Type "N" Personality

I'm not going to lie: I have a "type" when it comes to guys, and that type? Is the nerd.

This probably isn't news to anyone. I've always had a soft spot for nerds. Mostly because I am one myself. Sure, I am also your classic Type-A bossy bitchy persnickety overachiever drama queen, but a lot of that comes from being, at my core, basically a big old giant squishy insecure nerdo.

But lest you doubt my commitment to nerdhood, let me remind you that I married an engineer. Who is also a gamer. And who built me my gaming rig from scratch.

Why do I love nerds so much? Not an easy question to answer. Some of it ties back to my being your classic Type-A bossy bitchy persnickety overachiever -- I don't have a lot of patience for idle chatter and boring conversation. To put it as delicately as I can (which, admittedly, is not very delicate at all), I have a very low threshold for stupidity. I have never mastered the art of "small talk." Sure, I could talk about the weather, but why would I want to? The window is right there. You can see that it's raining. Why are you asking me obvious questions? Don't you have anything else you should be doing?

But stuff that matters, like whether the lycanthropy of Remus Lupin in the Harry Potter novels is actually a methaphor for homosexuality? I could talk about that kind of crap all day long. And so can my fellow nerds. In my experience, I have never had a boring conversation with my nerdular brethren. We really and genuinely wonder what the proper plural of "half-and-half" is. We don't think it is possible to get tired of Monty Python's "Dead Parrot" sketch. We know what "theorycrafting" means as it relates to World of Warcraft, and we actually care about that stuff.

Listen: getting your rotation to absolute maximum DPS as an actively-raiding arcane mage is Serious Business, dammit, and since my playing time is limited, I can't waste a single second with anyone who distills my MMORPG experience down to, "Oh, you play a gnome with pink pigtails! How cute!"

Grr. My arcane blast as a 2.2 second cast time, unbuffed. You better start running. I can mash that "5" button pretty damn hard.

Anyway. In the past I have been accused of preferring nerdy-type guys because they tend, on average, to be quieter and more bookish, and therefore less likely to sass me back when I give them a hard time. Which, granted, is pretty often, because my very favorite thing to do these days, it seems, is to be passive-aggressive, which is inherently intensive in the hard-time-giving department.

But have your met my boyfriend Spencer Reid? Or my other boyfriend Eric Beal? Or my other other boyfriend Greg Sanders? Or my absolute best boyfriend, formerly known as Knox Overstreet, later known as Dan Rydell, and now known as Will Gardner? Do you think any one of these men would have any trouble getting lippy right back at me? My husband doesn't, that's for sure, and he's a nerd in real life, he doesn't just play one on TV.

Nerds are hot, is what I am getting at. They can talk all night long and never bore you. They know fantasy football and baseball statistics and how to play hockey. They know how to order wine. They don't usually listen to crappy hipster emo music. And oh my God, are they funny. Nerds make great employees, excellent husbands, fantastic fathers, phenomenal best friends.

And, it's a hell of a lot of fun to gank the shit out of them.

Santa / Baby

So, this whole getting-our-picture-taken-with-Santa-Claus-thing, huh? Hoo boy.

As a related aside, did you know that it is impossible to argue logically with a toddler? There's just no way to do it. That I have found, anyway, and I'm pretty sure I've tried everything. It's a lot like trying to debate with a particularly belligerent chipmunk on amphetamines or something. I just ... there aren't words in the English language to describe it.

Santa Claus was at the day care yesterday, at the end of the day, and there was just no getting Shae to sit on his lap, or anywhere near him, really. Apparently her entire class lost their collective shit when they saw him walk past the classroom window. I should feel better knowing it's not just my kid -- my nephew Joey doesn't like Santa either, and apparently neither did my husband when he was a kid -- but yet I still feel there's something weird and unwholesome and wrong about using Santa for discipline and blackmail at this point, if Shae doesn't "get" it yet.

I tried to have a conversation with Shae about it yesterday at dinner and our discussion went something approximately like this:

ME: So I heard that Santa was at school today.
SHAE: I don't like Santa.
ME: Well if you don't like Santa, then who brings you presents?
SHAE: Santa. (She is giving me a look here, like "Duh, lady, how could you be so stupid?")
ME: How is Santa supposed to know what you want if you won't sit on his lap and tell him?
SHAE: I want a cramera. (Another look, this one more like "Are you kidding me with this, lady?")
ME: Well, I know that, but how is Santa supposed to know that?
SHAE: (Brief pause.) Mommy, Santa is creepy. (Resumes putting chicken nuggets on head, or whatever.)

And so on. In a lot of fundamental ways, she's totally right, of course: Santa kind of is a creepy weirdo stalker. But, you know, one of those benevolent ones, not the kind that lives in a cabin in the woods and drives a dirty white van filled with candy and video equipment.

So probably these pictures of her posing with the "Santa Claws" cat pillow is the best we're going to do this year. There's going to be a Santa Cow at the Chick-Fil-A this weekend, but I don't know if I really want to try to keep pushing the issue. Hopefully she'll get over it by next Christmas.

Or, you know, maybe I will.

Things That Are Sexy Right This Very Minute:

10. Chuck on NBC, Monday nights at 8pm - Because I ♥ Nerds

9. Anybody who beats the Yankees - Bonus points because: Grady Sizemore! Squee!

8. Gossip bloggers who are bitchier than I am - Plus, pink hair! (Sometimes!)

7. High-definition television

6. House on Fox, Tuesday nights at 9pm - Because I ♥ Snarky Bad-Asses

5. Scrapple, sliced thin, and fried until crispy on the outside but still mushy inside - with ketchup

3 (Tie). #26

3 (Tie). #11

2. American sports cars - Mustangs & Corvettes especially

1. Shutouts in the playoffs

Oh! And Matt Damon (note: NOT Tom Brady)!

