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The cat is coy. And I had too many Jell-O shots last night, and I am thinking all manner of things that I shouldn't be, and it is bad. Blah.
Shortly after I wrote my last post, I watched the North Carolina-Georgia Tech men's basketball game. Well, I watched the beginning. And lo and behold, there was Bobby Frasor in the starting lineup! Roy was trying to charm me, I was going to have to take back my somewhat veiled constructive criticism from the aforementioned post (which no one read, but that's beside the point). And the Tar Heels started well, and Frasor hit a lovely three-pointer, and they were up 10-5 at the first TV timeout. And then after the commercial break, there was Quentin Thomas. Followed by Ty Lawson, and they very nicely combined to piss away the lead, and Frasor only played five more minutes the entire game. So obviously I do not have to take back my original point. Yeah, I know I don't know the details, but if would appear that Ty got himself in the coach's doghouse and that's the only reason he didn't start, since he played the bulk of the minutes. And I also know that's it's not Ty Lawson's fault that the team lost, but still, Roy, still.
+++
On the other hand, the local hockey coach responded to being (un)named in my blog by starting a most fabulous lineup Friday night against the Penguins. I know that in hockey the starting lineup matters almost nothing, but still, it is fun to track. And I am very, very glad that I decided to purchase a solo ticket and go to that game, since it was stupidly not televised locally (sold out, TV guys, sold out, you could have done it) and it was one of the best games I have seen all season. Crosby becomes the youngest to 200 points, Canes win, can't get much better than that. Thankfully the crowd was not as into booing Brooks Orpik as they were in November (though they still did it), because that just got ANNOYING. Incidentally I think he was in the starting lineup but I couldn't quite tell because the Pens only had four guys out on the ice and one loitering (cowering away from the crowd's rage?) over by the bench.
While we're on the subject, I just saw this on ESPN.com:
ALL SID, ALL THE TIME
Nice job by NBC to rob Carolina and Atlanta fans of a chance to see their teams play in a crucial Southeast Division matchup this weekend. The game was, quite properly, originally scheduled to be one of NBC's national telecasts Sunday. But the network decided it wanted more Sidney Crosby and dumped the Thrashers-Hurricanes game, leaving no local television coverage in either market. Instead, fans in the East will get to see Crosby playing the NHL's worst team, Philadelphia. That'll be nice for all those Martin Biron fans. Memo to NBC: The NHL has 30 teams. We understand players named Hossa, Kovalchuk, Brind'Amour, Tkachuk, Ward, Staal and Stillman actually can play the game, too.
-- S.B.
I think Sidney Crosby is the greatest thing the NHL has going for it right now, but this pisses me off. I mean, the Hurricanes are still defending Stanley Cup champions. And they could still win another one this year, it's not outside the realm of possibility. Good thing ABC is my favorite national network. Take that, NBC.
One more thing: I was sitting in section 310 last night; first time I've been there. Next to me was another solo fan, an older guy who kept asking me things about the Canes and hockey, which I thought was slightly amusing, but then I did know the answers to all his questions. Next to him was a group of people who seemed to be season ticket holders. Well, the Hurricanes scored what turned out to be the game-winning goal with about eight and a half minutes left. With about six minutes left, the woman sitting closest to us got up for some reason and upon her return informed me that "we usually leave the games early." And I thought, "You are a very stupid woman," but I remained outwardly impassive. And then about a minute after that, the whole group cleared out. As she went by, the woman explained that "we have an hour's drive ahead of us." I hope that woman does not consider herself a hockey fan. You do not leave games early. You simply do not do it. And if you must do it, you do not leave a sold out, 3-2 game with a playoff atmosphere. I don't care how long your drive is. I do not like people like that.
+++
My crush winked at me Friday morning and I turned into a giggly high school girl. It was awful. He's probably married or something. (He doesn't wear a wedding ring, but that doesn't mean anything. I could have asked but I don't really want to know, because I still want to flirt with him. Hah. I always like the wrong ones.)
Dear J—,
Please, please can you wear the cowboy hat again? Oh my God, it is so hot. And if you keep looking at me like that, you better do something about it. :)
Waiting (not-so) patiently,
Molly
Dear E—,
Thank you! I did not think that your presence would make me feel so much better, but it has. I mean, I always wondered what would happen, because it doesn't always work, but damn! Maybe it has to do with J—, you never know, but it any case, thanks!
