I just HAD to tell y'all about this one...
My son has played baseball for many years, and he's now good enough that it's getting serious. Playoffs are intense, and parents are no longer allowed in the dugout - my son probably likes this rule. Why?
"Son, do you need a drink of water?!"
"Come here so I can put some more sunscreen on you."
"Did you remember to go pee before we left?"
Anyway, another "rule" is that parents are required to help out in the snack stand at least once per season. OK, not too bad. But, every year, it never fails that The Hubs signs himself up, and then I end up actually doing the helping.
"Babe, I'd do it but I have to play first base coach today!"
Oh gee, thanks honey.
So this year, I again ended up in the snack stand. I was totally tapping into my 16-year-old self and my first job: smelling like hot dogs behind a hot concession stand serving a bunch of booger faced, generally rude little boys.
But here's where it gets good.
I was wrapping hot dogs, just minding my own business...and you'll never guess who walks into the stand with me. Like, right next to me. Like, he was so close I could reach out and touch (punch) him.
OMG. OMG. OMG. Ummm, remember to breathe, Tasha. He doesn't know who you are (unless he's googled "baseball dude" and, in that case, he'd see his picture on the very first page teehee).
If you don't know who Baseball Dude is, click the link above. It's a good fucking story.
Now back to being two feet away from him. He didn't even acknowledge me when he entered - no hello, no courtesy smile, not even a glance. What does this tell me?
Once an asshat, always an asshat.
If I had bigger balls, I would have said something snarky to him, maybe with an underlying hint to his email. But evidently my balls aren't that big. He strolled in, picked something up off the shelf (I didn't see what, I was too busy trying to hide my face and not hyperventilate), and walked back out.
Once the coast was clear, I felt a little guilty. Here I am blogging bullshit about a guy a don't even know; I even posted a picture of him...and he doesn't have a clue that I did it.
Oh fuck it. The guy's a douche. He deserves it.
So this one's for you, Baseball Dude. I imagine you're still writing nasty emails to lots of sweet, angelic housewives like me. And, as long as you continue to be an asshat, I will continue to write about you.
Maybe next time I'll get another picture...