I Eat Because I Love Myself

Watching Oprah has never been a priority of mine. Not because I have anything against her, but watching her show tends to make me either depressed about how screwed up people are, or terrified our health system will fail me and amputate a perfectly healthy limb of mine or allow me to contract some kind of flesh eating bacteria. To be honest, the only time I've ever seen Oprah is when I go to my all female gym, in which it is on every day without fail. I'd change the channel, but I fear the middle aged women that surround me with their eyes and ears glued to the television to hear what Dr. Oz has to say about cleansing the colon. Instead, I jog along quietly with my moods going up and down as the endorphins released from the exercise try to stand up to the, "Hi, I'm a husband and father of five who decided I would start a cult and then have an affair with a man," topics that Oprah attacks on a daily basis.

She seems to me to be a fairly decent person, giving cars, homes, washers, dryers, small children (I kid, I kid), Target gift cards, and airline tickets away. I don't even hold it against her that I have yet to be the recipient of any of these things. I guess my Oprah attitude is one of indifference. When we watched The Color Purple in high school I did not follow suit with the rest of the girls who were excited to see a celebrity like Oprah bringing literature to life, I instead was excited to see my favorite Sister Act nun in one of her first films.

The point is, I've never had any beef with Oprah...until now.

At work today Pam asked me what kind of treats she should sneak into the grocery cart to bring into work. This week's groceries will be purchased with her husband's paycheck, which is a prime opportunity to sneak candy into the cart. I told her not to worry about it because I am trying to cut down on sweets.

The following conversation began:

Pam: Oprah fell off the wagon you know.

Me: Oh?

Pam: Yeah she put on 40 lbs and is now trying to get back on the wagon. I think she's only got one foot in the wagon though.

Me: I see.

Pam: Do you know why she got fat again? Because she didn't love herself. That's what she said. She says people eat too much because they don't love themselves.

Me: Oh really. For me, it's more like I eat because I love chocolate.

Pam: People who eat tofu and rice cakes must really hate themselves.

Me: Agreed.

Pam: If you see me eating rice cakes and tofu it's because I'm depressed and ready to kill myself.

Me: Note taken.

The conversation continued on from here but got much more crazy, and I can't capture it properly in the written word. The moral of the story is that I respectfully disagree with Oprah.

Some people do over eat because they are depressed and are trying to fill a void in their lives, however, for some it is simply because ice cream tastes good, the smell of pizza ignites a warm glow in their hearts, the perfect unison of beef, lettuce, and tomato on a bun is a work of art that demands salivation, and the sweet taste of a frozen strawberry margarita puts a giant smile across their faces.

I eat because I love myself and want to spoil myself rotten. I eat because the darn food industry makes everything taste so ridiculously good that I can't simply put one item on my plate at a buffet, I must try it all. I eat because when a place like Coldstone Creamery exists and I get to hand pick the ingredients in my ice cream, I can't pass that up. I eat because some mastermind chef decided that pastries covered in chocolate should be easily accessible to all United States citizens.

Therefore, I dismiss Oprah's theory of, 'I don't love myself because I over eat,' and leave you with my own, 'I exercise because I over eat.'

WTF?!

New year.

New blog title.

New president.

New blog post.

Man alive, I love convenience! Think of all the wonderful things it has done for us. We are more impatient, more selfish, more sedentary, more helpless, more diseased, more heavily insulated with adipose tissue, and on top of it all, most of us are more in debt.

We are a nation of convenience.

It is convenient for us to order fast food, rather than go home and cook a meal with our families. It is convenient for us to send our factory work to other countries rather than pay fair wages and employ our own citizens. It is convenient for us to drive five blocks to the store rather than walk. It is convenient for us to cheat on our spouses rather than work to maintain the sanctity of marriage. It is convenient for us to end a life rather than fight for one to thrive.

Why don't we fight?

Why do we simply tolerate?

If a crazed woman made her way into a neonatal intensive care unit and murdered all of the babies, it would be considered a horrible, sick crime. The woman would be imprisoned for life, and the world would scorn her.

