Did you guess what this post title means? Or did you just assume I really like “The Jeffersons” (which I do by the way, that Florence is hysterical)? Nik got moved up! Isn’t promoted just the sweetest word you can think of? And do you know what that means? I have also been promoted-- to the home team wag because the next stop is Tampa! Hallelujah! And I mean Hallelujah! Praise God because I was just telling Him yesterday that I wasn’t sure I could live one more day like this.
I will admit that I had actually thought about how Nik would break the news to me when he got moved up. That’s not weird, right? It was perfect. I was recapping the game broadcast when Nik interrupted to say, “You actually listened today? You got over your fear of being bad luck?” I said that I had. And he said that I didn’t need to listen to any more games. The eyes welled up before he finished his thought. And, as a testament to the overwhelming happiness I felt, I actually cried while kneeling on my bathroom floor. I probably should not admit this but, in the spirit of honesty being the best policy and all, that floor is disgusting. In fact, there was a small dead spider somewhere near the vicinity of my face but I didn’t even care. My boy’s coming home!
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Letting Myself Go
Yesterday I volunteered to take my sister to church and she asked if we could bring our dog Becca. I said no because I was going to the store after I dropped her off. We made it all the way to the car before she remembered that her current role in the play of life is bratty teenage girl and said, “You’re wearing that to the store?” At which point, I (luckily) remembered that my current role is sassy, quick-witted older sister and replied, “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize Target instituted a dress code. I’m wearing shorts and a T-shirt (a little more snottily than was necessary natch).” She said (in a way only a 13-year old girl that’s too saucy for her own good can) “Yeah. But your shorts are hot pink and your shirt is navy blue.” Touché sis. You win this round.
As I reflected on my current stance of pretty much having no dignity when I leave the house, I thought back on a conversation Nik and I had a few months ago. After about a week and a half of me not wearing makeup he casually observed, “So this is how it’s gonna be, huh?” What is that supposed to mean mister? He cited the infrequent makeup application and the even more infrequent leg shavings. Was I, Rachel Johnson, being accused of the old bait and switch?! Embarrassing. Almost embarrassing enough to make me give up sleep to put on makeup or squeeze into my skinny jeans instead of soffes and sweatpants. But, hey, I’m not that easy. So I will enjoy my lazy, laid-back style and continue to look more homeless than the Olsen twins until Nik and I are reunited (because you know something? It’s kind of nice to look hot for your fiancé).
As I reflected on my current stance of pretty much having no dignity when I leave the house, I thought back on a conversation Nik and I had a few months ago. After about a week and a half of me not wearing makeup he casually observed, “So this is how it’s gonna be, huh?” What is that supposed to mean mister? He cited the infrequent makeup application and the even more infrequent leg shavings. Was I, Rachel Johnson, being accused of the old bait and switch?! Embarrassing. Almost embarrassing enough to make me give up sleep to put on makeup or squeeze into my skinny jeans instead of soffes and sweatpants. But, hey, I’m not that easy. So I will enjoy my lazy, laid-back style and continue to look more homeless than the Olsen twins until Nik and I are reunited (because you know something? It’s kind of nice to look hot for your fiancé).
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Lessons about Life and Baseball
“Life is not fair.”
Conan O’ Brien (among others possibly but don’t you just love Coco?)
You know what else is not fair? Baseball. That is the lesson I have learned this week. Now, I’m under no illusions or false pretenses that this life is some kind of perfect meritocracy. There will always be people who get opportunities whether they deserve them or not because they have the right last name or wear the right clothes or know the right people or get signed in the first round. But sometimes it’s hard to just accept that as truth. Some sense of justice cries within us that things MUST be fair. If we work hard, we SHOULD be rewarded (and amply). No one seems to be listening.
Nik called me last night to tell me that one of his good friends on the team (and one of my favorites) was being sent down to a lower team and he would be leaving in less than 24 hours. Brutal! And the thing is, he was doing just fine. Not getting too many innings but doing pretty well with what he was given. AND he got knocked out of his spot by-- okay, I considered being mean just then, but I’m trying to give that up so-- someone who is not doing as well. BIG bummer.
