Random Baseball Dream Leads to Random Blog Post

It's not very often that I dream, and even less often than I bother to write down what I remember. Last night, I had a dream, and today I am writing it down. What does it mean? Almost certainly nothing. Why am I writing it down? Maybe because I like to hear myself type. But here it is.

The scene took place at my high school baseball field. As an FYI, I played four years of varsity baseball in high school, and played something like 11 of 12 years I could play growing up. I wasn't ever amazing, but I was pretty good.

In the dream, we had guys on second and third base and I was at bat. A couple of specifics:

- I'm not sure who "we" were. My team, presumably, but I don't think I recognized anyone on my team outside of my brother.
- I was batting right-handed. I hit left-handed for almost my whole time playing baseball in spite of being right handed overall (throwing, writing, slappin' the ho).
- It was daylight, but the evening. Presumably about the time that we played baseball games after school.

As I was at bat, the umpire threw the ball back to the pitcher (as he might do in the case of a muddy or scuffed ball) but he made a bad throw. The throw bounded past the third baseman and both of my teammates came around to score. I remember telling the second one to slide (although he didn't).

For those non-baseball fans reading this: runners can't advance on a bad throw by the umpire... even one as spectacularly bad as in my dream.

After the errant umpire throw, I was still at bat but an extended discussion (about what? I don't know/remember) occurred in the field and I was standing there, bat in hand, as it became super-dark, super-fast. It was agreed that the game was over. I was upset that I didn't get to bat.

And... it ended. I have no idea why I remembered this dream, given that I almost never do.

(The only other recent dream I recall was more brief and more horrific; I was sitting in a small room, alone, and someone yelled something. I saw smoke coming through the keyhole of the only door of the room, which I could not open. I decided (why?!?) to look through the keyhole but the smoke kept coming. I couldn't breath. I felt myself weaken. And I awoke, panting heavily, very frightened.)

Because I severely doubt my clairvoyant capabilities, I don't look at the baseball dream as prophecy. Instead, I'll look at various things in my life that might have contributed to the la-la-land melange:

- I don't get to see my brother (and the rest of my family) as much as I'd like, but my siblings and I have been ironing out Christmas plans this year and I think we settled on the parameters of a vacation, which excites me.

- I haven't watched any baseball this year. None. I have played in a long-term fantasy baseball league dating back to college, but the league ... went away and I didn't sign up for another league. While I plan on seeing the Mariners after the weather gets better (it seems like a fun, if overpriced, way to trick girls into hanging out with me), now that I don't have my old-school AL-only roto league to cheer, I just haven't had the inclination to follow or watch baseball.

- I am reading a series of books that start with The Three Body Problem. The books are by a Chinese science fiction author and one of the motifs is rapid/chaotic sunlight/darkness changes, so maybe that was part of it. (I'm on the second book now, by the way; it's excellent.)

- I signed up for kickball and I am on a team, although my attendance has been terrible. The first game I played in (about a month ago) we only got to play three innings before it was too dark to continue. Summer kickball signups are occurring, but I decided that while I liked my teammates I am not going to sign up again because (a) work makes attendance tough, and (b) the fields are going to be farther away, and as a non-car owner that makes it more difficult. I still feel like I might be making a mistake by not playing again. I also have an aching shoulder (which I think might be from kickball a couple of weeks ago) and maybe I was sleeping on it wrong.

The good thing about dreams is that they don't matter unless you think they matter, and even then they probably don't matter. My brain

Looking back, looking forward

I've had friends that have "Web logged" (what the kids call "blogging") for some time now, but I've always considered it too... self-indulgent? intellectually masturbatory? (If you're a friend and you're reading this, I'm of course not talking about your stuff!)

An alternate explanation for my absence from the world of blogging is the (a) lack of content that anyone would ever want to read, and/or (b) anyone that would ever want to read anything that I would want to write.

But I bumped into some old friends this past weekend that are on MySpace and I can always zap this later if I come to my senses and realize that maybe the world was a better place before I tried to make a blog. We'll see how this works out...

That is from my first blog entry, dated May 16, 2006. I typed it into MySpace shortly before midnight (according to the timestamp on Blogger, which I think is accurate if I imported the entry into this system properly) in a little apartment that featured three cats and almost no windows. I had made my public karaoke debut eleven days prior, I was attending classes at night working on my MBA, and I was waiting for my divorce to finalize.

My world was different, but I suppose it would be odd if things had stayed the same.

