Saturday, July 31, 2010

Anything for a story

Last Sunday afternoon, I had a soccer game.

And, to be honest, I wasn’t entirely confident in how I would play. I hadn’t really eaten anything substantial that day, I didn’t drink as much water before our game as I’d have liked to, I drank quite a bit the night before and I didn’t get enough sleep. I didn’t have very high expectations. And they only dropped lower when I got to the field and found out that we only had 11 girls: no substitutes.

There’s nothing like knowing that you won’t get a water break to really fire you up.
The girl who normally plays sweeper – which is the very last defender back – wasn’t able to play last Sunday, so I stepped in to fill the position. My teammates always think that I’m the right person to play there when she’s missing, but I’m not entirely crazy about that position. Mostly because I either play really good or really bad when I’m there and, well, it is sort of crucial that, as the last line of defense, you don’t suck.

And then the referee comes over and OF COURSE it is one of Colin’s best friends. And when the other team takes the field, who is out there? Colin’s little sister. Seriously, Universe. That is rude. The Athlete is leaving and I’m mildly hung over and playing a position that I’m not confident at and you’re going to send a few ghosts from my past to witness this debacle? Really? Ugh.

The game begins and, lo and behold, I am not a disaster! I am actually quite good. I’m tired but I am not exhausted. I am hot but not overheating. I’m not sweating out vodka. And I’m remembering why I occasionally like playing stopper. Because, when you play that position right, you can make the forwards on the other team look stupid. Which is pretty much the greatest thing ever.

Once we get to the second half, I am feeling quite great about myself. Why did I ever think that I could be any less than COMPLETELY AWESOME? Why don’t I play this position every week so that I can make, like, every single girl in the league look and feel stupid? Why haven’t I been recruited to play for the L.A. Galaxy in the absence of my boyfriend David Beckham?

There’s maybe 10 minutes left in the game (we’re winning, 3-0) and the other team kicks the ball out of bounds. I’m the closest one to the ball, so I step off of the field, grab the ball and prepare to take the throw in.

I should mention that I hadn’t been out to that sideline at all up until that point in the game. So I didn’t quite realize that the grass was wet. Really wet.

I hold the ball in my hands, behind my head. I take a couple of steps to get started. I plant my feet and, just as I’m pulling the ball over my head and about to release it, the grass rips out from under my feet. My legs go straight up into the air. I fall onto my back with a dramatic thud. A really loud, really dramatic thud. The ball flies out of my hand. And I’m lying on my back, starting up at the sky. And at the linesman, who is standing over me and trying not to laugh.

Which was nice of him, actually. Because everyone else was definitely not trying not to laugh. My teammates are laughing. My opponents are laughing. The spectators are laughing. And so I, in turn, start laughing. And roll over onto my stomach so that I can hide my face in the (muddy) grass for a moment.
I got myself up, brushed myself off, ignored my swampy ass and shook off the embarrassment.

It was definitely the most humiliating moment I’ve had on the soccer field in a long, long time. Perhaps ever.

But I completely kicked ass for the rest of the game. And I’ve been amusing myself by telling anyone and everyone the story.

So I’ll take it.

Shameless, boys and girls. I am shameless.

Thursday, July 29, 2010

Confession of a bad, bad blogger

I was going to write something tonight.

A funny story that I've been meaning to tell since Monday.

(I've been busy at work. Plus I had to get The Athlete drama out before I got to the funny stuff.)

So, I was planning on this funny story - which cannot be rushed - or maybe some more whining about The Athlete or possibly something about....hmmm....no. If I was going to write, it would be about one of those two subjects.

Anyway.

That was the plan. But, I got home (at 9:30 - love the 14 hour days!) and I was stopped by my chatty neighbor who is apparently moving. And when I FINALLY got inside, all I could think about was The Girl Who Played With Fire and also Thin Mints straight out of the freezer. Both of which I have at my disposal.

So, tomorrow?

Yeah.

Tomorrow.

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

Father by name only

Just this morning, I was telling a coworker about my high school friend Heather's dad. About what a terrifying, mean, emotionally absusive man he was. About how much he fucked up Heather and her sisters.

