Dude, He's Way More Into You Than I Am

On the day of my second outing with The Butler, I was blessed/cursed with a yay-there'll-be-no-bastard-Belle-spawn-in-the-forseeable-future/ holy-shit-can't-I-just-rip-out-my-fucking-uterus reminder of my womanhood.

With the unusually rough day and my impending date, I felt I had two options:
1. Try to deal with the pain and risk doubling over and/or writhing on the floor every few minutes, or
2. Take a hefty dose of my self-prescribed herbal cramps remedy and hope I didn't laugh like a hyena at The Butler's jokes.

After an excruciating commute home, I chose the latter option. Now, I normally wouldn't partake in such activities before a date, but my monthly visitor was being exceedingly vicious this time 'round. So I proceeded with the partaking before dashing out to meet my date.

He chose the place and met me; I drove. We spent the better part of the evening throwing random movie quotes back and forth and laughing about nothing and everything. (My laughter might've come a little more freely with the whole herbal factor, but, hey, he seemed into it...)

When our waiter (let's call him Edward) came 'round to take our order, I noticed he paid a bit more attention to my date than he did to me. As the night progressed, good ol' Edward's trips to our table grew more frequent and longer, and his obvious disdain for my presence grew exponentially. (At one point, he even turned his back to me completely, effectively shutting me out of the conversation he was having with, ummmm... my date.)

Perhaps my cure-all had a bit to do with my attitude about the situation, but I actually found it amusing that Edward was joking with and chatting up my seemingly-oblivious date in obviously flirtatious ways.

As our meal drew to an end, I started hoping I could steal a moment for a little chat with Eddie-boy. The potential conversation running through my head went something like this:

Belle: Hey, it's Edward, right?
Edward: <raises scornful eyebrow> Yesssssssssssssssss...
Belle: Listen, Edward, there's no good way to ask this, so I'm just going to throw it out there... Do you think my date is gay? I mean, if you do, just tell me. My gaydar's been on the fritz, and I really don't want to go down that road...
Edward: <looks down in pity> Oh, honey.... that boy's queer as a three-dollar bill.
Belle: Thanks, Edward. That's all I needed to know. You know, even though you've been flirting with my date all night, I think you're good people.
Edward: No problem. So... Since you're not going to date him... do you think I could get his number???

Alas and alack, it wasn't meant to be. The Butler never made a trip to the little boys' room or otherwise excused himself from my presence. And when I went to powder my nose, Edwardo made a B-line for The Butler in all his momentary table-of-one glory.

When our attempted departure warranted Edward starting (and maintaining) a 15-minute conversation about essentially nothing, I concluded that he was waaaaaay more into my date than I was. (I mean, at that point, his tip was already on the table, and he was quite obviously grasping at straws just to keep The Butler in his presence.)

When I got home, I tried calling the restaurant to have that afore-mentioned freeing conversation with Edward. The guy who answered the phone informed me I'd just missed him, and I felt my chances for the heart-to-heart dashed.

Like Going Home, Only Not Really

23+ years in The ‘Sip, and I somehow never once found myself attending a concert of the country variety.*

That all changed recently, when Mamacita Baño dragged** invited me to attend a concert at Nissan Pavilion.

Rebel flags, cowboy boots, and 18-year-olds abounded. I haven’t seen such a concentration of Dixie Outfitters shirts in many, many moons. And… lassos? Really?

The day was good, though, despite the repeated visceral reminders of many of the reasons I vamped from the Southern Homestead.

* That’s not to say I didn’t listen to country music or go to festivals and other events featuring country artists. No, that’s not to say that at all.
** Love your face, Boo!

Worst-Case Scenarios: The Proposal*

1. He goes home with you this summer, and, without speaking to you before hand, proposes at dinner in front of the whole family, addressing, of course, your father throughout his entire speech. (Oh, yeah, and he has no ring…)

2. You’re on the bus, and a huge hairy man with BO is standing just so that his sweat-drenched arm pit is positioned right in front of your face. Your guy stands, makes a grand speech for your fellow riders to hear, and proposes on the spot. The passengers erupt into applause, and the bus driver starts singing some off-key rendition of a song you (surprisingly) don’t recognize. Meanwhile, all the male riders feel it their duty to congratulate you, the bride-to-be, with various hugs, kisses, and gropes. (He stands idly by, grinning, as they take turns mauling you.)

