Stabbed With Spoons- Softball Stories

A few weeks ago, I played in a 50-inning marathon softball game, and that day reminded me of the years I spent loving the sport. Now that I have finally recovered from every muscle in me hurting and the insane face sunburn I got that day, I thought I should reminisce a little and share my favorite softball stories from my adolescence.

 -The summer when I was thirteen was probably my favorite traveling softball season, not because of the games we played that year (I actually can't recall if we were even that good), but because I loved my teammates. It became a habit for us to get together and have sleepovers after nearly every game that season. Usually, at some point during these nights, the cards would come out and we'd raid the cutlery drawer so we could play Spoons. In case anyone's childhood totally sucked and doesn't know what that game is, it's this: you sit in a circle, with a collection of spoons in the middle and pass cards from person to person until someone gets four of a kind. When they do, they take a spoon from the middle, and everyone else then has to get a spoon as well. There are one few spoon in the middle than players, and the person who doesn't grab a spoon is out. Now, being fairly competitive teenage girls, this game escalated from a friendly game to a contest of strength and willpower. I would later refer to the game as "Full-Contact Spoons," as it became common for the first person to get four of a kind to grab a handful of spoons, and throw them away from the circle. Oftentimes they ended up on the stairs and underneath furniture.
 I think we once even played in the hallway of a hotel we were staying at for a tournament, and people threw spoons all the way down the hall, and we most definitely did not stop playing when other guests had to pass by.

We also played in an airport a few years later, with pens instead of spoons. I don't think anyone got stabbed, though I can't verify that.

-When I was fourteen, my team qualified and played in a national tournament in Colorado. This was very important to me, because my sister had played in many nationals for the past few years, and this was finally my opportunity to do the same. (It would end up being my only chance- the general trend growing up was my sister's teams were more skilled, but my teams had more fun) Throughout the tournament, I pitched a fair amount, but didn't hit. (I wasn't very good at batting- turns out I would peak in two years for about two  months. Fun fact.) However, for one game against a team from... Oregon? Washington? somewhere... due to some weird rule, I needed to hit. I was pretty intimidated and nervous, and my coaches' looks of, "Oh, shit" didn't really help. But somehow I made contact, got on base, and even scored a few minutes later.

Since that was my only at-bat for the entire tournament, technically that means I batted 1000. I'm a pretty big deal.
-Also, right after that game, a few of us went back to our hotel and went swimming in their pool. As we were hanging out, some other families came in and started talking to our moms. They said they were playing in the same tournament we were and they were from... Oregon? Washington? somewhere... and our moms talked about how proud and happy they were we just beat a team from that same state. It quickly came out that these nice people were from the same team we just beat... by quite a margin I believe. I swam away from that uncomfortable situation so fast I left a wake behind me.
-My high school softball coach was also a math teacher, and he dedicated half his classroom to displaying stuff from the softball team. This included 5x7 photos of each varsity player that took up an entire wall. My senior year, I had him for Honors Pre-Calc (and I was similar in math skill as I was in softball- well intentioned, though lacking in certain areas of motivation and ability). That fall, I was a member of the marching band as well, and a friend took a picture of me in my uniform before one of our performances, looking excited because I thought it was our last football half-time show (marching band gets exhausting after awhile and I was ready to leave the unflattering pants and fuzzy hats behind). The Monday after this was taken, I walked into Pre-Calc past my friends from the last class all laughing at me and see my coach, staring at me with a slightly crazed grin. He moves aside so I can see this picture, hanging on the wall and taking the place of my normal softball picture...

                                                                                   

