Saturday Night Prayer

Dear God,

It's me; Ted. You know I usually try not to bother you, except for wishing A Rod would step in a gopher hole every now and then. Or thanking you daily for the fact I'm not yet on a first name basis with anyone in the local ER (for me, this is right up there with parting the Red Sea and not smiting Moses for naming one of his sons Ham).

And I've gotta say thanks for keeping my high blood pressure one step ahead of anything Rakes or Trot has done so far. Although I have to admit trying to potty train Trot has had me wondering if the shock paddles and ambulance ride were imminent.

As for tonight? I've got one small favor to ask. Ciera is 10 now, and talking about boys and dances and asking her Mom the sort of questions I've decided I'm better off not knowing what they are talking about.

She's getting ready to go to middle school and I'm debating on which type of hand gun I need to buy and whether or not to adopt camo as my official wardrobe for the next 10 years. Which brings me to the one little small favor I'd like to ask....

Can you give me amnesia for the next 8 years? I'm not talking about any Rip Van Winkle stuff where I pass out, wake up in 20 years, and wonder why everyone is wearing Timberland boots and listening to 50 Cent; just sort of let me sleep walk through her travels in puberty where I'm here when she needs me but I magically forget all the rest?

Considering I've got Rakes and Trot waiting in the wings, ready to light bottle rockets out of each others rear end and construct a skate board ramp off the roof of the garage onto the neighbors house across the street I really don't think I'm asking for all that much.

Whatever you decide I'm down with; just keep this in mind.

If some kid named Eric shows up in few years with his underwear hanging outside his jeans wanting to take my little girl out to the movies?

I won't be responsible for my actions.

But I hope you'll forgive me.

A Jolt of Reality

*Image courtesy of grantsrant.files.wordpress.com*

Just when I think I can't take another round of Trot treating his pants like a portajohn, Rakes asking me for the 1,359th time why Luke Skywalker has a green light saber, and Ciera taking the expressway to teenage land I stumble across someone or something that reminds me how freaking good I've actually got it.

Tonight it was catching the Josh Hamilton special on the MLB Network.

Nothing like a little dose of reality to fix your own personal pity party.

I know some think he gets more notoriety than he deserves, and granted I've never had a family member deal with this kind of addiction (I do have some relatives who have dealt with substance abuse issues but not exactly at this level) but I think this guys story is awesome.

If Big Papi doesn't win it, I'm really hoping a certain OF who plays for the Texas Rangers somehow wins the AL MVP this year.

I gotta go now; Trot just got out of bed for the 16th time, I forgot to make Rakes go to the bathroom before I put him to bed, and Ciera and her 2 friends who are sleeping over are making more noise than the average Ozzy Osborne contest.

Opening Day can't get here fast enough.

Married. With Children.

One is obsessed with all things Star Wars, Indiana Jones, and Transformers.

The other will pee in the toilet but has gone poop approximately 4 times since this huge experiment started; he actually thinks going in his pants is prize worthy. Add to that the fact he gets up on average 8 times a night after we put him to bed which has raised my median blood pressure about 30 points and I'm just about ready to send him to military school at Oak Ridge Academy.

I'm 38 years old, have moderate hypertension, and just the other day my ears turned a deep shade of red and my left arm momentarily went numb.

One way or another, something has gotta give.

In a positive development I re-upped with DirecTV today for the MLB Extra Innings package.

If I die in the next 6 months more than likely I'll be watching the Red Sox.

So I at least have that going for me.

Did I mention Ciera is 10 and seemingly ready to hit puberty?

It's a good thing I've got a decent life insurance policy.

That way Ang can go ahead and pay for the baseball package and not have to worry about it.

Happiness is a baseball game on my television

I could give a flying leap it's a Spring Training exhibition, the Sox are losing 3-1 in the 5th inning, or that I'm once again subjected to that dink Bob and his stupid furniture commercials on NESN every 7 minutes.

There is a baseball game being played, Pedie is rolling around in the dirt, and even though Remy is AWOL with an "infection" (I firmly believe this is code for "Jerry didn't feel like coming down to Florida and watching a glorified practice just yet") I have a spring in my step I haven't had since last October.

