Tag Archives: panties

How I Make the Team Win

When people ask me if I’m superstitious, I answer assuredly, “Nope!”

I played NCAA Division I soccer, and a lot of competitive soccer to get there. (And no, I’m not going to get tired of bringing that up.) Throughout my career, if I didn’t have the right shirt, the right bra, stepped on the sideline or not, whatever, I was ok; I never thought about what order I put my gear on, which shoes I tied first.

And yet, as a fan? I get so idiotic following my temporary, impulsive, newly imagined superstitions. They’re not even legit, consistent game-to-game superstitions; they’re just what occurs to me during the course of a single game. I compulsively follow whatever idea suddenly pops into my had as good luck—and those impulses must be having an effect, otherwise I would’ve learned from logic and stopped trying right?

I think I’m going to call it Helpless Fan Syndrome: You can’t be on the field, so you invent ways to be proactive.

Is anyone else so…Mormon with their superstitions? Just top-of-the-head, “It came to mind, therefore it must be God’s law”? I make fun of it, and then my brain goes all, “For the Bolts to win, you have to wear the same underwear that you wore while eating that really great sandwich you had last Wednesday, and take out your left earring, ’cause it’s an away game,” and I’m like, “OH, SHIT, DUH.” […* dutifully changes underwear, removes earring.]

While it’s obvious that my techniques are still being developed (as of the Bolts/Rays results in the last 24 hours, and the Bucs…well, pretty much all the time), here are some things I did right to cause the Rays to win Wednesday: (And it’s not at all a coincidence, then, that I did none of these things today–hence the blowout.)

  1. Drank out of the same glass I used during Monday’s win. (Unwashed. Duh.)
  2. Refused to let that glass go empty.
  3. Did not wear any of my Rays gear. (One of my longer-standing superstitions deems that wearing team gear—or even using team-branded items like cozies and whatnot—is bad luck.)
  4. Nor did I wear anything blue or yellow or green.
  5. Answered only “yes yes” and “woo” to any IMs I got in support of the Rays during the final two innings.
  6. Kept my phone plugged in throughout the ninth inning, even though it was fully charged midway through.
  7. Knocked twice on my head, wooden TV tray and wooden coffee table (in a random order) with my right hand, then on my head and coffee table (random order) with my left hand every time an announcer said something jinxy.
  8. Made this list eight items long, ‘cause eight is a good number.

When in doubt and your team is down, you can always go to the time-tested and proven “rally shot.” In the best circumstances, this involves the cheapest tequila available at the bar (see: El Toro, Pepe Lopez)*. Among many success stories, this shot’s greatest achievement? The USWNT comeback win over Brazil, during which CCB, the Deelios and I, in an unparalleled moment of patriotism, took one (apiece) for the team. And then this happened:



In a pinch, you can use whatever somehow detestable shot you have on-hand that you can suffer through without ruining your experience for the rest of the game.

But lastly, a few words of warning for wielding the power of the rally shot:

  1. Never take a rally shot when your team is up or tied. (That means it’s rallying for the other team.)
  2. Be very, very careful taking a second rally shot—you never know if the first one is still working, and you may counteract it and/or die.
  3. And speaking of: Never take a rally shot after midnight. I dunno if it’s bad luck, but I’m pretty sure it’s just straight-up a bad idea.


*Holy god with those websites. Now I see where they get their power…

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Refresh, dammit

Weird week. Weird weird week. Seven days of “vacation” wherein my biggest accomplishment was stuffing fake snow under the coffee table. A one-day work “week,” and even that’s too long, considering I’m now done with what I had to do and, y’know, writing this blog.

(And what did I have to do? Why, I wrote seven different blurbs all about romantic restaurants. Hey! Fuck you, February issue! Fuck you, magazine lag time! Fuck you, [radio edit] and your stupid story about chocolate mousse cake and princess-cut diamonds! If you need me, I’ll be in the bathroom, dusting the Cheetos crumbs out of my bra.)

Feeling more banana than hammer these days—a bit soft, a bit brown around the stem. Battered and haggard from the constant tug and sting of emotional stuff, which at least does have some moments of not sucking entirely, but suck is definitely the mood of the season. It’s like having a nightmare about drowning, waking up relieved and then actually forgetting to wear pants to work.

So I’m trying not to dwell on my emotional pantslessness and thinking instead about…what? Bagels. Bourbon. My Shakespearean insult magnet poetry and how I’d now like to call my band “Prodigal Codpiece.”

Of course, I have to be in the office until they let me leave. People say that’s a good distraction, but it’s really not, because I just sit and bounce between IE windows compulsively refreshing my email and Facebook, halfheartedly checking the Bradenton Herald website, then bouncing back. Refresh. Refresh refresh refresh.

“Charges dropped in Holmes Beach panties theft case.” Well, at least it was the charges and not the panties. (*rimshot*)

(Refresh refresh refresh.)

Trying to figure out where to meet Little J for dinner tonight. How does Bahi Hut sound? Pineapple and maraschino cherries count as food.

(Refresh refresh refresh refresh refresh.)

I initially typed “cheeries” and couldn’t figure out why it was wrong. Stupid fucking cherries all happy and shit. I reject you. I take you out of my mai tai and fling you across the room, so much do I detest your cheerfulness. You are not the fruit I’m looking for.

Banana and pineapple, sitting in a tree, D-R-I-N-K-I-N-G.

(Refresh. Refresh refresh.)

Sigh. Can we go home yet?


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