And yet...

Somehow we tolerate a society where it's respectable for a woman to choose to stop the very life that grows inside her.

It is convenient. It is convenient to end the life of someone who cannot fight back rather than attempt to change the life of someone who can.

I've heard many arguments for abortion over the years, and I still have yet to hear one that justifies the murder of a baby, a life filled with hope. As tempting as it might be for some at this point, I'd ask that you'd please refrain from petty arguments about when life begins. We all still contain the same strand of DNA that was formed upon our conception, what is there to argue about?

If you are getting ready to throw down the rape card, which accounts for less than 1% of all abortions, shame on you. When a man ruins a woman's life by raping her, will it make her feel better to ruin someone else's life? Will it help her sleep better at night to extinguish the life that grows inside her. Will she stop having nightmares if she kills her own child? Do you honestly believe that by ending one life, you save another?

Many people whom I respect often bring up the point that it's unfair to bring a child into the world under bad circumstances, into broken homes or impoverished situations.

Is fighting to keep abortion legal and making it more easily accessible the right solution?

Why don't we fight for chastity? Why don't we fight to encourage young men and women to wait until they are married to have sex? Why don't we fight to build families and relationships based on faith? Why don't we fight for our children to maintain good morals? Why do embrace promiscuity and applaud selfishness?

I think it is time that we change our approach. Instead of fueling a media which is only interested in glorifying unhealthy relationships, we need to start taking responsibility for the society we build.

Our networks are full of immoral programs that lack even the slightest hint of substance because we allow it. Why don't we change the channel?

Teenage girls are heading to school in low cut tops, showing off the cleavage they don't even have yet so they can gain attention they most certainly do not need. As parents, why don't we say no?

The film Zack and Miri Make a Porno made $36,832,669. How can we justify that much money going to something of that nature?

Our society is the way it is because we not only allow it to be that way, but we contribute to it everyday.

Stop.

If you don't want a young woman's life to be burdened by having a baby when she is only 15, then work towards a society in which that is not the norm. Currently approximately 1,000,000 teenage girls become pregnant each year in the U.S.

Stop looking for the easy way out.

Abortions don't solve problems; they don't bandage or mend. Abortions are salt to the wound of a society that desperately needs to heal.

We live in a culture where people stand in assembly and applaud a man that promises his first act as president will be to sign the Freedom of Choice Act (FOCA). Somehow we find this heroic.

Never mind the fact that FOCA will basically allow unrestricted unregulated abortions. Even pro choice people can't support that...right? I mean, seriously? Removing requirements that abortionists be licensed physicians and eliminating health and safety regulations for abortion clinics? This should set off little alarm bells in every rational person's mind. RING DING DING! No restrictions and regulations? Correct me if I'm wrong, but doesn't that go against the goal of many pro choice people? Aren't you trying to ensure the health and safety of women? This doesn't sound very healthy or safe.

FOCA will also prohibit bans on abortion after viability, repeal the Partial Birth Abortion Ban, remove any need for parental notification and consent for abortion, and attack conscience rights, forcing physicians to perform abortions even if it is against their own morals and values. I'm sorry, but if you have a conscience, I don't understand how you could support something like that. I invite you to enlighten me.

Today, Wednesday January 28th, is What the FOCA Activism Day. Start living a life of inconvenience, innocent lives depend on it. Our president promises us a time of a change, let's make sure it's the right change.

"The true test of the American ideal is whether we’re able to recognize our failings and then rise together to meet the challenges of our time. Whether we allow ourselves to be shaped by events and history, or whether we act to shape them. Whether chance of birth or circumstance decides life’s big winners and losers, or whether we build a community where, at the very least, everyone has a chance to work hard, get ahead, and reach their dreams."

-BARACK OBAMA, speech, Jun. 4, 2005

With all due respect, Mr. President, you meant live too right? "...at the very least, everyone has a chance to live, work hard, get ahead, and reach their dreams"

Because that's the chance you were given. Not choice, chance.


What the FOCA?!


*Special thanks to Kenric Feldpausch for giving my nephew a voice.

