29 September 2006

Rad Brad.

Adding another improbable to the list that makes up all the things that the Twins have done this season, Brad Radke came back from a torn labrum AND a stress fracture in his right shoulder to pitch in what was almost assuredly his final regular-season start for the Twins.

And you know what? He pitched his ass off. The fairy dust and spackle holding his arm on held through five innings (57 pitches, three hits one unearned run). If his arm is still attached today, he's probably in the playoff rotation. Hot fucking damn.

He's likely to announce his retirement after the postseason. Thanks, Brad. I can't possibly say it better myself.

26 September 2006

Guinness float.


Fall is in the air. No, wait! It's destiny.

I thought I was coming down off my high from last night. But I'm not, really. I've spent a good chunk of today reading every freakin' Twins-related thing I can get my hands on.

As the days of the regular season keep trickling away, the feeling that this team is destined for something big really seems to grow. I mean, for me, anyway. I didn't want to say anything, because I don't want to jinx it. But this feeling is so strong that I just can't keep it bottled up any more.

This team has overcome so much and just keeps coming. And they're not done yet, by any means. Holy damn, am I excited.

25 September 2006

Playoffs!

Reason no. 157 why I love The Current.

Steve Seel is playing the theme from "Sanford and Son" right now.

For some reason, that song reminds me of a cousin and some hugely inappropriate things he said at our last family reunion. Actually, I know the reason. He kept ... well, he wasn't humming it. Nor was he singing it, really, because it's an instrumental. It's the equivalent to my "bow chicka bow bow" porn music representation, I guess. I totally got the heebie jeebies when he and I were going to get beer from somewhere and as we walked away, my aunt said to him, "Remember, she's your cousin!" Hahahahahahaha. Gross.

That song just bumped my mood from decent to excellent. The weather is gorgeous. I got my membership all updated at Bally (I let it lapse in July. Bad, Jess). But now, of course, I'll be walking around Calhoun after work to enjoy the day.

It's crazy how I can feel so great today, when I was wallowing in despair a week ago. Actually, even just a couple of days ago, still. The joys of being a woman are many and ever so special.

Twins magic number: 2

21 September 2006

Does it come in baby-shit yellow, too?

I was waiting for the bus after work today, watching the traffic go through Dinkytown on 4th Street. I saw a Pepto-Bismol-pink Ford Expedition go by. The driver was male, I think. He must either be extremely secure in his own sexuality ... or gayer than Elton John's handbag. There was no Mary Kay decal on the back; nor any other sort of indication as to why someone would do that to a perfectly good vehicle.

This gray, rainy day is sapping the essence from my very soul. I thought perhaps beer and Supernatural would help me to feel better. But the first beer is slow going down and the Santana has looked, well, not very good through an inning and two-thirds.

In other news, there is even more reason for me to hate the Vikings:

A potential schedule conflict with the Twins could force the Vikings to move their Oct. 8 game against Detroit, but Vikings officials apparently are considering whether to challenge an agreement that gives the Twins priority in the Metrodome.

Their douchebaggery knows no bound.

20 September 2006

Around the internets.

It's like they want me to cheer against them: 10,000 Takes has a nifty little write up on the Vikings' new theme song "Bring in the Horns." Disclaimer: I haven't listened to it yet, because my work computer has neither sound card nor speakers. I have read the lyrics, though, and they look lame as hell.

The Vikings' press release describes it as such:

Bring in the Horns is a brand new, high energy, yet melodic Minnesota Vikings theme song balancing timeless substance with a cutting edge sound.

That sound you heard was me throwing up a little in my mouth. "Yo! We hit that gridiron and we do run-run ... This is "timeless substance?" Okay, that "we do run-run" part makes me a bit wistful for my Shaun Cassidy album that sits somewhere amongst my dad's albums out on the farm. But that's really all.
I've already broken up with the Vikes. Are they just trying to piss me off now?

More throwing up in my mouth: Jessica and Ashlee Simpson's dad is a creepy dude. Like, really creepy. Those poor girls. I mock them both often and quite lustily (if you can boo lustily, you should be able to mock lustily, right?). However, I really do feel bad for them. And not just because they're dumber than a box of hair. Their dad sounds like Chester Molester. I feel dirty. I need a shower.

Of baseball and transplants: There's just something about a "jogging diary" of a baseball game devolving into a discussion about a psychologically damaging (not to mention swollen), ultimately failed penile transplant that warms a girls heart.

