Don't Throw Pizza Before You Die
I've never been to Fenway Park. Fifteen years in Massachusetts, and I've never made the cross-state trek out to a game. Yes, it would have been a lot easier to get tickets before the whole breaking-of-the-curse thing went down, but to be completely honest, I've never
really
tried to get tickets. And beyond a casual mention to the boys at poker night, I've never really talked it up as a possibility. But I've always wanted to go. It's on my list of things to do before I die.
And, I don't mean to brag, but mostly because I've had several brushes with death, my "things to do before I die" list is a little bit closer to the gut for me than for most- it's almost as though at any moment I might be called upon to drop everything and go to a Sox game, play poker in Vegas, buy something Chanel, pet a buffalo, or go to Hong Kong.
I keep the credit card with the insanely high limit around for this reason. I always imagine getting the bad news, then charging up thousands of dollars in a ridiculously short time, and refusing to pay it off. Then, the flying monkey minions from Bank of America track me down in my hospital bed, and I'll use one of my last breaths to say, "Oh yeah? You want me to pay? Well, I'm dying! So suck on that, you evil monkey bitches!!"
Perhaps I shouldn't be so angry. It is a waste of the little bits of energy that I can muster up in this crazy, never-ending New England winter. It's doing that annoying snow-rain thing again today, and I cannot abide it- having to wear ugly, clunky shoes, or catch pneumonia in cute shoes is a great source of rage for me. (Nothing arouses my anger like being forced into unflattering footwear.)
And we all stay the same, yet the longer it remains 38 degrees and raining, the crankier people get. All I ask is for a little break of sunshine and warmth. I just keep telling myself, "maybe next week, maybe next week..."
The signs of spring have been small so far, but there is still hope. Occasional flowers and chirping birds, all that bullshit. And some enterprising young ladies have decided that technical spring is just as good as actual spring, and have ditched their leggings and tights in favor of bare legs under their short jean skirts. (When I see this happen, I inevitably wish the guys were with me to see it, or that I could appreciate it myself.) And most importantly, baseball season has started.
I'm being lazy this morning. All right, this afternoon too. I sleep in, and when I wake up and turn on the TV, there's baseball. The Red Sox are playing their annual Patriots' Day ((TM)A Massachusetts-Exclusive Holiday) game, and we're soundly beating the Angels.
Foul ball along the third base line. Back, back it goes, into shallow left field, into the first row of the stands. The Angels' left-fielder competes with two fans for the ball. No one catches it. A beer spills.
"Idiots!" I yell. I shake my fist at the fans for interfering with the play. Then the soft glow of the internet draws me away and I space out for a moment.
When I turn back to the TV, Jerry and Don are laughing at a slo-mo replay. From behind the two fans interfering with the play, an object is thrown in a perfect spiral, hitting one of the fans in the neck. Then, a close-up-- it is a piece of pizza, twirling, twirling, and splatting soundly on the side of his face. Priceless.
I laugh too. Jerry says, "That fan, of course, has been ejected from the game." For a moment, I wonder which one- there were two guys fighting the left-fielder for the ball. Then, of course, I realize that they're talking about the guy who threw the pizza.
The fact that I identify with the rage-aholic pizza-thrower must mean that I have issues myself. I mean, there's really no call for being that angry. All it gets you is thrown out of the ballpark. Life lesson: take a deep breath before you throw the pizza.
The good news is that I got my tax refund. And, armed with a small portion of it, I aim to cross off one of the items on my "things to do before I die" list. All I have to do now is decide whether it's more cost-effective to buy something Chanel, or to bribe someone at the farm in Hadley to let me pet a buffalo.
That should curb the madness. Or at least get me through the rain.