Hunting

I had my very first hunting experience this year. Before you get upset, let me just say I never saw a deer, and I was not even carrying a gun.

I feel like I have to explain hunting season to the rest of the world, as it is a fairly new concept for me. I was introduced to this phenomenon during my freshmen year of college when my professor announced that there would be no class on November 15th due to it being Opening Day. At that time in my life the only "Opening Day" I knew of occurred at Wrigley Field and it most certainly did not happen in November.

I quickly came to the realization that "Opening Day" in the UP refers to the day of the year when an alarmingly large percentage of the male population (and a much more reasonable percentage of the female population) within a 5oo mile radius flock to the woods to slay Bambi and his entire extended family.

Basically hunting season begins on November 15th as the sunrises and goes on for two weeks, until the deer population of the Upper Peninsula is once again under control. At first I was horrified at this idea, but after I nearly died about 306 times due to a deer darting across the highway, I became more comfortable with the idea. I would also like to add that the deer meat is processed and frozen, and many families use that to get them through the winter. That being said, there is soooo much to laugh about when it comes to deer season.

Did you know that people actually pour a significant amount of time, money, and energy into feeding the deer before hunting season even starts? We're talking truckloads of feed taken out into the woods to fatten up little Bambi until he grows big and strong. For a few weeks there I felt as though the deer were getting better fed than I was.

And deer blinds? Have you seen these? Little plywood shanties strategically placed out in the woods for hunters to freeze their asses off in until a deer walks by. Does no one else find this hilarious? Basically they are sitting in a glorified cardboard box for hours on end, with no insulation in November (which in the UP is more like January for the rest of the world), with nothing but a rifle, and perhaps a space heater. Oh, and I just need to share this one with you...
Redneck Deer Blind

Of course, hunters won't just shoot any deer. It has to have spiffy antlers because you are not a man unless you have a full set of antlers mounted on your wall. Again? Hilarious. For two months I had to sit and listen to one of the guys at work tell me about how he missed an eight point buck last year. The poor guy has not gotten a buck in like twelve years because he's been holding out for one that is at least eight points. If you're not familiar with the points system (because I most certainly wasn't) it is based on how many little offshoots come off of the main antler. This year he hooked a deer surveillance camera (A SURVEILLANCE CAMERA!) to his blind weeks before hunting season started so he could monitor the deer that were coming to eat the bate he was putting out. He actually brought in some snap shots of prospective deer that had been hanging around his blind. Now try imagining me attempting to keep a straight face when he pointed to the snapshot and explained for the 511th time that the one he missed last year was twice that size. He took a week off of work for hunting season this year, and came back empty handed. I guess I get to hear some more about the one he missed last year. Dang.

This post is getting long and I haven't even gotten to my deer hunting experience. How did I find myself sitting in a deer blind at 7:15am on a Saturday morning? I'm a yes girl, that's how.
Tanya: Bridget would you like to come hunting with me?
Me: Eww. No. Maybe.
Tanya: When I shoot one, I'll need help loading it onto the truck. My husband has to work.
Me: Sick! Definitely not. Bloody deer...GROSS! Oh. That's a possibility.
Tanya: I figure you can show up around 7am and we'll head out to the blind.
Me: 7 AM! ON A SATURDAY! LADY THAT'S THE ONLY DAY I GET TO SLEEP IN! 7am? Hmm.
Tanya: Do you have other plans?
Me: Yes! Sleeping! Nope.
Tanya: Good. I'll make hot chocolate. Here's directions to my house. See you tomorrow!
Me: Wha??!! Ok! Yes, that sounds good.

At 7am I found myself wearing bright orange and trouncing around the woods. We came to Tanya's blind, which for the record is the largest deer blind I've ever seen. Why? Because women don't mess around. There was a space heater in there, magazines, nice comfortable chairs, and Tanya brought me some cold pizza and a thermos of hot chocolate. We settled in for some deer spying, and it was quickly made evident that I'm the worst person in the world to take hunting, and I will never be asked to return again.

