The 21st Century Isn't Ready For Me Yet

I got this phone today.

Now I know how Balki felt when he came to America to live with Cousin Larry on "Perfect Strangers".

I have no earthly clue what I'm doing, although Ciera tells me it has a GPS in it, I can find the 20 closest Mexican restaurants, and Rakes is of the firm belief I can launch a rocket with it.

All I wanna do is be able to talk on the phone, text/bother my closest friends, and surf the web during some down time at work.

Getting on my blog? Check.

Taking a peek at Facebook? Check.

Joining the other maniacs on the SG comment section? Not so much. It shows up for a few seconds, then I get a screen of dark blue where the only thing showing is the Army of WSG that is sort of trippy when there are no words to go with them. According to my crack tech staff of Lydia, Hayes, and Tex this shouldn't be a problem but so far I'm striking out.

However, the fact Tex has this phone and can in fact post on the board tells me I'm on the right track; I've just gotta figure out which fork in the virtual road I should take.

Teddy has hit the road running.

I just don't know where in the world I am.

Oh yeah; Sox sweep the O's, Papi is banging triples off the Monstah, and Pedie went 4-5 and had his uniform filthy by the end of the top of the first.

That, plus the fact that my trip to Boston and the Megapalooza is a little over 4 weeks away?

I can ALMOST forget the fact Trot pooped in his pants 7 times today.

Yes. 7 Times.

It's a good thing there weren't any Percosat in the medicine cabinet.

'Cause you better believe I looked.

Reason 1,698 I'll Never Be Dad of the Year

Andy Taylor is the epitome of a great dad; loving, patient, smart, and you never saw him raise his voice. Even when Opie killed that bird and didn't say anything about it.

It's a pretty safe bet to say I'll never be confused with the Sheriff of Mayberry.

Today pretty much sealed it in stone. From the moment Rakes was rocketing whiffle balls off the living room wall at 7 this morning until about 15 minutes ago when I left the room after Ang and I had another "talk" about some small thing that won't matter come sunrise yet left us both with steam coming out of our ears, it's been one of those days.

A day where I've felt like I failed my family completely, both as a Dad and a husband; one that found me not wanting to get up and go to church but I did anyway. Watching the Sox/O's game undisturbed was the dream, but Ang having to go to Wally World and me having to clean Trot up after he pooped his pants for the THIRD time in a two hour period crushed that pretty quick.

Taking the kids outside seemed like a good idea until we opened the garage door, it started raining, and they went on the front porch. Which wouldn't have been so bad had there not been enough pollen to choke a Clydesdale, Rakes rubbed his hand in it, and before you could say "Zyrtec" his right eye had swollen up like he'd been punched in the face by Sugar Ray Leonard.

What followed was about 3 hours of crying, screaming, yelling, and 3 kids getting 3 different visits to time out while my blood pressure rose in record time and I lost what little patience I had left in me. Maybe it's the OCD. Or the fact I'm just burnt out from work. Or maybe I just need a break and to see my friends. Whatever it was, I acted like the rear end of a south bound donkey to my kids, my wife, and anyone else I came in contact with. Today I was everything I pray everyday I WON'T be.

All I know is I don't really like myself very much right now and I'm pretty sure it's gonna be a long time before I can close my eyes and get to sleep tonight.

But just like a closer who blows the lead in a pivotal game, tomorrow is a new day; I've gotta roll myself out of bed, forget today ever happened, and do my job. Which on a Monday is be the best stay at home Dad I can be without losing my mind or signing them all up for Military School while doing my best impression of Andy Taylor I can muster.

In my defense, though?

Opie never had NOTHING on Rakes and Trot.

Josh Beckett is my Homeboy.

*Image courtesy of elwebman.com*

6-4 win.

Some walks, some strikeouts, 7 stares toward home plate, and one F bomb.

Beckett is 2-1.

And all is right with the world.

The Mothers Day Miracle Lives On

*Image courtesy of sittingstill.net*

After the Red Sox fell behind 7-0 tonight and Gary Thorne was already popping the champagne in the broadcast booth, I remembered Joe C and Dave O'Brien talking about the Mothers Day Miracle. If you're not familiar with this epic event, Jeremy Guthrie and the Orioles had a 5-0 lead on the Sox in the 9th inning, only to gack it up and eventually lose.

I'll give you 3 guesses who was pitching for Baltimore tonight.

Much to my delight and Thorne's lament, the boys did it again. 10-8, Pap with the save, and Gary and Jim Palmer can bite my tweeter.