Gratefully,
Molly
Dear Local Basketball Coach,
I wanted to name my new car after you, I did. I thought that "Roy" would be a good multi-sport name, what with Roy O and the Astros and Patrick "Wah" from hockey. And then you went and lost to Maryland. Sometimes I just get the feeling you want the dadgum team to lose 'cause thems too big for their britches. And that is not good! You can teach them a lesson in practice. In the game, if you need good defense, you put Bobby Frasor and Wes Miller in!
Go Heels,
Molly
P.S. Gotta love the WMiller reference!
Dear Local Hockey Announcer Whose Name Begins With T,
Drop the twig!
Still laughing with you, not at you,
Molly
Dear Local Hockey Coach,
Maybe you could consider changing up the lines on the power play? I mean, I know I don't really know anything, but how much worse can it get? Hey, at least you will get a full house on Friday for Sidney Crosby.
Keeping the faith,
Molly
P.S. Have you seen the new NHL commercials? They rock! The Staal vs. Staal pillow fight is first-rate!
I HATE YOU WITH AN ALL-CONSUMING PASSION THAT GROWS BY THE MINUTE. But then, you knew that, didn't you?
As always,
Molly
Dear A—,
You better be good. You know I'll get in touch with you as soon as I can, even though we both know I shouldn't. And even though it will be harder now.
Maybe it was(n't just) Memphis,
Molly
P.S. "We can't have that," MY ASS. ... Heh.
Dear A—,
That one wasn't about you; this one is. Anyway, you win, by which I mean you lose. It is like that line in Legends of the Fall when Alfred says, "You have won her. I am bringing her home," and it's just so damn sad. Actually it's not really like that at all but that line has always stayed with me. Haha.
Hope you're doing well,
Molly
P.S. Brad Pitt was hot in that movie, but it's all gone now. Now he is a big loser.
When you said it was funny-ironic that I bought a ticket to the hockey game and you bought a ticket to the Broadway show, all I could think about was that time I went to Lowe's and bought orchids for the boy who had just bought hockey tickets for me.
Wishing we'd had better timing,
Molly
Dear W—/H—,
Why the hell didn't you tell me? Why the hell did I have to hear it from Sarah, who read about it in the damn Des Moines newspaper? And then you give me that requisite throwaway "hottie" line, and then you drop off the face of the earth once again. Why?
No, really, I'm over it,
Molly
I have been meaning to write a hockey entry for nearly a month, since the All-Star Game, which was Jan. 24, but I bet you didn't know that, which was precisely the point I was going to make, how the NHL has this great product but nobody knows about it. And awesome, funny commercials, that you only see if you are already a hockey fan, because they are either on the regional broadcast of your local team, or the Versus network, which used to be OLN, which also televises the Tour de France. Which should tell you something. And I was going to discuss Hockey in the South and argue that a place like Tampa Bay, where I don't think it even gets cold enough to snow, should not have a hockey team. And Dallas, okay, it snows or ices occasionally there, but no way should MINNESOTA have lost a team to TEXAS. But I have just not gotten around to it and then I have emailed most of my arguments to my friend Robert and now I just do not seem to have the motivation to write. So I will post some pictures!
First up: This is the section where the seats for our 10-game season ticket plan are located. The woman on the far left, the one whose jersey you can't quite see, she brings the jerseys and hands them out to the rest of her party. I am not sure if I should try to shake her hand and bow down to the obsession or if I should run in the opposite direction. Certainly, I have a favorite player, and my brother has a name and number on his jersey, and I have been known to be obsessive about things ... but ... this just takes it to a whole new level. The most awesome thing about this woman is that her jersey has Babchuk's name in Cyrillic. And also? This particular game? He had been sent down to the minors, refused to report, and been suspended. He was then reinstated but still in the minors. Now that, that is dedication (by the fan, not, obviously, by Babchuk, whose refusal to report is LAME).
Next: my new car. This is a lovely juxtaposition with the new car in front and my old car behind it. In my parents' driveway. The old car is still sitting there. I need to take it to Carmax and see what they will give me for it. Hopefully enough to pay my stupid income taxes so I can afford the first car payment. (Stupid taxes.) One other thing about the picture is that you cannot tell, but it was snowing when it was taken. Well, flurrying, I suppose, would be more accurate, but the fact is, it was 45 degrees outside and there was frozen white precipitation falling from the sky. It was something of a shock.
Today, I wrote a check for $10,000.00. Which is a lot of zeroes. (Also I still have my Texas address on my checks.)