My early blog was random and rarely read--ok, so maybe things have stayed the same--and it was on MySpace. I spent some time a couple of years ago exporting those entries and then bringing them into this platform, starting with the May 16, 2006 entry, but I lost interest at some point and most of 2007's (genius, I'm sure) posts aren't available to be read. I'm sorry/you're welcome. Maybe someday I will delve into my exported file and start to slug those back in. I'm sorry/you're welcome.

In the meantime, though, I want to start writing again. The process of creating has value in and of itself and I feel the need to do something deeper than Snapchat or Facebook statuses (although presumably I'll continue to do those, for better or worse).

I might think that (a) I lack content that anyone would ever want to read, and/or that (b) anyone would ever want to read anything that I would want to write, but I've written some pretty good stuff before and so it's time for me to give it another whirl.

Social Media and Real Life and Confused Mothers

I've read articles about how social media distorts the perception of one's own life. Looking through one's friends' feeds or walls or whatever, one might see lives filled with 

• amazing summit views after challenging but satisfying hikes in ideal weather
• fit young women in bikinis lounging on boats in ideal weather
• smiling babies in ideal weather

Or maybe all three. Or maybe just ideal weather.

Like weather, though, lives aren't ideal. (I know... newsflash.)

I sort of take pride in being more open with my Facebook feed than most tend to be... it's true that I keep my friends list small, but when people are on that list, they  might see my life filled with

• drunken ramblings about chats I'm having with friends after drinking too much rum
• my (seemingly inexplicable) selfies featuring the latest lightsaber purchase I've made
• amazing summit views after challenging but satisfying hikes in ideal weather

OK. Not that last one. I was just seeing if you were paying attention.

So I try to be open. I try to paint a real picture of my life both because I think it's interesting enough to be, uh, of interest, and because I enjoy looking back at what happened a couple of years ago and shaking my head at how dumb/awesome/uninteresting my past self was.

One of the aspects of being open is the inclusion of my family in my friends list. Not just my siblings and their spouses, but my aunts and uncles and cousins and grandmothers. And my parents.

I don't expect that most of it makes sense to them--it doesn't make sense to people with whom I share the experiences about which I am posting all of the time, I'd bet--but I know they know I'm a bit of an oddball and put up with it.

So, too, do the friends whom I have known for a long time.

A trouble spot is with new friends. These friends might be real life friends I've known for a while, in which case I'd anticipate they'd "get" it relatively quickly, or they might be brand new friends. 

Of these brand new friends, some might be women.

Of these women, some might be individuals I have interest in dating.

That is the most delicate population of all, and that is really the only population I worry about offending.

I say all of this because I had a terrible dream the other night. In this dream I'd met a woman that I liked and we became Facebook friends. I didn't even know her well enough to give her a blog codename, but I was looking forward to doing so. We'll call her No-Codename.

We had been texting (in the dream, I mean; yeah, in the dream!) and we'd set up an evening for a date. Unfortunately, I was out of the state and so we had to schedule it about a week later. In spite of that, we managed to have pleasant txt exchanges.

Then, as people tend to do, she posted a few pictures on Facebook. I liked one or two and commented in a silly fashion on one. She liked my comment and ... all was well. All was on track. I went to sleep, in my dream, feeling like I was in a decent position with the date about three days away.

I awoke the next morning (in the dream, not from it) and checked Facecbook and my mom had commented on my status, she'd liked a couple of my pictures, and she'd... liked No-Codename's picture. And she'd commented on No-Codename's picture.

Facebook can be confusing. It can be tough to determine who's posting what. And I love my mom to pieces and am glad that she contributes to my Facebook existence. 

But I was not pleased. I was concerned that No-Codename might think that I was talking to my mother about her. Which would be less than ideal before a first date.

I got my mother on the phone and walked her through undoing what she'd done. She apologized about a million times and I know she didn't mean anything by it, but... ugh.

I txted No-Codename, laughing off my mother's mistake. No response.

I txted her the next day to see if we were still on for our date, scheduled for the next night. No response.

My dream continued for some time, as I strained not to txt again, knowing she'd either been freaked out or she was too busy to reply. Or she won the lottery and moved away. Or [insert a million other possibilities here].

I woke up before I found out the answer.

He'll fight for freedom wherever there's trouble. And then he'll bug me about it.

There are a few reasons that I like the club that I’ve frequented so often in 2015. One of the key reasons is the people.

Normally, by “people” I mean women… because I usually find men boring and because I am not interested in making out with men. In this case, though, I actually enjoy it because of the gender-neutral sense of the word.

