What's Your Fantasy?
My husband left town last night to go to Dodger (that’s baseball for those who are sports-challenged) Fantasy Camp. For a week. Now, you might think that I’m going to start ranting and raving about how typical this is, and about how unfair it is that he gets to go off and indulge in some stupid fantasy while I am stuck home with the reality of two kids and a nasty chest cold, but I’m not. I know, I know, it’s a bummer, because it would have been super fun. But the truth is, it was my idea. It was my gift to him, actually, for his thirty-fifth birthday. One week in Vero Beach, Florida, a/k/a Dodgertown, where he gets to pretend that he’s a genuine, Los Angeles Dodger (His own home and away team uniforms! A real baseball card with his picture on it! Double-headers every day!), with absolutely zero guilt about it from me. Yes, I know, I’ve outdone myself this time. But just because I promised that there would be no guilt, does not mean that there will be no ridiculing. See? And you thought this wasn’t going to be fun.
There are two parts to the back story. First, my husband played baseball in college, and he is, actually, quite good. As he likes to say, if he were just two inches taller, it would have been Michael Green, not Shawn Green. (Just nod here and pretend you know that Shawn Green is a thirty-five year-old Jewish guy from