The day after St. Patrick’s Day is always an adventure. After crawling out of bed at the crack of noon, I was finally able to track down my missing car, which was parked for some reason on my neighbor’s patio. My dignity remains among the missing, lost in blurry memories of trying to kiss some obese woman’s butt because she had “Blarney Stone” written across of the ass of her sweatpants. But I’m not here to talk about the past.
The first spring day that the mercury cracks 60 means real baseball is just around the corner. I want to throw on a pair of cut-off jean shorts and my mesh tank-top with “Daytona Beach ’88” on it, and break out the Jarts and the wine coolers (sharp objects and alcohol is always a winning combination). But mostly this type of day just makes me want to be at Fenway, watching the game and occasionally glancing at the scantily-clad hotties in the stands. And ladies, this one’s for you…
