lip balm?

Know what's awesome? Taking a swig of the first (and most vital) cup of coffee in morning and getting a big ol' mouthful of grounds. It went a little something like this...

Not the most auspicious start to my day, no?

lend me your ear[phones]

Since I can't send this to the department listserv here at work even though I REALLY, REALLY want to...

Dear Douche Bag Who Stole the Headphones off My Desk:

I won't even get into your lack of scruples. Instead I'll focus on the fact that you are now wedging something into your ears that had been in mine eight hours a day, for weeks and months on end! How gross are you? I hope you get a raging ear infection, you nasty fuck. Granted, I should not have left them out to tempt a klepto such as yourself but still, your dickheadedness trumps my carelessness big time. Barring an earache of epic proportions, I can only hope for a wicked short in the wiring, ass munch.

Cheers,
Curly McDimple

I am SO sending out my resume today.

in the criminal justice system...

What a week! I feel like I'm living out an episode of Law & Order or something. It started on Saturday when I saw that a toe-sucking suspect had been nabbed on the subway. Given the unique nature of the case and my history with unwanted suckage, I contacted the Daily News to see if my toe sucker was the same guy featured in the paper.

As a result, I was put in touch with the authorities. Having deemed me credible, I filed a police report and, this is where it gets really exciting, went to a police station to pick the foot dude out of a lineup! [insert Law & Order theme music]

I'm tired and a bit overwhelmed by the whole thing. I don't want to say too much for fear of tainting the case. I don't think I can but, you know, just in case... I'm opting to zip it.

If you'd like to read up on the story, here are some links:

:: Cops Lick Foot Fiend
:: She Was in Grip of Foot Fetish Fiend
:: Another Sole Survivor on Train
:: Lick Her's Quicker to Meet Gals
:: Enough Already!
:: Talk About Kinky Boots
:: We're Not Pulling Your Leg -- But Maybe He Was
:: Google News Round Up

P.S. Thanks to everyone who sent me links. I've been giggling over the various subject lines in my inbox -- Toe Sucker; Foot Licker, etc. Thanks for mixing it up a bit!

the tale of the toes continues...

Dude! For the first time in this history of this here blog, I'm getting linked to from one of the big guns! Gothamist.com mentions the trials and travails of my put-upon toes today!

While I was sort of hoping that it would be my charming wit or one of my heartwrenching tales that got me noticed, I'm no less thrilled with the publicity. I am a whore, yo.

mmm... tetanus

You know what's awesome? Accidentally stepping in a puddle of mystery moisture near a construction site while wearing flip flops. Even better? When the flip flop slides off the wet foot and shoots about 10 feet ahead gathering dirt and schmutz along the way thereby "breading" my damp foot when I put the flip flop back on.

SO awesome.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to disinfect my feet...

a rather dubious anniversary

Guess what happened exactly one year ago today, folks? 'Twas the day some dude took a special liking to my feet and decided to give them some love right there on The R train.

I can't believe a year has passed. Why it feels like just yesterday that I was the unwilling participant in someone else's gross fetish.

August seems to be subway perv season. Last week some guy whipped it out and started interfering with himself on... guess which subway line?! THE R! Or as I like to now call it, The Ewwww! Train.

But! A young woman by the name of Thao Nguyen was quick and clever enough to snap a picture of the dirtbag with her camera phone. And now his face has graced the cover of the Daily News (in full color!) as well as Craigslist and Flickr!

As a result, several people have come forward and identified him as Dan Hoyt. It seems he was guilty of a similar crime back in 1994. And now, surprise surprise, he's gone into hiding.

Oh, you are SO busted, Danny Boy! Stop fiddling with your flute and come out and pay the piper, why don't ya?!

As you can see, I am totally reveling in this man's shame and humiliation. It's well-earned, after all. It's also a symbolic victory for me since the guy who terrorized my tootsies last year got away. I only wish I had me one of them there camera phones so that douche bag would have suffered the same fate.

But whatevs! I'm totally savoring the outcome of this latest story. Dan, you're toast! And, Thao Nguyen, you kick so much ass!

a subway fable

My dear friend Christina, she of the psycho feline who terrorized me during an unfortunate catsitting episode, recently sent me the.most.awesome email ever. I ate it up like motherfucking candy. And lucky for you, Christina has graciously granted me permission to reprint this gem in its entirety. The girl cracks my ass up. So, without further ado, I present to you A Subway Fable...

My subway ride home was slightly more entertaining than usual this evening...