Jason Bay got it all started with a 2 run HR and with every day that passes I miss Manny just a little bit less.

Dude may look like your 8th grade math teacher but he can pound the rock like nobodies business.

Beckett, fresh off a 6 game suspension handed down by the dinks in the ivory tower is on the bump tomorrow.

Anything less than fire and brimstone coming out of his ears and I'll be more than a little disapointed.

Man, do I love this game.

Even Superman had Kryptonite

Ang took the kids to the zoo today.

And no, Rakes didn't get into a fight with a gorilla. Even if it looks like it.

Apparently Pollen is my boys downfall. We dealt with this same stuff last spring, but we thought the visits to the allergy doctor, combined with the medicine we're paying roughly the budget of a third world country for, and that visit to Madam Cleo had taken care of the issue.

One trip to North Carolina's version of Africa and the boy looks like Ali immediately after the "Thrilla from Manilla". A part of my heart broke tonight when I came home and found him looking so pitiful. Some Zyrtec, a shot of a nasal inhaler, and about 10 hours sleep and he should be as good as new; it's the getting to that point I have a problem with.

While I wait for Rakes to resume his place as Public Enemy #1, I give you some pictures taken Easter Sunday. Yes, I'm a dink for not posting them earlier; in my defense, YOU spend a day here and try and figure out where the time went.

You ever seen a serial criminal decorate Easter Eggs?

I didn't think so.

Peace and Harmony. Who would have thunk it?

I have no idea how I got so lucky to have such a beautiful wife and children. And I choose not to ask about such things; just count my blessings and move on.

Finally, forget Nolan Ryan, Bob Gibson, and Josh Beckett in his finest frothing best. You're a hitter and you see THIS image staring back at you?

If you manage not to wet yourself consider it a victory.

From the look in this picture I'm pretty sure if the boy doesn't end up on the wall of the Post Office I should consider myself lucky.


Sox/O's tomorrow.

It can't come soon enough.

From the Desk of Miss Hathaway

*Photo courtesy of sittingstill.net*

To: Any dink (not my choice of word) who doubted Tim Wakefield

Dear whom it may concern,

As my boss entered the secret underground location, er... office, tonight he was mumbling under his breath about, and I quote, "Stupid job keeping me from watching the game" and "Wake almost throws a no hitter and I'M stuck trying to sell some idiot a sofa they can't afford and I don't have" until he noticed me watching.

Almost immediately he switched gears and asked if the Mitchell report was ready. I instantly recognized this to be a deliberate act to make me forget what I heard, but two things are getting in the way. One, I don't know anyone named Mitchell. And two? He's never looked at a report a day in his life.

I waited until he entered his office, shut his door, and listened for the inevitable stream of expletives to fly because he missed another big game before I searched for "Tim Wakefield" and "Knuckleball" on the internets.

Turns out this young man of 42 is quite the freak of nature; at the age where most professional athletes have retired to a life of golf and early bird specials, this particular gentleman is just now hitting his stride due to some form of pitching that looks really easy to hit yet is quite the opposite.

Now that I think about it, I remember my employer praying for heavy wind, dry conditions, and using the phrase "let it move like the Jackson Five during "ABC". Whatever that means.

Anyways, as I typed up the daily report (I really should just photocopy the thing; every day it's the same; read about the game the day before, curse/celebrate, then check out his fantasy league scores) I could hear him ranting from the next room. Something about "Wait until Papi gets on track, Rivera's arm flies off into RF, and Derek Jeter steps on a sprinkler head".

Honestly, I have no idea what he's talking about most of the time.

For today, however, my job was easy. His team won, Rakes and Trot made it the bathroom every time, and because the game was played this afternoon I can go to bed at a decent hour.

Mind you, he's already left 4 messages muttering about Miller Lite and the fact he's got to watch the MASN broadcast of the O's/Sox series starting this Friday. But it's been in a happy way, so I'm paying him no mind.

I just have one question. Can someone tell me what the phrase " I want to kill the WBC with fire!" means?

Anybody got a live Rooster?

In a lame attempt to reverse the Red Sox bad mojo which I blame for the 2-5 start, I'm posting what may be the greatest baseball moment in cinematic history.

Oh yeah; definitely NSFW.

But really funny.

Back in Oakland. Where it all began. Sort of.

Every time the Red Sox play the A's, like they will starting tonight for the next 3 games, I think back to the 2003 ALDS. Sox drop the first two to Oakland, then win the next 2 at Fenway, then headed back out west for Game 5.

