Technology has sucked the romance out of relationships. Just ask my grandparents.

Lately I’ve been spending a lot of time with the old people in my life. Every weekend this month I have flown 3,000 miles to the East Coast to listen to them recap the stories of their youth. I have listened to them talk about love and family, love and disappointment, love and everything else that comes secondary – or at least should. And I’ve come to the conclusion that old people lived during a time where people loved each other a little harder. Let me explain.

My Nana Lois says back then it was a “sweeter” time. Sure, you had the great depression and WWII and both my grandfathers grew up so poor one collected manure and coal chips from the streets at night while the other sold bread his grandmother baked to survive in the dust bowl. Maybe I’m romanticizing the whole thing, but life was hard. Love made it easier.

What I have gleaned from our conversations is that back then it was a time of candy and telegrams, standing on train platforms waving goodbye and waiting for the next time to say hello. There was wanting and longing and distance and sadness. And maybe with all that longing, it made everything seem so much more beautiful and meaningful when the two of you were finally standing in the same room.

“Back then boys carried your books for you, you know,” Nana told me over the weekend.

Boys threw pebbles at your window. They asked for permission to drive you home. They gave you promise rings. In sum: they made it clear that they liked you. They were bold. Not only do I appreciate the romantic aspect of it, I like the efficiency of it all. Back then, dating was the ultimate time saver. Think about it.

Scenario 1
Boy: Would it be OK if I drove you home?
Girl: Yes, thank you.
Message clear: I am interested, I might let you hold my hand.

Scenario 2
Boy: Would it be OK if I drove you home?
Girl: I think I’ll just walk. But thanks.
Message clear: I am not interested, you should move on.

There were standards of etiquette and communicating that were clear and easily understood by all parties. Kind of like ordering coffee at Dunkin Donuts. Everyone knows a small regular is two squirts of cream, two teaspoons of sugar. I like this method of operation because I enjoy understanding what people are asking for from me. With dating nowadays, I feel like it’s more like ordering at Starbucks. It’s confusing, I’m forced to speak a vocabulary I’m uncomfortable with, and leads me to suspect I’m not always getting what I asked for in the end.

Technology is just mucking up the clarity standards of communication and etiquette provide. If someone asks you on a real date – which entails dinner, is arranged at least 24 hours in advance, requires transportation and a change of clothes – that’s different from “hanging out.” It’s harder to ask for up front, but if you both agree, you go into the evening with intentions understood. It’s the ultimate green light that yes, I kind of like you, and yes, I kind of want to kiss you.

When my Nana Lois was dating, boys and girls operated within certain societal and economic constraints. And it was awesome. Back then most families had one telephone if one at all. So it was a big deal if a boy called you. And if someone took the train to see you it took days. It meant they liked you. Now, if someone is willing to pick you up at the airport and sit in traffic for 30 minutes after you’ve traveled 3,000 miles it means they like you enough to want to actually sit in traffic with you while they plug in their iPod. It’s a sweeping gesture of romance.

Upon returning from Boston last week I found myself admitting that since moving to the Bay Area I have never felt more lost in the dating world. Why is this?

Did I somehow lose my game in baggage claim five years ago? Is the dating pool that much more attractive here? (Answer no. Here’s a tip gentlemen: if a girl can bench press you, she probably doesn’t want to date you.) Is it the proximity to Silicon Valley and a culture of serial upgraders? Or is it because I am in the middle of a city that loves its social outcasts and the fact that it does not have to play by the rules? I suspect this is the case. And I, unfortunately, am a person who loves rules and etiquette.

When I was in college not everyone had a cell phone and Facebook was just rolling out to the first wave of selected schools. Six years later everyone over the age of 7 owns a mobile phone and even my dad is on Facebook. (He still won’t friend me.) I’m pretty sure the rapid proliferation of these tiny pieces of technology is ruining my love life.

A device that is supposed to make communication with people easier has only made me more confused. (Save for the GPS function.)There is an ever increasing number of ways you can contact me using it. My iPhone has an application for Twitter, an app for Facebook. You can contact me via text, or email on one of my three accounts. You can contact me over Flickr. I’m certain during the time I began writing this post until now, that yet another method is gaining traction that I will have to play catch up on.

