What I lost in thigh sweat, I made up for at dollar burger night.

Ohmygod, you guys.  Today, Mike and I went to the freaking HOTTEST baseball game ever played.  82 degrees at Busch Stadium, 10 rows up from 3rd base= me wanting to do a stripper dance with a garden hose.  And as it turns out, a t-shirt can ACTUALLY serve as a wick that funnels armpit sweat down one's back/butt/thighs.  


I sort of lost the will to live for about four innings, until Mike made me climb 45 flights of stairs (I ALMOST killed him), and parked us in the shade of the nosebleed section--right above home plate, at the exact altitude in which planes turn off the seatbelt sign.  It was glorious, especially since we won with a hit in the bottom of the ninth; but mostly because the sweat from my thighs had stopped puddling in my shoes.  


Blogworld, my parents are here for a visit, and that typically means that Mike and I are packing in all kinds of activities--but damn, I am old, and after four consecutive nights of wine drinking I feel a head cold coming on, and perhaps, an entire day spent reading Fifty Shades of Grey.  And with that, I am turning in for the evening, and bidding you adieu...until tomorrow, when I tell you the story of how our family of eight turned into high class hobos on a passenger train.


TRUE. STORY.