me’s blog

Thus spake my Girls whilst disastrously attempting to impress a Harvard alum, and today, thus speak I.

Last night I went to the first official baseball game at the new Nationals Stadium.  Apparently there was something called an exhibition game on Saturday night, but for some reason it doesn’t count or didn’t matter or I don’t know why but we just don’t talk about it.  It’s like that season of Dallas where Bobby took a nine-month shower.

Anyway, Sunday night my sister and I took my dad to the first official game as a gift for his 69th birthday, and for those of you who know me, you’ll understand what a sincere demonstration of love such a gesture represented.  I’m about to complain, but dad, if you’re reading this, you know I love you more than, well, baseball.  More than lots of other stuff too.  And despite my forthcoming whinery, it really was - and always is - nice to spend the evening with family, even though mom wasn’t feeling well enough to attend.  Dad sent an adorable email the next morning thanking us for the wonderful time he had, and that made it all worth it.

That said…….

The cab ride to the stadium was fine, even though the driver couldn’t get any closer than two blocks from the stadium to drop us off, but whatever.  After waiting in line for 45 minutes just to get into the arena, then waiting another 45 minutes in line to get food, then linebackering (?) our way through throngs of people for about 10-15 minutes on a mission to find our seating section (plus about 5 more minutes because of an erroneous sign which very clearly instructed us to keep walking past our destination level), we finally got to our seats.  Lest you think I’m exaggerating, the game was scheduled to start at 8:05pm and we arrived at the stadium two hours early.  When our butts finally touched our seats, it was 7:55.  Of course by this time the loosely-defined "Philly cheesesteak" I’d waited in line for 45 minutes to get had gone cold, but I’m a trooper so I ate it anyway.  Looking back, it didn’t taste as bad as I thought it should have.  (See, I’m accentuating the positive there!)

Oh wait, did I mention it was about 40 degrees outside and I think I’m anemic?  I dunno, that’s what my sister said.  I have whatever condition it is that causes my hands to freeze way quicker than the rest of me.  Do any of my faithful readers (whassup Doug!) know if there’s a name and/or treatment for that condition?  If so, hook me up, stat.

The opening festivities began around 8ish.  This included the announcement of one unknown team member after another, accompanied by typically impressive DC fireworks and two ginormous American flags being held up by a few dozen soldiers, each flag the size of, um, about 1/4 of a baseball field.  Each player also had his own theme song, and I have to say that hearing Peter Gabriel’s "Big Time" was a highlight of the evening.  And, since I’m focusing on the positive, I am obliged to point out that the whole patriotic flags-n-fireworks display and the truly STUNNING rendition of the national anthem sung a capella by some opera chick was all pretty darned impressive, and it all became even more profound when juxtaposed with what came next.

It seems some chucklehead had the bright idea to invite president bush (I refuse to honor him with capitalization) to throw out the first pitch.  His name was announced, and out he  jogged.  As one might suspect, the crowd greeted him with somewhat of a mixed reaction.  To my ears, however, the majority of the sound coming from the 40,000 people in the stadium was an overwhelmingly disapproving "BOOOO!"  For a brief moment I felt a wee smidgen of pity for him, and I thought about how unfortunate it must be to be him right now.  Can he go anywhere without feeling the wrath of a nation scorned?  He pitched, the feeling passed, I finished my fries, and the ever-dapper (and dare I say, worthy of capitalization) Mayor Fenty told us that it was time to "PLAAAAAAAAAAY BAAAAAAAAALL!"

Then the game started and baseball was played and runs were scored and the Nationals were winning and we got colder and colder and colder and became increasingly tired and cranky and we left after the fifth inning.  And there was nary a cab to be found.

I guess now’s as good a time as any to do my little sports rant.  It’s news to few that I’ve never really been into sports at all.  However some people truly are surprised by this when they learn that I went to Duke University, the quintessential sports-obsessed learning institution where a student is actually excused from class if he or she is scheduled for a shift manning his or her tent while camping out for basketball tickets.  (Which raises a question - can a woman "man" a tent?  Things that make you go hmmm…)

Having grown up as a swimmer, I understand the concept of having pride in one’s team.  And yes, I was indeed voted "Most School Spirit" in my senior class yearbook, though I’m pretty sure that was mainly a result of the boldly creative fashion statements I made during Spirit Week and the artistic flair I brought to the decoration of our homecoming floats.

But what I’ve never been comfortable with is when I see spectators at sporting events getting so wrapped up in what’s going on, to the point where it’s as though they themselves are the ones playing, the ones winning, the ones losing.  It all comes down to volume and pronouns.  You know, when they’re screaming "WE WON THE GAME!"  Um, no.  Calm down.  YOU weren’t playing.  THEY were.  YOU didn’t get tackled.  HE did.  YOU didn’t help score a goal by ripping out that other girl’s weave.  SHE did.  Now I’m not talking about when people generally say something harmless in conversation like "we won last night."  It’s more when people are watching a game and they’re in the heat of the moment, getting all crazy and revved up as rabid sports fans are wont to do.  As though their very lives, their very futures, and the futures of everyone they love, are hanging on the balance of what those people on that field are doing right at that very moment.  Perhaps I’m being petty, but it’s just a big honkin’ pet peeve of mine when people seem to subconsciously blur the line between pride in a team and the reality that they’re not on it.  It’s a tiny little thing, but I feel like it may very well be a significant mental block that’s kept me from getting interested in watching and playing sports all these years.