The game is remembered by a lot of people for Derek Lowe's, and I like to use Red from Surviving Grady's term for it, "Bite my Tweeter" move after striking out Jermaine Dye to end the game and send the Sox to the ALCS and that fateful series with Aaron F*****g Boone and the Yankees.

I'll always remember it for the picture I used tonight; Johnny Damon and Damian Jackson had a collision in the outfield you normally see on the fifty yard line of a football game. Honestly, I thought Damon was actually dead at one point.

We all know what happened; Sox lost to the Yankees, Damon turned into the baseball equivalent of Sampson and the Sox won it all the next year. Then he turned into Judas 2 years later, the Sox signed the guy with the name you'd normally see on a cereal box to play CF and they won it all again in 2007. Damon sold his soul to the devil, cut his hair, and turned into a part time player on a professional fantasy league team that hasn't won squat in the 21st Century.

I have no idea what all this means.

But the Sox are in Oakland tonight and Rocco is playing CF.

I'm considering putting out an APB on Jackson just in case.

Blog Post #800: It Always Comes Full Circle

Through all the posts about peeing on the floor, rants regarding walls being defaced and furniture destroyed, it's been there.

From videos of soccer games to videos of miniature mental patients, it's all sort of come back full circle.

Whether it was about The Big Schill, Beckett, or the statistical value of Mike Lowell as the best third baseman since Brooks Robinson without one shred of concrete evidence, there has been one constant at this blog.

I can't write my way out of a paper bag.

For those of you who stop by every day, you have my heart felt condolences to go along with a big "Thank You!" For Tex, the impetus for me starting this train wreck and also my most faithful commenter, I heard you sis. And for my poor wife and kids, who give me subject material on almost an hourly basis, I'm sorry if I've embarrassed you but you're stuck with me for a while longer.

800 posts.

And the best I can come up with is a clam in a MFY cap arguing with another clam wearing a Red Sox cap.

Sounds about right to me.

Welcome to Boston Mr. Penny

*Image from bostonglobe.com*

3 runs, 5 hits, and 6 IP. Not bad for a guy who spent more time in the trainers room than on the field last year for the Dodgers.

Brad Penny got his first win for the Boston Red Sox, and more importantly did what a big time pitcher is supposed to do; stop the bleeding from a 3 game losing streak.

I could care less that 2 of the hits were HR by Mike Napoli or that it took a Mikey Lowell HR and TWO Jason Bay bombs for the Sox to take the lead.

Papelbon giving me a mini-stroke in the ninth by loading the bases, then getting out of it with a strike out and fly out did make my head hurt; I was at the in-laws for dinner and I'm pretty sure my mother in law is doubting my sanity right now. I think today was the first time she's seen me in full-on insanity mode.

I'm still trying to figure out what was more stressful tonight; Pap and his high wire act in the ninth or the coloring of Easter eggs right after with Rakes breaking 4 eggs, Trot whining at the top of his lungs, and my father in law worrying that the dye was going to stain his counter tops permanently.

Who am I kidding?

Rakes ain't got nothing on Paps.

Conversations with Rakes; Part 328

About 15 minutes ago, as I got Rakes ready for bed, the following took place.....

Rakes: "Can we read a book, Dad?"

Me: "Yep. How about a Bernstein Bear book?"

Rakes: "Is it the Bernstein Bears get the Jimmies?"

Me: "Get the what?"

Rakes: "Get the Jimmies!"

Me: "GIMMIES, son. Not Jimmies."

Rakes: "Oh yeah; Gimmies. Jimmies is what we pee with."

Sox/Angels starts in 30 minutes.

Thank God.

Perspective is a funny thing.

This is Nick Adenhart. Last night he pitched 6 scoreless inning for the LA Angels of Anaheim.

Just a few hours later he was dead.

Some jackass with alcohol issues ran a red light, slammed into the car he was riding in, and killed him along with 2 other people with their future right in front of them.

22 years old. Playing baseball and living the dream and in a split second he's gone; all because this idiot got behind the wheel of a car, smashed out of his mind and came to the conclusion that was OK.

We spend millions of dollars when some whack job tries to light his shoes on fire to ensure air safety. Random old women are subjected to full body cavity searches in airports everyday to ensure people getting on an airplane get safely to where they are heading.

Yet every night thousands of people who've been down at the local pub get behind the wheel of a 2 ton death trap, fueled by Budweiser and Jagermeister, and go barreling down the highway toward home.

Am I the only one who thinks this is seriously messed up? We wait for someone to get killed, THEN try to make it right. It's usually a case like this one, where a prominent athlete dies, for anyone to pay attention. What about the regular people who die everyday because some yahoo decides him/her getting home is priority one over everyone else who happens to be in a car that night?

