Tonight at Fenway there were two drunk women sitting in front of me, maybe in their 40s. One of them knocked into the other one's beer and it spilled on me. Blech, but whatever, shit happens. At least I was wearing jeans. The one who was holding the beer immediately started rubbing the spill on my leg over and over. And over. All the while I was saying, "It's fine, I'm fine, don't worry." I didn't want to come out and say "stop rubbing me!" because, I don't know, I try not to ever yell that at anybody in public.
"I think she likes you," my dad finally said, as he and his friends just kind of stared at her. Then she tried to tell her friend that she had knocked her beer into me, and the friend just looked at me and said, very irritated, "What? How did THAT happen?" It seemed too complicated to get into the physics of how flailing elbows + double fisting expensive cheap beer = stranger behind you being pelted with Bud Light. But I did think it was funny that she was the one who seemed annoyed. I'm sorry, did my leg get in the way of your beer-flinging?
Anyway. I'm up too late, again, because I can't sleep. Damn my erratic summer sleeping schedule! My body is so confused now that I'm back to a normal work schedule. "It's 11 PM, Red, why aren't I on a bad date? What's this large, soft thing you've forced me into instead? I don't have to listen to questions like 'So what's something about you that I don't already know?' in here. Actually, it's kind of nice. Let's never get out."
All I can say about SuriGate is that I can't believe Vanity Fair punned so proudly on its cover ("Yes, Suri, She's Our Baby!" in case you live in a world where the procreation of Jerry Maguire and Joey Potter doesn't matter in the slightest). It struck me as funny that the first time you read the headline, it sounds like something a person would say if English wasn't their first language... you pretty much know what they're trying to convey, but it sounds a little off-kilter. Sort of like, "Suri Is Child That We Had, Yes?" Then a moment later you understand the clever, clever wordplay. It's a slippery slope, Vanity. First this, next thing you know it's Orlando Blooms Anew and Kate is Winsletting Us Go Where No Magazine Has Gone Before.
I had to spend all morning in a dumb workshop and I swear, I was practically at the head-jerking-forward-and-everyone-looking-at-me stage. I had to keep biting my tongue to stay awake. Dear God, I didn't realize how insane that sounded until I typed it. I should've gone with "had to keep pinching myself." I was doing that, too.
Best part, though? Beforehand I went to sign up for an afternoon workshop and realized that I was teaching one of them. Faaaantastic. Luckily I have the presentation down pat, but still, public schools are so organized. This isn't even the first time they've done this to me. It would've been funny if I'd been sitting in some workshop while people sat in another room, waiting for me at mine. I'm clearly a professional, through and through.
Not that there's any reason for you to do so, but in case you're wondering, the title of my workshop is Evaluation, Diagnosis and Treatment of Speech and Language Disorders in Elementary School Children. I did not come up with this title. Mine would've been Let's Shoot the Shit for an Hour and Then Go Get Some Quesadillas or Whatever. I wonder how many tongues were being bitten while I talked about assessment protocols.
So, to continue with the topic of not having a topic (I'm all over the place! I'm an animal!), I'm having very very very preliminary thoughts about getting my doctorate. I'd love to take more courses and enhance my dorkdom, but I sort of hate the idea of the dissertation. It would be interesting work, yeah, but it seems impractical... the whole point of my job right now is to get a lot of diverse experience, and a dissertation is basically a two year research project about something obscure that I'll never think about again, like the ramifications of some random neurological problem on cognitive-linguistic processing in 11-year-old females from Wisconsin with deviated septums and seasonal affective disorder.
I would maybe eventually like to have my own clinic (and not just because Crazy Neighbor tells me I should). I'd also like to teach grad school classes. I don't necessarily need a doctorate for either of those things, but, y'know... couldn't hurt. What a compelling argument. "Y'know, couldn't hurt" is going right at the top of the "pro" list. Maybe I'll just eliminate the middleman and try to get on the list for one of those honorary degrees that they hand out at graduations. Ooh, could I also give a speech? I'd love an opportunity to tell new grads to follow their hearts but don't go chasing waterfalls. Am I getting carried away?
Whatever, school is boring. You know who's cute and back from the dead, i.e. the DL? And like most of the other players he's utterly useless, which is evident based on our standings... at this point we'd have to lie, cheat, steal, sleep around, bark like a dog and wish on shooting stars to even have a shot in hell at the wild card. But still... it's Tek and he's back, woo!
I love whoever it was who said that most of the Sox players have a look about them that says if they weren't playing ball, they'd be working behind the counter at some crappy music store. So true.