Baseball is back. And while Ang is a little sad she's becoming a baseball widow again so soon, she's happy for me; something about the 2 hour rants each night about why I think Brad Penny will win the Cy Young while she tried to watch Desperate Housewives factors in. I'm not really sure how as I wasn't even listening in the first place.

Most of all? Mr. Pesky is in uniform, walking around telling stories, and since it's Spring Training the MLB Dugout police can't keep him from sitting where he belongs. Right next to Big Papi on the bench.

My lord do I love this game.

Just Another Tuesday Night.

I just missed Trot in his Spider Man mask yelling at the top of his lungs while Rakes uttered 4 complete sentences of absolute gibberish.

It is going to take a small miracle for both of them not to end up working for a bookie in NYC.

I gotta get some sleep.

Bill Cosby is Freaking Brilliant

Substitute "stop standing up at the table" with "stop drinking my Coca Cola" and I lived this clip today. Throw in a lost library book, Rakes and Trot arguing about who is the official owner of the latest McDonald's Happy Meal toy, and Trot getting out of bed 8 times in a 15 minute time period and I'm actually Bill.

Only white.

I really need a vacation.

The Oscars. Can you tell it's still Spring Training?

I don't get to watch a lot of movies. Unless they are made my Disney, Pixar, or involve light sabers, Indiana Jones, or Transformers I usually miss out unless Ang and I luck out and catch one of the Grandparents in a moment of weakness. If this happens we immediately drop the whirling dervishes off and leave a vapor trail in our wake before they come to their senses and change their minds.

To protect the innocent, actually guilty in this case, I'm not going to mention the website I stumbled across where you could watch movies online that were still in the theater; I'm pretty sure I heard a click on the phone the other day which could have been only static, but my paranoia is telling me it was the Fed's turning on the tape recorder. Anyways, I got to see "Grand Torino" (Clint was epic), Ang got to see "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" (from what I saw it was a big case of the weird) and Ciera watched something with the Jonas Brothers. THAT one I avoided like the plague.

As a Red Sox fan I'm a sucker for the down trodden and the underdog. After years of being tied to the whipping post and always having Lucy pull the football away at the last minute, the Olde Towne Team finally made good. Not only once. But twice.

So tonight I hope to see the Hollywood equivalent of the Boston Red Sox kick the establishment square in the gibleys and walk away with one of those bizarre little statues.

Think of Sean Penn, THE Clint Eastwood, and Brad Pitt as the MFY.

Look at Mickey Rourke and think ALCS 2004.

Sanity is a Fragile Thing

As I watched Rakes and Trot pull each other through the house on a plastic wagon while banging off every wall, door, dish washer and random leg they could find while laughing like homicidal maniacs the whole time, I was struck by a thought.

And no, it wasn't "Why is Rakes grabbing his willy?" Although in retrospect that would have been a valid answer. I sleep better if I tell myself he was just checking to make sure it was still there and leave it at that.

In the midst of more noise than the average Motorhead concert I suddenly realized that more than likely, even though it was right at the top of the list, I won't die of a heart attack.

I'm pretty sure the hypertension will get me first.

Or maybe I'll just go deaf from the jet engine-like noise that permeates my house on a daily basis and live to a ripe old age, blissfully unaware of the chaos around me while Ang slowly turns into Jack Nicholson in "The Shining".

Everybody has to have a dream, right?

Julio and Julio Down by the Ball Park

*Globe Staff Photo / Jim Davis*

Even though he's 2 years into his status as "Theo Epsteins biggest mistake this side of Eric Gagne" I love this picture of Julio Lugo and his son; it shows that these guys are just like us. Dads and husbands who have the same thoughts and feelings the rest of us have.

Only we don't have to live our lives under the constant scrutiny of the press and the obsession of a Nation of Red Sox fanatics.

I firmly realize Lugo will never be what Theo and the rest of us wanted; it seems like we've had a revolving door at SS since Nomar left and Julio is well on his way into joining Pokey, OC, Edgah, and Alex Gonzalez in the ex-Red Sox shortstop column.

So if it's time for the "Jed Lowrie Era" in Boston, I've got no problem with that. Just like I've got no issues with those who wish we'd trade him for a bag of balls, a $5 dollar gift certificate to Starbucks, and one of those Groucho Marx glasses/moustache things.

