It’s a good thing I don’t talk about jobs and stuff here because then you wouldn’t care to hear about a job I had during my summers in college.

I should probably point out that I’ve never held a retail or service industry job in my life. I never worked in fast food or at the mall or in a restaurant. In high school, I worked for my dad. My freshman year in college I was an usher for ASU football and basketball games, as well as Arizona Cardinals games. And I only did that because I got to usher Super Bowl XXX. After that, I worked in the media relations office in the athletic department. And sometimes I would work Phoenix Suns games. I didn’t do typical high school/college jobs.

I also had a job, during two summers in college, working for a minor league baseball team. I was an intern for the Kane County Cougars, who, at the time, were a Single A affiliate of the Florida Marlins.

It was kind of weird how I got the job. A lady that had previously worked for my dad, Heidi, somehow knew a lady who worked in accounting for the Cougars. And she just happened to be sleeping with the General Manager of the team, as I later found out. So I gave her a call, sent in my resume and basically got the job. I was hired to help answer phones and anywhere else they needed me. I was the low woman on the totem pole. My first few weeks I spent sitting in an office reading a book. And getting PAID for it.

After they figured out I could do other things besides read and answer phones, I spent most of the time working in the ticket office selling tickets and calling groups about their tickets and setting menus for the outings and doing a lot of the things I have done as an event coordinator in other jobs I have had since. But on game days, I basically helped wherever they needed me. I did any number of duties, including working the customer service booth, wrapping hot dogs, making snow cones, throwing cookies out into the stands in the 5th inning and pouring beer, underage I might add. (Actually, when I did pour beer, I was only allowed to pour until someone questioned my age. Even though I was close to 21. And I look young.)

I didn’t mind helping out. It kept things interesting. I hated the customer service booth because people are idiots. And I don’t know how many times I had to tell people “no, I don’t sell hot dogs/t-shirts/beer here.” And I once got into an argument/tiff with some other worker because I got to work the customer service booth, which was apparently a cushy job since I got to sit on my ass the whole game. And apparently I was the GM’s pet. Which they probably realized wasn’t true when I screamed at the GM in my second summer and quit two weeks early. (Funny thing? I have no idea what I was so mad about.)

There was one thing I hated about that job, one thing I prayed to get out of every game – trash duty. You see, in the minor leagues, you don’t have a team of people who clean up the stadium. You basically put your salaried employees and interns on that job. Everyone, including the GM, picked up trash after the game. And let me tell you it was one of the most disgusting things I have ever done. Imagine all the crap people eat and drink during a baseball game – peanuts, beer, nachos, soft pretzels, hot dogs. Now imagine all those things in one soggy pile. Now imagine having to pick said soggy, sloppy, smelly pile up and put into a trash bag.

I think I just remembered why I quit.

I got out of it more often than not. Because I volunteered to count ticket stubs, or clean up the ticket booths or because I was young and needed to get home and needed a nice man to walk me all the way to my car. (I can be very persuasive.) But the times I had to do it were awful. And I can never erase the smell of stale beer mixed with peanut shells from my memory.

Remember this next time you go to a baseball game and toss your peanut shells on the ground instead of in a cup. Some trash person will have to sweep that shit up.

Kirk invited me to go down on Saturday for the qualifying and practice rounds. I reluctantly agreed because well, I don’t much care for racing. And on top of it, I didn’t know what to expect. At the very least, I figured the stadium would sell beer and I would be able to cross “stand in the pit of a race” off my life’s to-do list.

So Saturday morning we headed down to the race track and I was prepared to have shirtless rednecks in RVs shoved in my face. Thankfully, we were VIPs and were in the pit and in the garages. So everyone had shirts on there. It was part of the dress code. (But didn’t stop me from yelling at any hootchie that walked by in a tank top or open-toed shoes that it was INAPPROPRIATE ATTIRE!)

It was one of the coolest things I have ever experienced. In my life, I’ve been to all sorts of sporting events and worked them or stood on sidelines. I’m a bit jaded when it comes to those things because I’ve been there and it isn’t new for me. Let me tell you, this was new. Not only do I not know a single thing about racing, I didn’t realize that today’s race was HUGE! And was the last race of the year! And was going to determine the winner of the points championship or something or other! And that Danica Patrick and Helio Castroneves were going to be there! And I totally know who those two people are! And Helio won Dancing With The Stars! And racers are tiny! And I got close enough to touch them!

