Stress Free is A Good Thing

I snapped this shot with my phone as I left work tonight. It's amazing how loose you feel with the knowledge your team is in the playoffs with 5 games left to play.

Fall is coming, the Sox are the AL Wild Card, and for the next week or so I can be stress free, at least when it comes to baseball.

Now, about those three kids, wife, job, bills, etc............

LET'S DO IT!

Never has one flipping game seemed so far away. And as I type Big Papi just drove one to the deepest part of Fenway with a double and maybe, just maybe another miracle is left inside that magic place.

Bluto had it right. It wasn't over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor and it ain't over now.

The only question is can my heart take much more.

I guess we'll see.

Maybe this is just God's way of getting me ready for October?

Did we win the Wild Card already?

Beckett doesn't pitch tonight due to "back spasms." Which in my mind is code for "we're setting up the rotation for the playoffs and if he goes tonight it means Paul Byrd next week".

Which is all well and good, except for the small matter of WE HAVEN'T CLINCHED THE WILD CARD YET.

Yes, I'm aware it's two games and the odds of it not happening are akin to Jared from Subway marrying one of the Kardashian sisters but still; stranger things have happened.

So Beckett sits, Bowden pitches, and because I'm home alone with all three kids while Ang plays "Bunko", whatever the heck THAT is, I have no idea what is really going on but all I know is it's 11-3 Toronto in the bottom of the 5th inning and I've got this really bad pressure building right behind my left eyeball.

Does anyone know if that's a sign of an impending stroke?

I was looking forward to a week or so of relative "blah" when it came to baseball. Flipping over to "Hell's Kitchen" without worrying I'd just jinxed the entire team tomorrow night or checking Discovery to see if I could happen upon a "Deadliest Catch" marathon on Saturday.

But NO. They seem bound and determined to make my stomach sound like a garbage disposal stuck on high for the next week and I guess I shouldn't be surprised.

It is the Red Sox after all, and after all these years I should have realized this one fundamental thing.

They don't make anything easy.

Some Days It Doesn't Pay To Get Out Of Bed

Spent the day with Ciera, who we found out yesterday has strep throat.

Rakes and Trot are seemingly intent on seeing me into an early grave by ignoring everything I say and are apparently trying to turn me deaf, based on the volume they've been generating the past few days.

The Red Sox got swept by the Yankees this weekend, who just so happened to clinch the AL East in the process. Yes, the Red Sox are going to win the Wild Card and yes it was sort of inevitable, but it woulda been nice if it could have happened against another team than Boston. But hey; until they prove they can win in October this century, it means about as much as a Spring Training game.

To top it all off? The Detroit Lions won their first game in their last 19.

To the Redskins.

I'm starting to wonder if I'm cursed.

Oh yeah; There aren't any more curses.

Some Days You Just Can't Win

If you'd have told me Daisuke would have gone 7 innings and given up just one run before I knew the result, I'd have bet Rakes and Trots trust fund (All $187 dollars of it) that the Red Sox would have won.

Thanks to CC looking like Bob Gibson, most of the Sox resembling statues and a botched run down play in the 8th inning that looked more like the Bad News Bears than a Major League team and after 3 plus hours the end result was another Red Sox loss to the Yankees.

Mind you, in the grand scheme of things it doesn't really matter. The Yankees are gonna win the AL East, the Red Sox are gonna win the Wild Card, and it's all a crap shoot after that. Even with the win today, the season series is 9-8 Boston and the best the Yanks can do is tie.

Which tells me this; we weren't as good as we thought we were early and they weren't as bad. For the last 6 years or so the season series has been just about dead even.

The big numbers? 2 World series for the Sox vs. none for the Yankees in the last 8 years.

And when it's all said and done, isn't that what REALLY matters?

Scoreboard.

I'm strapping myself in and getting ready for the ride.

Let the 2009 playoffs begin.

Down goes Crabby. DOWN GOES CRABBY.

Watching your #2, possible #1 pitcher go down like he's been shot after taking a come backer off his leg isn't exactly the way you want to spend Friday night.

