Aw, Yeah

Boof Bonser served up six runs in the first inning of yesterday’s game, and although I was sorely tempted to find something better to do with my time, My Ho and I stuck it out, and my Darling Beloveds repaid our perseverance with a come-from-behind win that put them a game and a half in first place in the A.L. Central. This may be as fleeting as springtime in Minnesota, so let’s enjoy it while it lasts, shall we?

As if that wasn’t enough baseball joy for one day, last night My Ho, Demigoddess the Younger and I made a trip to the Champps in Eden Prairie to see Michael Cuddyer host a “Twins Unplugged” event featuring Jesse Crain and Nick “Is it warm in here, or is it just me?” Blackburn. I had never attended one of these events before, but when I heard who the guest Twins would be, I decided that Mr. Blackburn is definitely worth a drive to Eden Prairie. And I was so right.

I got an autograph and thanked him for restoring my will to live after the you-know-who trade. He looked straight at me and smiled (SWOON), and said he didn't think he'd be filling those particular shoes any time soon. It took considerable effort not to climb over the table and LICK HIM.

Boof Bonser was also there and appeared to be in good spirits despite the above-mentioned first inning. He confirmed that he is still letting Livan wear the big trousers.

He's Baaaaaaack...

We hadn't planned on attending yesterday's game until I realized on Friday night that it wasn't going to be televised, and was lamenting that fact to My Ho. He said, "Why don't we go?" I said, "Why don't we?" So we did.

And when 1 for 17 Justin Morneau came to the plate for his second at bat of the game, with the Royals ahead 2-0 and two men on base, I turned to My Ho and said, "He is SO due. This would be a really, really good time...." And My Ho agreed.

And then Mr. Morneau shelled one right out of the park, and everybody jumped up and down and screamed, and as he rounded the bases, I though I could hear our curly-haired Canuck say, "HA HA you fools! I was only PRETENDING to be in a hitting slump to see if you were paying a-tten-tioooooonnnnnn!"

Opening Day

It was a fine day for baseball:

Not really.

But the baseball happened anyway, in spite of the weather. In spite of the fact that Torii Hunter was on the field wearing an Angels uniform. And in spite of the fact that the only Santana in the Metrodome was Ervin "The Other" Santana, also in an Angels uniform and most definitely not a certain two-time Cy Young winner who was SO VERY NOT THERE.

Torii got a standing ovation before the game, and he pointed into the stands and fist-bumped his heart. It was close, but I didn't cry.

And when I heard that a certain lefty for whom I once harbored certain unreasonably passionate feelings struck out eight for the Mets earlier today, I winced, but there were no tears.

I had a hot dog, My Ho kept score, I sang along with the Hormel Row of Fame song. And these new Twins--that speedy one, the one with the unfortunate ears, that guy with the unibrow, the one with the brother, and the pitcher with the big trousers? Well, they went ahead and won the game.

Here's hoping they can do it again sometime soon. Maybe even a few times.

That would be good.

Boof Said “Big Trousers”!

Last Friday, a call for spring training-themed haiku went out from Section 220.

My contribution, which I posted as “TwinsGoddess” (my old Batgirl moniker), was this:

Boof is thin, Livan
Is here ‘cuz someone has to
Wear the big trousers.

And here, direct from Fort Myers, is a dramatic reading of my original work, by none other than Boof Bonser himself.

I've only watched that video about seven thousand times.

Exceptionally Awesome Boyfriendage

Not only did he show up at my house last night with a graphing calculator (only a couple of hours after being on the listening end of a highly unattractive telephone pity party inspired by DemiGoddess the Elder’s announcement that she needed a graphing calculator for math class, which happened to occur on the same day I learned my insurance company would not be bestowing me with quite as large a home repair settlement as I had been led to believe, which took place on the very same day I had just spent a not inconsiderable sum of money on contact lenses for Demi the Younger), because he just happened to have one lying around his desk at work.

Not only did he tolerate with good humor the exclamations that Demi the Younger and I made during the Cubs game regarding a certain Mr. Theodore Roosevelt Lilly (“Oooh! Look at all the CUTE!”).

