In my last post, I had started yapping about my experience with the Boy at the All-Star Game and how I almost sacrificed myself to the elevator gods to save a couple of All-Stars. I decided to break it into two posts because I ran out of wine while writing the first.
I have more wine now.
So let me dazzle you with the remainder of my All-Star discoveries - things that you won't necessarily learn on ESPN. No. 1 involved elevators and how if you get your hand caught in one, All-Star baseball players will look at your blankly.
No. 2...Obscene amounts of money do not necessarily guarantee refined good taste.
My first day in Anaheim, I passed by a woman in the hotel who I assumed was one of the ever-present "cleat-chasers". Cleat-chasers are the women who inevitably show up wherever there are baseball players. They're in the bar. They're in the lobby. They're not hookers. They're just eternally optimistic that they will sleep with and/or marry a player.
This woman fit the usual stereotype...bottle blonde with an orange-y tan, cheap-looking vaguely slutty clothes, clumpy mascara. Like a former pageant wanna-be who was never quite pretty enough to get the crown and always had to settle for shit like "Prettiest Smile".
I didn't think twice about it....until I saw her at the brunch the next day on the arm of All-Star player followed closely by their two cute, but inappropriately dressed, children.
I know, I know. I passed judgement, applied stereotypes. I'm going to hell. Whatever.
But I wanted to sit her down. Explain to her that she had more money than she could possibly spend in one lifetime. She could get subtle highlights and a hairbrush to actually brush out the curls created by the velcro rollers. She could buy clothes that fit and shoes from Barneys, instead of from the Spearmint Rhino. She could find alternatives to dressing her children like pimped-out ballerinas.
But at the end of the day, she still has the last laugh. I can work my ass off from now until I'm 80 and I still won't have the kind of money that her husband makes in a year...or a month, for that matter.
Maybe I need a cleat-chaser makeover.
(Note to Boy...just kidding, sweetie.)
No. 3...All-Stars order room service like rock stars.
I have photographic evidence of this. The Boy and I stumbled across this discarded room service cart outside of an All-Star room the night before the All-Star Game.
That's pretty much it for the All-Star Game. Oh yes, and for those of you who were wondering what one does wear to an All-Star Game Gala in Southern California...
THIS is what you wear! Jeans...go figure. The Boy was right. Shhhhhh.