an enormous plane directly above me, not more than a few feet up onto the air.
On the surface, it was cool. A huge plane, so low I could practically touch it. But as I drove on past the airport, I got lost in some thoughts. Yeah, a plane that size holds a ton of passengers, but imagine what happens if we take it down to a personal level.
Coming in for a landing was, not a plane, but Kathy, an aspiring business woman who was headed to New York to meet with some people. The outcome of this meeting might jump start her career and launch her into stardom. Or this meeting might send it crashing down before it ever starts.
Landing at this moment in Newark airport is, not a plane, but Will, who's father is dying in a New York hospital. The fight was years ago, but Will hasn't spoken to his father since then. Now it's possibly his last chance, and Will is facing a battle against time. Will he make it to his father's bedside in time?
Suddenly, as I think of all the PEOPLE that are involved, life turns from a monotonous black and white into a wondrous display of color. Because I think to myself, I am here with my story, my history, my reason for being here, so must she. And he. And she. And he.
As Stalin said "when one man dies it's a tragedy, when a million men die it's a statistic." Each man has a story, yet when we come together we lose our individuality and our individual purpose. But If we stand back and remember that each and every person has their own unique story, their own wealth of experience that brought them to that point, the world is just more interesting.
We are all so busy trying to achieve our goals, we sometimes forget to notice that everyone else is too.
(If you aren't a baseball fan, please bear with me, this isn't going to be a post about baseball, I promise. If you are a bitter Red Sox fan, you probably don't even want to read this blog, cuz I do root for the Yanks.)
So I was listening as the reporters were milling around the champagne soaked locker room, asking all of the various players how they felt, how happy they are to win, and a couple other typical questions. If you think about it, it's pretty dumb. If you ask a player who has just become a World Champion baseball player "how happy are you right now?" what do you expect them to say? "Not very"? Or perhaps "I'd rather be having my tooth pulled"?
But as there aren't many other questions one could ask, the players are all asked about their state of happiness and the like. So they interviewed Mark Texiera, and asked him what it feels like. His answer stunned me. I mean, it was simple, but fascinating.
"This is what you dream about ever since you are a kid." He went on to describe how this moment is a culmination of the dreams and hopes he'd had since early childhood. Now, I could go off on a tangent about "anu ameilim veheim ameilim," but I won't bother. Instead, I'll just point out how this whole thing takes on a totally different perspective when you think of it this way.
On the surface, the Yankee win meant a swarm of hugging men storming the pitchers mound. It meant 50 thousand fans all around the stadium cheering and screaming. It meant fans from all over streaming to their nearest Modell's to purchase "World Champion" tee-shirts, despite the clock striking midnight.
But it was so much more than that. It was also about one man by the name of Mark who toiled since the age of four to strengthen his game, to make the big leagues, to win games and ultimately, to win a championship.
It's like the time I was driving down the New Jersey Turnpike, alongside Newark Airport. A plane was coming in for a landing, and as I looked up through my sun roof, (to the backdrop of my mother screaming "eyes on the road!!") there was an enormous plane directly above me, not more than a few feet up onto the air.
On the surface, it was cool. A huge plane, so low I could practically touch it. But as I drove on past the airport, I got lost in some thoughts. Yeah, a plane that size holds a ton of passengers, but imagine what happens if we take it down to a personal level.
Coming in for a landing was, not a plane, but Kathy, an aspiring business woman who was headed to New York to meet with some people. The outcome of this meeting might jump start her career and launch her into stardom. Or this meeting might send it crashing down before it ever starts.
Landing at this moment in Newark airport is, not a plane, but Will, who's father is dying in a New York hospital. The fight was years ago, but Will hasn't spoken to his father since then. Now it's possibly his last chance, and Will is facing a battle against time. Will he make it to his father's bedside in time?
Suddenly, as I think of all the PEOPLE that are involved, life turns from a monotonous black and white into a wondrous display of color. Because I think to myself, I am here with my story, my history, my reason for being here, so must she. And he. And she. And he.
As Stalin said "when one man dies it's a tragedy, when a million men die it's a statistic." Each man has a story, yet when we come together we lose our individuality and our individual purpose. But If we stand back and remember that each and every person has their own unique story, their own wealth of experience that brought them to that point, the world is just more interesting.