These tiny key to the universes have altered the way we speak to people, when we speak to them, how we speak to them, at a rate faster than we have been able to devise a proper etiquette of interaction around. (Or at least faster than I have been able to adapt.) And because the methods keep changing, so do the rules. For instance, texting isn’t just because you need a quick answer anymore. It’s the way. Phone calls are for old people.

And that may be the crux of my problem. It’s too easy to contact people now. You can zip a text over to someone while sitting at a red light. You can forward a link while waiting for your latte. You can comment on a status while popping into the elevator. With so many ways of getting in touch, I really don’t understand why people contact me anymore at all. I think some folks are just bored. Maybe someone needs to write a user manual. Maybe that someone should be me.

While I’ve always known that old people are wiser than me, I’m starting to think they are geniuses. My grandparents are amused by my generation. And I deeply suspect they think ours is a bunch of idiots incapable of the level commitment they had. My Nana Lois laughed when she heard how we communicate with each other now. “We didn’t have texting and the Twitter back then,” she said. “Matters of the heart are too important … Be bold.”

My Nana is dying. She has advanced emphysema and struggles to breathe every day. She is disappearing pound by pound before my eyes and for the past week I have had the privilege of helping my mother and aunt Dot take care of her at my parents’ home in Massachusetts. In 28 years, I have never heard my Nana complain about anything. And after helping her onto a bedpan, into and out of bed, and occasionally feeding her with a spoon when she is too weak to do it herself – she still has not uttered one. Instead, she continues to thumb her nose at death, make jokes, and root against the Yankees. In short, she has continued being my Nana, she has continued teaching me about the important things in life.

BE LOYAL

After a 30 minute coughing spell, her breathing steadied, and gasps subsided. She opened her eyes, clasped her Boston Red Sox blanket, and focused on my face. “What’s happening in the game?” she asked.

OLD PEOPLE ARE WISE

Jen: Nana, what is the best and worst thing about being a woman?
Nana: (Thinks.) The sex.
Jen: (Jaw drops.) What about for a man?
Nana: The same.

KNOW YOUR PRIORITIES

Nana: There’s God, and then there’s Larry (my dad, her son-in-law.)
Mom: Then who?
Nana: Your father.
Dot: Then who?
Nana: The girls. My daughters.
Mom: Dot, we got promoted!

CHOOSE YOUR PARTNER WISELY

Nana: How are the boys?
Me: I don’t have a boy.
Nana: That’s OK. It’s not all a bed of roses you know – unless you find the right one.
Me: Well, what do you have – a bed of roses or weeds?
Nana: I got lucky.
Dot: (eyebrows arch) Really?
Nana: Sometimes your father can be an ass. And a slob. But he’s a good guy, he has a good heart.

There are two types of heartsores in life. At 28, I have only experienced one kind. The first are those caused by boys. Or girls. And the moment they tell you: I do not choose you.

These moments, in a word, suck. They creep up on you like creditors – leaving messages you only listen part way through before erasing. They must have the wrong number. Besides, they’re never getting back their old sweatshirt.

Sometimes you are more prepared and it’s more like an amusement park ride winding down. You know it was fun. You can remember it being fun. It just was! Wasn’t it?

But suddenly you changed speeds and now you’re noticing the rust on the bolts, the scratches on the seats, the unnerving grating of metal on metal as the brakes go on – and he does too. So you both ignore the attendant reaching for the door and sit there wishing the ride would last a little longer. Partially because you recall really wanting to get on this ride with this person, partially because you don’t want to have to find another line worth standing in. You already did that. Now you have to pee. Plus you’re hungry. And now you don’t feel like being turned upside down.

The other type of heartbreak is when you face losing someone permanently. Like your Nana. And these moments are, in a word, scary.

Moving forward, there is no checking her status updates on Facebook to see if she’s feeling tired or feisty or somewhere in between. You can’t email her out of the blue wanting to know how much butter to put in the frosting for her Italian cookies. Can’t call just to hear her clear her throat and tell you about the damn dog she loves so much. The latter type of heartsore feels more like something foreign that has taken up residency in your chest. It just sits there pulsing and existing and you wonder if it ever goes away.

With your ex love interest, you know he or she is going about a daily routine that no longer involves you. Or you at least hope they are. At some point your neurotransmitters will rewire and you will stop connecting this person to everything in your life. Eventually, a fire truck will just be just a fire truck again. Eventually, you will stop wanting to call her after you hear something funny. Or not funny. But you wanted to share it with her anyway.

