I’m excited that the baseball season is in full swing. My husband was so bored in the offseason, I had to fake a bladder infection just to get some sleep.
At first, things for the 2010 division champs looked promising: The February 15th Philadelphia Inquirer headlined the sports page with a picture of the five aces—an upgrade from the “Bought and Paid Four”.
There they sat with name plates in front (like those were necessary) and the words “Spring Training” and the familiar “P” logo splattered across the back like Christmas wrap. Smiling in Phillies red and displaying a surprisingly low level of male pattern baldness, it was a picture I pondered cropping to make a border for my bedroom.
Then again, I ponder a lot of things. Like if I change my profile picture on Facebook to a shot of my backside, does that make it Buttbook? I also wonder why I continue to buy bras—I question the necessity to house something I don’t have.
My husband says the same thing about my skull.
Hey, at least I don’t claim to use something I don’t have. After 15 years of marriage I wonder why men were given a brain at all.
My husband says I shouldn’t talk: I’ve made it this far without boobs or brains.
That's no secret. If you've read this far, you already know that. I compensate by being a natural blonde. Says so right on my box of hair color. Which is why my train of thought about men housing sufficient brain tissue should be followed closely. I don’t know when this stream of logic will stop dead.
Okay, maybe "logic" is too strong a term.
Let’s call it "thready rationale".
After an unfortunate logging accident, my husband is proof that one nut supports the irrational thought pattern of two. For instance, after losing a nad he was clocked going 92 in a 45.
This makes me question where the headquarters of rational thought actually occurs. And since this proves that guys really only need one, why not tuck all the brain tissue necessary to sustain life into the other sack and free up their skull for storing important things—like beer, cheese steaks and porn?
And if the average person uses only 10 percent of a brain, then all the smarts of a true American male could occupy the space of the average testicle. And if that’s the case—and one ball will do the job of two—what if through evolution a man’s brain occupied one side of his tool while all the testosterone he needed was produced by the other?
Hey, is that the transitive property?
Then getting flashed by a guy would tell you instantly if you were in for a great roll in the hay or a long night of Sudoku.
Funny how a kick in the groin will deem a man useless but a knock to the head only leaves a lump.
My husband says if my brain was stored in my boobs, I could name them Dumb and Dumber.
Then when I strap on my bra, I’d be putting on my thinking cap. And right away you could tell I suck at Sudoku.
That gives me an idea for a new promotion for Citizens Bank Park: Small Breasted Women Day. We’d celebrate the fact that we have any at all.
Hey, it’s better than MILF Day. That’s where I thought I’d promote my new game: Pin the Brain on Cliff Lee.
By now you’re probably thinking the same thing I am: What the hell was my point?
Oh yeah, the Phillies. Let’s recap the season (with all the words I know or less):
Roy Halladay had 29 consecutive scoreless innings. Like me, he'll never admit to reaching 30.
While watching American Idol, my husband discovered that Jennifer Lopez is not the anatomical term for a woman's butt.
Chase Utley played a few simulated games before his much anticipated return. I have a simulation I'd like to play with him. Wait. Guess you could call that a "stimulation."
In honor of the royal wedding, I'm looking for a body part to name “The Duchess.”
Pete Orr-eo was sent back down. I can't believe he won’t be the sweet vanilla frosting between my chocolate cookie infielders anymore. I feel naked.
At one point this season, Raul Ibanez was 0 for 34. My husband says he knows how he feels. He had a dry spell in April too. At least Ibanez got batting practice.
Now here we are nearing June. You know the season is well under way when the disabled list reads like my Amazon Wish List and the batters are in a scoring slump that rivals a toothless redneck.
Or my husband.
It shouldn’t be such a surprise that, in this season of the pitcher, even the Phillies have won games without an offense. Their scoring slump is a concern, but not as urgent as when the smoke detector signals that dinner is done.
I try to tell my child that “Mom is cooking” is not a valid reason to call 911.
Even so, Phillies fans are so prevalent at opponent’s ballparks that the volume of cheers for Phils’ feats mirrors the Hyundai slogan in their new ads: "It's more than an event--it's a movement."
Hey, my husband yells that same thing from the potty.
And with that image in mind, he wonders why he’s scoreless.
Did I mention I applied for the MLB DreamJob? When I wasn’t considered, I made my husband review my application to see what I did wrong. He said I should be happy I wasn’t arrested. Apparently it’s inappropriate to request a live video feed of the men’s locker room as a contingency of employment.
I really thought I had a shot. When I submitted my video, I tried to stimulate what men think is the ideal telecast by a woman and pointed the camera straight at my breasts.
I wanted to see if the camera really adds ten pounds.
My husband says HD is high density, not special effects.
Well, if you’ve read this far, I commend you. I don’t even know what I’m talking about so if you do, please don’t hesitate to share it with me. Together, we’ll show the world what happens when you teach rednecks to punctuate.
See you at the ballpark.
Special thanks to my friend Jimi Mack and my dad for their contributions.
Stalk me on Twitter