3. He convinces you (hater of spicy foods, live music, and crowds of weirdos) to go to the Chili Cook-off with him. (You pay for your own ticket.) After you’ve been shoved around all day by the drunken crowd, he buys a bowl of 7-alarm chili and convinces you to eat it. The ring is at the bottom of the bowl, and he just keeps telling you to eat the whole thing, so you can get a “reward.”

4. He, uncharacteristically, spends the lion’s share of his savings on a fancy-dancy, too-big-for-your-hand engagement ring (which you think hideously gaudy). He proposes. You accept. The next day, he gets canned, asks if he can move in with you and if you can support him while he takes the next year to “find himself.” The wedding you had only started planning in your head is postponed indefinitely.

5. He asks you to marry him on gChat. When you suggest discussing the subject in person, he insists you have your best conversations in that forum and demands that you give him an answer or all bets are off.

6. You accompany him to Vegas for a business trip. He convinces you, in a cab, to marry him, then takes you to a Latin-themed wedding chapel where you’re expected to wear a revealing, multi-colored dress and salsa down the aisle.

7. He asks you in an eCard. You don’t respond. He never mentions it in person, but keeps sending you an eCard every month with the same question. When you bring it up, he finds an excuse to leave the room.

8. He plans the perfect evening… a nice dinner out, a wonderful evening at the theater, followed by a romantic picnic-style dessert course overlooking the water. He brings a chocolate-covered strawberry to your lips; you bite down and break your front tooth on the ring concealed inside.

1. You go to the dentist to get a cap for the tooth you broke. As the anesthesia is wearing off, the doctor hands you a mirror to let you inspect her work. When you open your mouth, you’re greeted by a gold cap with a diamond set in it. Just as you’re about to protest, your man comes around the corner, beaming proudly of his idea for an incredibly unique engagement “ring”, and asks again if you’ll marry him.

9. At his request, you plan a trip to Six Flags. You buy the passes, plan and make the picnic lunch, drive the two of you, and haul around the bag with both of your things in it all day. Toward the end of the day, you’re tired, a little peeved, and somewhat nauseous. He insists on riding the biggest, scariest roller coaster, and asks you to marry him just as you reach the largest summit. He pukes in your lap before you can respond. Then you puke all over yourself.

10. He surprises you (a teacher) at a school event, where all your coworkers, students, and students’ parents are present. He takes the mic, makes a big speech in which he reveals very personal details about you and very explicit details about your relationship, and proposes in front of all of them.

11. He reveals that he is not, after all, from the Northeast, but is an illegal immigrant. He proposes that you take the role of his wife for the next decade and that the two of you then make a clean break. In exchange for your services, and in payment for his green card, he’ll give you a lifetime supply of food from McDonald’s (and, of course, dual citizenship in a country that all but loathes women).

12. He proposes. You accept and announce your engagement to your family, friends, and coworkers. Only then does he tell you that he’s still “technically” married to a woman he had a one-night stand with in college and hasn’t been able to track down for the last six years.

13. He builds up your hopes and expectations for a special night out, full of intrigue and surprises. When you arrive at your destination, he takes your blindfold off, and you see you’re at a strip club. He tells you to “pick out a pair” on one of the dancers, and says he’ll pay for your breast augmentation surgery in lieu of buying you an engagement ring. This way, he claims, you’ll both reap the benefits for years to come.

* All in good fun, dearies. What would your worst-case-scenario proposals include?

Jerry Masterson, age 8, is My Hero.

Stereotypes Shattered

The wedding this weekend was a jolly good time. The quick drop-in with the family was decent, if not perfect. (No tears were shed - yay!)

I might get around to posting some more, but for the moment I'm just going to share a story.

