My sister and just-about-but-not-quite brother-in-law were in town for the weekend: both for the annual trip up to Camden Yards to see the O’s play the Red Sox (a game for which the Connecticut/Massachusetts contingent come down), and as a starting point for a trip to Providence, where they hope to find an apartment. Because pretty much as soon as they’re lhitched, they’re packing up their place in Boulder and moving northeast.
As it turns out, yesterday’s game (such a beautiful day for it, too) went into extra innings, but with friends coming to my parent’s house last night, half of us had to leave early to make sure the evening’s celebration could begin on time.
So, forgetting the copious amounts of chili and ice cream and beer I ate and drank Sunday evening, and all the peanuts I chomped on at the game, I am kind of mystified as whether I should be happy or upset with the price of hot dogs at Camden Yards.
Thank you? Thank you, concession prices, for keeping me from eating hot dogs to my heart’s content?
Or fuck you? Fuck you, concession prices, for keeping me from eating hot dogs to my heart’s content?
In any case, my really long walk Saturday morning no doubt came in handy, as of course I had a hot dog. (How can you go to a ball game and not have a hot dog? I ask you).
Last week I weighed in at 239 pounds, a gain of a pound and a half since the previous week. But today? 236.5, a loss of two and a half pounds since last week (but only one pound since week 11), and a total loss of twenty-two and a half pounds.