Hear Me Roar

I went to a Christmas party the weekend before last. I’m 24, you understand, so this wasn’t an egg nog and pigs in a blanket 7-9PM party. Nope, it was the same old everyone has a drink in hand at all times, conversation centers around other times people were drunk party. But I didn't hate it. On the contrary, I had a fantastic time and didn't get home until after three in the morning (in contrast, here's my standby party trick borrowed from my mom: walk in, say hello as obviously as possible to as many people as possible in twenty minutes, then get the hell out. Believe me, it works because everyone will remember you being there. Especially if they drink.).

So what was the difference? I guess there were a couple. The party was hosted by a former softball teammate of mine. So about 20% of the crowd consisted of people in whose company I once spent entire summers. Summers I'm unbelievably nostalgic about (nostalgic enough to play on the world's most annoying baseball team...that's a story for another day though). And I don't get the chance to see many of these girls on a regular basis. So that was something. But that wasn't the greatest factor. Since I'm not exactly a scene queen, most parties feature people I don't see that often.

And the vast majority of the crowd had some connection with sports, but I don't remember talking about sports much at all. Even when we waxed poetic about softball days, it was more often things that happened in the dugout or at hotels.

It took me two days to figure it out (and apparently ten days to write about it). The difference? No girls in tight dresses and heels, no one giggling and acting dumb, guys asking what we were talking about, how we knew each other. That's right, it was a female centered environment. It has been so long (since rugby parties at school, probably) since I've seen that, I almost didn't recognize it. It was such a pleasure not to have anyone telling me who they had slept with/were going to sleep with/wanted to sleep with/thought their roommate should sleep with/how their boyfriend had disappointed them, etc. that I just had a good time. I didn't worry about what I was going to talk about with so and so's roommate, didn't watch girls give me the once over, just caught up with old friends. Who sincerely wanted to hear about my job, my family, and my life.

Houdini

Sometimes, you meet someone whose company you truly enjoy. Someone with whom friendship, common ground, and conversation come easily and seem to last no matter how much time the two of you spend together. Sure, you might get on each other's nerves occasionally, but when it comes time to part ways, you always wish the time could go a bit slower.

I can count these people on two hands. Three of them have been members of the male species. One is my brother, one is someone most of you are unaware I still think about, and the other was a very good friend of mine up until last winter...

He and I met almost two years ago and were really really tight for about a year. After hanging out for a month, he informed me that he wanted to be more than friends and we went on perhaps the most awkward date of all time. We decided (in retrospect, I decided and he didn't argue) to just be friends and though I sort of knew he wanted more, we seemed have survived it. We saw each other 2-3 times a week for the next eight months, went out to dinner, emailed at work, saw Cubs games (he must be a good friend if I did that...), hung out with each other's friends and talked all the time about things I didn't talk about with anyone else. For a long time, he was the only male the cat wasn't afraid of.

Last November/December, he started pushing again for more than just friends and though I see now that it was probably a bad decision, I was willing to try. I saw him more than anyone else (except my coworkers...work is so weird), he made me laugh, and he was male. Right? Of course, the same problems I'd had with it before hadn't disappeared and after a few more weird dates, being friends again seemed like the right move.

I thought things were okay until he all but fell off the planet that spring. Someone who had always called when he said he would, emailed nearly every day, sent flowers on my birthday suddenly stopped returning all my efforts to get in touch. After I called on his birthday, he emailed to tell me "how much it meant" to him that I remembered and that he was "dealing with some things." I haven't heard from him since. After about a month of silence, I gave up calling.

I can't let it go. I really miss him and I'm unbelievably curious and maybe a little worried about what happened. I know he had some issues with his family, but I've never met them. And honestly, he seemed pretty stable regardless. He seems to still be at the same job (yes, I'm a huge stalker)...so, alive. And, self-centered as we all are, I'm dying to know what I have to do with any of this. How could I lose my best friend in the blink of eye and not know why?

