As I sit here gazing at my complimentary Phillie of the Month calendar, a problem occurs to me: they’re all fully dressed.
What happened to equal opportunity, women’s liberation, and all the hints I sent last year? My husband buys a subscription to a crappy car magazine and gets a calendar with Marisa Miller scantily clad in a dozen seasonal plunge bras. I spend hundreds on a season ticket package and get a calendar with pictures I can find in my kid’s baseball card collection.
Is there no such thing as equal perversion?
Anyway, that brings me to the part of this blog where I have no segue whatsoever. Actually I could say that brings me to the topic of my article: what I want to see before I die, but that would be faking it—and that’s something my husband says I do well.
Unlike most bucket lists, mine isn’t composed of death-defying acts of irrationality like skydiving. I don’t need to do something daring—I gave birth naturally. I don’t need another adventure to end with, “What the hell was I thinking?”
I need a list of things that when I’m at the pearly gates, St. Peter will recognize me and say, “Oh, God, you’re that woman who…,” and I’ll proudly nod my head as he blushes and discovers that I’m still clutching the piece of Jayson Werth private attire I snatched in my last great act of defiance. But he’ll have to roll the dice to try to pry them from my rigor mortised hands. Then I’m gonna find Harry Kalas and we’re gonna watch the Phils from the best seats in the house without ever having to miss a pitch because we had to pee.
Now, when I thought about the organization of my list, I considered bullets or numbers or possibly an alphabetical arrangement. I even tried little Shane Victorino silhouettes but I couldn’t get them to stand still. So I settled for the rant. Not only is the rant my favorite form of communication, it’s possibly the least effective one.
In that case, it’ll work quite well. I’ve been accused of many things but no one’s ever suggested I make any sense at all.
Without further ado, here’s my list:
First, I want a nickname like one of the baseball greats. Wait a second… My husband says I have one. It’s a five-letter word that describes who I am when I whine and rhymes with the thing a player does when he takes the mound.
That’s touching, honey.
But I want a name like, Babe, Shoeless, Lefty, Whitey, or Beauty. Hold on… My husband has a suggestion. He says try Wrinkly, Saggy, or Whacky. Thanks. I’ll not only look like one of the dwarfs, I’ll be named after one.
Where were we?
Oh yeah… I want a private autographed session with the Phillies roster and I want each of them to sign a part of my body with a tattoo pen. Then I want a mural of the stadium after the Phil’s clinched their 2008 World Series win painted around my middle so at my viewing everyone can turn my naked body on a rotisserie to find where they were sitting.
I want to catch a Carlos Ruiz walk-off home run.
I want to see Mary Poppins jam Metallica at Karaoke. I’d also like to know why the hell we call it karaoke. And just once, I’d like to be able to spell it without looking it up.
I want to find a Jayson Werth thong in a box of Cracker Jacks.
I want to use a bidet.
If there are Seven Wonders of the World, I want the Philadelphia Phillies to be the eighth and I want sex so good it’s the ninth.
I want my dog to learn to poop in the cat box and I want my cat to puke in that box too.
I want Cliff Lee back. He compLEEtes me.
I want my husband to accept that “shit happens” is a viable excuse for everything.
I want someone to use Born to Run as their at-bat song.
I want Davey Lopes to pat me on the ass on first base. Wait, I think that qualifies as third base.
I want to make so much cash I can sing a song about kicking the snot outta my ex while I’m named after a harmless pastel.
I want to write a blog so controversial I get chastised publicly on ESPN.
I want to understand why people put “Travel the world over” on their bucket list when actually they should write, “Ask pour unsuspecting locals to take a picture of me in front of everything.”
I want Herbie the Dentist to extract all of Glenn Beck’s teeth to make him stop spreading malice so peace can become America’s second favorite pastime.
I want Kevin Costner to give me a long, slow, deep, soft, wet kiss that last three days.
I want a bench player to have another unassisted triple play, Jayson Werth to steal his way around the bases, and Joe Blanton to hit a closed-eye home run—all in the same game.
I want Tom Verducci to write my eulogy and I want Charlie Manuel to cater my wake.
Most of all, I simply want Mitch Williams.
And expect to get it all because I have, as someone once sang, high hopes.
That brings me to the most important item on my list. I want to die like Harry Kalas. I want to be doing what I love to do when I have the big one. Wait. My husband says he has my big one right here. Well, if it’s like any other day, it’ll be just a few minutes before I can pass away.
When I die, I may not go to heaven, but Citizens Bank Park is as close as I’ve been.
In the meantime, see you at the ballpark.