I entered the train and, as there were no seats, was standing near the door. Just before the door closed, two guys got on the train and, when the train lurched forward, the guy who was not holding on (and was seriously drunk), stepped hard on my foot. I made some sort of pain-induced noise, just overly-dramatic enough to display my irritation and looked at him to wait for some sort of acknowledgment that he had just stepped on my (sandal-ed and therefore unprotected) foot. He eventually looked over at me and put his hand on my back, apologizing, "Sorry sweetheart."

After a couple of stops, two seats opened up. I took one and the drunk guy's friend took the one next to me. I was mostly trying to ignore them, but it sounded like there had been some sort of incident with a woman they know and they were discussing what would happen next ("I don't give a fuck what she thinks," "Man, she's gonna blackmail your ass, that's what she gonna do."). Next thing I know, Drunk Guy (who is standing in front of me), is trying to get my attention by tapping on my New Yorker magazine.

Drunk Guy: "Uh, excuse me..."

I give him the "I'm just a New Yorker trying to get home on the subway, don't bother me" hand.

Drunk Guy: "Nah, nah, don't give me the hand. I just want to ask you a question. Let's just say -- now I know that I could never get with you -- but let's just say, hypothetically...."

Me (head in New Yorker, not looking up): "..."

Drunk Guy: "Are you listening to me?"

Me: "No."

Drunk Guy: "Okay, well at least you answered me."

Drunk Guy (to his friend): "Now see, this is a perfect example of what I'm talking about. You see the way she just brushed me off? Did you see the way she brushed me off? Now how are you gonna ask me about Betty? The same thing is gonna happen there. And if I ask this other young lady on the other side of you, she gonna say the same thing."

(Further discussion on this same topic went on for a long time, most of which I successfully ignored.)

Then Drunk Guy decides to address the entire subway car as his friend cringed in embarassment and said, "Aw man, this motherfucker's crazy."):

"Good evening ladies and gentlemen. My name is Moe, at least that's what people call me. I ain't out here to ask for money or sell you anything or preach the Gospel. I simply want to ask a question: If someone who you didn't know, asked you 'Can I get with you?', would you get with them? I'm being serious, okay? If a stranger came up to you on the subway and asked if you would get with them, would you go with them? Can it happen? I'm not asking any one of you to get with me, I'm just asking if it can happen. So anyone who thinks it can happen, raise your hand. Come on, let me hear you raise your hand..."

Silence.

"Aw man, come on, I am trying to find out, can this happen? HEY YOU. WAKE UP. Can it happen? Can you find love on the train? I mean, we're all looking for love, right? Isn't that what it's all about? We're all looking for a relationship. So now none of y'all want to say that you're thinking about it, but I know you are. You're looking around the train, thinking, 'Is it him? Is it her? Can it happen to me?'"

He proceeded to ask nearly everyone on the train if they thought it could happen. But he got to one dreadlocked guy who was not interested in playing around. When Moe asked him, he said, "I know people probably listen to you all day at work and that's fine, but I ain't interested. Don't talk to me."

Moe: "Yes, but can it happen?"

Dread: "Don't talk to me."

Moe: "Yes, but can it happen?"

Dread: "Don't talk to me."

Moe: "Yes, but I'm asking you can it happen?"

Dread: "Don't talk to me."

Moe: "Can...it...happen..."

Things escalated until Dreadlocked Guy stood up and said, "Get your hands off me." At this point Moe's friend came over (as did several other "heroic" men) to calm things down. At the next stop, Moe's friend dragged him off the train. As we were waiting in the station, Moe kept running up to the train doors to say "Find love," "Don't give up. It can happen" and "Find love or you'll end up alone...like me."

I love New York.

Thanks for sharing, Christina! I take comfort in the knowledge that I'm not the only one among my friends who encounters lunatics on the subway. For you newbies, click here, here and here.

notorious p-i-g(gies)

I knew the day would come. My feet have made me famous. Well, if you can consider placement in a foot fetish link farm fame... But hey, I'll take what I can get. Autograph, anyone?

dude, where's my corolla?

You know how there are those quirky not-too-well-known holidays like National Shut-in Visitation Day (February 11) or Crackers Over the Keyboard Day (August 28)? Well I don't have confirmation but I'm thinking March 12 is National Ignore Spatial Relationships and Violate Personal Space and All Rules of Public Transportation Decorum Day. I mean, if there wasn't a coordinated attempt to upend several societal norms this past Saturday... well, then the coincidence is just freaky. I realize I already magnetically attract public transportation's finest specimens (see here and here, you ham & cheese on wry newbies) but this is getting out of hand.

