It's the Holiday Season.

We have a bottle of Royal's Champagne. Or we did.
I'll have to check with H on that.  

The holiday season is upon us. Someone at work mentioned how happy they were that people were telling them Merry Christmas! at the end of phone calls instead of Happy Holidays!, which made me think of something. When has any one person said to another, Seasons Greetings! I guess that ended up as a saying corporations used in emails and newsletters to employees and clients so as not to offend their sensible natures.

At any rate, that means it's time for eggnog! Do you happen to know where the best eggnog in the world lives? Braums. That glorious thick, rich, spiced nog. One day at lunchtime I opened up my maps app and searched for that establishment. Turns out the closest one is two hours away from my house. What a disaster. So what's a Chuck to do in such a predicament?

Eggnog Taste Test. I do learn from the best, and this particular idea comes from my dad. You need to have tiny paper cups, multiple options, and most importantly, you need to make it a blind taste test.

The Setup. 

I picked 8 nogs of different brand and price value, and brought them to work for a proper sample size. Each eggnog was given a different number, people sampled the wares, and a consensus was reached.

The Results. 

Two of my coworkers had never, ever, ever had eggnog. I believe after this experiment, they have been converted. If you look closely, eggnog #2 (Anderson Erickson Classic) was the clear winner with eight out of fourteen votes (that's over 57%, which is positively presidential). If you look even closer, you'll see that one of the nogs was produced by Silk, that soymilk brand. And yes, I was laughing maniacally on the inside while everyone tried this variety. My personal favorite was undecided; I couldn't pick between #2 and #8. Both were of similar consistency, spice, and sweetness. Although, I suppose #2 did have a je ne se qua, a certain richness the others didn't. So in the end, #2 wins.

The Leftovers. 

Now that I knew which was my favorite, I didn't bloody well need eight kinds of eggnog roaming around my fridge at home. I asked people to take their favorite, then I put these two noggins in the fridge for the night crew. And they were never seen again.

Oh! I forgot to mention - I brought pretzels to have as palate cleansers in between the samples. The salt and relative cracker-ness of the snack worked incredibly well to ensure accurate tasting. These were my sorbets, if you will.

The In-Betweens. 

We were lucky enough to attend the Royals' Front Office Christmas Party this past Thursday. The event was held at a hotel near the Plaza, and it was quite lovely. There were a few speeches by the owner, general manager, and manager, followed by a buffet-style dinner.

The tablescape. 

I almost sat down at the Reserved table - turns out that's where the owner and family sit. Luckily, H noticed and directed me to an open table. I still think I could've taken a centerpiece home without anyone noticing.

Our view over the Plaza.

Just sittin' in a sleigh. 

This design was in the lower floor of the hotel. We captured this gem on our way out of the building, with no one around to stop us. As I went to sit down on the "bench", I realized this sleigh wasn't actually meant for sitting on, and had to pop a squat to get this picture. A million times worth it.

I hope every single one of you enjoy your time off from work, your family, and your friends. See you all in the new year!

Game 5.

On our way back from lower Manhattan, we happened to run into some of H's coworkers a block or so from the hotel. They asked if we had seen the newest email from the front office - there was a flight going out to Kansas City tonight, but they opened up a second flight leaving very early Monday morning. We thanked them and continued our way back to the hotel, deciding I would leave tonight since I had to be at work in the morning and H would fly out on the second plane. The only issue was that the folks heading out on the flight tonight would be leaving right after the game, and my luggage (which we packed up that morning) would be going out on H's flight.

Cue dramatic music.

    IN A WORLD

Open with shots of the streets of New York.

    WHERE ONE WOMAN

Closeup of heroine's forlorn face.  

    WITH ONLY THE CLOTHES ON HER BACK

Zoom out to show sleek Royals outfit.

    SURVIVES A DAY

Fade to black.

    WITHOUT HER STUFF

Framed shot of heroine slow-motion running through an empty Times Square. 

I was actually kind of glad that I wouldn't have to look for the luggage when we landed back in KC. All I had to keep track of was my sweet, yellow, cross-body purse.

We went back to the hotel's restaurant and ordered an appetizer to tide us over until the ballgame. What they ended up serving us was something of a cross between a sushi tower and nachos. It was a cylindrical form with a bean base, diced onion, salmon tartare, smashed avocado and lime juice top, drizzled with a soy sauce glaze, and a handful of tortilla chips on the side. Yes, that was a soy sauce glaze. Some things New York just doesn't get right.

We hopped on our bus and traveled the seven or so miles to the ballpark. Directly behind us were two girls who I'd say were between the ages of twelve and fifteen - probably related to some incredibly important front office person - discussing the woes of the eighth grade. Oh, to have your biggest worry be using FOIL in Algebra, or having to decide which foreign language to take, or wonder why boys are such an annoying pain in the butt. That actually sounds pretty chill - I wouldn't mind being back in eighth grade myself.

When we got to the stadium it was still fairly early; we had about an hour to walk around before the big show began. On our last trip around the stadium, I had spotted a booth selling Lobster Nachos and it was stuck in my brain. H was down for some crazy ballpark food, so we sidled up to the booth and looked at the description. White corn tortilla chips topped with jalapenos, black beans, pepper jack cheese sauce, mango salsa, and chunks of lobster.

This is what it looked like on its first day in the big leagues. 

If I could have gotten all of that in one bite, I'm guessing it would be amazing. What I ended up with was some bites of cheesy tortilla chips, and me having to chase down the other additions with a fork. Would I get it again? Yes, on the one condition that the culinary staff had all day to prepare it and weren't just slapping some cheese on top for the masses. I'm probably being too harsh on it (it is, after all, baseball food), but dangnabbit, I have standards!