Other events have taken place recently that factor into my declaration that baseball is unfair. But in the interest of propriety and not making very unneeded enemies of the Yankee higher-ups, I will hold my tongue (not easy friends). As I mulled over the unfairness of it all, I started to think about how fortunate Nik and I are. I mean the guy plays a game…for his job! It’s not easy and it’s definitely not glamorous but he’s doing what he loves (as his dear fiancé toils away like a slave laborer, mind you). He’s living the life of so many little league dreams. Few people ever get the chance to be under the bright lights, to strike out seven batters in five innings and walk none (braggart? me? Never… shame on you) while thousands of people watch and cheer. So, I guess life (and baseball) are unfair. But I’ve also realized that that unfairness often works for our good and manifests itself in the amazing opportunities we take for granted.
This is Conan saying life is not fair (at Dartmouth Commencement if you must know).
Conan O’ Brien (among others possibly but don’t you just love Coco?)
You know what else is not fair? Baseball. That is the lesson I have learned this week. Now, I’m under no illusions or false pretenses that this life is some kind of perfect meritocracy. There will always be people who get opportunities whether they deserve them or not because they have the right last name or wear the right clothes or know the right people or get signed in the first round. But sometimes it’s hard to just accept that as truth. Some sense of justice cries within us that things MUST be fair. If we work hard, we SHOULD be rewarded (and amply). No one seems to be listening.
Nik called me last night to tell me that one of his good friends on the team (and one of my favorites) was being sent down to a lower team and he would be leaving in less than 24 hours. Brutal! And the thing is, he was doing just fine. Not getting too many innings but doing pretty well with what he was given. AND he got knocked out of his spot by-- okay, I considered being mean just then, but I’m trying to give that up so-- someone who is not doing as well. BIG bummer.
Other events have taken place recently that factor into my declaration that baseball is unfair. But in the interest of propriety and not making very unneeded enemies of the Yankee higher-ups, I will hold my tongue (not easy friends). As I mulled over the unfairness of it all, I started to think about how fortunate Nik and I are. I mean the guy plays a game…for his job! It’s not easy and it’s definitely not glamorous but he’s doing what he loves (as his dear fiancé toils away like a slave laborer, mind you). He’s living the life of so many little league dreams. Few people ever get the chance to be under the bright lights, to strike out seven batters in five innings and walk none (braggart? me? Never… shame on you) while thousands of people watch and cheer. So, I guess life (and baseball) are unfair. But I’ve also realized that that unfairness often works for our good and manifests itself in the amazing opportunities we take for granted.
This is Conan saying life is not fair (at Dartmouth Commencement if you must know).
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
One is the Loneliest Number
It is a truth that we probably didn’t need a song or a Tom Clancy novel (?!-thank you Wikipedia) to tell us.
I spent Memorial Day weekend visiting Nik in Savannah, Georgia. We were together for almost two and a half whole days! (which, if you’re keeping track at home, is the longest we’ve been together in two months). Oh, the life of a baseball WAG. But this post isn’t to whine because isn’t that just such an unbecoming activity? It is to enlighten your mind about the scheduling conflicts every ball player and his lady must endure.
There are pretty much three options a WAG can choose at the beginning of every season. One, she can stay wherever she is, working or going to school or doing just whatever she wants to do. That is the option I chose this season. By that I mean that is the option the cruel, hard world forced me to accept because we no longer barter. It was a sad day when that system ended friends. So I have basically become an indentured servant of the man. Only time will tell how long my period of service will last.
I digress. Another alternative is adopting the home team and city as your own. You try to find a part-time job if that’s the kind of thing that tickles your fancy. Or you can do nothing, but on a minor leaguer’s (is that a word? It looks awfully strange) salary, you will most likely also be forced to –gasp!-work. So you hang out by yourself during the (sometimes nine day!) road trips and get your honey during home stands. The last and most glorious option is to make like your SO (read: significant other) and adopt the life of a traveler. He goes on the road, you go on the road. He’s playing at home, you’re staying at home. Oh that the day might come when that dream becomes a reality.