This second type of heartache is different. And I suspect it’s because we can’t imagine a ‘what next’ scenario. Or at least, I can’t.

You can’t imagine not hearing this person say things like, “You know, you don’t have to marry a young man,” after you express enthusiasm for Vice President Joe Biden – a guy who should have access to a take back button shortly after opening his mouth. Kind of like you. And you harbor a deep fear that you will never hear someone else say, “Love goes where it is sent – even to a monkey’s ass,” and suspect no one else will ever cook you Shit on a Shingle, or know how to burn the chicken cutlets just right. You worry that you have not asked all the questions you have for her. You worry that she is afraid.

You wonder, will you ever be able to look at your hands as they type and not see someone else’s? In time, will you look in the mirror and not see a frown all too familiar? Or when you laugh will you suddenly stop because you hear someone else in the room? I ask, because I only know how to deal with the first type of heartsore.

And though I’m no expert, they generally go something like this: You collect your things. Try not to forget anything on the field, meet in the middle, and shake. You say good game. You vow to find a more worthy opponent next time and exit towards the street. You look both ways before crossing. Then you go home.

I’m lucky. So far I have never lost a grandparent I remember. Selfishly, I think about how I do not have much time with my Nana, rather than the other way around.

In a break up, it’s OK that it’s all about you and the loss of something bigger than yourself. Because it belonged to you. It existed because you played a role in creating it. But this is altogether different; this time it’s not about you and what you’re losing. Because this person made you. This person shaped you. They enabled you to go forth and allow your heart to find another person’s to rub up against for awhile. And when it broke, they were there to tell you: better things will come. And she was right. And you want to tell her so, but that’s making it all about you again isn’t it?

So I am going home tomorrow to not talk about me. I am going home to hold her hand. To sit next to her and just watch the birds on the deck or leave her alone with the damn dog if she so desires. I will not burden her anymore with questions about her life. That is, unless she wants me to. And if so, I will just listen.

Dear Tito,

I can’t say I’m surprised. I’m not heartbroken. I’m not really all that disappointed. In fact, I can’t even say I’m mad. (I say this now. But maybe this is the denial talking.) Because, in truth Tito, we really didn’t deserve to make it to the ALCS. Or maybe even the ALDS.

We played without heart, without brass, without that little thing that makes a championship team a championship team. We began the 2009 postseason without it. It’s not something that got lost on the flight to Los Angeles last week. It didn’t fall out of one of the ball bags. It didn’t get traded, injured, or left at Logan. It was just never there.

So I can’t say I’m all that sad. Sure, I’m going to miss you and the way you ignore me all season. And I’ll admit. I thought we were on our way to Game 4. Maybe even a Game 5. There was a tiny shred of me that thought … maybe we do have one comeback left in us. But I guess that is what being a Red Sox fan is all about – remaining hopeful when everything’s gone to pot, and exhibiting sheer bewilderment when everything hasn’t.

Tito, I listened to the entire game yesterday. While doing laundry I caught myself murmuring to Clay Buchholz, willing his tiny shoulders to carry the load of Red Sox Nation one more day. Walking home from the grocery store I was that crazy person smiling to herself, throwing a tiny fist pump on the sidewalk – a passing celebration strangers around me couldn’t comprehend.

And then as I began chopping tomatoes in the kitchen I was suddenly flashed back to the dark days of old. I was yelling at my phone. Cursing at Pap. Wondering what would have happened if it was Tek behind the plate. And frightening my new roommates as I hollered at no one in particular.

Afterward, I sat alone and dejected in the living room staring into the gray sky above Golden Gate Park. I didn’t say anything for awhile. Eventually I made my way into the kitchen, rummaged around in the cabinets and gnawed on anything chocolate I could find. I opened the freezer and sucked on a spoonful of ice cream and continued staring into the nothing. My roommate emerged from her room and asked if I was going to be OK.

And Tito, the answer is yes. I found myself telling her it’s good for the kiddies. They need to learn that you don’t win a championship every year. That you don’t always deserve to. They need to learn that suffering is what being a Red Sox fan is about. You need to be able to watch your team fold in storybook fashion, hang your head in shame, gather the pieces of you that remain, dust off your cap and be willing to ante up again.

See you in April Tito.

