The New Business Model

We're living in a new age. An economic age where the greatest risk you take is not taking one at all. So I'm 30 and doing all the normal musings of a 30 year old. Conversations with my mom that end in "you do realize you're 30." And waking up every day sure today is the day I make something of my life. But see I'm certain that when I shuffle through my imaginary mental scrapbook in the year 2070, when I'm terrorizing my kids and grandkids with my irrational requests, I can also say I've made something of this dear body and flesh and life and spirit and mind.

And if all else fails, one you readers must appear at my memorial with the words I need you to say, "Shit damn, f word (shake head) she did try."

The new business model doesn't ask for a whole lot of anything. Heck mom I can even do it! See the new business model is a truck, and a twitter account. The new business model is a roach coach. The sort you go to, and you wait. And you wait. And people, well me, we're obsessed. A quarter of my day, the quarter I'd qualify as the productive quarter is spent following these trucks through the 60-70 miles from north san fernando valley to south orange county. I've seen shaved ice from a roach coach, korean bbq tacos, and meals served only on frys. Home Depot roach coaches eat your heart out! It is a new movement, my new obsession, where a meal is completely uninteresting to me, until I've eaten it out of a roach coach on a crowded street corner, with plastic utensils, in uncomfortable heels.

But, and I was not looking forward to this point in my tale to you, I've never actually eaten at one. I follow them all, and I get excited when it's down the street, like one was today, but in the same line of thinking that I turn down every opportunity to meet my idol Miss Britney Jean Spears, I apply to the roach coach. Even if it was the best experience ever, like best ever, it would be over.

Perhaps I'm a girl of the chase.

Happy Hump

I didn't make this up. I didn't even go searching for it. It landed in my in-box, and I laughed, and you probably will too. Unless you're not funny. And then in that case, I don't even know why we're friends.

1. I think part of a best friend's job should be to immediately clear your computer history if you die.



2. Nothing sucks more than that moment during an argument when you realize you're wrong.



3. I totally take back all those times I didn't want to nap when I was younger.



4. There is great need for a sarcasm font.



5. How the hell are you supposed to fold a fitted sheet?



6. Was learning cursive really necessary?



7. Map Quest really needs to start their directions on # 5. I'm pretty sure I know how to get out of my neighborhood.



8. Obituaries would be a lot more interesting if they told you how the person died.



9. I can't remember the last time I wasn't at least kind of tired.



10. Bad decisions make good stories.



11. You never know when it will strike, but there comes a moment at work when you know that you just aren't going to do anything productive for the rest of the day.



12. Can we all just agree to ignore whatever comes after Blue Ray? I don't want to have to restart my collection...again.



13. I'm always slightly terrified when I exit out of Word and it asks me if I want to save any changes to my ten-page technical report that I swear I did not make any changes to.



14. "Do not machine wash or tumble dry" means I will never wash this -ever.



15. I hate when I just miss a call by the last ring (Hello? Hello? Damn it!), but when I immediately call back, it rings nine times and goes to voice mail. What did you do after I didn't answer? Drop the phone and run
away?



16. I hate leaving my house confident and looking good and then not seeing anyone of importance the entire day. What a waste.



17. I keep some people's phone numbers in my phone just so I know not to answer when they call.



18. I think the freezer deserves a light as well.



19. I disagree with Kay Jewelers. I would bet on any given Friday or Saturday night more kisses begin with Miller Lite than Kay.



20. I wish Google Maps had an "Avoid Ghetto" routing option.


21. Sometimes, I'll watch a movie that I watched when I was younger and suddenly realize I had no idea what the heck was going on when I first saw it.


22. I would rather try to carry 10 over-loaded plastic bags in each hand than take 2 trips to bring my groceries in.



23. The only time I look forward to a red light is when I'm trying to finish a text.



24. I have a hard time deciphering the fine line between boredom and hunger.



25. How many times is it appropriate to say "What?" before you just nod and smile because you still didn't hear or understand a word they said?



26. I love the sense of camaraderie when an entire line of cars team up to prevent a jerk from cutting in at the front. Stay strong, brothers and sisters!



27. Shirts get dirty. Underwear gets dirty. Pants? Pants never get dirty, and you can wear them forever.



28. Is it just me or do high school kids get dumber & dumber every year?


29. There's no worse feeling than that millisecond you're sure you are going to die after leaning your chair back a little too far.



