…that Arizona Iced Tea is made in New York.
New York?
Yes…New. York.
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“New York City!?!?!”
“Get a rope.”
I’ve now hopelessly dated myself with that reference.
In case you are youthful and have NO idea of what I speak:
But I guess being from where I come from, this kind of revelation doesn’t surprise me.
You know that fabulous marker that shows the four corners where New Mexico, Arizona, Utah and Colorado meet?
Turns out it’s uh…a little off course.
In fact, potentially as much as two and a half miles off course.
The geological folks in Colorado say they think it’s just fine where it is.
Other surveyors using GPS technology say nope.
“…the accurate location would be downhill to the east of U.S. 160 in Colorado and northeast of the San Juan River as it flows into New Mexico.”
Uh. Ooops?
Per NewMexiKen’s fabulous blog (welcome back, Ken!): ” It turns out that in 1878, when they surveyed the boundaries of Utah-Colorado-New Mexico and Arizona, they adjusted the spot where the four territories met (unique in the U.S.) so that the location would be easier to get to.”
Fair enough. I wonder why this is making news this week?
Why do we do this? Why do *I* do this?
A Singapore counterpart from work gave me a set of reeeeally nice hand lotions on her last visit to the US. I went through and sniffed them all, picked my favorites, then put them in order, thus allowing myself to use the least faves *first* before using the ones I like.
Why? Why would I do that? Why not use the ones I like best first? Life is short!
Today, my admin was kind enough to bring me a sample plate of desserts from a conference room downstairs. I ate the yucky ones first and the nicest one last. Why didn’t I just eat the good ones and leave the yucky ones? Nope. Ate ’em all.
I’m not proud of it, either.
Suppose this is a hazard of being born to Depression Era parents? The propensity to “save” things for later was strong with them both.
Or is it a hazard of my severe obsessive, overly anal personality?
Or could it be just a facet of human nature? Especially as a woman. “Oh no,” : hand to head : “I’ll take the burned toast….”
Whatever.
I just pulled out the jar of *good* lotion and slathered it on. I smell pretty!
Life is too short to dance with short men. Life is too short to drink cheap beer wine. Life is too important to be taken seriously. And life is too dull to not use the “good soap” in the guest bath.
And so, the 2009 baseball season is underway.
The major leaguers started early in the week.
But that’s not where I’m at.
I’m talkin’ about one lowly Single A.
Yeah baby.
The San Jose Giants kicked off their 142 game season in the Pacific Coast League with their home opener last night.
It was, perhaps, one of the strangest baseball encounters I’ve ever experienced.
And I’ve seen some weird sh*t.
To start with, the weather was was, what the indelicate call “pissing rain”. The not quite raining, not quite not. Just…dribbling.
For my home-squirrels in the 505/575 who come from a place where, when it rains, it means it, this phenomenon may not make sense to you.
Imagine those misters they have at Hooters. Only as big as the sky, unrelenting, and without the desert dryness to evaporate that water.
Close enough.
So it was Hooters misting all night long…and cold…and not very baseball-y weather.
Pretty much, the not really capacity crowd thinned out over the course of the game, leaving only the die hards to carry it to the end.
Which would be both me and The Good Man.
We stepped under cover for the third and fourth innings to indulge in bbq-sauce-up-to-your-ears tasty ribs and came out of there recharged and ready.
When you’ve endured several hours of cold soaking rain, it does something to your brain.
So as most people left, and us weirdos starting losing our minds, it got really fun.
Best moment will take some backstory.
Every game, the San Jose announcer designates a player on the opposing team as the “beer batter”. If the San Jose pitcher strikes out that batter, then beer is half price for the next half inning.
Needless to say, people cheer pretty damn hard for a strikeout.
Usually, they end the beer batter promotion in the sixth inning.
So, round about the seventh inning last night…we, the looneys in the crowd decided to dub that same opposing batter the hot chocolate batter (it was freaking cold!). Cheering went up. Someone yelled, “C’mon, daddy needs marshmallows!”
That damn beer hot chocolate batter would NOT just take a swing. Poor sport.
And then, for some reason, in the eighth inning, the announcer played the usual beer batter song and dubbed the guy the ‘apple juice batter of the game, as sponsored by Martinelli’s’. I don’t know if that was a legit promotion, but then all of us started hollering for our apple juice.
As the beer batter stood at the plate, we screamed “aaaaaaaple juuuuuice!” Damnit if that guy just wouldn’t strike out for us! No, he kept foulin’ ’em off! So I yelled “I’ll share mine with you!” No, he wasn’t to be swayed. I even offered to *give* him my apple juice. Considering I was sitting in the third row behind the plate in a nearly empty stadium, I KNOW he heard my offer.
But no, instead of sipping my apple juice, b–tard hit a rope out to center.
A cold soaked to the bone crowd couldn’t even get an apple juice. That ain’t right.
But damn did we have fun!
And yes, the Albuquerque Dukes pennant is still painted on the wall at Muni Stadium and I touched it for luck, like usual! Worked too! We won 7-1!
Tonight, I think I’ll stick to the couch and a blanket and my feline (who I’ve finally forgiven) and baseball on the television.
But I may be prompted to yell “aaaaaaapple juuuuuuuice” at a hitter who needs to strike out. : shrug :
In response to reports that Lindsay Lohan wants to buy the rights to her life and play her in a movie, Stevie Nicks replies:
“Over my dead body…She needs to stop doing drugs and get a grip. Then maybe we’ll talk.”
Oh hooo heee hooo har har har Ms. Nicks! YOU saying that someone needs to get off drugs and get a grip?
Do you, perhaps, recall the seventies and your time with Fleetwood Mac?
No…I suppose you don’t.