For one, I cannot stay still. Impossible. I had to shift position every 30 seconds. This wouldn't be a huge deal, except for the fact I was wearing snow pants (because it was FREEZING!). Every time I moved my pants went SWISH!. Every 30 seconds...SWISH!

Then there was the whole issue of hot chocolate. The thermos of hot chocolate SHE gave me required me to push down this inner circle to open it, which made a CLICK! sound. In order to close it, I had to pull up on the outer ring, which went SNAP! So about every two minutes you could hear CLICK! quickly followed by SNAP! I mean I had to close it after I took a sip, I didn't want it to get cold. Finally, after about the tenth CLICK! SNAP! Tanya turned to me and whisper-shouted "Leave it open!"

The cold pizza she brought me for breakfast was wrapped in aluminum foil. Come on now! After I got yelled at about the hot chocolate, I was too scared to open the pizza. So then my stomach started. If you know me, you know that my stomach is not to be taken lightly. It never politely asks to be fed with a little 'grumble grumble please feed.' It is a lot more demanding than that. In the silence of the forest it roared out, 'FOOOD NOOOOOW!' I shifted SWISH! to try to quiet it. My stomach replied, 'FEEEED MEEEEE!' Another shift SWISH! 'I WILL START THE SELF DESTRUCTION OF YOUR BODY IF YOU DO NOT START EATING RIGHT THIS SECOND!' Shift SWISH! At that moment Tayna unwrapped the pizza and handed it to me. 'VICTORY!' my stomach roared out one last time before I took a bite. Stupid stomach.

Sometimes when I get cold my nose starts to run, and I start to sneeze. This is frowned upon when hunting. As is inhaling hot chocolate down one's trachea causing said individual to start hacking furiously. It is also ill advised to kick the space heater while shifting positions...SWISH! BANG!

I wonder why we never saw any deer?

Crotchety Can Wait

I think that we are all familiar with the concept of young people wanting to grow up too fast. Perhaps, some of us have even fallen victim to this. I (naturally) have not, as I still retain the mentality of a small child and throw tantrums when I get too hungry and/or tired. On the other hand, my boyfriend Kenric is practically already riding his SCOOTER Store Scooter around on the other end of the spectrum.

He has made it very clear since we first started dating that he cannot wait to be an old man. Not just an old man, but a crotchety old man. The kind that sits out on his front porch yelling at the neighborhood kids as they walk by. The kind that fall asleep in public places and then wake up with a start yelling, as if resuming an argument with no one. He'd probably have a shot gun to ward off any stray dogs or bold children who stepped foot on his lawn. When I questioned his motivation for wanting to be an old man he replied, "I can choose to be crazy, such as yelling random things at people, and they're powerless to stop it; in fact, they won't think anything of it because I'm 'senile'".

In my line of work I've met many elderly gentlemen of the cantankerous variety (Side note: no, cantankerous is not part of my daily vocab, but according to the GRE it's part of a long list of vocabulary I should have learned in college. Using it in this blog post somehow makes all the studying I did for the GRE a little bit less of a waste of time). From my numerous encounters with these men, I've concluded I'm not ready for Kenric to be a grumpy old man yet. He is, however, determined to be one and so I will take this opportunity to make a few small requests.

1) If your teeth and/or gums start to bother you, call the dentist and make an appointment. Do not show up to the dentist office unannounced, and expect to be seen immediately. If, however, you do make this mistake and are sent home to return at a later date (when you actually have an appointment scheduled) do not get frustrated and simply pull all four of your front bottom teeth out yourself. This can be painful, unsightly, and cause difficulty eating.

2) Do not begin to refer to me as "the girlfriend" especially when using a tone that suggests I am slightly insane.

3) Shouting in a whisper-like voice is actually still audible to everyone around you. Do not use this technique to express how displeased you are with certain people in your presence. Chances are they will here you as well as I will.

4) Do not tell complete strangers your plots to end the misery of people you deem more decrepit than you are.