I admit it; I saw 6 months of gibley busting effort flash before my eyes for a few minutes while Crabby lay on the mound writhing in pain. However, he got up, SORT of walked off, and according to the x rays there is no break and disaster may have been averted.

Meanwhile the Sox have made it a game thanks to V Mart and Papi and it's 6-3 in the bottom of the 6th. This is Red Sox/Yankees and I'm expecting nothing less than a 5 hour grind fest with a 83% chance a brouhaha breaks out and Bill Lee jumps out of the stands while DO screams "IT'S BILL LEE! MY GOD, ECK! IT'S BILL LEE AND HE'S MAULING JOE GIRARDI RIGHT BEFORE OUR EYES!"

Or maybe I just watched too much WWF back in the day.

All I know is it's gonna be a wild ride from here on out.

And I can't wait.

Welcome Back To The Place You Once Belonged.

*Image courtesy of Kelly and www.sittingstill.net* (I think. I've REALLY gotta start a folder for all her stuff someday, just so I can keep it straight.)

This post is in response to all the folks who were saying Big Papi was done, a product of PHD's, or just plain washed up.

Not only does he have a million dollar smile and a heart of gold, he also has 26 Home Runs and 89 RBI as of 9-24-09.

Mind you, that really doesn't seem all that impressive. But when you consider he didn't hit his first HR until the month of July and leads the AL in bombs since then and you've gotta AT LEAST consider the notion that the reports of his demise were a tad premature.

If you're still in doubt, let me ask you this one question.

If you were a pitcher on the staff of the Angels, Tigers, or Yankees and someone asked you what would be going through your mind if it was the bottom of the ninth, bases loaded, and David Ortiz was coming up to the plate?

If you didn't answer "I'd wet myself" 9 out of 10 times I'd be shocked.

The Large Father is back.

Just in time for October.

You can't say the man doesn't have impeccable timing.

Ang is the Rally Monkey. Or Something.

One minute it's 2-0 Royals in the bottom of the 4th, Ang sits me down to tell me about her day, and before I know it the score is 6-2 Red Sox and I'm doing a really bad version of a jig in the kitchen while she gives me a look that is part pity and part pure horror.

Who knew that listening to her talk about her deranged students and their headinthesand parents would result in such positive news?

Seriously, if I'd have known THIS could happen I'd have paid attention to her a long time ago.

I'm a man of few talents; I can't sing, can't dance, and you wouldn't wish it upon your worst enemy to see me attempt both at once. I have a 2nd graders grasp of grammar, am completely lost in trying to help Ciera with her math homework, and couldn't point out the Red Sea on a map if you gave me a GPS and cliff notes.

But I can watch tv and listen to Ang tell me about her day better than Carl Lewis can run the 100 yard dash. In fact, if they made multi-tasking an Olympic Sport I'd have more Gold Medals than Michael Phelps and can pretty much guarantee you wouldn't see pictures of me smoking doobies in some college dorm a few months later.

If and when the Red Sox clinch a playoff birth I'll sit her down and explain why she's gonna have to tell me, in great detail, about every single detail of her day, right down to what she ate for lunch and at what time.

We've been married for almost 17 years.

I'm sure she'll understand.

And even if she doesn't, she'll give me that slightly bemused look where she wonders if I've finally lost it then grins that beautiful smile to let me know that she understands I'm insane yet it's all OK.

Is it any wonder why I love this woman with all my heart?

October baseball is just around the corner.

And Dane Cook can bite becks tweeter.

I live for this.

Too much thinking can give you a headache.

As I sat in the funeral home today, my arm draped around Ciera and Ang one chair away, I listened to the minister talk about my Uncle Ed and wondered how in the world had the last 39 years gone by so fast?

My first memories of my Uncle are him smoking his pipe at my Grandparents house when I was around 6 and everyone I knew and loved was still with us.

Flash forward 33 years and I've got 3 kids of my own, both sets of my Grandparents are gone and today marked the 2nd Uncle in the past 2 years that I've seen buried.

