"Or, We Can do the Chicken, which is not Chic, but Cheap"

While Dwayne Johnson (aka, THE ROCK, seen at left, in all of its pixellated glory) and I have been gallivanting around the wonders that are the preliminary stages of wedding planning, it occurs to me that my readership of the blog (oh, this old thing?) has grown. How did I come to this conclusion? Well.

The Boy had an appointment in a neighborhood in Columbia with which I am familiar from my high school days (chillin’ out max and relaxin’ all cool). I accompanied him, since his doubleheader softball game immediately followed. To maximize the effectiveness of my time spent waiting in the truck (don't be confused, as I’ve mentioned before, The Boy is the proud owner of that marvel of Swedish engineering, the Saab 9-3. We had to borrow an uncle’s truck to transport his unwanted dining room set to The Boy’s living room. You know, one man’s trash…) I called Tara. But I had terrible reception. So, braving the muggy air that harvested surprisingly hostile bugs (I’ve been employing the Benadryl Anti-Itch Stick all day, and I don‘t even care who’s looking), I walked around the neighborhood trying to hear my friend.

There is only one family on my radar screen of influence living in that neighborhood. Wouldn’t you know, on the phone, swatting at bugs that were invisible to anyone but me, in the middle of the street, I ran into the mom of that family (hi, Joyce). Naturally, she looked puzzled and asked about my presence in front of her home. Because she hasn’t seen me in years. I explained to her that my fiancé was running an appointment with one of her neighbors. She appeared unfazed. This unfazedness surprised me, because she has always been one for news. The surprise must have taken up residence on my face, because she fessed up, “Yeah, I’m one of the people stalking your blog.” Wow. Apparently, it’s not singing that is my fake claim to fame, as I had initially thought, it’s blogging.

So, this wedding planning thing, really. Martin Short with a fake accent, if you’re out there and you can hear me, please come over, stat. This is just ridiculous. So many variables. So much money. So much “planning ahead” and “thinking of all possible circumstances” and “avoiding conflicts.” I’m trying to have a small wedding, I am. But if all of Mom’s guest list “suggestions” are incorporated, that’s not going to be in the cards. This is what I’d like: Can’t I just nail down the location and the date and the food provider and let someone else do the rest, with periodic opinions and absolutely no payment from me? Please?

Frankly, I don’t even have time to handle all of this. The Boy is headed home for his all-important Fantasy Football Draft this weekend (no, not the one that is causing him to reschedule our anniversary; that one is tomorrow). I am heading in the absolute opposite direction and driving to Texas with my dad tomorrow. Yeah, that’s what I said, Tay-haas. In a Corolla and a day and a half. We are delivering little brother’s car. So I’m psyched to see him, and it will be nice to have some Father-Daughter time (now that the big, scary questions with ambiguous answers are out of the way—thanks to Dwayne Johnson). But maaaan, is that a long trip. So, I’ve got that.

Next week we have meetings with caterers and events coordinators and then, of course, my birthday, which, naturally, is trumped by my pre-marital status. Because, really, who expects The Boy to carry on about a year together and my birthday when he’s faced with a lifetime with me?

In unrelated relational news, Little Sister just called, dubbing herself "Consuelo" and telling me that some phrase I've never encountered means "see you tomorrow" in Spanish. I said, "Wouldn't that be 'hasta manana'?" She countered, "Really, C, don't you know there's more than one way to say good-bye?"

Detroit Rock City, Baby

Well, my dear crickets, it has come to my attention that some of you are not pleased with my posting schedule…or lack thereof. For that, I really have no apology. Take heart! Instead, I have an update.

Thursday night, best friend from college, Amber, arrived with her child. Now, I have mentioned before that I inhabit the tiniest apartment ever. So small that, when I saw the “All of This Fits in 520 Square Feet” display at Ikea, I marveled at that set-up’s relative spaciousness. I would like to make an amendment. I thought it was the tiniest apartment ever, but until I spent a day and a half there with a 16-month old and her mother, I did not appreciate the definition of tiny. Poor Amber and child. Bumping into walls and what not. Child had to play with plastic coasters on my coffee table for fun and sit in her little chair on the floor to eat. Amber and I sprung for the boxed set of Felicity: Senior Year (try asking for that at Wal-Mart in the ga-heht-to. No, really, just try it). That show is glorious. I feel like I grew up with Felicity. And I still really can’t pick between Ben and Noel. Why can’t I have a combination of BOTH?

So, quality time (if not luxury accommodations) was had had by all. Saturday we had lunch in the harbor with Amber, so that The Boy could try to redeem himself from the horrendous first impression he made at the child’s first birthday party. When we decide we’d like to have children, I think I’m going to start sending him to nursery school once a week, then perhaps more often. He needs to get acclimated slowly, methinks.

That night we did a dinner-and-Broken-Flowers double date that resulted in my acting like a typical woman about wanting to get married yesterday. Now, I realize I have been hesitant to write about this part of my crazy life in this publication, but it was out of respect to the prospective proposer.

Contrary to what public opinion would be if it were derived from my postings on this blog, we have actually been consumed in, “when we get married,” and, “are you sure you prefer that setting?” and “really, you don’t have ANY available Saturdays in April?” and, “BigJohn, I’d like to ask your blessing to ask Christina to marry me,” conversations for quite some time now. But I made a promise to myself not to discuss it much until it was “official,” so that a proposal and engagement would not become formalities, even though I’m aware that that’s exactly what they are. Now. Like a scud missile in 1991, I am engaged. And Lord willing, I’m not planning on ever … uhh … disengaging. So, hooray! I’ve been glassy-eyed all day, distracted by the brilliance of my left hand. My mom tells me she’s jealous of it. Which, really, I would be too. You know, if it weren’t mine. Yesterday, I kept commenting on the ring, then feeling guilty and saying, “But, you know, it’s you that I want and love and am excited about. I don’t need this. But, umm…oh my God.” It’s stunning. I am ecstatic. All day yesterday I announced “firsts,” par exemple:

“This is the first time I’ve walked into my apartment since I got engaged!”
“This is the first time I’ve had to run back into my apartment because I forgot something since I got engaged!”
“Sorry if I didn’t do a great job parking, but it’s the first time I’ve done it since I got engaged.”
And so on.

