i wanna put on ma-ma-ma-ma-my boogie shoes (just to boogie with you)

over the weekend my friend Christine sent me a link to her wedding proofs. the big day was in August, i was a bridesmaid, and it was truly one of the best days of my life. i have known Christine since we were both three years old, and it was insane and amazing to watch her walk down the aisle, to see her become a Mrs., and to celebrate the day with friends and family. and ohhh, did i celebrate.

a little known fact about me: i love to dance. not at clubs or on banquettes (though i've danced on bars - just not very well). i don't even dance even in front of the mirror at home in my underwear. i do my dancing in one setting and one setting only: weddings.

you see, i'm not an especially hip or talented dancer. i don't know any hot moves or fancy steps. i'm actually not coordinated in the least. but the reason i love to dance at weddings is that 1) they serve free alcohol - or, as i like to call it, dancing juice; and 2) there is always someone - a grandma, an uncle in a bad suit, a cousin no one seems to remember - who is a much dorkier dancer than i. so, with the right amount of wine and the perfect mixture of oldies and '80s songs, i turn into a dancing queen. (or, dancing fool, depending on your perspective.) actually, it's probably best described like this: she's a maniac, maniac on the floor... and she's dancing like she never danced before...

i have made an ass out of myself at plenty of weddings. two years ago, at one of Mikey's cousin's weddings, i started doing moves from my high school musical days - time steps and shuffles and moves i made up on the spot that felt theatrical. Mikey didn't know whether to laugh at me or hide in the bathroom. then, at a wedding this past summer - where i barely knew the bride and groom - i was all arms and legs, twirling and flailing about on the dance floor with a bunch of strangers. (i think i may have danced with members of the band, too. it's a little hazy now.)

i don't know why i do it. when i was in grade school and high school, i never ventured onto the gym floor at dances. oh god, no. but perhaps it's been building up over all these years. now, free of self-consciousness (such a dangerous state!) and plenty old enough to drink wine, i'm making up for lost time. what follows is a photo essay of sorts from Christine's wedding. its purpose is to demonstrate the extent of my insanity:











i mean, really. what am i doing? and why did the photographer take so many pictures? because he couldn't quite believe his eyes? oh dear. well, i sincerely apologize if i've made an ass of myself at your wedding, and i apologize in advance if you still plan on inviting me to yours someday.

don't say i didn't warn you.

mb

if you can't stand the heat...

i've been visiting my parents this weekend, which i do about once a month. it's usually an adventure, and this weekend was no exception.

yesterday i learned how to make a roast chicken. there's really not much to learn, but it was easier to attempt with my mother (aka Ina Gartner wanna-be) nearby. anyway, about midway through its roasting, i basted the bird with melted butter. problem was, some of the butter landed on the bottom of the oven. a little while later, the butter was burning and the kitchen was smoky and rather unpleasant. we opened windows and turned on fans, and my mother announced that she'd self-clean the oven in the morning.

as promised, after breakfast she turned the appropriate dial and pulled the lever on the oven and went upstairs. i was upstairs, too, when the smoke alarm went off. i figured it was just sensitive, and pressed the "reset" button. but a few minutes later, the thing went off again. this time when i went to turn it off, i realized the smoke was billowing upstairs at an alarming rate. i went downstairs to the kitchen and could barely see. there was smoke everywhere. i crouched down, peered into the oven and saw flames.

"oh my GOD," i yelled, and went running outside to get my father. "dad, the oven's on fire!" the hilarity that ensued really can't be appreciated fully via this blog. it involved my father pacing around the kitchen, wondering aloud what household product is good for putting out oven fires - salt or flour; both of us staring at our decades-old fire extinguisher realizing neither of us had the faintest idea how to use it; and me, jumping about in the manner of a mexican jumping bean, or Amy Poehler's Kaitlin character on SNL ("Rick! Rick! Rick!"). i was desperate to call 911, but my father said that was ridiculous. "look, the flames are going down already," he said. "by the time they get here, it'll be over."

to me, the thing looked like a raging inferno.

