The phone call I got this afternoon

"I was at the baseball game last week?"

Everyone's a comedian now.

Since Amy asked....

Here's Lenny. He doesn't know about the blog so he can't be mad. If I put Carl's picture on here, he would inundate my comments with awful stories about me.

Now I'M CONFUSED

I wrote the post about the guy I met at the baseball game, a guy named Carl. A man that I had a 3 hour relationship/chat because he was sitting beside me. He inappropriately commented on my underwear that apparently was the talk of Section 227 at the stadium.

I have a friend named Carl, that commented on the post. He is very funny.

THERE ARE TWO CARLS. It seems wrong, but there are.

Now my head hurts...

The two blondes and the story of Carl

Real Carl is a legend in our household. And not to ever be confused with Baseball Carl. I clearly need to provide some clarification regarding the last post as it has caused great confusion at Chateau Cookie.

Real Carl is like Waldo from the Where’s Waldo series. At any given party at Chateau Cookie, people who have heard about Carl for years are yammering to meet him. Usually Carl cannot make it due to travel for work (Benin—you know he has to be telling the truth because who would miss a party because he is in Benin). In fact, he didn’t make it to our wedding because he was in Bangkok for the week. Doing only God knows what.

Carl has weathered the times. Carl and I worked together at a place that really could have doubled as an insane asylum. He knows where all my skeletons are buried and has agreed to keep any and all locations under wraps. Carl has witnessed all manner of odd events, to include the New Year’s Eve dinner party where my gay ex-boyfriend burst into tears in the kitchen. This remains his favorite story to tell in mixed company. He is also known to cough up a good, “So there was this one time when Kristen was stacking dates with the three guys she was dating….”

So when I told the story about Carl from the baseball game, this caused great confusion with two of my favorite blonds. My blond husband and my best friend B, whose stylist Dennis works overtime to make her blond like Derek’s.

I was on the phone with B last night discussing the baseball post which she was in the process of reading when the following conversation commenced:

B: Carl was at the game? Did you know he was there? Where did he sit? Did you see him? Did you know he was going to be there?
K: What are you talking about?
B: Carl was at the baseball game and then he commented on your blog.
K: The Real Carl commented on my blog. The other Carl was just some Carl.
B: Carl was at the game?
K: No, the Real Carl was making fun of the Baseball Carl’s comment about my getting Derek. When you read what I wrote, you HAD to know that wasn’t the Real Carl. That’s why Real Carl made the comment on the blog.
B: Then who was Carl?

Ugh.

Later that evening, because the moon was apparently full for all the blonds, Derek started in on me.

D: Baseball Carl commented on your blog?
K: (thinking that perhaps he had lost what was left of his mind) What the hell are you talking about?
D: Carl from the baseball game commented on your blog?
K: Why do you say that?
D: Well, I overheard you tell B that …
K: (instantly cutting him off) You were listening to my phone conversation? You were eavesdropping? What were you doing listening to my conversation? Do I listen to your conversations?
D: You were loud.
K: (not stopping to even breathe) And how in the hell would Baseball Carl get my blog address? Did you think that while we were discussing my thong underwear I just scribbled my blog address on the inside of his hand? ‘Carl, if you like my thong underwear, you’ll just LOVE my blog.’ Are you crazy?
D: Well maybe he just came across your blog. You know Carl is probably surfing the net at work.
K: Just surfing blogspot.com, hitting the ‘Next Blog’ button and up pops Cookies Delight and the story of him at the game? Surfing porn, yes. Surfing Blogspot, no.
D: It’s possible.
K: Let’s not get into the statistical possibilities. Let’s just not.

What happens when your husband leaves his seat when you go to the baseball game

So we went to see the home team the other night. Never having taken the Boo Boo Kitty to a game, we figured the very end of the season was the right time to go.

It didn't work out so hot since the baby hadn't taken a nap, it was 90 degrees, and we were in the two seats that were still in the sun. We gave him an ungodly amount of baby cookies, but he was not going to be appeased. Derek said he would go and change him in the lav and maybe that would change his mood as well.

As he walked up the stairs, change dropped from the pocket of my shorts. I leaned over to get it and suddenly I was getting help from the peanut gallery.

"There's a quarter to your left."
"Looks like you have a penny under your foot."

As I sat back up, local government employee/"I-left-a-leave-slip-on-the-boss's-desk-in-case-he-notices-I'm-gone"/new best friend Carl leans over and says ...

"I know you got yo' husband by wearing them thong underwear, girl."

Oops. All my complaints about being a size ... and not being able to fit into my old clothes, my shorts are now starting to rest comfortably on my hips instead of my waist.

K: Well, you know how it goes, Carl. Girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do to get her a husband.
C: I know that's right.

With that he turned back to his conversation with his homies sitting on the row above us. Not two minutes later, Drunken Fool arrives.

DF: Hey there. Your husband told me that he had to leave with the baby and I was supposed to look after you.
K: (thinking that this was an impressive line coming from a man that had probably consumed, oh, about 9 Bud Lights) Really? You don't say?
DF: Yeah, I saw him leave.
K: Actually, I think he went to change the baby.
DF: You got HIM changing the baby?
K: That's right. How good am I?
DF: Wow. My wife tried that s$%^ on me when we had twins but I told her to forget about it.
K: Yep, I've got him right where I want him.
DF: Huh...

With that I graciously managed to get him back to his seat, unharmed by me, Carl or my returning husband.

Note to self: Don't wear the "everyday's-gameday" underwear to the game. No good comes from it.

Dirty Little Secret

After a weekend of winery tours, bellinis in stretch limos and gourmet meals, I settled in tonight to catch up on my latest vice--Filthy Rich Cattle Drive.

Don't think that the patheticism of my attraction to this train wreck of a show has escaped me or those closest to me. I was so enthralled that when the baby started to heckle the tv, I screamed at him to be quiet to I could hear whatever horrible thing was about to come out of Fabian Basabe's mouth. Fabian Basabe of Barbara Bush fame.

So many choices, I'll have to pick "I will never again feel bad for those less fortunate than me." This was said after he spent 4 hours failing to properly read a topographical map that clearly showed where the object of his search--Coke--was located. As the son of a "wealthy Ecuadorian businessman" who seems to have made his money from some indeterminable manner, I'm guessing that "Coke" would be pretty easy for Basabe to find. The only thing shocking was that he was unable to contact someone with a helicopter to pick him up so he could look for the bucket from a vantage point whereby he is most comfortable--above everyone else.

Will Alex Quinn save himself for Brittny Gastineau or will he continue to pass the time with Courtenay Semel? Will Fabian continue to threaten to sue everyone and to make random calls to 911 when he gets pissed off?

Will I ever get a life?