Well, it took forever (and three failed order attempts) but I finally got the Phillies tickets reserved. We'll be there this Sunday, July 22 in section 427. Yeah, I know, crappy seats. But despite popular belief, federal workers aren't paid that well.
I'm not sure how much of it is big huge new job with big huge learning curve and big huge new responsibilities (and the accompanying stress), or the big huge new life changes that involve a big huge boyfriend moving in (and the accompanying stress), or what, but things have certainly been a little rough lately with respect to big huge reminders of Nick (like the day my mailbox contained both the Civil War journal I now receive thanks to my donations in Nick's honor AND a Central Blood Bank postcard with his face on it), upsetting nightmares, and so on.
I mean, there have been a few really great developments in my life, but in this corner? Things just continue to suck, and I don't know how they'll ever get better. I desperately wish he was there to call, to bullshit about the Pirates performance as of late and how long this apparent miracle will last. To see what he thinks about JoePa's fall from grace (the guy he frankly always felt was inappropriately idolized), about the campaigns (always funny when you actually got him to express a political opinion), about The Avengers and The Dark Knight Rises and to crack wise about the Megadeth/ Rob Zombie show (and the, um, interesting audience). It just... sucks that I never get to hear his voice, hear him crack wise, argue with him, have a mundane I'm-bored-and-stuck-in-traffic call or anything again. I know I'm lucky to have someone willing to handle what's hiding in the mailbox when I simply can't handle it, to be goofy or as supportive as he can, and to hold my hand each time I walk into a baseball stadium and the tears start. But it doesn't stop it from sucking, or mean that my grief has truly lessened in any way.
So, anyway. Stop number 4 will be Citizens Bank Park on Sunday.