I Might Die Here: An Ethnographic Study on Massachusetts

Spending the summer in Massachusetts has provided me with an interesting view into a previously unseen subculture in America. After moving here a few years back and living and attending school on the east coast, I have been slowing picking up on the unique vernacular and little differences in personalities that persist in the eastern area of the country. However, Massachusetts frankly  kind of has its own thing going on. The state is like that one friend you have who you have a lot in common with and is great, but they have certain things they do on the weekend that you don't really know a lot about or even really talk about because you think they're a little weird.
That metaphor is a little stretched, but I'm going for it.
One of the first things I learned when I was thrown into the company of many born-and-bred Massachusetts residents was the existence of the term "lax bro." A lot of people just threw around this phrase and because I had never heard it before and I couldn't quite hear what they were saying I was totally perplexed about what was happening. Eventually it was explained to me that, obviously, lax is short for lacrosse and the term refers to those guys who sport their lacrosse pennies every day, bond with other bros through man-hugs and comparing college football teams, and have muscles that, in general, take up the space of three average-sized middle school students. Upon reflection, I realized that even though this phrase was new to me, I had known many, many other "lax bros" back home when I was going through school. What's kind of interesting is that the bros I knew years ago I remember not being very pleasant people at all, whereas those I have recently met in Massachusetts are almost ridiculously nice. Now, this could be the result of a number of reasons, but this is an ethnography, not a psychological assessment. And thank goodness for that.
Now, one of my more prevalent personality flaws is my habit of giving a lot of thought to certain things that really have no reason to be thought of for any extended period of time. Because of this, I was doing a sort of personal analysis of the "lax bro" term and realized this description and idea were not exclusive to guys who play lacrosse, by any means. So I came up with my own term of "Mass bro" as a way to further categorize people I see and meet, because nothing bad has every happened from doing that. The "Mass bro" differs from any given jock or fraternity member in subtle but distinctive ways. An absolute resolution to the superiority of the sports teams of Boston is an intrinsic necessity in their personalities, along with perhaps an unknown ignorance of areas of America that did not play key roles in the Revolution.  So basically, every guy my first college roommate has dated.
I learned of the legend and reputation of the Masshole in my early days of living in the east, and spent the past three years gaining experience with them firsthand as I commuted through the area. It is a common belief that all stereotypes are based in at least a tiny amount of truth. However, this stereotype exists because it is based in what is equivalent to the Pacific Ocean of truths. Being a paranoid and defensive, yet incredibly angry driver regardless, my time behind the wheel in Massachusetts has led my to be constantly terrified for my life, and also filled with a near-omnipresent rage at everyone on the road. To make matters worse, the roads here are incredibly twisted and full of curves, and when you take overly-bold drivers into the equation, it's horrifying. For example, there is one intersection nearby where the road curves and the brush is thick so when turning left, you literally cannot see if anyone is coming on the right. You just have to place your bet, spin the wheel, and hope the ball lands on the color that doesn't end up with you dying in twisted metal and fire.
Also, drivers in Massachusetts don't believe in turn signals. I honestly think that's the first lesson they teach in the schools here: "Now kids, what did we learn today? 'Letting other people know which way you are going is quitting.'"
These quirks and various aspects to the psyche of Massachusetts are not limited to a specific gender or age demographic, either. I have seen them exhibited in young boys in elementary school to older women, spending their golden years leading ghost tours around Plymouth. And it is not something I resent or disdain in any way. In fact, I have been hearing "r"'s slowly leaving my words as I speak, and the David Tennant cut-out in my room has a Sox hat on. If anything, I am one of them.
You're welcome for FREEDOM, America.