(meanwhile, during all this chaos, my mother was upstairs, vaguely aware that something was going on, but too comfortable soaking in the tub to worry about it.)

my dad and i opened every window and door in the entire house to get the smoke out. and eventually the flames did subside. another crisis averted, though not at all gracefully.

note to self: learn how to use a fire extinguisher. and, most importantly: hopping, while an effective way to burn off nervous energy, is not a great crisis-management technique.

mb

less fashion plate, more fashion gravy boat

i hate fashion.

that, of course, begs the question: why do i work in fashion? the answer is: i have no freaking idea.

i went to Catholic school from kindergarten through high school. five days a week, 10 months a year, for 12 straight years, i wore a plaid pleated skirt and button-down blouse. back-to-school shopping for me involved yet another new pair of regulation shoes, maybe some new knee socks and - this is where i really went crazy - a new school bag. after school and on weekends i wore whatever was in my closet. i certainly didn't think much about any of it. i read Seventeen and YM and Teen, but i flipped right to the advice columns and short stories and feature articles. i had no use for the fashion spreads. i shopped at Fashion Bug for crying out loud!

the worst of my fashion faux pas happened in college. The Freak Formal was held every October around Halloween. it was apparently a big deal, but i was clueless. two months into my freshman year, i was still getting used to whole thing - i hadn't made many friends and felt completely out of place on Lawn Guyland. the girls i saw on campus all seemed to wear the same thing: black pants, black jackets, black platform heels and long acrylic nails painted shades of - no, not black, but a good guess - dark red and purple. i didn't exactly blend in. on the night of the Freak Formal that year, Kerri - who then was a random girl from across the hall, but would later become my best friend and partner in crime - knocked on my door and pleaded and begged until i agreed to go to the stupid party. it was the last thing i wanted to do, but it was a little bit better than sitting in my dorm room on yet another Saturday night flipping through channels on my TV.

fashionista that i was, i chose an outfit consisting of jeans that buttoned around my actual waist, a plain blouse, a forest green wool blazer and Hush Puppy loafers. Freak Formal indeed! this was my first college party and i went dressed like a freaking TA from the math department! needless to say, i lasted about 20 minutes before making up some lame excuse to scurry back to my room. Kerri and i still crack up when we reminisce about that night. all one of us needs to say is "green blazer" and we're in tears.

my sense of style has improved since then (there really was no other way to go but up), just not to the point where i understand all the hoopla over fashion, and definitely not to the point where i feel qualified to work in it. i never read Vogue, i can't afford anything Marc Jacobs designs, and if someone offered me a free pair of Converse sneakers or a free pair of Christian Louboutin heels, i'd take the Converse.

the girls at work talk about clothes and designers and fashion shows the way i talk about books, or food, or baseball. just this morning, as they do every morning, i heard them gushing at each other: "omigod, what are you wearing? what dress is that? i looooove it!" meanwhile, i'm sitting at my desk in a brown turtleneck sweater i bought at Target three years ago (which i also just noticed has a spot of toothpaste on the front), and jeans that had a big ol' rip in the left butt cheek until last night, when i patched it up with my little $3 sewing kit. (OK, i confess, they're Seven jeans - which is why i opted for patching rather than tossing them - so at least from behind i look a little like i know what i'm doing.)

but the truth is that at some point today the thread will probably give out and my red-striped underwear (from American Eagle, not La Perla) will be on full view for everyone. and i bet you anything the girls at work will think i'm making some sort of fashion statement. "omigod!" they'll gasp, "what are you wearing? where did you get those jeans? they're amazing!"

and i'll say, "honey, you should have seen my green blazer."

