"A hot dog at the ballgame beats roast beef at the Ritz" ~Humphrey Bogart

So I took Shem to a baseball game last night. Sometimes it's surprisingly easy to make a woman happy -- you'd think I'd figure it out more often. Men can be so stupid sometimes.
But anyway, the ball game...

Her eyes got all lit up like a little kid, and she got progressively more excited in direct proportion to our proximity to the stadium. When we got there, she immediately showed me around to all of the vendors and her favorite spots to sit and how she used to sneak in without paying how much fun she had when she was younger. Gone are the days of hot dogs and popcorn at the game. Now you can buy a gourmet brat (that's "brat" as in "bratwurst" not "brat" as in me when I was younger) with all the fixings... or a deli sandwich on wheat with guacamole and red peppers... or an authentic Mexican smothered burrito. And then my sweet darling introduced me to the most amazing thing ever invented:

It was a wonderful night for everyone involved. Except the players, of course, who lost. But what can you do?






Although, as a postscript, I have to say that at every baseball game I have ever gone to, more than half crowd sings the darn words wrong. It's supposed to be "I don't care if I never come back." Never. If you never came back from the ball game... you wouldn't care. If you're going to sing about living the dream, at least get your dream right. Sheesh. To quote my favorite blogger: "There is no excuse for ignorance in the age of information."