Meanwhile, I blissfully go along living my life and raising my kids and trying not to think about the mortality of my parents, siblings, spouse, and children while I rage against the machine at the Yankees, people who drive too slow in the fast lane, and why every channel on tv has to got to commercial break at the exact same time, leaving me flipping through 300+ channels in less than a minute while my blood pressure surges toward Defcon 5.

Yes, I realize I'm rambling. A funeral, lunch consisting of Chili from Wendy's and supper from Long John Silver's combined with Rakes and Trot having a "who can talk the loudest" marathon from 6-8:30 usually will do the trick.

But funerals tend to get me thinking, and for some reason during today's service I imagined what would be said at mine.

I came up with the following.

He loved his family and adored the woman he married. He loved his children so much it hurt sometimes. He loved his friends, his Red Sox, and he tried to do the right thing at all times.

Maybe someday I'll do something great like help find the cure for cancer or end racial strife or figure out a way to find a decent parking spot at the mall without blowing my stack but I sort of doubt it.

And if I don't do anything earth shattering in the next 40 years and the best they can say about me is 2 paragraphs above?

I can live with that.

My Lunch With Royalty

This picture was taken 2 years ago on Ciera's 9th birthday, back when Dad was the coolest man she knew and boys and middle school and bullies on the bus were just some random words.

Today, she's 11, in the 6th grade, and while she still doesn't talk to any boys on the phone, my question of "So, you meet any new boys today?" has gone from being answered "Gross, Dad" to "Daaaaaaad." said in the most sarcastic way possible.

So yesterday, in a moment right up there with high profile moments of totally unexpected things like the Statue of Liberty being on that beach in Planet of the Apes, the entire series run of LOST and how in the world did Al Roker get his gig, the following conversation took place between my daughter and myself.

Ciera: Dad? Would you come eat lunch with me tomorrow?

Me: (After falling off my chair and stammering for a few seconds) Of course I will.

So I found myself at 12:06 today in a lunch room full of pre-teen girls and boys, all talking a mile a minute and trying to figure out who the new kid with the goatee and ball cap was. Ciera let me keep my arm on the back of her chair the whole time, tolerated me shooting my best serial killer glare at any male who happened to glance our way, and even talked to me the whole time about how her day was going.

When it was time to go, I figured I'd get the old "I'll see you later, Dad" while she maintained a distance of 3ft 6 inches away; instead, I got a bear hug around the waist, a kiss on the cheek, and 3 "I love you, Dad's." I couldn't have been more shocked had I woke up this morning lying on the pitchers mound at Fenway Park.

Throw in the Sox just swept the O's and are in Kansas City, the Yankees are in Cali to play the Angels, the AL East is down to 5 games, and come Friday it's Sox/Yankees from Fenway with the possibility the Sox could be in first place come Monday?

I'm positively giddy.

Don't Stop Believin'.

*Image courtesy of Kelly and www.sittingstill.net*

One minute I'm out to dinner with Ang and Jr is texting me it's 3-2 Orioles.

Next thing you know we've picked up the kids, it sounds like Space Shuttle Endeavor is attempting to land in my living room, and the Sox are back ahead 4-3.

In the time it takes me to put the boys to bed, do my "Post-Putting the boys to Bed Yoga" (which involves Qualudes and copious amounts of Boone's Farm more than any actual, you know, Yoga) and slip on my smokers jacket and pipe, it's 11-3 Sox, JD goes opposite field yard and Brian "Thank God Tito Isn't Anything Like Ozzie" Anderson has one as well.

I realize it's the O's and also realize me, Rakes, Trot, and a drunk hobo from Jersey would have a good shot at hitting against that 'pen, but still; 9-1 in the last 10 games and cruising toward the Wild Card slot with 4 against Kansas City and 3 in Gotham next weekend looming.

I'm not conceding anything other than Youk is hands down the sweatiest man I've ever seen and Trot couldn't find the toilet if you gave him a map.