18 September 2006

12 weeks.

He left 12 weeks ago. It was June; summer was just beginning. Now it's nearly fall; the leaves are changing, it's getting dark earlier and I can see my breath when I walk to the bus in the morning. It seems like June was so long ago, but like it was yesterday at the same time.

Before he walked out the door, he kissed me and said, "I'll talk to you soon." He kissed me again and said, "I'll see you in October." Now 12 weeks have passed and I haven't heard a peep. It hurts a little, yet I'm not surprised. The hurt would be much worse if I had been communicating with him. As much as one part of me would love to hear from him, the other part is immensely grateful to have had all this time to try to get over him without any interference.

But October is fast approaching. I have to wonder if he didn't follow through on the whole, "I'll talk to you soon," thing if he'll follow through on seeing me in October. It would be easier for me if he didn't. I know I won't be strong enough to say no if he calls. I won't even be able to lie and tell him I'm seeing someone and can only grab a coffee with him. Oh, on my better days I totally think I can do it. On days like today, though, when I woke up with puffy eyes and a headache because I lost it when I got home from the Snow Patrol show last night (you see, he was supposed to go with me), I know that there is no question that I'll give in to him. So, knowing my luck, he will call when he's home and I'll have to deal with a major setback.

I don't know when he'll be back in October. I could be seeing him in two weeks or six weeks. It might end up not being October when he comes back. Maybe he never even left, but this "I'm going to South Africa for this job for five years" was his version of the "Dearest Edna" letter.

I was hoping that I'd be seeing someone else by the time he returned for his October doctor visit. But that looks like it won't be happening. I haven't even been able to bring myself to go on more than a handful of dates.

The only remotely Potentially Promising thing actually started before he left and fizzled out not long after he was gone. Perhaps if I had gotten that text message before I'd finally crawled into bed because I got sick of waiting for the Potentially Promising One to sober up enough to come over that Friday night after the Pride block party, things would have been different. But that didn't happen. I went to bed at a semi-decent hour and was up and about when he called to see if he could stop by and see me before his flight left very early the next morning. And the Potentially Promising One flaked out on me twice more and that was the end of that.

So I wait for the skies to clear and my hormones to go back to normal. I'll realize that I'm pretty happy, all things considered. I'll think about him less. I'll go weeks without crying again. I'll focus on the Twins playoff drive, the upcoming beer festival, my cousin's wedding and all the other fun things I have going on in October. And I'll be okay.

13 September 2006

Wailing and gnashing my teeth.

Well, I was, anyway. I spent the morning watching the clock, waiting for it to be noon. Why? Because today was the day that Francisco Liriano returned to the Twins' rotation.

Things didn't go so well. Was he rushed back? It didn't really seem that was the case. He had no problems during his rehab. There was nothing until that pitch. My heart sank when John Gordon and the Dazzle Man described the scene.

But I thought about it for a while and you know what? The Twins have done pretty well while he's been out. Matt Garza pitched really well in relief -- like seven innings and gave up a run. That one run was enough, unfortunately.

All is not lost, my fellow Twins fans. We have Supernatural. The wishes and fairy dust holding Bradke's shoulder in place seem to be working. He might even make it back at the end of the regular season. Carlos the Jackal isn't sucking so much. Boof's doing really well. The offense is mostly staying away from the ass bats.

Am I deluding myself? I hope not. I just really don't want this crazy ride to end.

12 September 2006

Doing my civic duty.


I'm a nerd. I get totally geeked up for voting. In the primaries. For state offices. I wear my "I Voted" sticker with pride.

I get choked up sometimes when I try to explain to people why voting is so important. I even cried once when I voted. It was in 2002, when I should have been voting for Paul Wellstone. It was a small consolation that I had the opportunity to vote for Walter Mondale. When he ran for president in 1984 with Geraldine Ferraro, I wanted so desperately to be old enough to vote for the first man from a major party who chose a woman as his running mate. I also cried when Jimmy Carter lost to Ronald Reagan, because I'd voted for Carter in our classroom's Weekly Reader election. Yeah, I started early.

The election judges at my polling place were all very friendly and seemed quite happy to be there. I love that. I love that there are people who care enough to spend a day making sure things run smoothly. I love the feeling I get when I feed my ballot into the machine (I was number 55 today). Oh, and when I get that sticker ... I really, really love taking part in the process.

11 September 2006

I hate cable companies.

