The Odd Broad

Foul Ball

Since my husband was very young, it has been his dream to catch a foul ball at a major league baseball game. 

Over our long courtship and marriage, every time we attend a game and have good seats, Hubby says, "Oooh, this is foul ball territory!"  And I always say, "Oh no, I hope no foul balls come this way! 

I'm no dummy; I don't want a broken nose.

Hubby and I tend to indulge one another.  I think perhaps this is why the two of us work so well together.  All day today I could think of one thing and one thing only: getting home, changing into comfy pants and snuggling under my green fleece blankie.  Instead, around 4:30, I realized I had the chance to go to tonight's Red Sox game and so of course I said yes.  I knew Hubby would definitely want to go, and I do try to make him happy whenever I can.

These seats were incredible, and free; we looked online and they run about $297 a pop.  And, not for nothing, but the foul balls were flying.  Roger, the man sitting next to us, bought Hubby an IPA and warned me to watch out for the lefty batters especially, because they were the ones who would hit foul balls into our seats.  I nodded and smiled as he lectured us, and decided to really pay attention.

Aromas of heavenly beef burgers and hot dogs were wafting up into my nostrils; I was really jonesing for some meat.  Let's face it, there isn't much for my currently vegan ass to nosh on at Fenway.  But I did decide on something after a while, and Hubby was closest to the aisle so he ordered for me.

"What was that you wanted?"  Jeff, our waiter called out.

"Hummus and a chardonnay," Hubby shouted.

"Huh?"  It was pretty loud, and Jeff was far away.

"Chardonnay!"

"Peanuts and a chardonnay?"

"Hummus and a chardonnay"

He would repeat it several times; would yell it, even.  And when a foul ball was hit directly into our particular section, and bounced off of the hand of the man sitting behind me, Hubby was passing Jeff the waiter his credit card and saying, "Hummus and a chardonnay, please."

And when the elderly man sitting directly in front of my husband snatched up the foul ball and pumped his fist in the air, Hubby was still saying, "Chardonnay."

He does try to make me happy whenever he can.  Yes, my husband was ordering me white wine and hummus while the old man in front of us caught the damn foul.  I felt...bad.  This may have been the closest Hubby has ever been to catching a foul ball, and yet...that hummus was really very good. 

Presumptuous Gratuity

What is more outrageous: The fact that (in this economy) a crappy Miller Light costs $7.25 at Fenway, or the fact that when I handed the surly woman behind the counter a twenty, she dropped three quarters into her tip cup and handed me back a ten and two ones?

What the?  I was...stunned.  I'm not going to lie, I was also a little tipsy, so it took me a second to do the math.

Now I'm a good tipper; a great tipper, even.  Hubby and I have both waited tables and no matter how broke we are, we always tip generously.  It's karma.  But having said that, I do like to be given the option, for crying out loud!  Let's face it, Sunday was laundry day and quarters are a hot commodity.

I took that bitty's picture with the malicious intent to post it upon the world wide web.  Oh yes, I roll that way. 

It wouldn't have bothered me so much if she'd have looked up at me, or acknowledged me, or carded me, even.  (I'm just saying...)  Furthermore, it's not as if she was schlepping a heavy tray of beer into the sunny stands; she was just standing behind a counter, chit-chatting with her coworker, pulling on a tap. 

Later in the evening, the dude behind the snack counter asked me for identification when I requested a Sam Summer and an overpriced hot dog.  He smiled and thanked me as he handed back my change, which I promptly dropped into his tip jar.  Nice boy.

Excitement!

Tonight.  The Garden.  Me, Hubby, and PAAAAAUUUUULLLL PIEEERRRCE!  (This only works if you read it in the voice of the Boston Celtics announcer.  He really has a way of elongating every syllable.)

If I were to be completely honest with you, Dear Reader, I'd have to admit that when Hubby and I arrived back home, the second the door was shut, I erupted into a boisterous "Raaaaayyy Allleennn!!...Rajonnnn Rondooooo!!...Kevinnnn Garnnnneeettt!!"  And I'm not gonna lie, it was a little weird.

My attire was unusually sporty.  I can't remember the last time I wore sneakers.  Hell, I'd forgotten I even owned a pair.  And I bought a Celts shirt especially for the occasion.     

We'd gotten our seats through my work and they were amazing.  We even caught glimpses of Lenny Clarke and a very large man in a fur coat whom we assumed was a famous something or other, since everyone seemed to want their picture taken with him.  (Hubby thought perhaps he was "Ghostface Killa," though I've never heard of this soul.)

When the dancers came on the court I just knew that from that moment forward, whenever we watched a Celtics game, I would be compelled to perform a routine during the commercials.  It was all I could do to not do jazz hands and vigorous arm windmills from my seat.

Although my favorite part of the game had to have been when KG's face appeared on the big screen, and he said, in true KG fashion, "Keep this mutha rockin."