mb

shooting at the walls of heartache, bang bang, i am the worrier

i was never a worrier. which is funny, because i had things to worry about. in addition to a few actually serious things, and also i had a bad perm, braces, and an extended chubby phase. a few years later i was president of the drama club, sang show tunes in the car and lived for AP English. to top if off, i didn't grasp the concept of eyebrow waxing until i was 20. i could have (should have?) fretted quite easily about any of these things. but, i didn't.

ahh, ignorance. it really is bliss.

i could use some bliss right now. it seems all my years of non-worrying have caught up with me. now i'm worrying about everything. i blame an op-ed i read in The Philadelphia Inquirer a month ago. in a more expanded and elegant way, the author basically said this country is screwed. we have so many stresses - and twice as many medications to ease those stresses - that no one knows which end is up. if you're not depressed or angry, the people around you surely are, and that stuff can be more contagious than yawning.

something about that piece unnerved me. and quite frankly, i wish i hadn't read it. i mean, none of it was news to me. i realize the country is in bad shape physically, fiscally, presidentially. the media are corrupt and ruining pretty much everything. people are working harder, relaxing less, yelling more, laughing less, and so on. but the fact that someone else had realized it - and was concerned enough to write a column about it - really rattled me. and i haven't been the same since.

i have turned into a raging worrier.

and, i have to say, it's not fun. i like the old me, the one who - in the face of a failed algebra test or having a week left 'til the senior prom and still no date - would just pop the Bye, Bye Birdie soundtrack in the tape player and sing along with abandon. in college, virtually anything could be solved (or, you know, avoided) with a little retail therapy at the mall or maybe six or seven shots of Goldschlagers, followed by a cake fight in the dorm hallway. i just always assumed everything would be OK. and back then, it usually would.

but lately, it's harder for me to think that way. i worry about everything from what i should wear to work, to where to buy a house, to who'll win the elections next month, to what the hell is wrong with my hair, to what i should do to celebrate my birthday. i mean, come on. these aren't real worries. what is going on here? perhaps it's just a part of life, a phase everyone goes through - a little period of hyper-worrying in between youthful ignorance and old-age nonchalance. my father told me last week that when he was my age, he was focused solely, obsessively on the future. there was no time for rose-smelling. but he's got some AARP wisdom now, and his advice to me was to stop stressing so damn much. "life," he said, "is about the journey, not the destination." (i'm pretty sure he got that off a coffee mug at work, but regardless, he's right.)

now it's just a matter of figuring out how to stop worrying. i ate a box of Mallomars over the weekend and that didn't cure me. so today i downloaded "three little birds" to my iPod to listen to when i'm feeling unraveled. hey, i'm desperate here. if that doesn't work, i may haul out the ol' showtunes.

then i'll know i'm really in trouble.

mb

only 131 days 'til spring training...

it's a soggy, gray morning in New York City. rather depressing, and rather fitting, considering our baseball season is officially over and all we have ahead of us now is...hockey? (ugh.)

i watched the Mets game last night in the neighborhood bar with Mikey, two of his sisters, and a whole throng of nervous-wreck Met fans. for eight innings, it was actually a great time. the more innings Oliver Perez got through without any damage, the louder everyone cheered. a clutch RBI here, an incredible over-the-wall catch there... it seemed like it would be one of those games you talk about all winter, one you imagine telling your kids about someday.

the hope was palpable.

sitting at the bar sipping wine, while Mikey paced around behind me, i started thinking about another game 7 i'd watched in a crowd like this. it was the ALCS, back in 2003 - the Yankees vs. the Red Sox, up in the Bronx. at the end of the night, one team would go home, the other to the World Series. the rivalry between the teams was still vicious back then, and the game was as hyped-up as games get. i had plans with the girls that night, and looking back i can't believe i agreed to go out, to be even the slightest bit distracted from the game. but we went to Reservoir, which was probably my idea so i could watch the TVs and still pretend to be listening to the conversation at the table.