We finished munching on nachos just as the game began. Unlike H, I can't remember every out or scoring chance. I just remember having a very good feeling about the players, and that it could very possibly be the night they could win it all. The Mets' starting pitcher Matt Harvey works his way in to pitching the ninth inning. Mets fans thought this would be the stop they needed to get the series back to Kansas City - they loudly cheered his return to the mound. I remember him walking off the field amidst my section of raucous fans whooping, clapping, and possibly yelling some obscenities. I remember scoring in the top of the twelfth inning, feeling like we were just about to reach the top of Mount Everest if we could just make it through their last three guys. H grabbed his phone when it came down to the last batter, opened up his Facetime app and called his younger brother.

It all happened so fast from there. We were cheering and hugging, high fiving random people, walking around to the sections closer to home plate. At one point I was standing next to Johnny Cueto's twin-like brother (someone please teach me how to take a discreet selfie). A few minutes later, H was told he could be with the players in the locker room for the coveted champagne showers. I told him to get himself over there and I'd be fine up here with the remaining KC fans - there were at least one hundred fans (maybe even two hundred) that stayed for the next couple hours.

I wandered around until I learned where the access point to getting on the field was. A man in a security jacket was waving through people with wristbands and turning away those without. I flashed him my golden ticket and stepped past a group of guys trying to talk their way in. Now I was directly behind home plate (I could've sat in one of those fancy-shmancy plush leather chairs, but I didn't have time for games), and making my way towards the gate that separated the seats from the field. One of H's coworkers saw me and flagged me down - he said H should be done soon, and that he'd be waiting for us on the field. We showed our wristbands once again to the security guard on the field, and then magically, we were walking on major league ground.

Players had emerged from their tunnels, and it must've been somebody's birthday because the fans were singing Happy Birthday on loop. There were television and radio reporters interviewing players and coaches, there were families and tiny children running the bases. One thing I can still feel is the crunch of the "dirt" they use to denote basepaths. I thought it would be a mix of clay and dirt with that signature copper color, but it was actually comprised of hard, manufactured chips (possibly made of plastic, I can't be sure), and underneath those was that dusty dirt.

I found H with the rest of his coworkers and gave him a congratulatory hug. He smelled as though a wet dog had taken a bath in wine, and apologized for being essentially soaked through. Off to our right was the MLB Channel's setup, with Salvie and Ned Yost just chilling behind the announcers.

I made a point to congratulate anyone from the front office that I recognized. It felt like I was only on the field for five minutes when H's coworker checked his watch and said, "We better head over to the buses. They're leaving in a couple of minutes." Ever the clever one, H told me to go stand over there while he got a picture of me on the field.

I hugged H goodbye, told him to have as much fun as he could, and that I'd see him in Kansas City. As the coworker and I made our way to the buses, we couldn't stop smiling. We walked past a couple that was absolutely making out like no one was watching on a bench just outside the stadium, clapping as we went by. We hopped on the bus and talked about our favorite moments from the night. The buses roared to life and we were off to find our plane.

I thought we would be using LaGuardia, but we drove past it and onto a nearby empty tarmac. We stopped in front of a plane the size of Texas and filed onto the aircraft. We had assigned seating, but the person that I was supposed to fight over the armrest with never showed. The seatback in front of me had an embedded touchscreen and over forty different movies to choose from. It also had a navigation tab that showed the approximate location of the plane over the United States. Every five minutes a flight attendant would walk by with some sort of food item, but I was reserving my appetite for the main entrees they were going to serve.

As the plane took off, I figured it would only be appropriate to take a quick nap before the main course since it was approximately two in the morning. That quick nap turned into three-quarters of the flight. I was both upset because they didn't wake me for filet mignon and thankful that they didn't wake me because that's possibly the deepest sleep I'd gotten all week. I stayed awake long enough to consume a ginger ale and an oatmeal raisin cookie, then back to sleep I went. The next time I awoke we were grounded, and people were beginning to file off the plane. We had landed at Terminal A in the KCI airport, a bona fide vacant lot ninety-five percent of the year. H's coworker grabbed his luggage and was kind enough to give me a ride to the parking lot where H's car sat. I told him to go get some sleep, and he told me to do the same. I looked at the clock and saw that it was six in the morning.

I should go home and go to sleep.
If I go to sleep, I'll be taking a day off work.
If I take a day off work, that's one more day I can't be in Texas for Christmas.
I want to be in Texas for Christmas.
I should go to work.
How cool would it be to go to work after winning the World Series.
So incredibly cool.

And there you have it, folks. I made a quick pitstop at the house to grab food, grab my work badge, and make some coffee before heading out to work quite a bit early. I loved the feeling of walking into work with a set of World Series winning clothes, coffee in hand, and surprising my coworkers with my presence. Apparently everyone with ten brain cells reasoned I would be off that day, but boy did I show them what adrenaline can do for eight long hours. Luckily, I was able to leave somewhere between four and five in the afternoon (I honestly can't remember when I left - I believe it was dark outside?) and go pick up my husband from the baseball stadium he tends to work from on weekdays. I pulled up to the curb as he stuffed our luggage into the trunk of the car.

"How many hours of sleep did you get last night?" I asked him.
"Uh ... maybe four? Why?" he replied.
"I'm working off of three. Want to switch seats?"
"Yeah, you crazy person."

We trucked along back to the house, muscled up enough energy to bring our luggage inside the house and up the stairs to the bedroom, and went to bed. It may have been seven o'clock. Which, if you think about it, is eight o'clock New York time, and a perfectly respectable time to go to bed.

My husband is a badass. 

