The Red Sox lost last night. I am despondent. I still plan on going to Fenway with Lynn next weekend. We have great seats. The kind that are seen on most national broadcasts.
My niece, Tara, and I in a pool in Spring Lake, NJ. She can swim as well, if not better, than me. I'm 43 (going to be 44 in 20 days.) She's 9.
My mom, unfortunately, took the pic. I kind of liked the way Lynn was humping me with the words "Home Run" behind us. This was a beautiful day for a game--even though it took place in Queens, NYC. It was probably the last meaningful game of the year for the Mets. Let's go Red Sox.
I’m seriously thinking about taking the next step with Lynn. The only problem is my temperament. I seem to become dissettled at the oddest things. Like if she laughs too hard at her own jokes. The better part of me says that she has an awesome sense of humor and is incredibly beautiful. The worse part of me says never laugh at your own jokes. She is blessed with grace and beauty and humor and she seems to – god only knows why – tolerate me. She drinks faster than I do, eats faster than I do, and looks better than I do naked.
There’s a coolness factor that’s not fitting into the puzzle, and I’m not sure if she has it. Frankly, I don’t care. But if I hold out, I’ll be forever alone.
There was a moment at the Met game yesterday that I didn’t fully appreciate until today. She, for no reason, gave me a hug and a kiss. I’m not used to this. The sun was white-hot gold, the sky was cerulean, and the grass was a massive manicured expanse of green. The home team won and it was as if it had happened in our own back yard (10 subway stops or so away.) It was a day to remember forever.
For those of you who have been married, are married, or wonderfully attached, shoot me some advice. I love her.
Went to see the Astros vs. Mets today at Citi Field in NYC today. It was part of my dad’s birthday present. We got mom and dad a town car to the game. Lynn and I took the L train to Queens. We (I) found the brick we bought for him in the sidewalk for his birthday. Then we went inside the Jackie Robinson Rotunda to see the Mets Hall Of Fame. It was pretty cool. Then mom decided to splurge and bought dad and me Mets caps. Both feature the iconic Mr. Met mascot. We then went to find our seats. Fourth row up from the home team dugout, on a straight line from first base to second base. R.A. Dickey pitched another gem. We were as far away from the field as you are from your nearest window wall. It was a happy birthday for my dad. Mets won, 5-1.
As far as the Jersey Shore goes, I had the best seat in the house this weekend. Thanks to 15 people, a few gifts, one private ocean-view dining room, and a ton of love.
The weather was beautiful, the beach was pristine, and the ocean was rocking. I spent quality time there with my mom and dad, my sister and her daughter, and my girlfriend.
We celebrated my father’s 70th birthday Saturday night at The Breakers in Spring Lake, NJ. Kind of a posh place, right on the beach. My mom and I worked on the party for three months to make it go off without a hitch. But it was Lynn, my girlfriend, who stepped in to make it a true celebration.
Lynn and I have been dating for almost six months. Not a long time, but enough time to love each other. She sensed me stressing about making my dad’s 70th a true celebration, and she knew I was struggling.
My dad’s favorite baseball team is the NY Mets. They opened up a new stadium, Citi Field, last year. As part of the opening, they offered – this is weird – bricks for sale. Pavement bricks that buyers could have engraved with personal messages. I thought it was kind of cool, but too expensive. Then dad’s 70th started coming up and suddenly the price (in my head) was less pricey and the gift more meaningful. Nothing is too expensive for the man who raised me, taught me how to hit, taught me how to write, and taught me how to chill out. I dished out 400 bucks and bought him a brick. Engraved with a loving message from my mom, my sisters, and me.
But how would we get him there to see the brick (even though they kindly sent us a replica) AND get him awesome seats for a game? That’s where Lynn came in.
My father never really got great seats for a game. I used to get good seats many years back, but it was only because I was a sports writer, and more recently because I worked for a prominent ad agency. I’ve been to many games with him, but they were mostly upper deck or outfield seats. I wanted this game to be special, even if the Mets aren’t.
Lynn got us tickets 4th row, field level, behind the Mets dugout.