5) If you go to the doctor for a serious health condition, please do not wilfully disregard all of their instructions and attempt to do the exact opposite. When a medical personnel instructs you to begin walking 30 min a day, please do not tell them you are going to sit on the couch and do as little as humanly possible. This discourages the people attempting to save your life.

6) When someone tries to be nice and decides to drive you around to get some errands done, do not complain the entire time. Riding in a Subaru Outback is not "being crammed in like a sardine."

7) When you are eighty years old, you will not have the same strength as you do right now. Therefore, when you reach this age it is inappropriate for you to offer to build a ten foot stone monument for a golf course. If said golf course owners are idiotic enough to take you up on your offer, find some young men to help you. Do not attempt to lift stone blocks up over your head by yourself...especially if you have just had rotator cuff surgery.

8) If you end up waiting in a WAITING room for two minutes past your appointment time, be grateful it's not twenty, and don't give the person retrieving you a hard time. Furthermore, when that person goes out of her way to be five minutes early to retrieve you for your next visit, don't harass her and remark that her timeliness is a miracle.

9) If you're going to tell the same story to the same person every time you see them, try to spice it up a bit each time. Add in new characters, like a lemur named Ed, or a homeless guy who stole your dentures.

10) For the millionth time, no I will not race you around Walmart in the handicap scooters. And it's not because I don't care, it's because I care too much ;)

I Sure Would Like It

Oh my gosh! So I was cleaning up my blog and I came across a few drafts that I never finished. Most were just crap so I deleted them, but this one I had to finish and share. It is from August 2006 (almost two years ago!)...

Last week I went to a Cubs game with my friends Cheryl, Hoang, and Ryne. Much to my surprise Hoang and Cheryl showed up with a little gift for me, a Cubs hat made entirely out of balloons. You know, the kind of balloons clowns make puppies and giraffes out of. Well this was far and above any of that amateur crap. It must have taken twenty balloons to construct this masterpiece. Hanging off of the side of this already massive structure was a Cubby bear holding a little heart. It was sweet really...until you realized that its 3 foot reach actually posed a threat to others who were too close (read: in the same room). As you might imagine this is not appropriate downtown Chicago attire. I had to carry it around most of the time because I really believed I would harm someone if I left it unsupervised atop my head. I carried it from the train to the subway, where I had to try to contain it to just one seat with me (impossible), and then from the subway around the perimeter of Wrigley. I said from the beginning that they wouldn't let me in the park with it, but I couldn't bring myself to ditch it so I walked right up to the security guy checking bags outside the park. His eyebrow raised as he stared at the rubber monstrosity in my hand. "What's that?" he asked suspiciously. "A hat," I replied calmly. He tried to make a joke about it being a beer hat and I just smiled and nodded and walked past into the park. After my ticket was scanned I thought I was home free. Two steps later I was ambushed by a crazy mob of security guards insisting that I must check my "hazardous object" and come back and pick it up after the game. Embarrassed, I stepped off to the side and filled out a form to ensure my balloon hat access to a nice comfortable room until I was ready to reclaim it. The lady taking my information kept reassuring me over and over again, "Don't you worry honey, ain't nobody gonna pop this here hat. I'll make sure it's kept real safe." I looked at the hat wearily and secretly hoped it would pop. On my way out of the park I considered leaving it to fend for itself, but the thought of how proud Cheryl and Hoang were when they handed it to me, made me go back and reclaim it. I lugged it once again onto the subway. It was after five now and the red line was packed. I was forced to sit next to some poor stranger my balloon hat didn't like, as it continued to break free from my grasp and smack the stranger across the face with it's little white tentacles. I felt like one of those parents who can't control their children and so just shrugs when they started beating on some unfortunate person happening to be sitting in the vicinity. After the subway I marched back down the streets of Chicago to the train station getting strange looks from EVERY person we passed. We finally got on the train and I rested my nuisance balloon on my lap. I silently cursed it for all the embarrassment of the day and look around for a pin to destroy it. As we neared our stop on the train the man sitting in the front of our car got up and staggered in our direction. I say staggered because he was plastered and clutching a tall can of Bud Light. Ryne and I took one glance at his Cheers sweatshirt and thought, "How fitting." As he stumbled down I realized his eyes were fixed on my balloon hat. Suddenly I felt a bond between the balloon and I, and I pulled it closer to me. As he came up even with our seats his eyes grew wide with excitement.
"WHAT'S THAT?!" he said in a mystified manner.
STRANGER DANGER! STRANGER DANGER! "It's a hat made out of balloons," I replied trying to keep things simple for the guy.
Ryne and I looked forward hoping he would go way, but he remained and asked, "How much for it?"
All thoughts of disposing of the balloon vanished at that instance, and I suddenly couldn't part with it. "It's not for sale."
He stood there and stared as if I had said nothing. And stared. And stared. I grew more and more uncomfortable and began to wonder if I was going to die for this stupid balloon hat.
"I sure would like it," he finally said in a voice that suddenly had a Southern twang to it.
"It was a gift. It's not for sale," I said firmly without thinking. Ah! What am I doing?! Give him the freakin hat! After all the misery it caused! Just get rid of it. Now is your chance! You could even make some money! He's large and in charge and drunk! Don't make him angry!
Our new intoxicated friend just stood and stared for quite some time. I began to think that maybe he had spaced out, or passed out. Suddenly he just turned and walked away muttering to himself about balloons and disappeared into the bathroom.
The balloon hat made it home that night, and I displayed it proudly until the air had completely escaped many months later. It shall always be remembered as the most obnoxious gift I ever got that I would never part with.