The Bouquet and the Garter
by: Belle

Once upon a time, there was a wedding. The freshly married couple had danced their first dance and cut their cake. The toasts had been given, some causing blushing, some tears, some laughter. There was eating. There was drinking. There was merriment.

Stepping up to the microphone, the Matron of Honor announced the time-honored traditions of tossing the bouquet and the garter would shortly commence.

We need all the single ladies up front!

Slowly a small group of women made their way to the middle of the room, taking a place behind the bride. More than a few had to be gently persuaded to join the crowd. The ladies shuffled around, each, it seemed, vying for a position on the fringes.

One... Two... Three!

The Bride tossed the bouquet. It arced through the air, hit a ceiling beam, and fell to the floor a mere few feet in front of the group. It lay there.

Let's try that again.

One... Two... Three!

The Bride tossed the bouquet. Not one of the girls in the group ventured forward to retrieve it. The bouquet landed. It lay there.

C'mon, girls, you're supposed to catch it! One more time!

One... Two... Three!

Again, the Bride tossed. Again, the bouquet landed. Again, the young ladies were still.

Finally, the foremost girl, the one who planned to break up with her beau on their return home, sighed and stepped forward to pick up the battered and bruised flowers from the dusty floor.

The group dispersed, and the Matron of Honor called the single men to the spotlight.

Now it's time for the garter!

The boisterous bachelors filed quickly to the front from all directions. They jostled one another for a prime position.

The Groom lifted the trailing white hem and removed the garter from his Bride's leg. He stood and tossed the circle of blue and white frill through the air. The bachelors pushed forward in a small wave, trying to shove one another aside to claim the prize.

When the shuffle was over, one of them stepped out of the mass smiling, victorious, blue and white frill firmly in hand.

- The End -

It's a far cry from this, eh?





Do you think the young ladies and gentlemen in the story just comprise an odd bunch out, or is there something more significant going on here?

Something Awkward This Way Comes

Travel Buddy: He only talked to you because he liked your boobs.
Belle: Oh, thanks. You're saying there's nothing else about me that would ever make a guy want to talk to me?
Travel Buddy: Yes. That's exactly what I'm saying.
Belle: You're a bastard.

A few weeks ago, Ms. Potato* came up with the grand idea of finding an establishment at which we might quench our burning desire to play The Skee Ball.

Travel Buddy and the Fun Committee Chair quickly vetoed the Chuck E. Cheese suggestion and proposed Dave and Buster's as a more adult-oriented alternative. And so the adventure began.

We ate. We drank. We played The Skee Ball. We collected tickets.

And when all was said and done, the Grand Pumba of the fine, fine establishment asked that we make our prize selections so the staff could close shop and go home.

So we found ourselves in a room filled from floor to ceiling with cheap Chinese imports, trying to put our hard-earned points to use. Should we get the goofy glasses? The Family Guy figures that grow in water? A stuffed animal?

Ms. Potato and I stood facing a wall with pens, pencils, gadgets, and novelties galore, discussing our options. Suddenly, there was a low voice behind us.

The walkie talkie pens are pretty cool, if they still have them. We turned to see a guy standing awkwardly with his hands in his pockets. That voice recorder has a pretty decent recording time, he said, pointing toward a small package to our left.

I thanked the guy for his input and turned back to face Ms. Potato. She had edged her way to the other end of the aisle and was intently inspecting a stuffed monkey with her back to me and the stranger. Smooth. Real smooth.

The stranger was still pointing things out, telling me what was "worth it" and what wasn't. Wow. You really seem to know your stuff, I told him. You must come here a lot. It wasn't delivered as a compliment, but the subtle clue of my intonation seemed lost on him.

Without a word, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his Dave and Buster's card. The plastic glittered and gleamed under the fluorescent lights, announcing his Gold Status.

If we'd been on television, this is the point where they'd cue the dramatic music and hushed oohs and ahhs of the crowd. Ah, I see, I mumbled, and returned my attention to browsing for something, anything, that would get me a little bit further from this guy.