I would have mentioned my specific cable provider, but I'm not sure if it is Time Warner or Comcast. Minneapolis is in the midst of switching from the former to the latter.

It doesn't really matter which one it is. Well, maybe I'd rather it be Time Warner, because I'm used to them being assholes. I'd like Comcast and I to get off on the right foot.

I was just sitting here, watching the Vikings game (only because it was on in place of The Simpsons), passing the time until the Twins game started. And without a warning, my cable box shuts off. Oh, but not just shuts off. That would be too easy. It was as if it had been unplugged. Lovely. I've got a poltergeist. After a couple of tries, I got it working again. However, my picture is now all messed up.

Fortunately, it's just the cable box and not my TV. I'm DVR-less (hold me!) until Friday, when they're sending a cable guy out (bow chicka bow bow). This is probably the fourth or fifth time I've had someone out in the past calendar year, not including the guy who set things up when I moved in here. That's close to every other month. Not so much acceptable if you ask me.

I'm watching the news about Minneapolis's going Wi-Fi with much anticipation. When that happens (late next year), I'll be able to cut the cord (or cable as it may be) and go wi-fi for internet and with a satellite provider for TV. Yay!

My cable provider is just lucky that I was able to bypass the DVR box and I have a clear picture for the Twins game. God help you if you keep me from watching my beloved Twins. Oh my God. I'm positively all aflutter over the Twins. Words keep failing me, which sucks. But holy damn.

08 September 2006

Having too much fun home alone on Friday night.

Seriously. It always weirds me out a little bit when I realize that I'm having a fucking blast sitting home alone on a Friday night.

The Twins beating up on Detroit is contributing. So is the beer. And the good music. I've busted out Marty Robbins and Dolly Parton already. I was clapping along to Elbow's "Mexican Standoff." I have yet to do any dancing. Well, much dancing, anyway.

This is all despite a headache that is making me feel like my skull, right around my left eye, is caving in.

Life is good.

There's some activity on the radar that suggests I might get dragged out in the next hour or so. I think I can be talked into it pretty easily. But I'd be just as happy hanging out here.

07 September 2006

Am I ready for some football?

Meh, I guess so. I'd be more inclined to care if someone other than StubbyFingers McGee and Chas Batch were the quarterbacks tonight. I don't have any fantasy players going tonight (I'm benching Hines Ward because I don't trust Batch), so really there's not much to suck me in.

Oh, and it turns out that there's a baseball game on tonight, too! Honestly, how can anyone expect me to care about a football game when the Twins and Tigers are separated by a mere four games? Sunday I'll be able to watch the late football games. I really just don't care as long as the Twins are in the playoff hunt. I am positively giddy about the Twins right now. Meanwhile, the Tigers fans I know are doing much wailing and gnashing of teeth.

What a weekend this will be -- baseball, football and beer. Oh, but I'll be a happy girl.

I'm putting off work. I should be working on the report we got back earlier this week. But the comments have created such a clusterfuck I can barely wrap my head around things. I'm taking things a bit too personally, of course, especially since I didn't write all of it. It's a fault. I'm not good with criticism. Many of the comments are just plain stupid, though. The commenter must not have bothered to read the report through before digging in. Half of his remarks are addressed within a sentence or two. I'll be sure to point that out in my editing. 'Cause I'm a snotty bitch like that.

03 September 2006

Bert curses a blue streak.

I sat down to start watching the Twins take on the Yankees today and heard Bert Blyleven apologize for his language. He said he thought that he and Anthony LaPanta were being recorded.

I was dismayed. What could Bert have said to make him apologize? And how could I possibly have missed it? Whatever he said, it certainly wouldn't be the first time he'd made some questionable statements.

Then I remembered: I have a DVR. And I'd been on the same channel since before the game started. I tried to wait until Matt Garza got through the Yankees in the bottom of the first inning, but after he walked Giambi (note to Giambi and the rest of the Yanks: MUSTACHES ARE FUCKING UGLY), I just couldn't wait any longer.

I'm still not sure how I missed it. I must have been walking to another room and tuned out momentarily. Bert and Anthony were going over yesterday's game, when Bert says:

"Ah, Jeter, we're going to do this fucking thing over because I just fucked it up. Oh, we're live. I didn't know that."

AWESOME.

To his credit, Anthony LaPanta didn't miss a beat. I wonder what Dick Bremer would have done, had he been working the game.