Hey There, Pammy-Girl!

Well, winning isn’t everything. We got creamed! They wiped the field with us!!! And as for sportsmanship? I think it’s overrated. Violence seemed to be their main objective (drawing blood, punching, running people over…) and rather than pissing our team off enough to fight back, it drained us of the desire to play harder. Most of the time, that is. Let’s rack up the injuries list (me first):
- bruised cheek (pass interference and I took it to the face)
- crushed larynx (so it’s not crushed, but I got punched pretty hard and had one sexy raised red mark for a few hours)
- sore ovaries (punching in the core area of the body always takes a player down, regardless of the sex)
AND FINALLY
- knot on my head (that tank who played nose guard plowed me over in an attempt to sack the QB)

Injuries to other team members:
- jammed fingers
- gashes on knees and hands
- bruised shins
- scratches (yes, scratches) to waist

My one noteworthy play: fumble recovery. Always important. After being run over (literally), I began pushing back and actually charging with intent to either bruise or cause loss of breath on my opponent. The refs didn’t start calling unnecessary roughness until the end of the 4th quarter and since the other team’s motto was, “Beat the other girls to a bloody pulp”, I figured I could be just as dirty as them. Problem was I barely knew my own team, much less everyone else, and quite honestly didn’t have the fire in me to release the bitch from within. Too bad the game wasn’t last weekend; I was so angry, hurt and disturbed that the Incredible Hulk would’ve seemed tame in comparison.

Were we out-coached? Their leadership was dressed up (!) like Tom Landry, so maybe he was channeling great passing plays from above. We played for fun while they played for, uh, vengeance I believe. That seems like an odd thing to say but I conducted my fair share of observations and realized that our team was MUCH prettier than theirs. I think they were jealous. Rematch? Dunno.

Game on!

Your’s truly

We are (not) the champions but we’re still very pretty.

I had a bummer of a weekend and am insanely busy with my free lance work and yet, I still have no life. Yesterday I worked out 3 times. 3 times!!! Who does that? I’ll tell you who: people who have nothing else to do. So while wallowing in stress and self-pity, I accepted an invitation to play football last night. Here’s my logic: If it’s co-ed, the guys won’t really let us play so there will just be a lot of standing around, a little flirting, and definitely staying out of the intense people’s way (some folks just take games a bit too seriously). If it’s only girls with guys coaching, it will be completely stale because it will be a total running game. I’m a big believer in girls not throwing like girls and being competitive in sports, but I’ve accepted the fact that there aren’t too many girls who can both throw and be accurate under pressure. I was wrong.

I didn’t even bother wearing a sports bra which was big mistake… huge, even. I also didn’t use my inhaler before I went because who knew we’d actually have to participate in aerobic activities? We ran laps and then did calisthenics. We divided into offense and defense and then ran passing drills for positions. I’ve played offense before, so I tested my extremely rusty running and catching skills against the others (one chick used to play on the US Women’s Soccer Team… she’s on defense, is fast and intense, and I know she’s going kill me). I was overly eager to prove I didn’t play football like a girl, and had this drastic yearning to release my anger (remember: I couldn’t find the batting cages the other day) while simultaneously being athletically smooth. Then, to no one’s surprise, I reached too far out for a pass, lost my balance (the defender was pretty good), went head first into the grass, did a backwards somersault and hit my head in the process. I managed to remain conscious and keep my baseball hat in place which has to count for something, right?

As the evening progressed, I missed several passes and tripped quite a few times. I wasn’t paying attention between plays and took a pass to the boob, got punched in the boob and hip, and I think I pulled something in my left ankle. I am moving in sweet motion today. But I can fake like no one’s business, caught my fair share of passes, know how to cradle the ball, and all that running I’ve been doing is paying off because I picked up 10-15 yards on a couple of plays.

I played last night for fun and really had no intention of taking it further. Now I’m committed because the big game is Friday night and I’m the running back (and the center on some plays). With my all “issues” (i.e. falling down, tripping, not being able to walk a straight line sober), I’m quite positive I’ll be missing some skin and a bit of blood come Saturday morning. Knowing me, I may even lose consciousness. Lord willing I’ll keep all my teeth because I really like them. I think I should take my camera.