as it turned out, i was glad for the distraction. the yankees fell behind early, Clemens crumbled, and the game looked bleak until maybe the 7th inning. then it got interesting. by then, my friends had left, the bar had been overtaken by Yankee fans, and i was hopped up on lite beer and pure, hard-core, i'll-do-anything hope. i remember my bladder was about to burst during the bottom of the eighth, but the line for the bathroom was painfully long, and while i was waiting (still in the bar area because the line was that long) good things started to happen. Jorge Posada tied up the game with a hit off Pedro Martinez, who'd threatened to bean him, and the bar - the whole world it seemed - went crazy. a guy i'd befriended five minutes earlier told me, "do not move for the rest of the game. that is a lucky spot. do not move!" by that time, i could have peed my pants and not noticed, not cared. it was all about the game.

i didn't move, and we went into the bottom of the 11th, still tied 5-5. i remember inwardly groaning when Aaron Boone stepped to the plate. this guy? anyone but him, the definition of not clutch. and just like that, before i could finish silently predicting a strike-out, he hit a moon shot. well, at least it seemed like a moon shot. the ball might as well have landed in New Jersey - the game was over, the Yankees had won. i think of that moment and still get goosebumps. i have them right now, in fact. everything was a blur after Boone's home run. i was hugging and kissing people i didn't even know, and everyone felt like my new best friend. the bartenders blasted "New York, New York" (Sinatra's, of course, not Liza's) on the jukebox, and i literally felt on top of the world. it was absolutely one of the best nights of my life.

i was hoping for something like that last night, for Mets fans' sake. for this city's sake. the Mets and the Yankees tied for the best record in baseball this year. surely one of them had to make it to the World Series. but then Molina hit a home run in the 9th, and it was like someone had stuck us all with a pin - the air went whistling out of us as fast as that ball got out of Shea. it was as unbelievable as Boone's hit, but in the worst kind of way.

"i just felt like it was gonna happen, we were gonna win," Mikey kept saying afterward. "i felt like this was our year." i knew what he meant. i thought it was the Yankees' year until two Saturdays ago, and then i thought it was the Mets'. but that's what's so great about baseball, at least in this city. every year might be our year, and that's what keeps you going, through at least 162 games, at least six months, and hopefully eventually to a game 7 that will still give you goosebumps three years later.

the hope is always palpable here.

mb

dunder mifflin, and other things that make me smile

so. this blog is a week old and i started it with a dreary entry about feeling down. today - such as life goes - i'm feeling more chipper, so i thought i'd share the things currently bringing me happiness. because god knows it could all change by next week....

- The Office. no, no. not my office. the one on TV. it's brilliant and hilarious (and no i haven't seen the UK version, i'm quite happy with Steve Carell, thanks.) last week's episode was so funny i watched it twice. my favorite part was dwight's sketch of a robot they wanted to build as a tribute to a deceased employee - which, he pointed out, had a six foot extension cord, "so it can't chase us." ahh... you had to be there.

- this Irish curse i found yesterday: May the curse of Mary Malone and her nine blind illegitimate children chase you so far over the hills of damnation that the Lord himself can't find you with a telescope. I have no idea what it means, but it's so funny and so Irish. It made me think of my Uncle Paul, who lives in California but is on the East Coast this week, making the rounds. i probably won't get to see him - he's just too popular, too in demand - and that really stinks because he's one of my favorite people, but i'll just use it as an excuse to get to California next summer. and i'm going to memorize the curse and try to use it on people who tick me off. we'll see how that goes...

- Diana Krall's new CD. this morning i had my iPod on shuffle and a song came on called "Day In, Day Out." it's an old Johnny Mercer song, everyone's probably recorded it, and it wasn't even the first time i'd listened to Diana's version, but this morning it suddenly sounded like the best song i'd ever heard. i've listened to it about 12 more times today, and i still can't get enough. it's the coolest, happiest song. and Diana - well, i would definitely trade lives with her for a while. (i really think i should have been born in 1926 instead of 1976. i would have fit in so much better back then.)

