Last night Nana and I went to the Red Sox vs. Angels game at Fenway Park. According to 96-year-old Ruth, our seats were along the first base line. In reality they were way out in right field. But for a price of zero dollars, I’d take Red Sox seats behind a fat guy challenging another fat guy to a hot dog eating contest. (Please don’t actually tempt me with this offer because I don’t know that I would actually follow through.)
Here are the highlights of the night….
Nana: “Do you know who’s pitching tonight?”
Lisa: “Actually I don’t. Who?”
Nana: “Dike-a-sake.”
Nana: “Is that Ortiz? Oooh, I hope he strikes a homerun!”
Nana (to the 115-pound college girl in front of us who dined on two meager slices of Papa Gino’s): “You ate too much pizza!”
Nana (to the same girl earlier in the game): “Can you scrunch down a bit? I can’t see.”
A beachball came our way during the 5th inning or so and miraculously landed in Nana’s lap. I told her to pick it up and hit it. So she took the ball and, with all her might (which isn’t a lot), pegged a guy sitting two rows in front of us right in the back of the head. So he took the ball and jokingly turned around and pretended like he was going to nail her in the face with it. I think that kinda scared her because she put her arms up in defense. The man then realized that he could possibly be responsible for an old woman having a heart attack and apologized profusely saying he didn’t really mean it. I told him that while maybe he was joking, she surely wasn’t and meant to hit him.
Then, when we were trying to find the bus after the game, I’m pretty sure I made Nana walk around the entire perimeter of Fenway Park. Probably not the best idea in the world, but I told her that at least she wouldn’t have to go to the gym the next day (and yes, she actually does go to the gym).
So while the Red Sox lost 7-5 to a team with a guy named Figgins, I certainly can’t complain about a lack of entertainment or fun.
Showing posts with label sports. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sports. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
The Relationship Manager job title sounds a lot different than the actual job
Okay, before I forget. Many people keep asking me when I am coming home to Boston. Personally, I think they are more concerned with how much more Lisa-free time they have to revel in rather than how much longer they have to suffer without me. Whatever their reasons for asking though, I’ll tell you that I fly back to Boston on Saturday, July 19 (assuming Terminal 5 doesn’t crap the bed again). That’s a little less than 3 weeks away. The follow up question to “When do you come home?” is always “Are you looking forward to coming home?” And so I will cut you off at the pass, be unoriginal and tell you “yes and no.” I don’t doubt that I will tear up the day I leave my apartment, that godforsaken broken trash can, the shower that sprays water all over the bathroom floor, and the door that slams no matter how gently you try to close it. But as much as I will miss those things (and countless others), I am eagerly awaiting the day I walk through my condo door, see my fake plant covered in dust, curl up on my Jerzee sheets, and call Papa Gino’s for a large cheese pizza (“just for me”) delivery. I’ve found that 6 months is the perfect amount of time to spend working in a different country (3 months in Sydney was far too brief). But enough about this. I’ll write more debriefing blogs later.
Now onto more important things. Football.
Sunday night I watched the Euro 2008 game. I know, I know…I never watch football. It might sound ironic coming from someone who enjoys watching baseball and doesn’t think it’s boring at all, but watching football is about as exciting to me as watching Mr. McFeeley talk about how a VHS tape works. But since Euro 2008 is huge here (it’s analogous to the World Cup the way the Winter Olympics is to the Summer Olympics), I figured I would try to immerse myself completely in British/European culture. So I got my plate of grapes and tub of hummus (not to be eaten together) and sat myself down on my couch for the next 90 minutes. Truth be told, it wasn’t terrible. 90 minutes actually passed by quickly seeing as how they don’t stop the clock and I could be distracted by the players’ hairdos. The greatest part about watching a sport where, on average, there are only 2 goals scored is that I can change channels, watch 3 minutes of Frasier, flip back, and will not have missed anything. I also enjoyed when the announcer kept referring to that one player Javier as Jah-vee-air. I’m not expert in the Spanish language or anything, but I’m pretty sure it’s pronounced Hah-vee-air. All in all, it was a good time. And I’m not just saying that because the Germans lost and you know how I feel about Germans….
Oh and hey brother-in-law…happy Canada Day. Bring a little Toronto fever to the Holy Land, will you?