But also, he remembered that today is our three-year anniversary.


Thank you, My Ho, for sharing my passion for Indian food, reality TV, independent films and Icees; for allowing me to find out for myself that Kent Hrbek is maybe a just little too big for his already sizeable britches; for being my source of understanding and wisdom during the 2007 baseball season; for making all my co-workers jealous by sending me three dozen roses at work; and for not doing anything embarrassing when we were on the Kiss Cam.

Here's hoping we can celebrate number four at an ALDS game.

The Party’s Over

Well, so much for that, then. Nice that my Darling Beloveds could go out with a win (at Fenway no less) but they end the season under .500, and that makes me very, very sad.

Nobody seems to be able to explain exactly what happened. The bats died, Liriano was out recovering from Tommy John surgery, and the “Piranhas” were laugably un-piranha-like. There was the hand-licking greasiness of Sidney Ponson and the futility of Ramon Ortiz. Catchers dropped right and left, the bullpen faltered, and Mi Corazón was used and abused by Cleveland again and again and again. That hurt.

Justin Morneau broke his nose and bruised a lung, Joe Mauer had a hernia, and Michael Cuddyer tried to kill himself with his own batting helmet. Mike Redmond took Jim Thome’s bat upside his head and lived to tell the tale… until a smashed-up hand finally took him out in September. I waited and hoped, hoped and waited, for a 2006-style turnaround that never materialized, and toward the end of the season, about the only thing worth talking about any more was whether or not Torii Hunter will be back. And as I’ve said, I don’t have a whole lot of patience for speculation. Terry Ryan’s announcement a couple of weeks ago was like the crappy cherry on top of a seriously crappy cake.

Which is too bad, because this year My Ho had season tickets, and we had a lot of fun getting to know the ladies in the seats next to his in the front row of section 220. We were in those very seats when My Ho and I were pictured on the Kiss Cam.

I brought DemiGoddess the Elder and a couple of her friends, including Ms. H., who has been passionately in love with Joe Mauer for a large percentage of her young life, to the game during which he was awarded his American League batting title:


And I watched Demi the Younger’s friend A. wrestle a foul ball from some twentysomething asshat who tried to take it from her (I was halfway out of my seat to intervene when the formidable Ms. A. prevailed).

I spent a glorious Fourth of July sitting in the sunshine, gazing out over the lake and listening to my Darling Beloveds win at Yankee Stadium, thanks to the miracle that is My Ho’s XM satellite radio. Even though we had to listen to the Yankees announcers call the game, their repeated mispronouncing of “Kubel” and “Guerrier” soon turned into an awesome drinking game.


There was Bat Baby’s complete game, as well as a visit from Dr. Dave, during which we caught a Royals game, just like old times. And then there was the 20th reunion party for the 1987 World Series team, where, thanks to MyHo (who knows people), I very much enjoyed some face time with Tom Brunansky, Frank Viola, Greg Gagne, Jeff Reardon, and other members of that celebrated Minnesota Twins team.

It wasn’t all bad on the field, either. Jason Tyner finally got his major league home run:


Torii Hunter, Justin Morneau and Johan were All-Stars, and Scott Baker very nearly pitched a perfect game:


And Mi Corazón’s 17-strikeout game will continue warming my heart well into this coming winter.

At least until Twins Fest, anyway.

Damn West Coast Road Trips

Last night My Ho and I were on the phone until way past our regular bedtimes because the Twins were playing in Anaheim, and in spite of our better judgement, we just couldn’t look away.

My Ho watched from his bed at his house, I watched from my bed at my house, and as the game progressed, things started to get a little punchy.

Inning Six—10:45 p.m. CST, Twins 1, Angels 6

ESG: “So, I’ve been watching ‘Flavor of Love Girls: Charm School,’ and flipping to the game during the commercials. It’s a very bad sign when ‘Flavor of Love Girls: Charm School’ is less of a train wreck than the baseball game.”

Ho: “Yes.”

Inning Seven—Twins 1, Angels 8

(A shot of Ron Gardenhire in the dugout, looking toward the field and twirling his index fingers around each other.)