For me, Memorial Day has been less remembering those fallen in war and more of kicking off the summer. I started taking road trips in college, which then turned to fishing and camping trips in the mountains. When I got to the east coast, friends and I would drive down to the Outer Banks of North Carolina. That only lasted 2 years and then I started going to either NYC or Boston for the holiday. Since I’m still in transition, this year was a bit different.

I guess I’d have to start on Thursday, my official graduation day from Hopkins. I didn’t attend the pomp and circumstance (despite my desperate desire to wear a robe with a colored hood… major confidence booster) so I didn’t take note that I was officially graduated until the next night when I used my student ID to get a discount for the new Indiana Jones movie (which, by the way, stunk… but I wasn’t really expecting much). Last time I get to use that puppy. I spent Friday and Saturday in Mission Viejo enjoying new friends, a rousing time of Rock Band, ping pong, a mani and pedi, and one excellent BBQ (I made the potato salad).

Sadly, it rained. And it was cold. I turned the on the heat because I’m pretty sure it never got above 60 all weekend. I returned home Saturday and reacquainted myself with some of my very best frienemies: Ben & Jerry (Cream Cheese Brownie and Peanut Butter Cup). We had quite the evening together, watching Buffy and Angel reruns while crocheting a baby blanket. Sunday was Sunday and Monday found me driving all over creation to find some batting cages. You’d think there’d be some close by but not a chance. One place was closed and for instruction only (website didn’t say that but the sign on the door did) and the other place no longer exists. This I discovered only after driving around for an hour. I gave up because the next closest one was in the Valley and I was practically to Orange County; driving in LA isn’t the fun it used to be. I then returned home and treated myself to a romantic comedy (What Happens in Vegas) which actually turned out to be chuckle-worthy. Oh… and I saw Scott Wolfe on the Promenade. I never watched Party of Five, but I know who he is and all I can say is: too bad he wasn’t Matthew Fox because, well, damn.

I’ve been temping ever since I got here and it’s not glamorous work. Rather it’s busy work, at times degrading, and does nothing to empower you. But it’s money. Additionally, there are no evaluations and when you go home you don’t have to worry about office politics. It has done nothing to retain my thinking ability, however. I’ve slowly but surely felt my brain seeping out through my ears over the past 5 months. I’m having a hard time finding people to talk about what’s going on “inside the beltway”. It’s been a struggle and so I watch CNN. A lot. I met someone the other night who didn’t know who Mikhail Gorbachev was! I couldn’t help myself and gave him the “You are the world’s biggest idiot” look. I’ve felt myself slowly slipping away.

On Monday I had a breakdown. Rather than listening to my newly downloaded tunes on my iPod when I went running, I cried and prayed. I might have thrown up a little in that one lady’s lawn and I know I almost got hit by a car. Today I had a meeting with a woman I met earlier this month. I believe in her curriculum (it goes hand in hand with my thesis) and know that the work helps teenagers believe in themselves and become strong and confident. Anything that builds up others, in my opinion, is worthwhile. I’ll be working part-time (freelance) doing media relations and publicity. It will be challenging but it’s also a great opportunity for me to get back into the game. I’m still looking for full-time work (gotta have insurance and a steady paycheck) but this will do.

I’m also working an angle of possibly moving back to DC. My former colleagues have been talking with the Obama camp and I’m playing a complex chess game, putting things into motion that could place me in a very interesting position with the federal government and new Democratic administration this time next year.

Are things going according to plan? Hardly. Is my life perfect? Not even close. Am I steady and secure in my surroundings? HA. But I’m finding my way.

If you get blisters when running, don’t run out and buy a new pair of shoes (hello! they can be freakin’ expensive!). Instead make an investment in good socks and I suggest anklets made by Under Armour. While I’m talking about blisters, ever notice that a few hours after you drain one it some how fills back up with pus or water or whatever is in there? A friend of mine was a professional tennis player back in the day. He was also an exotic dancer during college (AKA: a male stripper), but that’s neither here nor there because while I’m sure tennis players get blisters I’m not so sure about strippers. When I complained once about blisters, he offered a bit of advice: You obviously don’t want the blister to fill back up, but you shouldn’t rip the skin off as it exposes raw skin. Instead, grab a needle and thread, pulling the needle through the blister but leaving the string. This allows the blister to stay open, drain and safely dry it out. The trick is not to let anyone see the string if you like to wear sandals or flip-flops.