The point of all this is, I'm thinking about him a lot lately. I'm almost (but not quite) willing to try dating him again to have him back. Do I call again? Wait for an occasion like Christmas or his birthday and cross my fingers? Email him to tell him I miss him? Let it go because the ball's in his court?

My Boys

No, not those boys (and unless one reappears, I don't think there are any left anyway), the show. I watched it. Both episodes from Tuesday (thank you tivo). Honestly, I thought it was pretty stupid (and yes, the Carrie Bradshaw voiceover is beyond ridiculous). It's also one of those shows where the characters are parodies of themselves--the mildly sensitive asshole, the strange, odd-looking brother, the wussy dork, and the cute-ish frat boy type who everyone hilariously calls Brando instead of Brandon.

Though it would probably be hard to be satisfied by a show where the main character is supposed to have a lot in common with you, I have to say that everything just seems a little off. She's supposed to be this 'guy's girl' and all, but she's always wearing hoop earrings. Her best (and only female) friend is a total girly girl. Basically, the only clues to her supposedly uncommon personality are that her hair's in a ponytail, she apparently works as a sportswriter (though she NEVER talks about it) and she says things like "I call bullshit" and "duuude." Sweet...

Frankly, I'd be a little offended if I were a guy as well, since in this show, 'male' seems equated with 'stupid and low-class.'

Oh yeah, and she implied that she's always "working on a crush." Now, there's not necessarily anything wrong with that and I know a lot of girls do that, but it's the damn girliest thing in the world to SAY. As a girl who does talk about sports intelligently--and almost constantly--and is generally comfortable with guys, let me tell you that finding one guy, let alone a series, who interests you beyond the role of BCS-sparring-partner (and happens to like your cat or is at least able to fake it) is next to impossible.

(The just may get another chance though. Just for the complaining potential. And it's set in Chicago, after all)

Yay Gary!

I really don't like to fly. It's not that I'm afraid (though I'm certainly less comfortable than I used to be, particularly on bumpy flights), more that I get incredibly, stupendously restless. Which makes me incredibly, stupendously irritable. As in, 'why did you just take 12 flash pictures in a row out of the window, it's nightime and we're flying over Nebraska', 'do you need to do a pull-up with the back of my seat in order to get to your feet', 'is it some kind of rule that all the cranberry juice on planes has to have apple juice in it' irritable.

So we're about an hour into three and a half, drinks/snacks are over (handi-snacks?? I thought they stopped making those because of their extreme toxicity...) and I've just fallen asleep, which I know because I remember being on song 8 of my dinosaur of an iPod and now I'm on song 10. The dopey Mr. Rogers-wannabe (except young and like 6'6") flight attendant gets on the loud speaker to ask how many people lost money in Vegas this week. (Side note: If you go to Vegas for any other reason than to gamble, you get sick of this question really fast). The crowd chuckles idiotically, and some people raise hands. At this point, I'm thinking maybe I could still go back to sleep. But then, Mr. Rogers announces that he'd like to remedy that situation and proceeds to have a goddamn raffle wherein people write their seat numbers on dollar bills and throw them in the bag he runs up and down the aisle. Okay fine. They're idiots (and *no wonder* they all lost money), but I'm still enjoying the iPod. But then, we have to give Gary in 15A a round of applause and THEN chuckle idiotically (though since this has been going on the whole time, it's really just a matter of not stopping) as he walks down the aisle collecting trash as some sort of moronic penance for winning 69 one-dollar bills. (I'm not making that up, the total was $69).

Maybe I'm just the world's biggest buzzkill (funny, since I may have been the youngest person on that plane), but while I appreciate informality and little one-liners in the safety lecture and I don't mind being told when we're flying over the Grand Canyon or the like, I pretty much think you should stay the hell off the loud speaker until you want the guy next to me to stop watching Ronin on his DVD player. You guys fly the plane, I'll try to take my mind off the fact that there's a foreign butt ooching into my seat under the armrests. I bought a plane ticket to Chicago, not a bus ticket to summer camp.