But I really hope the guy wins Comeback player of the year.

If for nothing else the man in that picture kissing his son on the forehead can't be ALL bad.

It sucks getting older

I buried the last of my grandparents today. She was 89 when she passed, so she lived about 30 years more than I figure to make it (Granny may have had 7 kids, but they weren't named Rakes or Trot so I figure that's at least worth 15 years per child). As I sat and listened to the preacher I kept thinking "I sure have been to quite a few of these over the past 10 years or so."

And as I thought about that, I automatically turned my thoughts to the fact that both my parents are in their 70's, Angie's Mom and Dad are mid-60ish, and while I'd like to pretend otherwise I'm coming up pretty freaking fast on 40. I have high blood pressure, I don't eat right OR exercise (unless you count flipping back and forth between baseball games and typing on a keyboard forms of good cardiovascular workouts) and I'm wound tighter than an alarm clock.

Contemplating your own mortality and all that is not exactly in my wheelhouse, so after giving my brain a workout watching "Hell's Kitchen" I tried to think about what to write about.

This has been pretty much it.

So I leave you with this.

A song that has made me tap my foot over the past few days.




Earnest Hemingway I'm not.

Joy is in the eye of the beholder.

I'm going to be a pallbearer at my Granny's funeral tomorrow.

Trot has went poop in the toilet exactly 0 times since our "breakthrough" on Monday.

Ciera is practicing for a Catillion where, and I quote, "I danced with about 50 boys today".

And Rakes is becoming so obsessed with "Star Wars" I'm just waiting for the day he asks me to take him to a convention and I subsequently pass out.

Add to all this I've got OCD, the economy is in the toilet, and I sell furniture for a living and you've got what most shrinks would describe as the perfect storm for a mental breakdown.

Or I'm about to embark on a life of crime that would make John Dellinger look like a cream puff.

As a result of all this, I scrounged the interwebs tonight looking for an image that would take it all away and leave me feeling like it was 2004 all over again.

It didn't take me long to find it.

Long live the Dirt Dog.

Time Marches On

My Grandmother Rakes passed away this morning. Truth is, she left this earth over 7 years ago; her mind just didn't tell her body it was time to go. Alzheimer's took it and just made it seem like it never happened. At least for her.

I watched my Mom go every week to Virginia and sit with her and when I called Mom to see how it went she was always positive and upbeat, even though I knew it was killing her. Those of you that know me realize I'm not the sharpest tool in the shed, but even I could figure THAT out.

Granny never knew Rakes or Trot; the last 5 years or so she didn't even know me. And 2 days from now I'll be a pallbearer at her funeral, just like I've been at my Grandpa and Grandma Dalton and my Uncle Henry. And I'll be forced to realize I'm one step closer to my own mortality. I look at my wife and kids and one part of me thinks it'll last forever. The other part knows better.

Days like this remind me that one day MY kids are going to have to deal with THEIR Grandparents, and eventually us, leaving this earth. I'm usually about as deep as a mud puddle and I'm well aware I'm rambling, but this is sort of helping me deal with all this crap right now. So I hope you'll bear with me.

Tell your family you love them. Multiple times per day. Really listen to them when they talk and try and remember this; they won't always be here. Hug your kids, spouse, or loved ones and don't ever leave something unsaid. Take the time to make the time; one day you won't have a choice.

Tomorrow I'm sure I'll be back to ranting about poop or Slappy and his pathetic press conference or why Rocco Baldelli will be the key component to the Red Sox winning the AL East this coming year.

Today? I'm just a doofus trying to make some cosmic sense of it all.

If you've wished me well on Facebook or sent me an email or just thought about me and my family today, I can't thank you enough.

And to Cyn and Tex who reached out and texted me today? You will NEVER know how much you guys mean to me.

R.I.P Granny Rakes.

Teddy loves you.

A Day That Will Live In Infamy

I've got to admit that in the past, whenever Trot would come running into the room naked as a jaybird and hollering "poop!" at the top of his lungs? Well, let's just say it never ended well.