Now begins the planning. Fneh. I know you might not believe this, but I just don’t care. I mean, I want it to be a nice day, replete with mermaid dress and sunflowers and what have you, but I just don’t care about very many things. The biggie is trying to nail down a way to do it all where and when we want, but the venue formerly known as “our building” isn’t being very accommodating. And they sent us a contract with a price $900 higher than it was the last time. We are working on some alternative ideas and should have a date nailed down in the near future, and I am trying to remind myself that in the grand scheme of things, 7 months is not forever. And, if everything goes the way we’d like, that’s about how far away it will be. We need to get on it, though, because our Pastor is about to verry busy. If the busy-bodies who frequent this blog had blogs of their own, well … you’d know that apparently it’s the time to get married. Ordinarily, for me, this might be reason enough not to do it. But I can’t wait to be married to this boy. (I know, you can remind me I said that when I’m complaining about picking up his dirty socks for the 47th time.)

Pictures of Dwayne Johnson (aka, THE ROCK) will be forthcoming!

Moving on Up, but This Ain't No East Side

I'm such a cry baby. I didn't know what a good thing I had, down on the first floor, in the darkness and amidst the Hawaiian shirts, but only on Fridays. When I was there, I did not appreciate the khaki-olive-grey half-walls around me. I got irritated when tall people leered at me (or my screen) as they walked by. I didn't cherish the anonymity, even getting annoyed when another employee did not recognize me. And now. Well, the Hawaiian shirts are still around, and the pseudo-married-guy flirting continues. (And, a note on the benign flirters-- they're all growing goatees. At a loss for words, I called them the scruffy chin club and they laughed hysterically. Because everything I say is hilarious. Because I'm a girl.)

I have moved, against my will, to the fifth floor, in front of everyone. I sit at a counter, my back to the main door of a suite that houses 50+ people, my screen facing them. I know, this makes it sound like I want to surf for questionable materials while I'm at work, but it's not that. It's just that I don't stay busy enough there, despite my cries for attention and assignments. I fear it's causing me to go crazy and develop at least one facial tic. Every time the door opens, I jump, try as hard as I can not to look over my shoulder, then switch my screen to a spreadsheet. Much like in college when Parker called me out for selling myself out when I hadn't read the assignment (I would participate more on those days. I wasn't fooling anyone), I feel like I'm totally giving myself away by trying too hard to look busy. I don't mean to do it, but I find myself scrunching up my face in mock confusion and making deep sighing noises of frustration. It got so bad this afternoon that I was rubbing my eyes and a passerby suggested that if I had a headache, I should probably take a break. Evidently, I'm not winning any Emmys for daytime drama here.

Otherwise, big things, HUGE things in the works, but you know how I love the element of fake suspense. Best friend from college and her child are coming up on Thursday night, so I need to buy whole milk and the like. Otherwise, keep on anticipating, my crickets.

Speaking of crickets, it has come to my attention that you are multiplying! Modestly, I'm aware, but I have gained an elementary understanding of how to read my site stats. Unfortunately, none of us know each other so well as to know our corresponding IPs (except for a select couple of NASA and Hopkins employees--slackers, you know who you are). So, because I'm nosy (as, obviously, you all can relate to, or else why would you read my blog?) would you mind stopping by the address book (at the bottom of the page) or leaving a comment? It would be much obliged.

Okay, time to hit the sack. The Boy and I are supposed to check out this new thing called jogging tomorrow...or maybe it's "yogging." Might be a soft 'j'.

Non-Committal Update

Had to wait a few days to let the novelty of my fame wear off. No, but really, the concert went very well and, as far as I could see, there was a good turn out. Because it was dark and we had bright lights in our eyes, all I could see were t-shirts in the front row. With no heads on them. But the cheering was loud enough that it couldn't possibly have come just from those shirts or, rather, the hands that belonged to them, so I think we did all right. And it was fun. But, alas, I am not a star. I just wear these oversized sunglasses (that the boy isn't afraid to tell me he loathes) to increase the mystique.

Everything and nothing doing here. Brother successfully made the move to Texas (pronounced Tay-haass, if you've been watching Into the West. The Boy and I TiVo'd it for a while and watched the first two episodes, but we just can't make that kind of a commitment to a TV show, especially when Felicity is only in snippets.). Anyway, Brother is doing pretty well. I hugged him good-bye and he picked me up and spun me around ten times, so I think that sufficiently scattered the tears so that he didn't see them. I already miss that kid.

The bigger of the two younger brothers moved into his first apartment in North Carolina this weekend, leaving only Little Sister and I in the state, and leaving only Little Sister at home. She is nervous about that, and I'm sad for her. As the "Trailblazer," as my dad would sometimes call it, I never had that loneliness and everyone was always excited to see me. I have to be more deliberate about my relationship with her from here on out.

Went to the Ravens pre-season game last night. They wouldn't let me bring my purse in. The Boy tried not to laugh as I raged to anyone who would look at me about how ridiculous their "policy" was. We sat on the 50-yard line...three rows from the top of the stadium. A really good view, but I had no idea you could sell those for $75-- face value. Another potential reason I've never been as big of a football fan as I am of other things?

S'all for today, it's crazy muggy and hot and I'm tired and bleh. And who wants to hear about that? Big things going on otherwise, but those are for another day...

Summer Beverages with JC

If you are not already in possession of a copy of my autograph, so sorry. Tonight is my big shot at stardom: That's right, the concert on the lake. Okay, so honestly, there is no chance at even a hint of stardom. Not even a little bit. What there will be: Me in a peasant skirt trying to de-emphasize the flotation devices because I'll be singing about/to God. And you know how people are apt to forget that God made boobs. Gahh, I can totally empathize with Jessica Simpson. But, you know, old-school JS. Before the "Oh I forgot I'm not wearing any clothes, and here I am washing my car in a music video" JS. So yeah, there will be that. Also, a synthesizer. Be honest, just reading that word makes you yearn for Herbie Hancock. A little bit, right? What else? Our drummer has a mullet. Yes, the haircut, not the fish. And, I'm not making any promises, but there may be a bolo tie cameo. That greatness is usually reserved for Sundays, so I'm not sure.

In all truth, I'm hoping it will be a nice time, and that we might get the chance to play for people who don't hear us every week. We're playing 8-10, and on a Wednesday, that can be a little late for that crowd anyway. Apparently not for my pastor, though. On Sunday when he gave the announcement about the concert, he invited the congregation to come out and enjoy some "summer beverages" while listening to the music. "We can make it a really happy hour!" He exclaimed, while I tried my darndest to control my facial expressions on stage. Because these people are baptists. And that's only part of the reason I think he's so fabulous.