*Though I promised I wouldn't, it almost killed me not to do a football post today. I hate you so much, Notre Dame.

Pansies

Sorry, one more football one, then I promise to go back to real life at least for a while. We've watched *a lot* of football in the last couple days.

My new pet peeve is the roughing the passer penalty in the NFL. They've decided they're going to protect the quarterbacks above all else (nature of the game, fair play, fan enjoyment, etc.) and so now if you so much as touch a quarterback's head or hit him in a manner that the refs deem to be 'too rough.' Last weekend, no fewer than two games were handed to teams because of a rather dubious roughing the passer call.

Down 6 points in Seattle, the Packers had come up with a seeming third down stop, only to have the Seahawks given a first down on a hit which, for all intents and purposes, looked like a run of the mill tackle. The quarterback's head was not touched, nor did he hit the ground hard. Mr. Hasselbeck, I know you thought your knee injury last month was intentional so congratulations--all of your whining got you a win.

In New York, the Giants lead the Titans by three touchdowns with just over ten minutes to play. The Titans go for it on fourth and nine and Vince Young decides to run for it (I know, shocking). After seven yards, someone grabs his ankles and it looks like he won't be able to get to the line. The man is, remember, about two yards tall, so it pays to make sure he doesn't fall forward, yes? Someone comes across and does just that and gets called for roughing the passer. It was a hard hit, but he was in bounds, and still on his feet. If it was another player (say, a running back or receiver, both of whom take those kind of hits all day), that never gets called.

Perhaps I like my football rough, but if you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen. If you're a quarterback and you take a deep drop or (worse yet) decide to run, you better be prepared to take a hit. It's now possible to use the quarterback slide (which makes it a penalty to hit you) as a weapon--if you so much as look at the ground, everyone is terrified to hit you for fear of a penalty. Hard hits are the way you play football, they're what the players like to give out, and they're what the fans like to see. Are we protecting players or investments?

In other news, I hear there's a show about a girl who talks about sports a lot on TBS. Seems like maybe they haven't thought the premise all the way through yet (much like Prison Break), but I'll check it out.

Bear Down...Far Down

People like to whine about how hard it is to be a Cubs fan, but you know what? It's pretty freakin' hard to be a Bears fan too. Seems like a silly complaint seeing as they're 9-2 and a sure bet for a playoff berth, but I think it honestly might be better if they were just bad. Instead, they're close to good, but unwilling to tie up the final loose ends (Boston Red Sox fans, I never though I'd say this, but I guess I feel you on this one). Or loose *end* to be specific. I think it would be fair to say that the Monsters of the Midway haven't had a seriously talented quarterback since Sid Luckman (1939-1950). They've had 'guys who didn't hurt them too much' (McMahon, Kramer that one golden year), 'guys who had no business playing in the NFL' (Quinn, Krenzel, Orton...the list goes on), and the dreaded 'Rex Grossman' category, which proves to me that their player personnel department absolutely can't tell the difference between 'guys who have good arms' and 'quarterbacks.' Jim Harbaugh fits in this one too. Mostly, I'm just angry because I see the inexorable decline towards the second annual first game home playoff loss. The only consolation for me is that next summer, the Cubs will have paid *even more* for a bad team.

In other news, I'm currently in Las Vegas. Everytime I'm here, I wonder why I don't live here. Then I remember that there are no jobs. Or rather, there are lots of jobs, but in casinos. Right.

Possibly Offensive, Sorry

Last week, we went to a board meeting of a Down syndrome non-profit. It's a group of energetic, dedicated people who really do, as they say, focus on ability intead of disability. At one point, a board member mentioned that he was planning to step down in the spring following the birth of his fourth child, and his second one with Down syndrome.