That, plus the backwards roll trauma.  Plus the crowds.  Plus the cold.  Oh, plus the fact that I have little to no interest in sports whatsoever.  Although I suppose the mere fact that I’ve had fun writing this now quite lengthy entry has proven to myself that, despite all evidence to the contrary, to some extent I do indeed enjoy various aspects of certain sporting endeavors.

Tou-freakin’-ché, Rorelai!

This afternoon as I was taking an extended lunch break in the addictive 65-degree springtime sun, I saw some teenagers carousing in the park in Georgetown.  I don’t know if they were skipping school or on spring break or what, but they were just kinda hangin’ out.  Passing a soccer ball around, eating ice cream, playing a guitar or a djembe drum… just having a good time.  Perhaps even frolicking.  Watching these kids made me so damn happy that my favorite time of year has come once again.  Don’t worry though, I’ll save the rest of my SPRING ROCKS rant for next month when my favorite day of the year rolls around.

Back to the teens.  At one point they started showing each other various gymnastic skills they each possess - somersaults, cartwheels, headstands, handstands, etc.  And never before in my life has this thought crossed my mind, but for the first time, I wished that at some point in my life I’d learned how to do a handstand.  It just looked like so much fun today!  I suppose it’s never too late, but at this point, training myself to exist upside-down even if only for a very short period of time seems highly unlikely. 

You see, I actually remember when I was a wee little Cub Scout, and there was some kind of gymnastics badge or something, and the only thing I could do was a somersault - or a "forward roll" as I believe it was called.  I COULDN’T EVEN DO A BACKWARDS ROLL!  I don’t remember whether I lied and said I had done the backwards roll, or if I just skipped that badge and moved on to the next one.  I hope I didn’t lie.  That wouldn’t have been very scoutly.  Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure there was a cartwheel requirement for that badge too, so if I did lie, I must have lied about that too.  Damn.  If there’d been a lying badge, I’d have had that one all sewn up!  (No, there wasn’t a sewing badge.)

Anyway, the sight of these teenagers in the park getting all gymnasty (?) with each other combined with the Tears For Fears greatest hits cd that’s been in rotation at the office for the past few weeks then led me to ponder the phrase "head over heels".  What on earth does that mean?  People talk about falling head over heels for someone, but if your head is over your heels, you haven’t really fallen at all, have you?  You’re still erect, if you’ll pardon the pun.  So when people say they’re head over heels, that would seem to mean nothing’s changed, right?  Right.

Therefore I hereby submit a motion to coin the term "heels over head" to describe the reckless abandon with which a person falls for others.  Both because it seems a far more accurate figure of speech, and because, at this rate, that’s the only kind of gymnastics badge I won’t have to lie to get.

Bless me dear readers for I have sinned.  It has been waaaaay too long since my last entry.  I promise to try to write more often.  It’s not that I don’t want to or that I don’t have anything interesting going on in my life worthy of sharing with my faithful readers.  It’s just that you both mean so much to me that I don’t like to post anything too hastily, and these days my three jobs rarely allow me the time to give the two of you the attention you so richly deserve.  My sincerest apologies for that, and also for yet another report from my blog-friendly subconscious.

I just woke up from a brief but very intense dream.  In it, some Lost-esque chemical "purge" was taking place, meaning that the entire population of the world (or maybe just the country) was potentially being wiped out by some unstoppable poisonous gassing coming from some unknown source.  Somehow we knew it was coming but we didn’t know when, and we were utterly helpless to stop it.  And, unlike on Lost, we didn’t have gas masks.

There were rows of people lying down on the floor of long, barrack-like adjacent rooms, when one by one the ability to breathe simply began leaving people.  I remember fighting it as long as I could, trying to keep breathing until it became impossible.  A few seconds later the gassing subsided and I lost consciousness, when suddenly I saw my sister standing over me and smoking a cigarette.  (She doesn’t smoke in real life.)  I could hear her tell me that it was over, that it had only lasted a few seconds, and that if I could just push through it and start breathing again, I would be okay. 

A few seconds later I did manage to push through and start breathing again, and when I came to, the first thing I did was look for my parents.  My father was in the next room and had already not made it.  My mother was next to him and was still conscious but was trying unsuccessfully to breathe.  She said that it was her time, and that she couldn’t fight her way back from this, as she was too exhausted from fighting her battle with cancer for the past 9 years.  She told me that she loved me, and I held her as her eyes closed. 

And I woke up bawling my eyes out.

Aside from the obvious, literal, not incorrect conclusion that I’m a big ol’ honkin’ mama’s boy, does anybody have any deeper layers of interpretation as to what this dream could mean?