Still, I...

After watching last night's Sox-Yankees game, one thing was clear to me: even with a fairly soft cushion in the division...and the great team we send out there every night...and the decrepit state of most of the Yankee rotation...I still hate the Yankees. I had thoughts that it may have dissipated, but no. I thought maybe I pitied them to some slight degree, but no. I hate them. They suck.


I should stop using that phrase...they don't suck, per se. Mariano looks great, Joba Chamberlain scares the bejesus out of me and on any given day, they have the best offense in the game. Before leaving work yesterday, I approached one of the cookie-cutter, Baby-Boomer Sox fans in my office and told him my prediction for this series: the number of appearances Joba makes will be directly proportional to the number of games the Yankees win. So far, I'm right.

Here's a few things that suck a whole lot more than the New York Yankees: people that stand in front of the entrance to the T as they look for their train pass. You couldn't have done that thirty seconds ago? Or perhaps just off to the side so other people can get through...really not cool and in fact, it sucks. Also sucking today is my decision to eat half a sandwich at 9:20am. My stomach was already out of whack and that surely didn't help. Let's see, let's see...I know there's more, but now I can't get the thought of that insipid guy at the T stop, digging through his wallet while a line formed behind him. What an asshole. Honestly, you take the T everyday, yet you don't bother to take out your pass until it's the last possible second, therefore lending yourself to the possibility of being a major annoyance if you can't locate it right away. Just who do you think you are?

On another front entirely...no matter how much time you think you have, or how much manpower you've enlisted, or how hard you work...moving still sucks. And I'm not even moving. It has more to do with transforming a dungeon into an acceptable dwelling, and La and I are almost there, but still. It's a very stressful event and the projects you encounter during a move tend to have a bit of a domino effect. I know it will be rewarding once we're all finished, however. On the brighter side of this stress, I can safely say that I am becoming quite the interior painter. My handiness with a 2" latex brush and 3/8" nap roller has grown tenfold over the last month or so, and I have this apartment (and a house in Rye Brook, NY) to thank for that. Alas, I am my father's son and he happens to be a bit of a paint master, so I must get it from him. I did not, however, inherit my mother's uncanny ability to edge a ceiling. If I don't tape off the ceiling, it looks like a blind man took to the ladder and attempted to do the job.

I read in the news this morning that the late Leona Helmsley has left $12 million in her will for her beloved dog. Lucky dog, huh? When asked what he planned on doing with the money, the Maltese named Trouble hadn't decided yet. But he did seem to fancy chewing it, swallowing it and puking it up a few hours later. It's unclear as to whether or not the money would still hold its value if it were covered in canine bile. The pieces of money that appear in his excrement lose their value but this begs me to point out that while money doesn't grow on trees, it may in fact show up in a pile of dog shit once in a while.