Even if you’re standing in the baseline?

Rules of Kickball #5

You’re not allowed to tackle in kickball. Thank goodness I didn’t get ejected from the game.

The Female of the Species is More Deadly than the Male

Last night I was the only woman in the weight room of my YMCA (’cause I keeps it real like that.) While I was doing some reps on the seated bench incline press down machine, which is its technical term even though I just call it “the third one from the wall,” some dude sat down on the machine next to me and kept asking me if the lowly box fan that provides all the circulation for the entire building was bothering me in its current position, blowing straight out the door. In a voice that tried to convey how I was looking to finish this workout as quickly as possible which would thereby mean any movement to get up and fix the fan or any time spent chatting with the man would lead to me being in the crusty Y even one moment more than is desirable, I told him that he could go ahead and do whatever he wanted with the fan, I was fine.

After I finished buffing my lats, or whatever I worked out, I left the weight area to go to the sit up area where I crunched my abs until they could crunch no more. About halfway through, I heard another guy in the weight room say “was there a female in here just now?” Before I could speak up and praise the dude on his ability to differentiate between sexes of homo sapiens without having to even turn them over and check, (one trait of my feministic tendencies is the way I bristle when women are called “females” in casual conversation), but I was cut off by my workout buddy from earlier. He told the dudes, “Yeah, there was one here, but she left because the fan was bothering her.”

My daylight savings account is overdrawn

During the summer, I was diligent about getting to the Y to go swimming before work. Then, I missed a few days, and a few more, and then the pool was closed for repairs, and I had all these weddings to go to, and there was no possible way I was swimming with all the drag my enormous face would cause during “the swelling period.” This morning, I went again for the first time in over a month and I discovered an interesting development: it’s dark at six in the morning. And cold.

Isn’t that Swell.

Most of the horrible immediate after effects of my wisdom tooth extraction are gone, and I can now open my mouth wide enough to eat most foods. I can even floss again! (sorry for all of you who had to suffer the halitosistic air which was a direct result of my handicapped hygiene.) I still have a bit of a lump in my gums and my habit of grinding my teeth causes a more specific pain than usual. However, my jawbone is back again and any current visible swelling on my face is because Debra T’s ice cream café just introduced pumpkin flavored ice cream.

Three Blind Mice

Rules of kickball #4

In our league, we self-ref for the other teams. This can work to your advantage when you are scheduled to play a late game and are officiating a game with the team you are about to play. (We only have five teams so every week one team has to play a double header.) After paying close attention to the team whose game you are reffing, it’s pretty obvious which players can’t catch and which players have no shame about being a munter (male bunter.)

Not just a town in China

Tipping completely wracks my nerves, because I never remember who gets tipped, and what they get tipped. I usually wait until the last possible second to leave a tip, and make sure no one sees me do it so I won’t be judged. Fearing my math being wrong, I’ll either become a cheapskate or a sucker. Don’t even get me started on my last haircut before which I agonized over weather it’s insulting to tip the owner of the place if he’s also the only person who works there, and if I’m supposed to include a tip for the shampoo guy and is it cool to just go ahead and write one big check because I never carry cash anymore?

Speaking of, I got my oil changed yesterday, which comes with a free car wash. I was waiting in the queue behind and ungodly large Suburban Assault Vehicle whose driver handed the car wash guys a wad of money before being hosed down. In return, they hosed down every inch of his three acre vehicle and even scrubbed it with brushes making sure that his Calvin peeing on something decal (one can only assume Al Gore) was shiny and clean. They finished five minutes later, and it was my car’s turn. I handed the guy all the money in my wallet and gave him my best, “I know you deserve more but New York City took everything but this dollar bill last night” face. In return, he shot me a look of contempt like he was the president of Iran talking to the UN, sprayed my car with for the briefest second with a squirt of hose, held up the dollar bill and told his cohort “It’s a dollar, Dan” before sending me on my way, brushless, cheap, alone.

So what’s the lesson here, kids? Tipping is simply bribery, and if one wants good service in this society, one must carry a stripper’s wad of singles.

Composed on the back of a pizza plate late last night

Dear New York City,

I’m sorry we quarreled. I know it seems to you that I left abruptly and you felt blindsided. I swear I tried to leave you clear signs that it wasn’t working out! Since we’ve parted ways, I’ve seen you a handful of times, and it has always been pleasant. I’ve enjoyed your bars, culture, and Thai food, but you have to understand that I’ve moved on and the Hudson Valley and me are happy. (I hope you take solace in the fact it took an entire Valley to replace you.) Tonight I took the train to see Eric’s fantastic new show and I knew you would be there. We had a great time and I honestly was sad to see you go. I recognize that during my 45 minute wait for the 12:10am train you tried to entice me back with a late night slice, but you made me pay $3.79 for it. You see, NYC, when you play those kind of mind games, I want to stay with my new love despite the lack of culture, young people, and Thai food. You will always have a place in my heart, but please let me go. I have a long train ride ahead of me.

Love always (but as a friend,)
Noelle

The pen is mightier than the glock

This weekend, I was working at the New Atlantic Independent Booksellers Association annual trade show in Valley Forge, Pennsylvania. To most of the conventioneer’s confusion we were sharing the Soviet-era convention hall with a gun show. Since I’ve been old enough to choose where I live, I’ve chosen to live in the kinds of places where the “no shirt, no shoes, no service” signs are implied. In my world, men wear shirts with sleeves, women take a year to go through a can of hairspray if they even own it at all, and if people own guns, they don’t need to advertise it on their car or their tattoos. Arguably, there are a couple of people in and around the Hudson Valley that fit this description, but I don’t see them in the course of my regular day.

So seeing all these gun-totin’, target practicin’, American flag drapin’ rifle monkeys in the same building as people who are so literary they balk at the idea of mass market books was slightly unnerving. It was kind of like growing up in Oz and being transported to Kansas.

The Gray Lady gives a shout out to kickball

In the famous words of Indigo Montoya, “There is too much, let me sum up.” I still would love to write about FDP’s wedding, my weekend in Valley Forge with the NAIBA booksellers, and the slow deflating of my face. However, there is too much to write, not enough time, and the funny isn’t flowing in a way I like. So let me give you this link to the NY Times about kickball, including a quote from The New Deal League’s very own Johnny.

Shut yo mouth!

Rules of Kickball #3

Yes, we do play in the rain, and you WILL get wet. Remember to close your mouth when catching the kickball, though, because after it has rolled around in the mud and goose doody and contacted wtih the side of the kicker’s shoe, you don’t want to swallow any of that spray-off water.