ESG: “What was that?”

Ho: “It was a sign.”

“I know that. What did it MEAN??”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe it was the sign for, ‘Can we please get this wrapped up so I can go back to the hotel and drink a lot of vodka?’”

“Could be.”

“Actually, no. I think it was the sign for, ‘Does anyone have a sharp object handy? I need something to jam into my eye.’”

Inning Eight—Twins 1, Angels 8

ESG: “Who’s that guy?”

Ho: “Jason Miller, one of the new relief pitchers. We saw him during the game against Toronto last weekend.”

“Oh, right. But we were at the Dome for that game, so we were too far away to see that he looks like a turkey.”

Inning Eight—Twins 1, Angels 12

(A shot of the lineup card posted on the wall of the Twins’ dugout.)

ESG: “Did you see that? Right under where Boof’s name was crossed out, Gardy just wrote ‘HELP ME.’”

Inning Eight—Twins 1, Angels 14

ESG: “This is cruel. Why is he still in there?”

Ho: “No reason to burn up somebody else’s arm in this game.”

“If he gives up two more runs, he’ll have doubled the score in a single inning. That would be impressive.”

Inning Eight—Twins 1, Angels 16

ESG: “Called it.”

(Gardy summons Pat Neshek from the bullpen, and then, mercifully, visits the mound to dismiss Jason Miller.)

Inning Nine—Twins 1, Angels 16

ESG: “Did you just see him picking his nose on TV?”

Ho: “It was a double pick, even.”

“Who gives up eight runs in an inning and then sits on the bench and picks his nose??”

“I totally agree.”

“Maybe he was looking for his fastball. I don’t think you’re going to find it up there, Jason.”

Final Score—Angels 16, Twins 3

(For the more intelligent end of the conversation, see here.)

A Most Excellent Hope Opener

Joe Mauer hit a single in his first at bat, which was exciting for a few minutes until it was upstaged by back-to-back homeruns courtesy of Justin Morneau and Torii Hunter. Rondell White made an amazing catch, and the American League MVP made an old time hockey-style hit at home plate that inexplicably did not force the Orioles catcher to drop the ball, but did have him running to the dugout for a Band-Aid. Mi Corazón sat down six, the bullpen struck out several more, and my darling beloveds beat Baltimore by a score of 7-4. An optimistic start to the season, I think.

For the first time, DemiGoddess the Elder did not sit with Demi the Younger, My Ho and me. She attended the game with her friend Hannah. Just before Brad Radke threw out the first pitch, she called me on my cell phone to ask if I could see her “Circle Me Bert” sign (she had cleverly created it on the white underside of a vinyl snow tube she got for Christmas and then popped during an extra-vigorous sledding party over the winter). Yes, I said, we could see it, waaaaaaay up in the nosebleed seats, across the Metrodome from where we were sitting in the lower deck. She said she could see us waving through Hannah’s dad’s binoculars. Then she had to hang up because the game was about to start.

A good time was had by all on our end of the Dome, and she had a lot of fun with her friend, in spite of the altitude. But even though her absence meant more peanuts and Twizzlers for the rest of us, it still seemed like our opening day roster was a player short.

There’s going to be a lot more of that in the future, I’m sure.

Right. It’s Not the Cat’s Fault. But Still.

My Ho and his Youngster are in Massachusetts doing a college prospecting tour this week. Tonight they’ll be having dinner with Batgirl and Jeb and BatBaby Dashiell, and I am properly put out that it will all be happening without me. While I am here. Feeding his stupid cat. And pouting.

What helps is knowing that opening night is only five short days away. My darling beloveds will take the field at the Metrodome next Monday night, Mi Corazón will be the starting pitcher, and My Ho and I will be there for our third home opener in a row. The cat is not invited.

Although I’ve tuned in here and there, in general I haven’t paid a lot of attention to the spring training goings on. I don’t have the patience for all the speculation, being much more a rubber-meets-the-road kind of Goddess. Just tell me who is going to be on the final roster and then get out there and do the thing already.

But Carlos Silva’s struggles have been all everyone has talked about lately, to the point where even I was thinking maybe it’s time for him to go. That is, until I saw this.

