THE GAME IS AT 4:05PM . . . OR NOT . . .

It was supposed to run like a well-oiled machine, in the following easy-to-follow four concise stages:

1. I arrive home from Albany around 12:30pm on Saturday, check my email to make sure everyone's still on board for the 4:05pm Yankees game against the BoSox.

2. Take a one-hour nap to shake off any residual tiredness, then a leisurely shower and a chance to use the chocolate bean body scrub I acquired at Hershey Spa a month and a half ago.

3. Meet JC and JW, drive to the Stadium, meet C, settle in our seats a little early, have a preliminary brewskie, sing the national anthem, and watch the Yanks trounce Boston.

4. Head out to Angelo & Maxie's, where I would eat steak and attempt to be "one of the guys at the steakhouse after a baseball game" and try to come up with the best one-liners to counteract the power of C (cue: Darth Vader theme song).

That was how it was supposed to be. This is how it was, in eight sweaty convoluted steps:

1. Arrive home from Albany around 11:25am. Even driving within 20mph of the posted speed limit (me having been recently traffic violation de-virginized and all), I make it home from Newburgh about an hour faster than anticipated. I don't know what I was thinking.

2. I check my email, and there is nothing, except for some outdated messages from the boys, with content along the lines of "see you Saturday at 4:05pm at Yankee Stadium." Oh, really.

3. I take a one-and-a-half-hour nap, because, after all, I'm tired and road-weary and missing my own bed and have -- ahem -- several hours to kill before I would have to meet up with JC and JW to head out. Riiiiight.

4. My alarm goes off at 12:45pm, and I loll in bed in my semi-dark room, flipping through a People magazine and wondering what kind of steak I should order for dinner. I decide on a filet mignon, medium, with a side of creamed spinach, and a Heineken to wash it all down, when my succulent reverie is rudely interrupted by my ringing cell phone at 1:05pm:

C: Hey.
Me: Hey.
C: Is the game at 1:05pm?
Me: No, it's at 4:05pm.
C: Are you sure it's not at 1:05pm?
Me: I'm positive. 4:05pm.
C: Then how come it's on TV right now?
Dramatic Pause
Me: What?
C: It's on TV.
Me: Nuh-uh.
C: Yeah, it's on TV. I was just watching the pre-game with M, and it's on TV.
Me: But how can that be? The game is at 4:05pm.
C: The New York Times says it's at 1:05pm.
Me: Well, they're wrong.
C: The local paper says it's at 1:05pm.
Me: Really?
C: The internet says it's at 1:05pm.
Me: Oh, sh*t.
C: And it's on TV. I was just watching it with M.
Dramatic Pause
Me: Hello?
C: Yes?
Me, looking at the tickets: Oh, f*ck. It's at 1:05pm.

And so it goes.

5. I must say that quite impressively, I sped through a 3-minute shower, dried my hair in 4 minutes, even managed to throw on makeup (going out in public, after all), found clean clothing to wear, and hopped in my car. And I even remembered money, wallet, lip balm, and the tickets. Sigh.

6. Call up JW, struggling to get out of the curve in my driveway backwards with one hand (hello, NYS cell-phone law):

JW (knowingly): HEY.
Me (as perkily as I could manage): Hi! Whatchyou doin'?
JW (with a scornful chuckle): Well, what are YOU doing?
Me: Oh, nuthin'. Goin' to a baseball game. Wanna go?

Shamefaced, but now laughing hysterically (you know, to keep from crying hysterically), I dial JC:

Me: Hey.
JC: Yes?
Me: The game is at 1:05pm.
JC (ominously): I KNOW.
Me: Oh. Okay. Let's go, then.

Thankfully, I am greeted by laughter on all fronts. God bless their precious hearts . . .

7. Completely disregarding my recent de-virginization -- so to speak -- I trot along at a merry pace to JC's, honk rudely for the boys to come on out, and we make our way to the Stadium by a not-entirely-pathetic 2:30pm. We get there in plenty of time to: see the BoSox kick our asses; watch JC flirt with some random girl who was there with her boyfriend (jeez, talk about mojo); get a respectable sunburn on the left sides of our bodies; spill an entire beer on the floor and a quarter of one down the back of the guy sitting in front of me (not my fault, by the way); make friends with BoSox fans from Joisey; tell a year's worth of jokes about sticking around for the 4 o'clock game. Ha ha and ha.

8. Being guilt-ridden about my sudden air-headedness and complete incompetence in arranging the afternoon, I buy the boys dinner. Not the luscious steak dinner I had anticipated, but dinner nonetheless. C even keeps the big-head jokes to a minimum, although he gives poor JC heatstroke by making us walk aimlessly around the Lower East Side for nuthin'.

A quick drive-by to see M, and I am back in air-conditioned comfort, being terrified by "The Ring." I am never watching a scary movie with JW and AW again, and there will be no turning off of the lights, thank you.

Ah, to be me . . .