30. As a driver I hate pedestrians, and as a pedestrian I hate drivers, but no matter what the mode of transportation, I always hate bicyclists.


31. Sometimes I'll look down at my watch 3 consecutive times and still not know what time it is.



32. Even under ideal conditions people have trouble locating their car keys in a pocket, finding their cell phone, and Pinning the Tail on the Donkey - but I'd bet everyone can find and push the snooze button from 3 feet away, in about 1.7 seconds, eyes closed, first time, every time!

An Epidemic of the Tiniest Proportions

Everyone is having babies. Pregnant. “Prego,” cutely stated. “It’s an epidemic,” I told my boss, as I set out for Babies R Us for lunch.

I’m a baby person as much as the next guy. I’m an animal person, and I’m a baby person, and as long as they can sit still for three hours and nine innings of ball, I have no further comment on the issue.

However now, if this pertains to you, I mean you no disrespect. But as a non baby owner, there are some wrongs I’d like to right. Setting sail around the world spreading the gospel of someone who knows nothing about babies, and, you know, how it ought to be.

A visit to Babies R Us, just as the last time I went in 2008, is an absolutely bewildering experience. If I’d eaten this, and drank this, seen a smoking caterpillar, perhaps more sense it would have made. But I just had bad Panda Express, and the regret, coupled with the confusion, might have toppled me over the edge. The point I’m trying to make, perhaps I can only make when I just come right out and say it, and stop trying to be fancy what with my fancy language and fancy words is: I know nothing about babies.

I hold them and they look uncomfortable.
I listen only enough to straight forwardly say, “I don’t understand you baby.”
The last time I changed a diaper I put it on backwards. The mother asked if I was going for a thong look.

I was.

I know nothing about babies. Except that one day I’d like to have them/one/I’ll figure it out. In the meantime I have a lot of time to judge, and have opinions, time I most properly would not have if reversed.

I do not need to know the details of labor. Nope. Don’t.
I do not need to know the contents of your baby’s diaper.
Your kid is so cute. Really. But so are you. Please put your photo back up on social networking sites.
‘We’ are not pregnant, you are.
‘We’ are not going in to labor, you are. He’s gonna hit up the cafeteria, make some phone calls, and be back for the photo op.

But with this, comes assurance someday when I have them/one/I’ll figure it out, I’ll give you too much information and think ever burp and diaper is noteworthy. I’ll replace my picture with the fetus’ and remember if only by distant memory those days, when I had enough time to sit back, have opinions, and a laptop free of throw up.

Avoiding Loss

In the last five days I've experienced sadness, and guilt, deep and unutterable remorse and I've gone to extraordinary measures in those five days to ensure I never have to experience loss again. Why I can't even remember the right lose to use. Is it loss, lose, loose? I'm clearly not very good at it in physical or literative form. If I walk softly enough, keep my voice low enough, looking at no one, weaving from conflict, never forming bonds again, in a cave of fear and a shelter of security, I'd live forever and never speak again of the subject of loss.

See I don't even like when my baseball team loses. There's nothing good that ever comes from loss. On a shutout Saturday I attempted by every way one could, via text message, to negate that loss. But I do speak English, and you can't have bad reception by text message, and see, there's no one here leave a message, still doesn't get you out of the woods. A loss is a loss, and it will chase you down the leftfield line, over the foul pole and find the most faith held fan.

But in negating loss, even I eventually have to accept, life isn't lived. Pets can't be loved, and family would be an advantage never cherished.

So I have today to stay above the 500 mark. Win more than I lose, so that someday when I experience a shutout, in baseball, as in life, I can breathe in, shake my head side to side, and say, shit, that was one hell of a game.

81 Avenue 51, Indio, California; Coachella Valley

After months of job seeking, job seeking that included the bizarre, the mean, the illegal, the misleading, the disappointing, and the tiring, I had an epiphany.

What united all these employers, was the typical sorts of conversational exchanges:
1. Let’s go over your previous job experience.
2. Oh you’re a Dodger fan?
3. Are you good at dealing with difficult people?

My uncle owns a family business, one in which during the hiring process he subjects everyone to what he’s termed, “the nice test.” Simply put, you must before any critical skills, be a nice person. He’ll teach you to 10 key. Nice you need to bring all by yourself.
But I happen to live in a city where that’s the exception.

Working in the Los Angeles entertainment industry has been an experience – and a half, and nice is not something you find on any old 75 degree Friday. I have absolutely had nice bosses and big shout out to that one. But the rest, the rest, well the rest, yeah they’re something else.

