put me in, coach!

I played softball today.

I’ll pause here to give all who know me a second or three to rub their eyes in disbelief, reread the above sentence and then gasp in amazement.

You guys ready to read on?

Good.

Mike said “Come to softball this Sunday.” I was all teary eyed due to a horrible no good very bad tax problem I was having Friday afternoon. He also said, “Bat your eyes, I can’t stand to see them all glassy like that. Man, you’re killing me.” But I digress. An invite to softball at a time of utter weakness is not to be passed up. So I said ok. I got a ride. I wore my hoodie.

I thought I was just going for the fresh air but lo and behold if the team wasn’t short a player. Would they forfeit? Would the game be lost by default? Heck no! I was the stand in Bad News Bear for the morning. We lost by trying, not default! That’s better right?

I played right field, and for those of you who don’t know much about softball, right field is where the weakest link goes. NO ONE hits to right field unless they are either:

a) left handed or
b) a "booger-eatin' moron"

I was pretty much left alone in my right field realm with the exception of two fouls and pop up fly ball headed right at me – which I dropped. But I got a thumbs up from my team mates nonetheless!

We play in a league made up of newspapers. We played against a daily today. Not the Big Daily, the Little One. Makes them somewhat more down to earth and slightly less corporate. They all appeared to be sober and somewhat athletic, however. Unlike our team. Ah, our team. 75% of us were hung over and still had the club stamps on the inside of our wrists. 50% of us had an appropriation of the word “Rock” included on our team jerseys or baseball hats. Rawk. Rox. Rok. You get the picture. Two of us had on chuck taylors. At least three of us hadn’t held a baseball bat in over 10 years. We were a force to be reckoned with … when it came to the one liners anyway.

We lost both games. By at least 15 runs.

The highlights:
• We recruited a 9 year old boy to play on our team. He could throw better than me!
• I got to first base twice!
• Jessie got hit in the cheek with a ball!
• Brian hit a home run!
• We tried to talk the opposing team into forfeiting the second game and going to get hamburgers and beer drinks instead! They declined.

I’m now on a mission to "suck less" at softball. The next few weeks are gonna be all 80s style movie montage of intensive softball training. Think Karate Kid. Think Flashdance. Think me going to Target and buying a baseball glove. Perhaps come next Sunday I’ll be able to hit the ball past the second baseman. Maybe I’ll be able to throw more than 20 feet. Maybe I’ll bring along a Clif bar cuz I got kinda hungry come the second game.

In the immortal words of Coach Morris Buttermaker: “Listen, you didn't come into this life just to sit around on a dugout bench, did ya?”

No sir, I didn't!

and we'll all float on o.k.

I found out this weekend that I’m afraid of floating bridges. I had to talk my way across. It’ll be alright, I said. Thousands of people cross this bridge every single day, I said. Every single day. There was something disconcerting about the bridge being right on the water. Right. On. The. Water. Looking over to where there should just be air and seeing instead, reflected sky. Wavy. Crayola blue. Dozens of cars in front and behind me floating on this slab of concrete and steel. Floating. We were floating! The side rails seemed too small. The bridge was bobbing up and down with the currents. Or maybe that was just my imagination. Either way, the side rails, they seemed too small.

I had to cross it twice. And then twice again when I got lost.

I’m still here.

So is the bridge.

It’s Monday.

Coincidence: I painted a picture of moths circling a light bulb. There was a moth circling my light bulb the very next day.

Test: I’m going to paint a picture of a pigeon superhero friend who does all my laundry and plays with Clover when I’m away. I’ll let you know what happens.

I found out this weekend that Pike Place Market reminds me of an airport. The mood there is temporary. It’s made up of passers by, taking snap shots and sampling cherries. You could go everyday and not see the same straw hat topped hippy or Michigan t-shirt wearing dad of four. They are there for that day only. They are maybe only there for that day. Like ghosts. Like people on a highway. Nameless and somewhat faceless. Strangers bumping into you wanting to buy a box of strawberries to eat back at the hotel.

You don’t have to take off your shoes to get in though.

But you’ll sometimes get rained on.

Now, it’s Tuesday.

Coincidence: I went to the market for lunch today and I was almost, so close, one second away form buying a big bag of cherries. And now, Mike want to share his with me.

Test: Tomorrow I’m going to the market for lunch and will almost, so close, be one second away from buying one of those way cool Chinese good luck cat sculptures – the waving kind. Perhaps come this time tomorrow, I’ll have a shared good luck cat custody agreement all worked out.

Meow.

the kiss

Listen: He said no and I said yes. It turned around a million times. I remember in my head I was wearing a summer dress. He had his glasses on. Pushed into an alley on a late night walk back home. Our mouths finding each other quick and fast and up against a brick wall. He would have his hands tangled in my hair. But in a way that was different than it was. I would pull him close and kiss his neck. Pull him to me. To me. I would sigh in his ear. That sigh. That girl sigh. The sound of yes and now and yes and now. His hands would wrap around me to my back and I would be held. Tight. There was unspoken curious there. These kisses were all about the maybe, all about the what could have been, all about the not right now. In the alley up against the wall. With him pushing into me. The pricks of mortar finding their way to the small of my back. The summer night air enveloping us.