I couldn't tell you the last time I thought about Heather's dad. He's always been my model of The Worst Man. The husband/father/boyfriend that I would never want. But I don't think of him often. And, on the one day that I do think of him, also happens to be the day that he dies.

Heather and I have had a rocky friendship. She hasn't always been the friend that I need her to be. We're in a good place now. But, during those times when our friendship wasn't so great, I forgot to take that into account. That she was emotionally abused by her father to such an enormous extent for such a long period of her life.

I probably should've given her more slack.

Her husband has a hard time understanding why she is estranged from her father. He didn't get why they didn't speak. He couldn't comprehend why she refused to invite him to the wedding. But it is impossible, honestly, to explain what a bad man he was with words. You had to have lived through it. You had to have seen him turn. You had to watch him control his wife. You needed to see how he broke the spirits of his daughters. There aren't words that do any of that justice.

All that man ever did was turn Heather's life upside down.

And now she has to clean up after his. He has no will. She's his next of kin. She got the phone calls. She's making hte arrangements. She's going to have to see the lawyers.

I just feel so, so sad for her. Not because her dad died. But because she didn't have a father worth being sad for.

Monday, July 26, 2010

It is what it is

I’ve tried to write this a dozen times over. To write about The Athlete and Saturday night and all of the craziness that is a bar crawl and the part where I felt awkward and wanted to go home and the part when I was so, so happy that I’d left my comfort zone and attempted to be social. And that minute when I stood by my car and wished The Athlete the best of luck for his season in Europe. Where I had to say “well, I’ll see you in the spring!” (although, sometimes I see him over his very short Christmas break. It barely counts.) and be okay with it.

And I am. I’m okay with it. I understand that it is the reality of my friendship with him. It sucks, though. We get close every year around this time – I see him so much because of my job and, well, we just click. We get along well. Our personalities are very complimentary.

He, like all of us, has his limitations, but he’s a genuinely good guy and I adore him. As a friend or as something else, I adore him.

That’s all I can do.

Sunday, July 25, 2010

Over and done

I did the bar crawl.

And fell flat on my face for The Athlete all over again. (Not literally.)

And he's leaving all over again. (Literally.)

I don't know why I keep putting myself through this.

I know how this story ends.

He gets on the plane.

I feel sad.

The end.

Thursday, July 22, 2010

Yes? No? Maybe?

The Athlete’s annual bar crawl is on Saturday night.

Remember it from last year? The theme is country clubs. After much deliberation last year, I dressed up as a golfer. I talked Meg, Anna and one of Meg’s friends into joining me. I got pretty drunk. I covered my hands in chalk and pressed them on The Athlete’s ass. And then I was so, so sad when he left for his season in Europe a few days later.

So, like I said, this year’s bar crawl is on Saturday night.

And, again, I was invited. And, just like last year, The Athlete called me a few days after the Facebook invite was sent out. “So, are you going to be there?” he asked me. “I will clear my calendar,” I told him.

It was a few weeks ago.

I told Meg about it right away. I assumed that she’d be pretty pumped. Not going to lie: that bar crawl is right up her alley. Costumes? Check. Drinking? Check. Boys who play sports for a living? Check. She fit in very well last year, so I figured I’d bring her along again this year. Arriving alone really isn’t all that fun.

But Meg is in Minnesota this weekend, visiting her college roommate. So she’s out.

I invited Colleen and Lucy instead. And, honestly, I’m not sure how this is going to work out. I told them to meet us a bit into the evening, that way they won’t have to dress up. And I made Colleen promise me that she wouldn’t misbehave, act sullen, get all weird because there are pretty girls as part of the group and it makes her feel inferior or otherwise act like a tool.

And, now that I’ve invited L and C along, I sort of just want to call the whole thing off. That Athlete hasn’t mentioned it, so I kind of feel like he doesn’t give a hot shit one way or another if I show up. And I’m not sure that I want to get all covered in argyle and show up at the “first hole” (his summer house, that is) all by myself with a bunch of people I don’t know and subject myself to that sort of awkwardness.