Dudes at this club tend to be more relaxed. They aren’t grinding on everything that moves. They apologize when they step on my shoes. They wait in line like civilized individuals.

I won’t go so far as to say that I actually talk to very many of them, but (unlike so many other places) I find them tolerable in general.

General. That word leads me to a remarkable exception and the topic of this blog.

A general, as we all know, is a high-ranking commissioned officer in a military branch. Here in the US of A, generals are only in the army, but in other countries all bets are off and there are generals of the marines and generals of the air force and, presumably generals of trash collection.

I’m not an expert on military matters. It’s true that I was in Civil Air Patrol in middle school, and I learned valuable lessons like how to march and how to wear silly-looking military hats… but I (unlike so many men in previous generations in my family) didn’t sign up for military duty. I’m lucky enough to have had that choice, and while I seriously considered it for a time, it didn’t work out and I’m pleased with how things are.

While I’m not an expert on military matters, I have what I believe is a healthy regard for those in the military. My grandfather served. My father served. My uncle served.

Of course, that explanation might sound like the immortal words of The Office’s Chris Finch: “How can I hate women? My mum’s one.”

What I’m trying to say is that I respect the military. I respect the choice that people make when they decide to serve. But I don’t worship the military. I know that there are lots of assholes in the military, the same way there are lots of assholes who work in digital marketing and write blog entries every six months. I also don’t find the decision inherently more noble than most other professions.

This lukewarm (or maybe lukewarm-plus… it’s not pure apathy) feeling is consistent with most of my beliefs (I tend to argue with, or at least internally disagree with, everyone I’ve discussed politics with… ever) and I would be surprised if it were one that would be warmly received by people from the military. Especially intoxicated guys who are short and chunky and see me sitting at a club with two attractive women.

That’s right, folks—the preamble is over. It’s time for the story.

So… I was at the club. There’s an open air area and I had a chance to have a seat around a table with Disco and Charmin. I’d been there a couple of hours and they wanted to have a smoke, so while I don’t smoke myself, I was more than happy to sit between two hot chicks and talk to them as they had cigarettes.

We were just starting to talk about something (I’m not quite sure what, although I was quite sure that my rum-enhanced brain was thinking I was going to be hilarious) when we were joined by a fourth person.

Which was fine. Not in the “Damn, you so fine, girl!”-fine, way, but it was OK. Disco, in particular, knows a lot of people and when a dude with a funny hat sat at our table and acted like he belonged… hey, it’s a free country.

But it’s only free for people like me to let him sit at my table because of people like him.

(Everything past this point is not entirely verbatim, but I’ll try to keep it real.)

The dude sits down. I expect him to say hello to one of the ladies because I didn’t know him. He says something nondescript and …

Me: Hello, sir!
Sergeant Slaughter: What?
Me: I said, “Hello, sir!” [I might have snapped off a salute there.]
SS: I’m no officer, I … [I joined in at this point because I could somehow sense it was coming]
Me: … work for a living.
SS: What?
Me: Yeah. You’re not a CO. I get it.
SS: Are you sassing me, boy? [Note: he did NOT say that, although it would have been amazing if he did; he said something less colorful but just as angry]
Me: I was just saying hi. And I like your hat. [It was a Federal Civil War-style soft cap.]
SS: [His stare intensified. Shit was getting real.] I spent four tours in Afghanistan … 

At this point, I was a bit dazed. I didn’t understand how things had gone so off the rails so fast. I tried to respectfully maintain eye contact with the dude, but I could see out of the corner of my eye that both ladies had shifted their seats and their bodies, giving him just about the worst possible body language. Unperturbed, he continued his diatribe…

SS: I had a bullet miss my head by this much… [He indicated the distance by speading his hand and the distance was about five inches from his pinky tip to his thumb tip… it seemed like an efficient, if convenient, distance.]
Me: I am glad you’re here. Well… not literally here. [I don’t think I said that last part.]
SS: …
Me: … ?

He then placed both of his hands on the table in front of him and took a deep, cathartic sigh and uttered, “I can’t do this right now. I need to use the bathroom. I’ll be back.”

He stood up and went over to the restroom and closed the door. Charmin, Disco, and I looked at each other in shocked silence for a moment. And then I asked for confirmation that the man was acting crazy. And they confirmed it.

Maybe it would have made sense to get up and leave the table, but before we knew it, he was back. Back in his seat and back to chastising me for, as far as I could tell, not appreciating how much he had done for me, personally.

In the spirit of human companionship—and in the interests of ending the conversation from Hell—I let him know that I didn’t come to the club to get hassled and I didn’t intend to offend him.

