Practice Makes Perfect

From today’s Associated Press wire:

A 13-member jury made up of Methodist clergy convicted the Rev. Irene Elizabeth Stroud on the second day of her church trial. Methodist law bars “self-avowed, practicing homosexuals” from ministry. Nine votes were necessary for a conviction and the jury voted 12-1 to find Stroud guilty.

Hmm, lemme reread part of that: Methodist law bars “self-avowed, practicing homosexuals” from ministry.

Guess that’s one reason I am no longer a “practicing Methodist.”

: (

What is this “practicing homosexuals” terminology, anyway? What is it, like, softball practice? Or, hey, if you practice your typing skills, you will eventually be able to type 125 words per minute? And if you work really really really hard at being a homosexual, gays or lesbians everywhere will be simply unable to resist your considerable charms?

And while I am on this tangent: How about generic references to “the homosexual lifestyle”? What is that supposed to be?

*Suddenly going into Robin Leach voice-over mode*

Why, yes, in this episode of “Lifestyles of the Gay and Not-So-Famous,” we watch as the typical average normal lesbian drives her American-made car with the Japanese-manufactured motor the 3.4 miles to her middle-management corporate-owned but locally run job to earn money to pay for the 2.5 children she and her partner are raising — minus shared medical benefits because, God forbid, God obviously forbids allowing domestic partnerships among such non-traditional families. In-between all that atypical, abnormal behavior, we see that the average lesbian uses as much free time as possible during her day to perform such homosexual-specific tasks as making minor repairs around the home, cooking dinner and cleaning up afterwards, helping the kids with their homework, etc., which we soon realize leaves very little time for “practicing homosexuality” — in much the same way that the majority of her friends, the “practicing heterosexuals,” fail to get in their required amount of practice during any given day or night, either.

: )

Thank God I was born this way — with such great sense of humor!

Miss Fix-It — or Duh-uct Tape!

A couple of things most people prolly don’t know about me:

1. I enjoy being the center of attention (OK, everyone knows that!), yet I also have many anti-social tendencies.

2. I like to fix stuff — I could very easily be a DIY-kinda girl — but I really don’t like to fuck around with anything for very long.

More on No. 1 at a later time. The second point, I came face-to-face with this afternoon during a rather simple domestic repair.

Let me state, for the record, that most of the repairs/fix-its I have done are tasks that take less than 10 minutes to complete. The other day, I changed my windshield wipers — both blades! — in eight minutes flat. (All right already: Of course I did not actually time myself ... and I also did not include the time it took me to read the instructions.)

: )

One time, I fixed Margaret’s VCR in less than two minutes. No shit. She turned on the TV, turned on the VCR and showed me how the screen was all fuzzy. I pulled the VCR out from the entertainment center and flipped the channel switch on the back. Miraculously, the TV screen was perfectly clear after that.

I won’t go into detail about today’s repair, except to say that about 35 minutes into it, I realized I was not going to get the necessary components to fit together properly. I made two attempts and then decided I needed a nap. (Funny how my mind works.) Instead, though, I decided to check my e-mail and was energized by a particularly funny photo that Jaxx had sent my way.

After that, my thoughts returned to my project. And, suddenly, the solution became perfectly clear:

Duct tape!

Fortunately, I happened to have a roll in the trunk of my car. (I can tape up a busted-out car window in about six-and-a-half minutes; in fact, I have done so — twice!) I put the parts together and let them set for a few hours, and here in a little while, I will apply some duct tape to make sure it all holds together for ... well, at least a while.

: )

I once fixed my alto sax with regular scotch tape. The repair lasted for months; I bet it would have been a permanent solution had I used duct tape.

Candy Corn

Di,

The pumpkins are beautiful. How did you get the lit ones to look like candy corn?

The Lovely

: )

(Isn’t it amazing what other people notice?)

Don’t Be Afraid!

(Boo!)

: )

Party o’ Punkins

I finished the rest o’ the carving.

And tonight, we shall see how the jack o’ lanterns really look!

: )

Counterclockwise from left: Langley Longellow, Jag, Louie and Conan.

It’s not the way that you dance ...

Wishing (If I Had a Photograph of You)

It’s not the way you look
It’s not the way that you smile
Although there’s something to them
It’s not the way you have your hair
It’s not that certain style
It could be that with you

If I had a photograph of you
It’s something to remind me
I wouldn’t spend my life just wishing

It’s not the makeup
And it’s not the way that you dance
It’s not the evening sky
It’s more the way your eyes
Are laughing as they glance
Across the great divide

If I had a photograph of you
It’s something to remind me
I wouldn’t spend my life just wishing

It’s not the things you say
It’s not the things you do
It must be something more
And if I feel this way for so long
Tell me is it all for nothing
Just don’t walk out the door

If I had a photograph of you
It’s something to remind me
I wouldn’t spend my life just wishing

— A Flock of Seagulls

More on all of this (and nothing, really) a bit later, perhaps.

