I am well on my way to becoming a Sounders Superfan. Maura and I have some steps in place to ensure this.
1. Learn the songs.
2. Learn the rules.
3. Make up a fabulous Sounders dance.
4. Infiltrate the other Sounders Superfans and teach them our fabulous dance.
5. Become their leader.
Yes, I think it's a brilliant plan. And so does Maura.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Best Friends Forever
Katie is my best friend. She has been my best friend for many years, and she is my best friend for many reasons. Here is an example.
Several years ago, my boyfriend broke up with me. I am a fairly dramatic person, and at the time, it was a rough break-up. I was completely devastated and pretty much flipping out. Katie and I shared an apartment in Ann Arbor at the time.
(Side note: it was the only time we ever lived together, and I’m so happy we were able to have that experience before she went to law school and I went to NZ. Based on how much we ordered out, I’m pretty sure that Pizza House was also happy.)
After the horrific break-up took place, I called Katie at work in hysterics. Heaving and sputtering, I told her what happened. "Okay," she said, "I’m coming home now." And she hung up. I sat in our little apartment, crying and feeling sorry for myself. Minutes tick by, but no Katie. She only works a few blocks away, what is taking her so long? 15, 20 minutes, still no Katie. Finally, a half hour later, she walks in the door. And she has a bag. I stop crying long enough to yell at her for taking forever. I TOLD you, I am a dramatic person.
Katie sighs, “I know, that took ages. I had to stop and get provisions.” Out of the bag she pulls a carton of ice cream, a bottle of wine, and a dozen beers. “I didn’t know which one you would want,” she says, and then she hugs me.
I know. You wish Katie was YOUR best friend too.
P.S. Wine.
Several years ago, my boyfriend broke up with me. I am a fairly dramatic person, and at the time, it was a rough break-up. I was completely devastated and pretty much flipping out. Katie and I shared an apartment in Ann Arbor at the time.
(Side note: it was the only time we ever lived together, and I’m so happy we were able to have that experience before she went to law school and I went to NZ. Based on how much we ordered out, I’m pretty sure that Pizza House was also happy.)
After the horrific break-up took place, I called Katie at work in hysterics. Heaving and sputtering, I told her what happened. "Okay," she said, "I’m coming home now." And she hung up. I sat in our little apartment, crying and feeling sorry for myself. Minutes tick by, but no Katie. She only works a few blocks away, what is taking her so long? 15, 20 minutes, still no Katie. Finally, a half hour later, she walks in the door. And she has a bag. I stop crying long enough to yell at her for taking forever. I TOLD you, I am a dramatic person.
Katie sighs, “I know, that took ages. I had to stop and get provisions.” Out of the bag she pulls a carton of ice cream, a bottle of wine, and a dozen beers. “I didn’t know which one you would want,” she says, and then she hugs me.
I know. You wish Katie was YOUR best friend too.
P.S. Wine.
Friday, July 17, 2009
All Messed Up
I am an organized person. I am detail-oriented, orderly, efficient. Very, very organized. Except in one area. And that would be "my room."
I have piles of clothes on the floor. Shoes kicked off in different directions. Undies hanging out of drawers. Stacks of clothes piled high on the dresser. Jewelry that has been knocked off flat surfaces that's now just lost on the floor. Instead of hanging clothes on hangers in my closet, I will lay them across the top of the rack making it impossible to see the clothes underneath. Stacks of old journals and poems and magazines are piled in every corner.
Because of my unbelievable messiness, Tim and I actually switched bedrooms. We now have our regular bedroom where we sleep, and then I have "my room." It's basically just a room where my explosion of crap lives. This move was intially so I could have a "dressing room", a lovely girly getaway designed to give me some of my own space. Instead it has become a sort of a breeding ground for disaster.
This is not a new habit. Nope. Anyone that has ever lived with me can vouch for my (truly) dirty little secret. And no matter how hard I try to keep my room clean, I alway revert back to my old ways.
But why?
How can I be so organized in all other areas of my life? Organized to the point of anal even, but I can accept, nay encourage, this shitstorm of a room in my house? Is it because I can view my room as the one place where I don't have to have it all together? In fact, it IS my little girly getaway? Or is it because I can just shut the door and pretend the mess doesn't exist? Or am I just plain lazy?
D. All of the above.
I have piles of clothes on the floor. Shoes kicked off in different directions. Undies hanging out of drawers. Stacks of clothes piled high on the dresser. Jewelry that has been knocked off flat surfaces that's now just lost on the floor. Instead of hanging clothes on hangers in my closet, I will lay them across the top of the rack making it impossible to see the clothes underneath. Stacks of old journals and poems and magazines are piled in every corner.
Because of my unbelievable messiness, Tim and I actually switched bedrooms. We now have our regular bedroom where we sleep, and then I have "my room." It's basically just a room where my explosion of crap lives. This move was intially so I could have a "dressing room", a lovely girly getaway designed to give me some of my own space. Instead it has become a sort of a breeding ground for disaster.
This is not a new habit. Nope. Anyone that has ever lived with me can vouch for my (truly) dirty little secret. And no matter how hard I try to keep my room clean, I alway revert back to my old ways.
But why?
How can I be so organized in all other areas of my life? Organized to the point of anal even, but I can accept, nay encourage, this shitstorm of a room in my house? Is it because I can view my room as the one place where I don't have to have it all together? In fact, it IS my little girly getaway? Or is it because I can just shut the door and pretend the mess doesn't exist? Or am I just plain lazy?
D. All of the above.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Do You Want To Talk About It?
People tell me things. I’m not quite sure why, but people tell me things. I can barely know a guy from Adam, and he will go right ahead and tell me something immensely personal or deeply private. This has been the case for as long as I can remember. It actually wasn’t that long ago that I realized that this doesn’t happen to everyone. Not everyone is getting these intimate details of other people’s lives. I’m, well, I’m flattered that people feel comfortable opening up to me, and I definitely think it’s important that we talk about the big issues. I’m always happy to listen when folks feel like talking. And it’s not like they’re always looking for advice either. Nope, it seems to just be more of a venting thing, a getting-off-the-chest thing, a whew-that-felt-good-to-say-that-aloud thing. My Mom told me that this happens to her as well. People tell her things. And my Dad is a psychologist, so I’m assuming people tell him things too. So maybe it’s just been passed on to me - a sort of psychological dimple. I’m the girl you tell things to.
Talk away. I will listen.
Talk away. I will listen.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Wednesday
Good conversation. Great friends. Decent wine. So why does everything feel all mixed up?
I miss "normal".
KJK, I miss you already.
I miss "normal".
KJK, I miss you already.
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