I’m all about anything that keeps Johan happy. And somehow, that video makes everything better.

Post-Party

My Ho's big birthday blowout happened last night. The evening was remarkably low-stress, thanks mainly to the fact that my kind and generous sister Meghan (to whom I am now indebted big time) let me have the thing at her house. Because her house is bigger and nicer than mine, and also because she has one of those husbands who likes to clean.

(I had thought those were an urban myth until I saw him doing it with my own two eyes.)

The details--the food and the drinks and the party supplies--all came together nicely. The balloons and decorations were in Chicago Cubs red and blue, the cat was black, and the fake ivy (which was everywhere) and the miniature replica of the Wrigley Field scoreboard were green.

The cake caught the immediate attention of my niece, Madge, who dragged a chair to the table from halfway across the room so that she could get up close and gaze adoringly at it. "Oooooooh..." she purred, "That's a cool birthday cake!" And it was--with the red Wrigley Field marquee sign ("Home of Chicago Cubs") reproduced in icing on the top. Again and again, we reminded Miss Madge that she could look, but mustn't touch. She obeyed for the most part, although at one point I did see her carefully pluck a single colored sprinkle off the side. Even so, her restraint was admirable.

My Ho’s friends are interesting and social enough that the people from work mingled comfortably with his old college chums, who got along swimmingly with the members of my own family. Even my brother-in-law’s friend Steve, who crashed the party after seeing all the cars in front of the house and popped in to see what was happening, fit right in. My Ho's Youngster, after a long day of helping my sister Molly's aspiring-filmmaker boyfriend make a music video, made a cheerful, if weary, appearance.

And that, I think, was the best part. Seeing My Ho so happy to be surrounded by all of his favorite people, who were there to celebrate his birthday.

He makes it very easy to do nice things for him.

I’d Have Been Better Off Throwing Darts at the Bracket

My Ho has run the annual NCAA pool at his place of employment since long before he was My Ho. Every year there is a pool where I work, too, but, never having been much of a fan of basketball in general, and of college hoops in particular, I didn’t pay a lot of attention to March Madness until he and I started dating.

Inspired by his enthusiasm, for the past couple of years I’ve gone ahead and filled out a bracket based on My Ho’s picks, and forwarded them, along with my $5 entry fee, to a guy in our accounting department. I have yet to win any money, but with My Ho’s guidance, I always finished somewhere in the top half. It’s something to do until opening day, anyway.

This year he carefully chose a number of underdogs with potential to upset the favorites, because he has participated in enough NCAA pools to know how these things go. And also, he’s super smart. Or, at least, I thought he was super smart, until every blessed one of his carefully chosen underdogs-with-potential picks went belly-up over the weekend.

When I first glanced through the Excel spreadsheet of current standings that the accounting guy e-mailed out to everybody this morning, I thought for a moment that he had accidentally left me off the chart. Then I scrolled to the right and found my name in the faaaaar column. Currently, I am holding strong at number 95 out of 97.

We’re not out if it yet, though. All of our final four teams remain alive, and we can finish in the money IF the remaining half of March goes for our surviving picks a lot like the last half of the Twins’ season did for my darling beloveds last year.

They did end up winning the division, after all.

Maybe I should just stick to baseball.

Another Happy Birthday

Two of my favorite guys in the world have birthdays back-to-back. Yesterday was Johan’s, and today is My Ho’s birthday, which makes life infinitely easier, because I’m terrible at remembering dates most of the time.

My Ho is not Venezuelan, he is from Skokie. He grew up a fan of the Chicago Cubs, and as a kid would take the El to Wrigley Field early on summer mornings, to wait in line for the bleacher seats. In particular, he was a fan of the 1969 Cubs team, and I am convinced that this is the reason he turned out to be the man of character that he is. My Ho is a sensitive soul, and exceptionally kind, and I believe this is because he learned from an early age the pain of a broken heart, and how to carry on and continue to love, even in the face of bitter disappointment.

