One for the archives

Wow.  Let me tell you about tonight.

First of all, semi-business happy hour?  WENT WAY BAD.  I was totally fine with the insane drunkeness.  I was even willing to drive you home.  What I am NOT OK with is you DITCHING ME and LEAVING ME with all of your clients.  Especially when one of them is asking me to have a threesome with he and his girlfriend, and another is 240 lbs. and hanging on me because he can’t walk straight.  240 lbs. can KILL a girl this size, you know.

What the fuck even happened there?  How the ever loving Hell do you just WALK STRAIGHT OUT THE BAR and leave me with them?! 

Internet, if you want to see me P.I.S.S.E.D., do all of the above.

I am such a pathetically loyal friend (even though I’ve known you all of about a month) that I left the friends that I was scheduled to meet up with to go find your drunk ass.  I walked up and down 6th, darting in and out of bars, trying to find you so you wouldn’t drive your sorry drunk ass home.  I was unsuccessful, but I tried, and quite honestly, that didn’t do a whole lot for the quality of my evening.

This only to be compounded by the fantastic revelation that Bob & I have a “reputation” among the kickball league.  Which essentially means that one girl, who may or may not be dating the umpire, who we may or may not flirt with to tip the scales in our favor, may or may not be the most insecure hag on the face of the Earth (and I may or may not be slightly drunk, and still angry over the aforementioned screwing over).

Apparently, Bob & I are the slutty girls in the league.  And, you know, honestly, I’m OK with that.  I mean. . . given that I haven’t had any sex, whatsoever, in almost a YEAR, I have a hard time taking a slutty reputation seriously.  Just because your man wishes you were us does not make us trampy, thanks.  It means you should maybe work a little harder in the bedroom.  I’m just sayin’. 

I’m heading to bed at this 3am hour to try to sleep off the smoldering anger.  Tomorrow will be better.  It almost has to be at this rate.

That’s how it’s done, folks!

Well, I mean, except that you also want to win. . . but aside from losing the game, the way we played tonight is EXACTLY what it’s all about and I think the difference lies entirely in the fact that Mr. Bob & I drank vodka while we played.

We lost by WAY LESS than usual tonight, and I am almost entirely certain the Evil Empire team believes Team Ramrod to be comprised of retarded adults who don’t know that 6 is more than 3.

Allow me to put this into perspective for you, Internet.  Team Ramrod is 1-3.  The cumulative total of runs scored is approximately 4 times less than the cumulative total of runs allowed. 

Team Evil Empire is 4-0.  They are one of two undefeated teams in the league.  They think they’re some hot shit.

When we kept them from scoring during the entire first 4 innings, we were pretty darn happy about it.  When we held them to 6 runs in the game, we were elated.  When we SCORED 3 RUNS, I damn near peed my pants.  I may also have jumped directly on top of the guy who kicked the homer that brought those runs in.

So, if you can imagine the scene. . . we were there, losing, and screaming and carrying on like we just won the World Series.  Seriously, I’m pretty sure they think we’re retarded.  Like actually retarded.

But, you know what?  They can think that all day long because we had a riot.  Tonight was THE. BEST. TIME. EVER.  You’ll be able to tell by the photos.  

I refuse to post the one where the smokin’ hot guy who offered to show me the “best night of my life” is grabbing my boob, because that was inappropriate, and he is 24 years old, so I’m relatively certain that he is not going to be showing anyone the “best night of their life” anytime soon, but it’s really cute that he thinks so, but still, dude, keep your hands off.  No matter how sexy you are.  Really.  Check back with me in a few months.  I very well may have changed my mind by that time.

Here, I’m getting help holding my drink.  Our boys are so very helpful in a crunch.

Something was apparently quite amusing here:

Did you know I can pitch?  Like a ROCK STAR.  And, also drink.

I can also talk some smack.  This would be my “WTF?!” face.  As in, “WTF?!  BRING IT, BIOTCH!”  What you don’t know is that this is when they started scoring runs.  I maybe got a little TOO cocky.  *shrugs*  But, you’d think our super sonic laser beam eyes would have shaken them. 

This is the team that beat us.  How super nice were they to take photos with us afterwards?  You may note a look of confusion on their faces.  I think they really couldn’t comprehend why we wanted to take a photograph with the team that just beat us in kickball. 

This is us, ELATED that we lost by less than normal.

Happy houring after the game, schmoozing the other teams’ boys.  It hasn’t gotten us a damn thing so far, but we’ll keep trying.
  

Pigtails & Vodka

Let’s focus on MORE FUN things like pigtails & vodka!  Sounds like the best time ever, right?  That’s what’s on my agenda this evening.  Kickball will never be the same.  Because. . . I don’t know if you’ve seen me after a little vodka, but I’m even more obnoxious than without any vodka. 

I’m starting to really enjoy putting my hair in ridiculous pigtails with red ribbons (yeah, I’m that 30 yr. old woman who thinks she can pull pigtails off. . . should we shoot me now or later?  CRAP!  I AM THAT WOMAN!  How did that even happen?!), pulling up the soccer socks, and hitting the field for an hour.  I haven’t participated in any sort of team sport since college, so I’d forgotten how much I love it.  Even when we LOSE. 