Fact: All Camp Songs Are Embarassing

This summer I am down in Massachusetts, living with my friend Emily and working at a local day camp. It seemed to be a better decision for my career when compared to simply returning to Christmas Tree Shop for another four months of grumpy foreigners on vacation and older locals stocking up on Portuguese buns (which are, for the record, delicious), sunscreen, and novelty beach home decor. And so far, I am loving my time at camp, partially because, unlike the majority of the other employees, who grew up here, I have limited experience with the whole camp atmosphere and protocol. Still, growing accostomed to working there has gotten me to thinking and reminiscing about the three camps I did attend when I was growing up, before softball became my entire existence.
1) Camp Winnahupe
This was a Girl Scout camp I attended for a week when I was very small, probably when I was around 5 to 6, so my memories of it are very  limited. Here's what I do recall:
-my group being told to bring up a bucket of water from the lake and me blatantly refusing to help
-my counselor saying we weren't leaving until every girl smiled, and when I did, she said she wanted to see me smile with my teeth showing and I said, and this is a direct quote, "I don't smile like that." I was kind of a little shit, wasn't I?
-the camp lasted a week but only one of these days included staying overnight in tents, and it was a completely awful experience. I don't remember why it was awful, it just was. I don't think our early 90's tents were super great at keeping out the bugs.
-all the campers got purple shirts and for some reason that shirt just stood out in my memory for years and years afterward. It wasn't even a particularly cool shirt. I probably just liked purple. A lot.
2) Camp Tecumseh
This was another Girl Scout camp I attended with my troop when I was maybe around 8 or 9, and I honestly have no recollection about if it was a day camp or a sleep-away camp. Here's what I do remember:
-the camp had a climbing wall I was absolutely terrified of and I can't recall if I put up enough of a fuss that they let me out of having to go up it. I was pretty steadfastly anti-fun as a child. Still am, frankly.
-the camp also had this slide that was made up of giant black tubing set up on a gently incline, and it was dubbed "The Black Hole." This was the coolest thing at camp because you couldn't see anything as you went down it and to an 8-year-old, that's as terrifying as it gets. But there was a special badge made just for kids who went down it that said, "I survived the Black Hole" on it and it looked super bomb on the back of my Brownies vest.
-as I was waiting in line for the Black Hole, I was stung by a bee for the first (and, so far, only) time in my life. It stung me on the side of my neck so when it happened I instinctively kind of squished my shoulder to my head and squished the asshole. After I had recovered from the sting, some other girls told my how lucky I was to have gotten stung where I had been, because, apparently, if it had been just a few inches to the left, and I'd been stung right on the back of my neck on my spine, I would have been paralyzed. And really, that must be true, because I heard it from the entomolgical experts of the Girl Scouts of America.
-we'd have meals in the dining hall, but we could never just eat in peace. At every meal time the whole room would be forced to participate in rousing renditions of songs about Johnny Appleseed and the founder of the Girl Scouts, Juliette Low, whose name I did not just have to Google to remember. I hated camp songs. But we'll get to that.
Right now.
3) Camp Wapo
This was a church camp I attended for a week after third grade, and it was super popular and all the cool kids at my church went to it. And I, having just moved to the area in February, desperately wanted to be cool and accepted. If only I could go back and tell myself how early that ship had already sailed. But anyway:
-being a Christian overnight camp, there was strong emphasis on singing as a form of worship for kids. Now, as self-concious and perpetually worried about everything I am these days, as a child I was exponentially worse. So every time a song started that involved dramatic and extensive gesticulations, as most did, I cringed emotionally and physically. I just kept thinking, "Can't I love God without having to sing about the Pharoh letting us go and God's different names in multiple rounds?" Which is a question I still believe is valid.
-like many other camps, businesses, and housing developments, this area was situated on a lake. As a general rule, swimming in lakes is a pretty disgusting situation to be in, but if you don't think about what is in the water surrounding you, it's fine. One day that week at camp, I was swimming with my friend, and the unpleastantness of the water became unavoidable. We were just floating there, when out of nowhere a bloody, dead fish appeared right next to us, somehow staring into our souls with its own soulless, unseeing eyes. It was gross.
-on one of the last nights, the whole camp gathered together for some kind of candlelight worship thing. For some reason that remains unclear to me, all the campers had crosses put onto our foreheads with ashes despite it being months after Ash Wednesday. Throughout the worship-service-thing, my group couldn't decide if we were supposed to keep the ashes on our heads or not, so a few of us wiped ours off because it felt weird. We soon found out we weren't supposed to do that (Sorry, God), and I felt totally embarassed as a couselor cleaned off my empty forehead as we left. In retrospect, it wasn't that big a deal but at the time I was like shitshitSHITshitshitshitSHITSHIT only not really because shockingly I didn't think or talk like that at 8.
So while it may seem like my camp experiences were all totally awful, I actually remember generally really enjoying my time at those places. After writing this, I think my camp memories more just show the roots of my personal vices or weird issues. I was a strange child, and am now a strange adult. But at least some progress has totally been made because where before when a camp song came up I cowered in a corner now I can be like SUPER LIZARD SUPER LIZARD SEE HIM SWIM SEE HIM SWIM IN AND OUT OF WATER IN AND OUT OF WATER WITH HIS FINS WITH HIS FINS. I like camp.

Different-Sized Infinities: A Guide to Pretentious but Accurate Ideas

Last night I stayed up late (well late for me, it was like 1:30am) re-reading The Fault In Our Stars by John Green. I had originally read this book in January when it was released, but the story was just as engaging and thought-provoking now, six months later. That's the thing I love about good literature, reading it once is simply not enough. One particular quote from the narrative stuck out to me while I was reading and laughing while also perpetually crying my eyes out (it's that kind of book). The quote is, "Some infinities are bigger than other infinities." For the weeks and months following the novel's release this, among many, many, others (John Green is an exceptionally quotable person) floated around Tumblr as the masses took to photoshop and other editing capabilities to visually portray their favorite thoughts and ideas.

