It was a good weekend.
The Mister and I went to two -- count 'em, two! -- baseball games. We attended the Sounds' season opener on Friday and had such a bang-up time that we were compelled to attend the Easter Sunday game too. There was tailgating involved. And it was good.
A group of us got together at Greer Stadium and sat and ate and drank on Easter Sunday. There was lively conversation in between bites of baked ham and biscuits or swallows of bloody marys or mimosas. Every once in a while someone would make a passing comment about Easter or Jesus or The Ressurection or the Holy Mother of God or whatever, and we'd pause, wipe the crumbs from our mouths, look at our drinks, and sigh. Then someone would say that Jesus would have been all about the tailgating, and we'd agree and chuckle about the poor bastards who were reduced to spending the morning in church consuming the body of Christ. Then we would chew contentedly on our baked ham.
After the game we got the brilliant idea to continue the tailgating while the masses fought to exit the stadium. We sat and drank beer, ate ham (again), and marveled at our genius. This continued long after the parking lot had emptied, but we were not dissuaded. We continued with the drinking and munching because we were certain that is what Jesus would have wanted. But at one point I realized that my desire to wee would not be denied, so I told The Mister that we needed to head home. He didn't want to leave, and I didn't either. But something was going to have to give, and that something wasn't going to be my bladder. After a couple minutes, The Mister offered to move his vehicle back a few feet so that I could do my business behind it. And while this was a noble idea, I would still be exposed to anyone driving on Chestnut Avenue. The Mister solved this probem by providing a human barrier, allowing me to wee in peace. So there I went, taking a whiz on the rear tire of his car, marking my property just like a territorial chihuahua. Step off, bitches! This tire is mine!
We all experience life-defining moments. I can recall a few episodes in my life that, when I hear or see or smell something, take me back to that exact point in time. Of course there are the big things I will always remember, like when I got married or when I first saw my husband. But there are so many other things that, while they seemed insigificant at the time, I will remember for the rest of my life. Every time I smell sage I think of a particular Thanksgiving and my mother looking tired and cranky, stuffing a bunch of crap up the ass of a dead turkey. Every time I hear a certain Cranberries song I think about driving in the snow through Louisville, hearing only that beautiful tune and the crunch of snow under my tires. Every time I hear Laid by James I recall driving through Cincinnati singing that song as loud as my hoarse, hungover voice would let me. (To anyone who may have been within earshot: I'm so, so sorry that you had to hear that. Especially the yodel-y part.)
Anyway, back to the defining moment: I squatted next to the car, listening to the confused squawk of a young bird trying to sing along with Rob Zombie. The sun was shining on my face, the wind was blowing through my hair and the new spring leaves, and my long-suffering husband was herking and jerking to ensure that the humanity of Chestnut Street didn't see the exposed ladybits of his wife. And it was at that time, hearing my friends, seeing the blue sky, watching the birds, and looking at my beautiful husband working so hard to defend what little honor I had left, that I knew I was the luckiest bitch in the history of forever.
Yeah, it was a good weekend.
The Mister and I went to two -- count 'em, two! -- baseball games. We attended the Sounds' season opener on Friday and had such a bang-up time that we were compelled to attend the Easter Sunday game too. There was tailgating involved. And it was good.
A group of us got together at Greer Stadium and sat and ate and drank on Easter Sunday. There was lively conversation in between bites of baked ham and biscuits or swallows of bloody marys or mimosas. Every once in a while someone would make a passing comment about Easter or Jesus or The Ressurection or the Holy Mother of God or whatever, and we'd pause, wipe the crumbs from our mouths, look at our drinks, and sigh. Then someone would say that Jesus would have been all about the tailgating, and we'd agree and chuckle about the poor bastards who were reduced to spending the morning in church consuming the body of Christ. Then we would chew contentedly on our baked ham.
After the game we got the brilliant idea to continue the tailgating while the masses fought to exit the stadium. We sat and drank beer, ate ham (again), and marveled at our genius. This continued long after the parking lot had emptied, but we were not dissuaded. We continued with the drinking and munching because we were certain that is what Jesus would have wanted. But at one point I realized that my desire to wee would not be denied, so I told The Mister that we needed to head home. He didn't want to leave, and I didn't either. But something was going to have to give, and that something wasn't going to be my bladder. After a couple minutes, The Mister offered to move his vehicle back a few feet so that I could do my business behind it. And while this was a noble idea, I would still be exposed to anyone driving on Chestnut Avenue. The Mister solved this probem by providing a human barrier, allowing me to wee in peace. So there I went, taking a whiz on the rear tire of his car, marking my property just like a territorial chihuahua. Step off, bitches! This tire is mine!
We all experience life-defining moments. I can recall a few episodes in my life that, when I hear or see or smell something, take me back to that exact point in time. Of course there are the big things I will always remember, like when I got married or when I first saw my husband. But there are so many other things that, while they seemed insigificant at the time, I will remember for the rest of my life. Every time I smell sage I think of a particular Thanksgiving and my mother looking tired and cranky, stuffing a bunch of crap up the ass of a dead turkey. Every time I hear a certain Cranberries song I think about driving in the snow through Louisville, hearing only that beautiful tune and the crunch of snow under my tires. Every time I hear Laid by James I recall driving through Cincinnati singing that song as loud as my hoarse, hungover voice would let me. (To anyone who may have been within earshot: I'm so, so sorry that you had to hear that. Especially the yodel-y part.)
Anyway, back to the defining moment: I squatted next to the car, listening to the confused squawk of a young bird trying to sing along with Rob Zombie. The sun was shining on my face, the wind was blowing through my hair and the new spring leaves, and my long-suffering husband was herking and jerking to ensure that the humanity of Chestnut Street didn't see the exposed ladybits of his wife. And it was at that time, hearing my friends, seeing the blue sky, watching the birds, and looking at my beautiful husband working so hard to defend what little honor I had left, that I knew I was the luckiest bitch in the history of forever.
Yeah, it was a good weekend.
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