So today, as I ate my roast beef sandwich and attempted to read the sports page while he came streaking through the kitchen I had no reason to think this wouldn't end the same as every other time. Ang shouting at the top of her lungs for me to get the 409, Trot running to my bedroom to hide, Rakes laughing his head off, and me trying to keep from throwing up or passing out. Whichever came first.

Turns out he HADN'T gone yet; he was just letting us know it was coming. Much like Jackie Chan scaling a wall or Keanu Reeves in "The Matrix" I can't exactly explain how Ang somehow got the door open, him picked up, and on the toilet. Yet she did.

Meanwhile, I'm standing outside the door doing my best Knute Rockne imitation (you know, if Knute would have been trying to get a 2 year old with a stubborn streak a mile wide and the ability to walk around with crap in his pants without so much as a grimace to use a toilet) and Ang is yelling "You get to pick out a prize" while Rakes runs back and forth from his cheese to the door like Speedy Gonzalez in the Looney Tunes.

It is with great pride I can now report my youngest son actually crapped in the toilet and we have officially moved up one level from a gorilla. It's just one instance so I'm not getting my hopes up yet. Something tells me I'll need a Valium or twelve by the time the week is out. But after 10 years, 3 kids, and enough money spent on Pampers that I'm fairly certain I've enabled 7 executives to retire?

I can see a light at the end of the tunnel. And I'm pretty certain it's not anther train. Maybe now instead of buying diapers we can actually go out to eat.

At somewhere other than McDonalds.

About an hour ago I wandered into the playroom and found the following; part of me grinned from ear to ear at the absolute innocence of it all and the other part wanted to yell "Why can't you sleep like that at 6:30 on Sunday morning instead of clomping down the stairs like a Clydesdale demanding Orange Juice and cheese?" Yes, cheese. Don't ask.

At least he's got his priorities straight; Nintendo DS, PS2 remote, his bag with his other games, and a tub of Funguns.

Take me out to the ball game, take me out with the crowd........

You Can Take A Horse To Water But You Can't Make Him Drink

I got the feeling watching this clip that Beckett would have rather walked over a burning football field filled with broken glass than sat there and answered some of the most inane questions this side of your average Al Roker interview.

What stands out even more than that?

He actually went 9 minutes and 52 seconds without dropping the F-bomb on some idiot reporter.

Why did I just link another video from the Globe tonight instead of trying to post something new? Without going into too much detail (I'm not sure my head could take much more) I'll give you a brief transcript of what happened about 6:30 tonight.

I'm in the living room, Ang is in the kitchen, and the boys are in the toy room; I should have known something was up. It was entirely too quiet.

Rakes: "Mom! Trot has got a really bad poopy, it's all over the floor, and he's got his hands in it. And will you please turn the tv back on now, buddy?"

I'm pretty sure I blacked out for the next 15 minutes or so.

Tell Cupid Josh Beckett say's Hi

Tito: "Josh, what do you think about Joba being in the starting rotation for the Yankees this season?"

Beckett: "Skip, I could give two *&*&* about that fat, drunk driving piece of *@#&. He can pitch all 162 *@#$*@# games for that piece of *#$* team for all I care. All I wanna know is when am I starting and where is the *#$#**$ beer?"

Or maybe he just asked him if he had heard the one about the priest, a monk, and a rabbi.

It could go either way.

All I know is this picture gives me a happy.

Oh. And Happy Valentines Day.

*Picture courtesy of bostonglobe.com*

Spring has Sprung

The Captain doing what he does best; leading.

Javy Lopez, Pap, Beckett, perennially grumpy Jon Lester and some random 55 year old bald dude wait their turn to perform agility drills. Wait a minute; that's John Smoltz. Now I realize why he's always got a cap on. My man looks like Mr. Clean.

Major league baseball players basically taking a P.E. class should not make me giddy.

And yet?

It does.

Baseball, REAL live baseball is just around the corner.

With apologies to Jon Bon Jovi?

Everybody say "Yeah, Yeah, Hallelujah, Amen".

Diary of a Mad Man

7:35. Arrive home from work.