Standing in the pit is so much cooler than standing on the sidelines because there is so much going on and it has to happen so fast and one small mistake can RUIN the whole race. We were only down there for practice, but it was still pretty cool to see them change the tires and gas up the car.

Kirk took us around to garage area, where they tweak the cars after practice and work out any kinks.

We hung out all day. We watched the qualifying, which is lame. They go one by one and just try to go really fast. I thought they would have to fake race and there might be crashes. But it was cool to watch. I should have gone to the race today because there was a fire! And some crashes! And a crash in the pit! But it probably wouldn’t have been the best atmosphere since Kirk’s team’s guy didn’t finish the race. Again.

But definitely was such a great experience and one of the coolest things I’ve ever done.

You can check out the rest of my photos here.

My Olympic fever has waned since swimming ended on Saturday night. I just don’t have the same passion for track and field and gymnastics and basketball and anything else. Those people wear too many clothes. And also? Track athletes could learn a thing or two about humility from the USA swimmers. It’s not all about you. But maybe, Usain Bolt, you of the gold shoes, if you could take off your shirt, you might be able to change my opinion. Just a little.

I clearly have an obsessive personality. Clearly. Google does not help this little obsession in these current times. (Current times? I apparently just morphed into an 83 year old woman.) Because now when I’m all “what is Aaron Peirsol doing TODAY?” I just ask Google and I’m flooded with images and then I see him smiling and those pretty blue eyes and photos of his well-sculpted chest and then I realize I HAVE A PROBLEM. (Possibly a job where I had something to do might stop me from doing this.) (TWELVE MORE DAYS! WOOT!)

This is not a new thing. I’ve had my Olympic obsessions in the past. In fact, there is one huge one that stands out and I’m embarrassed to even be telling this. (Between dropping a Star Trek reference Monday and a Star Wars reference Tuesday, I’m pretty sure this post is going to send me to new heights (or lows) of geekdom. It was nice knowing all of you.)

Back in the 1992 Olympics in Albertville, France, I had a Phelpsian/Peirsolian obsession with Alberto Tomba. Tomba was the rage of the winter games that year. Albertville was re-christened Albertoville for the two weeks. He was handsome and charming, a ladies man, a rule breaker and I loved everything about him. I lived for all of his races. He was Tomba La Bomba. All across France that year you could hear the chants of “Tomba! Tomba! Tomba!”

I was so obsessed that I watched for everything that aired about him and looked for everything that was written about him in the newspaper, in magazines, anywhere. In the Age Before Google, I had to rely on hard copies of news publications to get my news.

And get my Tomba news I did.

I cut out every article about him in the paper, every feature about him in the magazines. Anything written about Alberto Tomba, I cut it out and put it in a scrapbook. (Can you feel me wincing at my nerdiness through the screen? CAN YOU?)

I had an Alberto Tomba scrapbook. Oh yes. Yes I did. (*hangs head in shame*)

But he was just so cute and was such a bad boy and I wasn’t the only one who loved him. I swear. It was Tomba madness across the world!

And I’m really wondering why I even had friends back then. Or why I even have friends now. (Who will all be unfollowing me on Twitter by the boatloads once they read this.)

At least my mom will always love me. Even if Alberto never will.

:::

Don’t forget to leave a comment HERE and enter for a chance to win fabulous Bacon prizes! Contest ends Wednesday night!

I wanted to tell you about how I spent my weekend as a cat. How I got home Friday from work, earlier than normal, and took a two-hour nap. And how after getting my eyebrows waxed on Saturday morning, I came home and took a three-hour nap. And how I spent most of Sunday on the couch, alternating between reading my book and taking hour-long naps.

But then I was like well, yeah, people will believe that cats nap. But people won’t believe that cats would wax off their hair. ON PURPOSE.

And then I was going to tell you about the new business that moved into a strip mall on Montrose that I pass on my walk home from the bus. Apparently these people are mad about people passing by and looking in the window. So they put a note on the window that said “Dear people passing by, STOP STARING! WE ARE NOT A ZOO. AND WE HAVE GUNS.”

So I decided I would leave a note the next day that said “Dear asshats who decided to start a business in a strip mall that is MADE OF WINDOWS, they are called blinds. Or curtains. And guns are illegal in the city of Chicago. Don’t worry, I already alerted the police. You’re welcome. And we’re soooo glad you’re in the neighborhood.”