Anyway, if, after tonight I am suddenly a star, don't say I didn't warn you.

Assessment of Goals

How could I have forgotten to revisit the goals for the trip...

1. Thanks to Little Sister's spray-on sunscreen (which does NOT spray evenly, as its package suggests), I got more pink than bronze, but it is working its way to tan. Except for my nose, which threatens to peel.
2. Really, any walk I take on the beach, especially one as crowded as this one, is long enough that I can't find my stuff upon my return.
3. The waves were fantastic for boogie boarding, leading to many more than one that took me all the way onto the sand.
4. The intra-bikini sand thing wasn't too bad, but I've got ugly strawberries on my thighs and torso. Sigh. I guess that's the price I pay for being such an amazing pseudo-surfer.
5. Thankfully, Little Sister is, so far, most attractive to poorly groomed boys with skateboards who wear shoes that look like they are inflated. Also, the brother didn't let anyone get NEAR her anyway.
6. Unfortunately, I am no longer 12, so this one couldn't be avoided. It was a bit of a consolation to walk around with Brother and make them wonder what I was doing with such a young kid. But also sad because, apparently, I cannot be mistaken for 17 anymore. The jig is up.
7. I didn't bash any skulls. I did tell a skater boy he needed a haircut, though.
8. It's hard to read anything when you've got a 12-year-old standing above you, dripping on you, telling you she wants to go back in the ocean.
9. I laughed my head off.
10. The gig was a success and resulted in some local guy offering to record Brother's music when he's back home at Christmas.
11. Teenager voice was, thankfully, kept to a minimum, but the emo-rock couldn't be avoided. Thank God for earbuds.

Catching up with the Past while the Future Calls

Hmm, as it turns out, I'm a big, fat exaggerating exaggerator. (Also, it would seem, I'm not so hot at formatting blog posts. Sorry for the disorganized pictures.) I am not currently in posession of as much proof from The Wilderness Adventure as I had originally thought. Like, for example, of me shooting guns for the first time (inadvertently when I shot the 12-gauge, I yelled "Woo-hoo!"). Alas, here is a sampling...

The top left is self explanatory, je pense. This is the "backyard," as it were. The one on the left is the lake around dinner time. It really was beautiful. And, it goes without saying that the whole thing got increasingly beautiful the farther I stood from the outhouse.

Last but certainly not least, the one above on the right is our "lovely" and "spacious" cabin. There I slept in a twin bunk with The Boy's head at my head and The Brother's feet at my feet. And, I'm not trying to hurt anyone's feeling here, but I have never been in the company of snorers of such a high...caliber. Fortunately, The Boy was one of the least offensive of the bunch, or I'd be thinking of a separately-roomed Ever After, which, let's be honest, isn't really as happy as what I had previously imagined for us.

Yeah. So, this isn't exactly the excitement I had planned for you either. And now it's been so long since then that I've lost the drama that had previously been inherent in my storytelling. I would be remiss if I didn't fully disclose that I did not part entirely with my prissiness on this trip. I shaved my legs in the lake. Twice. The Boy came upstairs to retrieve something and caught me looking into my compact. "I know you're not putting makeup on." I didn't respond. "Because there is no makeup in Maine." I acted like I was merely getting something out of my eye. And muttered under my breath, "Maybe there's a little makeup in Maine." Because, honestly, the transformation from my natural self to the one often seen parading around the Mid-Atlantic is just that-- a transformation. Let's put it this way: To my knowldege, no one has ever passed me on the street and marveled, "Maybe she really is born with it..."

But in addition to the unprissy new experience of shooting guns, I drove a waverunner for the first time (like a pro, I might add). The Boy was not nearly as lucky, as he fractured two ribs falling off of the aforementioned waverunner (someone else was driving). Talk about an inconvenient injury. He can't do anything without being in pain. Probably it doesn't help that we went to the grocery store to "pick up a few things" yesterday and came back with a cart-full of very heavy items that had to make the journey up the 76 stairs in the 103-degree heat. (No, he's not stereotypical when it comes to injuries. Not at all.)

When we got home from Maine I went to the wedding of my oldest friend (that is, the one I've had the longest. Not the one who is chronologically the oldest. She's only 24, actually). She cried her eyes out when she saw me, but The Boy maintains that I cried more than anyone else there. Which, he tells me, makes him fear for the future. I'll have to reassure him I'll manage to keep my composure, lest I hear, "What are you doing? Are you putting on MAKEUP? Beacause there is no makeup in weddings." The beauty of this wedding is that what had initially felt like an obligation ended up feeling like an honor. It was so wonderful to realize that not everything good goes away.

Also in the "Not Everything Good Goes Away" category, Tara, my first college friend spent a fabulous weekend here. Well, to me it was fabulous. To her, it may have seemed like a travel brochure with a subliminal track in the background screaming, not so subtly, "PLEASE MOVE TO BALTIMORE, YOU JUST HAVE TO." Hopefully we'll be able to schedule some additional time to further persuade--visit with Tara in the coming year.

The trip with the kiddos this weekend was also a blast, but don't think that means it wasn't educational. It could have been a field trip in parental preparation. Keep in mind, Brother is 17, Little Sister is 12 1/2 but looks much older. We got out of work as early as we could, already exhausted at 1:00, but Brother had on his Panama Jack hat and aviator shades and Little Sister couldn't stop giggling for no reason. We got to the beach around 4:30 and spent some daylight teaching them to bodysurf (yes, broken ribs and all). We then walked from our 21st St. hotel to the very end of the boardwalk and back up again. Little Sister got the attention of not a few "skater boys" as we walked by and she informed me, "If I see a hot guy tomorrow, I'll probably talk to him, but don't worry, I'll be good." Wow. When we got back and sat down to our pizza a little before midnight, Little Sister said, "What are we going to do NOW?" The Boy just looked weary. "You see," he whispered to me, "this is why God gives you children as BABIES. Because then you have YEARS to prepare to be the parents of teenagers. Like, if we had little kids, we could just call it a night at 9:00 and blame it on them that we want to go to bed t hen too. But this is just making me feel so old. Really. I don't know if we'll ever be ready."

The next day on the beach (after I broke up a pillow fight in our hotel room screaming the words, "BOYS, if you don't cut this out, someone is going to get hurt!") The Boy witnessed a toddler dance his way into a faceplant in the sand. Concerned, The Boy consulted the child's mother. "He's durable," she laughed.