7:36. Rakes verbally assaults my eardrums with the tale of how he got 1,000,000 coins on "Star Wars Legos" to be Luke Skywalkers ghost. I have no freaking clue what he's talking about, but congratulate him on his good fortune and try to figure out what Ang left me for dinner. (She's at choir practice, my Dad is watching the kids with a look on his face that is a cross between the dude that has the monster come out of his stomach in "Alien" and one of utter pity for me.)

7:49. After hugging everyone, taking off my coat, and telling my Dad, who is interested in how many dishes I can fit in the dishwasher at one time, how my day went, I find my dinner in the microwave.

8:02. I sit down to eat after having to watch Rakes blow up a storm trooper repeatedly and get Trot off the kitchen table.

8:03. Trot and Rakes ask for a fudgecicle.

8:05. Finally get to eat. And I only had to stop 23 times to tell Trot to get off the bar and Rakes to hold his head over his napkin.

8:09. Angie gets home, my Dad leaves a vapor trail in his wake as he leaves, and I'm sitting in the toy room somehow playing the PS2 with Rakes while Trot eats a sucker and randomly yells out "Kill that man now, Dad!"

8:31. Get both boys upstairs and try to get them both to brush their teeth and go to the bathroom at the same time without making a mess. I'd have better luck tying 2 mongoose together by the tail and letting them loose in a china cabinet.

8:52. Finish reading Rakes his books (only after I'd answered 429 questions about "To Think That I Saw It On Mulberry Street").

8:53. Tell Trot, for the first time tonight, to get back in bed.

8:55. Tell Trot if he DOESN'T get back in bed I'm busting his tail.

8:59. Bust his tail.

9:00. Kiss Ciera goodnight, say prayers, and spend the next 10 minutes hearing about what happened at school and how excited she is about a sleep over she's having on Saturday at a friends.

9:10. Sit down on the bed and talk with Ang about her day, my day, the kids day, and I think Mayday, but I'm not entirely sure.

9:30. Leave bedroom and find Trot, sitting on the sofa and watching the movie "Heat" which I'd left on. When I asked him, in the most angry, grown up voice I could muster what in God's name was he doing still up? He replies with the following.

"Watching tv now, Dad."

9:32. Ang, worried I'm about to stroke out, carries Trot upstairs, tells him I'm going to sell him to gypsies come the morning, and puts him back in bed.

It's now 9:55. He hasn't come out again, but I'm staying right where I am until 11 o'clock just to make sure.

I'm currently accepting applications for a Nanny position at the website doyouhaveamentalproblem.com.

It seemed appropriate

One guy takes 'roids, wears a sweater Ward Cleaver wouldn't be caught dead in to confess, and wears more make up for his tv confession than the average street walker does on a Saturday night.

The other guy makes eye black look good, has quads that would crush a bowling ball, and wouldn't be caught dead in a sweater vest.

And I'm pretty sure he drinks motor oil at cocktail hour.

I'll take the Captain, thank you very much.

The fact they have the same agent?

Giggle fit may not be a strong enough term.

Now? I gotta go get LOST.

Que Pasa, Amigo

Beckett kills me.

Apparently Brad Penny introduced new relief pitcher Takashi Saito to Papelbon and told him Saito was Korean while Saito hollered "I'm Japanese!" I can't express how much I wish I could have seen this in person.

Have I mentioned how much I love the fact the Red Sox remind me of the fraternity "Delta Tau Chi" from Animal House while the Yankees resemble "Omega Theta Pi" from the same movie? How much do you want to bet the Yankees have the stock market channel on in the clubhouse while Papelbon and Pedie fight over whether they watch "Sponge Bob" or "Real Housewives of Atlanta"?

Lastly, a video of professional athletes basically having a catch shouldn't make me this happy.

Yet it does.

Welcome back, Baseball.

I've missed you.

Just Another Brick in the Wall

Barry.

Roger.

Now, Slappy.

As a Red Sox fan, I could care less the poster child for Inferiority Complex in MLB got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Imagining Jeter, Posada, Mariano, and Hank stomping around the Spring Training facility cursing under their breath and wishing they'd have just left him toiling in the cellar in Texas puts a smile on my face.

As a Dad? This whole thing sucks. I grew up believing Pete Rose, Doc Gooden, and Wade Boggs were hero's who got to play a kids game for a living. Turns out one was a degenerate gambler, one was a drug addict and the last one was having sex with an ugly woman and had an obsession with chicken. Who knew?