We are all so busy trying to achieve our goals, we sometimes forget to notice that everyone else is too.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Top Ten Blogs I Wouldn't Follow
(Though this week's Top Ten Tuesday post wasn't a reader's idea, I do appreciate all of your awesome ideas and hope to see 'em up on here pretty soon. I continue to seek Top Ten Lists, so please let me know if you have any ideas!)
10) I Date Too Much: the chronicles of a girl who dates The Best Boy every night
9) Ewww Gross: fascinating lessons culled from fifth grade science class, changing diapers and the dumpster
8) Ten Million Sheep: a peek into the mind of an insomniac
7) Hair Conditioner World: a blog dedicated to conditioners of all sorts, Including formulas and folklore!
6) Just Me and Myselves: a blog about schizophrenia, mental health, and why we don't want to get treated
5) Why People Call Me Boring: a journey of self discovery
4) Lessons From a Lamp Post: how an inanimate object provides me with daily inspiration
3) A Day In The Life of a JAP: I mean it when I say I've got nothing to wear!
2) My Kid Is So Cute: Adorable episodes from the life of my month-old baby
1) Adventures of a Nosy Shadchan: ruining girl's self-esteem for fun and profit
10) I Date Too Much: the chronicles of a girl who dates The Best Boy every night
9) Ewww Gross: fascinating lessons culled from fifth grade science class, changing diapers and the dumpster
8) Ten Million Sheep: a peek into the mind of an insomniac
7) Hair Conditioner World: a blog dedicated to conditioners of all sorts, Including formulas and folklore!
6) Just Me and Myselves: a blog about schizophrenia, mental health, and why we don't want to get treated
5) Why People Call Me Boring: a journey of self discovery
4) Lessons From a Lamp Post: how an inanimate object provides me with daily inspiration
3) A Day In The Life of a JAP: I mean it when I say I've got nothing to wear!
2) My Kid Is So Cute: Adorable episodes from the life of my month-old baby
1) Adventures of a Nosy Shadchan: ruining girl's self-esteem for fun and profit
Monday, November 2, 2009
Introducing: A New Species
I started discussing senior moments in my last post, but, surprisingly enough, I feel about a hundred years older now than I did then.
Firstly, I have to say that I find first time mommies adorable. Especially when they are your friends. I mean, we have already discussed the sequence of events that leads to a slow deterioration of the brain cells when a friend of yours undergoes that species change from homo-sapien to brido-sapien. Yesterday, I bore witness to an astonishing fact. The brido-sapien is nothing compared to the mama-sapien. I mean nothing.
Here sits a friend, who in recent months has shown signs of her complete re-entry into the human race, cooing at a little shriveled up Bundle of blankets as if the blanket actually knows what they are saying. Then she introduces me to the Bundle. I mean, this is a great friend, so by default I like her kid, but seriously. Do I need to be introduced to a one-week old baby?
Being introduced to my friend's five-month-old baby was weird enough. "Say hi, Yitzy!" But at least little Yitzy had the good grace to look up from the sock he was chewing and give me an adorable smile. The Bundle, on the other hand, went right on sleeping.
And then there was this whole method of introducing me. My friend cooed at her baby, "this is Mommy's friend!" I looked behind me, expecting to see my mother there. Mommy's friend? Me?How can it be? I'm just a kid!
Or am I?
Am I the only one who feels like the world is growing up too fast?
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Senior Moments
When my mother and her contemporaries discuss senior moments, they are usually referring to incidents when they forget where their eldest son lives, or moments when they can't remember their grandchildren's names. This lady I work with, she's constantly having senior moments.
"Er, I can't remember why I came in here. Do you know.... what'syournameagain... oh, SD!"
Each time this happens, I smile smugly to myself and feel happy that I've got a good thirty years or so before these things happen to me. Turns out, I had a senior moment of my own yesterday.
I was at a friend's house, and her younger sister had a bunch of friends over. I always thought of myself as a really fun and friendly kid. Age gaps never really bothered me much, as I shmooze with my older sister's friends and my younger sister's friends as if they're all my age.