I have to admit: I can't believe this is really happening. I can't believe the Phillies actually made the playoffs. I can't believe that they overcame a 7-game deficit since September 12th and actually pulled it off. I can't believe they went 13-4 in the last 17 games to beat the Mets. I can't believe they won the NL East for the first time since I was in college. I can't believe they really did it. And I don't know why.

Despite my own arguments to the contrary, the Phillies are clearly not the worst team in Major League Baseball. Perhaps they are the worst for my health -- I had approximately 15 strokes this weekend, at least 2 heart attacks, 125 apoplectic fits, and countless nightmares, plus I about wrung the skin clean off my hands -- but they are not the absolute worst team. They're not a laughingstock. They may be the losingest team ever, but they're not just the lovable losers anymore. Hell, even the lovable losers are winners sometimes: the Cubs won their division too, didn't they?

It's just so surreal, this NLDS business. I mean, I'm an Eagles fan (not to mention a devout Donovan apologist), but I can honestly say that never, not once, did the Eagles making the playoffs feel so real or so important as this win for the Phillies does. This is weird, historical, legendary, epic-movie-making territory here. Jayson Stark wrote an awesome article for ESPN about this, which is probably better than anything I could have come up with, but which I still think is lacking something.

The awe is there. The facts are definitely correct. And the quotes he uses sure seem to sum up the Phils we all know and love around here (especially the quotes from Jamie Moyer, who made me cry and whom I secretly love a whole really lot and I want to move in with him and be, I ), but it's not ... enough. Not shellshocked enough. Not dazed and confused enough. Not "oh-my-god-am-I-really-seeing-what-I-think-I'm-seeing?" enough. Not Philadelphia enough.

I do know this: the last time I felt like this after a baseball game, the Red Sox won the World Series. It was an unreal, completely bizarre, totally otherworldly experience. And damn, if I don't LOVE IT. Go Phightin' Phils!

(Video NOT used with the express written consent of MLB. Hope they understand.)

There’s not a whole lot of good news coming out of the sports world these days – what with the incidents involving doping, strip club shootings, guns and DUI’s, a broken hand in the middle of an All-Star season, dogfighting, and potshots taken at Bob Costas – so when I saw this story, I thought it worth mentioning.

Umpire attendant Ernie Tyler will voluntarily end his consecutive games streak at 3,769 to see another man known for his ability to show up to work every day: Cal Ripken Jr.

Tyler hasn't missed a Baltimore Orioles home game since assuming the position on opening day in 1960. This weekend, however, he will skip the Orioles' two games against the Yankees to be in Cooperstown, N.Y., to see Ripken's induction into the Hall of Fame.

The 83-year-old Tyler will be going as a guest of Ripken, who will pay the bill for the entire weekend.

You don’t hear about stuff like this very often: people, especially famous ones, who put their money where their mouths are. Some celebrities have been very successful at giving back in very big ways – Oprah, for example, or Paul Newman. Tiger Woods. And good on them for it, too. The Socialist in me approves very strongly of those who understand the importance of returning the favor to those who made them fabulously wealthy in the first place.

But generosity in sports is practically unheard of. Most professional athletes seem to be, as a general rule, greedy whores with no qualms about conspicuous consumption and no discipline in their personal behavior. Their “people” seem to be aware of this, so almost everybody has a foundation these days, a sort of social whitewashing. But who really bothers with small acts of kindness? Cal does, and it doesn’t go unnoticed.

"I saw him was he was 12 years old. I knew his father well," Tyler said Thursday. "What better time to do it than to go now? When I heard he wanted me to go to Cooperstown, how could I say no? The streak doesn't mean that much when you're thinking about your relationship with the Ripken family."

[…]

Tyler can appreciate the irony of having his streak end to see Ripken, who also had the opportunity to determine when to finally sit down.

"If I were ill or got hurt, there might be some remorse," Tyler said. "But under the circumstances, there are no regrets whatsoever. I thought about it for two weeks now, and I'm just overwhelmed and honored to go up there with him."

To hear those words from a guy who’s been around Baltimore baseball since my own father was a kid is a thing of unexpected beauty to me. I hope I am not just saying that because this is about Cal, the Iron Man, he who still shows such love of the job he had, the game that he was able to play for so long, the passion he was able to share with his father and his brother and now more than 700,000 kids around the world.

I am a statistics girl, a baseball wonk who reads box scores like the Bible. Just the word “sabermetrics” gives me a thrill than cannot be described in mere words. I genuinely care about ERA’s and OBP’s and OPS’s, and I work the figures in my head: If the Red Sox are 7½ games ahead now, how many more losses can I bear from the Phillies before I stick my head in the oven?

But sometimes you can’t measure the greatness of a ballplayer by his numbers; sometimes, you need to consider his goodness, too. How does he treat his family, his friends, the umpire attendant who has worked every home game in Baltimore since 1960? How does his hometown newspaper describe him in articles in the week before his induction into Cooperstown? This article in the Baltimore Sun contains just one paragraph about Cal on the field. And it starts with this:

Very rarely in today's society do you find sports personalities who you hope your child can idolize on the playing field and in the game of life. Cal Ripken is one of those stars.

Congratulations, Mr. Ripken. You deserve at least that much respect.