Point is, I found all that out when I was an adult and was past the point where this kind of stuff bothered me.

OK, I'm lying. I'm STILL torked off about Rose and I'll never think of Boggs without imagining him and Margo sharing a bucket of the Colonel's finest while watching "Debbie Does Dallas".

But for my boys, instead of it happening when they could sort of understand it, it's happening now. I've already had to try and explain to Ciera why Nomie went to the Cubs and Rakes just can't grasp why Manny is/was a Dodger, although he likes the Dodgers because they wear blue.

It's a better reason than I've heard from some Yankee fans so I'm willing to cut him some slack.

However, if the day comes where Trot Nixon gets named in some steroid report, I'm not really sure how I'm going to explain that to my baby boy, who just so happens to be named after my all-time favorite Red Sox player.

Add that to the fact that my kids won't ever have the innocence regarding athletes that I grew up with and I'm ready to sign them all up for competitive dance class.

And if you know me at all, you realize how much it pained me to type that last sentence.

Note to Victor Conte: If I ever meet you in person, expect a size 9 Nike to be kicked in the general area of your gibleys.

Baseball is a Funny Game

I took the kids outside after church today and after a few minutes of riding bikes, kicking soccer balls, and terrorizing the few brave squirrels who dared to venture into our yard, our playtime ended up where it usually does; having a catch and BP in the driveway.

The first picture sort of hit me when I looked at the shots Ang had taken. Last summer, I was standing at the line right in front of Rakes while I threw to him. Today I was at the end of the driveway, bringing it at a pretty fast clip and he was tagging line drives off my neighbors garage doors. Note to self: tell T-Ball coach in April to pack a cup when he comes to practice.

I can't really get a feel for Rakes batting stance. It's some type of combination of Youk, Craig Counsel, and Tanner Boyle from the Bad News Bears. I'm sure it's completely wrong, but the way he was spraying line drives around the yard makes me want to write a note to every coach he has from now on telling them to let the little heathen stand any way he wants to if he's whacking the ball like he was today. I even tried to get him to hit left handed, but after 5 foul balls he got aggravated and I got exasperated so we went back to the right side of the plate before the two of us needed to go to counseling.

Finally, while Rakes, Ciera, and I were re-creating Game 4 of the 2004 ALCS in the driveway, Trot was getting ready to emerge from the garage ready to throw down.

I have no idea where I went wrong.

Rich, I've got a sinking feeling there is a picture of you looking EXACTLY like this somewhere in your parents house right now.

The Return of Miss Hathaway

Dear President Obama, Members of Congress, and all you Senators,

To call my employer apathetic about issues other than baseball and Jack Bauer is normally an insult to apathetic people everywhere. However, thanks to the rantings of his sometime insane wife to some poor woman in India, he has Showtime free for 3 months, courtesy of DirecTV. Tonight he watched something called "Sicko" by a rather large man wearing a Detroit Tiger ball cap; he told me when he was flipping channels he thought he had stumbled on to an episode of "Baseball Tonight" so he decided to watch.

Turns out it was a documentary on the health care woes of this country and how other nations around the world dealt with such matters. It was at this point I asked him if he was drinking; why else would he be watching a documentary? And it wasn't even about baseball, the Three Stooges, or Donald Duck.

After several minutes of him yelling expletives in my ear and threatening to give my job to Bobo the Chimp, he calmed down (Well, he stopped screaming. I took it as progress.) and proceeded to unleash a rant that would have made George Carlin, Richard Pryor, and Lenny Bruce green with envy. Mind you, I have no idea who those 3 gentlemen are; I'm just repeating what he told me to say.

Again, realize this is just a humble civil servant relaying a message so I type the following with this disclaimer: I'm old, single, and rather ugly. I need this job like A-Rod needs attention, so please take this into consideration as you read the following.

How can the greatest country in the world have this big of a cluster**** for a health system? We can spend billions in Iraq, billions in Afghanistan, billions in bailouts to the banks, and STILL have enough to pay hundreds of guys millions of dollars to play a child's game for a living yet we can't help some woman out in South Central LA if she needs to take her child to the hospital.

