Wiggity Wiggity Wack Weekend

This weekend was one of the best I've had. The following things contributed:

1.) Friday night, we got a little toasty at Mervin's house -- one of my favorite places to just hang out and enjoy the company of fabulous friends.

2.) Saturday day, wedding dress shopping for my sister Morgan (my mom, me and my other sister, Erin, went).

3.) Saturday evening, people watching and bbqing at Golden Gardens for four hours, sitting in the sun that finally decided to show up after a months delay.

4.) Father's Day dinner on our back porch (first one of the summer). Everyone important was there, except for Ben... my future BROTHER-in-law. Weird to say that. But his dog was there... Bridger (not to be mistaken as Bridget). And I love him. A lot.

Here are a few highlights from the bbq at Golden Gardens (the place every Seattlite and their mother goes when it's sunny outside):

- To the "I'm really the only one that is 16?" girl wearing black cat ears, someone said, MEOW.

- To the man who proceeded to kick his dog's steaming poop off the sidewalk and bury it in the sand, someone said, "Who does that?" to which someone else said, "Yeah. Especially when everyone's watching."

- To the little-shit of a dog that kept yapping and yapping and yapping, I said, "I'm going to go kick that dog. In the face. Hard." To which someone else said, "please don't." **

- To Mervin's comment, "That's a whole nother story," I pointed out that "a whole nother" is actually not grammatically correct. It is pretty interesting, the phrase, "a whole nother." It's completely common in English vocabulary and most people don't even realize their splicing a word. It should either be "another whole" or "a whole other." Needless to say, Mervin handled my correction with grace.

- To the girl wearing hot pick velour pants with a matching bathing suit top, with hot curlered hair, massive aviator glasses, and so much make-up you could see her foundation from 50 yards away, someone said, "Wow."


** I love dogs. I hope you all know that. I love them more than I should. But this particular dog was miniature poodle. A white miniature poodle with the disgusting reddish-brown, my-owner-never-wipes-my-face crust around the the eyes. And it was barking. Standing on it's hind legs, held back by a leash. Disgusting.

Insults and Imitation

Imitation is the highest form of flattery. There's only one thing better...

Imitation followed by insult.

I recently found out about a blog that rips on my blog - and... ha... let's be honest, maybe I deserve it. But the irony, oh the slap-you-in-face, shove-a-boot-up-your-ass irony that comes from someone copying you - then insulting you - does nothing but put a huge smile on my face.

And mainly I'm smiling because I haven't even read this blog. I heard about it through a third party. I heard about the multiple passive-aggressive, my-balls-aren't-big-enough-to insult-you-straight-out-so-I'll-undercut-and-undercut-and-look-for-blood type insults and instead of wanting to pull my hair out (the usual reaction to stuff like this), I'm smiling. Widely.

It's like insulting someone's outfit and then buying it in another color, saying the color makes all the difference.

So really, I'd say I'm flattered, but I wouldn't take it that far. Because I'm not. Really, I'm irritated at the flagrant need to fit in. To do what everyone else is doing. The primary reason this blog was created was not so this person could find an outlet. It was not to lay down thoughts, to process things, or to use writing skills that were developed in college and then forgotten afterward. It is the result of needing to be like everyone else. Needing to fit in.

The irony is that I'm pretty sure this person is one of 40 people who follow my blog regularly. So read away. Insult away. Follow my blog so you can pretend like you know what's going on in my life. Just know that I have never, and will never, read yours. I will never be a little "tick" on your google analytics that shows how many people follow your blog.

Hopefully I'll be prone-twenty-two providing you with some excellent material to insult and imitate me.

Baseball and Beauty Queens

Whoever told you that baseball was part of the all-American dream, lied. The classic game no longer stands for tailgating and Bud Light. It no longer stands for hot dogs topped with sauerkraut, mustard, and onions, steaming inside a foil wrap. It’s no longer a game for sons and fathers. No longer a game for families on a hot summer afternoon.

Baseball, my friends, has gone to the beauty queens. The tailgating and Bug Light are replaced with primping and sparking water. Hot dogs with sauerkraut loose to sushi with low-sodium soy sauce. And the fathers and sons? The families? They’re replaced with mid-thirties-and-not-married couples.

My two sisters and I were lucky enough to go with my dad to the Mariners vs. Red Sox game (the only game the Mariners lost in that series). Now I may not know the name of the pitcher and I may not know what a “good” batting average is, but I certainly know what the game means to my dad – a man who grew up attending Cleveland Indians games with his father and two brothers.

The game, to me, marks a sign of love. And what kind of daughter would I be if I didn’t take advantage of that invitation every time it comes around.

So I go to the game. And I love it. And I get a Bud Light (or four) and I pile on the sauerkraut and onions and mustard. I do the seventh inning stretch. I get on my feet when the M’s score. And when my boy Kenji Jojima gets on the mound, you better believe I check out his ass. Yeah Kenji. I’m looking at you.

So you can only imagine my dismay when the woman in front of us BLINDS me. I guarantee you she thinks she is a legitimate fan because she has the navy blue M’s zip-up on, and like, oh my gosh, her boyfriend is wearing the same one. So they’re a little matchy-matchy. Big deal. I probably wouldn’t have even noticed if it weren’t for the fact that she kept WHIPPING my leg with her prom-poof of a hair do. Hot-curlers much, lady?

Okay. So I lied. My sister was the one getting whipped in the leg with her prom-poof hair-do. I was a few seats down. But don’t worry, because the sun was hitting her cubic zirconium BARRETS just-so, and I almost missed my boy Kenji on the mound due to the GLARE from her… let me reiterate… cubic zirconium BARRETS. At a baseball game. I won’t even mention her magenta lipstick and cake-like foundation. Oops – too late.

I was able to get a proper look at the girl after the sun sank below the Safeco roof. I’m guessing 29-year-old virgin. And the reason I say virgin is because her man, sitting right next to her, was extremely reciprocal to her affections. Lots of leg touching. Back rubbing. Neck massaging. Kissing. Ooo baby, ooo baby, doesn’t this BASEBALL FIELD MAKE YOU HOT???

So she’s about 29 and he’s about 34 and they definitely aren’t having sex. Period. Ever. But you know they totally want to, but “can’t.” Because, friends, lets be honest. If a couple "gets a room" on a regular basis, people around them won’t want to tell them to, “get a room.” Plus, I’m pretty sure I saw her man tuck his boner into his belt when he stood up. Poor guy. They probably go to Mars Hill.

And really, I’m not knocking the choice to wait. Really, I’m not at all. I was sailing that ship for a long time. But please, keep the heavy petting to a minimum at the baseball game. Unless you’re drunk off your ass and sitting in the bleachers. Which we weren’t.