Transplanted Life
Friday, April 27, 2007
 
Spring is non-stop awesome
Well, maybe not quite "awesome". "Awesome" would have been if the Red Sox had not just swept the Yankees, but thoroughly kicked their asses while doing it and kept it going through the Blue Jays series. They were incredible games, nail-biters to the end with lots of coming from behind and dramatic moments, but I admit, I was really looking for Schilling, Beckett, and Matsuzaka to really manhandle the Yankees' hitters. Although maybe it's better that they didn't, since that would have sent a clear message to the Yankees to upgrade big-time, beyond calling up Phil Hughes and having people come off the disabled list.

Not that we could get tickets to those games - you had to be selected in a drawing for the opportunity to purchase them, then wait for your number to be called in the "virtual waiting room", then accept whatever crappy obstructed view standing room tickets you were able to buy, paying an eight-dollar fee to print them out at home. I didn't get past step one.

But we were able to watch them on TV, and that's what we did Friday night. The rally when Rivera was on the mound was quite satisfying.

I woke up before Kate on Sunday morning and made pancakes, smiling a bit when I saw the weather report. I made a big show of opening the bottom drawer of my dresser as she stirred, pulling out shorts and a scoop-necked top. She laughed when she saw them. "You've been waiting all winter to do that, haven't you?"

"Damn right. It's going to be seventy degrees today, even though we had a nor'easter less that a week ago. Might as well celebrate."

"Ah. Nothing to do with showing off?"

"Just letting people see what they can't have. Besides, we'll probably wind up walking all over town today, and you know this body sweats. Exposed surface area lets it evaporate."

She suspected the science was dodgy, but let me have my fun. There were, admittedly, times when something like the dress she wore would have provided a little protection from the odd breeze, but I haven't been swimming two or three times a week all winter to cover my legs up.

We did have tickets to Tuesday's game - really good ones, too: Section 1, row A1 (A1 meaning "even in front of row A", the very front row). They actually have leg room, an outright rarity in Fenway Park. Heck, move a couple seats down in the same row, and there's no room to stretch your legs because of the curve of the outfield wall.

Quality view of the Toronto pitcher's butt as he warmed in the bullpen, too. Kate asked if it was okay that she was sort of mesmerized by that when was getting some tosses in. Nah, I said - it's not like I expect her whole sense of aesthetics to change just because we're dating now. Besides, I said as I kissed her, it's not like you're going to act on that appreciation in any way.

She said that if she did, I'd get all the benefit, and kissed me back. Then she looked around a bit. Realizing where we were. "And now my parents know I'm going out with a girl."

I was confused for a second before seeing a NESN sign. "Don't worry about it, this is still New England. Even though we could hypothetically get married here, it's not like NESN is going to show a couple girls kissing on TV. That may fly in Cambridge, but not in New Hampshire."

She was relieved. "That's good. It's not that I don't want my folks to know, and we're long overdue for you to meet them, but this isn't the way..."

"Don't worry, there's no way that went out on the air. The guys in the truck and studio are saving it for themselves, looping it over and over and over. In HD."

I was informed that I suck. Because, as she said, if any cameras did catch us, they'll totally be doing that, because we're hot.

Anyway, we won't have a chance for me to meet her parents for another week or so - Kate and I are busy at the Independent Film Festival of Boston through at least Tuesday. Hopefully they'll be happy that she's found someone who shares her interests.

-Marti

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Note: This blog is a work of fantasy; all characters are either ficticious or used ficticiously. The author may be contacted at JaySeaver@comcast.net