But, then again, that’s exactly what I did last year and it was wicked fun.

I was just closer to The Athlete back then. I knew that he wanted me there. This year, I’m not so sure.

I am such a baby.

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Recognition and significance

I've been thinking a lot about Aunt Marie lately. Her birthday is this week.

Well, maybe I haven't been thinking about her any more than I normally would. I think about her a lot. I think about what she'd say about a certain situation. I think about what she would make for a family party. I crave those lazy Sunday afternoons when she would come over and sit on the deck (weather permitting, of course. If we weren't on the deck, we'd be at the kitchen counter) and do absolutely nothing but talk and gossip and maybe look at Target's sale flyer.

I don't talk a lot about Aunt Marie to many people. It's a weird thing to bring up in conversation, your dead aunt. Sometimes I just want people to know. My aunt died and I really miss her. And I see that my mom and my grandma are a mess and it kills me. That's what I want to say. To anyone who would listen, sometimes. Just because putting it out there in the world makes it more real and, believe me, it is real.

It is rare that I say anything.

When my aunt died (and, to a lesser extent just because I was younger, when my uncle died), it became really apparent to me how people judge your relationship with people based on their title. Parent = big deal. Spouse = big deal. Aunt = not so significant.

And that shouldn't be. It isn't my place, to evaluate a person who has died in relation to the person who he/she left behind to determine if it is significant. If I know about the death, it probably is. And a card is appropriate. Better to err on the side of too sappy than to potentially ignore a very significant loss in someone's life.

I'm going to get better at that. To keep a stock of sympathy cards on hand and recognize the losses of my friends and my colleagues.

Everyone has an Aunt Marie in his or her life.

Monday, July 19, 2010

Mondays never go as planned

Things that I wanted to do tonight that I did not do:
-Pay bills
-Start The Girl Who Played With Fire
-Packed up my soccer bag for tomorrow night
-Apply for a rather intriguing job that was just posted

Things that I wanted to do tonight that I actually did:-Went to the gym
-Went grocery shopping
-Blogged
-Made lunch for tomorrow
-Transferred files over from my old laptop to my new laptop
-Empied the dishwasher

Things that I did tonight that I didn't want to do but did anyway because I was possessed by an extraterrestrial being:
-Watched The Bachelorette
-Drank two glasses of chocolate milk
-Ate four Thin Mints

I obviously need:
-More time in my day
-Less sugar in my diet

Sunday, July 18, 2010

And the game was a draw

Tonight was one of those nights when I remember why I love soccer so much.

The weather is dreadfully humid. We didn't have enough players. I felt like I wasted my entire day sitting around, doing nothing, conserving energy and wating for my game.

And then I went to my game and it was awesome.

Because I felt strong.

A strong player. A strong teammate. A strong leader.

It is nothing but a game yet, sometimes, it feels like everything. Everything I am. Everything I want. Everything I have. Everything I strive to be.

That's why I love it.

That's why I play.

Saturday, July 17, 2010

For two weeks, I was a travel blogger

I kept a blog for my family when Meg and I were in South Africa.

I started it a few months before we left, with information on how I was planning the trip, how we got tickets, where we were going: really general things that I wrote just to have some content and give a little background on our trip.

While I was there, I tried (unsuccessfully) to blog every day. But I usually woke up a bit before Meg every morning and I'd fire up my laptop and pound out a few paragraphs on what we'd been up to.

At the time, I hated what I was writing. It was so bland to me. There was no creativity to my writing. It was all very we-did-this-and-then-we-did-this-and-then-we-had-dinner. It was lacking spark, I felt, but I didn't have the time to sit down and pull something glorious together every morning. I did my best.

And then I'd upload a few pictures to distract people from actually reading.

Even though I wasn't (and am still not) thrilled with what I wrote, I'm really glad that I took the time to do it. I haven't even been home for three weeks and I'm already forgetting little details. One day blends into the next. What day did we meet the Brazilians? Where was that restaurant? I'm glad that we have a fairly detailed, if not exquisitely written, account of our adventures.

So, I suppose that the blog was just as much for me as it was for my friends and family.