I want the AL East, home field advantage, and President Obama to issue an Emergency Presidential injunction stating Tim McCarver and Joe Buck can't be within 50 square miles of any form of MLB Playoff coverage this year.

And until Tito tells me otherwise?

I'm Keeping the Fair.

And We Still Go Merrily Rolling Along

For some reason, I can't get blogger to upload a picture but it's all good.

Clay was dealing tonight, Pap was Pap, and the Red Sox beat the O's 3-1.

By my feeble calculations that makes the season series 14-2 Red Sox, with two more to play.

14-2 in a baseball season is the equivalent of the Redskins beating the Cowboys 7 times over a 10 year period. Or Rakes beating Trot in Old Maid 14 out of 16 nights, whichever you prefer.

'Course that last scenario would mean Trot could actually PLAY Old Maid, which isn't happening any time soon.

6 game lead in the Wild Card race with roughly 2 weeks to go.

Yeah.

My stomach STILL hurts.

At least tomorrow is Saturday which means other than having to work all day, I've got a mental day off; no middle school, no kindergarten, and Ang is juvenile free until Monday.

Yet I've still gotta deal with Gary Thorne and Jim Palmer tomorrow.

Sometimes life really isn't fair.

Tell The Monkey It's Not October Yet.

*Image courtesy of fireitupradio.blogspot.com*

As much as I hate to see the boys lose, going 7-1 on the most recent home stand is awesome. Add on the fact the Angels were gripping about the umps (exhibit A of being in another teams head; blame the umpire), if not for Tek not catching strike 3 we'd be talking about a sweep, and the fact their 3rd baseman is named Chone and ours struts around to the sound of Scenic and it's all good.

Let 'em have this small moral victory. 'Cause come October when it's win or go home, you, me, and Aunt Edna from "Vacation" know this irrefutable truth.

The Angels will fold up like that chair you put at the kiddie table every family get together. It's the baseball equivalent of "The Tortoise and The Hare"; Angels look like world beaters in the regular season and come playoff time morph into the Washington Generals playing the Globe Trotters.

On the home front, nobody got expelled, suspended, or arrested although Trot went to bed with a bump on his forehead the size of a hard boiled egg.

If that's the worst thing that happened, it was a good day.

Off to Baltimore and the Orioles followed by four in Kansas City and the last three games of the year against the Yanks next weekend, which I'm extremely hopeful will end up looking like that scene at the end of "Scarface" or Saturday night at Jr's house, whichever you prefer.

Back To School Snapshots

Sort of like Iraq and Iran, the Sunni and the Shiite, and Bill Lee and Craig Nettles at a MLB reunion. Peace, but tenuous at best.

Trot, with pants way too big for his body and in desperate need of a haircut 10 minutes before he invades pre-school. In a miracle not seen since the one on 34th street, he's been good the whole time, his teachers love him, and no bodily function has taken place outside the bathroom in the first 2 weeks.

The hammer is gonna drop soon; I just don't know when. So far, school and discipline are agreeing with my 3 year old maniac and if it ain't broke, don't fix it. Although I keep waiting for that one phone call describing mayhem and carnage, so far? So good.

One upside to all this? Trot is so worn out by the end of the day he fell asleep on page 3 of the "Frog Prince" which allowed me to finish at my own pace and only have to make sure one kid brushed his teeth tonight.

It's a little thing but I take my victories where I can.

7-7 headed into the top of the ninth.

I've got a sinking feeling I've got a REALLY long night ahead of me.

All Hail The Large Father

Amidst the gem that was Daisuke looking like vintage Daisuke, David Ortiz set the Major League Record for most home runs by a DH, passing The Big Hurt on his way to first place All-Time.

Throw in Daisuke throwing darts, the Sox gaining a half game lead on the Rangers for the Wild Card (Along with the fact they are losing to the A's and heading toward 5 1/2 games back) and life as a Sox fan is pretty flipping good.

Consider the fact that Papi went roughly the first two months of the season without hitting water if he jumped in the swimming pool and his numbers are pretty impressive. 24 dingers and 80 some RBI while essentially missing the first TWO MONTHS of the year. He's on pace for close to 30 bombs and 100 RBI and all I know is I feel fine.