Me No Likey the Volleyball

Cathy: You should come play beach volleyball with me on Wednesday nights. There's a whole group of us that get together and play down by the lake at 7pm.

Me: Uh. No. I don't play volleyball. Because I'm horrible. I don't do things I'm horrible at. It's a policy of mine.

Cathy: That's OK, nobody is very good. Playing in the sand equalizes every one's skills. You can't jump or move very well, it slows the game down.

Me: (Skeptical look) I don't know the rules. I've never actually played hardcore.

Cathy: You'll pick it up real fast, every one's laid back.

Me: Yeah, we'll see.

Later that day...
Hmm. It's probably a bunch of middle aged people. It won't be too bad. Maybe I'll completely dominate simply because I'm probably twenty years younger than most of them. I can do this. Besides, what else am I going to do?

After quite a bit of ego feeding and delusional thoughts...
I'm going to freakin' rock at this! I'm going to take this game to a whole new level. These people are going to be fighting over who gets me on their team. It will be a gift for them to be in my volleyball playing presence.

Me: OK Cathy, I'll go. Oh, and btw, you're welcome. Because I? am going to be amazing.

6:50pm
*Arrive at beach volleyball courts.
Me: What the heck? Where are all the old people? These people look young and athletic. Crap! Was that a bump, set, spike? I don't see Cathy, this must not be our group.
AHH! Is that the high school volleyball team? Where the heck is Cathy? I don't see any mediocre players anywhere! Maybe I should make a run for it. Yes, that's what I'll do. Right about...
Cathy: Bridget!
Me: Shoooooooooooooooooot. Hi! I'm glad you invited me. Now can I leave?
Cathy: Ready to play?
Me: Yep! No! You lied to me! You are a liar!
Cathy: Come on, we're over here on this court.
Me: Great! This court?! With 16 people already at it?! 16 people who completely rock at volleyball?!
Cathy: We'll have to wait to be rotated in.
Me: No problem. I can wait all night. Literally all night. Over there. By the swings.
Cathy (2 seconds later): OK there's an open spot. Get in there!
Me: Oh wow, that was fast. What?! Now?! Already?! You first?

*Ball in play. Ball headed toward me. Ball making contact with forearms. Ball flying (rather quickly) out of bounds.
Me: Sorry! I want to die. I am horrible at volleyball. I knew this. What was I thinking coming here?

*Other team serves. Right at me. Ball hits forearm (notice it is singular...apparently I can't keep my forearms level so only one comes in contact with the ball...out of bounds.
Me: Sorry! This is not good. What excuse can I give to leave after the first two minutes of them game? I left my oven on? My appendix just burst? I'm allergic to sand? My dinner wants another look at my tonsils?