I’m also deriving some sort of sick pleasure in being called “Coach” by the boys.  *sinister laughter*  I like being in charge.  Especially in a sporting situation that involves boys.  That’s right, fellas, I’m the boss of you.  Now, get out there and score some runs.  *smacks asses*

Well, I mean, it would be cooler if they were actually listening to me.  But, I prefer to focus on the positive and ignore the negative.  I’m pretty sure the vodka will only help.

We’re heading for game 4 tonight at 8:30.  Wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, at 8:30, please stop and say a little prayer for us.  I don’t care if we lose, but I’d really like to at least score a run this time.  We might need some divine intervention to accomplish that goal.

GO TEAM RAMROD!

*Ahem* I’d like to swing dance more, please.

*blink, blink*

Was I sad about something yesterday?  I can’t remember.  My memory seems to be clouded.

What does a girl even say after being tossed in the air and swung around like that?  She says, “Can I bum a smoke?”, that’s what.  HOLY MOTHER OF GOD, PEOPLE.

Let’s face it.  I’m 5′8″, 142.8 lbs.  I’m not a small girl.  I don’t come across very many men who are both capable and willing to throw me around at all, let alone on a dance floor in some choreographed fashion.

I don’t have any qualms about admitting to you, internet, that there are few things that drive me completely crazy.  Those things would include: 

* Italian Men
* Athletes
* Men who can dance

Any one of those things is really, really, really good.  When you’re rockin’ two out of three, WOW.  I don’t even know what happens when you’re three out of three; I imagine it would be fatal.

Tonight’s guy was two out of three, but I wasn’t very confident on the personality front.  Turns out, he does have a personality, and a very charming one at that!  Yay!  Not that it would matter.  HE SWUNG ME UP INTO THE AIR AS IF IT WERE EFFORTLESS.  I don’t want to be that easy, but mostly, if you are both strong enough and confident enough to throw me in the air, you’ll pretty much have me wrapped around your little finger.

Hey, and he’s not married!  Super extra bonus points!

Another reason I am the Queen of Overreacting

I’m going swing dancing tonight with a guy that I don’t know very well at all. . . and am having a hard time reading.  I usually have a way of getting people to open up to me, to let me see more of them than they typically share, so I usually get a pretty good idea about a person in the first few times I talk to them.  Not this guy!  He’s extra suave and mysterious.  And, the funniest part is, I think it’s all by design.  I can’t decide whether I think it’s funny or lame.

So, I’m ridiculously anxious about the swing dancing.  I’ve never even thought about trying it, and this guy is some sort of dancing machine, so I’m relatively certain I will either hurt myself or someone else, and make a complete ass of myself.

I’m not afraid of making an ass of myself.  I do that all the time.  But, because I haven’t been able to get to know this guy very well, I have this stupid anxiety about it.  I’m completely overreacting, but since that’s something I excel at, I’m trying to embrace it.

I’m sure it’s going to be a perfectly fantastic time, and he’s a relatively broad shouldered, strong man, so throwing me around the dance floor shouldn’t be a problem.  And, in fact, I’ll rather enjoy that, thanks.

He’s also a former college athlete . . . and we all know how I like my athletes.  

Myspace

I finally caved to the pressure.  I am on myspace.  Yes, I realize I’m too old for myspace. 

www.myspace.com/snippyc

Right, left, right

I finally convinced a man to go to a salsa lesson with me.  And, I couldn’t have asked for a better date because the rest of the men there?  WAY TOO SERIOUS ABOUT SOME SALSA.

We had a remarkably good time.  I don’t know if I could repeat what I learned now that several hours have passed, but I got it while we were there, and that was fun. 

I got his name right for the entirety of the evening (whew!), but the salsa instructor botched it. . . which, strangely, didn’t make me feel much better. 

I’m relatively certain everyone there would have danced better had the bar been open.  I know WE would have.  But, it’s OK, we found a drink afterwards and I learned all about how Deal or No Deal works. 

I, again, laughed my head off.  Am I just running around with seriously hilarious men, or do I think everyone’s funny?  *raises one eyebrow*  This one cracked me up.  And, after the afternoon I had, that was no small accomplishment. 

I wonder if I can convince him to go back and learn more. . . and then eventually, we’ll be pros and we can go tear it up every Friday night at Copa.  That sounds like the best plan, right?  Because that’s what all the cool kids do.

Blessings in disguise

On a pretty regular basis, I find myself questioning the decisions I’ve made or the friends I’ve surrounded myself with.  I’m always evaluating my life and where I’m at versus where I thought I’d be and/or where I want to be, and the company I keep and how that impacts who I am, and who I am in relation to who I want to be.

Sometimes, it takes a day like today to bring out the best in those people I surround myself with.  You know, those people whose intentions I sometimes question, whose maturity, or other issues sometimes make me wonder if I should remove myself from the relationship for the sake of my sanity.