Right now I am off to spend my extra hour sleeping.

Trick-or-Treat Night

And, as I have done for the past 15 years that I have lived here, I am pretending I am not at home. No porch light, no inside lights: Pass by, young trick-or-treaters, for I have nothing to offer you but Kraft singles, which would surely turn to melty mush by the time you returned home with your goodie bags, anyway.

I am also not at home at The Lovely’s, where I have spent half the day dog-sitting.

And I managed to carve a punkin.

(Is it just me, or does this one resemble Conan O’Brien?)

This knife, my prized Coach Swiss Army knife, was going to do the carving honors ... until I dropped it on the concrete and bent the tip of the smaller blade (razzem frazzem!), thereby causing me concern for its precision ... so I went with the big Farberware knife (not sure which one it was, other than it was not the chef’s knife nor a steak knife nor the bread knife; I guess it was whichever knife was left).

History Lesson

Lately, I’ve been wondering if the universe truly does revolve around me.

Actually, I started thinking about this awhile back. Back when I formulated the theory — just a theory, mind you — that the existence of everything began the moment I was born. Or maybe not until I could clearly form a memory ... so, maybe it all happened when I was umpteen months old and on the verge of being potty-trained — close enough that, standing in my crib, I was aware that I had to go poo, but my mom was on the telephone and I could not get her attention, and I had to go in my diaper except in my potty chair.

Or perhaps it was the time I was standing by the front door and looked up at my mom and said, “Goddamn son-of-a-bitch!” — just because I had heard someone say it, sometime, and also because I wanted to see what Mom would say or do if I said it. (She opened her eyes really wide and yelled, “Diana Lynne! Don’t you ever say that again!” [I think we may have had company at the time.])

: )

So, that’s my theory: That the universe began the instant I was aware of it. That everything in history is all part of a collective consciousness (mine!).

Besides, there really is no such thing as time. They’ve proven it (sorta?) on the moon.

: )

Doesn’t matter, anyway: History gets rewritten all the time ... at least in MY universe.

I’m a Lover, Not a Fighter

Not sure why, but driving back from Marion, I started telling this story about how, when I was a kid, my stepdad taught me how to handle bullies.

“If anyone ever starts to push you around or bully you, just double up your fist like this,” he told me, making a fist, “and punch them right in the nose. They won’t even expect it, and they’ll never pick on you again.”

Catty-corner from our house lived the Shasteens. They sold insurance (I think), and on weekends, the dad played music along with his brother, sister and parents at a place called the Okaw Opry in Findlay, Illinois. Our parents went on an Okaw Opry tangent one winter and hauled us up there, every Saturday night, to see their shows.

Sometimes, the Opry would get some surprisingly big names, country music-wise, considering the town itself had a grand total of about 150 residents. We saw Ronnie Milsap and Barbara Mandrell up there, as well as various other musicians.

(Still, I remember being bored OUT OF MY MIND on most occasions.)

The lead singer was Alice Ann Shasteen. She had a daughter named Tira (I think it might’ve been spelled “Tara,” but it was pronounced TY-ruh; hell, I dunno) who used to come to the house catty-corner from ours to visit her cousins.

Tira was a year or two older than I, and I never particularly liked her. She was cute enough but seemed a little mean, like she didn’t really want us around, ever.

At that time, my bicycle meant just about everything to me. Mostly because it was so damn comfortable to ride, but also because it was THE mode of transportation during some very important years (2nd through 5th grade). My bike was teal with high handlebars and a banana seat, and I customized it in various ways over the years: clothes-pinning baseball cards to the spokes to make it sound like a motorcycle when I started collecting baseball cards at age 7 (sadly, the hobby never “took” with me; perhaps I would be a rich girl now!), attaching a huge-ass basket to the front so that I could transport my even huger-ass saxophone case to and from band practice when I was in 5th. Sometime in there, I put an orange flag on the back of my bike, just to attract a little more attention.

One day when Tira was visiting, I rode over to the Shasteens and started talking to her. During our conversation, while I was still sitting on the bike, she started messing with the flag, bending it from one side to the next.

“OK, leave it alone. It’ll break if you keep bending it,” I told her.

She kept bending it, further and further each time.

“Knock it off!”

She persisted ... so I put the kickstand down, walked right up to her and punched her in the nose.

(I didn’t hit her exactly right, of course; I sort of jabbed her with the pinkie side of my fist. Still, it was definitely a punch.)

She put her hands up to her nose, glared at me and walked away.

The flag was bent a little but pretty much intact. I rode home in silence, my heart beating quickly.

Later that night, I told my stepdad about the incident.

“You punched her?” he said, frowning. “You should never start a fight. You should never throw the first punch.”