"But I don't think you understand," The Boy ventured, "I think he has sand in his eyeballs."
"Just wait until you're a father and you have to take little kids to the beach," the mother smiled.
"What?" The Boy responded, "They'll have to be 25 before they can go to the beach. 35 if they're girls."

Do you hear that? Yeah, it's my future calling. At least it's not snoring, right?

Big News and a Little Trip

Quel surprise, I am unable to post pictures at this time. S'ok, right? Keep on keeping on with the anticipation.

Somehow, in all this not posting, I have neglected to share BIG news! I am finally funded and enrolled in grad school!! I'll be taking two classes (the content of which would reduce the vast majority of the population, myself potentially included, to rivers of tears) starting September 12th. Woohoo! I am trying not to focus on the fact that I could already have obtained an advanced degree by this time, what with the now officially three-year separation from the ol' B.A. Because it's not a race. And really, in the words of BNL, "If I pass, if I fail if I drop out, does anyone give a damn? And if they do, they'll soon forget, cause it won't take much for me to show them my life ain't over yet." (DISCLAIMER: When I begin to do what everyone thinks I'm gonna do, which is just flip out after this undertaking commences, someone please hit me on the head and send me the link to this post.)

Getting ready to head to the beach with the kiddies and The Boy. We will not, as Little Sister for some reason assumed, be attaching the old school car-top carrier to The Boy's Saab. We will be getting out of here as soon as possible to beat all the other clowns who think it's a good idea to go to the beach on Friday afternoon. We will then ridicule these others for having the exact same idea as we do, and then express mock outrage that we are "the only people who know how to drive anymore." Oh, I'm sorry. It seems I've confused The Boy's DayTimer with mine. I'll just be sighing and rolling my eyes while the above ensues. I apologize for the inadvertent royal "we."

Goals for the trip:
1. To acquire lovely and naturally bronzed skin
2. To take a walk on the beach that is so long I almost forget where my stuff is
3. To ride at least one wave all the way onto the sand
4. To keep the intra-bikini sand and torso-cuts to a minimum
5. To avoid watching disgusting men ogle my 12-year-old sister
6. To avoid watching said men ogle me
7. To avoid bashing the skulls of said men
8. To (finally) read some of Anne Lamott's, Blue Shoe
9. To laugh with my sister and brother
10. To get Brother home in time to shower, set up and play without vomiting on his sweater (already)
11. To survive, at minimum, 6 hours in a car listening to Little Sister's newly acquired "teenager voice" set to the background of adolescent emo-rock

Wish me luck and Happy Friday!

[PS-- I'm still tweaking it a bit, but check out my new links section in the sidebar.]

Wait for it...

Please hold, your call is very important to us. And while you wait, a little Blue Steel... Please know that you don't have to inform me; The Boy reminds me every day that I am, in fact, a tool. The key, I find, is in embracing it. As you can see, I'm really quite fine with it.

Yeah, I know, I'm such a tease. I fear it will all backfire, this fake suspense, and make you all say, "FINE, I didn't care about your stupid Wilderness Adventure ANYWAY!" And yes, I'm aware the assumption that there is ANYONE out there who is waiting in breathless anticipation is impossibly narcissistic. For that, I halfheartedly apologize, because I only halfheartedly assumed in the first place.

While you wait (or curse me for causing you to think of another way to waste your time, since this was, quite possibly, your last resort) check out my new favorite blog (which trumps Paul Shirley's, but only partially because his no longer exists). This, for me, would be like introducing The Boy to a stunning and brilliant friend. It is with trepidation that I link to her, because she is far wittier than I, and I fear you might leave me for her. But this was always and mostly continues to be for my own amusement anyway, and so it will go. She raises many questions I have stumbled into myself, as a twenty-something single Christian woman, sometimes without a paddle. She has fallen in areas I managed to avoid and stood her ground in places I couldn't always, and I appreciate her perspective. Her conclusions are often sage, even if her means of finding them doesn't always appear that way. And she's hysterically funny. So anyway, you should check her out.

And I promise to return with some good stuff soon. Hopefully tomorrow, but tomorrow afternoon we are venturing to the beach with the younger siblings, as a belated present to my brother, who will have his second official gig on Saturday night before he heads off to the heart of Texas (the stars at night are big and bright there, I hear). Re: the gig, comment or e-mail me if you'd like les détails...

A Rant and Recollections

I sincerely hope none of you were contacting the local authorities. I have returned. And, let me just say, I could really use a vacation. Since last we talked I entertained The Boy's parents, spent the better part of last week in Maine and entertained The Fan (Tara!). So much love, yet also so much...information. I will hold off on Maine, as I have some gorgeous pictures on my home PC and, since I haven't yet splurged on any form of internet there, I can't figure out how to get that goodness in here. But, don't despair! I still have plenty of gems for your enjoyment. Or distraction. Or for whatever it is that possesses you to come here.

Let's start at the very beginning (it's a very good place to start, n'est-ce pas?). Somehow, The Boy and I (with the help of Ryan, barbecue chef extraordinaire) pulled off a nice little cookout for The Parents and their friends before the game last last Friday. I walked to the stadium with The Stepmother, who is neither ugly nor mean, and lamented being left by our respective others to catch up. My parents beat us there, and we all had a good time. Except when some jerks followed me up the stairs (where I was meeting my mom) waving money at me and applauding. Men: Please tell those in your gender to stop this. Or buy them some sunglasses or something. Leering is not okay. And yes, that's what they are doing, and yes, even with said sunglasses we can tell, and no, you are not discreet. It is not flattering. It is not funny; it is not acceptable. And these opinions do not make me a bitch. Having to voice them as often as I do makes it apparent that there is a problem, and it isn't with my perception.

Saturday morning I picked my little sister up and we spent the day with The Boy's fam. At the aquarium I saw possibly the coolest thing I've ever seen. (Also, how cool are turtles?) The male seahorse in one of the tanks had just given birth (minutes ago), but I couldn't spot the babies (seacolts?) until another bystander pointed them out. Nearly transparent, they were maybe a centimeter long. I expected them to look something like tadpoles, but even at that size, they were completely formed. I have never seen anything so small, yet so intricately designed. Sometimes it's not the sunset or the stars that remind me of God's greatness; sometimes it's the details. I can't help but think, if He cares enough to form seahorses that completely, from the beginning (if someone knows of the importance of seahorses, shoot me a line), doesn't He care about everything I've got going on, no matter how trivial it seems? I tried to take pictures, but they were so small they wouldn't show up. The Stepmother came back to get me because I was holding everyone up.