*Other team serves. Right at me...again. I miss completely.
Me: Sorry! Maybe I could walk over and drown myself in Lake Michigan.

*Other team serves again. Right at me. Middle aged man teammate practically knocks me out of the way and hits the ball himself. It goes over the net.
Me: Thank you! Hurrah! He can cover my position and his, now can I go?

Sometime later...
I have begun to catch on, and can at least make a halfway decent showing (read: I can now hit the ball over the net 60% of the time).

*Middle aged man to the right of me is now only standing two feet away, as is the middle aged man to the left of me. They only trust me with a small square of sand to cover. I find myself annoyed and indignant.
Me: Why you all up in my space homes? I can cover the ball. I'm not that bad.

*Ball hit at me. The ball is in my sights, and I'm totally going to hit it. Coming down, closer and closer. WHAM! I am forced to hit the ground as the overzealous forty something psycho comes plowing over into my zone. He hits the ball, but it goes out of bounds.
Me: I could have done that jerkstore! Back up off!

*Ball hit at me.
Me: MINE! I GOT IT! (practically shrieking)
*Everyone moves out of the way against their better judgment. Wind picks up ball and brings it over my head at the last minute (I SWEAR IT WAS THE WIND! NO JOKE!).
Me: I don't got it!
*Collective groan from my team.

*Ball hit at teammate. Teammate has spaced out (probably wondering why she is so cursed to have me on her team). Teammate not moving for ball.
Me: Oh my gosh! Is she actually not going to hit it? Am I going to have to go into HER zone? *Last minute dive across the sand to cover teammate's rear end. Ball makes contact with my forearms and flies...over the net. Other team dumbfounded in shock and does not move for the ball. POINT!
*Loud cheers...in my head.
Teammate: Nice save! Thanks!
Me: Oh. No problem. I freakin' rock! Wooohooo! You're welcome slacker! I'm totally carrying you right now! Heck ya!

After the men leave and go home the hostility in the air decreases, and I am actually allowed to go for the ball. I begin to have a halfway decent time, which confirms a belief that I've carried since middle school gym class...playing sports with all girls is always a better time than playing with guys. Which leads to a side rant...

I've played a lot of coed intramural sports in my day, and I have found the same thing each time. The guys on the team take on this air of "I am a lot better than you so it's OK for me to hog the ball the entire time and then after I have gained an amazing lead I will let you hold it for .2 sec so you feel like you've been included." Guys, this is not hot. I am not impressed by your skills. I already know you're better than me, if for no other reason than the fact you're a foot taller than I am and you have twice the muscle mass. I actually wouldn't even care if we lost a game here and there as long as you let me play. Keep that in mind for next time. Thanks!

Back on track...
*Two hours, 456 apologies toward teammates throughout the course of the game, and 10 sand up my nose dives later...
Cathy: Great job!
Me: HA! I was horrid.
Cathy: You didn't make anymore mistakes than anyone else did.
Me: LIAR! The difference is the mistakes I made involved missing the ball when it came right at me. The mistakes other people made were caused by missing the ball while diving across the court to get a ball that was aimed at me that I couldn't hit.
Cathy: You should come back next week.
Me: Uh. Hmm. Well. Probably not.
Cathy: You really should!
Me: I feel like it's a poor reflection on you because you vouch for me.
Cathy: I do NOT vouch for you. I just bring you along.
Me: I rest my case.

Angry Inner Bridget

Today I decided to take active measures to counter the boredom/feeling sorry for myself that comes with living alone in a town where I have one friend (Brandie) who is not married and/or has given birth to twenty children. Unfortunately Brandie decided she was hanging out with "her friend Ron" tonight. Who the heck is this Ron joker? Oops, I'm off track.