Remembrance.

I was struggling with trying to piece together our last day in New York activities with the last game of the World Series, but H suggested I make this its own post. I felt as though I may be diminishing these events by following it up with a celebratory yeehaw, so I've split up the two experiences.

We stopped for an early lunch at The Halal Guys cart to grab some gyros. We hadn't tried gyros before, but it'd be safe to say we are complete converts now. I got to the bottom of my gyro-filled naan wrap and had to make a very difficult decision - stuffed as I was, should I toss out the remaining ten bites of my lunch, or eat just munch on the inner layer of naan where the piping hot gyro meat had essentially seared the dough making it a crispy, crunchy delight? Come on, now. H gave me a sideways glance not unlike the face he makes when I lick the remaining crumbs off a dessert plate at home. We chunked the last food bits in a nearby trash can and triangulated the location of the nearest subway entrance two blocks over.

I've never been on a subway - I haven't lived in a city that's offered them (I don't think DART counts as a subway, just a railway system) - so this was an experience in itself for me. H negotiated with the older gentleman seated in the glass booth for a card with enough money for two roundtrip tickets. THe card was sort of like a super bendy library card with a swipe stripe. I think I still have ours somewhere in my suitcase, actually. We made our way down the thin steps to the station and waited for a while before realizing we probably just missed the train. The air was warm despite the cold aboveground, and it felt like I was breathing the same breath from a million people. I saw some benches a few feet down from us, and we started to walk over until we noticed a couple of guys were already seated on them and didn't look like they would be moving anytime soon. The train pulled up in no time, though, and we hopped on and easily found seats together.

At some point, H said there was no way I would be able to sleep on the train, what with all the stops and mechanical noise and all the people. Challenge accepted. I pulled my coat hood up and leaned my head on his shoulder. I was just at the point where recollection ends and unconsciousness begins when the train came to a stop and I unwittingly slid an entire foot away from his shoulder. I guess the person that was sitting to my left had gotten up because this was her stop, which allowed me to travel a respectable length of the bench as the train decelerated. H laughed at me, but I felt as though I'd proven my abilities. A few stops later and we had arrived at our destination.

One of the places I hoped we would visit on this trip was the World Trade Center Memorial. I wonder if that's an odd thing to admit - yes, I wanted to see Central Park, and I liked the feeling of being taller than NYC, but I really wanted to travel to the place where thousands had lost their lives. I suppose it's similar to wanting to visit Auschwitz (but obviously on a much smaller scale) - something about the incredible backwards thinking that led thousands or millions of innocent people to their deaths. A need to understand how the events unfolded as an attempt to understand why it happened. And I suppose for me, I needed to see it with my own eyes.

Walking up to the memorial you first notice the fountain, the loud sound of water rushing over stone both eerie and soothing. Droplets mist the names engraved around the perimeter of the structure. Oak trees were chosen for their varying leaf colors and were transplanted at varying  ages, so that as they grow none are identical.

To the left of the fountain is the entrance to the underground memorial. A long staircase leads to a hallway with photographs and audio on loop of witnesses relaying their first thoughts when they heard or saw the plane hit the tower. As we walked past these accounts I remember feeling like it was harder to breathe, as though I was moving through air thick with emotion and sadness and the premonition of what would happen.

Past the hallway was an overlook onto the ground floor of the structure.

The original concrete-embedded cable mounts for the World Trade Center. 

Taken from Ground Zero. Notes for loved ones, missing person pictures,
and a bouquet covered in dust that has since dried up. 

The antenna from the top of the World Trade Center, circled in the picture. 

While the larger objects in the memorial allow photography, much of the inner enclosed portion did not. Whether that is out of respect for families or for other reasons, I'm not sure, but I'm glad that they don't allow it. There was enough silently shocking material inside that taking photos of it would just be a distraction to everyone else inside.

In the center of each room would be artifacts from the morning, and timelines were posted along the walls with minute-to-minute events as they took place. Underneath the timelines were phones for visitors to listen to pieces of audio, including transmissions from the aircraft to towers, and phone calls from passengers to their loved ones. On the timeline would be the transcript of the message, and that alone was almost too much for me to handle. I couldn't listen to the audio. There were so many items left behind, so many items found by first responders, so much hope that a person would be alive just underneath this next piece of rubble. You feel heavy with the weight of all those lives. Somewhere in the timeline was the fact that this was the largest number of people successfully evacuated in the history of America.

There are many pieces of the memorial that stay with me. One of the final videos was taken by astronaut Frank Culbertson on the International Space Station. Underneath the video a sign tells us that his friend was the pilot on the flight that hit the Pentagon. There was a bike rack that had been preserved, dust and all, taken from a street marked with spray paint to "Save This". In the public part of the memorial, this wall created by an artist to resemble how blue the sky was in the hours before the attacks.

And after we had seen what we came to see, we take the escalator up to the hallway where the day began. We walk up the straight staircase bringing us back to ground level, and with every step I feel lighter somehow, as though I can breathe a little easier. We walk past the fountain, and this time it seems less frightening.

We hop on the subway taking us back to the hotel. We didn't talk to each other, we were still taking it all in, remembering the feeling. We stop on a stone bench on our way, just for a moment, because we have the time. I look up, and the sky is so intensely blue.

Game 4.

Game 3 ended with a loss for our heroes, the Royals. Us Kansas Citians sat shivering in our seats for a good long while, waiting for our players to shower off and prepare for that long ride home. Our fans spread between two sections, those sections comprised of three groups of people. One group stayed with the team at Hotel A, one group stayed with management at Hotel B, and the final group was a mixture of the first two at Hotel C. H and I were at Hotel A, and after talking with the locals around us we discovered that the color of our bracelets determined which Hotel the buses were headed for.