If you want a child to learn to say or do something specific, chances are you’ll have better luck teaching your dog to flush the toilet. Of course the first time you say something shady, you KNOW your kid is going to blurt it out in public. I was at dinner a few weeks ago with several women and some children, specifically an 8 year-old. One woman was telling a story of a lady who was giving a talk in church. She told the congregation that her legs were sore earlier in the week and asked her son to go get her vibrator. I’m sure she meant to say “massager” but those Freudian slips just sneak up on you at the best times. We laughed and when the laughter died down (and of course the restaurant had a lull in volume) the 8 year-old asked in a LOUD voice, “What’s a vibrator?”

If you’re in an unfamiliar city while on vacation, you just HAVE to go and are no where near your hotel, don’t use the one at McDonald’s. Instead, find a conference hotel and use the toilets on the main or 2nd floor. They’re always clean, there’s never a line, and you don’t have to buy something to use it. This has only not worked once, last summer when I was in Florence. The hotel staff let my traveling companion use their toilet and asked me what room I was staying in. I was honest and they got all huffy, telling me to get out and that my friend couldn’t use the toilet. I was annoyed and not having a very good time in Florence anyway so I screeched, “She’s already in there. What are you going to do… pull her off the toilet and make her stop peeing?”

And finally, you can kiss anyone and sometimes it can be the start of something while other times it’s just two people having a pretty good time, but hand holding is different. Hand holding tells the world “Hey — I’m with him/her and we like each other.” For me, holding hands with someone is only innocent if I’m with a niece or nephew or a gay man. Anything else means I’m leading some poor sap on if I really don’t like him. Getting out of the hand holding can be tricky and accomplished one of two ways. 1) If you’re out and about, go into a store and pick up stuff. Then cross your arms and don’t make your hands available for the rest of the night… this is also a proactive approach to avoid the awkward door moment at the end of the evening; or 2) When he tries to grab your hand when you’re lost and looking for your car, pat the poor stiff on the back and say, “Oh, we don’t need to do that. I’m feel perfectly fine NOT holding your hand.” I am pure evil, I know. Don’t judge me. I’m under a lot of stress and don’t need to be in a co-dependent relationship right now with someone I’m not attracted to, even if he does buy me stuff and take me to cool places. Not gonna happen.

In 1994, Rolling Stone named Bob Dylan’s classic “Like a Rolling Stone” as the greatest song of all time. Agree or not, the man played a significant role not only in music but also in cultural movements and inspired thousands of people, both musically and politically. In fact, Bob Dylan is quite possibly the greatest poet lyricist of the 20th Century. He can’t sing. His hair is a mess. His face, while not as weathered as Keith Richards’, resembles a raisin. For someone with that kind of money and power, you’d think his teeth wouldn’t be gnarley and gray. He has absolutely zero report with the crowd at concerts. But I like him.

The Skirball Museum is currently housing “Bob Dylan’s American Journey, 1956-1966.” The exhibit isn’t large and contains some seemingly random items (high school yearbook signed by Bob Dylan, AKA: Robert Zimmerman; Woody Guthrie’s t-shirt worn for 5 years in a mental hospital; and an album by Harry Belafonte. But on a closer look, we can see the makings of a great poet when writing to a high school girlfriend (as well as beautiful penmanship); Woody Guthrie was Dylan’s musical idol and his experiences had a profound affect on his music — much like the world around Dylan affected his writings; Dylan played on the Harry Belafonte album and remembered it as one of his greatest musical experiences.

The time of Dylan went hand-in-hand with protest music, Vietnam, and the Civil Rights movement. Then, in 1965, he “went electric” at the Newport Festival and pissed off the world. When I think “electric”, Bob is not the first person who comes to mind so I’m still a little foggy at the outrage because believe me, the music wasn’t so far out there. BUT, it was a catalyst for change. The Beatles followed a year later with their magnum opus Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band — a magnificent and important album in its own right.