Wild Card within our grasp, the rotation of Beckett, Lester, Buchholz, and Matsuzaka looming as the big elephant in the room the rest of the AL doesn't want to face, and the Cardinals as the most logical team to come out of the NL for the World Series.

I figure if they just hit Pujols each time he comes up and take their chances with the rest it should all pan out.

I can still hear the faint sounds of "Dirty Water" as I get ready to head to bed, can see that big green wall that I stood on just a few months ago in my mind, and I can feel the nervous tension coming from the Bronx.

I Live For This.

I'm The Cooler

RIP, Dalton.

Tonight, one of the cinema hero's of my 39 years lost his battle with pancreatic cancer.

Road House, Next of Kin, Point Break....

Cheese fests for sure.

But some of my all time favorite movies. Shoot, I even loved Ghost and Dirty Dancing, although if you get me on a witness stand I'll deny it to my dying day.

Thank God there is a Red Sox game that'll be on my television tomorrow night.

Like GNR, All I Need Is A Little Patience

In the last two days we've had the following two incidents.

Yesterday, apparently bound up from too many sweet tarts and a cinnamon roll that would've killed King George, Trot had to go to the restroom THREE times during Rakes' soccer game, (in which he scored 3 goals. No, I'm not proud or anything.) the first two times he experienced "performance anxiety". The third time he yelled out he "gotta go POOPY, MOM!" Ang went all "Peter and the Boy Who Cried Wolf" and just ignored him.

15 seconds later she turned around, he's on the field behind the one Rakes is on, completely disrobed and squatting down, getting ready to leave a personal message that Trot was indeed there.

Somehow she managed to get him to the restroom while the rest of the so-called adults yucked it up and Trot grinned from ear to ear.

Fast forward to today. We'd been wondering why the hardwood floor in the half bath downstairs had three distinct black marks on it, even going so far as to call my Yankee loving buddy the Plumber over to check it out a few weeks ago. No leaks, seal looked fine, and we chalked it up to the rare incident of missing the toilet in the middle of the night sort of thing.

Today? It all became crystal clear. As I sat on the couch watching the Redskins cough it up to the Giants and listened to the sounds of Trot whizzing in the commode behind me, I turned around to make sure he was washing his hands.

You can imagine my reaction when I saw him swirling his hands around the toilet, BEFORE FLUSHING mind you, and all of a sudden the black spots on the floor made perfect sense.

I'm happy to report I didn't kill him, although that's due more to Ang running interference like a fullback for USC than anything resembling control on my part. Fact is, if she hadn't been there I'm fairly certain he'd be in military school as I type this.

Only the fact the Sox took both games of the double header to sweep the Rays is keeping me from a straight jacket right now.

See, tomorrow is my day off. And Trot doesn't go to pre-school until Tuesday. Which means while Ang is at work, Rakes is in kindergarten, and Ciera is at Middle School me and hewhoisfascinatedwithbodilyfunctions are gonna be together all day.

ALL DAY.

I wonder if locking your child in a bird cage for 6 hours results in a visit from the local branch of DSS?

Let me hit the Powerball and all would be well

Rangers losing.

Yankees lost already.

Sox lead 9-1 in the top of the 6th inning while in a rain delay, which means the game is official and hopefully Larry Lucchino and John Henry are currently petitioning Uncle Bud that the rain is going to last a while, it's already 11 p.m., and outside of Joe Maddon's Mother and Carlos Pena and his broken hand, nobody cares if the Rays lose another game.

The only thing that would make this night better is word from Dallas that a meteor hit the new Cowboy's stadium and they have to play all 8 home games at some little league park in Waco.

Double header tomorrow, the NFL kicks off it's first Sunday of the year, and I'm off for the next 2 days.

If this isn't a country-western song in the making I don't know what is.

Sending out good wishes to the ladies of SG tomorrow, who are walking in the Jimmy Fund Marathon to raise some money for a wicked awesome cause.