The team's organizers began herding people up out of their sections and down two flights of stairs to ground level outside the stadium. We followed our other gold bracelet-wearing brethren towards an offshoot of the main parade of people, and stood next to a very tall man that was calling out the name of our hotel. At this point I was 75% sure we were in the right place. With every new person or two that made their way to our group there was an echo of, "Is this the bus for --- hotel?" "Yeah, I think so, that's where we're staying." I was minding my own Chuckaluck business when a woman and her two sidekicks rolled up to us and asked if this was the players' bus.

"Oh, I don't know. But this is the --- hotel."
"That's the players' hotel. You must be in the wrong spot."
"Uh, no that's where we're staying. I mean, I think the players are there too-"
"No. You don't understand. We are waiting for our husbands."

I can see the main organizer for this little shindig off to my left. "Excuse me, is this for the --- hotel?"
And with a smile, "Yes it is!"
I turned to the wonderful lady berating me with questions and said, "I guess we're going to the same place."
Then I gave her one of these.


Okay, I did that in my head. But it felt pret-ty good. And how did she know I wasn't married to a crazy tall, lesser known baseball player? Don't answer that. H explained that I probably would have been at other family functions and whatnot. It doesn't matter, I've got the best husband in baseball anyways.

The next morning we slept in. I mean we really slept in. It was at least eleven or so before we decided to get up and enjoy our Saturday. The hotel we stayed at was within walking distance of a number of places, most notably of them the incredible Halal Guys. I had wonderfully seasoned falafel packed tightly with lettuce, tomatoes, and onions, covered in white sauce (mayo) and small droplets of red sauce (I'm guessing sriracha), all wrapped tightly in the most delicious naan. Holy freaking smokes was that tasty. H had the same thing, but instead of wrapped in naan it was on top of a bed of awesome rice. Our best decision for the day was skipping breakfast and going straight to lunch.

Second best decision was walking around Times Square. It was a gorgeously sunny day, one of those pleasantly cold afternoons, and the air was crisp and smelled like the early days of winter.

The hustle and bustle was oddly serene. 

Walking up to the Square was cumbersome - there was quite a bit of road construction on one side of the avenue which forced everyone over to the other sidewalk. I'm glad that it was only the two of us winding our way through the crowd. I can't imagine how crazy it would be to make sure your four chillens are duck-duck-goosing it around you in a living, moving mob of people.

What a nifty sign. 

I thought this was a joke when I first saw it. In perpetuity throughout the universe, eh? So my alien buddies can see me on the silver screen, too? But after looking it up on IMDB, it may be real.  Just past this truck was a group of people just standing around, looking up towards what I think was a camera (never could find the actual camera). H and I ended up walking around them a few times as we made our way around the Square. I imagine the producers will speed up their footage of Times Square one hundred times to show the passage of time or the busy life of the city, so the chances of seeing us on film are pretty slim in my mind.

Sitting to the left of the iconic billboards in the first shot. 

H and I walked past so many bus tours, so many map sellers, so many people dressed up as Pikachu and the cast from Frozen. I thought that they were all dressed up because it was Halloween, but H reasoned they do this every day. There was even a sign that said something like, You don't have to pay street performers. If they demand money, report to Times Square Police. I guess you're just supposed to tip your Pikachu after they take a photo with you. But boy were they dingy costumes. Which reminds me, Times Square has their own police department. You can see it in the first photo if you zoom in towards the base of the billboards.

People sitting between skyscrapers say HEY-oh!

We walked all up and down the adjacent streets to see what we could see. Turns out New York takes their musical theater very seriously. I mean, I knew that broadway was a big deal in New York City, but I wasn't prepared for the twenty or so theaters that we walked past. People were outside buying tickets and everything. Now, I don't hate musicals, but in every musical it seems you reach a point where there's been one too many songs. At some point it's just easier to speak your feelings instead of singing them. But I suppose a large majority of people prefer elongated pronunciations of speech set to jingle-jangle melodies used to generate an emotional response from the audience. I guess I'm just not one of them.

We strolled by Wolfgang Puck's restaurant, skipped next to a four-stories-under-the-ground Forever 21, and double-dutched beside the Madame Tussaud's wax land adventure. We cartwheeled past each of the five Starbucks we saw. We watched street performers in bare feet belly dance as they stood stacked on top of one another. There was a rapping duo dressed as Edward Scissorhands and Jason blasting their tunes outside of a corporate banking entity with green marble columns. There were maybe fifty other unique things we saw that I can't pull out individually from my memory.

What an enrapturing building. 

I took this picture not knowing what the building was - I just really loved the architecture. Turns out this building has an incredibly interesting history behind it, including being the reason we have the phrase "Not a bad seat in the house." This beaut is sandwiched between skyscrapers, surrounded by modernity, and unfortunately lives across the street from a theater. What a neat little guy.

Enchanting cityscape. 

I was always on the lookout for the Cash Cab in the hopes that H and I would be able to answer random trivia questions. We would totally own that show. I feel like we've got most categories covered. H = technology, engineering, history, reasoning, practicalness. A = science, food, art, nostalgia, unicorns.

Four-story wedding prep.  

Eventually it was time to head back to the hotel and change for the game. We walked two minutes to a little pizza place for dinner took a window seat. Across from the restaurant was a beautiful bridal shop. Each floor had a different gown in it, and I wondered how deep the store went back from the street and if they used stairs or an elevator to move between the floors. We ordered a pizza with white sauce (alfredo, perhaps), baked clams, and arugula. The dough had roasted garlic and parmesan mixed throughout, and was like an airy version of flatbread. What a divine creation.