- Ugly Betty. yes, more TV. the first episode was, i admit, a blatant rip-off of The Devil Wears Prada. but now it's become its own wonderfully addictive little show. i lost my braces when i was in eighth grade, and i don't think my hair has ever been that bad (i could be wrong...) but i completely relate to Betty's earnestness and insecurity at the magazine. my first week at Seventeen, i tried smiling at people in the hallway - i needed friends! - and a couple girls actually rolled their eyes at me. i don't think i ever got over it...

- beagle in a bag. this morning i saw a girl on the F train platform with a dog tote - and a baby beagle's head poking out! i was shocked because i could never imagine lugging Breeze around in a bag - she'd never let me! beagles are not meant for bags, no matter how tiny. nevertheless, i was so excited that this girl was carrying hers, so i had something to do on the train ride. i tried to keep my staring under control, but then we got on the train and everyone was gawking, so i gaped freely. the poor lil' thing was squirming like crazy, glaring up at his owner, trying to sneak a paw out every so often. by Broadway/Lafayette he had run out of patience and even with my iPod on, i could hear those familiar beagle sounds - half-yelp, half-whine, soon-to-be-a-full-on-howl. i couldn't help laughing a little. they got off at that stop, and i hope she let the little guy run free because i'm telling you, beagles do not like to be restrained. ps - i do think the whole ordeal cured me of wanting a dog, at least while i'm still in the city.

- my favorite person under the age of two. this is my cousin Henry James. i have a picture of him at my desk and every time i look at that face i smile. he's the best thing since, well, technically since his older brother Scott was born almost six years ago. but he's got a little personality all his own - easy-going, low-maintenance, smiley as anything. basically, he's just a cool dude. (and so damn cute it makes my stomach hurt. i mean, look at that pose!)

and finally...

- i'm happy that i'm not the only lunatic in apartment 2. two weeks ago, while i was living and dying with every pitch, every swing, every double-play the Yankees hit into against the Tigers, mikey was breezing through the first round of playoffs with his Metsies. i know i scared him a few times, with my guttural noises and truck-driver cursing and stomping around and being so dramatic. but oh, how the tables have turned! i fully believe the Mets will win tonight and pull it out and get to the World Series. (furthermore, i really want them to.) but last night's game was no fun at all for my poor boyfriend. this time it was him cursing, and squirming on the couch and nervously flicking through channels between innings and yelling at the TV screen, unable to help himself. the best part was when i got up to go to bed after the sixth inning and he asked me in a grumbly voice, "hand me my hat?" that was the clincher. i am the type (thanks to my father) who believes that whatever tee-shirt, sweatshirt, jersey - even underwear! - i'm wearing can somehow affect the outcome of a game. i thought mikey was above all that silliness until he asked for his Mets hat. thank god i found someone as nutso as me!

in conclusion, i may stress over silly things and worry about matters over which i have no control. but at least i can find the good stuff, too. like this random quote:

What matters is not the length of the wand, but the magic in the stick.

(heh heh heh...)

mb

i love linguine. OK? i just do.

i will come right out and say it: i love food. i love putting it together, reading about it, watching shows about it, and, most of all, i love eating it. that's right. i love to eat. i know that may seem like a "duh" statement, but here's the truth about working with mostly women, especially in this city, especially in the industries in which i've worked the last seven years: they don't eat. or, if they do - say, because there's food at a meeting - it becomes this big ordeal where muffins are cut into halves or quarters, sandwiches are dissected and bread discarded, pizza grease is blotted off until the slice is completely dehydrated, cupcakes are robbed of their icing, calories are discussed and bemoaned, and promises are made to hit the gym after work to pay for such a cardinal sin as eating. the obsessiveness is silly, of course, completely ridiculous. but what it causes is even worse: lunchtime paranoia.