We all stood up. The ladies (understandably) fled and I got his name and shook his hand. I thought we were cool, but he had one more gem:

SS: You want to really make it up to me?
Me: Uh… make what up to you?
SS: You want to make this right?
Me: Uh… I guess. How?
SS: You can do me one thing.
Me: What?
SS: Get me some pussy.

Carry on, soldier.

Flushing away anxiety

It is logical that if we are provided with more options we will be happier, right? If I buy a new car, I want to be able to pick red or white or black or silver or... whatever. Even if I love the color green, it would probably rub me the wrong way if that were my only option.

Again, logically, it seems that would apply everywhere--TV shows, breakfast cereals, porn... all the staples. There's been an assertion, though, that too many options have a negative effect. The Paradox of Choice asserted that position well. We fret when there are too many possibilities. We have buyers remorse. We don't make a decision and just get on with our lives.

Last night I was, predictably, at a club. I, predictably, had to use the restroom. And I, not so predictably, almost ended up reaching into a urine-filled toilet.

The pants I was wearing were button fly, rather than with a zipper, and I was wearing a belt. I made what seemed to be a reasonable decision to leave my belt fastened and my top button done and then unbuttoned elsewhere.

Things went just fine (I've had a fair bit of practice peeing in my day) until... they didn't. I felt a "pop" under my belt immediately after I completed my act and looked down and my top button was gone.

The pants I was wearing were a bit old, and, being a bit old myself, I know that old things have a tendency to fall apart. I sighed heavily (the struggle is real) and buttoned up my fly and was determined to find the button so I could reattach it at some point in the future.

The first place I looked just happened to be the place where it was... in the toilet.

At this point I had a bit of a quandary. The button on a pair of pants that I was wearing was sitting in a toilet half-full with fluid that had been in my body until about 15 seconds prior. For some reason I was without rubber gloves, and I was loathe to reach into my own piss ... but I really wanted that button!

So, once again, I sighed heavily and made the decision to be forever unclean in order to get a seventeen cent button. I was NOT going to be paralyzed by fear or the smell of my own pee. I was going to overcome the paradox of choice.

I bent over, reaching down with my left hand, when the toilet flushed.

Somehow I had triggered the sensor and the fresh water whisked the button away forever. Some sewer crocodile has probably choked on it by now.

Do I miss the button, fuck yeah, I miss the button. But it's very nice to be able to tell this story without ever having actually covered my hand in urine.

Blowing up her spot

I knew what this blog was going to be--relaying an encounter with a woman I had some nights back--but I was unsure of the structure around the story. But I think I've got it. Here goes.

I like women. I know that is not a bold statement and it's not one that should surprise anyone (although it sometimes takes some convincing, depending on what I'm wearing at the time). In order to understand why I have this story to tell, though, it's important to understand that as the foundation.

Further, to distance myself from the otherwise internally consistent and logical conclusion that I am a shallow misogynist (which I am not; any antisocial tendencies are deep and not specific to one particular group except MAYBE dudes in their early 20's who wear backwards baseball caps and flip-flops everywhere they go), I have to distinguish different aspects of my admiration for the female humans. I will do so by pulling out two Woody Allen quotes:

I love you! I... I want you in a way of cherishing your... your... your totality and your otherness, and... and in the sense of a presence, and a being, and a whole coming and a going in a room with grapefruit, and... and love of a thing of nature in a sense of not wanting or being jealous of the thing that a person possesses.

 and

I like pretty girls. I'm old-fashioned that way.

"Liking women," then, can be intellectual/emotional connection or can be a physical draw. This blog post is (once we get through the voluminous  prologue) about physical attraction.

I like women.

I like their hair. I like their eyebrows. I like their eyes. I like their noses. I like their smiles and their teeth. I like their breasts and their stomachs and their butts and their hips. I like their legs and their ankles. I like the way they dress, including their shoes.

This is not to say that I like all of those bits and pieces on every woman. And it's not to say there aren't other places and things related to a woman that I enjoy, but it makes for a relatively comprehensive list, generously laid out in general top-to-bottom order for easy reference. You're welcome.

Several nights ago, I discovered a new way I like women: I like their backs.

How did I discover this? I saw an amazing back.

I was at Hula Hula with friends and the aforementioned Amazing Back Lady was there, too. She had a drink and sang a song and then sat back down at her spot, alone. She was also wearing some kind of amazing sweater/top thing that exposed a generous portion of her back to great effect.