When we saw the four buses all lined up outside the hotel, we hopped onto a nearby people-mover and took a seat. The quickest way to get somewhere in NYC is with a police escort - we had three or four motorcycle cops and two or three Dodge Chargers guiding us through the one-way streets and onto highways with ease. At one point, an SUV decided it would be a good idea tag along with our caravan and merged right in front of our bus. Ain't nobody got time for that, so our driver honked the horn and flashed his brights at this wingnut until he got the message and merged out of our lane. The whole bus erupted in cheers and shouts.

At the stadium we filed out of the buses and followed our tour guides up into the stands once again. We had quite a bit of time to kill that night before the game started, so H and I decided to walk around the stadium and see what the Mets had to offer. There's a legendary diner way out in left field called Shake Shack that might be the East Coast version of In N Out Burger. I regret not taking a picture, but luckily I have the internet to back me up when I say there were at least 300 people in line an hour before the game, waiting to get a burger. H told a cryptic tale of Mets fans who never got to see any baseball in Game 3 because they were still in line waiting for food.

Fox Pregame crew. 

In the right field corner of Citi Field, Fox had set up a desk and some fancy lighting for their Pregame crew. I wonder how it sounded over the airwaves, but as a person in the crowd it sounded a lot like "F-- you A-Rod!"  Turns out Mets fans don't like Yankees in their kitchen.

That would be Luke Hochevar's family two rows in front of us.

Being at your opponent's stadium during a World Series game is like putting on a suit of butter and catnip and walking into a pit full of cats. We were lucky enough to be sitting in the center of our Royals section next to a slim dosing of Mets fans row per row.. We could cheer and yell loudly without worrying about retaliation. One of the guys from H's office was sitting in an aisle seat next to a haggard crowd of Mets fans. He said the first night he had beer "accidentally" spilled on him, random food pieces thrown at him, and there was even one man yelling expletives at him from across the stairs who ended up throwing beer cans at him and almost hitting a little girl in the process. I've also heard stories of Royals fans who went to Game 3 and were harassed in much the same manner, then ended up selling their tickets for the next two games and going to Royals-friendly bars scattered throughout the city.

Now, that's not to say all Mets fans are incorrigible asshats that spit on their enemies. We ended up having somewhat of a heart-to-heart with a pair of Mets men who would Let's Go Mets! during the clapping part of our Let's Go Roy-als! (which would always throw me off) where we thanked them for having a stellar baseball team and for putting up with our shenanigans. Also, I don't know what it was like for the orange-wearing Mets fans when they were sectioned off in Kauffmn Stadium. I would imagine that they also put up with their fair share of heckling and harassment, but I can hope that didn't include beer being spilled on them. 

There was a lot of positivity too, though. Every game around the fifth inning a short video comes on the big screen to tell the story of an honored soldier as part of the Mets' Veteran of the Game. At the end of the video, they cut to the soldier who is either on the field or very close to it, and immediately everyone in the stadium stands up and claps. It becomes hard to hear the announcer as they present the veterans with an American flag and a jersey signed by the entire Mets team. Goosebumps roll over my skin and I start to choke up thinking about what these people have gone through. And the entire stadium is just whooping and cheering, whistling and clapping, so incredibly proud of their own that you can feel it in the air, the swell of pride. 

After the game. 

The win in Game 4 was a warm blanket of restored confidence after the loss in Game 3. It was a pat on the back, an Attaboy, for all of us Kansas Citians who were contemplating the ramifications of home field advantage. And so that night I said to Citi Field, and to the lingering Mets fans, "No, thank you New York, thank you."

Game 3.

Before we get this party started, let me just say that if I sound snippy for any reason in the next few words, it's because I spent two hours putting this post together, and Blogger deleted it. It cleared all of the work I had put into this thing, and wouldn't bring it back no matter how many Undo's I clicked. That being said, this had better be a freaking fantastic second draft.

H woke us up incredibly early the next day (9 o'clock Eastern Time is still really freaking early in the correct time zone), and had the day all planned out for us. First things first, coffee. He had found a spot just a couple of blocks north where these two guys were making coffee out of their car-cart. After waiting what seemed like an eternity for the guys to finish making these two ladies in line ahead of us a tiny, tiny espresso, H decided we should head on over to this little breakfast place he found. It's called Sarabeth's, and it quite possibly could be the smallest restaurant I've ever been in.

Game 2.

I woke up the next morning about as sick as one could possibly be on a World Series Wednesday - retrograde amnesia, irritable bowel syndrome, and the feeling that someone had sawed off my unicorn horn. Okay, so maybe not that sick. I had your typical cold symptoms - throat on fire, drainage out the wazoo, and that delightful achy sensation all over that makes you want to sleep all day. I somehow convinced myself that I was okay to go to work, and boy should I have just stayed in bed. My head was foggy; it took me longer than usual to work through the usual problems. Luckily, my coworkers took it upon themselves to handle all the major fires and let me rest as much as possible while still churning out decent work.

Game 1.

Before I start my World Series game day experience, I have to tell you about this awesome part of the ALCS. At the end of each home game in the ALCS there was a pop-up party in a canvas tent just outside the stadium for the front office and operations executives to catch a bite and chat about the game. The catering company was spectacular, sending out different delicacies each night. My personal favorite was the tiny cauldron of mac n' cheese topped with smokey brisket pieces, followed closely by the mini pulled pork sliders on pretzel buns. They had a different band playing each night, and a loaded dessert table, but the showstopper had to be the ice sculptures they had on display.  I give you the three ice sculptures of the ALCS.

Bring on the World Series.