Let's start with my morning experience at the Port Authority where I encountered a woman with fringed suede boots who employed an elaborate side-to-side pattern of walking. It was like she had eyes in the back of her head and an unquenchable thirst to aggravate because whenever someone tried to pass, she floated right in their path. I miraculously managed to penetrate her force field while she was pissing someone else off and dashed over to the row of ticket machines and feverishly made my purchase. With a few minutes to spare, I walked swiftly to the escalator leading up to the gate... only to be thwarted by Woman with Fringed Suede Boots who was blocking the entrance so she could primp and preen and "fix" her ratty-ass hair in the reflection of a glass-encased sign. I hated Woman with Fringed Suede Boots and secretly hoped the fringe would get caught in the teeth of the escalator. No such luck.

Fast forward to my return trip back from Jersey. I stood on the Path train platform with about five other people who were all scattered the appropriate distance from one another. Everyone was adhering to the unwritten rule that when there's enough room, you do not choose a spot less than 20 feet from your closest neighbor. You just don't.

So there I was abiding by the rule and leaning up against a wall when I noticed a woman approaching and making a beeline straight for me. I gave her the benefit of the doubt that she'd change course and walk past me at a socially acceptable distance. Nope. Instead, she opted to stop dead in her tracks and stand barely within arm's length of me even though there was enough room to do pirouettes and backflips on the platform if she so desired. I briefly considered walking to edge of the platform in the hopes that she'd follow me and then maybe fall on the tracks or whatever. Again, no such luck.

The train ride itself was uneventful except for the girl on her cell phone engaged in a riveting discussion about the cost of laundering her clothes. At one point, the door connecting our car with the next slid open and got stuck in that position. Instead of talk of Wisk and Snuggle fabric softener sheets, the car was filled with the metallic racket of the train as it barreled along the tracks. The noise is deafening and I usually close the door when it happens but in this case it mercifully drowned out the discussion of spin cycles and hampers. Believe it or not, the door slid closed again just as the girl lost reception near Journal Square. I personally think it was an act of God.

Shortly after, we pulled into the World Trade Center station and I made my way up the stairs to board a really long escalator. Now, regardless of the length, the proper procedure for riding an escalator is keep right, pass left. It's not wise nor is it acceptable to walk halfway up the left side of the escalator with a rolling suitcase in tow and then come to a complete stop to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the person on your right. Of course some chick did on Saturday and naturally, I was the person on the right.

What the hell is wrong with people? I wanted to say, "Keep moving, toots!" but well, I would never actually do such a thing but I DID vehemently curse her out in my head for the duration of the ride.

I can't blame the attention on the allure of my toes this time around because I was wearing shoes. None of my little piggies were visible, you see. So perhaps it's the yummy-smelling pomade and Body Shop White Musk Oil combo I rock that casts such an intoxicating spell on my fellow straphangers in the cold-weather months.

I SO need to get a car.

a real-life bugle boy moment

So I'm on the subway on my way home from work tonight minding my own beeswax and listening to "How Soon Is Now?" by The Smiths. At Times Square, a rather large family got on the train. Among them, one was in a wheelchair, another was wearing rollerblades, one had bad bangs... and all were loud and insane. The minute they entered, the atmosphere on the train immediately turned from the usual indifference to dread. It was about 10:00 pm and the locals were tired and not in the mood. We collectively sensed that these people were going to annoy the shit out of us.

A word to the wise to those of you planning to use the subway on your next trip to the Big Apple: If you're attending with a large group or organization and find yourselves using public transportation, kindly congregate in one general area of the train and use your inside voices.

Oh and while I'm on the topic of subway etiquette, either sit down or HOLD ON TO THE MOTHERFUCKING POLE! Unless you're a regular rider, you WILL lose your balance when the train moves. Hell, even regulars get wobbly once in awhile. It's simple physics, people. If you do go flailing about the car, quickly compose yourself and suffer the shame of your clumsy ways in silence. Contrary to popular opinion, we don't think it's entertaining or all that original when people make a spectacle of said loss of balance with flapping arms and repeated exclamations of, "Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!" Seriously, Shecky, grab onto something bolted down when you get on and let that be the end of it. Repeat after me: Pratfalls are NOT funny, especially during rush hour.