Janis on a Sunny Afternoon

If you blog, do you ever go back and reread your blog?

Very rarely, I do. I mean, I think of this thing as a journal (what can I say, I am a journalist!), so it makes sense that occasionally, I might want to go back and remember something about a particular day.

This is one thing I want to remember about today:

I run over to check on Chico, and across the street I see John up on the ladder, working on his house. And it is a gorgeous day: sunny, temperature in the low 70s. Fall colors all around. And on the radio, Janis Joplin is singing “Me and Bobby McGee” for the whole neighborhood to hear.

Perfect, really.

The entire time, Chico scouts the perfect place for a hike.

And some flowers and insects cling to summer.

It is probably futile, though. (Dammit!)

SEX WIN! SEX WIN! HOLY ... KRAP!

OK, I am only teasing about the “KRAP” part. I am happy for the city of Chicago and the state of Illinois, and absolutely thrilled for my sister-in-law, Karen, a lifelong White Sox fan — she’s South-Side Polish, for God’s sake, how can you not be ecstatic?!

And besides:

Just wait ’til next year!

(Go, Cubbies!)

: )

Visitors

Miss Katrina came visiting today.

I do not know her story, only that she survived Hurricane Katrina. And she seemed to enjoy her perch on the counter.

: )

Someday, I will have a dog of my own. Maybe. I have never had one, so I really have no idea what I would be getting myself into. When I was very young, my parents used to have a couple of beagles named Pat and Mike (odd names for dogs, in my opinion) that they kept in a pen out back. I do not remember anything about them, other than their names and the fact that they barked a lot.

From the time I was 10 or so on, it was all cats for my family. The best cat of all being our first one, a Siamese named Simon Lou who attacked every friend of mine that ever came to visit — except Patti, and he almost bit her, too, by pretending to be our other cat, Samantha Jane, and acting all friendly.

Simon was so bad that my mom used to keep a squirt bottle filled with water just inside the front door so that visitors would be fully armed as they entered our house. Thankfully, there were no major injuries (nor lawsuits!), but that cat could be plain frightening.

He was cross-eyed and he had a kink in his tail. He was mean enough, he could have survived any kind of disaster.

Playing Favorites

Speaking of black-and-white photography:

No one has ever asked me what my favorite photo taken by me happens to be ... but if I had to choose, these 2 would be the ones.

Joesie & Jake

Mittens Toonces Simon (a.k.a. Mitty)

OK, OK, I know you cannot have 2 favorites; by virtue of calling something your “favorite,” you are indicating that THIS is the one that you like above all else.

I was reminded of these photos — both of them taken many years ago — over the past couple of days. First of all, I saw Jake (he is now 18; in the photo, he is approximately 4 months old!) 2 days ago when I was on my way to a tennis match. Last night, that darn cat was snuggled right next to me, trying to take advantage of an excess body heat I might have been willing to share. And then today, at the nursing home, I had a wonderful chat with Joe Anne.

Perhaps the photos are my favorites because the people — well, OK, technically, one of them is a cat! — are some of my favorites.

“Joesie & Jake” was taken at a freshman basketball game during the 1987-88 season. Jake’s cousin, Matt, was playing that night, and I had not officially met Jake or his parents until I went up into the stands to say hi to Joe Anne. I had a couple of frames remaining on the roll of film in my Minolta X-370, and this is one of the shots I came up with.

I shot the cat (eek!) one day back in 1989 or ’90 whilst she was in the midst of cleaning. Since then, most of my pictures of her have been when she is either sleeping or rolling on the floor or cleaning; aside from eating, those activities are pretty much all she does.

: )

Reverse

I have always had a bit of trouble with reverse.

When I turned 16 and took my driving test, the only deduction I received was on the part in which I was supposed to back the car, straight, for, like, 50 feet.

I mean, to heck with any of the tricky stuff that I had struggled with — such as parallel parking — during behind-the-wheel. What gave ME trouble was going in reverse, on a straightaway, with no other cars in sight.

(Coincidentally, the last name of the guy who gave me my driving test had the same last name as my girlfriend [her married name, anyways]. Small world, eh?)

My favorite part was when he told me, in rapid succession, “OK, now, you’re going to turn right at the next intersection, drive 2 blocks, then turn left at the next intersection.” I turned right at the next intersection, drove 2 blocks and then, just before I got to the next intersection, I said (just to make sure), “Now, I turn left at this intersection, right?”

“You’re going to have to pay attention!” he snapped at me.

?????

Sometimes, what’s found on the reverse side is more interesting.

Reminds me of a hand, somehow.

Or going to the eye doctor, and how he (or she; my eye docs are a husband-wife tag-team tandem, I go to either one, no preference, really) shines the light in my eyes and I can see those little veins or arteries or capillaries or whatever they are in there.