That night, my youngest brother joined us for dinner, and we had a blast. We walked everyone through Fells Point (in my poorly chosen heels). Here, we revisited the leering thing, but in a much more offensive manner. Little Sister and I walked together. Little Sister is 12 1/2. Little Sister looks much older than she is. So, as she and I walked, I noticed that much older men were giving her attention. The most grievous offenseoccurredd when a man walked by and jokingly included her in his conversation, touching her arm while he did so. "Why does he think he can just touch me?" She asked, outraged. And to that, all I could say was, exactly. Men: If she looks young, assume that she is. But more than that, leave girls alone. You'll know if they want to be bothered, and if you're that guy, chances are pretty good that they don't.

Anyone want to give me a hand as I step off this soapbox? It's hard to balance in these heels.

So, keep on anticipating stories from Maine, which will be accompanied by lovely pictures. I know you're probably disappointed that it doesn't sound like I hated it, but be encouraged, I'm pretty sure you'll laugh anyway.

Simultaneous Recovery and Preparation

Alors, the week, it got away from me. I have been attempting to do laundry for days. Last night I got the last of my stuff out of the old place, and as I drove there, I realized that it was a good two years. A big two years. I made friends and mistakes in that house, acclimated myself to adulthood and learned volumes. Particularly, about me. I survived the dating jungle while living in that house and emerged from it. So, here's to 700 days in Columbia. It wasn't nearly as bad as I made it out to be. And I'll be back. My rented copy of Coach Carter is three weeks overdue.

This morning, I'm told, The Boy's dad and stepmom arrived with their friends. They will stay for the weekend that has been planned since the blizzard in January. We have had tickets to tonight's Orioles game since they went on sale in February. What we have not had planned that long is the Shrek and Donkey Wilderness Adventure to commence Sunday afternoon after my walk through. Thus, the problem is this: We must devise a way to spend our weekend with The Parents and get our laundry done and everything packed to catch a flight from Dulles on Sunday afternoon, even though I have to be in Columbia starting at 8am that day. Bah.

Tonight we will host The Parents for a cookout, for which I must leave work early to prepare. I feel like I don't even have TIME to be at work, GOSH.

Most likely, this will be my last post until after the Shrek and Donkey Wilderness Adventure (i.e., we get back from Maine), so think of me, think of me fondly. My commitment to you is to take copious notes on the happenings up there so that I may parlay said notes into a worthwhile reading experience for the crickets. My commitment to myself is the economy-sized bottle of anti-bacterial gel I bought yesterday, but I digress.

Finally, your moment of Zen. Yesterday on MSN, two headlines that seemed a bit off:

"Shark bites girl off Fla." and
"Single women turn to sperm."

I am not making this up. Don't forget to tip.

Popped Collars and Profit Margins, Cabbages and Kings

In my (admittedly, extremely limited) experience, attending a Nats game is like watching fake baseball. It's like actors pretending to be baseball players. Fake, fake, fake. So, as an homage (i.e., a French nod) to the theme of the evening, I took this picture as a fake representation of our good seats. To the most untrained eyes, it's pretty clear these guys are not baseball players. They were actually obnoxious twin brothers from "Chi-Towwwwwwn, Baby!" who, despite their attire, seemed to think they were at home and spent the entire night cheering on the Cubs. And asking the players ON THE FIELD for autographs. I'm pretty sure that has never succeeded in the history of baseball. Let me think back to Doubleday....yeah, it's never happened. We did have great seats, but aside from the fact that we were able to walk to the stadium from my friend's house in Lincoln Park, I hated it as a baseball stadium. The seats do not extend very far past the bases on either of the baselines and there is no lower deck in the outfield. Also, it appears that those who built the stadium didn't think it would ever be prudent to sell refreshments. That's all I can come up with, because all of the vendors sold from kiosks that clogged up the concourse. Granted, I'm used to Camden Yards. And I probably don't have much room to talk right now, what with my team currently blowing the only shot they've had at contention in years. But, really, at least our house is nicer.

After the game, I spent Friday night on Capitol Hill and concluded that it is an alternate universe. Take, for example, the Friday night attire. I've never seen so many guys in pressed khakis and pastel polos. They were all speaking political code. But Andy's roommate tells me he and Ted Kennedy are working on a bill that would make it a whole lot easier for me to make it through Grad school, and if that's true, I can put up with the polos. At least the collars were not popped. (A survey: Is that trend ever going to die? You should have seen the way the cashier at American Eagle looked at me when I complained about it. "Maybe I'm just old," I trailed off. "Yeah," she fake-smiled at me, "maybe." And a little part of me died.)

Saturday I navigated my way home from Union Station beautifully. I guess that isn't that much of an accomplishment, but I was beaming. I also managed to go through boxes in the basement of the old house and actually got rid of a good amount of stuff, including pictures and letters that were terribly important to me at one time. Their unceremonious disposal felt laden with power, until I realized that dumpster divers would be able to recreate a good portion of my life from the contents of those trash bags. So, if you ever see my story on a Lifetime movie, please know that it was in no way authorized. Also, let me know, because I'm not a frequent viewer. What, surprised?

Yesterday was my little brother's first real gig (besides his high school talent show), and he did great! He wore a shirt that said, "I'm a Keeper." Like he really needed another way to get teenage female attention. One of his songs refers to getting tired of waiting for the girl who "walks through [his] dreams," and a couple of voices behind me said, "You don't have to wait! I'm right here!" After he played his set, a guy named Emmanuel who wore a do-rag and an enormous black t-shirt that said, "I GOT IT 4 CHEAP" asked Danny to play guitar while he rapped. Danny knows like 3 chords. I was so proud of him for being open to it, though. He sold 14 cds, including a couple to those NOT of the female persuasion, prompting me to suggest that he up his profit margin. My dad, as if I were crazy, replied, "He's not doing it for profit. He's just getting his music out there." Oh. Right. Getting the music out there/For the love of the game. But, here's a wacky idea: Wouldn't it be nice to fuse those goals together? No? Am I wrong?

Look What I Can Do!

