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It wasn’t actually the worst night ever. There was a night in March that was worse, I think. And a few nights in 2004 and 2005. But it was an aggravating night nonetheless, and I haven’t had a bad night in a long time. I just realized that. I think it’s part of the being-single territory. Statistically significant less bad nights. At any rate, I never should have left the apartment to get Tasti Delite.

I was half delirious—again—from not sleeping the night before, and rescheduled my dinner plans. Maybe that was my mistake. “I’ll just have a lowkey night, get some ice cream, say hi to the boys at Dorrians, and then go to bed.”

And then I lost my phone and it was the worst thing ever.

I never lose things! I’ve had the same sunglasses for the last 5 years. My keys are always exactly where I left them, on the hook by my door. Never lost a wallet (due largely to the fact I don’t use one and opt to just keep credit cards and cash haphazardly stuffed into a pocket). Never had to cancel a credit card. I just don’t lose things. And the worst part was, I somehow lost it in a 20 block radius from my apartment. Actually no, the worst part is that someone is holding it hostage.

“Someone called from it?” My sister asked once she had come back from the Yankee game, only to find me in a state.

“Yes. Tang got a call from my phone but he said it sounded like it accidentally dialed his number while the phone was in his pocket. I guess that’s good and bad news.”


“Well, the good news is that it’s not lying in a gutter somewhere. The bad news is that I’m at the mercy of whoever has the phone.”

“Lying in a gutter somewhere? It’s a phone, you freak. Not a child.”

I bet the minion of Beezlebub who’s probably doing unspeakable things to my phone right now, thinks he hit the jackpot. Yeah, THAT’S the worst part. I always put the names in my contact list as code. It’s how I remember people’s names. So scrolling though my contacts would suggest I’m friends with Kevin Garnett, Kerry Wood, Keith Hernandez, Robbie Cano… (I’m not. But I do have friends named Kevin, Kerry, Keith, and Rob.) This is why I don’t have my phone right now, because SuperAss99 probably found is and was like, Dear Diary, Jackpot. Love, Wrongful Owner of Kris’s phone.

OR I bet it’s a Boston fan. He probably took one look at the wallpaper on the background and decided to be all Boston-ed out and not return it.

Oh yeah, and the Yanks lost too. There was no way they were going to win that one, and it was obvious the second Damon got called out at home. The entire team was playing the way I felt…sluggish and as if their minds were any place other than the game. How does one of the fastest player s in the game get thrown out like that? Granted Ibanez zipped a bullet to home but Damon was trotting down there as if he thought the ball was lodged in an outfield crevice and he had all the time in the world, or as if he knew what was coming and figured it’d be better not to waste his energy on running it out. That killed us.

I know it was 80 degrees out and all but that’s no excuse to just phone it in. I mean, me and Laur went to a Rangers game in 2005 that, at the time, was the hottest game on record at Yankee Stadium. 108 degrees on the field. Which was basically where we were sitting. We got these sick seats right behind the dugout that I would have given up plus paid extra to switch with someone with shaded nosebleed seats. (Arod hit the longest shot in Yankee Stadium history and you could hear a pin drop in there. 55,000 people were sweat-glued to their seats and even clapping would have probably sent most of us into a dehydrated coma.)

Robinson Cano did the same thing when he was running out an infield hit, trotting down the first base line one a play that could have ended with him being called safe, if he had just sped down the line a little.

I’m thinking that maybe since it was Wang’s first game back, they were all being extra careful on the basepaths because maybe it’s still a sore subject for #40.

Philly’s got a fantastic hitting team, they actually are like the NL version of the Yanks. Pitchers that should be better than they are (cough, Lidge, cough), unbelievable offense, and steadily improving defense. Wouldn’t be surprised at all if that club takes it pretty far again this year.

When the Yanks hit back to back dings in the 8th, I could only slam my head against the table in exasperation. (Things you do that make sense when you’re distraught over your phone being kidnapped...) It was so painfully indicatively reminiscent of the Other Yanks. The team that they used to be til they shed their corporate skins in favor of pie-wielding charisma. Meaningless 8th inning solo shots to chip away at the lead? I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.

I never should have left the house, indeed. I guess it goes back to my theory that the Yanks only play well when I take care of myself. And when they saw I was leaving my apartment to get ice cream despite the existence of my fever, they revolted. (I’m 100% kidding. I don’t actually think my well-being has any bearing on the Yanks. For some reason, that seems self-absorbed, but the fact that I’ll wear the same hat and lucky charm combination for weeks, or won’t let my sister stay in the room during games, or put the game on mute and refuse to watch when it’s extra innings…none of that strikes me as self-centered. Insane, yes. Superstitious, hell yeah. But hey, I don’t make the rules.)

So the Yanks lost, they played like drunk ferrets, my phone was stolen…and I missed the best shot in NBA history. I go to the bathroom for 2 seconds..and it was a strategically planned move! The stalls at the bar are the opposite of conducive to the dirty stayout loitering etc and hence I always find myself waiting on a 14-minute long ling because some DSO in the bathroom is occupying a stall to fine tune the copy of her booty call text to a guy she went out with last week who still hasn’t called her yet. “So, wait, listen to this now. ‘hey at 84th and 2nd. What are you up to? you should come.’” “ Hmm, that’s good, but wait, did you use punctuation? Don’t put the question mark in, that’ll be better.”

So when there’s no line, I capitalize. And right when I capitalized, the bar erupted over the best shot ever. I can’t believe I missed it.

When I cut my losses and headed home, I had to deal with the Drunk Asshole Minesweeper game, where it seems everywhere you step, you’re at risk of walking right into one of these landmines. And on my way out, I got accosted by someone who walked off the page of Guy-Who-Needs-to-Always-Have-His-Arm-Around-Something stock characters. Usually easy to break free of, but either he was tenacious or I was just flying too low to the ground, but in my pulling away, I twisted my leg and my ACL’s range of motion joined my phone in the realm of Things I Lost Last Night and Probably Will Get Retrieved At Some Point but I’m Still Wildly Aggravated About it Nonetheless.

The MVPs of the night, since no one from the Yanks are getting that distinction, were my sis who gave me her phone for as long as I wanted. Kevin, who is crazy but nice and cheered me up with shots of God knows what. (Peppermint Schnops and something sweet? Tasted like having a glass of OJ for breakfast immediately after brushing your teeth. Seeing as he once made my youngest sister a shot of soy sauce and leaves, I was happy.) Keith for making everything fun always. So I guess all things being equal, it IS just a phone, just a game, and just one night. And I should be grateful for people who lease out their phone, anesthesize my pain with inventive alcohol confections, and make me laugh a lot.

Perspective! Woohoo!


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