Back on track. My first counter measure was to buy a pitch back. Except that the one in the link is probably high quality, whereas the $20 one that I purchased turned out to be a raging piece of crap. And yes, I do realize that I just turned 23 and should not be purchasing a pitch back that 9 year old boys use to practice for T-ball, but how else am I going to play catch by myself? So I was expecting it to be a little weak, considering it was only $20 and most others are at least $50. I was not, however, expecting it to cause me bodily harm and then self destruct before my eyes.

Dear Spalding,
I am less than pleased with your product, the "Deluxe 3-Way Return Throw." Deluxe? Are you kidding me with this? Those stupid "new bungee cords for easy net assembly" broke my finger! Are you insane? Why would you stick a ball of plastic destruction to the end of a bungee cord and then make me stretch it to its max, only to have it snap back viciously at my fingers when it inevitable cannot stretch far enough to hook together. My finger is now purple and deformed! Oh, and don't even get me started about the "55 inch X 35 inch enameled steel frame." Steel?! Since when does steel fold under the pressure of bungee cords? Never in my life have I seen metal bunch up like a stocking. I was especially impressed when the entire frame gave out and collapsed into itself like a crumpled piece of paper. It was at this point that I picked up the poorly manufactured aluminum foil framed joke and hurled it across the yard, so you'll have to excuse the grass stains. I would demand that you send me a better product, but I still have nine functional fingers (or seven fingers and two thumbs if you're picky) and I'd rather not risk whatever weapon disguised as a child's toy you want to throw my way next.
-Angry Inner Bridget

CC: T-Ball USA with additional note:
I find it appalling that your seal of approval is on this product. Do you also approve hand grenades for tots? Or missal launchers for pee wee football players? Why don't you just strap a fire cracker to little Timmy's fist and then have him go play in the street?

Too much?

*Here I must stop and note that when I told my friend Jess about this crappy product she told me I should write a letter. She paused and then added "like a real letter." It's like she thought I would just rant about it in a fake letter on my blog instead of actually accomplishing something by sending a real letter to the company. Why would she think that? Oh wait...

And now, for my second attempt to fend off boredom/self pity:
I decided to take myself to the movies. I went with a positive attitude (and a throbbing broken finger! shaky fist Spalding!), and tried hard not to focus on the fact I was a huge loser for going by myself. The theater was basically empty when I got there and I sat off to the side, away from the four other people already there. Why? Because I wanted to watch my movie in peace (Read: I wanted to put my feet up on the seat in front of me and talk to myself until the movie started). Right before the movie started a middle aged couple came in and out of the bazillion empty seats in the theater decided they had to sit right behind me. Right behind me. Who does that? Nobody ever intentionally sits right behind someone at a theater because of the risk of view blockage. But not these two winners. They sat right behind me. As soon as they took their seats, I began to take my feet off the back of the chair in front of me and reluctantly return them to the floor. Apparently I wasn't moving fast enough because the guy behind me shouts (get your feet down). Let's recap. I'm sitting directly in front of him. Why are we shouting? Also? I already had my feet down before you opened your large popcorn filled mouth. Why are you talking to me? Needless to say, I'm slight annoyed at this point (Read: so angry I can't even see straight). As I day dream about dumping my cherry coke all over him, I hear him start to tap his cup against his plastic arm rest. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. Then I hear him "whisper" to his date, "It's a social experiment, let's see how long it takes her to snap." Hey Asshat! I can hear you! Are you out of your gourd? Really? Do you want me to snap? Just say the word pal. You'll have popcorn shoved so far up your nose it will fill your currently empty cranial cavity. After Mr. Mature behind me gets tired of tapping and my lack of reaction, he begins to carry on a conversation with his date, which lasts the duration of the movie. At one point I get annoyed enough to turn around to give him my death glare (which is truly frightening), but as I turn to my left I am stopped by an infuriating site. A sasquatch sized foot is propped up on the chair sitting only inches from my face. YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME! I can't prop my feet up (which totally would not even be in your line of view) but you can stick your foot in my face?! How do these people find me? I spent the rest of the movie wishing I had a sharp object to drive into his smelly foot. And thus continues "Bridget's history of violence" as Kenric likes to call it.