When The Going Gets Tough, The Tough Make Really Bad Analogies

I think the following antidote is the perfect analogy for how my life has seemed lately:

On Tuesday, I realized that no one in my fantasy baseball league had snatched up Pokey Reese. This was a complete surprise to me, considering that two members of my league are a Red Sox fan and his brother who will intentionally take Red Sox players just to get his goat (example being who just happens to have Nomar). So I dropped my under performing 2nd baseman and picked up Reese (who Peter King referred to as "The Pokester" in Monday's column--frankly, I'm scared).

Later that night, I turn on the radio to catch the last few innings of the Red Sox-Rockies game. And I swear, within 2 minutes of turning on the game, the announcer says, "In case you just joined us, Pokey Reese scratched tonight with an injury..."

Of course.

Thankfully, he's not on the DL or anything, and he came back two days later, but still. It's just my luck.

I would elaborate, but things seem to be getting better, plus no one wants to hear about post-graduation syndrome, 'cause ya'll have gone/will go through it sooner or later. And this is all it is. The best thing people can do for me is to say to me randomly, "Kat, put the application to Canisius/UB/U of R away." or "Kat, stop outlining cover letters to jobs in Rochester." Or better yet, say, "Kat, suck it up and live with the fact that you'll have loan payments until you're 60. There's nothing you can do about it."

Actually, I should write them out on big pieces of paper and wallpaper my room with them. They're my new mantras. "Put the resume paper away. You do not need to apply to that job at St. John Fisher/Nazareth/fill in the blank with any school in Western NY. Back away from your resume. Stop thinking off convincing reasons why someone should hire you without your Masters."

I will suck it up, take out more loans, stick it out and get my Master's from Boston University if it's the last thing I do.

And that is that.

--So I was walking down the street to the T the other morning, and a guy was walking towards me. He had a smallish-medium black cargo bag. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just a cargo bag. You know, serves the same purpose of a backpack, but you don't look like a middle schooler carrying it. (Which I do when I carry a backpack. I look like I'm 12. Some may argue that I look like I'm 12 all the time, but for my dignity, I'd like to contend that it's just when I'm wearing my backpack.)

The guy sees me walking and starts fidgeting with the bag, like it was uncomfortable. He's looking down at it. As we walk by each other, he looks at me and kind of shrugs and quickly looks at his bag. It seemed to me that he was embarrassed to be seen by a girl carrying the bag. It was the kind of look that said, "Don't mind my man bag, my girlfriend/mother/grandmother/aunt gave me it and it was the only thing that held all the stuff I needed for work, but really, I'm not into man bags, I wouldn't buy them for myself, no, not at all..." I felt really bad for the guy. For the record, I tried to give that, "I'm not going to judge you for your man bag" look, but it was too late. I don't hate on the man bags, so Men of Boston, don't be so self-conscious.

Men in Boston are interesting. There are tons of totally nice looking ones. I mean, I remember my first day of college at Ithaca, where I looked around and was like, "It's a guy supermarket! No, a guy Wegmans! There's all these different kinds, and they're all good!" Yeah, Boston is like that 200-fold. It's a guy Pittsford, NY Wegmans. (The Pittsford Wegmans is a super-crazy-get-lost-no-matter-how-much-you-try-not-to Wegmans with everything ever. Example: I am addicted to Manichevitz Macaroons. Normally, you're really lucky if you can find one variety, even at Passover time. Not at the Pittsford Wegmans, where they stock like every single flavor all year round. Yummmmm....)

Well, hold on. The analogy isn't complete yet. So Boston is the guy Pittsford, NY Wegmans. But I am the lone customer without a Shoppers Club Card, while every other female in Boston has theirs. I don't know yet about the Shopper's Club Card, but look at the discounts longingly and ask myself, "Why can't I get that price?"

Have I totally lost you yet?

Analogy complete. What I'm saying is that I see all these great fantastic totally hot and sports loving guys with totally lovable Boston accents, but I haven't a clue how to get them yet. I'm working on it though--I've caught acceptable guys staring at me several times lately, so I'm making progress.

Basically, Kat needs a man, because Kat's jaded and old and Kat can't sit around and watch NESN, ESPN Classic, Showbiz Moms and Dads and Food Network 24-7. And Kat needs to stop talking in the third person.

--I give you the wisdom of Drew Bledsoe:

”I’ll throw a couple times a week, just enough to keep my arm in shape and the last week and a half before camp I’ll throw a little more,” Bledsoe said. “(I’ll throw to) anybody I can find, my brother, and there’s usually a couple neighborhood kids out in Montana. Or I’ll hang something up on the garage wall and throw at that.”

Western NY, your starting quarterback is going to pick some 9 year old off the playground in Montana of all places, and be like, "Let's play catch," and somehow that's going to help him prepare for trying to get the Bills out of the depths of depression. I mean, sure, if you lived in, oh, Louisiana or Texas, sure, maybe that would help. But Montana? Imagine that neighborhood kid. "What did you do today, Timmy?" "Man, that annoying neighbor begged me to throw with him again...it was cool at first, but when he started saying, 'How'd you like that, Losman?' and hitting me with the ball when we were just supposed to be throwing the football around, and then muttering weird things under his breath about how evil the Patriots are and how he should have two Super Bowl rings, then it got kind of weird."

Yes, these are the things I think when I read the Democrat and Chronicle sports section at 7am.

(I don't hate Bledsoe. I just found that quote weird. I don't know.)

--I didn't feel the lack of old school MP3 downloading until very recently, when I just realized there are a list of songs I'd love to have, but they are all the only ones on the CDs they are on that I'm interested in, and my subscription service doesn't have them. But you know if only we had Napster in all of its heyday glory, I'd have those songs and be sick of them by now.

--A sign that I've lost all taste in music: I find the recent covers of "Take My Breath Away" by Jessica Simpson and "Our Lips Are Sealed" by Hilary Duff ten times better then the originals. I guess I need to see that Guster/Ben Folds concert more than I thought. I'll regain my taste in music after that.

--It's June, and I get to talk hockey at work. If you like hockey, go to school in Boston, I swear. It's great.

--So the decision has been made: if Dream Job decides to audition for its second season in Boston, I'm going. I'll do some manic NBA studying before hand, look extra sexy, and hope they send Tony Kornheiser down so I can get Binghamton alumni bonus points. Because really, when I get all gussied up, I'd like to think I'm one of the best looking moderately-knowledgeable female sports fans out there, and I'm using that to my advantage. And in the most probable event I don't pass the audition, at least I could maybe pick up some dates! (Trust me, my co-worker Nicole and I have been hatching my Dream Job plan for a few days now.)

--I always knew when I was little that when I was finally grown up and left to my own devices, I'd have a seriously difficult time trying to get myself to cook and not buy dinner each night. I love going out to eat, even if it means running to get coffee or bagels or whatever. I always have. And I'm left to my own devices now, with easy access to tons of restaurants and the like...and it's hard. Very hard. When I was a little girl, my parents couldn't afford to take me out to restaurants, and as I got older and they could afford it, they had littler children who wouldn't sit still in restaurants. So I'm making up for my childhood. But really, I need to stop. I've done well this week though...

--So I may have found a way to be a semi-real sportswriter, or least pretend to be one, meaning a little less blogging, but when I do blog, it'll be less about sports. Which I'm sure will excite several of you out there who aren't the biggest sports fans. But we'll see how it works out. I'll fill you all in a little later as to what I might be doing, because it's not a sure thing yet.

--More later this weekend...