When I'd successfully navigated away from him and back to Ms. Potato, she raised a questioning eyebrow. I shrugged, and we went back to our discussion of which items we just couldn't live without.

A few minutes later, I found myself buddy-less with the stranger at my side again. Ms. Potato walked toward me, and I picked up the first thing my hand touched. Scooby's kind of cute, I said to her. She nodded and kept walking, ignoring my telepathic plea to get me away from the guy.

I tossed the toy back in the bin, and he picked it up. Hold on, he said. I'll be right back. Wait, your boyfriend isn't here is he? Without thinking, I shook my head. I don't have a boyfriend, I answered, regretting it immediately.

With that, he was gone to the register, and I felt my face burning. Good lord, he's not going to buy me that, is he? Why didn't I just say yes? I stood helplessly waiting while he swiped his gilded card at the register. I could feel the heat rising on my neck as I noticed my friends in a gaggle in the corner, giggling as they looked in our direction. Thanks, guys.

The stranger returned and held a bag out to me. I thanked him and told him he really didn't have to buy me anything. Eh, it's no big deal. I have about ten thousand points, he said, and I don't see anything I want today.

Feeling somewhat befuddled and a little obligated, I introduced myself. Belle, I'm Mr. Awkward, he said, limply shaking my outstretched hand. I managed a little small talk before excusing myself to find my friends.

Bag in tow, I located Travel Buddy and FCC. Did that guy just buy you something? I nodded. He's weird, Ms. Potato interjected. I nodded again.

A few minutes later, the group having dispersed again to search for individual booty, I found Mr. Awkward at my side again, cell phone in hand.

Uh oh , I thought. He's going to ask for my number. Lying didn't even cross my mind. It rarely does.

To my surprise, Mr. Awkward didn't ask for my number. Instead, he showed me a couple of videos of his friend doing stunts on a motorcycle. I watched distractedly, commenting sporadically and wondering what my escape route would be if the guy suddenly went wacko. When the videos finished, we parted ways again.

Final selections in hand, I met my group at the counter, where we swiped and splurged the night's earnings on meaningless trinkets we'd soon forget. Mr. Awkward was nowhere in sight.

As we made our way out of the establishment and across the parking lot, I took a lot of good-natured ribbing from the group and wondered if Mr. Awkward would be waiting around the next corner or behind the next car.

He never made another appearance.


* With nary a week's notice, Ms. Potato made a whirlwind exodus from D.C. earlier in the summer and set up camp in the lower regions of these great United States. After enduring the sweltering heat and humidity of the great metropolis she's calling home these days, she returned for a week and graced us with her presence.

LNS Didn't Bring It

Travel Buddy: There are going to be a lot of douchebags at this party.
Belle: This is D.C. I'll show you 10 guys, and if you can point to five of them who aren't douchebags, I'll give you a hundred bucks.
Travel Buddy: Good point.

The driver stopped in front of the white brick house. That's it. With the exception of a few shadows visible in the window, the house seemed somewhat lifeless.

BB: It looks shady.
Belle: It does not look shady.
Travel Buddy: Look, there are people in there.
Belle: Let's just go in. If it's terrible, we can leave.
BB: We're not staying long.

We paid the man, piled out of the taxi, and stepped onto the sidewalk. A lone figure in the shadows of the half-dark confirmed we'd found the right place. You're here. The booze is to the left, and it's going fast. Help yourself.

We stepped through the door, and I felt immediately like I'd been transported back to college days. The walls were absolutely bare. The furniture was nearly nonexistent. Natty Lite and Budweiser abounded, but most of the girls carried Solo cups filled to brimming with lots of alcohol and a splash of soda by chivalrous young men. It was just like a sweaty frat party in the 'Sip, except this one had crown molding and minorities.

Earlier in the night, as we sipped champagne and shared strawberry shortcake, BB laid out our options. We can stay here, go to another bar, or go to a house party in Georgetown. The house party didn't seem nearly so interesting until she informed me it was an LNS shindig.