Here's to hayes, Amy, Stacy, Cindy, etc.. who are doing their part to fight the good fight.

Wish I could be there to help, ladies.

We're proud of you all.

Rain Delays, The Swine Flu, and Cinderella

It's been a long week. Rakes and Ciera are in week three of a LONG school year in which Rakes asked Ang Wednesday night "Is Summer next week?" after hearing her tell Ciera that we'd go to the beach next summer. Something tells me the boy isn't exactly thrilled about being cooped up in school 5 days a week, although he's managed to keep his conduct card on green through will power, some deception, and sheer blind luck.

Add on the fact I started feeling like roadkill last Saturday, had a migraine from hell for about 16 hours on Sunday, and for the rest of the week generally felt like I'd either been in a car wreck or a gang initiation, whichever one hurts the most.

Throw in the fact Ang is back in the workplace for the first time in 6 years, dealing with hormonal teenagers and a wicked degree of stress combined with coming home to three children usually in need of Prozac, Ritilin, or a Morphine drip most nights and I'm tweaking like some crack addict at 3 a.m. in Times Square.

So it was that I found myself driving home tonight, pounding my horn at the 87 year old lady going 25 in the left lane while trying to keep up with the game on ESPN on my phone and at the same time cursing rain in Boston, the Yankees in general, and Volvo's on the sheer principle nobody should drive a Volvo.

Ever.

It was in this moment of totally unjustified freak out the following song came on the radio; "Cinderella" by Steven Curtis Chapman. Mind you, I only drive the man van to church on Sundays, so it's remotely possible I've never heard this song. But according to Ang, as I got out of my car with tears in my eyes while I told her about it, apparently this song has been around for years.

Just when I thought that flipping "Butterfly Kisses" song was tough I had to go and hear this one.

Oh yeah; The Red Sox/ Rays got postponed and Sunday is a double header.

Like I needed MORE stress.

Never Forget

V Mart!

I've got an idea for the next Grand Pubah of the United Nations.

Whenever that dude from Japan (I can't for the life of me remember his name) decides to step down, I've got the perfect nominee to take his place.

And I can guarantee you that no other diplomat can hit a curve ball over the Green Monster.

Coming off the bench, stone cold, V Mart bangs one off the Monster and all of a sudden a 4-4 tie is a 7-4 lead.

Plus, can you imagine the handshakes Victor and that dude from Slovakia will come up with whenever the next vote or whatever it is the U.N. does happens next?

Plus, I'm gonna email him and suggest he doesn't take it unless Papi gets to come along as his "Press Secretary".

Put me in charge of all this crap and I'll have it fixed by lunch time on Sunday.

Yes We Can

As I watched Rakes run around the soccer field tonight, looking like some demented version of Pele, if Pele was 3 feet tall and spitting sunflower seeds, my phone rang.

On the line was a guy who I think of as my other brother, telling me his Mom was diagnosed today with inoperable tumors on her liver. This same guy? His wife's cousin is burying her 11 year old son on Thursday, who is also a victim of cancer. 11 years old.

Ciera's age.

So while I rant and rave about Trot whizzing in anything and everything OTHER than the toilet, Rakes asking me 16,594 questions about Star Wars and Ciera starting Middle School AND hitting puberty, I know I'm blessed.

I've had my run ins with cancer; Mom had her scare 2 years ago this October, my Grandmother had it, and Ang's Dad had his own fight with it. But I've never had to go through what my man and his wife have.

This weekend, a bunch of my friends are walking for the Jimmy Fund. If you're there, walk with them. If you're like me and seemingly a million miles away? Donate.

'Cause as stoked as I am about tonight's beat down of the Orioles that included 6 home runs, Papi and V Mart doing some voodoo handshake dance in the dugout and Clay looking like Pedro, only white, pale, and with a really bad hair cut?

It don't really matter in the grand scheme of things.