On my previous Web site, I included the sentence, “I am left-eye dominant,” because I am. Not that it matters to anyone but me, but when I shoot photos, I look through the viewfinder with my left eye. Now that I use a digital camera almost exclusively (I threw the “almost” in there because I like to think I am “old school” when it comes to photography; I mean, after all, I can develop my own film, if necessary ... as long as it’s black-and-white ...), I mostly look at the LCD screen on the back of the camera when I shoot.

I am also pretty sure I am left-foot dominant. Again: who cares? It really doesn’t even matter to me; I mean, it’s not as if I play soccer or kickball or anything. (Seems like when I stub a toe, it’s usually one on my right foot. Not sure that’s relevant to anything, really.)

Anyhoo, my eye doctor (the male one) told me you are usually dominant in the same eye as your particular handedness. And I am right-handed (but secretly wish I were a lefty), so the other stuff seems to go against the usual.

Of course, I can switch-hit. So go figure.

: )

Lost Day

Roll out of bed around 10 a.m. Take a shower. Go to McD’s for a cheeseburger Happy Meal, plain, with a large Coke. Meet the girls to carpool to our tennis match. Suffer matchus interruptus at 3-4 in the opening because of rain and hail/snow/sleet (no one knows, really; I say sleet, but to be perfectly honest, the white stuff resembled tiny little snowballs). Head to another town, 20 minutes south, to resume the matches. Get rained on, again. Postpone match to Monday night. Return to town. Take The Lovely to Wal-Jack. Eat dinner. Come home. Mess around on the computer. Watch TV (Cold Case, World Series and whatever else I can find). Blog for a few minutes. Go to bed.

I have to say, the hail/snow/sleet was a first. And it makes a funny noise when it hits your cap, kind of a Thunk! Thunk! sound.

: )

Is it just me, or is the Chicago White Sox logo a classic example of “subliminal seduction”? You know, from that book from the 1970s, in which it was revealed that advertisers were putting sexual images and the actual word “sex” in everything from Farrah Fawcett’s hair on that famous swimsuit poster to the top of Ritz crackers? (Yes, according to the book, “sex” was baked right into the cracker — giving new meaning, I suppose, to the catch-phrase, “Everything tastes better when it sits on a Ritz”!)

Anyhoo, when I see this White Sox logo, all I see is sex. All I can think about is sex. Baseball does not usually make me think of sex, but ... I dunno.

Much as I generally dislike the American League, I can root for a team with sex as its logo.

Go, Sex!

: )

Loss

The funny part is, much as I adore these lil’ habs, visually speaking, I am not about to eat one! Seems they register at 300,000+ Scoville Units, which apparently is the measurement of heat.

And contrary to what some people might think: I am delicate.

: )

I have been thinking about loss, here lately. One of my friends lost her mother this past week, and while the death was somewhat expected, I am not certain anyone is ever prepared for it. I have made my friend a card out of one of my photos from the previous post, and I will include some of my words; I doubt that they will make a dent in her sadness, but I hope they might help, just a little, to remind her that she is loved.

(That is what you realize you miss the most when you lose one of your parents: Their love. Other people in this big, bad world might love you, but no one loves you like your parents love you. Unconditionally ... even if they have to threaten you within an inch of your life, sometimes, just to get their point across.)

: )

The leaders of a band I like lost their dog last week, and they wrote about it here. And so far this year, many friends of mine, as well as my sister, have said farewell to a pet. And they all continue to grieve the loss of their four-legged pals.

I have friends who have lost love, too. Not because the person they loved has died, but because, somehow, somewhere, in some way, feelings changed. No one’s fault, really; sometimes, things just work out that way.

Hurts like hell, though.

: (

Times of loss force you to take stock of what you do have.

Before I started this post, I decided I wanted some water. Some bottled water. So I decided to take a little stroll (trust me, it’s a VERY little stroll) over to the vending machine at Ben’s place, where I usually get a bottle of Coke or sometimes Sprite, but tonight it was a bottle of Dasani.

I am grateful for that vending machine — it’s kinda like having my own personal soda fountain or something.

: )

I am grateful, too, for my health and my happy nature, and my family and friends, out there in the real world and in here in the virtual world, and especially wherever and whenever the two happen to meet. I am grateful for my job. And for my tendency not to take anything in life too seriously ... except when I need to.

I am grateful for this life and for the ability to make the most of it.

What I Meant to Say (The Other Day)

It was a dark and ever-so-slightly stormy night.

(Apologies to Snoopy. Although I do intend, fully, to write a novel [or at least a short story; not that I view short stories as anything less significant than novels] that begins with the words, “It was a dark and stormy night.”)

Right now, though: Mostly just rain. An occasional boom of thunder — and by “occasional” I mean approximately once every 4 hours.