So I sat down to shmooze with them. One of the girls is a teacher, and they were working on something for her class. As we talked, I offered my help. Miss Teacher, whom, I might mention, was a frighteningly perfect specimen of a person, gladly gave me a chore.
I sat there cutting and sorting and mostly listening to these girls. Suddenly, as they giggled about something not-all-that-funny, I realized that you don't have to be fifty to have a senior moment.
As I looked at these girls acting so little, I felt so old.
And then I realized... I am old - to them! These girls are recent high school graduates. I might feel like we're "basically" the same age, but as hard as I try to pretend, I'm getting older, and these girls are quite a number of years my junior...
Excuse me, I must go soak my dentures...
"Er, I can't remember why I came in here. Do you know.... what'syournameagain... oh, SD!"
Each time this happens, I smile smugly to myself and feel happy that I've got a good thirty years or so before these things happen to me. Turns out, I had a senior moment of my own yesterday.
I was at a friend's house, and her younger sister had a bunch of friends over. I always thought of myself as a really fun and friendly kid. Age gaps never really bothered me much, as I shmooze with my older sister's friends and my younger sister's friends as if they're all my age.
So I sat down to shmooze with them. One of the girls is a teacher, and they were working on something for her class. As we talked, I offered my help. Miss Teacher, whom, I might mention, was a frighteningly perfect specimen of a person, gladly gave me a chore.
I sat there cutting and sorting and mostly listening to these girls. Suddenly, as they giggled about something not-all-that-funny, I realized that you don't have to be fifty to have a senior moment.
As I looked at these girls acting so little, I felt so old.
And then I realized... I am old - to them! These girls are recent high school graduates. I might feel like we're "basically" the same age, but as hard as I try to pretend, I'm getting older, and these girls are quite a number of years my junior...
Excuse me, I must go soak my dentures...
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Top Ten Things You Didn't Need To Know About Me (aka I'm a Kreativ Blogger!)
Ages ago, G6 nominated me to be a creative blogger. I really shouldn't have waited this long to thank her, cuz it's not very often that I find myself being compared to a box of chocolate. :-D Not to mention, it's not every day that I find myself getting such Kreativ-ly spelled awards. Since it's Tuesday, I figured we could combine the seven items required to accept this award with a Top Ten Tuesday post.
Anyone who wanted to know more about me is lucky, cuz today you get not seven, but ten absolutely useless factoids about the great blogger SD!
Here goes:
10) I could probably be called Houdini II. In school, I never did a stitch of work, never showed up to class, and yet all of my teachers loved me and I never got into any trouble. o:-)
9) My first speeding ticket "happened" less than six months after I got my license. I was sure it would be suspended, but it wasn't, thanks to a clear and open miracle on the part of G-d.
8) I am considered a gadget freak, and I wear the badge with honor. Anything with a screen and buttons makes me drool. In fact, though I shouldn't be admitting this to the world wide web, the real reason I wanted an insulin pump (the first time I saw one, at the age of 12) was because it was another electronic gadget. Plus that meter they gave me in the hospital when I was diagnosed made me pretty sure that diabetes is so cool.
7) I love to cook, but I hate to follow recipes. Measuring cups and spoons are my archenemies. That's probably why I hate to bake, now that I think of it.
6) Most people don't find me very funny in real life. Those who do really get on my nerves.
5) My bedroom has two general states: oh-my-gosh-what-happened-to-this-place-its-a-disaster-zone-was-there-a-tornado-watch-recently or oh-man-you-are-a-sick-neat-freak. But, regardless of the cleanliness of my room - or lack thereof - I am insanely organized. I always know exactly where everything is. I also know if anyone ever touches a thing. In fact, I would probably be able to tell if someone just walked in, even if they touch nothing.
4) On the topic of my bedroom, my family calls it my cave. They say I spend way too much time in it.
3) My boss once read a report I did and told me I am in the wrong field. "You should be a writer." ;-) A friend (who obviously doesn't know that I have a blog) once told me that I should publish a book of shidduch jokes and stories. :-P
2) I want to marry a guy just like my little brother, LT, just a slightly more cultured version. Oh, and he doesn't need to fix things so much.