Alrighty, folks, step right up! This here's yer handy dandy guide to rootin' for the Royals in the World Series. Come Tuesday night, you'll know all the ins and outs of the Royals lineup like you're keeping a scorecard in your pants.

The Postseason.

Ah, Autumn. You're such a baseball purist. Ever since the Royals started their postseason run, Mother Nature has made sure the wily winds bring in a cold chill. When they played the Astros in Game 1 of the ALDS it was a cool 63 degrees - then there was a downpour, a rain delay, and a cold wind running wild through the stadium. I convinced myself (against my better judgement) that I could stick it out, that the happy little rally towel the delightful staff by the front gate had given us was a magical heating device that could keep my body warmth trapped underneath it on my lap. I would say I've never been so cold in my life, except the next day it was all of 61 degrees but without the rain. I remember walking up to the gate for the second time and seeing so many brilliant, brilliant drunk people wrapped in fleece blankets. There are moments in life when your entire world changes. Realizing I could bring a blanket in to a baseball game just happens to be one of them.

Fields of Green.

This weekend was the first of what I hope to be many autumn weather weekends here in Kansas City. The mornings were nippy, but the sun managed to keep me warm even with a cool breeze. Since H had things he wanted to do at the house (did I mention we got Google Fiber?), I decided to trek to a place called Powell Gardens. It's heralded as Kansas City's botanical gardens, and it did not disappoint.

Boats and Rows ... of Vegetables.

A couple of weeks ago H and I had the distinct pleasure of hosting some particularly awesome visitors. H's younger brother, his wife, their cutie-pie baby girl, and H's youngest brother drove up from the land of the longhorn to spend the weekend with us. From the moment I came home from work on Friday, it felt like I was on vacation. We ate, we laughed, we did silly things to make the baby smile. I never realized how incredible a baby's smile was until I had a niece.

One of our adventures that weekend included a trip to the heart of Kansas City to see the Steamboat Arabia. This ship was carrying a variety of pre-Civil War goods and over a hundred people along the Missouri River when something in the water snagged the hull and the ship began to sink. Fortunately, everyone on board was a rational thinker and managed to fit into the few lifeboats and row to shore. The ship sank slowly but surely, dragging along the river floor to its final resting place in the Missouri River. 136 years later, a crazy family of excavators decided they wanted to dig the damn thing up.

My favorite pic from the trip. What an awesome anchor. 

I don't remember if the museum had to piece this wheel
back together, but it's impressive nonetheless. 

Millions of hand painted buttons were excavated from the wreck. 

I've wanted to go here since we moved to Kansas City, and I'm so glad that we went. The only disappointing part was the gift shop - I was all geared up to purchase some small wooden piece of the boat when all they had was inspirational posters and paperweights.

Just behind the museum was the Central Market. I'd heard it described as one of the best farmers markets in KC - restaurants line the outside square of the market, buying many of their ingredients from the vendors that fill the stalls. It was early afternoon when we went to take a looksie, so the vendors were starting to close up shop for the day. This ended up working in our favor. We found bananas at one dollar for five pounds, cherries at one dollar for two pounds, strawberry one-pound packets for a dollar each.

I really liked walking through one of the stores set into the outer ring of buildings. It felt like a middle eastern, possibly Indian store with buckets of dried fruits, raw and roasted nuts, and walls lined with packaged goods (which I like to think were all manners of cookies). There was a spice table (the bay leaves were solidly overpriced, but there was this amazing smelling dry rub), and a tiny restaurant (the line took to long to get anything), and a beautiful table of tea leaves. Incredible blends, but a bit too expensive for my taste.

It was a perfect way to end the weekend, and I wish I had taken a few pictures of the market. It's on the northern part of the city, which is outside my five-minute drive policy to any grocery place. It was nice to see how the big city does farmers markets, though.

Fireflies and Fireworks.

It's been raining here almost every day. This last Thursday I was driving directly into the path of a giant thunderstorm cell that decided to start birthing tornadoes. That is to say, I was driving home and the weather guy on the radio was successfully throwing me into hysterics by telling me exactly where the tornadoes were seven miles from my house. I admitted to H when I walked in that I was a little freaked out, and asked if would he mind terribly if we turned down the volume on the baseball game and turned up the sound from the live studio weatherman feed on the computer. H obliged, and while he spent the evening enjoying a lively game of If I Hit It Will They Catch It?, I was glued to the screen while an unrealistically calm camera man in a helicopter pointed out how close to the ground the rotating clouds appeared to be. After an hour I finally calmed down to a less-than-red-alert level of scaredy-pants. H turned to me and asked, "Do you want to watch something on Netflix?". As I inhaled to say, "I think that would be swell," the tornado sirens sprung to life once again.

Our house sits on what I like to call a 'hill', with a small dip in the backyard. It's barely noticeable until a thousand gallons of rainwater band together and start to flood the dip. I never really understood what the phrase "sheets of rain" meant until that night.

The rain started really showing us who's boss after that. I took this video, and then a second less than ten minutes later. We had a righteous river crossing at least six household yards as far as I could see.

I know what you're thinking. Why was H more interested in baseball than the scary thunderstorm threatening to sink our house boat? At least now I know what we are and are not bringing with us into the storm shelter we use as a basement. Phones? Check. Blanket? Check. Canned goods? Not unless we plan on being down there for more than a day, and at that point we would probably be flooded. Mattress to protect us from the rest of the house falling down on top of us? I voted yes, but H voted against it. I am confident enough in my mattress carrying capabilities to say that H will be thanking me later in the event that a tornado tries to crater our household. 