We can put a man on the moon, have the Internet on our phone, and have movie stars tweet us about what they bought at the grocery store this afternoon. We've got vaccines for the flu, little blue pills for "performance issues" and "Jon and Kate Plus Eight" on every flipping channel this side of ESPN and you're telling me we can't find a cure for cancer?

Screw that noise. We rant and rave about drinking and driving, worry about dying in a plane crash (looks in mirror. Hangs head in shame.), and spend billions to protect our borders against the POSSIBILITY 18 random idiots want to plot death and destruction yet we can't come up with a cure that kills more people and destroys more families than anything else short of a mushroom cloud?

Please.

Yes we can. So no more children have to die before their parents and no more adults don't have to leave their kids too early. Give your time or your money, I don't care which way you go.

But give.

NOW.

Love you, JB and Amy. And you know I'll say a prayer to the Big Man above for you and your family.

Random Labor Day Mumblings

Thankfully, I worked today. Which means I missed the absolute clustermess that was the Red Sox/White Sox game. Apparently, Beckett pitched well by giving up only 3 runs. Unfortunately the bats decided to protest the fact they had to work on Labor Day and provided pretty much no help.

Meh. We're still up in the Wild Card and I gave up getting too excited about regular season games 5 years ago.

At least that's what I'm telling myself so I can go to sleep tonight.

As I messed around on Facebook tonight, I came to the following realization.

I REALLY miss my friends in New England. Rob, JD, Cyn, Kelly, Josh, Amy, etc... you know who you are. Hope you all had a great Labor Day weekend.

Lastly, migraines suck. Especially when they last for more than one day. Today was a little better; I at least didn't feel the urge to run pell mell to the bathroom because I expected to get sick at any second.

But if someone doesn't take that bowling ball away from the gremlin currently residing inside my forehead there is going to be hell to pay.

Happy Labor Day Weekend

About the time I pulled into the church parking lot this morning I felt the beginnings of a headache coming on.

By the time the communion plates were being passed around and the Pastor was winding down it felt like a marching band was playing inside my forehead and shooting fireworks off at the same time. Now Freud or Ang or my tree loving brother would attribute this as some sort of aversion to going to church or a feeling of guilt, but I lean more toward a lot of flipping stress at work the past week, the two maniacs in the picture waking me up at 6:30 having a sword fight with an egg beater and a metal spatula, and the Red Sox dropping the first 2 games to the White Sox.

So I spent my Sunday afternoon trying not to move my head too much, avoiding sunlight like some deranged middle aged vampire, and trying to keep the noise level and my blood pressure down while watching the game.

Have you ever had a migraine and been stuck in the house with 3 children whose inner volume is permanently set on 11? It was so bad I even had DO on the lowest possible level I could still hear him. Which in this house is 38, just in case you were wondering.

Thankfully the right Sox team won, I managed not to get physically sick (which if you'd told me I wouldn't have while Ang hit every possible pot hole in the road on the drive home and took the driveway on two wheels while it felt like a bowling ball was rolling around in my skull I'd have laughed in your face. IF I could have done more than grunt at the time, that is.) and the headache is now a dull roar and I feel like I just went 15 rounds with Mike Tyson.

Rakes did manage to make it interesting about 7 pm by hitting me with a tube sock full of quarters (don't ask) and getting into a spirited and ear splittingly loud debate with Trot on how Batman CAN'T FLY EVEN THOUGH HE HAS A CAPE LIKE SUPERMAN. I think I set the World Record for repeating the phrase "Dear God make it stop" the most times in a 3 minute period.

Hey, there's always a bright side.

Nobody peed anywhere but the bathroom today.

At least that I know of.

Well, it could be worse.

Swine flu.

Hitting myself in the marbles with a ball peen hammer.

Listening to Rush Limbaugh/Glen Beck/James Carville on a continuous loop for days on end.

Watching the Yankees sweep the Padres in the World Series over and over and over again.

Having to watch Oprah Winfrey for 48 straight hours as she features "Why Men are Parasites."

Laying down in the road and letting Rakes drive his Go-Kart over my body repeatedly.

All these things are more preferable than what I'm currently doing.