But here’s the rub to those of you who aren’t initiated in the ways of baseball waggery. During the season, no matter what you choose, your player is not your own. For all intents and purposes, (until three years ago I thought that phrase was “for all intensive purposes”—what does that even mean?) he is owned by his team. You have but little claim on his time and so you take what you can get and are satisfied or annoyed with the result depending on your general disposition and hormones and things of that nature.
For the life of a baseball player is just so much more involved than one would think. This is like a spoiler alert if you’re waiting with breathless anticipation for Nik’s day in the life of post (but, let’s be honest, by the time he writes that you will not remember this so it’s all good). Most days, Nik sleeps in until 10 or 11, wakes up and then goes to lift. He eats lunch and then has to be at the field for practice around 1. The game starts at seven. You see where I’m going with this? The game finishes at 9:30 or ten then it’s off to eat again and back to his apartment. And it starts all over again the next day. There are reprieves aka no lift days when he doesn’t have to be anywhere until just five hours before the game or, my favorite!, days when he pitches. On pitch days, he doesn’t have to be there until 2 ½ hours before the game if he’s at home and four hours if he’s away. Brilliant. So even when you’re together as much as possible, you’re still alone an awful lot. And isn’t one just the loneliest number?
I spent Memorial Day weekend visiting Nik in Savannah, Georgia. We were together for almost two and a half whole days! (which, if you’re keeping track at home, is the longest we’ve been together in two months). Oh, the life of a baseball WAG. But this post isn’t to whine because isn’t that just such an unbecoming activity? It is to enlighten your mind about the scheduling conflicts every ball player and his lady must endure.
There are pretty much three options a WAG can choose at the beginning of every season. One, she can stay wherever she is, working or going to school or doing just whatever she wants to do. That is the option I chose this season. By that I mean that is the option the cruel, hard world forced me to accept because we no longer barter. It was a sad day when that system ended friends. So I have basically become an indentured servant of the man. Only time will tell how long my period of service will last.
I digress. Another alternative is adopting the home team and city as your own. You try to find a part-time job if that’s the kind of thing that tickles your fancy. Or you can do nothing, but on a minor leaguer’s (is that a word? It looks awfully strange) salary, you will most likely also be forced to –gasp!-work. So you hang out by yourself during the (sometimes nine day!) road trips and get your honey during home stands. The last and most glorious option is to make like your SO (read: significant other) and adopt the life of a traveler. He goes on the road, you go on the road. He’s playing at home, you’re staying at home. Oh that the day might come when that dream becomes a reality.
But here’s the rub to those of you who aren’t initiated in the ways of baseball waggery. During the season, no matter what you choose, your player is not your own. For all intents and purposes, (until three years ago I thought that phrase was “for all intensive purposes”—what does that even mean?) he is owned by his team. You have but little claim on his time and so you take what you can get and are satisfied or annoyed with the result depending on your general disposition and hormones and things of that nature.
For the life of a baseball player is just so much more involved than one would think. This is like a spoiler alert if you’re waiting with breathless anticipation for Nik’s day in the life of post (but, let’s be honest, by the time he writes that you will not remember this so it’s all good). Most days, Nik sleeps in until 10 or 11, wakes up and then goes to lift. He eats lunch and then has to be at the field for practice around 1. The game starts at seven. You see where I’m going with this? The game finishes at 9:30 or ten then it’s off to eat again and back to his apartment. And it starts all over again the next day. There are reprieves aka no lift days when he doesn’t have to be anywhere until just five hours before the game or, my favorite!, days when he pitches. On pitch days, he doesn’t have to be there until 2 ½ hours before the game if he’s at home and four hours if he’s away. Brilliant. So even when you’re together as much as possible, you’re still alone an awful lot. And isn’t one just the loneliest number?
Hahaha.
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