Lost in a Dream

Lately, I have been playing a lot of beach volleyball and running away from monsters in the middle of the night. I tell the cute doctor that he's an asshole and wake-up right before something really scary happens in the jungle.

During my run-in with a sinus infection a few weeks ago, I found that 'Lost' re-runs helped to pass the time. At that point I blamed the dreams on the ny-quil and fever, but for awhile now, I have been at a healthy 98 and mostly sober when I finally do fall asleep. Since I've run through the past three seasons in less than three weeks, I need to think long and hard about the next show I pick as my nightly recess.

I'm fairly sure that I will miss the beach sports and howling clouds of smoke, because work these days generally leads to dreams of me sitting around making an 8:30 reservation for a party of two at Le Bernardin. During my brief career as a payroll accountant, I would wake-up in a cold sweat reciting invoice numbers, frantically checking my phone to make sure I had the correct sequence in my handheld computer.

Perhaps I should just renew my mlb.com membership and spend all of my free time fielding grounders with Davey and Scott in Toronto. If I'm lucky, Daniel Boulud and Jin Kwon will stop by to cheer us on.

You can take the Girl out of the South, but...

Wow. I thought I lost my southern accent back when I was a teenager. If I didn't leave it in Arkansas, I certainly left it someplace out at Smith. I listened to my calls for the first time at work, and I was floored by how gentle and southern I sounded. Hmmmm. I need to do some gutteral exercises.

Regan update:
I enrolled in a non-fiction book proposal class at a workshop center downtown. I am excited about the next 9 weeks of hardcore workshopping. Come April, I'll have a complete proposal that has been edited and pulled apart endlessly. We'll see if I can get any money out of this whole thing.

Banjo Tuesday

It is still very cold here in Boston so I protested a bit today by wearing summer clothes. I think this is sort of like when I refuse to bring an umbrella when it's overcast, hoping that my choice will keep the rain from falling. I did have to pile on a few layers in order to make the commute, but I'm certain that it made me a bit happier throughout the day. Although I slept in 10 minutes later than I usually do, I somehow managed to leave the house 15 minutes earlier than every other day, so I was far more relaxed than usual.

This put a lot of spring in my step in the morning, but I definitely got more excited when my train pulled into Downtown Crossing at the exact moment that a blind man started picking along on his amplified banjo. His guide dog was chilling out next to the change case and didn't seem to mind when I almost tripped over his giant paw. The day only got better after I bumped into a young guy in a suit picking away at his own banjo in my office building on my way home from work. I think I've heard more live banjo music in the past 12 hours than I've heard in the past five years.

Rooting for the Home Team

As most of you know, I was practically born in a Cardinals jersey. My parents' home is littered with pictures of three blond-headed pale children in bright red shirts. From Ozzy Smith to Tom Pagnozzi, it was never hard for me to find a favorite player that helped me to concentrate my love for the Red Birds. I was an avid softball player, so I was one of the few girls I knew that cared a lot about baseball (at least before I went to Smith and met all of the Red Sox girls).

Sigh. Needless to say, I am really not OK about the recent roster changes in St. Louis. I know that last season wasn't the best, but Christ, can't they get rid of the riff-raff before the meat. First it was Eckstein, then Edmonds, and then OH MY GOD they traded Rolen.

David Eckstein was impossible not to love. The shortest short stop in all of baseball, he was the heart of the city and you couldn't help but love the guy. Watching him play was like watching a little kid jumping in the arena with the lions. In the 2006 WS, he was able to shine and prove just how important his never-give-up attitude was for the team. (Also, I have a thing for good ole boy blonds.)

Jim Edmonds had become a staple in St. Louis. He was a little bit country, but I don't really care with skills like that. He's my brother Patrick's favorite, and he was always a reliable guy for the optimistic fan.

Then we have Scott Rolen. Scotty-too-hottie, be still my heart. I was a third baseman in my best softball years, so I naturally gravitated toward the gold-gloved Rolen. A graceful player with the physical stats of a linebacker. His wife is pretty effin hot, but I still could dream that he might spot me from the upper deck and fall in love.



Three boys left for me to love: Molina, Duncan, and of course, Pujols. Molina is my age and one of the best catchers in the league. His poor English almost melts my heart, and he is from one heck of a gene pool (two older brothers also in the Majors). Duncan is young and about the size of Rolen. He's a great batter, but I must admit that I am a sucker for the infielders, so he hasn't quite won me over. Because his father is the pitching coach, I have a feeling he'll stick it out with the Cards...but it's hard to tell since his brother is with the Yankees. Puggles requires no explanation.

Really....heart-broken.

The Greatest Gift of All

I think I should make a bit of a living out of the industry of gifting. Within a few months I could theoretically become the most thoughtful and creative gift-giver that I know; however, I doubt that I'll find enough disposable income to dive very deep into that hobby.

I Can Haz Plus-Size Fashion?

It's 1am and I can't sleep. After skimming through my favorite blogs, I linked up to some of the 'I Can Has Cheezbuger' cats. After 12 pages or so, I started to realize that the only advertisements that were popping up were for plus-size boutiques. I am guessing this is someone taking a stab at the average obsessive cat owner...but after two glasses of wine and my sleeping pill kicking in, I can't really tell at this point. I did take a peek at Lane Bryant and Catherine's since I wasn't sure of the difference. Before too long, I realized that LB was the more fashionable of the two, just in case anyone was curious.

Learning to Fake It

The new job is going very well and I'm pretty excited about my future with this firm. I am doing high-end, global concierge work, and since I am more of a mid-level gal, it means that I have to learn how to fake it.

The first week of training consisted of how to read menus of French restaurants, memorizing the details of the best restaurants in Manhattan, and an intro to the ins and outs of schmoozing with rich, successful, and important people. Before long, I'll be able to discuss wines and vacation villas and easily offer the five best alternatives when you aren't smooth enough to grab a table at Nobu or Buddakan. Luckily, I do have an up when it comes to club recommendations in Vegas [thanks Rachy!]. Also, before long I'll be buds with the Maitre D's at fancy places so I can impress my friends when I invite them along.

I am pretty excited because I think that familiarizing myself with some real world and marketable things will help me out in my freelance writing endeavours. And hell, if you're going to sell your stuff for money, it helps to sell it to the publications with wealthy subscribers.

And now, for my favorite-NY-restaurant-even-though-I-will-never-buy-a-$500-meal: 21 Club. Sure, I can most likely afford the 3-course option, but the 7 course in the basement sounds like a date!