Now onto more important things. Football.
Sunday night I watched the Euro 2008 game. I know, I know…I never watch football. It might sound ironic coming from someone who enjoys watching baseball and doesn’t think it’s boring at all, but watching football is about as exciting to me as watching Mr. McFeeley talk about how a VHS tape works. But since Euro 2008 is huge here (it’s analogous to the World Cup the way the Winter Olympics is to the Summer Olympics), I figured I would try to immerse myself completely in British/European culture. So I got my plate of grapes and tub of hummus (not to be eaten together) and sat myself down on my couch for the next 90 minutes. Truth be told, it wasn’t terrible. 90 minutes actually passed by quickly seeing as how they don’t stop the clock and I could be distracted by the players’ hairdos. The greatest part about watching a sport where, on average, there are only 2 goals scored is that I can change channels, watch 3 minutes of Frasier, flip back, and will not have missed anything. I also enjoyed when the announcer kept referring to that one player Javier as Jah-vee-air. I’m not expert in the Spanish language or anything, but I’m pretty sure it’s pronounced Hah-vee-air. All in all, it was a good time. And I’m not just saying that because the Germans lost and you know how I feel about Germans….
Oh and hey brother-in-law…happy Canada Day. Bring a little Toronto fever to the Holy Land, will you?
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
I’m glad I didn’t throw out that Celtics hat I got in 1992
Unrelated to the Bard, pigeons, falafel, and sweat-accommodating clothing, I have two updates for you:
1) The jets from Monday’s pictures were for The Trooping of the Colour in celebration of the Queen’s birthday. I felt only slightly ignorant for being informed of this by someone living in Boston (thanks Brent!).
2) Oftentimes in my blog I will refer to people as “stupid,” “idiots,” or “insanely incompetent.” Sigh. It is with great sadness, and shock for you I’m sure, that I must now include myself in those categories. When I mocked the Freddie Mercury fans for inscribing the words “I still love you” on his door, I was not privy to the meaning behind this phrase and simply took the opportunity to further ridicule yellow-toothed Brits. It was not until my friend Ted, a contender for Freddie Mercury’s Biggest Fan, enlightened me that this lyric was dramatically expressed in video for “These Are The Days Of Our Lives,” the last video made by Queen; Freddie looked straight into the camera and all but whispered it. It is believed that this was his way of saying goodbye to his fans. Excuse me, waiter? I do believe I’ll have a slice of that humble pie.
My inane thoughts are slowly creeping into my dreams. And while the following dream I had is absolutely absurd, it might also be a brilliant idea:
I was supposed to get together with some guy to study (I’m pretty sure I will be having nightmares about academia until the day I die) but we had never met before so there was uncertainty as to how he would know who I was (for some reason I knew what HE looked like). I was standing near the bus stop waiting for him to arrive when I saw him get off a bus. Instead of looking around for me, he simply bellowed at the top of his lungs, “Lisaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!” and waited for me to come to him.
So. Clearly I had this dream so I could relay to all of you a fantastic way of rendezvousing with a blind date, a client, or a middle-aged study buddy with a colossal red beard. (Please do not make insinuations about beards, my dad, and my dreams. That’s not necessary.)
A brief, yet crucial letter to the sports teams of Boston:
Dear Red Sox, Patriots, and Celtics,
Please stop winning championships when I am out of the country. It’s really not working out for me waking up at 3:30 in the morning to eye-flutter my way through your games. By all means, keep being awesome and winning. But please try to keep my schedule in mind when you do, okay?
XOXO,
Lisa
1) The jets from Monday’s pictures were for The Trooping of the Colour in celebration of the Queen’s birthday. I felt only slightly ignorant for being informed of this by someone living in Boston (thanks Brent!).
2) Oftentimes in my blog I will refer to people as “stupid,” “idiots,” or “insanely incompetent.” Sigh. It is with great sadness, and shock for you I’m sure, that I must now include myself in those categories. When I mocked the Freddie Mercury fans for inscribing the words “I still love you” on his door, I was not privy to the meaning behind this phrase and simply took the opportunity to further ridicule yellow-toothed Brits. It was not until my friend Ted, a contender for Freddie Mercury’s Biggest Fan, enlightened me that this lyric was dramatically expressed in video for “These Are The Days Of Our Lives,” the last video made by Queen; Freddie looked straight into the camera and all but whispered it. It is believed that this was his way of saying goodbye to his fans. Excuse me, waiter? I do believe I’ll have a slice of that humble pie.