But then I saw they got blinds. And I was a little sad. Because I was proud of my note.

So then I was going to tell you about my growing obsession with the Olympics and hot, young swimmers. But then I didn’t think you needed to see that side of my crazy and how I kill time on nbcolympics.com looking at the bios of athletes. And reading up on my new boyfriend. Good thing I didn’t mention that.

And then I was going to ask if anyone else giggles that the swimming announcer’s name is Rowdy. And if anyone else thinks to themselves “R-O-W-D-I-E that’s the way we spell ROWDIE. ROWDIE. Let’s get ROWDIE. WOO!”

Just me then?

But I will tell you that crazy HR person from last week told me they would like to bring me in for an interview. And he said I should prepare for a FIVE-HOUR INTERVIEW. And he wasn’t kidding. And then I mistakenly asked if he was considering me for CEO because why would an Account Coordinator need to be interviewed for FIVE HOURS? And what can I tell them that I haven’t already told them? Because I’m wondering if there will be a lie detector and if I will finally give up in tears and yell out “I WAS FIRED FOR MY BLOG!” And then storm out of the room.

But then I figured no one really needed to hear any of this. Good thing I never mentioned any of it.

I prepared myself for what was to be a long day. One where a lot of beer was going to be flowing through my blood stream.

I’m very excited. And very squinty.

The game was at noon and the minute they opened that bar, I was there, flirting and chatting with the bartender making it known that I would be BACK THERE OFTEN. Because I was on a mission to drink as many beers as possible in the time allowed.

View from our rooftop on Waveland. Jealous?

Dora the Explorer threw out the first pitch. And then Carlos Zambrano came out of left field (literally) and snatched the ball away from her. And Dora yelled “Swiper, NO SWIPING!” And Carlos said “Awww, man!”

The Cubs were very good this day. They scored lots of runs. Do you know that that means? That means the game goes long and the 7th inning comes later in the day. Why is the 7th inning important? That’s when they cut off beer sales.

Cheers, Cubbies! Here’s to your offensive prowess!

The day moved along. The weather was awesome for a good chunk of the game. It was sunny and warm and I really am blindingly white and need to get some sun.

The Cubs scored runs and I drank beer. I chronicled the day’s drinking.

Schwerer’s cups left. My cups right. Yes, that would be my SEVENTH beer.

And then it was the seventh inning and we needed to STOCK UP on beer!

Yeah, that’s just for two people.

And then it started to drizzle water drops from the sky and we moved inside the building. And drank more beer. Here’s the final damage.

On second thought, maybe I’m not old. Because, dude, that’s 10 damn beers. That’s A LOT of beer.

Other highlights from the game:

• These guys sat in front of us

• Those names are not names of current players on the Cubs. In fact, 10 is retired because that was Ron Santo’s number.
• Getting your own name on jerseys is stupid.
• (Apologies to anyone out there that has that unfortunate problem with a jersey)
• As the sun went behind the clouds and the wind shifted off the lake, it got very cool on the rooftop.
• So I put on my jacket and buttoned it up.
• Some woman made fun of me buttoning up my coat.
• And then told me, because my coat was buttoned, that I must be from the suburbs.
• Which is like telling me I’m fat or ugly or *gasp* NOT FUNNY
• If she wasn’t old, I probably would have hit her. Or tripped her with her hands full of beer.
• Why would buttoning a coat make me from THE SUBURBS?
• After the game, the rooftop people were heading over to a bar down the street.
• We got there and it was PACKED. We couldn’t even move. So we decided to head to Sluggers, which is our stand by because it is so big
• It too was packed.
• So we left and walked a little further to a bar where no one was.
• Proving that I’ve turned into an old lady because I couldn’t even handle a crowded bar after TEN BEERS!
• We ended up grabbing a bite to eat and then Schwerer went to catch the bus and I hopped on the EL.
• But not before stopping at a candy stored and buying a pound of Swedish fish and other gummy candies.
• NOTE TO READERS: Do not buy bulk candy when you’re DRUNK.
• Especially at $8.99/pound
• So I ate my candy, took the train home and passed out on the couch before 6 PM.
• And proceeded to sleep until 9:45.
• And then went to bed at midnight because I was exhausted.
• After less than SIX HOURS of drinking.
• How on Earth am I going to survive in Vegas?

But I had a good time and I will be spending a lot more time at Wrigley this season. If only to prove to myself that I’m not an old fart who can’t go drinking after games because of the crowds. Wah.