Kristen

I said my final goodbye to the apartment on Lombard Street yesterday. My room was just a pile of cardboard boxes, taped and stacked pyramid style in the center last week. The walls were bare, save for a few nails dotting their surface; the only sign of life was a white bath towel hanging on its hook behind the door. Jack knocked and came in to give me our last hug as roommates. “We had a good run didn’t we,” he laughed.

And we did.

I will admit. I stayed a year longer than I thought I would. In the past 10 years I have moved 10 times. I know how to move. I understand the value of paring down your belongings. I do not worry about losing items that can be replaced simply by going online and entering a MasterCard number.

This move, I donated four boxes of books I always hoped I would read but never did. And now there are new authors I want to explore, other stories I want to hear, and new ideas I want to entertain. I do not need books lining my shelves trying to pass themselves off as things that have impressed upon me some knowledge or added some meaning to my life.

I set a box on the curb that contained some leftover books and a painting I should have felt worse about giving away. But to me, it simply said, I am sorry – and not, I love you. And to be honest, I do not really want to hear ‘I’m sorrys’ anymore.

I went on my last sunset run from Russian Hill and somehow I missed most of it. I was stranded in Pac Heights surrounded by mansions and enveloped by the hills when I could see the final throws of yellow cast between the trees. I realized it’s not as if I am leaving the city – so why get all sentimental? But I picked up the pace nevertheless. Yes, I only moved three miles. But I’m hoping the distance will bring a completely different experience.

When I first moved to the city it was not really by choice. Though living in San Francisco was something I had always wanted, it didn’t happen the way I wanted. Or at least that is what I thought.

Lombard Street was my sanctuary. It was kind of my last stop in California before packing up the Subaru and driving back East. And believe me that was a scenario I had played out a few times before. Whether during one of those meals when I could see my ex-manfriend wondering ‘Who is this person sitting across from me and how did she get into my home?’ or after another 14 hour day at the newspaper when I was cooking dinner for one and ignoring that tiny voice asking, ‘What are you doing here?’

I don’t hear that voice anymore.

I came to the city at a time in my life when I needed a shelter and distraction. It was fitting that I moved in with two bachelors. I met Jack on a night it took me 40 minutes to find a parking space in Russian Hill and nearly bailed on the showing altogether. What sold me was the tiny Christmas tree in the corner, the lemon tree outside my room, and the conversation I had with Jack about his girlfriend. I liked that he said the word ‘love’ when talking about her. Plus, it was the most normal of the 8 listings posted on Craigslist over Christmas and Emily lived five blocks away.

Jack and David were exactly what I needed at the time. They were strange boys. I couldn’t cry in front of them. So I ran. A lot. Asked for more work at work. And wrote. Started a blog. Then another. About three months after the breakup I began noticing other men. Not that they were attractive – but that they existed.

Over time, I came to start calling San Francisco home. But the apartment never really was. Maybe it was the emotions I came with and never fully unpacked. Maybe they seeped out of the boxes and took up residence in the garage. All I know is that they aren’t coming with me to the new apartment.

Last week I packed up my room throwing away bad photos, donating clothes and books written by academics I never fully understood or appreciated, especially if I couldn’t remember the endings.

My new room currently looks like a FEMA disaster area. I can barely see my floor. There is nothing on my walls yet and I remain in search of a proper bed frame. But, it’s the potential of the new space that excites me. I am grateful I didn’t not live with Jack and David (and later Karla.) Because it was a nice place to call home for awhile – even if I never completely moved in.

Lombard Street gave me David, who made me feel loved when I needed to the most, and who gladly killed all of the spiders in my room without question or smirk. The apartment gave me Karla, who is reading this and probably smiling as she always does, and finally, Jack, who isn’t reading this at all, but endured a number of toilet roll changing demonstrations and who gave countless hours of boy advice with much appreciated patience.

Yesterday evening when I returned to pick up the last of my things no one was home. And that seemed somehow appropriate. I cleaned out my cupboards, wrapped up my wine glasses, locked the door, and left my keys. I backed out of our driveway – managing to avoid killing any tourists still lingering at the top – and drove down California Street towards the sun. A good omen I think.

I just wanted to say thank you for doing what the Red Sox couldn’t do for themselves – clinching the Wild Card for them last night. We in Red Sox Nation really appreciate you doing all the work. Because we sure couldn’t! (And I’m not just saying that to be nice.)