As far as I know, My Ho cannot throw a changeup, but he is the fastest two-finger typist I have ever seen. And, like Johan, he is not one to self-promote. Many of the admirable deeds he has done in the past I found out about by accident, which makes knowing him a little bit like a treasure hunt. I just never know when I’m going to stumble across something amazing.

This is a big birthday for My Ho, one that ends in a zero. The real party will happen in a few days, and it will have a Wrigley Field/1969 Cubs theme, complete with a black cat (big thanks to Dr. Dave for the tip). But I wanted to do something special for today, too, as a little preview.

(Ernie Banks was already taken. Sorry.)

Happy Birthday, My Ho!

“Hey, hey, holy mackerel,
no doubt about it,
the Cubs are on their way!

The Cubs are gonna hit today
they're gonna pitch today
they're gonna field today
come what may,
the Cubs are gonna win today!

Hey, hey holy mackerel
no doubt about it
The Cubs are on their way!

They've got the hustle
they've got the muscle
the Chicago Cubs are on their way!!!”

Warning: Do Not Go To This Film

My Ho and I went to see “Babel” on Sunday, along with my sister Betsy.

I admit that it was me who wanted to see it. And the only reason I was interested was because it received the most Golden Globe nominations, and I felt a need to see it before the awards show broadcast last night. This, in spite of my aversion to all things Brad Pitt. I should have known better.

We left for the afternoon show right after the Bears won their playoff game, which is a good thing, because it meant that My Ho was in an exceptionally good mood right before I forced him to sit through over two and a half hours of pointless storylines loosely connected by long periods of excruciating boredom. And Sister Betsy nearly whoopsied from the herky-jerky handheld cinematography.

But don't just take MY word for it.

So you can imagine my astonishment when the film won the best picture Golden Globe last night. Although I suppose the fact that the cameras spent so much of the evening focused on Angelina Jolie's bony clavicles should have tipped me off that things were not going to go well. And, inexplicably, no sign of Isaac Mizrahi, either.

Betsy and I also saw "Little Children" on Sunday (my sister and I, we are the kind of hard-core movie fan freakshows who will pay to see two films, in the theater, in one day) and although the ending was just a smidge too precious, we both found that one ever so much more enjoyable. And decidedly less nausea-inducing. And also, 100% Brangelina free.

Spectrum

On December 30, my friend Batgirl welcomed her son, Dashiell John, into the world. She and her husband, Jeb, were in town for the holidays when they discovered she was in labor about eight weeks ahead of schedule. Dash ended up being born right here in Minneapolis, and although he weighed in at a slight 3 pounds, 2 ounces, he is able to breathe on his own and is healthy enough that he’ll spend the next few weeks in the special care nursery, not the NICU.

After confirming with the new parents that it would be okay, My Ho and I made plans to visit Batgirl and Jeb in the hospital on Tuesday evening. I was very much looking forward to meeting the newest member of Team Batgirl.

Then, on Tuesday afternoon, the DemiGoddesses received a call from my Ex with sad news. We had no longer been expecting that his baby, also a boy, would make it to term, but the hope was that he could hang in there for another few weeks, long enough that surgery might be a viable option. But when my Ex called, it was to tell the Demis that the baby’s heart had stopped beating that morning. There wasn’t anything left to be done but induce labor.

That night at the hospital, I stood next to the incubator as baby Dash slept, pink and tiny and perfect, with one scrawny arm thrown back over his head like he was sunbathing under the bilirubin lights. Watching his little chest move up and down as he breathed, I was in awe and in love, while at that very same moment, I ached over the loss of the one named Henry, whose due date had been within a few days of Dash’s.

Some days life is impossibly wonderful. Some days it is brutally unfair. That day, it was both.

Speaking of Smack...

How much do Wednesday nights suck now that Lost is on hiatus?

Seriously. Taye Diggs is cute and all, and I even watched his show once because it came on the TV while I was in the middle of something and my hands were full and I couldn't reach the remote, so I just left it on, even though I vowed that I would never ever watch that stupid show simply on principle. And it was actually kind of interesting, in a non-Lost kind of way. But no. Just no.