I've been reading this and that about this crew for months, and I wanted to see what they were all about. To be perfectly honest, I was kind of disappointed; there was very little fodder for this here blog, friends. Perhaps not being a Smith Point threw the LNS game off a bit.

Guys in (un-popped) collared shirts and girls in sun dresses were crammed into the main rooms downstairs, chatting in small groups. I was sorely out of place in jeans, but what the hell did I care? Nowhere close to meeting the size 4 mandate, I would have stood out no matter my ensemble. And, anyway, I wasn't the most out of place.

I'm glad to see I'm not the only one who's under-dressed. I turned to face the only female present wearing shorts. I feel like I should give you a hug or something, she said. I complied just a moment before her J. Crew-clad friend looked me up and down and told me she was going to have to ask me to leave. I laughed at what I assumed was her jest and went back to talking to Travel Buddy.

Our conversation focused primarily on the party. On the fact that it wasn't as terrible as we'd expected. That we'd been to worse. Much, much worse.

The party was decidedly frat-tastic, but there was nothing incredibly remarkable about it. You had your garden-variety homophobia on display from the guy yelling something about a "homo" when we first walked in the door. You had your insecure cattiness from the bitch waiting in line for the bathroom behind BB. You had your spilled drinks and your drunken breaking of household goods.

We were still trying to choke down our huge glasses of gin (soda splashes optional) when everyone was herded out of the house to the enclosed patio area. We stood around postulating about what was going to happen. Travel Buddy suggested that we were to be burned alive. We plotted our escape route should things get out of hand.

I'd been hearing girls buzzing about champagne for a while, and some of them seemed excited that it was time for that. Apparently, they were right. The guy who'd rounded everyone up positioned himself a bit above the crowd and commanded our attention for his little speech. Which was promptly followed by a spray of champagne into the crowd. People scattered like ants then reassembled just in time for him to shower the crowd again. That's when we made our exit.

A Little Addition Goes a Long Way

Courtesy of VVK

For future reference:

1 Diver Down
+5 Irish Car Bombs
+3 Guinness
+2 Glasses of UBFRDP*
+3 Random vodka drinks

---

Vague recollections of exposing nipplage to a pierced and tattooed bar mate


* Unidentified Beer From Random Dude's Pitcher

Adults Only!

If you, like me, got a lower-than expected blog rating and are wondering what you might do to knock your site up to an adult-only entertainments level, my suggestion is to mix in about a dozen instances of the words shit, ass, and fucking in your next post.

Should I Be This Scared?

I've found myself flying pretty much solo at several social events in the past two weeks. Well, three, to be exact.

At the first*, a happy hour, I met a few people (4). I talked easily to the first soon after entering the bar. The others I met a little later. Two of them said they would offer their expertise in the apartment hunt (so far, one has). The last vowed to join me and a new associate in an upcoming social endeavor. I've yet to call. (But I will! I will!)

I was invited to the second event by one of the hosts**. I knew no one save this host, and, being that he was a host, I didn't expect constant entertainment. My feelings on the event are mixed. I met a (small) handful of pretty cool people (again, 4), but the majority of the guests did not seem to be people I'd ever get along with. After a few good hours with the few cool people, I found myself pretty much alone with the not-so-cool people while waiting for a ride. The night actually ended with me feeling very much like a junior high reject with acne, bad breath, and head gear. Perhaps I digress...

The third event was completely random.

Opposed to spending yet another Friday night entertaining Roommate's parents while she was off on date*** and semi****-stood-up by my partner in crime for the evening, I headed to the bar solo.

I've been to this bar a few times before with Quicksylver. The first night we went was our waitress's first night as well. We'll call her Saronno. Despite Quicksylver's initial insistence that she was just being nice to get tips, we hit it off really well and have since talked about hanging out together.

Anyhow, Saronno was at the bar when I showed up Friday, but she wasn't working. She invited me to a small get-together she was planning to hit up before heading to a bigger, swankier party later on. I accepted her invitation.