I’ve had bosses throw file folders at my head and relay inappropriate personal voicemails from their, well, not their wives. I’ve had screamers, and door slammers, and I once procured the services of a friend to animate for personal entertainment my boss having a meltdown in his office as therapy for me. I’ve had experiences that live in separate parts of my brain, because having to think about them on any old 75 degree LA Friday would make my blood boil.

So unplanned, when asked if I was good at dealing with difficult people, I had an epiphany, being good at something and wanting to do that thing are two strikingly different questions.

“I’m not interested in working with difficult people, no.”

I didn’t get that job, but if the last thirteen paragraphs haven’t told you anything, I probably wouldn’t have wanted it.

For the horrible, for the terrible, for the clinging to the edge of sanity, comes some very decent stories. You know like the time my actually very awesome ex-boss called me his hotel set on the grounds of Florida’s Animal Kingdom, informed me a family of giraffes, baby, mommy, and daddy, were looking at him through the sliding glass window, and asked if I could do something about that.

From LA.

I’m not the 30,000 mile away giraffe whisperer, but I’d guarantee you’d have pretty accurate luck if you shut the drapes.

Who ever thought I was the voice of reason.

But on the eve of Coachella, I have my favorite story.


I worked for four people at this point, but the CEO was my main dude, go-to, report to, signs my timesheet honcho. He was going to Coachella, and for what it mattered to me, he could go to Saturn on his weekends, because I wasn’t on a blackberry and that was him time, and this was me time. We both returned from very awesome weekends, him Coachella, me probably something equally as terrific with little small talk and one request.

Him: “I went to Coachella this weekend.”
Me: “I remember.”
Him: “I lost my wallet.”
Me: “Bummer”
Him: “I’m gonna need that.”
Me: “Yeah”
Him: “Why are you still standing here”
Me: “Going”

I returned to my desk, pursed my lips and nodded very assuredly.

I’m very sure Coachella is a small place, where very few people go, very few honest people, who found that wallet, a wallet I’m sure you remember exactly where you lost it, and brought it to a location, staffed by more honest people, who will pick up the phone when I track down their phone number offer to (free of charge) Federal Express that wallet, and smile, to our office.

“Are you sure you don’t just want me to re-order a new wallet and cards for you?” I yelled across the office.

Crickets.

I want to be challenged at work (does not equal sign) tracking down a missing wallet in the Coachella valley.

By Friday I had delivered the bad news: I’m done with this nonsense. I’d found two phone numbers to two lost and founds, where the voicemail boxes were full. I’d talked to most of the staff, took reports, and interviews, and that wallet was long gone, being spent on beer and women in a better place and he just had to accept that.

So to my Coachella goers this weekend – enjoy. And if you find that goddamnit son of a __ wallet, just don’t mention it to me.

Hello Kitty, Goodbye Kitty

I can't fathom a sadness like this clings without end, because if it did, I can't imagine anyone wanting to undertake it again.

I was in no business to be a pet owner. I was 20. And a full time college student. A full time sorority sister. A full time employee with a full time job. But I was also full of a lot of love too, and on Tuesdays and Thursdays, at Katie's Pet Depot one block south of Wilshire, and half a mile from UCLA, I'd walk, on my lunch hour, to visit the animals there in the window for adoption. It was soothing. An hour to myself, away from my sort of terror for a boss, and a terror of a world.

When asked if I'm a cat person, I say "I'm whatever my landlord will let me have in an apartment person." And in most places I've lived, those are cats.

I made smalltalk with dogs, and cooed at gerbils, softly petted bunnies in large circular glass enclosures, and talked up one, Sandy, who told me I needed a cat in my life. I hadn't thought I needed one, but she was Sandy, and who was I to tell this Sandy, and her adopted animals, I didn't need them.

They needed me, if anything.

Ok, I said, I'll take this one.

I drove back after work, picked up Sophie, and there we were, at home, pet owner and pet ownee. I was 20 and I'd never had my own pet. I'd had family pets, and if something belonged to me, reported directly to me, it was much more in the shape of a mouse or a frog or a turtle. Sophie was able to show me affection in a way I'd never experienced with Templeton my rat from age 8 through 10, or my mouse, who lived one evening before falling victim to my terribly cunning team of dog and cat. But Sophie was also able to show me, too, I wasn't enough. And after 3 months, she sent me out to find a pet, a companion, a cunning partner, for her.