The lights and the TV are off. The monitor is glaring, and sometimes the hard drive flitters and the gold light flutters. The only other sounds are the raindrops landing on the awnings and in the puddles, the rain-soaked tires driving over the new black asphalt and, occasionally, my fingers striking the keys — and by “occasionally,” I mean once every 15 seconds or so, once a thought has rattled around in my head long enough for the words to form into a sentence or two.

(I type very quickly. I am not sure how fast I am, in terms of WPMs or whatever, but I can assure you that I would hold my own in a typing contest. And I am accurate, too, just in case anyone thinks it is all about the quickness. If you were to sit me down right now, though, in front of that IBM electric I learned to type on freshman year of high school and tell me to prove just how fast and accurate I am, well ... that might be a problem.)

(I am nothing without my Delete key.)

: )

I am exhausted, a little, from the excursion last night to Game 6 of the National League Championship Series. (Rastros 5, Cardinals 1; Houston wins the NLCS and advances to the World Series.) Home by midnight, lively 20-minute discussion of the Cards with Tim, in bed by 1 a.m. All that combined with a generally overall gloomy day here, weather-wise.

It remains to be seen whether this player, Albert Pujols, will go down as one of the all-time greats; as for now, in my opinion, he is the best player in Major League Baseball. He should win the National League MVP Award for 2005.

Those pictures are from the game last night. I actually prefer this photo of Pujols, taken during Game 1 of the NLDS against San Diego:

It looks even better at 4-column width, in color, on the front page of the newspaper.

: )

Last night ended up being the last game ever to be played in Busch Stadium. With I could say it was one of the most memorable nights of my life; however, it was not. Great dinner with the girls at Charlie Gitto’s, great seats — except for the fact that they were not together, so we were scattered about throughout the loge boxes; great first couple of innings — until Houston took the lead, and then all the Cardinal fans sort of flat-lined for the rest of the game.

I wanted to be sad, but I really wasn’t. I like the Cardinals players, I enjoy watching them play, but when it’s all said and done, they are simply not MY team.

Maybe they’re simply too successful ever to be MY team.

Those pennants hanging down with numbers in them are (some of the) years the Cardinals have won World Series championships.

MY team has not won one since 1908.

But just wait ’til next year!

: )

Busch Stadium: 1966-2005

Down on Maple Street*

* — Sung to the tune of Bob Seger’s “Down on Main Street” ... on a day which also has included such songs as “Rocky Top,” “Memories,” “Black Water” (is that the song’s name: “Oh, black water, keep on rollin’ / Mississippi moon, won’t you keep on shinin’ on me”?) and something classical that I believe was composed by Mozart, but because it’s instrumental, I can’t very well post lyrics or anything ... though I could hum a few bars (whatever happened to that audioblogger thingie I always wanted to try out, anyway?) and everyone would recognize it, immediately, in spite of my occasional tendency to sing off-key.

: )

Every fall, the most beautiful tree in my neighborhood is a maple tree located, appropriately enough, on Maple Street. In certain years, other trees come close to matching its brilliance, but so far, this is the best one I have ever seen. Or at least noticed, around here.

It’s squished in between a couple of other trees, and they always seem to take even longer to turn than this one — which actually seems to revel in the change of seasons, taking its own sweet time, also, to reveal the brilliant red-orange of its leaves.

The tree itself is somewhat unsightly, thanks to some apparently botched pruning attempts to keep its branches out of the power lines running alongside it ... which, to me, brings up a question of imminent domain:

Which came first, the tree or the power lines?

Those leaves, though! I watch for them every time I drive up Maple Street. Which, over the past several days, has been quite frequently whilst road construction workers grade and then pave (after previously this summer having half-assed patched, in random and seemingly unneeded places, to varying degrees of ineffectiveness) my road, one block over.

Other trees around, including the ones in my yard, are not as pretty.

I remember when The Lovely and I attempted, a few years ago, to plant some daylilies. We put them in the ground, and her landlady ended up having to redo them, but when they eventually bloomed, they were a disappointing dull peach color.

Some lilies are quite vibrant, and I remarked to The Lovely about how the ones “we” planted were not as colorful as others I’ve seen.

“I guess you can’t always judge a flower by how beautiful it looks,” I said.

She looked at me for a second, and then said, “Well, what else are you going to judge it by?”

Good question.

: )

My favorite part about Maple Street is not the maple tree, though.

My favorite part is the memory of driving up that street more than five years ago and thinking about a girl I knew, whom I had managed to piss off for about the 29th time in our then-relatively short time knowing each other. This time, though, I had annoyed her to the point of not speaking to me at all, and I thoroughly believed I had done irreparable damage to our relationship.

And then, like an honest-to-God lightning bolt out of the late-spring sky, I had this thought:

It’s OK: She’s thinking about you right at this moment, too.

I smiled. It was a beautiful moment.

Blank

Again, as is happening more and more frequently (frequentlier?), my mind is a blank.