But then: I said no and he said yes. It turned around a million times. I was wearing blue jeans. Smelled of cigarettes that I didn’t smoke. Tinge of vodka on my breath. His glasses were in a case on a nightstand somewhere far away. He said meet me in the middle and leaned over. Half closed eyes and his sly smile. Meet me in the middle. In the middle. Meet me. I had wondered and wanted and worried and wished and met him in the middle in my head a hundred times before. Then I met him in real life. Eager mouths, eager hands. I kept sliding them off me and back onto him. Too much, I said. Too much. But I kept on kissing. His hands were tangled in my hair and pulling my head back. (Rough.) Passionate. (Hard.) Sexy smooth. He was kissing my neck. And telling me how pretty my hair was. Your hair is so pretty. Your hair. Your. But there was something else. Something unspoken that wasn’t about daydreams. Something untold that wasn’t about the what could have been. My soft sigh didn’t come until after a hundred no’s. But it came. It came. And then he did.

And now: Blindfolded and spun around, I stopped to grab hold of him. He grabbed back. He was sturdy and firm and the type to smooth the hair away from my face on a windy day. The type to take care. The type to be there. Me, I was the head in the clouds trying to hold it together girl made up of 400 yesterdays. I was vulnerable and walking on brand new legs. I was looking for the boy to smooth. Smooth my hair away from my face on a windy day. In that kind dad romance novel boyfriend kind of way. When I found him, I handed me over. When he found me, I was put in his pocket. Gleefully it was. Flirting it was. Coyness and cleverness and wondering how his lips would feel. That is what it was. What it was.

It’s what it is.

get real drunk and ride our bikes

Went to see Minneapolis heroes, The Hold Steady, on Thursday. It was only $8 and like I said in an earlier post, I would have gladly paid ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS to see them. They are amazing live. Craig Finn leads you through his clever analogies and word plays with big smiles and follow the bouncing ball hand movements. Plus he just looks like he’s having a crazy good time up there. It’s contagious. I grinned the whole set. Ear to ear.

The place was packed and there were lots of people from work. One of the music critics knew Finn, and once being informed of my Minneapolis status, introduced me. Due to my drunkenness and penchant for over-excitability anyway, I came off a bit 14 year old. A bit groupie. A bit hometown girl wanting to talk about playing the Triple Rock. He seemed to get it. Upon returning to the group, I vowed to never wash my hand again. Of course I did. But I waited a little longer than I maybe should have. Remember, Pisces have sketchy hygiene.

The rest of the night was all about the booze and the bad judgment. I drank way way too much. My friends here are so West Coast. Drinking pricey vodka and Red Bull. Keeping things on the down low. Listening to hip hop and talking about turn tables. I gave a knowing look to Mike when Finn asked from the stage if you’ve ever been to a place that had a DJ that really shouldn’t have had a DJ - - like a laundromat or a party with 4 people. I reminded him of the 8th grade birthday party he “spun” for. Sometimes, it’s just too easy.

Sometimes, I’m just too easy.

Found a brainy boy in the corner and started talking books. The conversation was slow and soaked in alcohol. Ulysses came up. Joyce. Stream of consciousness. The last few pages about sex and love and falling asleep. He said it was about the Male Penetrating Gaze and the Female Yes. I loved that idea. The Female Yes. Female. Yes. Held onto it the whole night. Let it kick around my head. Bounce off the walls. Tacit approvals and unspoken green lights. Air you can cut with a knife. The meeting in the middle for the kiss that changes everything. Going from here to there with closed eyes and eager tongues. Wondering what in the hell you’ve just done. Soft sighs and wandering hands. Wandering minds. Once you cross that line it’s yours. You can’t put it back. Undo. Rewind. Reverse. Recalculate. Rethink. Think at all. The female yes. Female yes. Female. Yes.

Where were we?

At the part about falling asleep or maybe waking up. Friday morning with a headache and a slow stroll to Zeitgeist. They know what I want when they see me. I like these mornings when I don’t have to speak other than a quiet “thank you” and a dollar tip. Pour in the half and half and sneak out the door. Squinting in the 7am sun. Last night’s lyrics rushing through my head: “Taxmen coming around the back with the kevlar vests. Militia men cooking up a batch of crystal meth. There's a war going down in the middle west. There's a war going down in the middle western states. The kevlar vests against the crystal flakes.” The music. The booze. The Female Yes. About standing on tippy toes to peek over the shoulder of the giant in front of me. About bouncing up and down to the rhythm of a bass drum. The club stamp still on the inside of my wrist. Time to go to work.