But back to the merry band of big mouths... the youngest girl took an immediate liking to me and practically sat on my lap. When her mother commanded her to sit closer, the girl protested and grabbed on to my leg to hold her ground. Again with the strangers and the unwanted touching on the subway! What the hell?!? Luckily, she relented shortly after and left me alone.

I immediately went back to my newspaper and iPod and let The Smiths and the dire state of the world numb the pain. And then one of the rowdies addressed me. Her voice cut right through Morrissey's hypnotic warbling: "YOU HAVE AN iPOD!" I looked up at her and kinda went, "Huh?" She repeated,"YOU HAVE AN iPOD!" To which I shrugged and replied, "Uh... yeah?" I waited for a follow-up but that was the end of it. Not another word from her. Instead, she seamlessly rejoined the hyperactivity already in progress.

The girl likes to think out loud I guess. I bet she reads signs out loud in the car too. Not for informational purposes -- just because. My mother is the same way. She simply cannot pass a billboard or mileage sign without announcing its contents. It's totally annoying. But then again, I can't go near a Pier One Imports without doing an Elwood Blues impersonation. We all have our quirks.

But given my subway luck of late, I'm seriously considering investing in a "Do Not Disturb" sign. Either that or a glock.

this here sucka got served

I realize what I'm about to say is going to make me sound like a crotchety old coot but fuck it, I'm going to say it anyway: Kids these days have no respect for their elders. Now, when it comes to verbal slings and arrows, I can give as well as I can get. But what exactly do you do when a young boy gets all up in your stuff with very informed, painfully-sharp barbs? Is it okay to match wits and throw down a few salty insults despite the age difference? I have no idea.

I took the Kick-Ass K-mart Bike out for a spin yesterday to Prospect Park. After a few laps, I stopped at one of those ice cream/hot dog/soda carts to buy a bottle of water. There were about 4 kids in line in front of me and they were undecided about what kind of ice cream they wanted. They couldn't have been more than 10 years of age but still, they were accusing the vendor of extreme mark-up with some very adult language. They had limited funds so while they argued amongst themselves about what to spend their money on, the vendor asked me what I wanted.

"A bottle of water, please."

The kids all turned around to see where the voice came from and the boy of the group said to me, "Nice bike."

It didn't seem sarcastic and the bike is nice after all so I offered a polite thanks as I fished through my wallet for money. Under his breath in a tone dripping with 'tude, he said, "Not as good as mine but whatever..."

He can make fun of my bike all he wants but I didn't appreciate the muttering so I called him on it. I said, "Excuse me?" to which he replied with a sassy, "I didn't say nothing." One of the girls said to him, "Why you always gotta be commenting and shit?" Apparently there's a history of his mouthing off to strangers.

The vendor handed me my water and my change and as I was getting ready to leave it be and just ride away, that little shit started singing that song from that car scene in White Chicks: "Making my way downtown, blah blah blah."

Forget the obvious racial implications, but as someone who deplores Top 40, I was really offended. That kid totally burned me. Call me a whitey, honkey or whatever but to suggest that I like -- who even sings that? Michelle Branch? -- well, that's just over the line. Furthermore, I own not one Sheryl Crow CD, I think Jewel is snaggle-toothed tool and the appeal of Jagged Little Pill is totally lost on me. "Vagina Rock" as a whole does absolutely nothing for me.

Now if this kid stuck his tongue out or called me a poopie head or something more in line with his age group, I would have easily brushed it off. However, his smart ass-itude was well beyond his years. My instinct was to totally work the little fucker over but I had nothing. Well, no, that's not true -- I had a few REALLY inappropriate comments at the ready but thankfully I had enough sense not to use them. Instead, I had to reach into the adult (read: lame) arsenal and I replied, "Oh yeah, well I don't even like that song."

Believe me, I realized how pathetic it was as soon as it came out. I felt like I was in grade school again except at least back then, I had enough sense to just ignore those kids who made fun of me. Silence is much better than a half-assed comeback. Oh, I wish I used the same approach this time. His reply: "I ain't trying to hear what you like or what you don't, see!"

Ouch. He sounded really mean when he said it. I was shocked at the amount of venom behind it. What's worse is that for a second, I considered asking where his mother was and if she knew he spoke to grown-ups like that. Gasp! What's happening to me? Uh yeah, I guess I'm ready to start sporting those Mom jeans now. Before long, I'll be scrapbooking and hosting Party Lite demonstrations and Pampered Chef parties in my home. Send help.

should I stay or should I go?