I have never lived in a city that allows fireworks. I can still remember sitting on top of my father's truck cabin, watching the illegal fireworks go off from our neighborhood. I asked someone at work a week prior to the Fourth what the state laws were on fireworks, and they said it was mainly city to city. As it turns out, our city is one that allows fireworks as long as the setter-offer has an easily obtainable permit of sorts. As such, the entire week leading up to the Fourth we endured fireworks shows every single night within the neighborhood. The day of the Fourth, people were setting off fireworks all the live long day.  When H came home from the ballgame, we took a splendid walk around the neighborhood and enjoyed all of the festive bangs. It was like walking through a war zone, with the smell of gunpowder lingering in the air, a light fog hugging the ground, and the constant bang-bang-bang of celebratory poppers. I cannot wait until next year to experience the walk again.

Every night since before the holiday (up to a week, I believe), there has been a remarkable event happening outside our home. Fireflies have been spotted - even on the night of the terrible storm - and while it is quite difficult to take a photo of a lightning bug, I believe I may have done it.

A still photo. Yes, that one pixel is the light of a firefly. H claims I Photoshopped this. 

Fireflies are remarkable creatures. They remind me of a few things, but most strongly of watching Grave of the Fireflies with my father. What a remarkable movie.

And that, I believe, is all for now in the land of Kansas City. Tune in next time for Anna Kills a Fat Spider Without Remorse. Spoiler: the spider dies a slow and painful death. 

A Tale of Fish and Deceit.

Ah, the weekend. That magical time between getting off work on Friday and waking up Monday morning.

I had a particularly long day at work on Friday, so to start the weekend off right H said we should watch a movie. I brought home the pizza, he set up the movie, and we sat down to watch the next Hobbit installment. A few minutes in, I asked, "So the last thing I remember from the first Hobbit movie was that they were running from some evil dog-like things, and they kind of got out of it ... oh yeah, and then they're trudging off toward that big green mountain."  H confirms the end of the movie, and while I'm kind of curious as to why the group of dwarves are looking out at a lake-town with a giant dragon burning it to a crisp, I figure I must have fallen asleep at the very tail end of the last movie and just missed a little foreshadowing. Or perhaps this movie is just starting off in the middle of a battle scene, as some action movies do.

Some two hours later, the movie ends, and without giving too much away, it is very obvious that this is where the movie series ends.
     I turn to H and ask, "How many movies did they make?"
     H says, "I guess they made three."
     "And which one was this?"
     "The third one."
     "Have you seen the second one?"
     "Yeah, me and my brother and you all went to see it a while ago."
     With great shock, "I have never seen the second one."
     "Weren't you there?"
     "No. No I wasn't.  How could you see the second movie without me and then make me watch the third one without even saying anything?!"

That line of conversation ended with me admitting that I must've been on third shift and told them to go ahead and see it without me, and H telling me I can't blame him for not seeing it on my own and keeping up with the series. And then it dissolved into that hysterical fight laughter that occurs when you realize you're fighting about something ridiculous but still want to somehow pin it on the other person yet can't quite find the words to.

Saturday morning I was reading a book I like to take on airplane rides to calm my nerves about flying a million miles an hour in a heavy hunk of metal. It's an exciting read, but the point of this story is that it had a sadly commonplace riddle that the characters were trying to figure out. Why is a raven like a writing desk? I complained about this awful riddle usage to H, who said he hadn't heard it before. I was in a huff about it until I remembered that it was part of a beloved childhood movie of mine, The Last Unicorn. I suppose if you haven't seen a movie ten or twelve times with that one riddle in it, you may not know the answer either (Edgar Allen Poe wrote on both). This led me to question what it would take to get H to watch the movie. He responded with something like a grunt.

I went outside to check on my Delicata. It's been raining on and off every other day since I picked out my tiny plant. This has allowed me to completely forget to water the little guy without worrying I've killed it. He's almost to the point where I need to decide if I want to go with a trellis or some nice mesh to help keep the leaves - and imminent the sprawling vines - out of the boards of the deck. I've also been entertaining the idea of moving him down to the grass below, perhaps on some kind of raised object, but then I run the risk of non-watering.

My, how you've grown. 

We watched the game (Go Royals!) and headed out to a little Mexican restaurant within walking distance of our house. Did I mention how wonderful it is to walk five minutes to a restaurant and be able to eat (or drink) whatever you like? It is phenomenal. We had been here a few times before, and through the process of trial and error determined that shrimp is the best thing they serve. So we sit down at this restaurant, we both order strawberry margaritas, I get the shrimp and crab enchiladas, H gets the shrimp chimichanga. The food was delicious - they bring out the entrees so quickly after you order that it feels like you're sitting around for an unreasonably long time after eating, but you're not. We chatted about this and that, finished our margaritas, got a to-go box (the portions are quite generous), and hopped in line to pay for the food at the front.

After a minute or so, I started to feel queasy. The air drifting out of the kitchen smelled like burnt frying oil, and it wasn't helping. I leaned in to H and said, "Sorry, but I've got to use the restroom." I made my way back. My head started to feel swimmy, my skin started to get clammy, and I thought maybe that margarita was stronger than I expected. But then it was just one drink, right? I paused for a moment, and thought back to the last time I felt like this. High school, Chinese pot stickers, and ... holy crap this is food poisoning. Without going into too much detail, let me just say I experienced one of the great moments where everything in your body feels absolutely wrong. I emptied the contents of my stomach into the porcelain bowl and took a minute to evaluate the situation. I think there may have been a teenage girl in the next stall over. Well, she wasn't there now. I had little to no energy - I would have been happy to spend the rest of my life in my stall if it meant never having to move. How long had I been in here, anyway? I'll just text H to go and get a car to come and get me. Crap, both of us had margaritas.  I gathered some strength of will, washed up, texted H  I have food poisoning. I just threw up. I need a minute., and waited for the second round I could have sworn was going to happen but never did.