I had been a pet owner and she a pet ownee for 3 months, so I didn't know how to procure a cat for my cat or a pet for my pet, so I started with the simple: I'd just tell people that's what I wanted to do. Universe, give to me what I ask. Through one coworker, and her mother, and my coworkers mother, and her coworker, came my coworkers mother's coworkers friend, and alas an address, somewhere deep down the 110 in the mountains of Pasadena.

There lived a cat, age unknown, only that she'd been pregnant before age of consent and delivered a litter herself. All living in the outside, mountains, fending for themselves. In a word we've learned never to utter, save for just saying "the c word" her entire litter was eaten by coyotes.

She knew sadness too early, and home, she so desperately needed.

"She likes you!" they said. While I'd come to learn, she liked everyone, that night I took her home, Madi Lynn I named her, and there began a 3 weeks of a mistake, I was sure I had made.

There was hissing, and hiding, and mean looks. "I got her for you, Sophie! Be nice!"

And just as everyone said, just as I was ready to turn around and drive her back up the 110, friends, fast friends they became. This apartment, and each one I had after, also became theirs.

I've always said a pet is the most interesting of friends, because they know you like no one else. They know you at your weakest and most vulnerable, they know you through years and a decade of your life, that you see mirrored back at you.

Your only obligation: take care.

And through college, 7 bosses, 3 jobs and 6 apartments, I tried.
And she, me.

There were these nights I was so full of energy I could not sleep, or days so low I needed love, and we'd turn on the music and dance.
And dance.
and dance.

A project, any project, she was there. She was there to provide absolutely no assistance. She sat on my hand as I wrote away. Attempted to write away. Laundry, a car wash, even a trip down the street to be noisy, she came with.

I slaved away, she rolled in the dirt.

It's in her absence, that I do what has to be typical, split my time with beating myself up, and mourning the loss.

I tried to give her away on more than one occasion.
We didn't get along.
She bossed me around.
If she wanted wet food in the middle of the night, she woke up to tell me.
She looked like a kitten, but she roared like a monster.
It's how she got away with murder.

She liked spicy tuna rolls
and flaming hot cheetos
wet food and dry food and every kind of food food
and on more than three ocassions she'd steal pizza right out of my hand.

So when I saw her Tuesday night, out of the corner of my eye, chatting away on the telephone, her shaking unable to walk, deplete of herself, I knew that emergency care she required. We ruled out kidney failure, and diabetes, hyperthyroid perhaps, but that would require more tests. It wasn't this, but maybe that, there was no way to be sure. She was pumped with IV fluids, and sent home, skinnier, and frailer than I'd ever seen her, in just a day she went from someone I knew, to no one any of us knew.

That night we slept side by side. Her eyes laid open, mine too. When I finally met sleep, she snuck away. I awoke that morning and searched the house. Every time I'd find her she'd find a new place to hide, be by herself, saying to me over and over she was ready to go.

I drove her to the vet.

You have three options, I was told. All of them require many tests, hospitalization, xrays. Poking and prodding galore. But her quality of life was gone. That won't ever return. She's ready to go.

I thought about my 20s, that big ol' chunk of my life, made better by her, if though most of it was me declaring we didn't get along. I couldn't let it be marred by me clinging to an inability to let her go.

She had made her choice. I just had to accept it.

There are things I would have done different. I could have been more patient. Probably not have offered her to every stranger and Jehovah's witness who came to my door. But what I never would have done different is have her as my friend. Or in saying hello, be afraid to say goodbye.

Please Uncover Your Eyes

The LA Times byline for LA Baseball yesterday read -

"You may now uncover your eyes."

I don't proclaim rocket scientist status, and my ACT and SAT score got me firmly in to a state school, but I do know it's generally impossible to read with your eyes while covering them.

When I embarked on my baseball loving life a decade ago, an embarkment foolishly to win the heart of a college aged boy whom caught my eye, I did so as a fan of the Dodgers. I lived in LA, the stadium was close, and he was a fan. I was 21 and that's what you did in the year 2000 when you know as little about life as you can read covering your eyes.

Two and a half years, three apartments, and ninety five arguments that all amounted to one thing - you're the wrong guy - I left that relationship with one mug, two cats, and a brand new hobby.

I had to decide if I liked this team on it's own merits.

My mom had always been a fan of the pro and con list system.
But what if there are so many pros mom, but there's this one con, I mean that you just have to give more value to.