$100 and 45 minutes later and I'm Salvador Dali. Who would have ever thought it might be necessary to take self portraits with one's phone, but voila. My first picture phone picture ever. (Don't be misled-- I did not achieve this...piece...on my first try. More like the eleventh. And really, it's not even very good. I'm trying to convince myself that it's also not very accurate, and that the schnozz does not look like that in person, but I'm not sure.)

Tonight I will be attending my first Washington Nationals baseball game, and perhaps that would have seemed more alluring if they were not doing better in their division than the O's are. I am thrilled for them that they've found a fan base and a winning record here in D.C. I really am. But, unfortunately, said fan base contains not a few pretentious Washingtonians and wealthy suburbanites who feel the need to mention how they never actually wanted to go to Orioles games or cheer for them, etc. I wish they would take a lesson from me: I am able to loyally stand by my team, in victory and defeat, without raining on their parade. I just wish they could find a way to do the same. And if they can't... honestly, we never wanted them in Baltimore anyway.

Like I said, hopefully it will be enjoyable. But just in case, I will not be rocking the orange and black. Well, not on the outside, anyway. I'll be braving the D.C. Metro system to get there, so if no one hears from me for a few days, come looking for me. Or just wait longer.

May 2003 - July 2005. Jaded in Life, Busted in Death.

It would seem that my always temperamental and often battered and despised cell phone fell to its death today. All the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't do much about it. Upon learning that there was no hope for recovery, a single, deeply profound thought came into my head: "Who's to say any one of us can't not die in a freak gasoline fight incident? I'm pretty sure there's more to life than being really, really, ridiculously good looking. And I plan on finding out what that is."

As a result of this sad occasion, I am finally forced to visit Verizon and explain to an overzealous sales associate, repeatedly, why I do not need children's programming or interactive party games or sports highlights on my phone. To me, this doesn't seem minimalist or difficult to understand. I fear the sales associate and I will not be in agreement on that one.

So, as most of the crickets may know, I will soon embark upon a wilderness adventure. Long ago, upon hearing The Boy name it his favorite place in the world, without a second of hesitation, I agreed to accompany him to his family's cabin in Maine. Due to circumstances outside my control, it appeared that trip would not take place this year. Until last weekend, when the brothers concocted a plan to get us all there the first week of August. I knew the accommodations would be...rustic, but I had seen pictures and didn't think it anything I wasn't capable of handling. Until The Boy casually referred to our destination as "the campsite." I quickly corrected him. Wrong "c" word-- I believe the word you're searching for is "cabin." He assured me that was the case, but that it also is considered camping. Thus, a couple of facts I was previously oblivious to: There is no electricity, and there is no running water. Oh, and interior walls? Not so much. It's one big happy bunked family at bed time. Yessss. And I am the only girl. Except for what may be the tougher half of the G-Unit. Thanks a lot, Master of Omission.

Now, some of you might scoff that this poses an insurmountable challenge for me, à la Jessica Simpson on her Newlyweds camping trip. But you'd be wrong. I am not content to survive it; I intend to flourish. (Maybe we'll see...sailfish-- Tara, and maybe DP, that's all you.) Really, though. With all of this time to mentally prepare, I know I can do it. And, also, that it's not out of the realm of possibility for this to be a boys' trip from here on out. I know you all wish I could keep a running blog throughout my trip, but I think it's probably best for my relationship and my dignity that I don't have a laptop anymore.

The Miami Sound Machine, Revisited

I came across this at PostSecret.blogspot.com (really a riveting project, check it out). My brother used to swear that the song was called "Christmas is Gonna Getcha." I think this picture finally confirms that it is not.

In New England they Pass the Duchy, not the Basket

We weathered the figurative and literal New England storms quite nicely this weekend. Thanks to the appearance of impending thunderstorms, I never had to don my new green-and-brown faux snake skin "bathing suit" in front of the G-Unit. They appeared unfazed at meeting me. I was left to fend for myself for most of the day, because evidently I give the impression that I'm good at that. I might have to work on that whole determined self-reliance bit. So, I met Gladys, someone's grandmother, who will never dye her hair and was excited to return to the 12-pound ball yesterday at bowling practice, now that she has altered her delivery. She hopes to avoid bowler's elbow. Not sure how that worked out for her.

We didn't mind paying $20 a head to see The Rock Star Brother play for 45 minutes to benefit a 5-year-old girl with a beautiful smile and cancer. I decided I'll have to troll H&M for him for some more "vintage" shirts, because the one we gave him for Christmas is getting a little too much play (very unlike Velma, from Scooby Doo). The Other Brother keeps insisting that he should just buy regular t-shirts with words on them, then wash them hundreds of times to get the vintage effect. He feels passionately about it.

Returning to what I guess was the after party, we ate the barbecue chicken I waited all day for and I was astonished to have to teach the kids the game of Bullshit. I did not win. Adding to my astonishment, I witnessed some relaxation techniques that I'm unaccustomed to seeing. Especially from parents. And it smelled like burnt.

In the morning I picked up The Mother and her Husband in the rain to go to First Baptist Church. I tried to explain that I have never had a good experience with a church of that name (don't even get me started on Second Baptist Church of Shelby-- they do not make foam fingers that resemble peace signs, that's all I'm trying to say). I suggested that it might be better to try Grace, as just the name was more appealing to me.

We arrived at First Baptist. Now, I realize that my experience in New England is limited to several states in the last year. But in my travels within that time, I have not witnessed a lot of racial diversity. As we walked into the building I recognized the floor shaking and organ embellishments I had only heard at one church before. Faith Harvest Church in North Carolina. We were at a black church. Please don't misunderstand me: I have no problem with this, and have had some of the most meaningful experiences of my life at a black church-- a Pentecostal one at that. But The Mother has only ever been to Catholic church, has bad memories, and hasn't set foot in a church for years. Knowing all of this, all I could do was look up and laugh. Really? So this is how it's going to happen?

We sat down, through a long and formally organized service. The Mother asked if this was like my church. Not at all, I assured her. I explained the fundamental difference in belief between christening and baptism by immersion as 7-year-old Shayla went under. I told her she had to walk by the offering basket, but it was okay if she didn't put anything in. I listened while the Reverend Carleton Giles, II spoke about grace. And as I pondered why on earth this was the church the Lord chose for this occasion, I realized that this could very well be the first time The Mother had ever heard of this outrageous concept called grace. I remembered, a little embarrassed, that it wasn't any less outrageous or relevant to me just because I have known it for years.

