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We had a sorority picnic yesterday. Two picnics in a row. I’m a lucky girl.

I was quite excited to finally be able to bring my grandfather to school. He was impressed with campus. And the fact that he was impressed impresses me. Because he’s rarely impressed. And campus isn’t very impressive.

Yeah.

But it was interesting merging my home and college life together for the day. Of course there were numerous new names thrown about, and the forgetting thereafter, but it was nice having a bunch of my favorite people together in the same place. And the weather was beautiful.

Most of the sorority was there, including my greek big brother. My grandfather was understandably perplexed.

One more week of classes.

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My girls tied another game today. They’ve been playing so well, and I’m incredibly proud of them. I could do without these close games though. We were pretty much tied with the other team (who already beat us once this season) for the entire game. Our game-winning shot came two seconds two late. The ball drifted into the net right as the buzzer rang. No good.

At least I’ve calmed down. During our first few games, I paced so much that I practically dug a trail on the sidelines. I shouted until my throat was raw. I furiously pulled at the roots of my hair when we lost the ball.

I’m still crazy, just not as much. I can’t stay nervous or upset. It’s too easy for them to make me laugh.

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I would almost be completely cool with spending my entire paycheck on my team.

The girls were so goofy at practice today that they couldn’t even stretch without falling over in giggles. They’ve become really close with one another since the beginning of the season.

We have a late game tomorrow. Even though they have over two hours between when they get out of school and the beginning of their game, they decided to go to the field immediately after classes. We’re having a picnic.

I’m wondering whether I’ll be as attached to every student I teach, if I teach, as much as I am to every girl that I coach. I can’t even imagine not coaching them. I think that after five years with the same team, I still wouldn’t be sick of this job.

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As I was browsing the holiest of stores today, looking to buy some little accessories to go along with the freakin’ awesome presents I’m making my girls for their end-of-the-season banquet, I recognized some familiar shortness in the scrapbook aisle.

Alas! My boyfriend’s little sister!

After a hunt for feathers, we went out to eat at the holiest of restaurants. She informed me that tickets to her senior prom were $85. $85! For one ticket! What, do they think all of the 300 girls in her class qualify to be on My Super Sweet Sixteen?!

That’s the second post in a row that I’ve used the word aisle. Does the word holiest look weird to anyone else?

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I went to Staples today. I spent about 45 minutes in the pen aisle.

I’ve always had a bad relationship with pens. The only pen I’ve ever grown attached to, I bought on a whim in Kentucky two summers ago. It’s lines were smooth and black and thick. The ink dried on the paper instantly. There was no bleeding. My sister lost the cap during one of my girls’ lacrosse games last week. It prompty dried out.

I about killed her.

I stared at the wall of pens before me and felt sicker and sicker after about every five minutes. By the time I finally decided on some gel Pilots, I was doubled over in pain. Apparantly, these babies won’t leak on a plane. I can’t tell you how overjoyed I am with this feature.

I brought one home, and tested it in a notebook, which is what prompted me to bore you with talk of pens.

I wrote, “Just testing out the status of my new fancy pen!” And then, after turning the page, and seeing the scattered blots of ink on what should have been a completely WHITE page, furiously scribbled “FAILURE!”

I’ll be taking my dried-out little corpse on a hunt to every office store in the city tomorrow. I will find that pen.

P.S. Disregard the part about the lines being smooth and black and thick. Especially if you’re as weirded out as I am.

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My team had a game against a tiny Catholic school today.

Every time my girls scored against them, which was about three times as much by the end of the game, they made snide remarks and rolled their eyes as if the ball just argued against wearing hooker heels to the spring fling dance as it skipped past their goalie.

Really, what exactly is saying to someone on another team, “yeah well… well… you look like a man,” going to accomplish? Do 13-year-old girls need to compensate for their lack of athletic skills and maturity by scornfully insulting an opponent’s short haircut? Do they really need to laugh at someone who has fallen even though that girl was able to get up and sprint halfway down the field before their nasty little pigtails even knew what happened?

Good thing we won, or there would be 13 little brats with bloody noses crying to their daddies that the mean opposing coach grabbed a stick and smashed some faces at halftime.

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I think if I ever had a daughter as spoiled as one on My Super Sweet 16, I would box her up and mail her to Ethiopia.

Ok ok, so my parents did dish out far more than ethically acceptable on my Cinderella Ball. And graduation party. But damnit, I deserved it.

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I’ve been trying to pinpoint what it is that makes me prefer certain blogs to others. Of course, I have many favorite websites that I visit at least two or three times a week, but there are also a handful that I eagerly check at least once a day just in case.

Usually, it takes a long period of time for a site to reach daily status. Usually, when I come across a new site, I just quickly glance, and let it go. Over a period of time, if fate keeps bringing me back there, I usually become more and more anxious to check for updates.

Here’s what appears to be the general theme:

• The author can write at least pretty well.
• The design is sophisticated, as well as the domain name.
• It’s usually funny, or occasionally has little parts of wittiness.
• The author updates regularly. Meaning, they do not post every day one week and then abandon their site for a few months before coming back and apologizing for not updating. I mean, come on, if those kind of sites were reality shows they wouldn’t be getting anywhere.
• Lastly, the authors are more concerned with their lives than their websites. It’s common to mention the site once in a while, especially when you’ve added new stuff or reached a milestone, but constantly referring to the amount of comments you’re getting takes away from the really interesting stuff. It’s extremely easy to recognize when someone updates for the sole purpose of recording what’s going on in their lives rather than in their computer, and it’s more fun to read.

And basically everything here.

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“Coach, do we have practice Thursday?”

“Probably. We have two games next week. Why?”

“Well, our dance is Thursday night…”

“What time?”

“7:30.”

“And it’s going to take all of you girls two and a half hours to get ready?”

“Uh, yeah.”

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On Sunday morning I dropped my grandfather off in front of the church at 9:30 as the bells began to ring. I haven’t been there in months.

I was wearing my favorite mutilated jeans. Mind you, they are mutilated because I wear them all the time. Not because I took scissors to them, and not because I strategically smeared paint in “hey that’s not too obvious” spots. But because they’re old.

I hadn’t exactly planned on lingering there. I had made pasta salad the night before and had at least three more bowls to devour before noon. But my grandfather, seizing the opportunity, turned to me as he was getting out of the car. “Ok. Let’s go.”

I laughed. Yeah, ok. I’m going to stroll into church on the religious holiday of holidays in flip-flops and a t-shirt and these jeans. He’s told my mother on numerous occasions to “buy that girl new pants.” Though everyone knows I’d just continue to wear these ones. “Good one, Pap. I can’t go in like this.”

“Get out of the car.”

Shit.

One of the things I love about that church, my church, is that no matter how much mascara I have smeared at the corners of my eyes, or how obvious my apparent lack of cute shoes to go with my less-cute outfit is, the old ladies will always sense when I walk in, glide towards me with their hands raised, ready to grab hold of my face, and mutter quiety, in Ukrainian, how beautiful I look.

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