A few evenings ago we went to a major league baseball game. At one point I was walking up the bleacher stairs by myself and got whistled at. By the mascot. I was walking up, he/she/it was walking down, and as we passed there was a distinct, if muffled, whistle.

Only moments later, the mascot came back to our section of the stands to give away free personal pan pizzas. As you know, I have a passion for the PPP. But unlike most people, I was not waving wildly for a pizza because I do not like to receive the attentions of mascots or others of the puppet persuasion. Frankly, they freak me out a little. Rob was sitting next to me, arms in the air in an attempt to score some pizza, and he nudged me and said, "Put up your hands and cheer so we can get a pizza! He whistled at you, so you'll totally get one. C'mon!"

Can I just observe here how eagerly my husband was willing to pimp out whatever sex appeal I may possess for the sake of free food? God knows what he would have suggested if they'd been handing out beers. Which is not to say I wouldn't have considered flashing my boobs if the pizza purveyor had been an actual person. I mean, it's PPP, people! But I absolutely refused to participate, for fear of what might happen if the mascot and I made eye contact. (Although how the hell can you even tell where a mascot is looking? They're freaky, I tell you.)

So we didn't get a free pizza but then we were craving one (which is the whole point of that giveaway) and so we had to go buy one. For $8. It was damn good, but nothing that small is worth $8. However, it was totally worth $8 not to appear on the jumbotron being groped by a giant birdlike creature made of shag carpet.