My inane thoughts are slowly creeping into my dreams. And while the following dream I had is absolutely absurd, it might also be a brilliant idea:
I was supposed to get together with some guy to study (I’m pretty sure I will be having nightmares about academia until the day I die) but we had never met before so there was uncertainty as to how he would know who I was (for some reason I knew what HE looked like). I was standing near the bus stop waiting for him to arrive when I saw him get off a bus. Instead of looking around for me, he simply bellowed at the top of his lungs, “Lisaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!” and waited for me to come to him.
So. Clearly I had this dream so I could relay to all of you a fantastic way of rendezvousing with a blind date, a client, or a middle-aged study buddy with a colossal red beard. (Please do not make insinuations about beards, my dad, and my dreams. That’s not necessary.)
A brief, yet crucial letter to the sports teams of Boston:
Dear Red Sox, Patriots, and Celtics,
Please stop winning championships when I am out of the country. It’s really not working out for me waking up at 3:30 in the morning to eye-flutter my way through your games. By all means, keep being awesome and winning. But please try to keep my schedule in mind when you do, okay?
XOXO,
Lisa
Monday, February 18, 2008
Essex Sussex Wessex
G to T: “You’re just jealous that I have better legs than you.”
T to a co-worker: “You were drinking too much…you were wankered.”
Lunch at Old Doctor Butler’s Head was interesting mainly due to the fact that half the people ordered steak and kidneys and the other half ordered liver pot pie. (I was the odd man out who ordered the lasagna.) Sitting next to SR who ordered the kidney, I made the mistake of asking him what it tasted like and what the texture was, because when it arrived, he kept insisting that I try it. I almost had to use my self-defense techniques but he stopped pushing it after I made a somewhat-inappropriate face and said, “I’m not really that adventurous when it comes to trying new foods.”
But then all was well again when everyone started talking about how I would definitely fit into one of those moving crates at work. What is it with people wanting to fit me into small spaces like trashcans or file cabinets?
I still don’t understand the rules of cricket.
(Breaking news in this morning’s paper. A headline read: “Drugs May Be Very Dangerous.”)
T to a co-worker: “You were drinking too much…you were wankered.”
Lunch at Old Doctor Butler’s Head was interesting mainly due to the fact that half the people ordered steak and kidneys and the other half ordered liver pot pie. (I was the odd man out who ordered the lasagna.) Sitting next to SR who ordered the kidney, I made the mistake of asking him what it tasted like and what the texture was, because when it arrived, he kept insisting that I try it. I almost had to use my self-defense techniques but he stopped pushing it after I made a somewhat-inappropriate face and said, “I’m not really that adventurous when it comes to trying new foods.”
But then all was well again when everyone started talking about how I would definitely fit into one of those moving crates at work. What is it with people wanting to fit me into small spaces like trashcans or file cabinets?
I still don’t understand the rules of cricket.
(Breaking news in this morning’s paper. A headline read: “Drugs May Be Very Dangerous.”)
Thursday, February 14, 2008
I ate 6 eggs in 2 days
We are moving offices tomorrow. There’s something like 8 company offices all within the city of London and they’re consolidating three of them. This means that my day tomorrow will consist of watching frantic people trying to rid their desks of all unnecessary papers (which, truth be told, is every paper) but instead finding that Dorito chip they lost 8 months ago.
Either people will find any excuse to eat and drink here or they’re really sentimental about this building, because not only are we going out for drinks after work to celebrate our last day at Angel Court, but we’re also going to a pub for lunch. But get this – the name of the pub is Old Doctor Butler’s Head! One thing I learned very early on is that London is filled with fantastically-named pubs. (I like to think Old Doctor Butler’s Head refers to the bloodied head of a British doctor who accidentally decapitated himself while trying to perform brain surgery on a patient while intoxicated in 1893. Oh and the head? It haunts the pub.)