Except to say that, as far as Sundays go, this one had many of the qualities that I adore: Nothing I had to do and nowhere I had to be. Gorgeous weather. Good games ... with the exception of the fact that the Cardinals’ offense has gone into the tank, and that, combined with some mediocre to poor umpiring during this evening’s game, has allowed the Astros to take a 3-1 lead in the National League Championship Series.

Which, if I actually were a Cardinals fan, would trouble me greatly. As it is, I am wondering if there will even be a Game 6, let alone a Game 7 — and me, with tickets to both!

: (

This shot would undoubtedly be more colorful if the leaves on the maple tree — the maple leafs! — in my backyard had fully turned; however, how can you count on the same clouds showing up, once they have?

Here are a couple of other shots from the yard:

I found some berries out by the lake ...

... and a different kind of Web site.

This bull still doesn’t like me.

I thought this fencepost was kind of cool.

OK, time to watch Cold Case.

: )

I wonder ...

... if there are any girls on the moon taking pictures of the earth when it comes into (almost) full view?

: )

The background is not right on that photo, but I do not know how to fix it. The picture was taken just after dusk, and the sky, which had been brilliant blue most of the day, was a light shade of what I would call midnight blue (like the crayon, remember that?); definitely not black, but whatcha gonna do?

Meanwhile, I keep thinking I have something to say, but when the screen is in front of me: I simply do not.

The good news is, I am thisclose to firing up the laptop and starting some fiction. Or some non-fiction, perhaps in the form of memoirs.

I am 40 now. It is not too soon.

Crazy

People are driving me crazy. And that’s all I’ve got to say about that.

: )

Speaking of crazy: Last night or sometime early this morning, I had a strange dream.

I dreamt I was playing on the Rend Lake College softball team. Which is certainly not crazy because, as everyone knows, back in my day (5th and 6th grade), I was the MVP for the Strasburg softball team, for which I pitched and played shortstop. Not simultaneously, of course, and to be completely honest, I was a better pitcher than shortstop because I had a tendency to arch my throws to first a little too much from short.

Plus I preferred pitching. You got to be in on every play!

Anyhoo, in my dream, for some bizarro-world reason, we were told by the RLC athletic director that we had to wear CUPS! That it was an NJCAA rule for all softball players to wear CUPS! And yes, I am talking about those plastic supporter/protector thingies that BOYS/MEN wear whilst playing ball. To protect their, uhm, balls.

: )

I argued and argued against wearing cups. I mean, it just didn’t make sense! But no, we had to wear ’em ... so I had to go around trying to figure out what size (??) to get for the players on our team. And I have to tell ya: Those things were a mite uncomfy. Plus they made such an unsightly bulge!

Plus my ballglove wasn’t working right.

Crazy!

: )

Cocoon

* Queuing the Eurythmics’ “Regrets” as I type *

I’ve got a delicate mind / I’ve got a dangerous nature / As my fist collides / With your furniture

As I may have mentioned before, I do not regret many things in my life. Mostly thanks to my dad, who spent far too much of his life dwelling on his regrets.

I was reminded tonight, though, of one of my life’s regrets:

Back when I was a kid, the part of my parents’ house that is now the still-unfinished family room was a covered patio. A cement slab, basically, with a waffled plastic roof over it that magnified (amplified?) the sound of the rain. We parked our bikes on the patio, which also had room for a green picnic table.

One day, I sat at the picnic table and noticed a fluorescent-green oval-shaped plastic-looking thingie. I had no idea what it was, but it seemed to be attached to the table, somehow. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a miniature pocketknife keychain — nothing that would actually cut anything: It was only about an inch-and-a-half long and made of dull metal. (I think Grandma Evelyn gave it to me, and God knows she would have never given me an actual weapon!) I poked the knife into the newfound object, and something sort of oozed out of it. I wiped off the knife and put it away, stared at the object for a few seconds and then lost interest in it and left on my bicycle.

That evening, when I returned, my mom was waiting for me by the picnic table.

“Diana! What did you do to this?” she asked, pointing at the object.

“I cut it with my pocketknife,” I told her with a “So, what?” shrug. “I don’t even know what it is.”

“I’m very upset with you,” she said. “This is a cocoon. It would have eventually turned into a butterfly. Now it never will.”

She picked up the cocoon and carried it inside.

From that moment on, I have always regretted cutting into that cocoon ... like words you wish you had not uttered the second they leave your lips, or other stupid, silly deeds you did that caused nothing but pain to everyone involved.

One of my fellow Apples posted some pictures tonight that reminded me of my cocoon. In a good way — a sort of healing way, actually.

Thanks, Jeanne.

: )

Overslept

I overslept this morning. And I almost never oversleep.