Then, something I was prepared for, something I fully expected, something I said would happen, happens, and I try to act like it’s not a big deal and I’m fine, but those friends know better, even though I’m trying to play it off.  And, they don’t say, “I told you so”.  They say, “I’m sorry” and then they hold me up as I try to act like nothing happened.  Because they know I’m a little sad, even though I refuse to show it; and they know I need them, even though I won’t say it.

I’ve complained about some of these friends for a myriad of things that have annoyed me.  When you smash it all together, and you look at what happens when I need my friends, it makes a little more sense.  Yeah, we disagree on things.  We see things differently.  We have different values, different tastes, different tolerance levels.  But, at the end of the day, I know, without fail, that I’ve got someone to lean on.  And, more than that, I know that I can lean quietly, and we’ll all pretend like I’m the pillar of strength that the world thinks I am and we won’t have to talk about it if I don’t want to.

I have been reminded again, today, how fortunate I am to have such awesome friends.  Thank you.  Thank you for letting me vent.  Thank you for letting me pretend like I’m fine.  Thank you for knowing I’m not fine, and being supportive in a perfectly passive way that lets me know you know I’m not fine, but that you understand I don’t admit to that very easily.  Thank you for being sad that I’m sad, and for not telling me that I had it coming.

For all their faults, the friends I’ve made here are some of the best friends I’ve ever had.  Sometimes, it takes a little punch to my heart to make them remind me.  So, in that regard, today’s little disappointement was a blessing.

Stay tuned for the post where I attempt to vaguely explain what any of this means, and what I’ve learned from it.  I’m going to go ahead and sleep on it before I go putting my heart out into the world, as we’ve all seen what happens when I get emotional about something and decide to share it with the internet. . .

It’s interesting.

It’s interesting to me how you can see a person one way and in a split second, everything can change.  In one brief moment, a complete shift occurs in the qualities you notice in a person.

Someone can fall from a pedastal pretty fast.  And, depending on the pedastal, they can fall pretty far.  It amazes me that the most minute detail can trigger that fall, and then once it happens, it takes monumental effort to regain positioning.

Is it because we walk around seeing what we want to see, hearing what we want to hear?  Or is it truly that we are such sensitive creatures that one wrong move can destroy our entire perception of a person?

Enough to break my rules

That’s how much cuteness there is in the following photos (which will be online only temporarily, so make sure you make the most of the limited-time cuteness).  Mom finally sent me the photos from she & Fred’s trip to Austin in May (so, at this rate, I should get the photos from my visit to Indiana in 2042?).  I was going to be selfish, but I’ll burst if I don’t share the cuteness with you.

If you don’t already understand, these photos ought to make you fully comprehend why I’d give up everything I have for this kid.

She’s even cute when she cries.

Don’t tell me she’s not the most beautiful child you’ve ever seen.  She’s approximately 732 times cuter than I was when I was a kid, and I was cute. 

Abuse chic

Santi coined the phrase, and I’m making it cool with my sexy leg.

Please also note my especially modest Miss Cleo in the background there.  She said something about having had a long day and the stress causing hideous circles under her eyes that she does not intend to share with the internet.  I guess that’s why she turned her head away when I took the photo.  She’s such a drama queen.

This seems like the most appropriate time to announce that I’m presently at capacity with the boys.  I know that this photo, in particular, is making you desperately want to date me, and I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but I’m already juggling more than I can handle.  If you’d like to forward your application to me via email, I’d be happy to keep it on file for future reference.

And you thought kickball was fun!

This kickball league is literally kicking my ass.

I will have to remember to take photos of my leg to post.  You’ll make an ugly face and quite possibly say, “EW” outloud.  Because it’s pretty gross. 

I’m scheduled to go dancing two nights this week, and dancing typically involves a dress or skirt for ease of movement.  Unfortunately, my beaten up legs are not something anyone wants to see peeking out the bottom of a dress or skirt.  Also, I’m pretty sure neither of the men I’ll be dancing with want to endure the accusing stares of people who will assume the bastard threw me down a flight of stairs.

We practiced yesterday.  That’s how bad we suck.  We require practice to participate in a recreational kickball league.  I don’t know that practice is going to make us any better in a game, but man, give us some points for effort, please.

During practice, I managed to call one of my teammates by the wrong name.  Funny story. . . that teammate?  He’d be the guy I’m going dancing with tomorrow night.  Unless he hates me now because I apparently can’t even remember his name.  Yeah, so pretty much, I basically shouldn’t interact with people.  Ever.

We play another hardcore team this week.  I don’t want to be a “Negative Norma” (this phrase courtesy of the guy whose name I inexplicibly botched), but I almost don’t think we’ve got a chance at winning.  I could be wrong.  We did practice.  But, I’m also not going to get my hopes up.

The most exciting part about it?  Mr. Universe has vowed to come cheer us on.

Now you tell me, Internet, what could possibly make my week better than that?!