I wanted to represent those of us with ovaries.
In short, I wanted to reach the plate.
And I wanted the ball to go straight.
No pressure.
Anyway, to make a long story short, Ladies’ Night was amazing, starting with Francesca and me getting real Phillies jerseys with our names on the back, which were long enough to cover my butt.
Yay!
Then we went to our pregame event, partied with a huge crew of Phillies fans, and met the great radio host Jim Jackson, and all the time we were kept on schedule by the incredibly adorable and efficient Catherine and Vanessa, who made sure that I got to the field on time for the first pitch.
The Phillies Organization is well organized.
Heading out for my first Major League appearance
A home run of a daughter!
They should run the country.
And then there I was, on a gorgeous summer night, standing in front of the pitcher’s mound before God-knows-how-many Phillies fans at Citizens Bank Park. The stadium is way bigger than it looks on TV, especially if you’re standing all alone, at its center.
I felt like an ant in the middle of an empty spaghetti bowl.
A girl ant.
Then the Philly Phanatic, whom I adore, took home plate to be my catcher.
And it was my moment of truth.
Deep breath.
I tried to remember everything that my pitching staff had taught me.
And I threw the ball, which amazingly, went all the way to the Phanatic’s oversized glove and didn’t even bounce! And not only that, it went straight and not to either side like 50 Cent, Michael Jordan, or even Gary Dell’Abate from the Howard Stern Show!
Yay!
Baba-booey!
Amazing!
Thanks so much to my coaches, and most of all, to the Philadelphia Phillies, who even won that night!
So in the end, I didn’t Throw Like a Girl at all.
I Threw Like a Woman.
Back to School
Lisa
Okay, summer is over and we’re collectively bummed.
The consolation prize is school supplies.
No, I’m not twelve years old.
But I still love school supplies.
If I could buy a protractor, I might be the happiest person on earth.
Or even a pencil case, which I can’t justify since I don’t even use pencils.
Or how about a ruler, an old-school wooden one, but I don’t measure even my waist anymore.
But still, maybe I could buy a pencil case and put things in it, like a laptop.
Nothing makes me happier than a fresh pack of printer paper, even though I can’t remember the last time I printed anything.
And I need new printer ink, so I can put it into my printer and let it dry up.
But truly, I do love new legal pads, canary yellow and ready for fresh litigation.
Please tell me I’m not the only alleged adult who feels this way.
Who finds her internal clock geared to the school year, even though she’s not a student anymore, and even though the student she raised has grown up and moved to New York City.
It’s just that at this time of year, I usually find an excuse to get myself into Staples, where I lose three hours browsing three-ring notebooks.
I look at every type of Post-it available and choose carefully which colors will change my life, or failing that, organize me better.
I’m thinking that the lure of school supplies, as you get older, has more to do with a wish for organization and productivity.
In other words, the mental riff is something like, the air is turning colder, and I’m getting back to business.
No more fooling around.
Summer is for losers, and fall is for winners.
Now I’m going to make myself into a winner, and get things done!
I’m going to write things down and do all the Things on my Things To Do List.
And for that I need, obviously, pink index cards, double-sided tape, binders in different colors, and special dividers with tabs you can see through and perforated white inserts that are too small to fit your handwriting.
Also multicolored file folders for bills I never file.
And a desk organizer for paper clips I use to pick my teeth.
A metal easel with a giant pad for plotting novels, though I have never outlined a single one.
My surprise endings come as a surprise to me.
And of course, pens.
I don’t think it’s because I’m a writer, I think it’s because I’m a human being in September, but the fact is, I have a primal urge to go out and acquire pens.
I’ll spend an hour in the pen aisle in a quest for the perfect pen, searching through an array of fine-point, medium-point, and big-ass-point pens.
Also called bold point.
Guess which one I picked.
I identify.
And not just because of the aforementioned ass, but because I’m not a fine-point kind of girl. I’m not subtle or delicate.
Nor am I middle-of-the-road, neither here nor there, so medium doesn’t appeal to me.
I like the biggest point possible, to make the biggest point possible, and also, frankly, so I can read it.
Because I’m not twelve years old.
So of course what always happens is that I buy a bag of pens, bring them home, and think they are perfect, so perfect that I practically hoard them, and then, God knows how, I can’t find them anymore.
Every September I buy too many pens and yet somehow, I can never find a pen in my house.
The other day, I had to write a check and I went to three different rooms looking for a pen, and ultimately I found one in my purse.
On the pen it read, Marriott Hotels.
Go figure.
And have a great school year.
Girl Vitamin
Francesca
Why do men expect women to cure them?
Is it the mom thing? It’s the mom thing, isn’t it?
But why do we fall for it?
I’m as guilty of it as anyone. I never date jerks. I date sensitive guys, men in touch with their needs and their feelings.
They just aren’t in touch with mine.
But I swear I’m not ferreting these men out, they aren’t needles in haystacks.
They’re the hay.
They’re everywhere! Every guy in black jeans thinks he’s Johnny Cash looking for his June to set him straight.
The fantasy is twofold: that the man is the star, the lovably flawed hero of the story, and the woman is a supporting player, there to clean up his mess and set him on his destiny.
It’s like the women’s movement got just far enough to convince men they no longer need to take care of us and stopped dead.
Sure, it’s progress that wives no longer need to ask for allowances and call their husbands “Daddy.”
But we didn’t work that hard to become Mommy and take care of our partners in perpetual boyhood.
That isn’t empowerment; it’s women catering to the male ego from a different angle.
Why is it so hard to find an equal partner?
Maybe because we women convince ourselves this rescue fantasy is romantic.
We’re conditioned to find male helplessness endearing. Like it’s a fun, prebaby challenge to our nurturing sides, or a roundabout way to ensure a man’s loyalty and devotion via total dependence.