And I am not quite sure why I overslept because I went to bed at my usual time and drifted right off to sleep. I remember waking up about half an hour before I usually get up and thinking, hmm, I have another half hour to sleep. And then, an hour and 14 minutes later, I awoke.

And the alarm had not been set. And I could have sworn that I had set it before I went to bed ... so, maybe I turned it off when I woke up earlier and simply forgot.

Who knows.

Strange thing, oversleeping.

: \

Went on a mini road trip today, and I could not help noticing that we are on the cusp of fall.

Sure, it has been fall for several days now, but this is when the season is really starting to hit.

Most of the trees are showing hints of the colors to come. And the days are noticeably shorter, light-wise.

I love and hate this time of year.

Much as I love nighttime, I dread the darkness.

Mums are cheerful, though.

Just Checking

I dunno. Blogger has me boggled right about now.

High School Romance

What I’ve learned from all this is that you should never marry your high school sweetheart.

Especially if you were never actually in love with your high school sweetheart to begin with.

“I never really had a high school sweetheart,” I told The Lovely. “I mean, I had all kinds* of high school crushes, but nothing that resembled your typical high school romance; hence, no high school sweetheart.”

I then launched into the tale of my “dream date”: Homecoming 1980. I went with this boy I had been in love with for, oh, at least the better part of the year ... after having been in love with his brother the year before!

The brother was a senior when I was a freshman, and, of course, the instant he found out I liked him, he revealed that he liked my best friend — who happened to like his best friend. So, just to make my life a living hell, the brother ended up taking my best friend to Homecoming. (She went just to make his best friend jealous, she assured me ... and, meanwhile, who sat at home the night of the dance? Yeah, that’s right: Me.)

: (

Anyhoo, that was the end of my crush on that boy. By the end of the school year, however, I had discovered his younger brother, who was 2 years older than I. Ever-so-casually, I started talking to this boy at school and at church group functions, and before you knew it, I had a thing for him; meanwhile, of course, he had developed a thing for one of my good friends (not the same girl that had briefly dated his brother), who had occasionally been putting in a good word for ME! They got together over the summer, and I pretty much accepted the fact that I was not destined to be with this boy, either.

Not too long after school started that fall, though, they broke up. And, somehow, he ended up asking me to the Homecoming dance. And I said yes.

“It was the most boring night of my life,” I told her. “It was no fun whatsoever. He was a total bore; he didn’t even kiss me!”

The crush officially ended that night.

(Oddly enough, a couple of months later, in the dead of winter, I was at a friend’s house for a church retreat, and this boy showed up, late — and drunk! I cornered him upstairs, told him I was angry because I’d never gotten my goodnight kiss at Homecoming ... and then we ended up making out for about an hour.)

: )

* — I was bisexual in high school. I mean, I wasn’t having sex in high school, but if I had been having sex with any of the people on which I had crushes, it could have very well been with males or females ... the female-to-male ratio being about 4-to-1, at least until senior year, when I had pretty much lost interest in boys ... except for the occasional lip-lockage.

: )

Right now, I am having some issues posting pictures. These issues SHALL BE resolved, soon, or else I shall move my journal elsewhere.

(I can’t blog without my pictures!)

: o

New Moon (Plus-3)

The Space Between

But first, the lyric that was in my head up until about, oh, 5 minutes ago when I stopped by Matt’s blog:

Sometimes it hurts to be a woman ...

But that’s all I'm gonna say about THAT.

: )

The Space Between

You cannot quit me so quickly
There’s no hope in you for me
No corner you could squeeze me
But I got all the time for you, love

The space between
The tears we cry
Is the laughter keeps us coming back for more
The space between
The wicked lies we tell
And hope to keep safe from the pain

But will I hold you again?
These fickle, fuddled words confuse me
Like 'Will it rain today?'
Waste the hours with talking, talking
These twisted games we’re playing

We’re strange allies
With warring hearts
What wild-eyed beast you be
The space between
The wicked lies we tell
And hope to keep safe from the pain
Will I hold you again?
Will I hold ...

Look at us spinning out in
The madness of a roller coaster
You know you went off like a devil
In a church in the middle of a crowded room
All we can do, my love
Is hope we don’t take this ship down

The space between
Where you’re smiling high
Is where you’ll find me if I get to go
The space between
The bullets in our firefight
Is where I’ll be hiding, waiting for you
The rain that falls
Splash in your heart
Ran like sadness down the window into
The space between
Our wicked lies
Is where we hope to keep safe from pain

Take my hand
’Cause we’re walking out of here
Oh, right out of here
Love is all we need here

The space between
What’s wrong and right
Is where you’ll find me hiding, waiting for you
The space between
Your heart and mine
Is the space we’ll fill with time
The space between ...