We had to stand to introduce ourselves to the congregation. She felt uncomfortable and almost said the wrong last name. But when we left, Rev. Giles shook her hand and looked into her eyes and did not say the wrong last name. And I think, more than anything else, that's what she will remember.

Memory is 83% Full

Think I could get that emblazoned on a t-shirt? My cell phone announced this to me today, and I really wish I could act like my cell phone. Just quit with no apology when I'm tuckered out, especially if I've been caught in the rain. Free of guilt, hang up on a person I'm tired of listening to. Without explanation, end a call when I'm in the middle of Wal-Mart with my arms full of Excedrin and Skintimate and Balance bars. If you asked me what animal I'd want to be the question would go unanswered, because really, who in their right mind would ever want to be an animal? But if you asked me what electronic device I'd want to be, it would be a cell phone. In reality, I'm probably more of an iPod, but whatever (but not one like mine which apparently has laryngitis and suddenly refuses to scroll. Blast the entire concept of the circular scroll. I never bought into that--always longed for arrows. Way to go, Apple.)

Yesterday I had my first contact-by-Googling experience. See? I knew there were people out there looking for me! This is why I hesitate to change my name when I get married. Because what if someone needs to find me? The Boy is incapable of understanding this concept, arguing that if a person doesn't know I got married then they aren't close enough to me to be looking for me anyway. But I can think of a bunch of girls from high school or college I wouldn't mind talking to again, whom I'd probably never be able to find because they are now hyphenated. On a related note, these childhood and high school friends are coming out of the woodwork. After my CBG experience yesterday, I ran into one of my high school teachers. That's the second time in as many weeks. I've been back from college for three years, so why is all of this happening now?

This weekend we will take New England by storm/on bald tires. I guess, then, that it is we who might be taken by storm. (Honestly, how John Kerry does that sentence sound? "Who among us does not foster an appreciation for NASCAR?" Sincerest apologies all around. Apologies for everyone.) Tomorrow we have a one-year-old's birthday party to attend, and I think we are on track to set the world record for one-year-old's soirees this year. Certainly we'll set the record for miles logged in order to attend said blessed events. It's a pool party. Thus, I will be meeting The Boy's grandparents for the first time wearing a bathing suit. Because God was experimenting when He stitched me together, the purchasing and subsequent wearing of bathing suits has never been pleasant. Neither are the looks and snide remarks shot my way when I'm engaged in these acts. There just is no way I've discovered yet to avoid looking a) pregnant, or b) distractingly buoyant. I think that, given the circumstances, appearing pregnant would be far worse, so I have resigned myself to meeting the G-Unit for the first time looking like a flotation device. Yesssssss. Because nothing says, "I love your grandson" quite like cleavage and low-rise boy shorts. Adding to my weekend glee and anticipation, I will be accompanying The Boy's mother to church on Sunday, marking her first trip in many years and quite certainly her first experience with all things Protestant. He will be golfing. (Makes him sound gross, but it was just a prior commitment.) I already feel like an ambassador. If I make it through the experience successfully, I think I'll apply to the State department. Kids, I'll move mountains. (Please just forward your request via comment or e-mail re: specific mountains you'd like moved. I'm thinking of starting in the Appalachians. But don't tell Joyce Brown or App State-- I'd rather it be a surprise.)

And now, your moment of Zen: "Paris [Hilton] tried unsuccessfully to position new BFF Kimberly Stewart as Nicole's replacement by posing with her at numerous red carpet events and dropping less-than-subtle hints about their planned partnership. Kim, she of the not-found-in-nature blond locks and rich Corinthian leather-hued skin, would have had to carve out time from her busy schedule of being Rod Stewart's daughter in order to participate." --Kat Giantis

Passive Aggressive Post-Its and the Impossible, Inanimate Good-Bye

I had a grilled chicken salad from Panera for lunch today. Stick with me on this, and I'll tell you why this is such an outrage. I intended to have three cheese chicken and broccoli, courtesy of Lean Cuisine. I smelled something good around 1:00 and realized I was hungry. Upon opening the (community) fridge to retrieve my frozen low-cal, low-fat, low-taste mediocrity, I gasped. Someone stole my lunch. I really am trying to give the thief the benefit of the doubt. I know it can be confusing when you have to share space with others. But is it really possible to forget, in the course of a couple of hours, that you did not, in fact, remove a frozen item from your freezer at home, commute with it to work and place it in the fridge? How can one make that mistake? Baffled, I retreated to Panera, but not without much gnashing of teeth. This is even worse than when the cleaning crew emptied the fridge of all contents, including my icy and much anticipated Diet Cokes. You can be sure, my refrigerated items will heretofore be adorned with passive aggressive messages on post-its to ensure that this never happens again.

This absurdity is what keeps me from focusing on the real issues in my life. I feel like Samuel Beckett. But I've never contemplated hanging myself for the physical thrill, so perhaps no.

This weekend I reunited with two old friends-- one from high school and one from earlier than that, and it was such a nice surprise to see that sometimes it's possible to rejuvenate old friendships. I graduated from high school and moved away with no intent of maintaining the majority of my friendships, and no apologies or attempts at contact to prove otherwise. Especially given the way I thought it would all go, this is serendipitous and wonderful.

Yesterday I visited my grandmother's house, and really went through it for the first time since my grandfather died. Since then, my visits had consisted of picking my grandmother up or dropping her off, and once alone in the car, I cried every time. It is unbearable to watch her retreat into the big dark house-- alone. Before March, I can't remember a time when I left their house and my grandfather did not walk me to my car and wave from the driveway until I couldn't see him anymore. So, I completely understand the need for her to get out of there. But as I went through and saw the changes that are being made to get it ready to sell, I couldn't help but think that's where I grew up.

I spent every holiday in that house (except for what my family refers to as "The Lost Christmas" that I spent in Indiana). Even when my family skipped around central Maryland every few years, I felt like that house was always there-- the one thing that refused to change. I stood on the deck and thought about the birthday parties I had there every year, the time we set up tents for a camping trip in the yard. My dad spent most of that night walking skittish girls through the wet grass into the house to use the bathroom.

Mom joined me on the deck and said, tears in her eyes, "I can just see Dad out there, in his sweaty white t-shirt cleaning the pool to get it ready for you guys."