As I saw this quote over and over (and over and over and over- teenagers and Green fans can be a little exhaustive in their enthusiasm) I tried to understand it, and came up short each time. By its very definition, infinity doesn't really have a size at all, and if it does, it is most certainly one size. That's simple logic.

However, reading the story again yesterday, I think I finally understood the point that was being made. Explained mathematically in TFIOS; there is an infinite amount of numbers between 0 and 1, with .1, .11, .112, and so on. But there is also an infinite amount between 0 and 2, but that infinity would be bigger because there is, just, more. The technical and number-y logic behind this may be flawed, I don't know, but I'm a proponent of metaphor regardless. It's not a perfect representation of relationships and memories, but I like the idea.

While in Math, the infinities get bigger when the space increases, in my life this has not been the case. The physical duration of time spent in a certain place with certain people has provided no determination of importance or prominence in future memory. Whether it was four years back home where I was happy and comfortable, four months abroad where I woke up, or a year in Connecticut where I discovered happiness doesn't have to be temporary, the infinities given to me were equally spectacular. These occasions may change or shrink in importance to me later, as I add to my lexicon of experience, but right now I treasure them.

And I realize that as I believed earlier, this thought that infinities change in size defies even the most basic logic. But really, this can be said also of many of the thoughts and ideals that make independent thought and belief interesting. If everything was logical and easily explained, literature would be pretty useless.

Prom kind of sucks, guys.

 Around this time across the country, high school students are gearing up for prom, the annual demonstration of awkwardly posed pictures and dancing to songs no one actually enjoys. To commemorate this tradition, I am going to be sharing three different prom stories, even though I'm fairly certain the only thing less interesting than one's own prom, are the prom stories of someone else. Deal with it.
~2007~
The year I was a sophomore in high school, the night of prom that spring was spent in my family room in the company of my best friend. Her brother was my sister's date, and we spent the evening imagining the pair of them being much more adorable than they actually were. A hefty chunk of the night was used to build, without question, the best blanket fort I have ever made in my entire life (which is saying something). After this was completed, we watched "Finding Neverland" inside it, and you can ask anyone, that is undoubtedly one of the absolute best movies to watch while being inside a blanket fort. The next morning we were woken up by my mom bringing us breakfast from McDonald's which is a completely terrific way to begin a day, if you just don't think about what you just ate.
~2009~
This was the year I actually went to my Senior prom, and the whole experience was entirely predictable. I mean, I loved it, but really nothing happened that doesn't happen at every prom. I tried to coax not-serial-killer smiles from my boyfriend at the time (he struggled with those), I comforted my friend through hearing a song that reminded her of her ex, and I saw people I hated grind against other people I hated while me, with my posse of band friends danced awkwardly on the periphery. Totally standard. After the dance, the group of us went back to my boyfriend's house, where we all fell asleep watching "Mama Mia," a film choice I to this day do not understand.
Can we actually back up a bit and discuss how I was asked? Of course we can, this is my blog.
For some reason my high school boyfriend for whatever reason always decided to ask me important questions when I was looking my worst. He asked me to Homecoming in the fall right before an all-day marching band competition at our school, when I was in sweatpants and a t-shirt. He asked me to be his girlfriend on the bus after our marching band played a show, so I was in disgusting black overalls and that year's show shirt (which happens to look like two stick figures doing it, but I digress) and my hair was plastered to my scalp with sweat. I thought he was going to ask me to prom when he volunteered to be the announcer for one of my softball games that spring. That would have made sense, because at my school, asking someone to homecoming and prom usually involves a bit of spectacle. For example, a friend of mine asked my other friend to prom by putting it on a slide that was part of a lecture in their AP Physics class. His dad was actually the teacher of that class and it sounded hilarious and kind of awkward for everyone involved, and that was the one day I was sorry I lacked the mental capacity to be in that class. Anyway, instead of doing it over the speaker at my game, he waited a few more days and set up a cute scavenger hunt in my house that ended with him asking. And that would have been totally fine, if it hadn't happened immediately after I returned home from the most grueling softball practice I had all year. I was exhausted and sweaty and frankly not in any kind of mood for that. We ran a lot at practice. I do not like to run. He had no way of knowing this would be the case, but still.
Also, about an hour after this happened, I went to have coffee with another guy friend of mine, who tried to get me to go to prom with his friend. Because that is my life, apparently. 
~2011~
To finish off our semester in London, the program I was with decided to throw us a "prom" on one of our last nights there. Unfortunately, this was planned to take place a few hours after our final projects were presented, but these went far too long over the time limit they were alotted. This caused all of us to scramble home, throw on our H&M dresses, quickly pre-game what we could, and head back, all in about forty minutes. The rest of the night consisted of taking pictures, eating a bit, drinking more, and my friend Emily showing off Greg to the entirety of our program, including our director who said he looked, "very British." The night got slowly more ridiculous, cumulating with our director singing the entire 8-minute version of "American Pie," then telling the room how she wanted to marry one of the more charming guys in our program. So another typical American prom, really.