We moved to a weighted pro and con system.

The numbers added up and by thorough accounting, proper vetting and all intelligent due diligence, it said one thing:
You're a Dodger fan.

I wish any of that was actually true, because I had tried one evening to make it mathematical. But love, love is more complicated than an IRS tax form and rocket science.

I loved them. I loved the Dodgers.

So for all of us who fall below the measure of rocket science status, an attempt at an explanation of love does justice to proving us as feeling, thinking beings, smarter than the proverbial smartest.

I sought in cushion of my mid-20s to prove my independence, and proclaim an identity in individuality.

I was now just a baseball fan, I said, one hand on my hip, brows burrowed, sassy shoulders moving to and fro.

I'd also like to pretend any of that is true, but I bought a cute Cubs hat at Lids in Glendale that I wanted to wear to ball games, and I was in law school, so I came up with an airtight argument should anyone ask.

I'm told life is less about seasons and holidays, and marked more on measure of our growth. We're born needing help, and then fight to "do it myself mommy." We grow in to wearing our Minnie Mouse dress to school everyday because we can, and dismiss judgment, until time we care about peer feedback again.

I'd tell you I care about what other people think about me - if you tell me what day and time you'd like to know.

For years spent exerting identity, comes equal years seeking belonging.

Succeeding at these years depends on what side of the coin you cling to.

So 30 years of life, 10 years of a baseball enthusiasm, and one very used up Cubs hat later, I proclaim while reserving all ability to modify at any time in perpetutity,
I'm a Dodger fan.
I'm a Dodger fan more so than a pro and con list,
a pro and con list weighted and given value,
tested over failed relationships,
disappointing season endings,
and a losing start.

But as only a Dodger sportscaster will say, someone with absolutely no objectivity, a home opener is the beginning of your season. And today we won.
So today I uncover my eyes,
forget last week - like you do when you grant forgiveness to those you love,
and say:

It's time for Dodger baseball.

A Place with Promise

I haven't really thought much of heaven. In the same vein as I refuse much to care about the day after the much talked about day in December 2012. If I go, I go. In the meantime I tell people I love them a lot. And besides a childrearing where to open up the box to a gift, I must have had already drafted my first draft of a thank you note (before being allowed to write it on the nice paper), I believe strongly in the thank you note. For the reasons we are all familiar with, etched in concrete in our cliche, it could all be over, and I want people to know I'm really thankful. And I hope they have a great birthday. And I'm sorry for their loss. Because those things can't be said when we leave, and those around us leave, or when we grow distant.

Thank you so much.

So I don't know if it's the being really present in my gratitude of todays gifts, or the writing of cards which keep me and the US Postal Service busy, I forget about heaven. It's somewhat surprising since even at stop lights I like to long at drivers in cars next to me imaging where they work and live, what cereal could be their favorite, whether they're in love and where they bought their sunglasses and what makes them dream.

I can create a story and a visual around a parked car - until I get honked at.

But heaven is a place I don't think of much, to even my own surprise.

Easter and the rise of Christ is a reminder, and death. A death is a reminder.

Even the worst in most animals in better than the best in people. They are beloved because their innocence is not forced or in fear of disappearing, and their lifelong need to belong to you never dicipates.

My little cat is an asshole, and most time I see her in the hallway I greet her with a "oh you're still here." But I secretly love her. Like I love a lot of people - and as this story goes - animals outside of four corner box of my immediate life.

Several weeks ago a bunny I petsat for - for 10 years, passed away. For it's life it was always good with dogs, and even reasonable affectionate with humans, but as long as I knew him, he'd never let me touch him. This past December, he sat in my arms, and while I claimed some win for finally getting what I'd always wanted - to pet him, I knew now that his stobbornness had washed away from his spirit, he'd too fade away. Unable to hop anymore, losing control over his back legs, he no longer belonged in this place. He died not many months after.

Last night, my adopted family's treasured adopted rescue also succumbed to failing kidneys and old age. Named Wendy for the Peter Pan classic, I only imagine most write or speak or remember their animals for being supremely "happy," and she, well so was she. I had tried to kidnap her on ocassion declaring she'd be happier living in Los Angeles with me, but unspokenly we know the obvious, this dog was happy right where she was, and anywhere she was. She dug, and took a very much needed nap on your lap, and not like your dog, she was a very good dog. The best dog.

