Barb’s Burblings

Last weekend was my cousin’s wedding. And it was all very lovely. I have to give him and his wife credit for the seating arrangement; they put me at a table with some big baseball fans. (And the reception was that much more enjoyable, coming after the O’s beat Toronto 1-0. And did you all catch the O’s sweep of the A’s? Woo!) It was also nice seeing my aunt, whom I haven’t seen since she was diagnosed with cancer this spring. She’s doing well, thankfully. And the little girl at the table was a great dancing partner.
So overall, a very enjoyable time. On Sunday, my cousin’s parents had a brunch at their house, and all was lovely. Then I dragged my mom to sit in the 100 degree weather to watch the O’s lose to the Blue Jays. Oh well. (The O’s went 4-2 that week; I was at both the losses. And a win. But anyway.)
But there was trauma. Against my will, I was dragged onto the dance floor when the bride threw the bouquet. I have yet to go to a wedding where the single women eagerly rush onto the floor and fight over the bouquet, as they seem to do in all the weddings on tv and in movies. But anyway. The bride obviously had someone in mind for the bouquet, but her first throw went careening off into the tables. The second time she managed to throw it straight back. Two women in front of me grappled a bit for it before it fell behind them. In front of me. Neither of them made a move for it at all, so I reluctantly picked it up. My first “caught” bouquet.
Now, at most weddings I’ve been to, the girl who caught the bouquet and the guy who caught the garter only have to dance. Not so, here. Their tradition was that the guy has to put the garter on the girl–and the higher the garter, the longer the marriage. This would be bad enough on its own, but add into it the fact that the guy who caught the garter was 10 years old.
To say that the boy seemed terrified would be an understatement. (I was not exactly Miss Calm, myself.) The DJ was having a good time bantering, and commenting on the fact that I had turned beet red. After I told him that the situation made me “feel dirty” (16 years younger than me is definitely outside the age range), the DJ let the kid off the hook. Which wound up being the most mortifying part of all. Because the DJ asked for a volunteer to take this kid’s place.
And there it was. Me, sitting there, on a chair in the middle of the dance floor. Face, red. Feeling excessively self-conscious. Why did I wear that dress? How terrible did I look? No guy would want to come and put the garter on me. (And pausing to thank God that I had shaved my legs that morning.) There’s going to be complete silence and the DJ is going to have to ask a few times. Horrible, horrible. And finally some guy will take pity on me, and I’ll feel like absolute crap.
Fortunately, that isn’t how it worked out. It was still completely mortifying. One of the best men hopped right up there and took the garter. Of course, then he had to put it on. And of course I was wearing a dress that was somewhat short, so it’s not like he could get away with not putting the garter up very high. But we managed to get through it–both of us feeling obviously very awkward about the whole thing. It worked out well, though. And everyone said I did fine and was a good sport, etc. I apologized to the bride, knowing someone else should’ve gone through that hell, but she said that the person it was intended for didn’t want it.
And I didn’t even get a dance with the guy out of it. Sheesh. (The guy, for the record, had a girlfriend.)
Current song in my head:
“The Greatest Love of All” by Whitney Houston

ESPN.com’s Page 2 reacts to the Baltimore crowd’s reaction to Raffy’s return. I was one of the 30,954 (though there were way fewer than that actually there). I didn’t cheer. I didn’t boo. I just sat there. It was pretty cool, though. (Not literally. Literally it was insanely hot; gametime temp was 95, but that was at 1:30–it undoubtedly got hotter.) The boos started first, so it almost seemed that the cheering was a reaction to the booing. I can tell you that if Raffy had managed a base hit in the ninth to tie the game, he’d be a lot more popular than he is now.
Coming soon: My account of this past weekend, which in addition to this game also included possibly the most embarrassing moment of my life.

Dear Brian,
Congratulations on the sweep of the Devil Rays! It’s good to see the team starting to play well again.
I am concerned about one thing. I read the story in yesterday’s Washington Post and saw Jay Gibbons’s quote that you guys are going to be allowed to have facial hair if you win four games in a row. This concerns me, because you have a tendency to grow facial hair during the offseason, and even had that soul patch earlier this season.
Don’t do it, Brian. Facial hair only works for a very few men, and you’re not one of them. Please resist the temptation to cover your face with hair. It just looks silly. And I know I’m not alone in thinking this. Seriously, it’s a bad look. Don’t do it.
Kisses,
Barb

Yesterday I woke up with the beginnings of a cold. It could’ve come from any number of people, but there I was. Runny/stuffy nose. Vague beginnings of a sore throat. Overall blechiness. And are still around today. It’s gotten to the point where I very much have “cold voice”–you know, the odd pronounciations, etc. Fun!
Earlier I went out to get my hair cut. Unfortunately, it was absolutely pouring down rain. I had an umbrella, but it didn’t stop my (or, I as typed, “by,” which is the correct phonetic pronounciation for me at the moment) shoes from getting totally soaked. And I had to stay in them through the haircut. It was a relief to get back to the office and take them off. True, the head of my department gave me a funny look for walking around barefoot, but tough. I doubt wearing cold, wet shoes is good for me.
Current song in my head:
“Meet Me In St. Louis”