I had to struggle to keep my poker face. Here's a family who already has a kid with Down syndrome, not to mention two other children, knew in advance both that Down syndrome was a possiblity and then later that it was a reality, and they're going to go ahead with it. In a way, I was impressed. That's really putting your money where your mouth is. They always say that having a child with Down syndrome is a blessing and they didn't back off when it counted.

Well, they're pretty religious too...

Ding Dong

I go by a nickname. Pretty much always have, though I was originally named so that I wouldn't (my nickname is longer than my name). Things change.

I had this brief fantasy that once I grew up, I'd go back the given name. I use it on my resume, so for a while, I had the new boss using it too. But after he called my references and heard the nickname on my voicemail, he asked me what I wanted to be called.

Seems a bit trivial, but it became a bigger deal when I realized that this job was for real. Honestly, it's going to be the base of my career. Which points to using the more professional given name, right?

I couldn't do it though. I suppose the nickname suits me better. It's less formal, more unique, more substantial, and just...me, I guess.

Or maybe it's a Peter Pan thing, you make the call.


*sorry, I know this would be easier to read if I just used my name, but hey, relatively anonymous is relatively anonymous. I'm trying not to name anything private, including myself.

A Little Humility Never Hurt Anyone

I like the new job so far. I really do. Even though I can't really work independently and spend a large proportion of my time looking for things like stamps, the stapler, and the bathroom key, I'm sure I've made the right decision.

I'm generally a decently quick study, and this is no different, but I'd forgotten the big downfall of new things (particularly new jobs, apparently): I'm basically wrong all the time. I guess that's why you don't get to make big decisions immediately. Seriously though, in the last week, I've

-used stamps from the wrong drawer
-put three different letters in one envelope...twice
-typed a bank balance wrong (ten minutes to figure out the ten dollar difference)
-plugged the cord into the incorrect slot in the fax machine (it took us an hour to figure that one out)
-ripped out both receipts when one was supposed to be for us (yes, *that* I should have known)
-forgotten to close the bathroom door (very important heat purposes)
-been unable to figure out how to unlock the front door.

And sorry to sound arrogant, but just like I told you before that I wasn't particularly clumsy, I'm generally not particularly wrong either. I have an excellent memory, good research skills (thank you, pointless liberal arts major!), a type-A personality, and a more than healthy sense of pride. The combination allows me to rarely be wrong about things like "how many boxes we brought to the conference' or 'how old Bill's brother is' or 'how to use the copy machine'.

On the plus side, I have been put in charge of the two bonsai trees (potential names: Bill and Ted) and they seem to be very much still alive.

On a side note, I'm back to posting now, I promise. My mom was in town promoting her book (more on that later!) and there was less time (well, and considerably less need for a place to vent)

Frog Princess?

I had a conversation with a friend some months ago in which we both agreed that though we consider ourselves to be self-confident women with a lot going for us, we're still able to be rattled by a decidedly put-together woman who seems a whole hell of a lot cooler than our high school selves remember being. (Sorry about starting a post with a sentence that long, won't happen again) In other words, despite feeling smart, funny, and attractive enough most of the time, the 'pretty girl' still holds her place on occasion.

Funny because on day two of the new job last week, the boss and I went out for lunch with this painter who rents a studio upstairs from our office. She came while the boss was on the phone, so I went out to keep her company for a bit. She seems to be a pretty good painter (I don't know anything about art, but I liked it, and she paints Chicago for the most part), but she's one of those kind of typical 'I don't want to fit in' types. You know, she's wearing corduroys and some funky t-shirt, birkenstock clogs, not perfectly groomed eyebrows, oversize sweatshirt instead of a coat etc.

She seemed a little stand-offish and I thought maybe she was just shy, but when we headed out to lunch, it became apparent that, though quiet, she was much more comfortable with the boss. Then I realized, I was wearing boots, eye shadow, and a long wool coat...I was the pretty girl!

What goes around, comes around I guess, so remember, you're probably someone's pretty girl (or jock boy), so be nice!