Wednesday, June 22

day 10429: nice pom poms

I’ve never written about the softball team I joined with Co-worker Chic. I’ve “played” with them for one season… actually, I played the first game, was out of town on business for the second, and two days later, “hurt” myself… *

What I can’t do on the field, I try to do off the field. I am a great cheerleader. Or at least I try to be. I watched Bring It On, learned some moves, bought some pom poms from the dollar store, wave them around and cheer with all my might. I’m awesome, if I do say so myself…

I’m exaggerating. My pom-poms remind me of nipple tassels. My hip gyration antics resemble that of some second-rate stripper trying (without success) to not look excruciatingly bored. And on top of that, since I’m the only person not on the field, I’m the official scorekeeper. Yay… official scorekeeper meaning that I have to walk around with a clipboard and a pen marking down every base, out and point… and also meaning that I CAN’T USE MY HANDS TO WAVE MY POM POMS!

Double yay…

So I improvise. I stick the pom-poms in my pockets. One on the right, one on the left… though try as I might to do the J. Lo/Shakira booty shake, I always end up looking like a giant marshmallow shaking her “thang” on some cheap-hotel room vibrating bed.

Triple yay…

But I still love my pom poms. So much, in fact, that an SOS call was placed to Triscuit reminding him to bring back the pom poms from the Ham where I had left them over the weekend. (His mother and I did a simultaneous pom pom stripper-esque dance while we brought out his birthday cake. Yeah, I wasn’t impressed either…I really need to take some pole dancing lessons).

Last night, I get to the baseball diamonds, plastic bag of pom poms in hand. It’s “playoffs.” I’m excited. I’m all ready to cheer my team on.

“Guys! Look, I brought my pom poms!” I’m super excited. If I haven’t mentioned before, I love my pom poms. I untie the knot, reach impatiently into the bag and yank out a fistful of shiny colourful plastic. All of a sudden…

… flying out of the bag… is my bra!!! Triscuit had neglected to tell me that he had packed my missing undergarment in with the pom poms.

… Up they fly through the air… and land with an earth shattering thud… on the bleachers… in front of half the softball team… the guy half.

For the rest of the night, Speedy Chicken Legs and Studmuffin (his nickname… not mine) would periodically come up to me and say:


[ed. note: “hurt” in quotes, because there will never be any externally documented proofs of any so-called injuries… only my *ahem* doctor has any permanent records. My official comment is… “there is NO permanent damage…now stop asking”. Though, if you’re really curious, and really persuasive, I might tell you one day, but you’d have to swear up and down on all that you hold sacred that MY MOTHER will never find out. Because, yeah… sometimes I still fear her wrath.]

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