Something new is going down at my place. I’ve become a baseball kinda gal. But wait! There’s more.
My Facebook Friends (4,937 of those people nearest and dearest to me) already know that over the past year or so, I’ve morphed from a passive read-about-‘em-in-the-paper Twins fan to a raucous game-watching, game attending, Mauer jersey wearing, stats following, trade savvy, armchair coaching baseball babe. And because I rarely ever watched a game before that, and never in hi-def until now, I’m new to up-close and personal glimpses of the Boys of September.
I moseyed into the kitchen tonight to rinse dinner dishes, thinking about the ballgame just concluded. Sadly, my guys lost. To Cleveland. Go figure.
I stepped onto the small rug in front of the sink. Kicked around a petrified pea with the sides of my tennies. Back and forth, back and forth. Settled into my dish rinsing stance. Shrugged my shoulders, easing the tension.
I began scraping congealed pasta and peas down the disposal. And then I turned away and spit on the floor. An odd but strangely satisfying thing. Read on!
Then I spit on the floor again and yet again because…well, because I could.
The third time was harder, though. Dry mouth. Needed something to wet my whistle. Chewing gum, right there on the counter! Punched several gum chunks out of their foiled compartments. Popped ‘em into my mouth, all at one time. Wintergreen. Sweet. Chewed them together into a pliable blob. Juicy.
Eyeballed the expanse of living room carpet as a possible target, but no -- that would be silly.
Stepped back on the rug, and chased the pea around some more. Kicked up a popcorn kernel. Spit on the floor. Rinsed a dinner plate. Adjusted my underwear. Spit again. Rinsed again. Off the rug and back on again.
So it went until the last fork was pristine. High-fived myself. Readjusted my underwear.
Pondered this new me. Stared around at my spit spots. Someone was going to have to clean up after me.
Dudes! Bring in the Zamboni! I'm headed for the dugout.