The other night My Ho and I took the DemiGoddesses to see "We Are Marshall" (bring tissues, kids, it's a weeper), and the movie was okay, but every once in a while I couldn't help leaning over and whispering in My Ho's ear, "Live together, die alone..." Because, duh, that was totally Jack up there coaching the football.

And then last weekend they went and re-ran the Saturday Night Live show that Matthew Fox hosted, and I'll tell you, it was fun while it lasted, but when it was over, the emptiness was hard to bear.

If I think too much about how ABC has enslaved me with that TV show, how cruelly they teased me last fall with those six episodes, just letting me get good and settled in for a full season before--oops!--killing off Mr. Echo and then YANKING IT ALL AWAY AGAIN until February...

If I think too much about that, I start to get really, really angry.

What Is This “Cash” You Speak Of?

The DemiGoddesses both achieved the pinnacle of their young lives last week. As in, they both finally got their iPods.

Christmas contributions from many of their extended family members, along with the not-a-Shuffle cash I had placed under the tree for them (in boxes, and wrapped, because I had to watch them open SOMETHING), plus the money they both have been saving for months all added up to the three of us making a trip to the Apple store at the mall.

The place was packed with post-holiday shoppers redeeming their gift cards and buying up all kinds of electronic goodies. As we waited in line, DemiGoddess the Younger twitched and wiggled and occasionally made little squeaky noises. When our turn arrived, she told the young man behind the counter that she wanted a 30 GB video iPod. White, please.

Her voice was clear and decisive, but she was hopping up and down and vibrating, which the employee seemed to find amusing.

“How will you be paying today?”

“Cash,” said DemiGoddess the Younger.

“What?” he asked, looking confused.

From her little corduroy Old Navy purse, Ms. Younger produced a fat roll of bills, which she handed to the man. As he blinked at it in astonishment, she then pulled out a mason jar half-filled with silver change and set it on the counter. A look of panic spread across his face.

“Change??”

“She’s been saving for a while,” I said. “Just add up the bills and I’ll write a check for the rest. I can take the change to the bank on the way home.”

That transaction completed, it was Demi the Elder’s turn, and she wanted a PRODUCT (RED) 4 GB Nano, the one that Apple will donate $10 of the cost of to the Global AIDS fund. The Apple store man seemed relieved that her wad of bills was slightly smaller, and that this time there was no jar of change.

From the Apple store we went to the bank (to empty $28 from Demi the Younger's mason jar into my account), and then to purchase protective cases for each of their new treasures—Demi the Younger’s a blingy, silver metallic wallet-style thing, and for Demi the Elder, a clear plastic case that the red is visible through.

All the way home in the car, Ms. Younger raved about how long she’s waited for an iPod, and how she couldn’t believe she finally has one, and she couldn’t wait to get home and charge it up so she could download all the songs from every one of her CDs that she has stored on our computer at home. She asked if she could please use my credit card number to set up an iTunes account, if she PROMISED never to buy any songs without asking me first (“Absolutely not.”). She also vowed that she will never, ever, take her beloved to school. We’ll see.

After buying the iPods and the cases, neither of the Demis had enough money left to purchase the $29 wall-charging cords, so for now they have to take turns charging their perfect precious-es through the USB port on our PC. Later I griped to My Ho about what an insidious racket this whole iPod thing is—you pay a sizable amount of cash for the unit itself, and then they nickel and dime you to death with cases and wall charging cords and docking stations until the cost of the whole mess pretty much doubles.

He offered the services of his Youngster’s friend Sam, who can allegedly build a docking station from scratch.

“Is this the same Sam who got in trouble at school for making a taser out of a smoke detector?”

“He made the taser out of a disposable camera.”

“Yeah. No thanks.”

I've Shaken Them All

A bunch of gifts mysteriously appeared under my tree today. A happy surprise, yes, but not a single one of those packages is TiVo or Wii or Johan Santana shaped, which means that there had damn well better be a pony hidden in the garage somewhere.

Just sayin'.

My gifts have all been bought and wrapped, the cookies are baked, and snow is finally in the forecast. Enough with the prep work already. Bring on the Christmas.

