Oh, Billy.

So I'm dog-sitting, again, for Bill Hall's neighbor. It's become one of my favorite past-times, and not just because I run around the five-level condo pretending I'm Marilyn Monroe. But also because there's a big-screen television and two bitty dogs to smoosh regularly. And Bill Hall of the Brewers lives on the other side of the wall. Not to mention Gabe Kapler, who lives about six walls over.

As I'm cozying up to Olivia the Chihuahua at about 11:30 last night, I hear a car outside. I was keeping an ear out because I knew eventually Bill'd have to come home after last night's (CRAZY GOOD) game at Miller Park. And I'm a stalker.

But it wasn't Bill. It was one of his, uh, women. Parked in his parking spot, waiting. No Bill, cell phone in hand, cleavage perfectly proportioned. She was a thick girl, lots of makeup. And she just sat there. Didn't turn the car off.

I made sure to note it was a different car than was parked in the spot the night before.

About 20 minutes later, after I was convinced this woman was just a random groupie hoping to get a piece once Bill returned, in pulls Bill in his fancy SUV.

It took me a minute to get over the "OMG THAT'S BILL HALL OF THE BREWERS RIGHT THERE OMG," but once I did, I continued staring. Mind you, this entire time I'm sitting on the floor in front of the window, spying.

Hello, Bill. I stalk you.

Sure enough, Billy pulls into the garage, groupie gets out of the car, grabs a bag from her back seat, and swaggers her way into the garage, boobs and all.

Doors close, lights turn off, the end.

Her car was still parked in the spot this morning, so I trust they went right to sleep after drinking milk and eating cookies after Bill's big game.

Obviously.

(An aside: I have been informed as to the location of Ryan Braun's condo, and the type of car he drives. I can see his condo building from my front door. Rest assured I will be the woman camped outside that building selling lemonade for the remainder of the year.

Surely Braun drinks lemonade because it fits perfectly with the image I have of the Jewish slugger. I dream he's a good-natured, mama's boy, who returns home at night to call his mother, drink a glass of water and retire for the evening. After prayers, of course.

True story. Don't ruin it.

Also, HE KICKS ASS. Did you see last night's grand slam? Le sigh.)