Go Nats!

So I took Tuesday off. It was pre-planned - on Monday, I filled out a leave slip and everything. I just wanted a day - not a weekend day - where I could sleep in, watch crap daytime TV (the price is wrong, bitch!), and finally get my lazy ass to the DMV. And then go to the Nats game that night. I love how everything went according to plan...

Boring TV, blah, blah, DMV, blah... the walk around the city was nice, though. So many tulips! Too bad the sun repels off of me. I mean, I have got to get some color or things will be scary come beach season. All the white-legged tourists here will make me feel less self-conscious, I hope. Especially because I won't be wearing shorts, black socks, and bright white New Balances.

So we hit up Tortilla Coast for a swirly margarita before heading to the game and then head on down to the stadium. We were super early, so we got our hot dogs and Miller Lite (what in the hell is with these plastic bottles with the screw-off tops? Yuck) and commenced with the people watching. Observations:

--- Guys, please resist the urge to tuck your shirt into those jeans or khakis. The only time it's really acceptable is with dress shirts and polos. Because you look retarded. Thanks. Love, Heather.

--- Teenage girls dress like they are trying to win Miss Skankwhore America. This needs to stop immediately. Especially when they are with their fathers. EW. I know I wouldn't have been let out of the house wearing twice the amount of material that these girls were wearing. My dad might have even had a small stroke when I got my first bikini (which was extremely modest. Besides, it wasn't like I had anything to show anyway). I think his exact words were, "What? No. No. No, not until you're eighteen."

--- No one needs to hear your commentary, Mr. Jackhole Who Sat Behind Us, especially when you don't know what you're talking about. Hell, I called more pitches than this joker did, but he was extremely confrontational to no one in particular: "Ball... WHAT? Strike? Oh. Strike. Oh." And: "It's 2 and 2. If he throws a strike, that's it. If he throws 2 balls, then he walks." And of course: "Full count. It's a full count." Really? Is that what 3 and 2 means? I felt bad for that poor girl with him, as her attendance was probably the reason for his narration. Ugh. I wanted to hit him.

--- The mascot... Screech... what? I'm sorry, but that fat seagull-looking thing is not an eagle. Eagles are beautiful, fierce predators with hooked beaks and sharp talons. They are not cartwheeling buckets of fluff. I get that they didn't want to frighten the kids with a ferocious talon-monster, but that damn thing is such a caricature that it pretty much belongs on The Simpsons.

So after a few minutes of fuming and realizing that these people are most likely not out to get me, I forced myself to ignore the slutty teens, the tucked-in tee shirts, the lovey-dovey mascot, and the assface sitting behind us and had a blast! I can't wait to get to another game - too bad the Tigers are in the wrong league.

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Also, on a completely unrelated note, the new Ben Folds CD, Songs For Silverman, is fantastic. It's got less punch than his amazing last effort, Rockin' the Suburbs, but its softness is intoxicating. Highly recommended! It's been on repeat since I brought it home. Loves it!