Happy Valentine's Day to me!
aka The Crappiest Super Bowl Weekend in Recent Memory
It started on Thursday. It snowed. This would normally be considered a good thing, given that I am A Girl From The South, and I like the snow. However, I still had to go to my job. So this was not so good. Actually, they had given us the option to work from home, which I would have done, EXCEPT I had a doctor's appointment at 3 p.m., with the office of said doctor being located approximately three miles from the office, and I had a meeting that I had to get ready for on Friday.
So there I was at work, while the rest of my team stayed home, and I was watching the pretty snow, and then it stopped being pretty and started raining, kind of hard, and not freezing, and that is when the doctor's office called to say they were closing early -- NOW THAT ANY POSSIBLE THREAT HAD PASSED ENTIRELY -- and would have to cancel my appointment. The appointment that I had already waited nearly a month for. The rude woman who was calling me rudely informed me that they could see me on March 8. I informed her that they could see me sooner. She finally came up with Feb. 19. This irritated me. Then all this work happened, that I had to sit at my desk and actually do, even though I could have been working from home had it not been for the damn doctor's office.
To make myself feel better, I procured tickets to that evening's Hurricanes game, knowing that it would be sparsely attended because, egads! the winter weather! Little did I know that this was not a good solution. Because the Hurricanes looked completely uninspired, and the only time the goal horn went off was during the first intermission for the Mighty Mites or whatever the little mini hockey players are called. This happened while we were standing in the concession line ordering the beef nachos. After the Canes lost 4-0 I headed home, feeling like things were just a bit off. At 2:30 a.m., I began considering if perhaps it was in fact the nachos that were a bit off. I dozed fitfully until 5:30, when I got up and resolved to shower, given that there was that big meeting at work. I got in the shower, and then promptly realized that I was going nowhere except the couch. So I left my boss a message that I would not be at the meeting, sent him an email about the materials that were on my desk, and did not manage to make it fully upright again until approximately 17 hours had passed.
On Saturday, I felt a little better and did some laundry while I was waiting for the Tar Heels game to begin. They lost. "Well," said my brother, "at least we can still hope for one Carolina team to win at the RBC Center tonight." And then the Hurricanes lost.
The events of Saturday seemed to cause a relapse on Sunday, which I spent lying in a stupor on the couch until the Super Bowl started. Incidentally, I always forget to watch the commercials, because I am usually busy changing the channel as soon as it's a commercial break. The Super Bowl started out okay, was kind of exciting, if sloppy, but then it became clear that the Colts were going to win, and the dislike I feel for Peyton Manning is almost as strong as the dislike I feel for Dook (but not quite). I felt sick again.
And then! It was Monday and time to face the work week. Um. Yay?
At least Dook also lost, and those pants I bought on clearance the week after Christmas because they were so cute, and so cheap, and, well, they almost fit, and they didn't have the next size up? They totally fit now.
Drunk Pictures:
Let's say one of your best friends is visiting from Iowa, and you are showing her around, because not only has she never been to Durham, she's never even been to North Carolina. You are trying to make a good impression. Despite the fact that you are incredibly happy that your friend is visiting, you are maybe not in the happiest frame of mind overall, for various reasons. And then you stop at a gas station to get your friend a Diet Coke, because the girl is addicted to them, and you go on back out to the car, AND IT IS DEAD. AS A DOORNAIL. (You have not ever really understood that expression, but you just used it anyway.)
The car is dead. You cannot help but chuckle, because if you don't, you will probably start to cry. You call your brother, because he is all into cars, and maybe he can help you out. He doesn't answer. You call your dad, who says you should call someone who cares. He is kidding, sort of, and he tells you you should really get Triple A. You tell him you used to have it, but then you moved back close to your family, so you figured that he would be there to rescue you. He says it would be a really good idea to get Triple A but comes to rescue you. He jumps the car. It starts. You turn on the headlights. The car dies again. He jumps the car again, and says you better come back to the house, you can leave your car at the repair place and then borrow your mother's car to go get it fixed in the morning.
