So where was I?… So we’re at the baseball game and the poor little tour guide guy is trying to make us go to the Hall of Fame exhibit… which we normally would have loved to see, except we’d been wandering around in the hot for HOURS (I was so thirsty I sucked on a nickel). So my dear Chuckweasel says to the rest of the group: “Sorry if this sounds extremely alcoholic of me, but we’re gonna go get a beer.” And that’s why he’s the one, ladies. As for me, I didn’t stay with the damn group when I was 15 years old in a country where I didn’t speak the language, I sure ain’t doin’ it now!
So we go get a beer (which they fill from the bottom of the cup in a fascinating manner — if you get a chance to have a “Bottoms Up” beer, do it, it’s neat-o) and we wander over to the little pavilion-y area. And that’s when I decide it would be an excellent idea for me to try the Vertical Leap measuring thing (they’ve got all sorts of stuff like that at Great American). So I watch what all the other… kids… are doing: they run up on it, then jump up and smack the wall. Cool, I can do that.
Actually, no I can’t. The reason women do not, as a rule, play professional baseball can be summed up in one word: boobs. I jumped up and slammed my poor boob into the wall… which also had the effect of slowing down my jump through drag coefficient.
So I walk back over to the table where Chuckweasel is laughing at my pain (as usual) and he proceeds to explain to me that 1) As it is a VERTICAL Leap measuring thing, I should not have run up at all and would therefore not have hit my boob and 2) I had compounded the hilarity of my actions by walking all the way back over to the table holding my boob as though it were an injured sparrow. Chuckweasel is mean.
But I DID promise to tell you the very best part about traveling with Chuckweasel, which will make all of you line up to be our Sister Wives. MOST people, once they get within a certain distance of their destination, will not stop for food based on the argument that “we can eat when we get there.” NOT CHUCKWEASEL! As we head into Northern Kentucky, he immediately puts me on Skyline Chili Patrol, but they’ve pulled back or something, because we don’t see one until pretty close to Cincy. And I say, “There’s one, do you wanna stop?” and Chuckweasel looks at me like I’m crazy and says “YEAH we’re gonna stop.” And we did, and went through the drive-thru, and ate our coneys in the parking lot like a pack of ravening wolves. Then we continued on our way.
More food tomorrow: Cheesecake Factory and the Jesus Canneloni!