1) I have a pet beetle named Freddy. He is dead. :-(
Now tell me something interesting about you!
By the way, in case you can't tell, I am kinda low on Top Ten ideas. If you have any, please email me! Or you can post a comment and request that I don't publish it. Thanks!
Friday, October 23, 2009
The Miracle Called Baseball
SD and MP sat together in the car, laughing, cheering, and acting like the very best of friends.
No, that's not a dream I had. Nor is it a line for the BOSD fiction blog. That actually happened. Here's the underlying story:
It was the fifth game of the ALCS. The Yankees has a 3-1 series lead, and a win would mean they had clinched their spot in the world series. Top of the ninth, Yankees down by a run. Two outs. Bases loaded. 2-2 pitch to Nick Swisher. And the pitch is called...a ball! It's a 3-2 pitch! Both of us, sitting in the car, screamed from excitement. One more bad pitch and the Angel's pitcher would walk in the tying run. The fans in Angel's Stadium are all going wild. And so are we.
This, I thought to myself, is the miracle of baseball. It's the reason we've converted driving to the store to pick something up for our mother, late one thursday night, into a cheering fest. It's the reason we are laughing together like old friends. Differences aside, we are simply laughing like two little kids.
When asked my father why he likes baseball, he always says: "Its nice to get all worked up over something but suffer no loss if it doesn't work out."
And it's so true. In the end, a few pitches after the one I just described the guy hit a fly ball to the out field and prolonged the Angel's season by at least one more game. But the moment was still there. MP and myself were still sitting excitedly in the car, talking about great plays we remember as kids. Talking about how Nick Swisher could have done an Aron Boone and hit a grand slam, securing his place in every NY paper's sports section. Talking about how good it is that our father was a White Sox fan when he lived in Chicago, because had he been a cubs fan we would have wound up fans of the Mets. Talking about...everything.
So while people complain that baseball is the most boring sport, about how there is waaaay too long between pitches, about how it's just a couple of minutes of excitement spread out over a couple of hours, I am realizing that those empty minutes where the sports broadcasters are trying desperately to fill the gaps between pitches are times when differences can be forgotten and bonds can be formed.
(I apologize to my readers who found this post gobledegook. I can lend you the official copy of the Baseball Rule Book that my father got me when he got tired of my questions.)
No, that's not a dream I had. Nor is it a line for the BOSD fiction blog. That actually happened. Here's the underlying story:
It was the fifth game of the ALCS. The Yankees has a 3-1 series lead, and a win would mean they had clinched their spot in the world series. Top of the ninth, Yankees down by a run. Two outs. Bases loaded. 2-2 pitch to Nick Swisher. And the pitch is called...a ball! It's a 3-2 pitch! Both of us, sitting in the car, screamed from excitement. One more bad pitch and the Angel's pitcher would walk in the tying run. The fans in Angel's Stadium are all going wild. And so are we.
This, I thought to myself, is the miracle of baseball. It's the reason we've converted driving to the store to pick something up for our mother, late one thursday night, into a cheering fest. It's the reason we are laughing together like old friends. Differences aside, we are simply laughing like two little kids.
When asked my father why he likes baseball, he always says: "Its nice to get all worked up over something but suffer no loss if it doesn't work out."
And it's so true. In the end, a few pitches after the one I just described the guy hit a fly ball to the out field and prolonged the Angel's season by at least one more game. But the moment was still there. MP and myself were still sitting excitedly in the car, talking about great plays we remember as kids. Talking about how Nick Swisher could have done an Aron Boone and hit a grand slam, securing his place in every NY paper's sports section. Talking about how good it is that our father was a White Sox fan when he lived in Chicago, because had he been a cubs fan we would have wound up fans of the Mets. Talking about...everything.
So while people complain that baseball is the most boring sport, about how there is waaaay too long between pitches, about how it's just a couple of minutes of excitement spread out over a couple of hours, I am realizing that those empty minutes where the sports broadcasters are trying desperately to fill the gaps between pitches are times when differences can be forgotten and bonds can be formed.
(I apologize to my readers who found this post gobledegook. I can lend you the official copy of the Baseball Rule Book that my father got me when he got tired of my questions.)
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