My best friend left me a message late Saturday night/early Sunday morning. He called me where he knew I wasn't at that hour (the office) to update me on the travails of moving to another state. His wife and little girl were worn out and had crashed at a friend's. He was alone in his empty house, patching holes and painting, preparing for the final walk through before the Monday morning closing. The message was detailed and friendly and comfortable and it meant the world to me.
He may have called because as he looked over his weekend and experienced yet another unplanned turn, he thought, "Laurie would appreciate this shit." Or he may have called because we won't be able to talk in real-time for several days and he doesn't want me to feel anxious about not being able to contact him. Did he want to share, or was he just being thoughtful? I don't care. It doesn't matter.
The only thing that does matter is that we're still friends, and we're still good. I feel less isolated, less vulnerable, knowing that. It's a good way to prepare for Monday and a possibly tension-filled, deadline-driven week.
Sunday, July 30, 2006
Please don't, Mr. Hendry. PLEASE DON'T!
You cannot trade my beloved #31, Future Hall of Famer Greg Maddux. You simply can't! I had to watch him pack up and leave the Cubs for another team once before. I don't think I can bear it again.
Look, he's on the wrong side of 40, so you're not going to get that much for him. He's such a class act, both on the field and off, that he would be a positive influence on whatever young pitchers you decide to go with.
And hey, let's not forget about me. I hate my job. My mom has had a health scare. There's more than a little unnecessary but distracting drama going on with my sisters these days. I miss my best friend sooooo much. I have to pay $3675 that I don't have for new windows. It's hot. My complexion is acting up … GIVE AN OLD GIRL A BREAK, MR. HENDRY! I've been a good, loyal and true Cub fan my whole life. Watching The Professor is one of the few slivers of sunshine in my otherwise drab existance.
Please, sir.
Look, I'm not unreasonable here. There are players you can trade and I wouldn't protest. Phil Nevin, for example. I'm sure he's a completely lovely man who has always been good to his mother, but he's really very average looking and he hasn't been on the team long enough for me to become too attached to him. I'll even close my eyes and look away if you decide to part with (sigh) Todd Walker. Yes, I love his hair, his perpetual 5:00 shadow and his butt, but I realize you have a job to do. (And, as a boyfriend once pointed out to me, I'm supposed to view Wrigley Field as a tabernacle of baseball, not as a Hooters for women.)
But not Mad Dog. Please don't trade him, Mr. Hendry. Please don't!
Look, he's on the wrong side of 40, so you're not going to get that much for him. He's such a class act, both on the field and off, that he would be a positive influence on whatever young pitchers you decide to go with.
And hey, let's not forget about me. I hate my job. My mom has had a health scare. There's more than a little unnecessary but distracting drama going on with my sisters these days. I miss my best friend sooooo much. I have to pay $3675 that I don't have for new windows. It's hot. My complexion is acting up … GIVE AN OLD GIRL A BREAK, MR. HENDRY! I've been a good, loyal and true Cub fan my whole life. Watching The Professor is one of the few slivers of sunshine in my otherwise drab existance.
Please, sir.
Look, I'm not unreasonable here. There are players you can trade and I wouldn't protest. Phil Nevin, for example. I'm sure he's a completely lovely man who has always been good to his mother, but he's really very average looking and he hasn't been on the team long enough for me to become too attached to him. I'll even close my eyes and look away if you decide to part with (sigh) Todd Walker. Yes, I love his hair, his perpetual 5:00 shadow and his butt, but I realize you have a job to do. (And, as a boyfriend once pointed out to me, I'm supposed to view Wrigley Field as a tabernacle of baseball, not as a Hooters for women.)
But not Mad Dog. Please don't trade him, Mr. Hendry. Please don't!
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