3 homeruns, 1 hot dog, one beach ball incident, and one drunk guy ralphing

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.

We’re slowly falling out of reach

So there I am sitting on the sofa watching Men In Black II with my parents when a commercial for a dog and cat nail groomer comes on. The product advertises as a less painful way to trim your pet’s nails and, to prove their point, shows a cartoon clip of a regular nail clipper snipping off part of a dog’s toe in addition to the nail. It is at this point that both my parents scream at the top of their lungs (much like you’d hear during the Achilles tendon part of the movie Hostel) and my dad yells above my mother’s shrieking, “Change the channel! Change the channel!”

I’m back in Boston. And all is right with the world. I’ve been back for two weeks and haven’t had time to breathe let alone write down some of the fun things that have happened. For example, I was walking home one night and saw a middle-aged man coming out from behind a secluded building fiddling with his pants. I then saw a middle-aged woman, who I presumed to be his wife, coming from an altogether different direction saying, “Honey, don’t be a weirdo.” Or that time that I was walking to play tennis on Boston Commons at 8am on a Sunday morning and saw a man (who didn’t appear homeless and/or crazy) spinning around in circles with his arms out. He then tried to walk in a straight line and obviously couldn’t. What kind of grown man does this?

By far the most awesome thing that has happened since I got home, other than finally being able to watch the Food Network with my new cable, was acquiring my two new kittens, Walter and Harvey (pronounced Wahltah and Hahvey like a true Bostonian). They’re 5-month-old tabby cat brothers who I adopted from the Animal Rescue League through some help of my friend Courtney who, as the shelter manager, has the greatest job in the world. Sometimes it’s hard to tell them apart since their markings are very similar, but the one distinguishing feature is that Walter isn’t exactly weaned yet and likes to pretend that Harvey is his mom and suckles all over him - his shoulder, his neck, his back, and his non-milk producing belly. This was cute at first, but when combined with a tiny sucking sound and a mat of wet fur, it’s become just disturbing. While acquiring two cats is a much bigger step on the way to becoming a cat lady than merely adopting one, you need not worry just yet because I will never take them for a walk on leashes or in a stroller. The day I do that is the day you find 34 frozen cat bodies in my freezer. Or the day someone pays me $200 to do it…whichever comes first.

18-5? Seriously? Wow. Look at you, Red Sox.

Well things just never work out the way you think they’re going to, do they? I mean, when I was born my parents had hopes of me becoming a WNBA player (they had a gut feeling that a women’s professional basketball league was going to be formed eventually), I thought I was going to be the principle trumpet player of the BSO, and my friend Ted was quite confident that he was going to be our high school valedictorian. But alas, things change. And instead of returning to Boston on July 19, I’m coming home the day after tomorrow (that’s the 12th for those of you who don’t want to do the math).

Without going into too much detail about why the change of plans (I am now paranoid about writing anything pertaining to my company on an internet blog since it’s a terminable offense), suffice it to say that it’s for a 3 day conference-type-thing happening next week. Needless to say, I’m a bit frazzled. I have spent my morning packing all non-crucial clothes (why did I bring a bathing suit with me?), cancelling my LoveFilm account (I never did get to see The Bank Job), changing my flight (at no added expense probably due to the fact that I overpaid for the ticket to begin with), and trying to eat as much of the food in my kitchen as possible (too. many. grapes.).

Tonight is the Corporate Challenge race, tomorrow night is T's birthday part/my leaving do, and Saturday morning I will soak up the last bit of London before leaving extraordinarily early for my flight to take advantage of every possible moment in that British Airways Lounge. As for things I had planned for next week that I will suddenly no longer be able to do, it could have been worse. I was supposed to attend a BBC show taping about dogs on Monday, watch The Marriage of Figaro in the park on Wednesday, and go to dinner with co-workers at Wagamama for my leaving do on Friday. Now, if I had a date with Tim Curry and Hugh Laurie (yes, at the same time), that would be a different story.

And so the week I thought I had to prepare some leaving blogs has now been drastically whittled down to 1 day. This is the excuse I will use if it sucks. Be on the lookout for it tomorrow…

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?

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

Screamingly hysterically funny

As I stepped outside Friday morning, I noticed a very distinguished…stink. It was a mix between cow manure, dog crap, and general disgustingness. I kept looking around to see if I had stepped in something or if there was just a big pile of rancid garbage somewhere nearby, but I found nothing. This, as you know, is not the first time I’ve been bombarded with some bad smells in London, so I just accepted it and went on with my day. But as I walked to the Tube and the smell didn’t disappear, I wondered to myself, “Maybe this smell isn’t just a normal London-has-weird-smells smell. Oh really, Lisa? What are you gonna watch the news later today and the reporter will announce ‘Today London had a very funky smell to it.’ Shya right.” And then I went to work and checked thelondonpaper.com…
“Stench over London: A foul mystery smell engulfs capital, sparking hundreds of complaints.” (They attributed the smell to unusual easterly winds bringing spring fertilizer odors from Europe.)

I attempted to find an art gallery near Liverpool Street today to no avail. The address was 83 Rivington Street. Well. I found Rivington Street. And I walked down it. I found #80 and right next to it (as predicted) was #82. You would think that #83 would be either right next to #82 or across the street. Here’s where you would be wrong. #82 was actually the last building on the street before the next cross street. And directly across the street was #94. How does that make any sense? It doesn’t. Which is why I didn’t find the gallery. But I DID find a lot of pretty awesome graffiti and stickers around the neighborhood. I’ll be posting some of the art I found every day this week. I don’t know what a lot of it means….okay, I don’t know what ANY of it means, but I still think it’s an incredible medium that is far better than anything I’ve seen in Boston.

Today we’ll start with the mooning Mona Lisa by the artist Nick Walker (this is the only example of graffiti pictures I took whose artist’s name I know):

P.S. Happy Boston Marathon day!!!