First off, let me get one thing off my chest:
Hey Phillies fans? YOU SUCK!
I realize that Philadelphia is a relatively short drive south and that you have loved your team longer than the Nats have existed, but that is no reason to be obnoxious buttheads who shout way too loudly and make me wake up cranky on a Saturday because I was BOOING. YOUR. FAT. CHEESESTEAK. EATING. BUTTS.
BECAUSE YOU SUCK!
Even if your team beat ours last night, 6-3, you still suck.
Suck suck suck. Phillies fans, thine names art Hoovers.
Gosh, I feel so much lighter now! Now, on to attack private citizens under my thin veil of pseudo-anonymity, shall we?
Yeah, I’m talking to you Miss Thing.
Look, we had no beef beforehand: sure, you were looking around the stadium’s top tier –the cheap ticket tier, might I add– as if you owned the place, which was a little self-absorbed/self-entitled but could be easily overlooked as it’s a well-rehearsed look all over DC. I am not sure, as I am not a Washington Insider, but I think one of the most well-attended classes over at Georgetown happens to be "Self-Entitlement In America From The Pricks Who Know".
(Aside– It does strike me as funny that anyone would pull the I’m-so-damn-hot face during a relatively unexciting night game and where the hottest guys in the area were either the beer vendors or the guys who dress up as the Presidents during the 4th inning, incidentally– but it’s not a sin. I like to pull that very face when I clean up toddler poop, so maybe we’re on to something here.)
I didn’t mind your suede boots with the weird little heels that ironically purred, "two months’ salary, bitch"; I didn’t mind the way you sipped your beer as though through an invisible straw, or how you ate your tidy little snack just so, daintily, with two perfectly manicured fingers varnished in a beautiful nude shade; and I didn’t mind your rich-girl hair.
Incidentally, in my book the definition of Rich Girl hair is the very baby-fine, straight, mousy brown-but-well-highlighted hair usually pulled back in a demure but fashionable ponytail –not too high, not too low– and that seems to always grace the heads of the socialites pictured on Vogue and Town & Country.
Your hair, in other words. The kind of hair that manages to escape having one strand out of place in the gale-force winds of the stadium’s ramps; and the kind of hair that is not affected by humidity or the ravages of anything; and the kind of hair that I used to covet when I was the one child in a sea of hundreds who had the pigtails that refused to lay down and which looked like I had ears like a Cocker Spaniel. The very child who then had to have her Cocker Spaniel ears cut off because it was just too damn hard to brush out all those tangles and had to suffer through being the one girl with the pixie (read :boy) haircut all through elementary school.
Nothing personal, really. Not anymore. But yeah– you may think your hair is boring and mousy, but to me it’s hair nirvana.
So far, so good, right?
There you were sitting, unburdened by anything except possibly those ugly boots, and watching the game just like me. You even smiled a little at Herr Meow. He thought you were cute. I can hook you guys up, if you’d like.
A few rows over, there I sat– actually sweaty off the walk to the stadium and off handling Herr Meow and our friends’ two children who all kept going back and forth and all over the place. A little dumpy, a little chunky, a little poorly-shaven for having worn pedal-pushers, and a little greasy from having opted to do without makeup –as is my M.O., alas. I forewent the pleasure of eating peanuts with perfectly manicured hands for the deliciously fattening sin that are ballpark hot dogs– the ones with the onions and peppers, possibly called a half-smoke or perhaps a Monumental Dog– eaten with fingernails cut very short, to avoid scratching little bodies.
I’m not judging you on your more boring but judicious snack either– I wish I had as much willpower to subsist on just nuts and beer, but the smell of hot dogs is far too seductive to me.
You: pretty enough, made-up, single, thinner, and possibly better depilated than I was. Smelling like expensive perfume that wafted as you walked by (I’m guessing it was Prada).
Me: sweaty, greasy, not made-up, tubbier than you and possibly bearing mustard stains or worse. Smelling like the bastard child of Jo Malone and the Diaper Genie.
So when the seventh inning rolled around and we stretched and then sang popular favorites, did the human wave, and the sound guy rifled through his library of feel-good hits to suffuse our dead horse with some life (or possibly Phillies fans’ bodies in sacrificial exchange), and everyone actually got into it, I didn’t think that you’d be any different.
I now dedicate "I Was Wrong" by Social Distortion to myself.
But this is why you inspired me out of my writing doldrums, dear girl. Because there you were, languid of face and looking as if you would rather be filing your nails in some conference room far, far away. You managed to get up for the pathetic human wave, but just barely. You half-heartedly mouthed the words to "God Bless America" as if it were some sort of tax code or Habeas Corpus hocus pocus.
God. Bless. America. Woman!
(For some reason that song means so much more to me post-September Eleventh, when all those senators sang it and meant it and we all loved each other so much back then. Even if it doesn’t hold those connotations in your mind, you have to agree that it’s a lovely song. Please?)
You completely neglected "Take Me Out To The Ballgame" and the accompanying hand gestures.
It was so very beneath you, so very pedestrian, that it didn’t even warrant a face of disgust.
"Crazy Train"? Please.
"Hey Ya"? So whatev.
<insert feel-good song that managed to make the Phillies fans cheer louder and probably made us lose> = Not interested
And then the final coup: you got into only one song.
"Wild Thing" by Tone Loc.
Oh yeah– that song spoke to something inner and sacred within you!
Soon you were bumping and grinding for the duration. Then it was back to apathetic and desultory, as if there had never been a magical moment wherein you imagined yourself as the one and only wild thing, being serenaded by the bufonid stylings of Mr. Anthony Smith.
Surely you were having fun with friends and acquaintances? There were many of you, and it looked like you’d planned to be there.
Heck, you’re part of the childless masses who didn’t stand stupefied and staring at the clock in disbelief upon arriving home because they’d made it past 10:30 pm without passing out in a dreamless sleep! You were probably all planning to go have some more beer at a fun bar or pub or a hot little nightclub right afterward, girl! You OWN the night, silly twenty-something– you can do whatever you want!
There was no reason for you to sit joylessly there, you see?
And that’s what made me feel so frustrated– that you willingly paid money to sit there and be soulless and not enjoy the fun of being out at a ballpark and watching a fun game and eating crap and laughing and being as loud as you can and still finding that the crowd can drown it all out.
Don’t do that again.
Don’t make me want to wring your perfectly tanned neck. Enjoy your life and your friends and this wonderful city and what it has to offer. Don’t think that you’re too cool to sing a silly childhood tune or too thin to deprive yourself of a little grease on a Friday night.
Don’t make me blog about you again.
Or else I’ll make you pull my finger.