The exhibit contained a studio in the back. How many museums actually allow you, in fact, encourage you to touch the exhibit? The studio contained five stations, each with a different instrument or piece of equipment that allowed you to either remix Dylan’s songs or play along. All those hours playing Rock Band were put to good use… my drumming skills are quite magical. In fact, they’re on par with Dylan’s singing voice. I know many of you can’t stand the man’s singing, if you could call it that. It resembles that of a howling of a cat who’s tail has been pinched in the dishwasher (I know this because I accidentally did that to a childhood pet, which might have been why he was a bit skittish). I’ll admit that Dylan’s singing voice isn’t pleasant. In fact, he gained notoriety and then took a rocket ride on the fame mobile once other artists (those with real singing talent) covered his songs (Peter, Paul & Mary, Joan Baez, The Byrds). But it IS unique and, in fact, I prefer his version of It Ain’t Me, Babe; Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man; and, of course, Like a Rolling Stone.

The only thing I didn’t like about the exhibit was that woman who was constantly three steps behind me, reading over my shoulder and humming when I didn’t move along fast enough. I finally let out a huff (growl, if you will, that scared another patron when I screeched, “Lady–are you kidding me?”) and didn’t see her again, which made for an extremely pleasant visit. The exhibit closes June 8.

How does it feel
How does it feel
To be on your own
With no direction home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?

~ Like a Rolling Stone, 1967

Remember Pretty Woman, where Julia Roberts plays a hooker (Vivian) with a heart of gold and Richard Gere (Edward Lewis) is the guy who pays for her services for a week? This is a portion of their pillow talk:

Vivian: People put you down enough, you start to believe it.
Edward: I think you are a very bright, very special woman.
Vivian: The bad stuff is easier to believe. You ever notice that?

As if looking for gainful employment wasn’t painful enough, I received a phone call last night telling me I was no longer needed at the house with servants’ quarters because they were looking for someone with “a higher skill set.” I know that’s code for: she doesn’t fit in OR we don’t like her. If that had been said, I’d be just fine. But a higher skill set? For what? I kept asking for things to do and all I got was, “Answer the phones.” Granted, I accidentally hung up on people when I tried to transfer them but I hardly think that’s cause to make me ride the short bus.

I am not a Republican. I’m just putting that out that in case you were ever in doubt. I am, however, a respecter of history and politics and will attend various events just to broaden my scope. Today was a visit to the Ronald Regan Presidential Library in Simi Valley. The view is magnificent and the architecture aesthetically beautiful. I liked the 80s… good times. It was the ME generation and decade; I didn’t worry about too much and was pretty happy.  So despite not revering Reagan as the Republican’s Messiah, he was a decent president who oversaw my teenage years.

Quite a bit happened in the 80s… sadly, the library was lacking in documentation of events such as meetings with Mikhail Gorbachev and Margaret Thatcher. Instead there was an impressive display of boots and belt buckles as well as dozens of Nancy’s designer dresses, table settings, and movie posters. I shouldn’t be surprised… the 80s lacked substance, so why not the presidential library? I was impressed, however, by Air Force One. VERY cool.

Air Force One

View beneath Air Force One

Presidential Podium

I’ve met a good chunk of politicians in my life. Some are vain (Orrin Hatch, R-Utah), others are smarmy (Trent Lott, R-Miss. and Tom Delay, R-Texas), some are ridiculously short (Tom Daschle, D-Neb.) and a few have one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel (Strom Thurmond, R-SC). There are the Kennedys (Ted, D-Mass. and Patrick, D-RI), the dead wringer for my grandfather (Charles Schumer, D-NY), and a windbag or two (Joe Biden, D-Del.). I interviewed Pres. Clinton a handful of times over the years, attended Pres. Reagan’s funeral and tonight… well, tonight was both a 12-second thrill and a disappointment.

I was under the impression I’d be attending a reading with former President Jimmy Carter. Sadly turned out to be an autograph session for his newest book (A Remarkable Mother) which included a serious stare-down with some out of shape Secret Service agents. As usual, they were a little intense and quick to shuffle the crowd through the line. Therefore my brief conversation with Jimmy went like this:

Jimmy Carter: Thanks for coming.
Pammy Girl: I appreciate your time, Mr. President.
Jimmy Carter: You bet. Thanks for coming.
Pammy Girl: Have a nice evening.

He has the brightest blue eyes which stand in stark contrast to his white hair. A little anti-climatic but still a well-spent evening. OK, evening is a strong word… a memorable 12 seconds.