I hate quitting things. Even in the worst situations, I try to stick things out as long as humanly possible, look for the silver lining, and all that crap. In certain cases, I'll abandon ship quickly if gut instinct is screaming at me to do so. It's never with a cavalier attitude that I make such a decision. I've got the one-two punch of Irish-Catholic guilt and the daughter-of-a-Teamster work ethic (exnay on the union jokes. I'm originally from Jersey and I know people. Capiche?).

Now what was I saying? Right... quitting. I don't like to do it. However, I feel that I may need to uproot myself once again. Not in terms of my job, relationships, apartment or anything like that. This dilemma pertains to something much more important: corporate slow-pitch softball.

I HATE MY TEAM. They are the worst bunch of obnoxious fucking bastards I've ever the had the misfortune to share a dugout with. It's a co-ed team comprised of various men and women (mostly men) from two interrelated departments in my enormous company. There are several softball teams floating around under the same name but we're in different divisions and never square off. My team is made up of mostly IT guys, internet techies and programmers. You know... not traditionally the most athletic types.

Because of the popularity of computers and our reliance on the trained people who understand the innards of these things, the tide has shifted you might say. The people who excel in this field were often viewed as the nerds in school and perhaps they got picked on. I understand that and I feel for them. However, their need to retaliate now is often aimed at those of us who never once knocked the books out of their hands or shoved them in a locker. Don't crucify me for the sins of the football team! If my computer repeatedly has a system failure, you need to deal with it in a professional and courteous manner and go passive-aggressively work out your issues elsewhere.

It would seem that the time has come to pass when they are getting the payback they dreamt about for years. Fist-shaking declarations made while dislodging the underwear firmly wedged into their ass cracks or uttered while playing Dungeons and Dragons with fellow misfits on a Saturday night are coming to fruition. To them, it's go time.

Do they administer purple nurples in return? No. They refrain from giving wet willies and Indian rug burn. Instead, they treat us like shit when we ask a computer-related question. These fuckers belittle us and suggest restarting whether the computer is frozen or if the thing's smoking and on the verge of blowing up. They tsk and sigh when asked to slowly repeat the mouthful of jargon they just haughtily spewed. Some of them are real dickheads, plain and simple. I know a lot of nice tech people and they're helpful and wonderful so please don't think I lump the lot of them into the same category. Not true. I'm referring to the unhelpful, condescending ones.

Now just imagine this attitude on the softball field. I can only guess that some of these people on my team sucked in organized sports and were the bench warmers and the last ones picked in gym class. I can't say I relate because um, hello? I'm a lesbo and I kick ass in most sports! HOO WA! Want to see my letters? But as I was saying, this meathead-like, boorish behavior can only be attributed to the fact that they are perhaps trying to rid themselves of some childhood trauma and scarring... while playing on the company team. Go do it in a shrink's office like the rest of us, assholes! I am not exaggerating when I say that these are deplorable conditions to play under.

In sports, it's an unwritten rule that smack-talking, conceit and immodesty are somewhat acceptable as long as the player has the goods to back it up. In other words, if you're going to squawk at people incessantly and remind them to play "tight D" (Jess, can we add that to the list?), please make sure you're competent and capable of executing such things yourself. Call me overly sensitive but when I'm throwing runners out, sliding into bases to break up double plays and driving in runs, I'd thank the team's sure-out not to offer suggestions on how to improve my game.

We have a loud-mouthed catcher and self-appointed team manager who um, can't catch, throw, hit, run, etc. She'll tell people to "call their catches" and will give them what for if an error is made, yet she hasn't caught a single pitch thrown to her. And she's the catcher!!! I say yank her and just let the backstop do its thing. The batter can kick the ball back to the pitcher or, as is often the case, the umpire can catch it barehanded and toss it back. The girl sucks. Bench her sorry ass! She told MOI -- the person who went 2 for 3 and slid into two bases thereby distracting the fielder while allowing runs to score -- to change bats after the one at-bat where I flied out and didn't reach base. Um, thanks. Perhaps I WILL go with the heavier 34... when I ram it up your ass sideways, Sucky. That's one suggestion I'll happily take.

She prattles on endlessly telling others what they're doing wrong and how to improve their swing, fielding, etc. Again, no ball sticks in her mitt nor has she ever hit her way onto base. She has the most horrendous batting stance and don't even get me started on her swing.