I was pleasantly surprised, actually, by the reception that our blog got. I expected that I would email out the link, and everyone would just check in once or twice and sort of forget about it. (Except for my mom, maybe, since she thinks that practically anything Meg and I do is stellar and excellent and otherwise perfect.)

Our cousin Liz told us that she thought our blog was just hilarious. She read the entire blog over and over again. And then she made her boyfriend read it. ...while she hovered over him, lauging at the funny parts before he got there.

And one of Meg's friends told her that she adored our blog and thought that I was such a good writer.

(Such a good writer? Girl, that was crap! You should see the emo drivel I spew all over my blog on a regular basis!)

My grandma called me on the day we got home and gushed and gushed and gushed. "I read it every day," she told me. "And I would print it out and give it to my friends for them to read!"

Grandma went to Chicago to visit Aunt Louise and Uncle Ed during our time in South Africa, so she showed them our blog. "They say that you should write a book, honey," Grandma told me. "I showed it to them and that is what they said. That you are such a good writer that you should write a book!"

(I'm just waiting to get that lecture from the two of them, never shy to tell you EXACTLY what you should be doing and how you should be doing it.)

"You should write a book," my mom said when I told her about the comments from my aunt, my uncle and Grandma.

"Writing a book is not like writing a blog, Mom."

"You could do it. Write a book like a blog. A blog book!"

Oh, if only it were that easy, dear Mother. If only I had a story. And the dicipline. And the time. And the agent. And the massive advance that would let me quit my job (just the full-time one; I'll keep the 'brary gig).

I don't share my writing with my friends and my family. And I don't think they'll be finding my novel on the New York Times bestseller list anytime soon.

It was just nice to be recognized for a hobby that I quietly engage in almost every day.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

It's not easy being an ice princess

I think I might need to quit skating for a while.

Just typing that makes me cringe. Quit and skating should never be put in a sentence together.

Still. I skated today. And all I could think about was how frustrating it had become. I'm just not sure skating does for me what I once did. And it's so expensive. And...maybe it is time for a break.

To be a skater, you have to put in a lot of time. I don't have a lot of time. And, as a result, the time that I do spend skating is spent maintaining. Keeping the skills that I do have instead of building upon them and learning something new. That frustrates me. Because I want to be better. I want to improve. And my life - every over scheduled minute of it - keeps me from doing that.

For the past two years, I've skated once a week. Which is probably a third of the time that I should be putting into skating. And, even though it is a pitifully small amount, it is still costing me a good bit of money. $15/hour just to be on the ice. Another $70/hour in coaching fees. It adds up really, really fast. And I feel like I'm writing these checks for nothing. To stay the same! To do the same things over and over and over and over. Just so that I don't forget. Just so that, one day, when I'm able to skate more, I don't have to start over again.

At my core, I'm still a skater. I still enjoy it. But my schedule right now - the two jobs and what not - is in the way. I can't skate as much as I want. I can't improve like I want. And it isn't fun. Not to mention how silly it is that I get on the ice and I keep checking the clock. Counting down the minutes until I can get off of the ice. Until I can stop being annoyed at myself and annoyed that my life can't make skating a priority.

So, part of me is thinking of hanging 'em up for a little while. Thinking that the money that I spend skating can be better spent elsewhere. That the time I spend skating could be spent doing something that doesn't annoy me. That I can revisit the sport when all of the stars align and I can devote the time it requires and actually enjoy the challenge.

But I'm scared that, once I stop, I won't start again.

And I hate the idea of my job(s) dictating a hobby that I once loved. It's so adult and responsible to let The Man get in the way of my enjoyment. I already give working 60 hours of my week. Do I have to give it my skating, too?

I hate being an adult.