Whether it was the alcohol or the intoxicating presence of her back, I approached her at some point. We had a good five minute conversation or so, in which I complimented her back (I live like Sarbanes-Oxley applies to social engagements, for the most part) and which went, I thought, pretty well.

My friends and I were leaving for the evening, and so I wrapped up our conversation... which took an unexpected, blog-inducing turn. It went something like this:

Me: So... I had fun talking.
Amazing Back Lady: Yeah. Me, too.
Me: I'd love to hang out sometime. Maybe get a drink and food or something?
ABL: (slightly wincing) ...
Me: Umm... OK. Let's see. Do you have a boyfriend?
ABL: No.
Me: Do you like boys?
ABL: Yes.
Me: Did you have a good enough time talking to me to do it again sometime?
ABL: Yes, but...
Me: (trying to put on a charming smile) A ringing endorsement, indeed!
ABL: Haha. Yeah, I do, but... you haven't bought me a drink.
Me: (feeling my smile fade) Oh...
ABL: Yeah, you haven't bought me a drink.
Me: I don't do that for people I don't know. Sorry. I'll buy you drinks and food or whatever you want if/when we go out, but... yeah.
ABL: OK.
(Number given)
Me: OK, cool. I gotta run, but it was fun meeting you and I look forward to seeing you again.
ABL: The thing about the drink is that you've been blowing up my spot for ten minutes and...

Walking away from people when they're in the middle of telling you something is rude. In fact, I find it to be one of the least tolerable things people can do in polite society (along with wearing backwards baseball caps and flip-flops in public). I can't remember the last time I physically turned from someone and walked away when they were telling me something.

Oh, wait... I do remember now: it was when Amazing Back Lady was acting like we were hanging out in a strip club and her manager was going to yell at her for not having dudes buying her enough drinks.

So... Amazing Back Lady not only taught me that I can be thoroughly fascinated by a woman's back... she also taught me that I'm not fascinated enough to buy a drink due to it OR put up with bullshit after I'm unwilling to do so.

If she'd had amazing legs, on the other hand...

Conversation Dehydration

I know this woman. We’ll call her Sunshine. I met Sunshine while I was on a date with her friend some time ago and I was … impressed. But she had a boyfriend (kind of… maybe… I don’t know) and I was on a date with her friend.

Fast forward several months. I’d not been on another date with her friend. She’d become fully single. I sent her a message on Facebook, asking her out for a drink and she demurred.

("To demur" means, by the way, to politely refuse a suggestion… and she was very nice, very polite, and very classy about saying “no”... but I didn't take it as her saying “never".)

A bit more time passed, and this past weekend I was at a club with friends. Sunshine was there and I had an opportunity to speak to her a couple of times. She looked great and I think I successfully managed not to stare too much in our first conversation. She talked about how she preferred to hang out in person, and that she used Facebook for work. She also managed to slip in, though, that she sometimes is amused by my Facebook wall. And she repeated “sometimes” with a smirk. I tried to keep my poker face on a bit but nodded and said I’d see her later and took my drink (which I would shortly thereafter drop in its entirety on the floor) and headed off.

The second time when we spoke, then, I was feeling pretty good about things. Maybe it was merely that I’d had enough alcohol to be incapable of reliably grasping a full glass of rum and diet, but I felt good.

Sunshine and I bumped into each other in line for the restroom and we’d said one or two things when another woman came up. We had a conversation that … could have gone better. It went something like this:

Woman: Hi Sunshine!

Sunshine: Hi. This is my friend Ed.

Woman: Hi Ed!

Me: Hey there.

Woman: (to Sunshine) Ooh… he’s great!

Sunshine: OK… ?

Woman: So… why haven’t you introduced me to him before?

Sunshine: Um…

Woman: How long have you guys been going out?

Sunshine: ...

It all happened in slow motion. It all happened so fast. The woman had not only forced Sunshine to deny everything (including, but not limited to, any interest in me) but also forced me to watch Sunshine’s face as she did so.

It went something like this:

"Hi, Sunshine!"

 

"Ooh… he’s great!"

"So… why haven’t you introduced me to him before?"

"How long have you guys been going out?"

Yes, Sunshine went from a plump emotional grape to a shriveled social raisin over the course of that brief conversation. It was conversation dehydration.

For better or worse, it was my turn to use the restroom. I stepped in and didn't see Sunshine the rest of the night. I'm sure she was back to her normal grape-y self in no time. 

As for me? I shrugged and got some more rum and told myself that at least I'd gotten a blog post idea out of it...