Don’t worry, I’m ashamed enough for all of us.

I am going to be sure to ask Bacon his feelings on milk. Seeing as you either love it or hate it. I think it’s moo-riffic! 

~~~~~~

Now on with the show!

So back when I was living in Northern California, almost all of my friends worked in sports. It just happened to work that way. A lot of my friends were co-workers at the 49ers and my other friends were all old co-workers from the athletic department at ASU. Seriously, I moved to Cali in 1999 and three of the people I worked with in the sports information office moved up all at the same time the following year.

My BFF Julie worked, at the time, at the Pacific-10 Conference, which is located in lovely Walnut Creek. She worked in media relations and handled a myriad of things, but mostly women’s basketball. And the Pac-10 Championships for women’s hoops. Which are always held the week before the men’s in early March, right around this time.

Since she was so involved with the women’s tournament, she wasn’t required to work at the men’s tournament, which was held in Los Angeles. She was encouraged to attend and show support for the conference and all that bullshit. Being my BFF, she went down to partake of the free beer in the hospitality room.

In March of 2003, she asked if I wanted to come along. It is a short-ish drive from San Jose to LA, I had a free place to stay and did I mention that there was free alcohol? This kid (points to self) will drive just about anywhere for free brewskies. So color me drunk and I was on my merry way!

I get there late on Friday night, after jamming to Justin Timberlake’s first solo album, Justified, on my drive down I-5 in some of the worst fog I have ever seen. (And really, with all the booze I’ve consumed in my life, this is what I remember?) I get to the hotel just after the games have ended for the day and meet Julie in the hospitality room. I’m not actually even sure that I brought my bag up to the room or worried about parking the car. I might have sprinted to the free beer all while singing Senorita.

We have a few beers there and close it down. The Pac-10 is not stupid. They aren’t going to let media and tournament people drink for free all night. They have limitations. So we head across the street to the hotel bar at the other media hotel for the tournament. That’s apparently where the big whigs were staying. Ergo, not Julie and I.

After a few respectable drinks in the bar closing down that bar, and having my first, and last, ever tasting of Sambuca, we are invited up to the REAL hospitality suite. This is an actual suite and not just some lame room in the hotel lobby. This is where all the Pac-10 muckity mucks and the university presidents and athletic directors have been imbibing some libations during the week.

At this point, it is well after 2 AM, which is closing time in California. We have seen last call come and go. Apparently no one told the people in this suite because there was still plenty of alcohol. And the beer was being brought up by the case still after 3 in the morning. By the hotel staff. And I wasn’t one to argue law and statutes with the fine hotel people in Los Angeles.

We are all just sitting around, shooting the shit, discussing how this year every good team got knocked out of the conference tournament early and this is why we shouldn’t have a conference tournament, blah, blah, blah. We’re in LA! Let’s talk about celebrities!

As I’m sitting there, I see a guy I work with at the Niners. This guy is a douchebag. And he is a UCLA guy through and through. He actually worked for the Niners and commuted to LA every weekend. The people at Southwest knew him by name. He was on the exact same flight every Friday to LA and every Sunday coming back to the Bay Area. I wasn’t completely shocked to see him there. I was more shocked to see him at 3 AM and have him see me blitzed out of my ever-loving mind.

So we shoot the shit for a bit. And I of course ask him what he’s doing there. Like I mentioned, this isn’t some party you can get into off the street. There wasn’t a whole hell of a lot of people who knew where we were. You had to be in the KNOW. Invite only, bitches.

He tells me that he came with Steve. And he turns and point to Steve Lavin. Steve Lavin (photo) who, at that particular moment, is the head men’s basketball coach for UCLA. Steve Lavin, whose team just got beat in the Pac-10 Tournament mere hours ago. Steve Lavin, who I have had an irrational hate of for so many years. Steve Lavin is sitting there, in the same room as me, and I’m full to the brim with barley and hops.

He’s ripe for the picking.

Because I have no shame and am beaming with liquid courage, I work up the nerve to talk to good old Stevey boy. This, I’m sure, after several conversations with people I don’t know that probably went a lot like “dude, can you believe Steve Lavin is here? I mean, your team JUST LOST. Maybe be a little sad about it. And not all in a celebratory mood!” In fact, I’m sure it went a lot like that.