When my friend emailed me today to tell me, because she knew I'd want to know, we spoke of how her cat, Promise, would very much welcome Wendy to heaven.

I hadn't thought about heaven, I thought. But I did, I started.

"Oh I bet Promise just looked over her shoulder at Wendy there, rolled her eyes, and turned her head away."

We both laughed. Promise was something else.

But in thinking of Wendy, and Promise, and that bunny hop hopping his way in to the afterlife, I thought about heaven. A place and story constructed in my head, to find comfort in their loss, in their presence. That their memory, their interaction, with me, and each other, will remain intact. Their spirit, finding permanence after their life. In my mind do they always live? Or hippity hopping, taking long afternoon cat naps, and chasing cats, they will have for always. I will only chase the dragon to know. In the meantime I just like to think of them, be a bit sad, and smile with the gratitude of their presence in my present.

Things I Knew You Know?

In moments of clarity I'll admit there are worldly and things beyond this world more important than baseball. God and love, family and peace, among them. But in other moments I'm more convinced it's those very things that draw me back every year. What I ask you is more calling than fresh sod on opening day, and another opportunity to say the words I come to be served back in September with a side of defeat, "this is the dodgers year, I know it." So it's of no value or consequence I proclaim enthusiasm for another new season, or that this is the year the dodgers take it all, or that I will be unreasonable entertaining any other conjecture.

Gainful employment, and the Dodgers refusal to reschedule opening day around my schedule, means another year of absentee status from opening day. It makes my tender heart melt and cry and bleed, and other illusions of metaphor, but it just is. And a lot of life is about learning to know the stuff you ought to have knew. People in process, we are. And I, no exception.

This year I swapped my blues for an Angel opener. I scurried and shuffled my ballet flats as fast as they'd go, and got to Anaheim in time for the middle of 1st - not bad for commuting 40 miles in rush hour and after I'd walked across a business park, a busy street, and the Angels parking lot, I'd made it. I parused the pop's popcorn, and sat down to watch some ball. Within minutes I fell in immediate discomfort. I'd had some health problems for the past months, but not rising to the point it would take over a good ballgame.

When I sat in silence, I could be ok. I'd say in repetition, "you're ok, you're fine, this will pass, there's no sort of pain that is beyond what you can handle. you're ok, you're ok, you're ok." But when someone would speak to me, because this isn't out of the realm of what's to be expected at a social engagement, I learned I couldn't speak inside my head and reassure my pain, and listen. I excused myself several times, just to be alone, and be in pain alone, until by the 7th inning, I knew this wasn't something I could handle anymore. I couldn't handle this on my own.

"I'm going to have to leave. You stay, I'm going to urgent care."

I tried to call in advance to let them know that while it was 9:30 I was going to break every law to get there by 10:00 by closing and to wait for me, but it was the 7th inning stretch, and while I chose to suffer in silence, fans showed their enthusiasm for the opening of baseball in the way I would have, had I an ability to. I couldn't get through, so I just had to make a run for it.

I'm unfamiliar with Angels stadium. So much unlike the way I know Dodger stadium. I know longtime consession workers, and have hung out with the ice cream guys in their breakroom. But here I was sad and sick and in pain, and lost. I'd never left a baseball game early in my young life, and in a way I can't express through english venacular that also made me so sad. I took what ended up being the longest way out of the stadium, and once I reached a series of ramps that seemed to make no progress towards exit, I prepared to run.

Now if you know my boyfriend you know he loves Angels baseball. Like a lot. So what business did I have to say, "leave and come with me." I couldn't.

But I got to the bottom of those half dozen ramps, and there he was. "Did you think I'd really let you leave and do this on your own?"

I was guilt ridden, but I had to make it before closing. In ballet flats, I ran across two parking lots, major traffic barriers, and a concrete wall, when I made it 4 minutes before closing.

The Angels won, and by the next day I felt better, if for now. The Dodgers lost their first couple games, and that in no way gave my pain a relief. But when I look back over my life, over baseball, the opening days, the 2 grand slams in one inning and 4 home runs I once saw in a September, the spring training games, and trips across the country to see rivals play in Wrigley and drinking beers with Cardinal fans, I have no other choice but to put this at the very top. Because for the reasons I've described, baseball to me is about a showmanship of being the very best you can be everyday, and that image of my boyfriend, the biggest baseball fan I know, leaving his opening day early, to run half a mile with me to urgent care, is what I always knew the best in people was, you know?