Security checkpoints at airports, bomb sniffing dogs in subway stations across the country, and billions of dollars given to a bunch of geeks to try and figure out where the next big catastrophe is coming from and we still have everyday schlubs drinking $1 dollar drafts at the local, getting in their SUV's and plowing into innocent families just trying to get back home from Sam's Club without getting a divorce.

I say put one of those dillywompers you've gotta blow into before the car will even start in every freaking pile of sheet metal that comes off the assembly line from now on. In fact, I'll be the first guy to say put it on BOTH my cars from now on.

We live in a country with freedom of choice but apparently there are more of us who are too stupid, ignorant, or just plain selfish enough to actually think about our actions than I previously realized to deal with this, so make us all accountable.

I thought about this tonight while I was at home with Curly, Larry, and Moe and Ang ran to Wally World for the weekly supplies; and I didn't relax until I heard the garage door open. What would I do if this happened to her? Or what would she do if it happened to me?

To take it ever farther, what would I do if it happened to one of my friends like Tex? Or Rob and Jane? Or Josh and Amy?

This horses**t has got to stop. NOW. Our government spends billions on things that doesn't affect us in any way, shape, or form.

How about we take some of that money and try to figure out why there were 16,972 drunk driving deaths in 2005. Think about that for a minute; 16, 972 people died because somebody didn't have the sense not to get behind the wheel drunk.

Meanwhile, 3,000 people died on 9/11 and EVERYTHING changed. Don't get me wrong; I'm not denigrating the life of a single person affected by that horrible day. I'm just venting a little.

We can put a man on the moon, launch satellites into outer space, and look at Brittany Spears as a role model.

There has GOT to be a way to stop stories like Nick Adenhart's from happening again.

Tomorrow, I promise, I'll be back raging against the machine about Trot pooping in his pants or peeing on the floor; tonight? This story just made me angry. And sad.

Because it's such a preventable thing if only everyone of us would respect the value of a human life other than our own.

Game #2. And I'm in full panic mode.

Trot peed/pooped in his pants 4 times today.

The Red Sox are currently losing to the Rays 6-1 in the bottom of the 8th inning.

It's pretty sad my son using his pants as a port-a-potty is the high point of my day.

Maybe I spoke too soon: Jason Bay just hit a double down the line and it's 6-2 Rays, Mikey Doubles just got drilled in the elbow and it's bases loaded with 2 outs in the 8th.

Could this be the birth of the pee/poop miracle?

I FAIL at Tivo

While cursing Mother Nature for making me miss Monday's Opening Day at Fenway because of rain, I devised a second plan; not as good as the real thing, but under the circumstance the best I could come up with.

I would Tivo the NESN broadcast of the game rescheduled for today, avoid the internet/score while at work, then come home and listen to the sweet sounds of Remy and DO calling the game.

I made it until 4:15 before I checked the score; in my defense my good friend hayes texted me when Pedie went yard in the first so I figured since I knew THAT I might as well keep up the best I could. After all, I had the fact I was going to hear Orsillo and his dulcet voice making the call waiting for me when I got home.

You can understand why I took Rakes plastic golf club and beat the laundry basket into submission when I discovered I had Tivo'd the game.

Only I Tivo'd the RAYS broadcast.

If you've ever heard Ken Harrelson call a White Sox game, imagine that. Only slightly worse.

This is reason 4,579 that I am an idiot.

I'm pleased to report The Commander was in fine form with 10 K's, 1 ER, and 3 instances of cursing a blue streak that would make the late George Carlin blush. Tek and The Munchkin hit a homah, Mikey Doubles banged one off the wall, and Papelbon struck out 2 of the 3 he faced in the ninth, pumped his fist like it was Game 7 of the WS, and the Sox won 5-3.

Oh yeah; Hey CC.

Say hello to a TRUE ace.

Not Quite The Opening Day I Was Hoping For

I've waited since the last out of the ALCS series last year for today.

Opening Day of the Red Sox 2009 season.

I was off at work, had my lucky hat on my nightstand, and my Josh Beckett t-shirt ready to be put on in case of emergency; it was the perfect convergence of all things good.

Then Ang came down with a migraine last night, which forced me into full time caretaker while she laid in bed and begged me to hit her legs with a sledgehammer like Annie in "Misery" just to take the focus off her head. I was still good, although at one point around 9:30, and I hate to admit this, I actually was briefly considering duct taping Rakes and Trot to their chairs with just enough wiggle room to operate a PS2 remote and placing a mason jar underneath them so they could pee.