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

The end of July is near

You're sneaky
again

Another summer

I thought
we
were past this
eyebatting
and
standing too close
in the hallway
and
you call
with frequency
alarming frequency
and I answer
with alarming
perky
shamless
charm

So friendly
And we're not
real
friends

Or
real
anything

First step:
we flirt

Second step:
you leave
by
your
clearly stated
well known
expiration date

I know better

And yet
I will be left with
an embarassing
bar crawl outfit
and
the knowledge of how
embarassingly long
I spent putting
together
that damn
getup

And the embarassment
that
I
did it
again

Let you
sneak
in
between
flirty laughs
and
unsolicited
frequent
compliments

Despite
knowing
way
way
better

Monday, July 12, 2010

Oh, hi, Real Life

One perk of being sick for the first 10 days home after a glorious, glorious vacation: you don't feel like you're back to real life.

I was back at work, sure, and back in my apartment and back in the D -- but I was sick. And that suitcase didn't need to be unpacked. And the grocery shopping didn't need to be done (I wasn't hungry, anyway). And I skipped going to the gym. And I went to bed early and didn't open my bills and tossed my dirty clothes everywhere and caught up on The Hills and hardly blogged.

It wasn't a bad way to ease back into things. Besides the part where I felt absolutely miserable.

(I took myself to urgent care on Friday night and got myself a Z-Pak prescription and, hopefully, that'll kick this.)

So, now I'm really jumping back into Real Life and here's the thing: it really isn't all that great. It isn't all that bad, either, but I think I've been fooling myself. I've always been the first one to proclaim that I'm happy with my life, with my friends, with how I spend my time, with being so close to my family.

Maybe the travel buzz just hasn't worn off yet, but I'm sort of looking around and asking myself "is this all?"

Out-of-state job postings are looking a little less scary. I'm feeling a little more brave.

I need to get cracking. Before this feeling wears off.

Saturday, July 10, 2010

The Girls

Just because they're cute. Ellie and Blue, chillaxing on the deck at Mom and Dad's house.



Blue has been doing okay since her last seizure. She hasn't had another (though she's on medication), her hind legs are a lot stronger and we think she's gained back a bit of weight. She's feeling spry enough to take herself for a little jog along the lakeshore, coming home all covered in muck and happy as a clam.

We're just keeping our fingers crossed that she keeps getting better.

Friday, July 09, 2010

Penpals

Where did this week go, you guys?

I imagine that this is how life would feel if you were addicted to prescription drugs. All fuzzy and hard to keep track of. Yeah, so I'm still sick and hitting the drugs pretty hard. And by drugs I mean cough syrup. I think I might frequent my friendly urgent care after I leave work today. I've been sick for close to three weeks now. It might be time to look to a higher power (cute doctor and antibiotics?) for healing.

I spent a little bit of time this week getting in touch with some of the people we met in South Africa. An email here, a Facebook friend request there. Not that I expect that we'll religiously keep in touch or become longtime friends or anything, but...you never know. And it has been sort of fun discussing our trips and all of the excellent soccer.

So, I guess that those first few paragraphs are just explaination for why I'm writing about random people even though I cannot imagine that any of you care. Blame the cold meds.

Random guys from the midwest: we met them in Melrose Arch - an upscale shopping area with a big screen outside so you could sit outside, have dinner and watch the match of the night - one evening and we stood and talked to them for-evah.

One of the guys emailed me (maybe I should mention that this guy reminded me so much of my will-always-have-a-thing-for high school best buddy/almost boyfriend that I had a dream about him that night). Friended the other on Facebook. I seriously thought that these guys were "older," not, like, old or anything but obviously not 22 either. Come to find out they're all a year younger than me. fml.

Random girls and one gay guy from NYC: they stayed at our hotel. SUCH a wild group. I'm pretty sure they were drunk 80% of their trip. We're all Facebook friends now and I absolutely loved looking at the pictures of their trip and maybe one day I'll be in NYC visiting Anna or Aviva (or both) and we can meet up and start planning for Brazil in 2014.

Random guy from Liverpool who was there with the girls from NYC: Nicest man ever. He actually met one of the NYC girls on a plane years and years ago and has managed to keep in touch with her. I think that's so cool. I should try to be friendlier.

Random kid from Atlanta: He was on the safari with us. And I was nice enough to hook him up with information on how to get to get tickets/transportation to the last USA game because I'm nice/cool like that. He was sort of lacking personality and his pants were too short.