I think the guy from the Niners introduces me to Steve. And I make mention that we’ve actually met before, when he came to visit the Niners facility the year before when his team went to the West Regional in San Jose. He just looks at me like I’m crazy. (Little does he know what’s coming.)

But then I actually say, to Steve Lavin, a head coach at a major Division I school, a man pretty well-known across the country, who is just looking to unwind after a loss and not be harassed, since he’s in the comfort of a Pac-10 Conference hospitality room, I say “you know, I used to hate you.”

(I’ll let that just sink in for a second.)

Yep, I told Steve Lavin that I used to hate him. And let’s be honest, I was just being nice. There was no “used to ” about it. I still hated him.

He was taken aback, obviously. But I explained myself, through all the beer haze and the slurring of the speech. I told him that I went to Arizona State. And we suck in basketball. And his team always beats us. Ergo, I hate you.

Strangely enough, he said that was a valid reason. And didn’t even get up to run for the hills.

The next morning, as we awoke and groaned quite audibly because all that beer was coming back in the version of pounding headaches and dry heaves, the previous evening started coming back to me.

Me: “Did I tell Steve Lavin that I hated him?”

Julie: ”I think I puked in my sleep.”

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why we are BFFs. 

And it got me to thinking about how we have these images of our favorite athletes and celebrities.

Having worked in sports, I was privy to a lot of information because I knew a lot of people in the media who knew the real story.?And there were the ones of our own players that I would have cared NOT to know about. In the case of Jordan,?I was constantly being bombarded with tidbits about his um, habits and, um, indiscretions. And I would always stop the conversation before ANY INFORMATION was said. Michael Jordan is a God among men. And he can do no wrong. He does NOT gamble, he did NOT cheat on his wife and he is totally an upstanding citizen.

Well, unfortunately the news media did NOT listen to me. And they felt compelled to divulge this information to me. And you know what? Who cares? Because it doesn’t take away from anything he did on the court. And I’d totally sleep with him if he asked. So pretty.

It’s crazy how these normal people are built up in our minds. I told people tonight my story of meeting Mike Singletary. He was hired by the Niners about a week before I was let go. (Actually I just looked and it was 10 days.) As much as I hate, and hated, Mike Nolan, I was so excited for Singletary to be one of the coaches on Nolan’s underwhelming coaching staff. This was Samurai Mike! From the 85 Bears! Maybe he’d sing the Super Bowl Shuffle!

The weird thing is that in my mind, he was always going to be the larger-than-life Mike Singletary. The Mike Singletary?from when I was eight. I imagined he was about seven feet tall with muscles as big as my entire body. The man HAD to be huge! Even still today! 20 years later!

So on the day we hired him, I was so nervous to meet him. I had to go introduce myself. And I did, all prepared to tell him that I was such a big fan and from Chicago and was so excited to meet him and God 85 was a great year and the best team ever and do you know Jim McMahon? Pretty much everything you SHOULDN’T do as a PR person for an NFL team. At least if you plan?to get any respect. Especially as a woman.

But I don’t think I told him any of this. Because I? Was taller than Mike Singletary. Me! It damn near broke my heart. Image. Shattered.

Although I still think he is one of the nicest people ever and just hearing him speak made me want to strap on the pads and go out and win some football games for him. Even after the Niners had just finished 2-14.

And then I started to think about all my other Pedestal People. One of them is Jim McMahon.

Swoon.

He’s the punky QB. And the start of a long line of China Doll quarterbacks for the Bears (see: Rex Grossman).? And I don’t even think I can do justice to my McLovin for McMahon. At least in writing. And in the least embarrassing way possible.

I have read his biography more than 5 times. I used to wear sunglasses like his. I had a McMahon calendar (yes, they made them) and my room was covered in his posters. When he was traded to San Diego in 1989, I immediately became a Chargers fan. When I was ushering Arizona Cardinals games as a freshman in college, I saw him, from a short distance, during a preseason game with the Browns. I almost fainted from the pure joy.

And here’s the thing. He’s apparently the world’s biggest asshole. And I’ve tried to not hear these stories, but how can you think a guy who moons a camera is?the sweet, innocent type? Even I’m not that stupid.?But I’ll hear nothing of it. I know two newspaper guys who covered him in San Diego. And have some horrible, horrible stories. I won’t even let them tell me. Because Jim McMahon will always be King of Kristabellaland.

