Root-root-root for the White Sox...
I've never been more enthusiastic about the weird and not particularly catchy "Let's Go, Go, Go, Go White Sox" song! Okay, maybe in 2005, but at that point I would have sung "Baby Beluga" if Ozzie Guillen told me it was cool...
My Uncle brought his two little girls into town back in August, and we went to see the Sox play on Friday and Saturday against the Red Sox. The weather was great, the games were embarrassing (with a total series score of 7-46 Boston), and in between driving, bar-hopping and juggling a six-year-old and a five-year-old*, I managed to lose my Little Black Notebook. Every important note in my life is recorded in one of an ongoing series of Little Black Notebooks, so losing one is Dire, Dreadful, Disastrous, and a lot of other D-words which I use here to convey a general idea of "It's important to me, and losing it sucked." I virtually deconstructed the Saturn, disgorged the contents of every purse I own, sacked and pillaged the sofa and pillowcases... everything short of razing the house and sifting through the debris.
Gone, gone, all gone. I replaced it with a new notebook and life continued, albeit hampered by the absence of a variety of addresses, reminders and such.
Yesterday afternoon I get a call on my phone. It's my mother. "Are you expecting any mail from Chicago? You got an envelope that says it's from something called CWS, on 333 W. 35th Street."
This, I think, is weird. "The only CWS I can think of on 35th Street is the White Sox," I reply. I still have no idea what the crap the White Sox would be sending me, and there is a mild concern that I may have signed up for something while under the influence of the South Side. This can happen. South Side is not just a place, as those of you who have been here may know. It is an attitude. A lifestyle choice. In fact, in high concentrations, it becomes an actual odiferous miasma around you. If asked, I would describe it as a combination of pizza grease, bad beer, and cigar smoke.
"Sandra! Oh my god!" She laughs. Not a severed horse head, then.
A light flickers in my brain. "It's not - my notebook?!"
Some adorable soul at Comiskey US Cellular Field found my notebook after all this time - in the lost and found, under a bench, in a parking lot, I have no idea - and not only went to the bother of opening it up and reading the "If found" notice! They went through the trouble and shipping costs of sending it back to some girl who, for all they know, is a Michigander and roots for the Who-Needs-A-Magglio-Anyway-Tigers. This is more amazing when you consider that as an offered reward, I wrote "Infinite Gratitude Dollars." In a stadium as big as US Cellular, with all of the games played since I lost it in the first place, I'm astounded that they even found the thing in the first place, let alone recovered it and then went to the trouble of returning it to me.
Some White Sox employee must be either really nice, or insanely bored.
Oh, White Sox. If I ever, ever had any second thoughts about your status as My Team, they are absolved. In Perpetuity!
*We did not bar-hop with my kid cousins, although I know that sentence structure would indicate so. Contrary to popular opinion, we are not totally terrible people. Or at least, my uncle isn't.
My Uncle brought his two little girls into town back in August, and we went to see the Sox play on Friday and Saturday against the Red Sox. The weather was great, the games were embarrassing (with a total series score of 7-46 Boston), and in between driving, bar-hopping and juggling a six-year-old and a five-year-old*, I managed to lose my Little Black Notebook. Every important note in my life is recorded in one of an ongoing series of Little Black Notebooks, so losing one is Dire, Dreadful, Disastrous, and a lot of other D-words which I use here to convey a general idea of "It's important to me, and losing it sucked." I virtually deconstructed the Saturn, disgorged the contents of every purse I own, sacked and pillaged the sofa and pillowcases... everything short of razing the house and sifting through the debris.
Gone, gone, all gone. I replaced it with a new notebook and life continued, albeit hampered by the absence of a variety of addresses, reminders and such.
Yesterday afternoon I get a call on my phone. It's my mother. "Are you expecting any mail from Chicago? You got an envelope that says it's from something called CWS, on 333 W. 35th Street."
This, I think, is weird. "The only CWS I can think of on 35th Street is the White Sox," I reply. I still have no idea what the crap the White Sox would be sending me, and there is a mild concern that I may have signed up for something while under the influence of the South Side. This can happen. South Side is not just a place, as those of you who have been here may know. It is an attitude. A lifestyle choice. In fact, in high concentrations, it becomes an actual odiferous miasma around you. If asked, I would describe it as a combination of pizza grease, bad beer, and cigar smoke.
"Sandra! Oh my god!" She laughs. Not a severed horse head, then.
A light flickers in my brain. "It's not - my notebook?!"
Some adorable soul at Comiskey US Cellular Field found my notebook after all this time - in the lost and found, under a bench, in a parking lot, I have no idea - and not only went to the bother of opening it up and reading the "If found" notice! They went through the trouble and shipping costs of sending it back to some girl who, for all they know, is a Michigander and roots for the Who-Needs-A-Magglio-Anyway-Tigers. This is more amazing when you consider that as an offered reward, I wrote "Infinite Gratitude Dollars." In a stadium as big as US Cellular, with all of the games played since I lost it in the first place, I'm astounded that they even found the thing in the first place, let alone recovered it and then went to the trouble of returning it to me.
Some White Sox employee must be either really nice, or insanely bored.
Oh, White Sox. If I ever, ever had any second thoughts about your status as My Team, they are absolved. In Perpetuity!
*We did not bar-hop with my kid cousins, although I know that sentence structure would indicate so. Contrary to popular opinion, we are not totally terrible people. Or at least, my uncle isn't.