Who knew I'd be such a basketball fan? 

Celtic Pride

The Celtics game went into overtime tonight and Hubby and I entered into a lively debate over Big Baby Davis.  For some reason I was insisting that #43 was Big Baby, even going so far as to declare I would bet my life on it. 

Hubby begged to differ and decided to prove me wrong by checking the facts online.  Turns out # 43 is Kendrick Perkins and not Big Baby, not even a little.  In truth, Perkins doesn't in any way resemble a big baby, more like the evil baby from the Simpsons, if anything.  And I call myself a Celtics fan!

So I was way off.  I will blame the Riesling.

For it's root, root, root for the home team...

Hubby and I just got in a little while ago from the Red Sox game.  It was by far the shortest commute home from a game we've ever experienced.

After spending the past eight years on the defense, at times even moved to tears over Yankees/Red Sox relations, it's surreal and wonderful to actually be rooting for the home team. 

This whole moving to Boston thing has been hitting me in increments; little by little I'm realizing we're not in Kansas anymore.  (And by Kansas I do mean Astoria, NY.)

The highlight of the evening had to be sitting across from the young man in the full body spandex Red Sox outfit.  (He was really letting it all hang out, so to speak.  Bizarre.)  He even had a hoodie with a hole in the top for his teeny tiny pony tail to stick out of.  Everyone wanted their picture taken with this guy.  "He's staying with ME!"  a man next to him proudly declared.  It was the weirdest thing ever.

Go Red Sox. 

PS: I will root for the home team, with abandon perhaps; but I will never, I repeat never wear a game shirt.  Pink hats and team tanks also fall under this category.  xoxo

The High Five

When did Hubby and I begin giving each other high fives?  We can't quite seem to figure it out, and yet it had to have been fairly recently.  Did these spontaneous hand slaps creep in during the Celtics playoffs, perhaps?  In any case we will be certainly monitoring this behavior from now on. 

In our defense, I blame the following: Ray Allen, Rock Band, and Mike Lowell.

AMAZING!

    Seriously, that was awesome.    xoxo

Real Tense Like

Last night we went to the Yankees/Red Sox game at Yankee Stadium.  It was all I could do to not call someone the "C" word. 

We sat behind a guy wearing a shirt that said something like Riverdale's Finest first annual Boston Sucks tour.  For his part, he was heckling females, cursing and shouting, and told someone her Boston shirt was booger green.  His lady companion, on the other hand, wasn't as classy.  While there was a quiet moment in the game, the two of them shared a moment of calm reflection: "I mean, at least we're being funny.  If this was Fenway they'd be being BRUTAL!"

Says the man whose girlfriend had been violently telling everyone to go fuck themselves for the past hour.  I think I actually snorted aloud when I heard that one.

Not that the Sox fans were behaving any better.  On the contrary, the highlight of my evening came when one Red Sox fan began hitting her gentleman friend in the head with her handbag.  Over and over she whacked him, the contents of her purse scattering everywhere.  This broad had a mean swing.  She didn't stop hitting, in fact, until she lost her balance and fell three rows in front of her.  After that the cops took her away.

As for me, I probably haven't worn a Red Sox T-shirt at Yankee Stadium since 2004.  That doesn't mean these games don't make me feel completely neurotic.  Although I did seem to calm down after my third beer and one gigantic stick of cotton candy.

Over the years I've made several observations regarding Yankees fans.  Not only can they be bitingly bitter but I also find they very often lack a sense of humor.  Basically they remind me of the disgruntled kid on the playground who snatches up his kickball and goes home. 

In closing, I blow a giant, collective raspberry into the face of every pinstripe wearing boob in town.  Except for our dear friends Mike and Maria, of course.  And that Jeter's not so bad, either.  xoxo

Yes!!

         

The Red Sox did it!!!!!  Again!  I can hardly believe it.  What a season.

I'm off to bed...while visions of Papelbon, Lowell and Papi dance in my head...

xoxo

Robbing the cradle?

On Tuesday night Bill Murray told me I was robbing the cradle.  Wait just a minute, methinks I should rewind a bit...

Hubby and I were at Shea Stadium for a Mets/Cubs game.  My charming Uncle Dan is friends with a Chicago Cub and arranged for us to have seats behind home plate.  It was fantastic!  After our crappy week it was nice to unwind and see how the other half lives.  This was especially lovely for me, since the only times I've ventured into the nice sections of ballparks things have usually ended...not well.  (As in, can I see yours tickets, please?)  This time we were actually legit.

It was the perfect night for a ballgame.  There were waiters taking orders and bringing food and pinot grigio.  (Well, in the upper deck I'm embarrassed to drink wine but I really felt I had the green light to do so in these seats.)