Which is watching the White Sox beat the Red Sox at the most recent score of 12-1.

For the love of all that is just, why can't I turn it off and go to bed?

Rumor has it that Tim Wakefield and his knuckleball are back for tomorrow and for the sake of my sanity and health I really hope so.

'Cause the shadows are getting longer, the nights are getting cooler, and the flipping Texas Rangers haven't gone away yet. The AL East may be a pipe dream but the Wild Card race is there for the taking.

And I'm not giving up on anything until Terry Francona tells me it's over.

Mr. Buchholz Goes To Tampa

*Image courtesy of Kelly and www.sittingstill.net* ( I think.)

Sox win 6-3 and take the series with the Rays 2-1.

Welcome to reality Maddon.

And boom goes the dynamite.

The bats have finally woke up, Billy Wagner has provided the 'pen with the kick in the pants it needed, and Papelbon is pitching like it's the ALCS from 2007 all of a sudden.

Other than the bully on the school bus with Ciera (that either her principle or me, a two by four, and Rakes with a garden spade is going to fix post haste) my life consists of sunshine, blue skies, and a Mt. Dew on ice while I sit in the shade while watching the world pass by.

Life could be a whole lot worse.

Hurricane Trot is about to start Pre-School

Mornings around here have gotten slightly chaotic since Ciera started Middle School and Rakes is off terrorizing the local Elementary School. I take Ciera and her cousin Jerry to school every other week (my brother in law is the tag team partner in this car pool thing and he's on duty this week) and Ang takes Rakes every morning.

Which means on my off weeks I've got Trot until his designated jailer shows up or I take him to where they are, whichever is applicable. This morning, as I hopped in the shower, he was quietly watching SpongeBob in the living room and I figured all was well.

10 minutes later I'm out of the shower and find him in the aforementioned living room, with his shorts and shirt on backwards and about 75% of Ang's makeup kit on his face, hands, and the sofa he was sitting on.

I have no idea how he did this right under my nose while I was showering but he did.

Flash forward to tonight at his pre-school orientation where they are telling us they will teach them how to open a zip lock bag, put a straw in a juice box, and open up their snack.

Please.

At this point I'm pretty sure he can take apart at .30 gauge shotgun blindfolded, put it back together, and do a Rubik's cube at the same time. Plus, I'm fairly certain by the time he reaches the age of 6 he'll be assembling a crude nuclear device in the garage and grinning like a maniac the whole time.

By the time Ang told Mrs. Kelly we had zip locks on the fridge, the pantry, the medicine cabinet and our bathroom I'm pretty sure I saw tears in her eyes and fear on her face.

Gonna be a fun year at Pre School.

Somtimes, Crabby is Good.

It's 7-2, bottom of the 8th inning with the Red Sox on top as I type.

Playing in that monstrosity known as The Trop, which has been a house of horrors for the Sox lately hasn't seemed to bother the fellas, and Crabby went 6 innings and gave up only the 2 runs. This, my friends, is huge; considering the Red Sox had resembled that team that got waxed every time out by the Harlem Globetrotters every time they went to Tampa, the fact they put on their big boy pants and came out swinging was a sight for sore eyes.

Sure, Oki has allowed the first two batters he's faced to reach base; why not?

Billy Wagner looked like Goose Gossage in the 7th, albeit with more facial hair and a demented look in his eye last seen in "Deliverance", but still; dude was lights out.

Barring some unforeseen and ted turns to heroin inducing comeback, the Sox roll into tomorrow one more game ahead in the Wild Card race. And while I'm not conceding the AL East just yet, I've got one eye on the Wild Card just in case.

On the home front, after one full week at school, Rakes had to move his card to yellow. For those of you without kids, his kindergarten class operates on the stop light method. Green = Good, Yellow = not so good, and Red = we're calling your parents and you are SO grounded.

Today? He got a yellow for talking in the hall.

Frankly, I'm amazed he wasn't sitting on Red after 30 minutes on the first day.

Sometimes they really do surprise you.