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remindmeofthe) wrote2005-04-27 04:01 pm
remindmeofthe) wrote2005-04-27 04:01 pm
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I don't know where to start on this craptacular day, people. It has been so wretched in such outstandingly varied ways that I don't know where to begin. Do I tell it chronologically? Do I divide it into sections like "Baseball Bullshit" and "Personal Bullshit?" Do I give up entirely and shotgun my Heineken? Or should I pop the Heineken into the fridge and just go to bed?
Okay. I have consulted my Theo icon, and we have decided that chronologically it is. Makes a better story. And I have a feeling this'll be hella long, so I'll do my friends a favor and cut it.
So . . . the first hour of the day was okay. Annoying, since I couldn't stop obsessing over yesterday's Sox game and Motherfucking Princess A-Rod, but okay. I was even mentally composing an apology entry to the bullpen for firing and hating them. (Okay, that still holds. I'm sorry, I don't hate you, and you're not fired, but Foulkie? You are on probation.) Then I get to work. And I open the papers.
And the Globe kindly informs me that Magglio Ordoñez is undergoing hernia surgery today, and will be out for two to three months.
My mental entry underwent a small change. Specifically, it opened with: "Fuck you, Magglio Ordoñez. Fuck you and the hernia you rode in on." I tacked on an addendum about how the hernia is of course not his fault, so not really fuck him, but oh my god.
So. Seething about last night. Seething about that. And when I get a good seethe on, I can go for hours. Which I did, throwing in the cut-mentioned disbelieving laughter. Frankly, I don't know if I got any shitty customers today. I don't know if my new eighteen-and-trying-too-hard-to-fit-in-and-be-funny coworker was irritating or not. I was in a space beyond that. A space of seethe. (A space in which I wrote petty vindictive suck-it-Princess fic, but that's a separate entry.)
A brief reprieve: I needed a new pack of cigarettes, and found that the one remaining pack of my usual was, well, crunchy. For you non-smokers: Crunchy is bad. So, after some dithering, I decided to try the new Camel Turkish Silvers, and oh let me tell you. If you smoke? Try these. They are amazing. I never thought anything could lure me away from menthol, but these might manage it. Even the bitch who took it upon herself to tell me that OMG smoking is bad for you could not ruin it.
The fact that my beloved Red Sox lighter, the disposable that I've had since August, the one I have taken to calling my Chanukkah lighter, finally shit the bed almost managed to ruin it. But not quite.
So I got back inside feeling much refreshed, thinking that the amazingness of that smoke could well be the turning point of my day. And it totally was. For like ten minutes. Because then I decided to turn on WEEI and find out if the game was going or not, and what was I greeted with?
Curt Schilling is going on the DL for at least two weeks with a bone bruise on his ankle.
For those of you keeping track, this makes two of our starters on the DL and another one of them working his way back from it. So, at the moment, of our six starters? Three functional ones. We're pulling Halama from the bullpen to replace Wells - who, incidentally, could conceivably be on the DL until June, at least according to the gleeful doomsayers at the Herald - but no one knows yet what we're doing about Schill.
This is when that cut-mentioned numbness set in. That bit of news was like a ton of bricks. I was beyond anger, beyond the mild hysteria of earlier. I was just done.
So, while we all waited to find out if the game was going to be played, or if the rain would win (Again: Hey rain, enough already), WEEI aired a rain delay show.
Bright spot part the second: A woman named Sarah called in and pointed out that, hi, it's April, we have time, we have a good team, so let's climb back in off the ledge and chill the fuck out. Sarah, you were too late to get through my haze of shock, but I think I owe you a drink anyway.
So then the game was called off. Surprise. I mean, except for the surprise part, because I was officially beyond surprise. Still am. In order to surprise me now, someone will have to die. So, I would prefer not to be surprised.
I was, however, thinking that today was a Guinness day. My usual bad-day ritual of two keg cans of Heineken? Insufficient. I needed Guinness.
So my shift finally ended. Oh, did I mention that it was raining here too? Because, yeah. It was raining here too. So. Wait in the wind and rain for the bus. Got off the bus and walk home in the wind and rain.
I stopped at the store, and, yeah. No Guinness. Unsurprise. Heineken it is.
Wait, here's something surprising - I failed to get drenched by a passing car on the way home. Huh. I mean, isn't that something you'd just expect? Like, one of the required clichés of the universe?
I got home. I removed my wet things, put on dry things, and turned on the computer. And found out that the Astros got shut out today. And the loss goes to my Andy Pettitte. Yeah.
So, here I am, emo-ing in LJ, drinking Heineken, talking with my friends, and waiting for the next bad thing to happen. Because it's not done yet.