Jim McMahon is also a huge fan of beer. Which totally explains the attraction.

I’m quite sad about it. I had heard through some of the San Francisco writers that he was going downhill quickly, so it was a matter of time. But it’s always sad when someone dies. It’s even sadder when it’s someone so legendary. And also someone you were lucky enough to know in your lifetime.

I joined the 49ers in 1999, not too soon after The Genius came back to the 49ers to be General Manager. He was a good man. I didn’t interact with him too much, but he was always the consummate professional. He could have spit on me and I would have been OK with that. He was Bill Freaking Walsh, for Christ’s sake.

I wish I had some really great Bill Walsh stories to tell. But I don’t. I didn’t interact with him much as a GM. I think the one I remember the most was when I was brand spanking new. It was probably one of my first days. I was sitting at my desk, which was an island right in the middle of the room, and I had my head down. I looked up and there was Bill Walsh. In the flesh. And I was speechless (shocking, I know!) And he stuck his hand out and said “Hello, I’m Bill.” And all I thought was “DUH” but thankfully didn’t say it.

I was a big fan of Walsh’s because he knew what it took to run a team and he knew how to win. His eye for talent matched no other. He got it. Much unlike the current owners and management in San Francisco. And I heard all the stories about how he was so ruthless and could just be the biggest bastard. But you know what? He pushed his team to a level most football franchises will never reach. He was only the head coach for three of the 49ers five Super Bowl championships, but those were his players and his coaches that won the other two.

The man could turn one draft pick into four. And not just get more picks, but get quality picks and sleepers with those picks. And he invented the West Coast Offense. And that is why they call him The Genius.

It’s a sad day, but after battling such a sucky disease, I’m sure he is in a better place. Think of all the tail he’s going to get in the afterlife!

To honor El Genio, I decided to crack open a bottle of wine he gave us from his vineyard in Woodside.

Rest in peace, Coach. You will be missed.

Sometimes, jobs? They are a good thing. Besides helping pay the bills and all that. You know for the stopping you from drinking until 3 AM three nights in a row when damn, woman, you’re 29 not 22!

So my friend Lori was in town from Arizona this past week. She was here from Tuesday until Saturday. So you will see why I haven’t posted since Wednesday. Lori has been part of a few drunken escapades featured here. So if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

Wednesday night we went to the Cubs game. Lori, who is a huge baseball fan like myself, has ALWAYS wanted to go to Wrigley. So I figured I’d help her out and we’d sit in the bleachers. Since that’s a cool experience for a person who has never been. Or not. I’m not a big fan. (The bleachers. Not the Cubs.) Unless you get inside super early, you don’t get a seat. And you need to be really drunk otherwise you actually care that you can’t see a damn thing going on. (Good thing for me, I’m usually pretty sloshed.)

I got to Wrigleyville before Lori, you know to make sure that the drinks were cold and that everything would be perfect for her visit. I mean, if it meant sucking it up and sitting at Murphy’s by myself for an hour or so drinking beers, so be it. I am a team player.

But since sober KJ isn’t much of a let’s-strike-up-conversations-with-strangers-in-the-light-of-day kind of person, I just drank. The options were to A) start chugging so then I could start talking to strangers, B) hope a stranger would talk to me (which can be a little touch and go) or C) drink my overpriced Bud Light and send text messages.

I chose C. And Schwerer was lucky enough to be the recipient of such gems as:

• I meet the weirdest people. I just met this ticket broker. Who works on the side as a private investigator spying on married people that cheat. (Side note – this guy gave me his card and said to call and he’d give me free tickets. He also asked if my friend was “hot” (which she is) and when I told him she’s married he asked “does she cheat?” (NO!) Hence how the PI thing came up. I don’t think I need to add that he told me he’s a Sox fan. I think that’s assumed.)
• Lesson learned today. Can’t sit at a table by yourself and get up and get beers. Risk losing table. (Which? I did.)
• I’m going to text you commentary to put up on my blog. I just overheard “I texted you man. I felt all high tech.”
• I’ve gotten so fat my watch doesn’t like to be in the fourth hole anymore. Too tight.
• People still wear Tevas? (Yes. They do. Why?)
• Dude! My phone just blew up and shut itself off. (Should have taken this as a hint, no?) Also, my 5 key on my phone is all jacked up. I must type a lot of JKL.

Senor Beavis also got one that people wearing NASCAR jerseys (that said Earnhardt across the chest) should NOT be allowed into Cubs games.