She and I were the first to arrive. I kicked a little ass on the Wii***** then we moved on to the beer pong. (At which I also kicked more than my fair share of ass, if I do say so myself.) Saronno left, and I was totally fine. Got along with everyone there. Had a fantastic time. Hope to see all the players of the night again in a similar setting.

Before I accepted Saronno's invitation, though, I was prepared to call myself socially awkward. I'd even begun a post describing myself as such and outlining all the ways in which I'd changed that made me feel like I was the social reject.

But, now? I'm not thinking so much in terms of my morphing into a socially awkward woman in her mid twenties as I am thinking of me fucking putting myself out there. Trying to meet new people. Failing at times, perhaps. Succeeding at others, perhaps.

Attending social events and trying to meet people on your own is a scary proposition.

I really have nothing more profound to say on the subject.


* I have to admit, I primarily went to see a boy. The boy was not there. The boy does not yet get a name.
** The host is the aforementioned boy. He still doesn't get a name.
*** Both completely okay by me, by the way.
**** "Semi" because I don't really blame him.
***** I'm saying right now I'd be totally addicted if given the opportunity. That shit rocks. And, no, spending $400-500 on that shit is not an option for opportunity for this chica.

Restricted

Get your blog rating at Mingle².

And what earned me the illustrious R rating?

These words:

Dead (x9) Death (x2) Pissed (x 1)

Where's the profanity??? I must be off my game lately.

(Thanks to Arjewtino for the link.)

Season Closers

Last night was my rec softball team's last for the season.

Ready for the tally?

2007 Season

Games played: 9
Games won: 1
Games lost: 8

Last Night

Games played: 2
Players present: 12
Total innings played: 8
Final scores: 14-26 & 13-29 (That'd be Belle's team losing both times, obviously.)
Teammates seen for the second time this season: 3
Teammates seen for the first time this season: 1
Over-the-fence home runs hit: 2 (By the same player. In the first game. Each yielding four runs. If this guy had bothered to show up to more than three games this season...)

Hits Belle took for the team: 11 (If you sing that song that goes "head and shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes"... you're almost right on the money for where I was pelted with the ball and in what order. Catching is a dangerous business for those who, uh, can't catch.)

Times Belle tagged home and got someone out: 2 (But don't be too happy for me. The pitcher caught both, handed each to me, and let me step on the plate as a courtesy.)

Runs Belle scored: 1 (The pitcher walked me to first, but I take great pride in the fact that I didn't fuck anything up after that!)

Balls Belle hit: 1 (I was ONE step from first when that crazy lady on first caught the ball and got me out. ONE. Dammit. Still... I hadn't hit a ball that wasn't a foul since the first game of the season.)

'Jericho' Lives

I had such high hopes for my hundredth post. I've neglected my regular posting and literally spent hours doggedly crafting a post that still hasn't made it to the level I'd hoped to deliver on this little occasion.

But I can ignore this no longer: "Jericho" will be back! (And it only took 25 tons of nuts to do it.)

Okay, I kept my trap shut in this venue about the show until they canceled it last month. While I normally try to avoid unnecessary (or unsubsidized) promotion of for-profit companies' products, I have a personal interest in this one.*

"Jericho" is an excellent show. For those of you who missed out the first time 'round, you'll be able to watch it online or catch reruns this summer. And you should. And then you should tune in for the seven episodes they'll be airing this fall.

"And why should I do this?" you might ask. Well, dear reader, that's an excellent question. In bulleted form, see my answers below.

• You should do it because the show is awesome.
• You should do it because the plot is original and has relevancy to the current atmosphere in the U.S. and, arguably, the world.
• You should do it because the characters are of the variety that allow and, perhaps, demand that you care about what happens to them.
• You should do it because the terrorists will win if you don't.**
  

So, yeah, this is me shamelessly pitching joining the grassroots effort to keep "Jericho" alive. Expect related posts in the future.

* Which is to say, I really, really, really enjoy watching this show. So much so that I've all but boycotted TV since I heard "Jericho" was canceled and was actually considering ditching my cable service since the networks care so much more about profits than they do about providing any kind of quality television.
** Which is to say, you should do it because CBS has warned the existing fans that this is our last chance. Viewership has to be up for the next seven episodes or they'll kill the program for real. And that would make me cry. And you wouldn't want to see me cry, now would you?