Okay. I have consulted my Theo icon, and we have decided that chronologically it is. Makes a better story. And I have a feeling this'll be hella long, so I'll do my friends a favor and cut it.
So . . . the first hour of the day was okay. Annoying, since I couldn't stop obsessing over yesterday's Sox game and Motherfucking Princess A-Rod, but okay. I was even mentally composing an apology entry to the bullpen for firing and hating them. (Okay, that still holds. I'm sorry, I don't hate you, and you're not fired, but Foulkie? You are on probation.) Then I get to work. And I open the papers.
And the Globe kindly informs me that Magglio Ordoñez is undergoing hernia surgery today, and will be out for two to three months.
My mental entry underwent a small change. Specifically, it opened with: "Fuck you, Magglio Ordoñez. Fuck you and the hernia you rode in on." I tacked on an addendum about how the hernia is of course not his fault, so not really fuck him, but oh my god.
So. Seething about last night. Seething about that. And when I get a good seethe on, I can go for hours. Which I did, throwing in the cut-mentioned disbelieving laughter. Frankly, I don't know if I got any shitty customers today. I don't know if my new eighteen-and-trying-too-hard-to-fit-in-and-be-funny coworker was irritating or not. I was in a space beyond that. A space of seethe. (A space in which I wrote petty vindictive suck-it-Princess fic, but that's a separate entry.)
A brief reprieve: I needed a new pack of cigarettes, and found that the one remaining pack of my usual was, well, crunchy. For you non-smokers: Crunchy is bad. So, after some dithering, I decided to try the new Camel Turkish Silvers, and oh let me tell you. If you smoke? Try these. They are amazing. I never thought anything could lure me away from menthol, but these might manage it. Even the bitch who took it upon herself to tell me that OMG smoking is bad for you could not ruin it.
The fact that my beloved Red Sox lighter, the disposable that I've had since August, the one I have taken to calling my Chanukkah lighter, finally shit the bed almost managed to ruin it. But not quite.
So I got back inside feeling much refreshed, thinking that the amazingness of that smoke could well be the turning point of my day. And it totally was. For like ten minutes. Because then I decided to turn on WEEI and find out if the game was going or not, and what was I greeted with?
Curt Schilling is going on the DL for at least two weeks with a bone bruise on his ankle.
For those of you keeping track, this makes two of our starters on the DL and another one of them working his way back from it. So, at the moment, of our six starters? Three functional ones. We're pulling Halama from the bullpen to replace Wells - who, incidentally, could conceivably be on the DL until June, at least according to the gleeful doomsayers at the Herald - but no one knows yet what we're doing about Schill.
This is when that cut-mentioned numbness set in. That bit of news was like a ton of bricks. I was beyond anger, beyond the mild hysteria of earlier. I was just done.
So, while we all waited to find out if the game was going to be played, or if the rain would win (Again: Hey rain, enough already), WEEI aired a rain delay show.
Bright spot part the second: A woman named Sarah called in and pointed out that, hi, it's April, we have time, we have a good team, so let's climb back in off the ledge and chill the fuck out. Sarah, you were too late to get through my haze of shock, but I think I owe you a drink anyway.
So then the game was called off. Surprise. I mean, except for the surprise part, because I was officially beyond surprise. Still am. In order to surprise me now, someone will have to die. So, I would prefer not to be surprised.
I was, however, thinking that today was a Guinness day. My usual bad-day ritual of two keg cans of Heineken? Insufficient. I needed Guinness.
So my shift finally ended. Oh, did I mention that it was raining here too? Because, yeah. It was raining here too. So. Wait in the wind and rain for the bus. Got off the bus and walk home in the wind and rain.
I stopped at the store, and, yeah. No Guinness. Unsurprise. Heineken it is.
Wait, here's something surprising - I failed to get drenched by a passing car on the way home. Huh. I mean, isn't that something you'd just expect? Like, one of the required clichés of the universe?
I got home. I removed my wet things, put on dry things, and turned on the computer. And found out that the Astros got shut out today. And the loss goes to my Andy Pettitte. Yeah.
So, here I am, emo-ing in LJ, drinking Heineken, talking with my friends, and waiting for the next bad thing to happen. Because it's not done yet.
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And if the Tigers escape the wrath of Mother Nature tonight, even better-er!
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Go Tigers!
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Awwww...
Dood, I was listening to WEEI at work waiting for the game not to be canceled and I heard Sarah's call too! She speaks truth, and I was sorry to hear the jerk-ass commentators start to question her. I guess they were just being fair since they questioned everybody like that, but still.
Let's just toss one back for Schill, and then one for Wells, and then another one for Schill, and maybe one for Wade, and then another one for Schill, and then what were we talking about again?