It took me five years, but I think I’ve finally reached the point where I no longer want to go back to college. There was quite a long stretch of time where I pined for my days at Gettysburg. Life after college was OK, but nothing could compare with those four years. And it’s kind of still true. College rocked and I absolutely loved it, but I guess I’ve just reached the point that I’ve accepted where I am with my life. (Well, sort of.) (And when I’m actually at Gettysburg, it’s a totally different story; it’s all I can do to stop myself from clinging to Weidensall and refusing to let go.)
And as a side note, last weekend when I was visiting Melodie, she commented on how it’s kind of odd being a “grownup” and how it involves a lot of standing around talking, which is true. Of course, I pointed out that we had just spent a good 5 minutes watching people trying to eat 6 Saltines in a minute, so we’re not totally in the “grownup” camp yet.
Anyway, so I’ve managed to pretty much let go of college–or, at least, of wanting to be back there. And yet, I absolutely cannot let go of my resentment of moving during high school. I was watching Meet Me in St. Louis yesterday, and [SPOILER ALERT] the family is supposed to move to New York City. They wind up not going when the father sees how crushed the family is. And I wound up yelling at the tv that that’s not how life works. (I later discovered that the movie is based on a true story and the family did move to NYC.) I know that moving to Great Falls wasn’t entirely bad; the theater program at CMR was awesome, I learned how to keep score at baseball games, and I think that it did help me become comfortable with who I am. But it did suck. A lot. It’s been 11 years since that move (and 7 since my folks moved away from there), but it still kind of bothers me. I think driving up to Connecticut and being near the places I used to live kind of brought it all out. It’s amazing that I still got a pang as I drove by Exit 135 of the Garden State Parkway, even though I haven’t lived there in 18 years.
(And totally unrelated, but because I know you care, I have managed to claw my way out of last place in my fantasy baseball league; I actually jumped up two spots. Hurrah!)
Current song in my head:
“Turning Japanese” by the Vapors

It’s like I can’t stop myself. Every week, without fail, I read Marc Fisher’s chat. He’s a Metro columnist for the Washington Post, and I disagree with him on just about everything. Or, I disagree with the way he expresses himself. His chats frustrate me week after week; they just get me worked up and annoyed. But can I stop reading them? No. I never read his columns, but I can’t stop myself from the chats. At least this week’s wasn’t too bad.
Current song in my head:
“Thank God I’m a Country Boy” by John Denver

OK, I finally got around to scanning my pictures. Here’s the full album.
Here’s a sample, the group merrily relaxing after a rough day of tromping through the Shenandoah.

OK, I haven’t scanned my camping photos yet. But I will!
The trip was great. We saw lots of wildlife, in the form of deer (and fawns, awww) that were everywhere, bears, beardogs, and coyotes. Brent valiantly managed to start a fire on Friday night, even though the wood was quite damp (as we all were by the end of the evening; the weather was cool, but very moist). We cooked hot dogs on sticks for dinner and were illuminated by the sun that the people at the next site had brought with them. Brent, Katie, Steve, and Becca thought a bear had entered their campsite during the night (Dave and I were safe at the next site), but it turned out to be a dog. In fairness, it was a Rottweiler.
Saturday we decided to hike to Dark Hollow Falls, which was described in one of the hiking guides as being closest to Skyline Drive, though many people have trouble with the hike back. No kidding. It suuucked. But we survived. We also did another quick hike and saw the 20s/30s celebration, complete with period cars and small horses. That night we went to the Big Meadows to look at the stars. It was fantastic. We were so far away from the city lights that the night sky was just filled. Beatiful.
Needless to say, there were smores both nights–and lots of them.
Sunday involved a quick hike which was, thankfully, flat. It also involved a bear wandering through the forest not far from our campsite, which was slightly unnerving (maybe not a beardog that first night?). And since by this point we were all quite smelly, it was time to head back home. Where I promptly showered, did laundry, and napped. Camping was lovely, but you sure do wake up at the crack of dawn.
This past weekend I went and visited Melodie in Connecticut, which was lovely. We spent most of the weekend hanging out with her friends, who were all very, very nice (and provided free food, which was also nice). And we watched Band of Brothers and Horatio Hornblower, and went to Mystic Seaport (history, hurrah!).
The nicest thing, I think, was that it seemed like conversation managed to flow well all weekend. A lot of times, when you see a friend you haven’t seen in a while, it seems like conversation can be stilted. But everything felt really normal, still, which is always nice. So it was a lovely weekend, though ironically, I got more mosquito bites than I did in the Shenandoah. Huh.
Current song in my head:
“3 a.m.” by Matchbox 20

Even though my life has been somewhat eventful of late, what with the camping and the journeying to Connecticut, I have to make a quick note about baseball. For some reason, the Orioles traded my Reserve Oriole Boyfriend Larry Bigbie to the Colorado Rockies. They gained a player with essentially the same stats, only he bats righty. Argh! I feel bad for Larry. He came up with the O’s and it has to be a shock. I hope he does well out in Colorado and maybe I’ll see him when the Rockies play the Nats. I’ll miss him. I guess that makes him my Official Colorado Rockies Boyfriend.