Play Ball!

Amber: Ms. Stoeger, my plastic surgeon doesn't want me doing any activity where balls fly at my nose.
Dionne: Well, there goes your social life.
- Clueless, 1995

Have I mentioned that some moron called Belle agreed to play softball with a rec team this year?

This was a bad idea for a plethora of reasons. The first of which is that I was always that kid who got pegged with the ball in gym class. Always. The second of which is that, up until two weeks ago, I smoked about a pack of cigarettes a day. Third: That little thing we call hand-eye coordination? ... Practically nonexistent.

Oh, and have I mentioned I know nothing about baseball? I mean nuthin'. Two years ago, when Roommate and I had just met, she invited me to a baseball game. Three or four batters into the first inning, I turned to her and asked (in all seriousness), "Who is that guy standing behind the catcher?"

Ummm... yeah...

So anyway... when I was first asked to join the team, I tried to beg out. I told them how terribly uncoordinated I am. I told them about my lack of knowledge about the sport. To no avail. They needed female players. So Roommate and I signed up.

Apparently, my teammates are somewhat masochistic. They play "to have fun," they say, but we suck so horribly that we're getting slaughtered every time we step on the field. Even though the team isn't quite up to par, I am, as feared and predicted, the worst player by far.

I outdid myself in this week's game though, I must say. After being hit with no less than four pitches* during the first inning, our team came in and I stepped up to the plate to bat.

First pitch: foul
Second pitch: strike
Third pitch: I hit the ball as hard as I could. Through some miraculous (read: logical-trajectory-defying) action, I was immediately smacked in the nose and upper lip with the ball.

Oooooooooooooouuuuuuuuuuch!

Painful and humiliating. Now that's my kind of fun...

* They usually have me playing catcher because I'm so freakin' wonderful at everything else. Of course, I can't catch, either...

CBS, You've done it now

Apparently the geniuses at CBS have decided to cancel Jericho.

Television and I already had a spotty relationship. Growing up, I never had cable. I watched what I could on the three or four static-ridden channels our antenna (yes, I mean antenna) provided. When my television was on while I was in college, it was almost always tuned to one of the news networks, the Weather Channel, or Comedy Central. If I watched anything with any regularity, it was typically at Travel Buddy's or another friend's house.

This past fall was the first time I made the conscious decision to start viewing certain programs in my own home at the beginning of a season. I set my DVR* to record five new programs. Of those, I stopped watching one, one is still running, and two have been canceled.

Wait... three have been canceled.

In the past month my voiced ambivalence about Jericho had morphed into full-fledged obsession with the program. Okay, well, not quite obsession. I don't really do that whole "unhealthy obsession" thing. (If I were really obsessed, I would've known before this morning that the damn thing had been canceled...)

Anyhow, the show was really starting to reach that potential it had from the beginning. It already had a unique and interesting plot line and characters that I cared about. And in the past few weeks it had moved from intriguing to captivating. I literally couldn't wait for the next episode. I went 'round talking to anyone who was fool enough to listen about the damn show.

And now what? It's gone. Just like that. And CBS isn't even going to give us some kind of thrown together, half-assed, BS closure until 2009/2010. And even then, only maybe, if the goobs in charge are in the mood or something.

So, that's it. You hear me CBS? I'm not watching any more of your stinkin' programs.** I'm already almost completely Netflix-reliant for my television watching, anyway, and I don't think I could stand another mid-season cancellation of something I seriously enjoy watching.


* Apparently, the networks care not a whit about their faithful DVR viewership. I say, we're viewers, too, dammit (and likely more loyal than Average Joe who has no DVR and might have a scheduling conflict every now and then). If you can cater to new marketing strategies based on people skipping ads with their DVR, then certainly you at least know people are watching your program in something other than real time. Find a way to make that viewership count!
** Unless, of course, it's really good. But even then I'll wait 'til it's out on DVD.