It must have felt really awesome to watch a bunch of losers celebrating their inability to win just one game with champagne and goggles. Especially when you are just going to sit back and watch them get run over by a team whose cry to fame is a dancing monkey in a diaper. I’ll save you a seat in the playoffs right next to shame and embarrassment. Because I’m pretty sure pride and hard work gave away the rest of their season tickets last month. Don’t worry. It will all be over soon.

Anyhow, I just wanted to say we really appreciate your assistance in helping us make it to the postseason. We couldn’t have done it without you!

Besos,
Kristen

CC: Tito, Theo, John Henry, and every member of the Boston Red Sox save for Jason Bay and Victor Martinez. (You boys might want to pass on the next round of celebratory drinks. You two have a lot of work to do.)

I am deeply concerned.

No – you wait.

While you and Tony Massarotti are already off discussing who should start Game 1 of the playoffs, let me remind you that we still have to win six more in the regular season. And after losing two gimme games against Kansas City in what can only be described as a complete collapse of the bullpen I am not sure we should be discussing Game 1 pitching just yet. Let’s get there first.

And no – Jason Bay should not have to do it all himself.

Tito, let me recap what I have witnessed over the past week: premature celebration. Especially after wins against the O’s – a team whose last winning season hearkens back to 1997. Not to mention the Angels – a team so spooked about a potential series one match up with the Sox that the LA Times actually took time out of their busy schedule to stop chasing Brangelina to cover it. Call me high maintenance, but I’m not impressed.

Sure, Dice-K is back. But for how long? And what if he gets fat again? And Timmy Wake is a broken man. Be careful with him. He’s old. We need him to be a viable starter for at least another decade. Paul Byrd sounds like Papi right before he spiraled even deeper into his 0 for 149 slump. Manny Delcarmen has fallen off the wagon. And Josh still won’t talk to me. Not good.

Tito, last night Paul said he was “frustrated” and “won’t get any sleep.” Well, as a fellow insomniac, let me give him a few tips on how he and the bullpen can pass the hours of darkness between the time they stop whipping each other with towels in the locker room to printing T-shirts for the postseason.

• Do not count how many people you are disappointing in Red Sox Nation, instead, actually study the batters you will potentially face.
• Do not pray to God that he gives you the strength to pitch well, go talk to your pitching coach. He can actually help you.
• Practice your self-affirmations. Repeat after me: I am a pitcher for a Major League Baseball team. I make lots of money. I will show up for all nine innings.

And Tito, while you weren’t looking, yesterday the Yankees punched their ticket to the postseason while we’re still waiting in line haggling over who’s going to get the window seat. Seriously Tito, get everyone on board, make sure we don’t lose anyone’s luggage, and stand clear of the aisles. Let’s do this.

Hugs and kisses,
Kristen

PS. Please tell everyone to stop calling Victor Martinez V-Mart. That’s the best we can come up with?

I want to make amends. I want to come clean. Because I feel bad.

You see, yesterday, a coworker wandered into my office to talk about your performance. And I will admit, I talked shit about you behind your back.

HER: So, what do you think about Dice-K coming back? I hope his head is back in it.
ME: His head is not the problem, it’s his heart. He doesn’t care.

Maybe that is true. Maybe you have already given up on the team and the rest of the season. Maybe you did just get fat and lose your edge. But you know what; I’m going to give you another chance.

Because lately I’ve been feeling pretty good about life. Lately, I’ve been feeling … happy. For no particular reason. Well, for no reason I really want to share with you. (Nothing personal Dice-K, we just don’t have that kind of relationship … yet.) And perhaps a bit selfishly, being disappointed in you is kind of weighing me down. So let’s start over. Let’s move on. Let’s be … friends?

Dice-K, tonight when you’re on the mound and start showing the first signs of fatigue; when everyone at Fenway is expecting you to falter, just know that out of respect for our resurrected friendship, that I will wait until at least the fourth inning before calling for your head.

Hugs from your new BFF,
Kristen

Sometimes the only clarity you get occurs at 35,000 feet. Over patchwork corn fields and roadways carved through pine forests somewhere in Pennsylvania. When state lines are indistinguishable and you believe every big river you cross is the Mississippi. It’s during these moments when wedged between the window and an armrest that I actually consider where I am going.