Woman who owns our original hotel: OMG. She was way, way too nice and did way, way too much for us considering that we weren't even staying on her property anymore. She spent an entire day with me and Meg at this touristy place just because. She is so incredibly sweet and kind and I'd love to go back and stay at her place once it is fixed up or go to her other property where they do a full-on safari. Or both. Loved her.

Random guy FROM MY HOMETOWN who we met in a bar: I had just enough information to easily find him on Facebook but I've yet to request him because I think I'll look like a stalker. Which sort of is what I am.

Maybe I should just embrace it.

Tuesday, July 06, 2010

The Clockwork Orange


The summer between my sophomore and junior years of high school, I played in an international youth soccer tournament in the Netherlands.

It was The Biggest Deal Ever. I was so proud to be participating. So excited for the opportunity. I thought I was hot stuff. Playing soccer in Europe!

I don't remember much of the soccer. I can't even remember how many games we played. I remember that we were absolutely smoked by a Russian team. That we lost to another American team. That we played a Dutch team and traded pins in the handshake line. I don't know if I scored a goal or had an assist or made a positive impact on the field. I know that it felt like my Olympics. It felt like my World Cup.

The Biggest Deal Ever.

And I can't remember the bulk of the reason that we went: the soccer. What I do remember is the travel.

It was magic. Holland was magic. Magic and tulips and wooden shoes. I saw Anne Frank's house. I walked through a palace.

I was 14 and the world seemed so, so big.

I had forgotten, up until three weeks ago, how that felt. Overwhelming and calming. This world is so big that I will never see all of it. But if I can only see a piece - if it can all awe me like this - than I can be okay with only experiencing a sliver of it.

I loved Holland. I loved how old everything seemed. I loved how the Dutch appreciated soccer. I loved seeing Amsterdam Arena, learning about Ajax, the fabled soccer club.

From the summer of 1997 on, when I watched international soccer, I loved to watch Holland play. It reminded me of a special time in a special place. Plus, they wore really awesome orange jerseys. And played the game beautifully.

All this to tell you all that I'm awfully excited that Holland advanced to the World Cup final.

But I should mention that I have Spain picked in my office pool.

And significant German heritage.

So I think I'll just cheer for a good game.

Monday, July 05, 2010

I'm coming slow but speeding

I'm not much of a crier. Normally. I guess that the last two days have been an exception. After crying on my way home yesterday, I didn't think that I'd be crying on my drive home tonight, too.

I'm sick, still, which is a convenient excuse for being so easily bruised and battered. I don't have a lot of fight in me.

When I blogged yesterday, I wasn't looking for sympathy. I was just looking for a place to get out what I had been holding in all day. I needed to type what I wouldn't say. I needed to put all of my feelings surrounding that day to rest. I just wanted to let it go. I wasn't writing for readers. I wasn't writing for response.

Of course, when you choose to throw your business out into cyberspace as I do, you don't get a lot of control over the reactions to what you write. Sometimes the things that I write slip under the surface without a splash. Sometimes there are waves. Small waves, sure - this is not a MegaBlog with readership in the thousands - but waves nonetheless. It's all relative, right?

I should probably make it clear that I welcome this. I welcome all of this. I'm okay with being questioned, you guys. If you feel the need to call me out on something? Do it. There isn't anything wrong with this. I am rattled, yes. But I am provoked to examine my life with

I am not content with who I am. I don't ever expect to be. It isn't in my nature. I will always want to be better. Some changes (a fitness goal, for example. Hell, even grad school, if you're comparing it to an enormous task like changing your entire personality) are going to come a lot easier than others.

I take a little bit of an issue with the suggestion that I am stagnant. That I talk, but do not act. No, I am not moving mountains. I am not dying my hair and quitting my job and reinventing myself. Have I changed for the better since I started this blog? Absolutely.

That girl who ran back to Colin over and over and over? That girl who waited for his phone calls? Who waited for him to want to see her? Who waited years for him to realize how important she was to him? Who took years to realize that he never would? She is in me, yes. Part of me will always want to sit back and wait to be noticed. To wait for the boy to approach me. To sit at home and create perfectly legitimate excuses for why he's not calling.