The first of the sister-cousins, Shanna, arrived home yesterday. Tiffany, who thankfully was not blown away or crushed by falling trees during the recent killer windstorm in Seattle (she also assures me that Cupcake Royale is safe, and thank heaven for that), is due in on Saturday, and preparations for the second-annual flirtini party are well underway. This year's theme is "Little House on the Prairie Meets Sex and the City."

The invitation pointed out that there were four Ingalls daughters, there were four girlfriends who regularly met at that coffee shop in Manhattan, and there are four sister cousins in each of our two families. And that cannot be mere concidence.

We have been instructed to wear our best sunbonnets and Manolos, and I'm told the menu will include salt pork, corn bread, and Chinese takeout.

I'm sure it will all make perfect sense once we've had a flirtini or two.

P.S. For those of you who have been up nights wondering if the Goddess is a real or artificial tree person, please note the needles on the carpet.

People I Am Thankful For

I am thankful for my daughters, for the things they teach me every day and for giving me a reason to keep on keepin’ on, even when I really, really don’t want to at all.

I am thankful for my niece, Madge, for being my excuse to shop for toys this Christmas, which she is going to get lots and lots of because she now knows my name and runs to give me hugs and kisses whenever I come over. What color pony would you like, my little munchkin?

For my smart, funny, gorgeous sisters and sister-cousins, whose e-mails make me laugh out loud, and who are not afraid to dance entirely without inhibitions whenever Neil Diamond is on. Even when they have not been drinking alcoholic beverages beforehand.

For my parents, and my aunts and uncles and second cousins and first-cousins-once-removed and all the rest of my giant, noisy, often dysfunctional extended family. For my Aunt Linda, who remembered to call me on my birthday, even though she and my Uncle Dave divorced when I was eight years old and she now lives in Louisiana. And for my brother-in-law, Jim, who will soon be helping me hang drywall in my sunroom, although he doesn’t know it yet.

I am thankful for the family members who will attend Thanksgiving dinner in spirit. My Grandma Devoy through her creamed onions recipe, which I wrote down shortly before she celebrated her 90th birthday, and my Grandma Townsend by way of her Fire King casserole dish with the fruit painted on the side, which I will be serving the creamed onions in on Thursday.

I am thankful for My Ho, who is kind and thoughtful and loving and trustworthy, even when I don’t feel very deserving of any of those things. And patient. I am thankful that he is very, very patient. And also that he is bringing pie.

I am thankful for the babies on the way—Batgirl’s Baby Boof, and my cousin Kerry’s new little girl, because it will certainly not be a boy THIS time around.

I am thankful for my friend Liz, who keeps me sane. For my friend Dr. Dave, who makes my brain hurt (but in a good way). For my friend Batgirl, who continues to prove that baseball, good writing and sass make an awesome combination. For Mother Bear Amy, who provides an ongoing example that one person with an idea and a little passion can make a big difference in the world. For Leah, who doesn't care that my dog jumps over the fence to poop in her yard (I seriously am going to clean that up). And for my friend Daniel, who souped up my PC so DemiGoddess the Younger can watch Degrassi episodes online, and so I can now play the latest Age of Empires games, and he did it all for only the price of the hardware and a sandwich from Jimmy John's.

I am thankful for that handful of blog browsers who kept coming here when I was silent for an entire month with no explanation. I don't know who most of who you are, and I don't know why you stuck around, but because of the miracle of StatCounter, I know you were here, and I thank you.

I am thankful for all the Demis’ terrific teachers and Girl Scouts troop leaders and the other adults who are helping them become amazing young women.

I am thankful for doctors and nurses, for police officers and sanitation workers, and all those people who do the jobs that I would never in a million years want to do.

I am thankful for Nancy Pelosi and all the new blue congresspeople. (Please, please don’t f*ck it up in the next two years. PLEASE.)

I am thankful for my dog, who is not a person, exactly, but she still counts as a family member.

And, of course, I am thankful for the Minnesota Twins. All of them. But especially Johan Santana.

Holy Shit!

First, before the game, the Twins awarded Brad Radke a new jet ski, and the Metrodome full of fans gave #22 a standing ovation in honor of his 12 seasons with the team, and in gratitude for all those games he pitched really well in even though his arm was about to fall off.

