STAIN ON MY PANTS . . .

I attended two of the three atrocities known as Yankee baseball games this past weekend. Sigh, sigh and DAMNIT! Jeter is 0 for 25. WTF?!?!?! Posada, the only run-producer for this lame-o team, was NOT in the game on Friday. WTF?!?!?! Stupid Manny keeps on whacking the big ones against us. WTF?!?!?!

Nevertheless, there was a major highlight of the weekend (aside from spending quality time with C and Cheech and my fellow agonized Yankee fans): being part of MJ's first baseball game EVAH.



Yes, my friends: C brought his 7-month-old boy twin to the game on Saturday. A perfect day by all accounts -- sunny, warm, breezy. There was no alcohol in the left-field bleachers, but that was probably for the best anyway. It gets rowdy enough back there during Yankees-Red Sox matchups. And with MJ there, we wanted things to be as peaceful as possible.

HE LOVED IT! From the moment we met up with Cheech and his pal, MJ was reaching for the Italian sausages, the cold cans of beer, other people's jerseys (apologies to the man in yellow whose back MJ kept rubbing). I do believe he even watched the game at times, when he wasn't napping or staring up at the sky. People around us adored him and he melted even the cold, cold hearts of the dastardly Boston fans sitting around us (although of course, we did not let them touch him. Ew. Boston.)

I am also proud to say that although I am waaaay past the age of buying senseless souvenirs, I came home from the game with two: two big ol' sloppy stains on my pants, one on each leg. Smart C left one of MJ's bottles in the car, and of course MJ chose SATURDAY to decide he wanted to eat every hour on the hour. After the poor dehydrated tot sucked down one bottle in record time at the bottom of the 3rd inning, C was left to rely on his wits. His wits led him to purchase an unsalted pretzel (a STALE unsalted pretzel which no adult in his or her right mind would ever put in his or her mouth), which served as MJ's pacifier for the rest of the game. When MJ decided to wave his arms about (in indignation at the crappy pitching, I'm sure), the globs and globs of gummed pretzel predictably landed on laps and feet everywhere, including my own. Ew.



Saturday, despite the shameful loss (to be followed by another shameful loss), was perfection. MJ avoided sunburn; my nose did not (although it has now faded to a perky glow, if I do say so myself); I did not get sick on hotdogs, cheese fries, Cracker Jack and beer, like I did the last time I was at a game with Cheech; MJ had no poo emergency; we were surrounded by excellent fans, including one gentleman whose favorite phrases were "hit the ball, you dopey bastard" and "nomar is wicked injured!" and "it's wicked hot out here, I need a wicked beer!"; and I got a strawberry milkshake from McDonald's on the way home.

I love my nephew MJ. I love my friends and my brother. I love sunny perfect days. And you know what? Sigh ... I even love those dopey Yankees. I hope the dopey bastards start winning some games soon. I hope I can continue to afford Yankee tickets. And I hope MJ will look back on these and other photos and appreciate that his auntie sacrificed a perfectly fine pair of pants for him.