— Dave Matthews Band

The High Court

I was running late this a.m., which is what usually happens when you are going to have to leave work early (why is that, anyway?), so instead of catching a glimpse of The Weather Channel crew just before dashing out of the house, today I saw President Bush on Good Morning, America, introducing his latest nominee for the Supreme Court. And at the moment I cannot think of her name, and I am too tired to Google or otherwise research the topic, but what mainly stuck with me was a sound bite I heard later today, during the evening news, when W was saying something about how they (the media, I guess) should trust his opinion on this woman because he knew her. Or, at least, he has known her for 10 years now!

And he said something (and, again, of course I do not remember the exact quote, nor did I write it down, nor am I going to look it up) about how he knew her character and how he knew her heart (all this, after only 10 years!) and how, 20 years from now, she was not going to change!

And I wondered how, exactly, was this supposed to be an endorsement of this particular woman? As if being rigid, incapable of (ever?) changing how you think or feel or believe, is a badge of honor or something?

If I could go back in time, would I recognize the thoughts and feelings and beliefs I had as a 20-year-old? I know for a fact that I would not want to be evaluated, as a person, for all the things I had or had not done, by that point in my life; will I, at age 60, be remotely similar to the person I am at this moment?

Can a person go 20 years, or even 1 day, without changing in some way?

Grand Slam

Today was a lovely day at the ballpark.

Especially for Reggie Sanders (2-for-4 with a grand slam, a 2-run single and a National League Division Series-record 6 RBIs).

This was Reggie as he stepped on home plate.

Yeah, I was in the nosebleed seats (Section 334), but I wasn’t about to let THAT stop me!

: )

This was, in many ways, an amazing day. And I am exhausted.

Today I learned a little bit more — and something very big — about someone I’m close to. And it’s not necessarily something good ... more like a mixture of good AND bad ... yet it felt nice, actually, to have him share a confidence with me. And open himself up like that. ’Cause that’s never an easy thing to do.

Still: I fear what the future might hold.

And yet: The whole world could change in an instant, anyway, so why be afraid, anyhow?

And then tonight, I heard from a girl who means more to me than I ever will to her. (She always seems to make me smile; I am hopeful that, occasionally, I do the same for her.)

: )

4th or Better

So, all season long, my hopes for the Cubs were not too lofty.

Even though they were just 2 seasons removed from the 2003 team that played for the National League pennant and, in fact, came within, what, 8 outs of making it to the World Series. Despite the fact that they had a legitimate shot at the wild card in 2004 (before completely blowing it down the stretch). And in spite of my elation that they had jettisoned the deadwood of Sammy Sosa and Moises Alou during the offseason (yeah, yeah, I know those guys were their top 2 power hitters, but, between corked bats and constant injuries, I honestly believed the Cubs would be better off without them).

In reality, this should have been a pretty solid season for the Cubs; in reality, I just knew it would not be.

“Fourth or better,” I told Karl, probably back in April. “If they finish 4th or better, they will have exceeded my expectations.”

2005 Chicago Cubs: Final record: 79-83 (21 games out of 1st in the National League Central, behind the St. Louis Cardinals( 100-62), the Houston Astros (89-73 — good enough for the NL Wild Card) and the Milwaukee Brewers (81-81), and ahead of the Cincinnati Reds (73-89) and the Pittsburgh Pirates (67-95).

So, now it is on to the playoffs, and I must toss all of my support to the Cards because I LOVE playoff baseball (honestly, it is among THE most exciting sporting events). And maybe the White Sox. Mostly because the thought of a Cardinals-ChiSox World Series is kinda cool.

It will most likely never happen, but ... you never know.

: )

My “4th or better” mantra also held true for my first-ever attempt at fantasy baseball. Yes, I decided to give it a whirl, along with some fellow Apples in The Orchard. Unfortunately, this was an auto-draft league, so the computer or the powers-that-be at Yahoo! or whatever get to decided who gets what players. And I ended up with some decent ones, but none of the “biggies” (Pujols, Lee, A-Rod, etc.), and what “good” hitters I did get failed to live up to the preseason hype (most notably, Carlos Beltran). And then my good players kept going down with injuries, so I would try to sign suitable replacements, and ... well, it just wasn’t all that pretty at times.

I did lead the team in wins and strikeouts for most of the season, though ... ’til I ran out of innings for my pitchers. (Guess I shoulda paid a little closer attention to all that.)

Well, anyway, just like the Cubs: Wait ’til next year!

: )

In more important news, closer to home:

Today’s Tennis Match Result: Us 2, Them 1 (I know, it should probably be “We” and “They,” but that sounds kinda weird)

Last Night’s Football Game Result: Girls 21, Boys 14

My teams ROCK!!!

: )

Rules to Live By

Never attempt to drive a van/bus with a clearance of 9 feet, 5 inches, under a trestle with a clearance of 7 feet, 6 inches.

(No, this is not a rule I learned whilst driving a van/bus myself. Thank God.)

: )