True Love + Baseball

Here’s the thing, I really love my boyfriend.

A lot.

I love him so much, that when he said, “all I want for my birthday is to go to the Mariners game and dinner!” I figured, suuuuure, why not? They suck (sorry, Ms) BUT I am always game for a $9 beer and some stadium popcorn.

Has anyone else noticed that I get popcorn everywhere I go? I won’t dive into the Trader Joe’s caramel popcorn that I eat half a bag at a time in my car because that makes it ok.

Plus, Boyfriend has been studying for his PE test a lot. So much that it didn’t matter what we did as long as it was something other than me cooking, cleaning and watching NCIS (even though I am ob-sessed). (HashtagActingLikeaHousewife)

If you are from the NW, you are likely very aware of the torrential rain we had this past weekend. It rained, rained harder and then stormed.

I went all Girl Scouts and layered up in my Zella Live-In leggings, two pairs of tall socks, boots, pink plaid button-up under my chambray under my black vest with a puffy hood under my men’s North Face used-to-be-waterproof jacket.

Plus, I had several packages of hand warmers, gloves, a scarf and fleece blanket on my person.

And when we went to leave my building, an older lady (my building has three type of people: older ladies, older gents and students) stopped us and said, “you know, I am going to a game myself how did you dress?”

So I told her.

Then she said, “it’s not like it’s that cold out.”

Um, thanks lady. It might not be “that” cold, but I am guessing that if you went with jeans and a sweatshirt, you might GET cold. Didn’t your mom teach you how to dress for the rain here? Did they even have rain in your day? Gah.

At that moment, this happened:


“It’s raining, babe.” – Boyfriend

Do you SEE THAT? My parking lot IS A LAKE. There were actual RIVERS rushing down the sidewalk during our trek (5 blocks) to the bus stop. At one point I vaguely remember yelling, “WATER IN THE BOOT” but my memory is blurred from the trauma.

Of course, by the time we actually got downtown, Boyfriend’s jeans were sopping and I was all, “I’m not affected by this because I layered well.”

We made it to the eighth inning before we had to leave to meet friends for dinner – and you’d never believe it, the Ms WON.

Since we were celebrating Boyfriend’s birthday, he was the sober-driver. By the end of the night, we found ourselves at a dive bar walking distance from his casa that I have deemed the best dive bar in the history of dive bars. It looks like a tiny barn from the outside but you walk in and it’s all hipsters and Cougars and single old men drowning their sorrows.


Naturally, I locked on to the gianormous poster that said, “HOME OF DAVE SHEA, FIREBALL’S BARTENDER OF THE MONTH” And when the bartender walked up and the guys ordered their ales or something normal, I was all, “ohmygod, are you?!” ::dramaticpauseforeffect:: “DAVE SHEA???

Now, Boyfriend is used to my dramatic antics, weird comments and odd sense of humor that I swear usually only makes sense to me, and this time was no different. He was gawking at me with this weird why-did-I-agree-to-this look that he followed up with a, “do you know him?” (I always run into people I know, maybe it’s a Seattle thing or maybe it’s a I’m-too-friendly thing. Who knows?)

Didn’t know him. His picture was on the poster. Duh.

Obviously my new bartender friend and I telepathically decided to be BFs (barfriends, patent pending) and we were off to the Fireball races.

Since the idea of shooting anything gives me the phantom-gags (verb.; a vomit-like reflex caused by the thought of something; Tequila shots give me the phantom-gags) I sipped on Fireball and decided that my next at-home party-project should be Fireball-soaked cinnamon gummy bears.

If you’re like me, you just thought to yourself, oh-em-genius.

And if you’re my Mom, you’re planning an intervention.