G has been quite active in the past two days in preparation for the move since his desk is exceedingly cluttered. What this means for me, the lucky person who gets to listen to him all day, is a handful of inane quotes (the context doesn’t matter…they still wouldn’t make sense):
“This is where the frisking happens.”
“Wonka wonka wonka!”
D said the word ‘movements’ today in the exact same way Austin Powers says ‘I’m gonna go watch a moooooooooovie.’ I have yet to figure out a way to snicker without having the people around me realize I’m snickering at them.
So that rocket building picture I sent awhile back? It’s nicknamed ‘The Gherkin.’
Many people have told me that I should go to Wimbledon in June, that it’s an amazing experience. I don’t doubt this and so today I inquired with a company ticket vendor to see if they had anything available. This was their reply:
Dear Lisa,
Thank you for your request.
Please note that unfortunately we are only able to source premium priced tickets for sporting events. See below for details:
Ladies Semi Final Priced at $2100 per ticket
Men’s Semi Final Priced at $4100 per ticket
Ladies Final Priced at $2400 per ticket
Men’s Final Priced at $6200 per ticket
All prices and availability are subject to change at any time. Please advise if we can be of any further assistance.
Here was my (fake) reply:
Dear Crazy Wimbledon Ticket Selling People,
$6200 for a single ticket? Are you nuts? Are those for the nosebleed seats too? I can understand paying this much for a Red Sox/Yankees playoff game; at least there I’m paying for the chance to see something as awesome as Pedro Martinez giving an ass whooping to Don Zimmer. And are the men really $3800 better than the women? I’m not a die-hard feminist or anything, but that seems a little silly to me. Please let me know if the prices drop down to $200 or below and I’ll be interested in a front-row seat.
Thanks a heap!
In completely unrelated news, Shaq is completely gone from South Beach leaving my Dad in utter despair. Today on the phone he told me, “I miss him already.”
Either people will find any excuse to eat and drink here or they’re really sentimental about this building, because not only are we going out for drinks after work to celebrate our last day at Angel Court, but we’re also going to a pub for lunch. But get this – the name of the pub is Old Doctor Butler’s Head! One thing I learned very early on is that London is filled with fantastically-named pubs. (I like to think Old Doctor Butler’s Head refers to the bloodied head of a British doctor who accidentally decapitated himself while trying to perform brain surgery on a patient while intoxicated in 1893. Oh and the head? It haunts the pub.)
G has been quite active in the past two days in preparation for the move since his desk is exceedingly cluttered. What this means for me, the lucky person who gets to listen to him all day, is a handful of inane quotes (the context doesn’t matter…they still wouldn’t make sense):
“This is where the frisking happens.”
“Wonka wonka wonka!”
D said the word ‘movements’ today in the exact same way Austin Powers says ‘I’m gonna go watch a moooooooooovie.’ I have yet to figure out a way to snicker without having the people around me realize I’m snickering at them.
So that rocket building picture I sent awhile back? It’s nicknamed ‘The Gherkin.’
Many people have told me that I should go to Wimbledon in June, that it’s an amazing experience. I don’t doubt this and so today I inquired with a company ticket vendor to see if they had anything available. This was their reply:
Dear Lisa,
Thank you for your request.
Please note that unfortunately we are only able to source premium priced tickets for sporting events. See below for details:
Ladies Semi Final Priced at $2100 per ticket
Men’s Semi Final Priced at $4100 per ticket
Ladies Final Priced at $2400 per ticket
Men’s Final Priced at $6200 per ticket
All prices and availability are subject to change at any time. Please advise if we can be of any further assistance.
Here was my (fake) reply:
Dear Crazy Wimbledon Ticket Selling People,
$6200 for a single ticket? Are you nuts? Are those for the nosebleed seats too? I can understand paying this much for a Red Sox/Yankees playoff game; at least there I’m paying for the chance to see something as awesome as Pedro Martinez giving an ass whooping to Don Zimmer. And are the men really $3800 better than the women? I’m not a die-hard feminist or anything, but that seems a little silly to me. Please let me know if the prices drop down to $200 or below and I’ll be interested in a front-row seat.
Thanks a heap!
In completely unrelated news, Shaq is completely gone from South Beach leaving my Dad in utter despair. Today on the phone he told me, “I miss him already.”
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