The Cure for a Trade Hangover

by Cindy Falteich

There was a sign over my grandma’s stove that read:

KISSIN’ WEARS OUT

COOKIN’ DON’T

Even at a young age, I knew I was in trouble. At five, I’d done neither. Now I do neither well.

Speaking of things I do poorly… I’ve been blogging for almost three years. 

That’s a year longer than my husband has experienced satisfying sex.

Okay, maybe I’m giving myself too much credit. That’s at least two years longer than I thought he’d experience satisfying sex.

It’s a sad state of affairs when you have the propensity to do well but your performance has slacked off.

In some parts, it’s a common phenomenon known as marriage.

In others, it’s the 2012 Phillies. The team would be set if there was a Viagra for major league baseball players.

Well, technically, I guess there is. Just not one that helps them round those bases.

As a result, Ruben Amaro, Jr. felt the need to shed payroll. And Shane Victorino and Hunter Pence were sheared like sheep. Before you know it, I'll have nothing left to do but think of my husband when we're having sex.

How could I forget the day Hunter Pence came to town? Twenty-four hours later I was kicked off the community blog site that had embraced me like a stray cat that was pissing on the shrubs.

And all I did was use the word “titties” in context.

I wonder if I can put that on my tombstone.

I’d say epitaph but it sounds like I need a bath.

Hunter, I’ll remember the day you arrived like it was only a year ago.

Wait. It was. That’s probably why it feels like it. Let me see if I feel anything else.

Sorry, my husband says I can’t share that.

I told my teenage son, who knows everything, about the trades. He said, “Schierholtz?”

It might be helpful to tell you he didn’t say it as an inquiry—it was more like the inflection he uses when I tell him to put down his Victoria’s Secret catalog during dinner.

Like this: “Schierholtz?!”

Or the same voice I use to answer my husband when he says, “Want to have sex?”

Like this: “With you?!”

Maybe I could put my husband on the trading block. I could get some young prospects, cash and a lay to be named later.

Wait. That was a Freudian slip—just like the one my husband had the night my son was conceived.

Maybe the problem is Ruben Amaro, Jr. thinks I need some upgrades. Just like the makers of Viagra who think there’s something I need enhanced.

Man, were they wrong. Like I want someone who doesn’t interest me to want more of what doesn’t interest me about him. Now, if they really wanted to spice up a relationship they’d invent a pill that makes something glow in the dark.

And just like a Glowstick you’d have to whack it to make it work.

Or they could dress my husband’s tool to look like something that excites me—like shoes. Have you seen how they design women’s heels to look like a duck or a tux? What if they made a johnson that looked like a shoe?

Now that’s what I’d like to see for a Ladies Day giveaway at Citizens Bank Park.

Unrelated: Is it still called porn if no one watches?

Wait, I got that messed up with the tree falling in the forest thing. Too many phallic symbols in this blog.

What if they had sponsorships for husbands? Like Red Bull’s support of wakeboarding. Only my husband’s sponsor would be Frosted Mini Wheats. Or since that industrial accident, we could say Frosted Mini Wheat.

Maybe I should just suck it up and get my mind right about these trades. Then I could put it back where it belongs: in the gutter. What’s wrong with me? I haven’t even stalked these new arrivals and I’m acting like they’re all virgins.

Wait. That’s not such a bad thing. Let me try again. … I’m acting like they’re all… Wow, they’re men! What more could I possibly want?

I know: previews. I want a trailer of each new player. Just a simple YouTube video. I’d even direct. Imagine scantily clad ballplayers prancing around in cute heels. Two of my favorite things in one place!

I have a better idea: I could make a “Call Me Maybe” video for the newbies:

Here I am

I’ll love you baby

Those other guys

They call me crazy.

Don’t you listen

They’re just lazy

Don’t call the cops

Just say,” Maybe.”

My fear is that the exceedingly poor team performance has overshadowed the possible career years of Carlos Ruiz and Juan Pierre. What scares me most is Carlos is in a contract year and nothing is being leaked.

Well, when I sneeze it’s a different story.

Juan Pierre is the guy who just can’t find a permanent home. He’d be a beloved everyday contributor to any team if someone would just have a career ending injury.

Or get traded to a team that’s a contender. Face it, both Victorino and Pence went on to greener pastures. Maybe it’s Pierre’s time to shine.

He could finally have a Viagra moment.

Hey, is that product placement?

My husband says, “No, that’s what I did on your honeymoon.”

Suddenly everyone’s a comedian.

See you at the ballpark.

Check out my new website or stalk me on Twitter.