earlier this year, a friend of mine and i had a little chat in our office kitchen about the guilt we feel for eating anything normal for lunch: a burrito, for example, or - god forbid - mcdonald's. why? because The Eyes are always watching here. they're always peering over your shoulder or stealing glances at your desk to see what you're eating. you see, The Eyes don't eat lunch. they apparently don't need to. they drink sugar-free Red Bull and claim to never be hungry. i admit i've had food issues in the past - i think every girl has at some point or another - and i've been known to count calories or beat myself up for 10 minutes after inhaling a Twix from the vending machine. but i am definitely never ashamed of what i eat... except at work. they have gotten to me, The Eyes, and after an incident last week, i've decided i cannot give into them any more.

last wednesday, after a two-mile trek to a lunchtime appointment, with only my Raisin Bran breakfast sustaining me, my stomach was thundering. dizzy with hunger, i found myself standing in the Subway a block away from my office (that would be the sandwich shop, not the F train). i barely knew what i was saying when i heard myself giving an order to the guy behind the counter: "a foot-long turkey on whole wheat." what? a what?!? A WHOLE FOOT? had i gone mad?? a whole foot of sandwich! and - glutton! - i made it a value meal, needing the bag of chips and medium soda to satisfy the raging hunger beast within.

i paid for my vulgar meal and began the walk back to work. the closer i got to my office building, the more anxious i felt. was i really going to sit at my desk, in full view of everyone, and eat the entire sandwich? and risk the wrath of The Eyes? oh! The Eyes... they would surely take one look at this monstrosity of a sandwich and the judging would begin. it wouldn't matter how many yogurts or how many carrot sticks i ate in the following weeks. they wouldn't see that i had left the cheese and mayo off my foot-long sub, or that i had picked up the baked chips, not the fried ones. none of it would matter. this sandwich, nearly as long as my keyboard, would be the end of me.

i sat down at my desk, heart pounding, and removed the torpedo from the Subway bag. i was in the midst of unwrapping it - that damn paper makes so much noise - when in walked a co-worker who never eats more than a bag of nuts from the vending machine all day long, and even that is a splurge for her, a sign that she must be on the verge of full-on starvation, in danger of dipping below size 00. of all the people to catch me in the act, it had to be her! typical! but the truly shameful part is that, in a knee-jerk (read: absolutely panicked) reaction, i hastily threw a wad of Subway napkins over half the sandwich so as to trick her into thinking i'd only gotten the six-inch version, not the disgustingly fat-ass foot-long.

could i get any more pathetic? i would hate to think how.

so, after the humiliation of that moment passed, i decided to screw the whole thing. at this age, shouldn't i be past this high-school-cafeteria level of self-consciousness? shouldn't i be able to eat lunch - whatever lunch i damn well please - without feeling awful about it? perhaps The Eyes were not judging me after all. perhaps The Eyes have been jealous all this time. maybe they wish they, too, could throw trans-fat caution to the wind and eat a Twinkie every so often, or a grilled cheese with fries, or a foot-long sandwich from Subway. whatever the case, i am not giving in to their silent scorn any longer.

as part of my liberation celebration this weekend, i had lunch at Johnny Rockets on saturday (mmm, their #12 burger with a big ol' order of fries) and last night i made myself my favorite comfort meal: linguine with white clam sauce, and garlic bread on the side. i was the happiest girl in the world.

full disclosure: you better believe i'm hauling my ass to the gym tonight.

mb

a doggie dog world

for weeks i was wondering why october 14th was stuck in my head. for a while i thought it was my cousin henry's birthday, but he turned one last saturday, the 7th. it wasn't anyone else's birthday, no weddings or parties or work functions. finally, i remembered: tomorrow it'll be one year since i said goodbye to my funny little beagle, breeze.

it's been really difficult and strange adjusting to life without her. even now when i go home to visit, i expect to see her roaming in the backyard or slurping at her food bowl. our family has never been without a dog, at least as long as i've been alive, and so the house has seemed especially empty all year. i have whined and begged my parents (very becoming of a 29-year old) to get a new dog, but they tell me they don't want to be tied down again just yet. apparently they want to be able to travel the world or some such ridiculousness. (my parents are the worst empty-nesters ever. they're actually enjoying it!)