Then, while the 45,000+ crowd watched the Twins on the field, we also watched events unfolding in Detroit on the scoreboard. The Royals tied, and everybody went crazy. Detroit pulled ahead, the Royals tied again, the game went to extra innings and the Twins fans cheered every time there was a Royal on base or Detroit got an out, chanting "Let's Go Royals! Let's Go Royals!"

Somewhere in there the Yankees game ended, and the scoreboard announced that Joe Mauer had won the AL batting title. The crowd went crazy again as Joe poked his head out of the dugout and tipped his cap to the stands.

The Twins beat the Sox 5-1, but most of the fans stayed in their seats as the Detroit/Royals game, now in its 12th inning, appeared on the jumbotron.

We watched from the seats, the Twins players watched from the dugout, and a half-hour after the last out of the Twins' last regular season game, the Royals beat Detroit 10-8. My darling beloveds were the AL Central champions, and the whole team streamed back onto the field to celebrate in front of me, My Ho, and the rest of the hometown crowd.



We were at the Metrodome last spring for the first pitch of the Twins' home opener, we were there for the last out of this crazy season, and we were right there, yelling our heads off, when the Twins won the division.

What a team.

What freakin' season.

I love you guys.

These Are The People In My Neighborhood

Last night I got a call from Leah, the neighbor next door, inviting me over to have a glass of wine with her and a couple of her women friends from the neighborhood.

Leah is the former neighbor I wrote about last summer. When she and her husband moved a few years ago, they kept the house next door to mine and rented it out until last spring, when they finally kicked out the Boy Toys (much to my relief) and put the house on the market.

For months, Leah has spent time at the house, getting it cleaned up and re-painted and ready to sell. Potential buyers have come and gone, but the house has remained empty. I'm sure our torn-up street didn't help matters.

Then last Thursday, she left me a voicemail saying, “Hey, guess what, I’m your neighbor next door again. Come on over when you’re home.” My former neighbor and her kids had moved back into their freshly-painted former house, minus one alcoholic husband.

She's remarkably composed about it all, hopeful that they might reconcile, but also very clear that she can no longer live the way she has been. Her family and friends have been around a lot, offering support and whatever household items she forgot to bring with her.

One thing I had forgotten about Leah is that she is such a friendly, outgoing person, she has no problem stopping passersby in front of her house, introducing herself, asking where they live, and taking a moment to get to know them. I watched her do it on her first day back. My own operating style in the neighborhood has always been to keep to myself, nod and say hello when people pass by on the sidewalk, and then pretty much leave it at that. It turns out that she has several neighborhood friends from her three-year stint next door, while I, in my nine years on the block, have gotten to know the people who live on either side of my house, and that's about it.

Last night when she called, I had just returned from having dinner with My Ho and Batgirl and Jeb (Mr. Batgirl). It was the second goodbye dinner of the summer for me--the first was just before Dr. Dave moved to Maryland, and next week Batgirl and Jeb are moving to Massachusetts--and with that on top of moping about missing BlogHer, my plan was to spend a quiet evening nursing my abandonment issues in front of "Sex and the City" reruns. But some wine and socializing with people who live close by suddenly seemed like an excellent alternative, especially since the Demis are up north with The Ex's parents this week, and I had a bottle of Two Buck Chuck already chilled in the refrigerator.

At one point during the evening, Leah proudly showed the four of us who were there the array of tools, picture hooks and nails she had picked up in the Dollar Spot at Target earlier in the day (“My very own screwdrivers!”). This prompted her friend Tammy, who lives around the corner from us and is also a single mom, to observe that Home Depot can be a very sexy place, if one knows how to work it.

“I just walk up to one of the employees and tell him I need a good screw," she said. "He’ll go on and on about the long screws, the short screws, the hardwood screws, even the self drilling screws. The electrical department can be really fun, too.”

Certainly, the circumstances of Leah's return to the house next door are unfortunate, and there’s no knowing how long her stay will last. But I have to admit, it's fun hanging out with the neighbors.