After all this nonsense, it got interesting. There was this dude standing in front of me. He looked vaguely familiar, but most of the guys around Wrigley do. Plus, I can’t even remember most days if I remembered to put on clean underwear, let alone know where a guy looks familiar from.

That is, until this dude started talking. And I remembered where I knew him from! He is a consultant for Slapdick Consulting. (See what I did there? With the same initials and all? And seriously? Slapdick makes way more sense than Slalom. You know with all the skiing in Chicago.)

I think I saw a little bit of recognition in his eyes. But I could have been wrong. It could have been a little beer glow. Either way. I just laughed because I wondered “if he does recognize me, am I a cancer on the company? Because that? Would be awesome.”

And yes, I could have started talking to him. But really, texting people and giggling to myself was probably going to be way more entertaining.

Not soon after this, I got my liquid courage levels up and started talking to strangers. Well, just one. He was cute and wearing Crocs. I hate these shoes. Yes, I know they are sooooo comfortable. But people? They are U-G-L-Y. But since cutie was wearing them, I decided to ask him how comfortable they really were. (Cause I? Have mad game, fools.)

And then I realized why I should stick to texting. When I asked him, he’s all “they sure are comfy! Want to see?” And then he proceeded to take his bare foot, BARE, out of his shoe for me to try on. Feeling like an ass saying no, because I mean he was offering me his shoe and all, I put my bare foot, BARE, in his shoe for a hot second. (Teri, did you just throw up in your mouth a little?) OK, fine, I already knew they were comfortable. But I didn’t really want to be all “Um, I don’t know how they do it in Memphis, but we Chicagoans don’t much care for the sharing of the foot sweat and cooties.”

Thankfully, right then my phone rang and it was Lori. And she was here. Yay! So we had a drink at Murphy’s before heading across the street to the stadium.

The game ws pretty uneventful. It was a 1-0 win for the Cubbies (yay!) and Jason Marquis had a no-hitter going for some amount of innings. Which you don’t know when you’re sitting in the bleachers. Like under the scoreboard. And we missed the only run of the game, a home run, because we were in the feed line waiting for hot dogs and more booze.

But it was fun. We ate peanuts! Lori drank Mai Tais! (only non-beer option at Wrigley. And Lori does not heart beer. She so could never have been a Midwesterner. She’s not much of a meat fan either.) Lori got beer spilled on her! Good times all around. Pretty much a typical bleacher experience at Wrigley. She was christened in the name of Old Style.

After the game we went back to Murphy’s. It’s like close and shit. We had some more drinks. Ran into some people straight out of North Dakota, accents and all. They were from Bayer-Don’t-Call-It-Tylenol on some work trip. And I realized talking to them, that when I hear an accent, I immediately adapt. They think I adapt. It’s mostly mocking.

(And also, I think all those years drinking with Julie has turned me into a Minnesotan when I drink. I need to go drink in a bar on the South Side to regain my Chicago accent.)

We also met some dudes from Cleveland. Who, when told Lori was from Arizona, immediately asked about Oreganos. (Which will only be awesome to those who have been lucky enough to be there.) And we talked about the pizookie. Which was deemed by Cleveland man as “Sex in a Pan.” Which? Awesome. And so true.

We spent most of the rest of the evening/early morning with some dudes we met outside the bathroom. Some Tall Drink of Water stared at me coming out of the bathroom. Like full-on staring. And not the creepy old man up and down stare. You know, the My-Eyes-Are-Up-Here stare. But like locked eyes for like what seemed like a minute. Which? Also creepy. To which I replied “can I help you with something?” To which he responded with silence. Um, okay.

After we got our drinks I say “do you always  make a habit of staring at girls coming out of the bathroom?” And he said “only the ones that are really cute.” And then I melted into a puddle because I? Am world’s biggest sucker. And was also quite toasted at this point and he could have said “just to make sure they washed their hands” and I would have still made out with him.

Because did I mention he was tall? Like 6-5 or something. Tallllll! Which was when I realized that if you’re that tall, that’s about all I need. And he had all his teeth. Bonus! And my standards? Have gotten lower as I’ve gotten older. So Rich? There’s still hope for you yet.

And I just went on and on about one night (one!) in our drunken week. So you’ll have to stay tuned for the rest of the stories. Which are probably only funny to me and Lori. But did include a return to the site of the missing coat.

Must go now. To sleep. Because I only have 5 more days to be unemployed. (Yes, I am a little sad about it.)