I just realized the first story was from graduation night that year, not prom. Doesn't matter: same people, similar shinanigans, you get the picture.

It's Called YouTube, Not MeTube... for a good reason.

Throughout my freshman year in college, I made YouTube videos that I then took down a year later. Despite my attempts to make them interesting and hilarious, they came out uncomfortable and kind of sad. A few days ago I finally took the initiative to go through the footage I shot for them I still had on my computer, and deleted it. Still, I did put a fair amount of work and time into them, so I put together the least embarrassing parts from all of them into a "highlights reel" which is a term that frankly gives me far, far too much credit. What follows are the only clips I could salvage that don't make me want to hide in a cupboard, brushing off spiders and sadly playing with old-fashioned soldier toys. I'm not sure about the execution of that Harry Potter joke.
I choose to leave these clips without their context. I think it adds to the whole thing I have going on here.

And that's all I have to say about that.

Graduation Is A Menace

Yesterday, four of my best friends graduated college, and I'm conflicted about it. On one side, I'm so incredibly proud of all of them. Allison and Paige completed an Honors Thesis apiece, which included hours of research, looking at ancient seeds under a telescope, and gluing centuries-old ceramics back together. Emily completed an internship that greatly improved a section of the university's library. Alyssa put an incredible amount of work into completing her degree, and already is the best at what she plans to do. It's been a long year of unrealistic assignment expectations and horrible professors, and I know we're all glad to finally have it over with.

Still, I'm just so sad they're leaving. We all met and lived studying abroad last year and they're a major piece of why going to London was probably the best decision I've made. Having only known them for a year and a half, they are just as, maybe closer to me than other friends I've known for years. The prospect of going back to school next fall without them is very sad for me. It's hard to think that I'll never grab lunch with Emily after my Legal History class every Tuesday and Thursday, that I won't laugh at Allison and Paige's disgusted faces when Alyssa talks about infants.

It seems that my life for the past few years has been full of endings. I first left Minnesota, which I've written about before and which was extremely difficult for me. Then my time in London ended, obviously, and I thought that my time there would be the happiest I would be for a while. But this past year spent with the friends I met there was full of incredible joy with the best people I know. And now that is completed as well, which just sucks. People always tell you know that it is so much easier today to keep in touch with friends post-graduation because of social media and technology, and that's true, but not to the extent students are lead to believe. Out of my friends from high school, who I thought I would never stop talking to, I even somewhat regularly speak to just one. And that's only because we're both active on Twitter and it's easy for us to just post snide responses to each other. (That's just kind of how our relationship is- once in high school a friend in German class told us she liked to just sit back and watch us bicker back and forth because it was hilarious. It's true, though. We're both incredibly witty. Though me a little more so.) I'm terrified that will happen again with this group.

It doesn't help that my friends are very talented and brilliant, so they are leaving for fantastic opportunities abroad. One is interning with some important international law place (that's the official name) in the Hague, another is going on an archaeological dig in Germany, and another is going to grad school in London (don't be too impressed- it's for library studies which is honestly barely even a real thing). And I'm so proud of all of them, but for those who are not aware, Europe is quite a distance away, and does not lend itself to easy visits.

It must be said though that despite how monumentally sucky each ending was, they all led to the next awesome thing. I really hate that saying about closed doors and open windows, so I refuse to admit it relevancy to this. I can only hope that the crappiness I feel now will be compensated by the next great thing later.