You go to your parents' house. Your parents leave. Your brother is there. You are planning to take your mother's car and go home. Instead, your brother and your friend pull out some vodka. "You need a shot," they say. Suddenly, you are drinking your (underage) brother's cheap nasty vodka. You are also making cookies, because you bake when you are upset. (For some reason the cookies turn out sort of flat, although of course they still taste good.) Your brother is doing beer bongs, and your friend is drinking a bottle of wine. She has agreed to be the designated driver, since you are clearly allowed to drink, what with your fragile state of mind and all. Clearly, she will not be driving, given that there is now no more wine. ("I'll write your parents a check!" she says. Suddenly, you and your friend and your brother are getting drunk off your parents' Bailey's Irish Cream. You think, "Oh my God, my life is so pathetic, and I have to sober up so I can drive home before my parents get back, because they cannot find me like this." Your brother says, "You need to finish the vodka. I know it is nasty, but, here, I will mix it with orange juice, then it will be fine." It is still nasty. You drink it. Your parents come home to find you in a semi-conscious state on the chair in front of the TV. "I take it that's not just orange juice in that cup," your mother says.
"Your mom is so cute," says your friend. She turns to your mom. "Can I be your daughter?"
At least you were the only one with the camera, so you are the only one with access to all the pictures that were taken -- and most of them are not of you.
The problem with being a (generally) nice person and a (generally) good person is that you can't wish bad things on the people who have hurt you.
And if you should, by chance, become an "other woman" then you are really screwed. Because, in the absence of having met the first woman, you can imagine that she is an evil harpy who does not satisy her man, and so no one can really blame you for, well, anything that you do. However, you know that most likely this is not true. Most likely, she is a nice, normal person who for some reason has fallen into the same trap that you have, namely, falling for this man. Further, you know that he likes her better, because he is not actually with you, he is with her and just likes to "see" you sometimes. But even though you know it is wrong, you like it so damn much that you don't stop. And then eventually, for some reason or other, it ends, and all you can do is hope that either she is an evil harpy and she does deserve it, or that she really doesn't know what he's doing (because he won't change) and all you can think is, "I hope he doesn't hurt her the same way he hurt me."
Same goes if he's actually available...but it's because you are the "last woman," the last person he was with, the one that he screwed over, and you are still looking for the right person, but he finds someone new (which really is not fair; you should get to find someone first). You know he's told her about that psycho he dated, meaning you, even though you're obviously not psycho, just slightly addled because you at one point thought he was a good match for you, and she's sympathetic, thinking that she's found this great guy who's just had horrible luck, and instead of thinking mean things about either one of them, you just think, "I hope he doesn't hurt her the same way he hurt me." (And then you have a minute in which you think, "Maybe she will hurt him the way he hurt me, that would be cool" -- but then you shake your head and stop that train of thought.)
First: HB, AB. I just wanted to say that.
***
I got an "It's not you, it's me" yesterday from Banana Republic. Maybe you didn't catch that. From Banana Republic. I am one of those girls who does one of those thing you are not supposed to do when you are buying clothes: I will not buy above a certain size. I know in my head that brands are just different, and it doesn't mean anything, and anyway, no one will know, because it's not like we walk around with tags on the outside, but still, I know. So I don't do it. Usually I can stay within these parameters with little difficulty (...) but some styles just will not work.
Anyway, there was this particular style of pants -- the Ryan, it was called -- that was low-rise. Typically, this is not a good sign. (I did not notice that the fly was approximately two and a half inches. This is an ominous portent. No one should wear anything THAT low, although I suppose you can get away with it if you are a size 0. Which I am not.) So I grabbed the size that I would like to stay, and then I went above it, to the next size up, because, goshdarnit, they were on sale for $11.99. You do not get pants at Banana Republic for $11.99. Off I go to the dressing room. I try the smaller size first. The fit ... leaves something to be desired. *Sigh.* Next size up IS SMALLER. Feeling depressed, I head out. The fitting room attendant asks if I had any luck. I tell her that I do not think this style is for me. She says, in all seriousness, "It's not you, it's the pants."
This may be the lowlight of my year so far.
***
Also yesterday, I caught up on my girly-magazine reading. There was a bedside astrologer. The guy I lost my virginity to is my worst match by a long shot. (Heh.) My "sweetest match" is a Capricorn, example being Patrick Dempsey. (Why, yes, that seems right.) "Spiciest match"? That'd be my last ex. (Hmm. He was good in bed.)
Another thing that caught my eye: When he says, "My last ex was psycho," what he means is, "I treated her badly, so of course she got upset."
SO TRUE! And yet, even though you know this, every time you are in the situation, you think it will be different.
***
Best artichoke and spinach dip ever: Darryl's. For some reason the Durham restaurant closed, and I think there used to be one in Raleigh that also closed, but the one in Greensboro remains open. Go figure. That place is awesome, though.
***
"Winter weather" hit the Durham area on Thursday. Here is what it looked like from the fourth floor (where I sit) of the building that I work in:
