What I don't remember is what year it was. Maybe '99, or somewhere around there.
I also don't know how I managed it, but I got myself to Queens, and my friend Joe's car, and we had to go somewhere (somewhere I've forgotten).
I think it was Westchester. We had to get the tickets, and then we had to make it back to the stadium for the first pitch.
But before we could go in, we had to find Kerri.
First we had to deal with the traffic, going up and coming back. Everybody knows to stay off of 87 on game day, especially opening day. It was before the cell phone revolution, but Joe had a beeper and used it well that day. We crawled up the highway.
We got to Westchester and pulled into a development. Joe ran inside; I waited in the car.
We crawled down the highway. The electronic reminder that someone was ready to begin the same journey from the other direction punctuated the conversation. We had no way to call back without sacrificing valuable road time.
I remember it being hot, although today is cold. There was some sun, and maybe some wind.
We finally got within walking distance of the stadium and Joe decided to leave the car in one of those places where you shouldn't leave your car. One of those places where, as you walk toward the street, some undesirables will offer to watch your car for twenty bucks.
Joe laughed them off.
We reached the stadium and found a payphone. We called Kerri's office, but she had already left. We had no meeting place, no meeting time. We picked something obvious: the big bat.
We tried the phone again, this time staying within view of the bat, and this time reaching her officemate. I spoke to him idly about our botched plans while Joe went back to stand in the bat's shadow.
Kerri called her office. I don't know why. I stayed on hold while my new friend filled her in on the other line. When he came back, we parted ways amicably. I wished we had a fourth ticket for him.
When Kerri finally appeared at the bat, we quickly marvelled at how we were all able to find each other. We snaked through the crowd to the bleacher seat entrance.
At the beer stand, we watched Yogi Berra throw the first pitch on closed-circuit. I think it was Yogi, and that we discussed having missed the Joe DiMaggio years.
We climbed the bleacher steps and found three seats together, behind two girls who looked like they should have been at school that day.
There were two fights in the bleachers that day. The girls got some frat-looking boys to buy them beers. Joe talked about first meeting Solmi, and how he thought he might ask her out. I stepped in mustard. Kerri talked about layoffs, about leaving jobs behind.
Somehow, we made it out of the stadium. The car was still there.
I'd love to tell you all about the story I'm writing, and how it will be the next great American novel. I'd also like to tell you that I've lost twenty pounds and I'm buying myself a whole new wardrobe in celebration. Oh, and there was the day I got out of bed and decided to get myself a brand new dream job. I'm painting more, cooking gourmet but non-fattening meals, knitting up a storm, sodding my new "lawn" chair, discovering cool new ways to be even cooler than I already am, shingling the roof, and unclogging the toilet.
But I'd be lying.
I do think I'm doing all right, though. The laundry's all clean, dishes are done, the windows are washed (inside AND out), the apartment's vaccum'd, I'm almost packed for this weekend's trip to Cape Cod, and I've got a boating club application in-hand. After a year of unemployment, things are finally beginning to feel like they're under control.
Which probably means that we're due for some chaos.
In the meantime, like I said, we're heading to Chatham this weekend to visit Marc's grandmother. Today is the one-year anniversary of his grandfather's death (for those keeping score, that would be the same-side but divorced grandfather... today also happens to be the step-grandfather's birthday. Creepy, huh?) so my other in-laws will be joining us for some happy-time.
Back to the chaos: next week, we finally leave for Operation Gold Rush. We'll be spending a few days here in the desert with nothing but sun and sand. And, probably, snoring. The town and the inn were recommended in the second issue of Budget Living. That being, by the way, the greatest magazine to which I'm currently subscribing. Supposedly (at least, according to Martha Stewart Living, incidentally not quite as wonderful), we'll be there at just the right time to see the wildflowers blooming at Joshua Tree.
After thoroughly decompressing in the desert, we'll drive to LA and spend a couple of days at Erik's. LA goals include fitting Disneyland, the La Brea Tarpits, the Getty Center, and the zoo in between all of the (slightly more insider-y) things Erik has planned for us.
Any other can't-miss recommendations for the greater Palm Springs/LA areas?
I realized today where I'd seen Sarah Chalke, who plays Elliot on "Scrubs": she was the second (and, confusingly, the fourth) Becky on "Roseanne". Finally.
Heh. There's a maintenance guy downstairs fixing the lock on the window and he just called me "little lady." Context: "Excuse me, little lady? I need to go down to the truck because I forgot my drill."
Also, I think we can all agree that I'm a completely recovered mechanical engineer now that I am actually in the practice of "calling someone" when the lock on the window is loose.
good things about my birthday party:
1. when Marc's grandmother sashayed up to me, wine glass tippy in her right hand, and proclaimed, "Your apartment is so lovely! Your hair is so lovely!"