And then there's her partner in crime... a boy who fancies himself an ace pitcher and intimidating home run hitter. To my knowledge, he's the only person on the team besides the Sucky Loud-mouthed Catcher who has whiffed at the plate. In slow pitch softball. As far as his pitching goes, he walks EVERYBODY. And it must be said that he has really bad hair. It's totally dry and damaged yet he keeps it at a puffy length. It's just awful. When he's giving someone a tongue-lashing, I have to restrain myself from saying in return, "Can I interest you in some softball lessons and perhaps a hot oil treatment?" Note: If you add an element of cattiness to your trashtalking, it works wonders. And to review from an earlier post, when all else fails, call your victim a "booger-eating moron."

Now as I was saying, the gruesome twosome suck to high heaven and despite their lack of skill, they unabashedly criticize and chastise other players, argue with the umps and sometimes even get into it with the other team. It's mortifying and appalling. It's corporate softball and it's supposed to be fun and light-hearted but sadly, it's the opposite. I just don't understand getting all bent out of shape over it. Sure, no one wants to lose but if you do, who gives a fuck? No one is waiting to ship off the dead weight to the minors for not performing well. Simmer, people.

Sucky announced proudly after the game that despite the lopsided score (we were trounced), we are going to win because she's filing a protest. A PROTEST! She's irked about some minor infraction in the rules so she plans on raising quite a stink with the governing agency. And her goofy minions -- my teammates -- applauded. I don't want to win a game like that. Who the fuck cares? As if whining, pissing and moaning over calls throughout the game aren't bad enough, now she's going to bitch via fax and email. I hate them. Hate them, I tell you. HATE THEM.

But what really raised my ire was the fact that Sucky Loud-mouthed Catcher made a point of standing up and waving in the outfielders whenever a girl got up to bat. She was obnoxiously yelling, "Move in guys! Play shallow, everyone!" That's just wrong. Why not just say, "Everyone, may I have your attention please? This girl sucks and it will be a miracle if she sets foot on first base. Just start heading to the dugout now. It's a sure out." Even though the batter was not on my team, I wanted her to suddenly get a jolt of inspiration and brute strength and launch one into the outfield over everyone's heads. If she did, I would have high-fived her as she rounded the bases.

Not that it's ever okay to belittle opponents but again, if you're going to play the role of obnoxious jock -- and I can't stress this enough -- please don't suck. It's kind of a requirement, I think. So, I called them on it. I'm not very popular amongst my teammates tonight because I took exception and told Sucky and the Puffy-Haired Whiffer that I found their behavior to be lacking in class and good sportsmanship. And Puffy got in my face about it. He was super agitated and midway through his tirade about the weaker sex and reasons why it's okay to expect less from female athletes, I turned my back on him and walked away.

Puffy, when I dislodge the bat from Sucky's ass, it's going up yours. I was not trying to be the Billie Jean King to his Bobby Riggs (although he made Riggs look like a mild-mannered feminist in comparison, the colossal douche bag that he is.) I'm talking about decent behavior on the playing field. He suggested it was strategy similar to players shifting over when a lefty gets up. The fuck it is! If they think the girl batter is so weak and incapable of hitting anything with even an ounce of force, why do they need reinforcements from the outfield? I play various positions in the infield. Based on the stance of the batter, previous at-bats, etc., I make adjustments. I'll move to the left or the right, I'll play in if it looks like a bunt situation or I'll back up if I know the batter is going to belt one my way. That's strategy. Me moving in and standing next to the pitcher when a nervous-looking woman gets to bat up is not. If they wanted to play in, whatever... Just don't make a big production out of it. I'm sure it embarrassed the woman. Or maybe I'm just being overly sensitive. Regardless, I still think it's a shitty way to behave.

If a boy creeps in on me the first time I step up to the plate, he learns quickly NOT to do that again. Just ask the boys from the 5th grade in my grammar school. My 6th grade class played them in an intramural softball game. The third baseman made quite the scene as he moved in thinking I was an easy out. It's a wonder he's not sporting capped teeth thanks to my line drive that made a beeline for his smirking face. You can also check in with the band of assholes from some investment bank who yelled "Infield in!" and waved in their outfielders when I stepped into the box last season. Um, yeah... that bases-clearing double I roped quickly learned 'em.

So do I quit? The team doesn't want me to because I can actually play. Do I spite them and leave them short one girl or is it better for me to show up and continue to play well and with class? If they were loud-mouthed dumb jocks, this wouldn't bother me so much. But the fact that the stench of suck can be traced directly to the two most obnoxious people on the team just doesn't sit right with me. What to do? What to do?