When I started this blog, I couldn't go to the bar. I couldn't drink. I was tied down so tightly that I couldn't bear to let one drink come between me and my sense of control.

When I started this blog, I never would've stood up to a cab driver who doubled his fees just because he took me for a stupid tourist. I would've paid the fare and tipped him handsomly on top of it. Just to avoid the confrontation.

So, while it may seem that I am a hamster running on a wheel, I am moving. I am progressing. I am changing. The rate may be maddeningly slow. But, if you look closely, there is movement.

Do what you want. See what you want. But I am going to appreciate that movement. I am going to celebrate that movement. And I'm going to work towards more.

I am always going to work towards more.

Sunday, July 04, 2010

Right where it hurts

The thing - good and bad - about family is that your family members know your vulnerabilities. They know where you're insecure. They know how to make you hurt.

Meg and my cousin Liz, also the youngest sister in her family, have this thing where they like to be bullies. To relentlessly tease someone (or everyone) in the family. Every time they're together. It's funny and it isn't.

Today, at our annual Meg's birthday/Independence Day celebration, Meg and Liz chose me as their target.

Oh, Alyson is so insecure about her social skills. Alyson is so uptight and aware and embarrassed of it. We'll call her the Fun Police all day long. That will be so funny!

Let me tell you, it was hilarious. It was so funny when Meg implied that the trip that I spent 18 months planning wasn't fun because she wasn't drunk 100% of the time. Or when she suggested that I cock blocked her every hour of the two weeks when we were in South Africa, when really I just wouldn't let her run off with some random kid from New Zealand. Once. One time. In two weeks. Once.

They were laughing and they were making fun and, oh, I don't even have the words to describe how quickly it cut to the middle of me. I'd been feeling so good about our trip, about how I planned it. About how well it all came together. And for Meg to imply that it wasn't because...because...because I was being ME? Because that is who I am?

I cried the whole way home.

I guess that's about right, though. The Fun Police can't take a little joke. The Fun Police takes everything so seriously.

The Fun Police is a little hurt.

Or maybe a lot.

Saturday, July 03, 2010

What not to say

(Earlier today, at Mom and Dad's house. I was sitting at the counter. Mom patted my back as she walked by.)

Mom: Maybe you should gain some weight, honey. I can feel every. single. one. of. your. vertabrae.

Me: Gain weight?

Dad: She weighs exactly what you did when we got married. She'll gain her weight. Trust me.

Friday, July 02, 2010

Here's...umm...some stuff?

Still exhausted from the travel.

And sick. I got sick a few days in. Just a cold. Can't shake it.

It's hard to write about something important. Something magical. When you're mouth breathing.

I think I'll take a few days, to get myself rested and unsick, and then I'll tell you guys all about my adventures in South Africa.

So, if I'm not writing about South Africa today, I guess I'll write about boys.

Boys.

Stupid boys.

First there's Luke. I never officially ended anything with him. I still wasn't sure. And, the week before I was supposed to leave, he was all "I want to see you before you go. When can I see you?" And this was on Wednesday, I think, and I work on Thursday and he was spending the weekend visiting his parents.

I suggested Sunday. And he agreed. And then Sunday came and I sent him a text message after my soccer game, asking him if we were still on for that night.

And he didn't reply.

Not only did he not reply, he posted something on Facebook within 10 minutes of my sending the text so, hello!, you're not fooling anyone, buddy.

I hate when guys do that. When they pretend like you don't exist instead of just saying "hey, I'm sorry, something came up." Or "I just got home and I'm really tired so I don't think that I can make it tonight."

You don't have to tell the truth, even. Just tell me SOMETHING. It is just so rude.

And that's how I sort of decided that I was done with him. So over it.

Then, there's The Athlete. Who I have been doing a very, very good job of not falling all over this summer. But who sent me the invitation to his Country Club themed pub crawl yesterday and I can just picture it: I go to the pub crawl. I get smitten all over again. He leaves for 8 months. I pout for a minimum of 6 weeks. Sound familiar? Like maybe both of the last two summers?

Save me, people. Save me from myself.
 
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