I am not sure what it is about 3,000 miles and an additional 35,000 feet that makes it an appropriate time to reflect on your life. While I know exactly where I’m coming from, what is it that I am rushing towards at 600 mph? It’s usually after the first beverage cart rolls by that I begin considering whether I am on the right path. And not just the destination stamped on my ticket. But somewhere between New York state and Michigan I ponder whether I am really getting anywhere in the end.

I moved to California nearly 5 years ago for a change. I was nearing a breakdown living in Boston – a city I loved so much – and loved so much I had to leave it before I stopped. So I accepted a last minute job offer in the Bay Area, wrote the biggest I’m sorry letter to a newspaper in New Hampshire, and bought a ticket to a city I had never visited. And that feels like a lifetime ago.

In my past life I found love. Or something that resembled it. It was a life I enjoyed. But looking back, a life that I can’t believe was ever mine.

That life recently appeared uninvited and unannounced at my door two weeks ago. It showed up in severe capital letters in my mailbox and email. Told me I will always be its niece’s favorite and confessed it lacked good judgment when it left me. I’m grateful I already had my ticket booked to go home when my past life came back to visit.

It’s funny how it takes returning home – or at least the place where your mom lives – to remind you of where you’ve been, how far you’ve come, and much farther still you have to go. I come from a family that grows tomatoes. A family that mows its own lawns and each others when the day comes when they no longer can. A family of firm handshakes, grandmothers that know more about baseball and faith than anyone I’ve ever met, and an affection for lost souls. And whiskey.

I barely talked about my past life with my mom. I just sat on our back porch and drank good wine, watched Sox games on the local channels, played with the dog, and went on long runs by the Merrimack River. I considered – ever so briefly – getting my PhD in something, becoming a mediocre academic, and moving to Vermont to become a second rate lecturer at a small college where I run between classes.

After visiting the old people in my life I boarded a plane, ate my last Dunkin Donut, and looked out the window at New England towns I’ve never visited, towns I wouldn’t recognize even if I had, and felt that another change is about to happen. And this time I don’t feel the need to pack up and move to another time zone to experience it. Just maybe across the city.

I didn’t recall ever seeing the wind turbines we passed over on the flight back to San Francisco. I don’t think they were there when I first flew to the West Coast. The landscape is changing, and I am too. While I do not quite understand why this flight was different from those I made in my past life, I do know that I am finally getting somewhere. And I am returning to a city of new friends and old. A city that at least for now, I am happy to return to after exploring roadways and towns unknown.

Stop it. Whatever it is you think you’re doing – enough. I said I was sorry. And I meant it. Let’s move on.

Because you weren’t exactly being honest with me either. I’d call. I’d write. And what did you give me in return? Silence and four consecutive bad starts. Night after night I tuned in to WRKO wanting only the best for you. I made excuses for you every time people asked me, ‘What’s wrong with Josh?’ I lied for you! And afterward I sat in bed waiting for you to call me – tormented by your silence. And you couldn’t even lift a finger to send me a text! Not even a tweet!

Then the one game I’m back in Boston for that you pitch and I have to miss and suddenly you’re retaliating. 14 homeruns in five games Josh? You’re better than that. And I deserve more than what you’ve been giving me lately.

Look, I understand you are upset with me. But this isn’t AA ball. And I’m frustrated with you too. I don’t even know how to talk to you anymore. What’s with all these rumors about “working arm speed?” You say you’re not injured. You say nothing is wrong. You refuse my offers of a deep tissue massage. Fine. I admit. I don’t actually know how to perform them, but for you Josh, I’ll learn.

How do you think it makes me feel when you get on the mound, promise me great things, and then suddenly can’t perform? Are you tired? Is it me? Do you need me to buy more IcyHot? Just communicate with me!

Come now Josh. Stop acting like a rookie. No more head shots. No more silent treatment. No more long balls. This isn’t about location. This is bigger than me and you.

But in truth, I need you to put in some effort. I hear Penny threw eight shutout innings last night for the Giants. What’s it going to take for you to get your game back? Maybe you should pick up the phone and finally call me Josh. I’m here for you. And I think we can work it out. We’ve been through so much together in four years. Don’t throw it all away.

XOXO
Kristen

PS. Is this about the ring I mentioned I wanted? Because I meant the other kind.

Seeing as though I could not attend the game, I sent my mother in my absence. I told her to blow kisses to Josh and tell him I loved and missed him. He was hearing none of it.