When I emerged from the cold, tiled room, I made a bee-line for H. He gave me a strong hug, then said, "Let's get out of here." I don't really know how I made it the whole five minute walk back home. H didn't bring up how slow I must have been going, he just told me what happened from his side of things. He got my text, then asked to see the manager. He showed the manager the texts, told him to throw the leftovers in the nearest trash can, and asked for a refund for the food. The manager apparently has people come in all the time claiming that they have food poisoning, and argumentatively asked what was wrong with the food. To which H responded, "It gave my wife food poisoning. She just threw it all up in your bathroom. I should not have to pay for food that caused her to be physically ill." The manager argued a bit, said, "What do you want me to do about it?", then grabbed some cash out of the register and handed it to H - it wasn't even half of what we had paid for the meal. This explained why the manager didn't even say anything to us on our way out of the restaurant.

I was beyond shocked, but it was hard to feel anything except the acid burning my esophagus and the wretched taste in my mouth. At one point I turned to H and said, "So can we watch The Last Unicorn now?" He laughed, which made me laugh, and it made me forget the experience for a moment.

Once home, I sat down on the couch and didn't move for the rest of the evening. H brought me a large glass of ice water, and sat down on the other side of the couch with his laptop out. I looked over to see him writing a scathing email - apparently this little Mexican restaurant is part of a chain, and they had a company website. For those of you who are looking to eat Mexican food in the area, the restaurant chain is La Fuente, based in Kansas City. H's email mentioned that while our other visits were fine, it was the way this manager handled the situation that really pissed us off. Like he gets a couple once a week that has food poisoning and has decided to not refund them unless they put up a fight about it. H made it clear we would not be going back to this establishment while it was under that manager -  we could just as easily walk ten feet east and eat at another similarly-priced restaurant that doesn't try to kill its customers.

Since then I've had a lot of water, about one and a half muffin tops, some jicama, and a small-ish breakfast burrito (eggs, sausage, cheese).  It seems my appetite is slowly coming back, which is great news considering we're planning on getting some sushi for dinner after the game. Yes, I realize there is some amount of irony that I will be eating raw fish the day after having shrimp and crab conspire against me and stab me in the back. However, I am still pretty damn excited to eat me some tasty, tasty sushi.

A Supremely Inconsequential Workplace Domestication.

I would like to say, first and foremost, that my tiny little blog is, as of yesterday and the day before that, teetering on exactly five thousand views. Now, I realize that at least ten percent, possibly fifteen percent, of that is from me, myself, and I. However, I would like to say a quick Thank you, although I imagine your time could have been wiser spent reading BuzzFeed to everyone that decided to see what was happening in my world. Also, I would like for the next big hallmark of viewership to hang precisely at ten thousand views. So mitigate that amongst yourselves.

I have recently come into ownership of a moderately large office space. It contains a desktop that stretches from one corner of the room to the opposite corner, complete with windowsill and mobile cabinetry. The first order of business was to rent out some space to a Sansevieria plant (that Snake Plant from the local nursery), followed in close order by a Thai Mint* plant.

*Quick aside - just as my husband's most regretful act is not responding at a hockey game (long story), I have now experienced my most regretful act. I cannot believe I did not buy that Strawberry Mint plant the last time I was at the nursery. I explicitly asked for it this most recent time I visited, and they said they won't be purchasing that type of herb until next Spring. What kind of non-commercialism un-oppotunistic bullsh is that? 

While I cannot show you the entirety of my office because of the absolute mess it actually is implication, I will show the two cohorts I have dragged into the 10' by 10' square.

Minty McMinter-Face.

And his trusty sidekick, Filter McFilter-Potten. 

Thus far, I have received only the top compliments for my exotic plant, and the utmost screw-faced questioning looks for the mint plant. They'll all thank me when it's Mojito Day at the office.

Now for the honorable mentions at the nursery this go-around (not including the seventeen types of lavender that nobody will buy).

The majestic Shrimp Plant. Who knew this existed. 

Forgot to catch the species. We shall call it the Cheshire Cat Tall-Ominous Fern. 

This reminded me of the Bleeding Heart Philodendron. 

It was mighty rainy during my trip to the nursery. I may have started off on a trip to the antique store and, upon realizing the antique store did not open until an hour or so later (which was not conveniently located on their website), perhaps I took a backwoods way to the local plant store. About seven minutes in, I stumbled upon the following sight.

An almost medieval use of a single-way, bridge-like archway. There were no cars behind me. There was only one car in front of me, from which I discerned the proper way to proceed through the tunnel.

I suppose I cannot explain the feeling you get when you happen upon a place like this. Perhaps it was the rain, maybe even the charged storm air, or the wonderment of where the heck am I going anyways? At any rate, I have this unreasonably strong urge to go back there, park along the roadside, and sit in absolute quiet to determine if gnomes or fairies are at the root of the strange architecture.

To top off the garden-rich episode of Anna Tries To Keep Things Alive, it would only be fair to mention that my local grocery store had a sale. An Everything-Is-Half-Price sale, concerning all of their garden stuffs. After much deliberation (during the time spent between the fish aisle and the frozen pizza aisle), I decided to adopt a Delicata Squash plant.

... but it was ninety-nine cents!

The holding device was also half-off. 

Luckily, I haven't had the chance to forget to water it because it's been raining off-and-on every day this week. If this keeps up, I'll be enjoying delicious Delicata squash in August with nary a hand-watering to be had.