All that planning went out the window when I found out that the game had been postponed until tomorrow.

When I'll be at work.

Ain't life a swift kick to the gibleys sometimes?

On a positive note, Rakes scored 3 goals in his soccer game tonight, CC Sabbathia took the 10-5 loss to the Orioles, and I'm pretty sure I'm going to come down with a nuclear sized case of Montezumas Revenge around 3:30 at work tomorrow.

Me, Trace Atkins, and Ciera's Cotillion

I should have known I was in trouble when I got home from church and Ciera say's "Dad. You're not going to wear THAT today, are you?"

Now I was, for me, pretty dressed up. Nice jeans, boots, blue dress shirt, and blazer. Apparently, this wasn't what she had in mind. I was informed I needed to wear dress pants, a coat, and a tie. And NO Red Sox tie. I also was told I needed to button my coat when standing, unbutton it when I sat down, and not to slouch. Normally on Sundays I'm in shorts and my Sox cap faster than Rakes can take his shoes off, so this isn't what I wanted to hear 2 hours before the big event.

Ciera looked beautiful, Ang was her usual stunning self, and I looked liked a square peg trying to fit into a round hole but we made it to the Country Club on time and grabbed a seat on the back row to watch. Mind you, I've just recently learned how to spell Cotillion, so I had no clue what to expect.

What I got was a woman whose lifelong dream I'm pretty sure was to be a coach to a beauty pageant contestant; sort of like Kramer that time on "Seinfeld" only not nearly as funny and twice as annoying. As she rambled on and on I started to day dream about the damage Rakes and Trot could do to that ball room and how if my Mom had made me do something like that I'd still be in therapy over it to this day.

Then they started to dance. I watched my little girl, looking as pretty as I've ever seen her, smiling and laughing and dancing around that room and for a moment I wished I could make time stop. Stop so that dumb boy won't break her heart in a few years. Stop so I won't have to one day let her leave with that punk kid in his car to go on that first date.

Stop so I won't have to answer that question from that preacher one day about "Who gives this woman away to be married?"

I'll deal with all that as it comes, I guess.

Today? Today I got to dance with my little girl.

Well, she danced and I tried not to fall down.



On a side note, only in North Carolina would you find Trace Atkins "Honky Tonk Badonkadonk" played at a Cotillion.

True Story.

Easter Egg Hunting: UFC Style.

Not even spilled candy is going to keep Rakes away from getting as many Easter Eggs as he could find. The boy was like the Terminator, only instead of Sarah Connor it was plastic eggs.

And check out the exchange between him and the only kid I've come across with a more unusual name in his pal Brick.

I'm not sure the world is ready for the video of Trot barreling his way through the other 3 year olds present.

Sox in less than 48 hours. It's been a long, dark, and cold winter; I'm ready for baseball.

3 More Days. 3 More Days. 3 More Days.

The last memory I have of Red Sox baseball that actually matters is watching the Tampa Bay Rays eliminate the boys in Game 7 of the ALCS last fall.

Forget the WBC and Spring Training and even tonight's game that just ended with the Mets beating the Old Towne Team in the debut game at Citi Field, even though I watched it 'till the bitter end and want K-Rod to step on a sprinkler head around 1 pm tomorrow.

Come Monday Beckett will be on the bump, Fenway will be rocking, and hopefully the Rays will be put back in their place as the door stop of the AL East.

And all that talk about possible rain outs I've been reading?

Not happening.

Josh Beckett won't allow it.

What REALLY goes on during BP

If you didn't know any better you'd think Pap is going over some of the intricacies of relief pitching with OKJ, explaining the art that is The Macarena, or teaching him how to curse in English.

However, none of the above is true.

There is your closer teaching his set up man the best way to shoot Craps; I have to believe this has never happened over at Yankee Stadium with Mariano and Joba.

Apologies if I've shown this before; I'm tired, Trot has gotten up 12 times since Ang put him to bed at 8:45, and I'm semi-delirious thinking about Opening Day coming up on Monday.

This has been one mother of a Spring Training.

The American League is officially on notice.

According to this article from boston.com The Commander is "enthusiastic" about the upcoming season.

This is code for "strap on your helmet, make sure you're wearing a cup, and tell your girlfriend I'll call her when I get to town."

I'll take a healthy Josh Beckett throwing heat, stomping around the pitchers mound and cursing anyone who dares invade his 4 feet of personal space over any other pitcher in the game today.

5 more days. 5 more days. 5 more days.