anyway, for the whole last year i've had serious dog envy. this city is full of them, all shapes and sizes. the other day i saw a Saint Bernard on the sidewalk that was bigger than my kitchen. and last night i was in a bar in my neighborhood, watching the mets game with mikey, and noticed a man sitting at a table in the corner. actually, i didn't notice him so much as the little black mutt of a dog curled next to him on the cushioned bench beneath the window. i stared in their direction for too long - my dog envy on full-display - but they didn't seem to mind. at one point i glanced over and the man had gotten up, while the dog sat at the table alone, watching the scene, possibly rooting for the mets. "i'm going to pet him," i told mikey, who has been dealing with my canine craziness for many. many months. "his name is shadow," the bartender told me, in her irish accent. "shaaaadoooow," i cooed like an idiot, sidling up next to him on the bench. he didn't flinch, didn't even really look at me. i scratched the top of his head and then behind his ears. he was rather stoic at first, calmly waiting for his owner to return, calmly waiting for this nutjob to stop slobbering on him, but i finally got the right spot behind his ear and he crumbled, nuzzling his snout against my hand and ohh, did i miss my breezy girl right then. she loved being scratched behind the ears. (she also loved to hump my stuffed animals, but you take the good with the bad.)

someday i'll have another dog, i know, and i'll probably wonder why i wanted to subject myself to all the stress and aggravation again. but for now, the longing continues. i can't believe it's been a year without breeze already. somewhere up in doggie heaven i know she's peeing on things with abandon, howling at squirrels and stuffing her face with biscuits. what a dumb dog.

she was the best.

mb

a heart full of baseball

last week i went to Yankee Stadium twice. the first was wednesday night, for game two of the ALDS. my lovely friend jeanine had two tickets through a connection at work and thought to bring me. it was, of course, the night of the rain delay. while all the other fans (most of whom were on their fourth or fifth beer, i'm sure) waited irritably in the runways and by the concession stands, jeanine and i sat in our seats under the umbrella she brought (perhaps you saw us on ESPN?) watching and waiting. next to us was a man named david and his nine-year old son ryan. i don't remember exactly how we started talking to them, but the four of us were among the die-hards toughing it out in the rain, and that's pretty much all it takes to bond with strangers at a ballgame.

ryan was the strong, silent type (apparently he takes the yankees even more seriously than i do), but david was a trip. he wasn't a baseball fan at all - he came for his kid's sake - but a genuinely interesting, likable guy, who seemed to have an endless supply of things to talk about, which came in handy considering we waited over two hours before they called the game. when it was announced that the game would be played the next afternoon at 1 o'clock, i knew right away that i'd be there, no matter what. jeanine, unfortunately, has more loyalty to her job than to baseball (whatever!) and handed me her ticket so i could bring mikey. david said he would do his best to get ryan a day off from school, assuming his wife agreed to it. "you better!" i told him. on the train ride back to penn station, jeanine and i agreed that hanging out with david and ryan had made the time fly by, made an otherwise ridiculous, miserable night so much fun.

the next afternoon - with the sun shining and no tarp in sight - the game started at 1:09pm at the Stadium. mikey and i were there, but the two seats to the left of us were empty. a couple innings went by and i was getting bummed. every time i saw someone enter our section or row, i looked up eagerly, but it was never the right people. i figured it was a lost cause. "i wish you could have met them," i kept telling mikey. "they were awesome." then, in between the third and fourth innings, i made a trip to the bathroom. as i was coming back, i saw two figures taking their seats next to mikey - david and ryan. i'm not kidding when i say i flew down the steps of tier box 21. "i'm so glad you came!" i babbled. david told us he'd pulled ryan out of school, saying he'd come down with "series-itis."