2. the way a 2 PM start time doesn't have much effect on the end time. This birthday just goes on and on.
3. the distrust and sneakiness that resulted in pretty much everyone bringing some kind of dessert. This included a cake shaped like a basket of flowers and baked for a crowd of 32, a box full of pastries straight from Veniero's, dozens of cookies, and five pounds of homemade chocolate.
4. the way my friends and family know me: where there wasn't dessert, there was wine. And sometimes, there was dessert wine!
5. when Marc's cousin mocked me for having an Amazon wishlist filled with books. Bite me, sucka!
6. my horoscope that day, which started with: "It's great to be a geek!"
7. when Carolyn called and said she was only about 3 and a half hours away.
8. when black/blacker internet celebrity Jesse Chan-Norris was bear-hugged by my hunk-ass husband.
9. when I kissed Doug goodbye and he squealed, "She kissed me!"
10. a perfectly clear blue sky and the incredible 50 degrees of delicious warmth tickling skin I haven't exposed since last August.
not-so-good things about my birthday party:
1. the tomato sauce that splurted out of the portable oven-thingy onto the carpet at 1:58.
2. all the people I know who, as it turns out, like to refer to Heineken as "Heiny."
3. when my brother-in-law turned to me as we stood in a crowd of my in-laws and said, "Well, I guess Marc's side of the family wins this party, huh?"
4. that we live in Connecticut and the limited budget that prevented us from flying in everyone I love, everywhere.
Now I've lived longer than Kid Rock's Joe C.,
and Nick Drake, he couldn't last longer than me,
and Gia Carangi, whose life looks quite short,
joined lovely Gram Parsons, who died of a snort.
You might try to tell me that I'm tempting peril.
"Better tip one for Kurt, he stared down a barrel.
Or Jimi, or Janis, they died this age, too,
and I see no Teen Spirit coming from you."
I'm accepting twenty-seven as neither bad nor preventable,
though I'm slightly more fragile, slightly more dentable.
I'm trying to find the bright side of aging,
though I'm doing more damage in the process of gauging.
My back is now creaky; my knees are a mess,
(though my sexual peak may be near, I confess).
It's too late to die young; I'd look like a boob.
But I am better than square; I'm a cube!
Hooray for twenty-seven.
Turns out you can turn your envelopes 90° and then address them, and they will be delivered just fine with a single 37 cent stamp. To half of your intended recipients. The other half will receive either a) a letter from the Post Office claiming that they owe twelve cents, or b) nothing but a sheepish e-mail from you. It's a gamble I do not recommend.
I'm just glad I never took this chance on our homemade wedding invitations, thanks to seventeen separate bridal magazines advising me about the possible need for extra postage. Which it actually turned out wasn't necessary, because back then, I was clever in the engineer way (the way that works).
Marc and I went to a party recently, I know, I know, no, we didn't make any new friends there, where there was, in attendance, one of those girls. The girl with the cute haircut and the hot body and the funky glasses, who desperately searches every social occasion for the opportunity to remove her clothing.
She's the first one to suggest, as the party begins to wind down and everyone is relaxing on the sofas, a healthy streaking treatment for this stodgy neighborhood. Or a game of Strip Whatever. Or, body shots, anyone?
She's the girl you'd like to take home with you, and hug, and cuddle until she realizes that we all know she's got great tits and she doesn't actually have to remove the visual barriers so we can verify our suspicion.
She's the girl who layers on the nail laquer and hair product, creating an artfully dissheveled exterior that she'll peel away for you at the slightest suggestion.
I think I know, because I kinda think I maybe used to be that girl.
I love snow and all, but this is getting ridiculous. We're halfway through another ten inches today.
It's a good thing I have a week in the California sun to look forward to, or all this winter might drive me bananas. And it damned well better be sunny. I take, "it never rains in southern California," as a campaign promise from the California Board of Tourism these days.
I never realized how frequently I consult Amazon until I promised I wouldn't visit my wishlist for the two weeks before my birthday. One week down, one to go (hint, hint).
Over dinner at the mall food court:
Kate: A little girl just sat down over there with her hot fudge sundae, and her, like bookbag, and left them on the table while she went into Journey to look at shoes. All the Bronx must have finally pissed out of me, because three months ago I would have stolen all that stuff, but now all I can think is, wow, this mall has a Häagen-Dazs?
Marc: I just want to go pee in it.
It turns out, as a matter of fact, that it will cost an extra twelve cents to mail a standard-sized envelope, if you turn that envelope 90° before addressing. The three packages of singularly stamped birthday party invitations that I dropped in the mail Friday night will probably be making their way back to me soon.
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