I could see that too, but I didn't remember it as much as I did my brother sneaking drowned frogs and mice out of the skimmer and chasing me with them, or the spring we collected tadpoles off the cover that grew into little frogs on our porch before Mom made us set them free. Or the day Mau was in charge of John and me, and she accidentally whacked me in the head with a 20-foot pole while attempting to clean the pool and while John got attacked by wasps and thought that the meat tenderizer she put on his stings meant he had to be cooked. I walked around the yard and thought of marks on the grass from the rides we took on Pop's series of John Deeres. I was never allowed to drive.

I remembered taking walks with Mau around the neighborhood, collecting leaves in Ziploc baggies. She would lean into me, causing me to walk up along the curb while she whispered about the neighbors. John and I used to play hide and seek with the neighbor kids under the pine trees that are even bigger than I remember. We walked the shih-tzu brothers when they were just puppies. Only one survives now. He's 14. And even he walks slower, with his head down, knowing something is missing.

It's Okay, You Don't Really Have to be My Neighbor

Hawaiian shirt guy spoke to me for the first time today. Usually he just leans forward and watches me walk by over the top of his cube, but he actually came to my cube and spoke to me this morning. He and his neighbors in the first two rows neglect to turn the lights on every morning. Initially, I thought maybe they assumed this was an administrative duty, and huffed my way over there all the while muttering under my breath that it's not difficult to turn the lights on, nor is it my job. So, this morning when I turned on the lights, he came by moaning because they are used to working in the dark. He told me of his several years in Hawaii (hmm, hence the shirts?) where he worked in a basement, and that lack of light except from a computer screen is actually good for the eyes. It is summer outside. I'm already bitter enough that I miss the vast majority of summer, except for walking to and from my car, and that it's so seasonless in here that I have to wear sleeves year round. Really, would it be so terrible, especially in the absence of natural light, to have the lights on? I told him I was sorry to make things difficult for him, but that I would have to buy one of those Sharper Image natural light simulators to prevent my own suicide if there were no light in here. I assume he will adjust. But he wouldn't go away, so I hope he doesn't think we have a connection now. Because how much can you really say about lights? This is pretty much all I've got.

I made the journey to the tiniest apartment ever this weekend, and it all went quite well. I am brainstorming creative ways to store my clothing under my bed and to cook on a slanted stove. S autéeing chicken on the equivalent of a ski slope is not an easy task. Also, I found what appears to be poo under my kitchen sink. Needless to say, I am none too pleased about this development. You better believe my landlord has already heard from me on this troubling matter.

The parents saw the place last night and actually approved, which is no small feat. Granted, they saw it on the heels of seeing The Boy's place for the first time, which is much like a live action version of "City Mouse, Country Mouse." Really, it's like time travel from after to before winning the lottery. But it's my space and I don't have to share it (except with the owner of the under-the-sink poo), and that in and of itself is worth the price of admission. Upon bringing friends up to see the place on Monday, I pointed out that, while it is no architectural gem, there are aspects of the outside that feel European to me. Gabe gestured to the rubble from the renovations next door and said, "Hmm, yes. This does feel very...Post-World War II." Nice.

This morning I met the neighbor across the hall, Laura.
Me: "Hi. I'm Christina; I just moved in. My car is the red one, in case I ever block you in."
Her: "I'm Laura. I was gone all weekend, but I heard voices the other day and figured someone moved in. Any car with a Connecticut plate will be mine, but the one out there right now isn't actually mine, because it's in Connecticut getting fixed because I put a Michael Jackson cd in it and couldn't get it out of the player. Now that's fixed, but something else is being worked on. So I have my dad's car and I was listening to the same Michael Jackson cd and it's stuck again, and he's gonna be so pissed at me for effing up another cd player."
Me: "It was nice to meet you?"
But really I was thinking, for the love, do you really need any clearer direction to stop listening to Michael Jackson?

This Game is Called, "I Win"

It is 9:53 am and I smell Salisbury Steak, so naturally, I thought of you, the crickets, and how I've been neglecting you. I'm sure you've felt the sting. (Or would that be the absence of sting? Like if the Police reunited under a new front man?)

What can I say, the week got away from me. I took my little brother to see Howie Day and Gavin DeGraw at Wolf Trap on Wednesday. Which would be a nice venue if it were not in Vienna and populated with uber-yuppies. Wait, don't shoot. It's not that I have, in my 23-plus years, eluded that label, because clearly I have not. Really, I'm aware that I maintain a spiky-haired boyfriend who drives a Saab with Connecticut plates. Let me explain. Danny and I arrived five minutes before the gates opened, resulting in our getting a pretty good spot to spread our sleeping bag out on the lawn. There remained about a five foot gap in front and to the left of us and behind and the couple in front of us. Half an hour before show time, three girls in their mid-twenties and an enormous rolling cooler arrived and managed to spread themselves across the gap and onto our stuff. Their SIX friends who arrived just in time for the show couldn't believe how they had "lucked out." Neither could we. Honestly. It began POURING, but the princesses planned ahead and would not get wet. They spread a tarp over their spread and did not return until the worst of the rain was over, bone dry. (Danny and I fashioned a fort out of our sleeping bag and remained remarkably dry until one of his legs fell asleep and the other began shaking and we realized the rain wouldn't stop all night.) We stood the rest of the night in our green, $12 Wolf Trap ponchos (I tried to guilt trip the woman who sold them to me from under cover in the gift shop, but she was heartless. When I told The Boy, ever the salesman, all he could say was, "Supply and demand, baby."). When the princesses finally returned to their spot, they were wearing ponchos that did not cost them $12, and they proceeded to break out their food. FIVE different kinds of cheeses, still in its original packaging, a wooden cutting board, a Ron Popeil knife in a protective sleeve, homemade salsa, organic tortilla chips, two bottles of red wine, sesame breadsticks, hummus and pitas. Danny and I were in awe. Just as they began slicing up the cheese, it started pouring again. The one who obviously organized this outing (who was wearing pearls, by the way) screamed over the thunder, "WOULD ANYBODY LIKE SOME SALSA?" Her voice grew desperate and I honestly thought she would cry. Danny and I howled. It almost made it worth it that their ponchos blocked our view of the stage for the majority of the show.

Anyway, so the show was good, and I was terribly glad to have that adventure with Danny before he left for Texas. It turned out that it wasn't much of a decision. At the last minute, The Boy had invited us to sit with him in Sidney Ponson's skybox at the Orioles/Yankees game, which ended up getting rained out, resulting in The Boy and friends sitting in the air conditioning, watching Ponson drink beer in full Oriole regalia while famehounds snapped pictures on camera phones. So, yeah, I win.