Around the eighth inning I noticed a familiar face over to my left.  Although I don't experience NY celebrity sightings all that much, when they do happen it's entertaining.  Like a couple of months ago when I saw Brian Dennehy walking down Fifth Avenue toting a tiny suitcase on wheels.  Out of respect I kept my mojito-hole shut, but a small part of me desperately wanted to scream, "I loved you in Tommy Boy!"  Because truly, I did.  (Though I'd be hard put to find the person who didn't enjoy that fine film.)

I wasn't always so reverent, though.  Years ago in Boston I was an extra (though they didn't end up using us) on a film with the guy from Pete and Pete.  These were in my bright-eyed Conservatory days and as I stood near him I heard myself utter, "Hey, it's Pete."  I received no response to this awkward statement and instantly felt like a dink.  Let's face it, that wasn't the proper way to address Nickelodeon royalty, or anyone, for that matter.  But live and learn, no?

Back to the familiar face to my left, who was none other than Mr. Bill Murray.  I know Oprah has said the only thing different about being famous is that more people know who you are, but...

Fueled on by copious amounts of pinot grigio and the burning desire to have an engaging tale to relate to you, Dear Reader, I tentatively approached Mr. Murray and said the following: 

"Mr. Murray, would you mind very much if I took a picture* with you?"   

"Oh, that makes me feel so homesick!"  He replied.  "Nobody ever just says hello, or introduces themselves..."

Woops.  I answered that, well, on an obnoxious scale from one to ten this was definitely a nine and then proceeded to introduce myself.  This led him to ask where I was from, what I did, and what I used to do.  He was extremely nice and down to earth.  I told him I loved The Life Aquatic and his Star Wars song was my favorite SNL skit of all time.  (Even as I said it I knew I was being awful and lame, but white wine tends to have that affect on me.) 

Today my friend posed a valid question, one that I've already kicked myself for not asking, which is what the eff did he whisper into Scarlett Johansson's ear?  Alas, in the hustle and bustle of the celebrity meeting, this worthy question did not come to mind.  I desperately wish it had, though, since the ending to Lost in Translation disturbed me greatly. 

"So who's your photographer?"  Bill Murray eventually asked.  "Oh, my husband," I answered. 

"He's your husband?  What is he, twelve?  You're really robbing the cradle!" 

"He's older than me!"  I retorted, slightly annoyed.  I should tell you my husband is sometimes described as having a baby face.  (Albeit a handsome, blue-eyed baby face.)  He looks young, his Dad is 51 and looks incredibly young, and I suppose there are far worse problems for the two of them to have.

Although, what the frigg am I, some ancient, cradle-robbing old crone?  I'll have you know my husband is a whopping 49 days older than me, Mr. Bill Murray!

"You're robbing the cradle!"  He said it one more time. 

What the?  Was I getting dissed by Bill Murray?  And should I feel bad about this?  And does anyone actually say dissed anymore?  I'm not sure I've ever used that word in a sentence.

Hubby, a huge baseball fanatic, started to talk baseball with Mr. M.  "Are you going to buy the Cubs?"  He asked. 

He said it's something he'd thought about, to which my husband replied, "Well, if you're looking for a business partner, I can put in five hundred, six hundred bucks..."  You've got to love that baby faced man.  I know I do.

Before we knew it, the game was over.  As we exited the stadium, laughing to ourselves at what a random evening it had turned out to be, Hubby spotted Mike Starr from Dumb and Dumber.  Seriously, is this what normally happens in the good seats?  We were dorks and snapped a picture* with him, too.  This Queens native was also extremely friendly.  (And my Brother in Law was totally impressed that we met The Gas Man.)

I had forgotten this, but Hubby reminded me that we've already been in the presence of Bill Murray over five years ago, when the restaurant we worked at hosted the NY opening party for the movie Shallow Hal.  There I was, serving up tuna tartar, chicken sate (those damned sticks!), and dying a little inside.  All I really remember about him was that he was wearing a bolo tie.  For some reason John Kerry was also at that party, and I can still recall the image of my ass-kissing ex-boss genuflecting to him and saying, "Senator, it's a pleasure."  (My old boss was an actor, they bow and stuff.)

So Bill Murray may think I look older than my husband, but I did not genuflect or say, hey, it's Pete!  At least I have that to hold onto.

All in all, it was an eventful evening.  Thank you, Uncle Dan!  And thanks to Matt Murton for giving us those fabulous seats.  What a nice guy.

Happy weekend to one and all!

~The Ancient Broad  xoxo

*In an effort to maintain my secret identity, and keep my lovely job, and not make my parents worry about their youngest born putting her image on the internet, I have refrained from posting said pictures.  Please use your imagination, Dearest Readers.  I do not look old, by the way. 

PS: My Parent's neighborhood have officially resurrected their annual tractor races...they're on for this Saturday.  Crazy kids and their wild parties!