the game was ultimately a huge disappointment, but we had a great time anyway. mikey bonded with david the way jeanine and i had the night before, and ryan even took some time out from his conscientious watching of the game to talk to us. mikey asked him at one point who his favorite player was. he answered, seriously, "Rodriguez." david turned to us and said, "actually, his favorite player was Soriano." (the 2nd basemen the Yankees traded to Texas after the 2003 season.) "i don't pay attention to that stuff," david said, "so i didn't know. but my brother-in-law called to break the news to ryan. i handed ryan the phone and a minute later he fell on the floor, bawling. i hung up and went to make sure he was okay and he said, 'dad, i don't know how else to explain it, but my heart feels like it's breaking.'" mikey and i looked at each other, astounded by this kid.

i'm telling this story because that's sort of how i felt yesterday after the plane crash. it was bad enough that something so awful had happened at all, so close to home, but then when i heard it was cory lidle's plane - a yankee i'd just watched pitch saturday night! - my stomach dropped and i felt like crying. my mother always says, "when your time's up, your time's up." she's had to face death a few times in her life, so she's pretty zen about it now. me, not so much. not quite yet.

on my way home last night in the rain - exactly a week after the rain-out - i thought of ryan, who takes the game so seriously, who gets attached to players the same way i do, and wondered if his heart was breaking all over again. because it felt a little like mine was.

mb

chapter one

confession: i really have no idea if anything i write here will be all that interesting. i'm sort of old-fashioned in that i think journals should be private and people air too many personal things in public these days. i mean, who really cares? it must have something to do with the whole US Weekly phenomenon. anyway, a few people i love and trust have told me recently that i should start a blog, god knows why, but god also knows i'm easily swayed, so here i am. on the off-chance that Derek Jeter, Loorie Moore, Jon Stewart and/or Oprah happen to discover me, i figure it's worth a shot. at the very least, maybe it will be entertaining... to, you know, me.

so it's wednesday, and i'm in a bit of a funk. (i guess that might not be the best way to start a blog, eh?) i'm not really sure what it's about, but you know how sometimes it's a beautiful day outside, the sun is shining, life is wonderful, but then every so often a cloud drifts by and obscures the sun? everything's a little duller and darker and cooler for five or ten minutes, until the cloud moves on and the sun is shining again? that's sort of what i'm experiencing - little patches of melancholy. they drift in - brief, vague, usually not indicative of rain approaching - and they drift out. but they're recurring. and i'm wondering now if that's just life. the closer i get to 30 (59 days, but i swear i'm not counting), the less drama there seems to be. my crazy, oh-so-wrought 20s are drawing to a close and maybe i'm just settling in. which, believe me, is a good thing. but days come and go now, sometimes running into each other... then weeks go by and suddenly there's a Santa Claus on the Today show, talking to Matt Lauer about the Neiman Marcus holiday catalog and i can't believe they're pushing Christmas already when it's not even Halloween yet, let alone that another year is almost over.

OK, now i'm depressing myself.

the funny (or sad) thing is, a lot of my current funk could be related directly to baseball. i said many times last week that i needed an intervention. i cannot spend my whole life taking the Yankees so seriously. it's like i want to have Joe Torre's inevitable nervous breakdown for him. until yesterday, i felt like a kid whose parents were on the verge of divorce, about to break up the whole family! (granted, if we got rid of one kid, let's just call him, oh, Alex, i'd be just fine.) anyway, i think i'm a wee bit too intense, but it's genetic. not much i can do about it. and at least there are two happy baseball fans in my world, thanks to the Mets: my adorably loyal mother, and my adorably psyched boyfriend. mikey is off from work today, but woke up at 8:30 this morning when i was still eating my cereal. "what are you doing up?" i asked him. "twelve hours 'til game time," he replied, in his scratchy morning voice.

i'm jealous as all hell, sure, but happy for them. and also a teeny tiny bit glad that the stress and potential heartbreak is over for me this year.

(OK, so maybe the drama is not completely out of my life just yet.)

to be continued...
mb