This will be the closest to the field he’s ever been since he played second base in college. Or watched me in little league.
Lynn is a saint. She hadn’t met my father before she bought the tickets. She hadn’t met either my father or mother before the party. But they clicked. And now I’m going on a double date with Lynn and my mom, and my AWESOME dad, to a Met game in a couple of weeks from now.
This time, finally, he’ll have the best seat in the house.
OK. Back from Antigua (pronounced An-TEE-ga). The trip was on Lynn, which made it a little uncomfortable on me. And it rained the first Saturday through the next Thursday. The final Friday was a tropical dream and we slathered ourselves in lotion while basking in the sun. She began that day with a scuba dive, which I’m technically not allowed to do thanks to a slew of concussions.
Frankly, we were sharing a bed and a room and had a helluva time for the first few days. Then the rain got us down. But when she returned from her dive, I had reserved a primo spot next to the pool and we were affectionate again. We bathed in the sun drinking Strawberry Coladas for a few hours before the inferno sun chased us inside for a nap that will go down in ages.
As far as Sandals Resorts go, don’t go to the one in Antigua. The restaurants are limited and the maids ignore the “Do Not Disturb” signs.
Lynn looks like a goddess in a bikini. I look like a swarthy, trunk-bodied porn mogul. But I can swim like a fish to the pool bar.
One thing about Lynn really had me concerned. She professed to be a non-smoker, but came back from a walk one afternoon smelling like the Marlboro man. She also seems to take a lot of pills recreationally. Including Ritalin. And a lot of speedy diet pills that don’t seem to mix well with alcohol. But I adore her, and she wants to get me a place at the beach.
Now what?
Getting ready to go to Antigua next week. Haven’t even finished discussing my trip to Costa Rica and Jamaica. I guess the biggest difference is that I’m going to Antigua with Lynn, while my other trip was stag. I did meet the weed-smoking, coke-snorting, wet-t-shirt/party girls in Jamaica. They enjoyed posing for pics and being bad at night in Jamaica. Um, like, for instance, going braless and wearing matching panties when they happened to pull out a box of Magnums from a dresser drawer while we all were hanging out in their room. After last night with Lynn, I think I might have a better time in Antigua.
We went shopping today for fresh resort attire. I bought her a pseudo gun and ammo outfit that looks outrageously hot on her—out of character hot…new persona hot. Insistently fuckable hot. Where did we purchase this un-dainty outfit? Ann Taylor Loft. We then went to the Billabong store where she bought me Aztec board shorts and two rash guards. We basically took turns spending money buying each other clothes we found we wanted to rip off each other. The fact that that she deep throated me last night had nothing to do with this.
We saw that some people had planted a garden in front of the Billabong store. An actual genuine garden with thriving vegetables and flowers. I uttered something about having a house and becoming a testicular/gun powder/Mac Pro hybrid of Martha Stewart, Kelly Slater, and Hunter Thompson. Lynn grinned and gave me the eye.
Right now, we’re getting a thunderstorm, but the sun is out. That doesn’t mean that there is not not a rainbow.
“Nothing you can believe is not coming true.” Don DeLillo, Underworld, 1997. The cover of the book is creepy. It shows a plane flying into the towers 4 years before it happened.
I walked the tarmac from the barn/airport in Tamarindo to the plane departing to Miami that would eventually drop me off in Jamaica. Bittersweet is not the word. Costa Rica is paradise. But I was eager to island jump. Stupid me. Should have stayed in Costa Rica longer. First class is first class, though, so I was on the plane, in my seat, with a glass of champagne in hand before the rest of the plane had boarded. Made my way to Miami, got my sunglasses fixed for free + a $5 tip at a Sunglasses Hut, and had a drink or two at the hub club. (Platinum members only, ha ha…)
It began raining in sheets but the jet lifted by God and the physics of aerodynamics, speed, and gravity (is that redundant?) Soon we were over the clouds and heading south again over Cuba to Montego Bay. We landed after my nap and I led the way to customs, even though I had no idea where I was going. Funny how people follow confident people on a mission.
