Homeland

This past week I made a pilgrimage to my homeland of Nebraska. It consisted of cowgirl boot buying, shameless flirtation with semi-pro baseball players, lots of beer, several photographs of bridges, and also copious evidence of my own self obsession. I came away with a tan, an autographed baseball, and some kick ass boots. All in all it was a successful vacation by my standards, which aren't high.

I brushed up on my "how to flirt from a distance without words" skills at the Lincoln Saltdogs baseball game and managed to snag the attention of a relief pitcher who consequently turned out to be Puerto Rican, have I told you about my innate attraction to all Puerto Ricans? I've got such luck with them that I probably found the only one in Lincoln, Nebraska.

If he hadn't figured out from my come hither stares throughout the duration of the game that I found him and his tight pants enticing, my teenaged cousins made sure that upon our exit that he knew "that girl in the brown shirt thinks you're hot". At least he replied with "I think she's hot too". How embarrassing, good thing my cheeks were already sun burned otherwise I would have been marked by humiliation for hours. If anything, the experience reassured me that I haven't lost my touch with the male species. The fact that I hadn't been asked on a date in over three months was forcing me to consider retiring from the game of love, which I'm sure I've said multiple times.