Canada, England, and France somehow do it. And it doesn't cost the people living there a thing. FRANCE? FRANCE? The same people whose greatest contribution to the world is a freaking potato shaped like a pencil can do this for their citizens and we can't? Throw in the fact that EVERYONE of these countries have longer life expectancies than ours is bad enough; the fact Cuba does to is just the final nail in the coffin.

Every month my employer's employer takes out almost $500 from his check for insurance and that is just for his long suffering wife and those 3 future criminals; his is paid for. And all that does in inure the fact he can actually go to a doctor and THEN he's got to pay at least another $30 per person for the doctor to determine what is wrong. He then goes to the local pharmacy and pays ANOTHER $30-$50 dollars for medicine to actually help them get better.

Meanwhile some guy painting pictures on the streets of Paris can develop a tumor the size of a football, spend months in the hospital getting treated, and walk out without having to take out a third mortgage, sell a kidney, or fake his own death so his family can get the money from his life insurance policy.

I'm fully aware if this were May, he would have been watching a baseball game and this entire post would never have happened. The fact I'm up at the ungodly hour of 9:45 pm should be proof enough; I haven't been up this late since Wayne Newton hosted SNL a few years ago.

I don't know where he was going with all this; 15 minutes ago he just sort of ran out of steam, muttered something about Slappy getting busted for PED's (I'm too much of a lady to ask what this means) and said he had to go: apparently Trot had gone #2 in his pants and was on the move.

Take from this post what you will. Me? I'm going to try to get some sleep and hope I have a job come Monday.

Hopefully my employer will remember there is a "Who's the Boss" marathon on Nickelodeon tomorrow and forget all about this come Monday.

If not?

Well, God help us all.

Yours Truly,

Miss Hathaway

PS: Is it true that nice Mr. Torre has written a tell all book about his years with the MFY? Excuse me, the New York Yankees? And is he single?

Christmas comes early; Today was Truck Day!

*Picture courtesy of Josh Blue. If you think about linking without proper credit, I have to warn you; he knows people. Who am I kidding? He IS people."

Forget that stupid groundhog seeing his shadow or not; today was the sign for Red Sox fans everywhere that Spring is indeed on it's way.

After loading up everything from bats to Theo's computer to the practice jersey's the boys will wear during the early days of Spring Training, the big trucks rolled out of Boston today headed to Florida. And yes, I'm aware the rest of the country looks at Red Sox Nation like we all need a collective lobotomy; speaking for the rest of the future members of the sanitarium we all feel the need to tell you to pound sand where the sun don't shine.

Today means baseball. Soon. Next week we'll see images of the pitchers running in the outfield and playing long toss while Tek holds court with the minor league guys who may or may not step foot in Fenway Park this season. It means John Henry in his Indiana Jones hat patrolling the outfield while Tito and Theo hold their obligatory press conference where they answer about 100 questions without giving anything away.

It means winter is on it's last legs, Spring is around the corner, and the soothing tones of Orsillo and Remy are just a few months away.

It means Baseball. God, do I love truck day.

Apparently from the picture I posted it also means that along with my friend Kelly on the right and my friend Cyn in the middle that the old lady from the Wendy's commercials is a Sox fan herself.

Where's the Beef?

I'm guessing Jesse and Frank James Dad felt the same way.

Why do I get the sinking feeling I'm going to be looking at these pictures someday on the Smokinggun.com's website under "Youngest Mug Shots Ever?"

Trot looks deranged while Rakes is sporting the youngest ever picture of "Future Mob Boss" I've ever seen.

On a side note, if I don't wake up in the morning, will anyone who happens to read this direct the police to Angie? She made me take some herbal sleeping pill tonight to offset the insomnia I've had the last three nights. Given that I trust herbal medicine about as much as I do Slappy to tell the truth, I'm more than a little bit nervous.

I'm not sure what scares me more; the pill I took or the blank look on Rakes face in that picture.

I'd say she's after my money, but the fact I don't have any puts a serious crimp in that plan.

In the name of all that is holy, can it be Spring Training already?

Judgement Day Is Coming

Barry Bonds BS and Barry Bonds AS; Before Steroids and After Steroids. They say a picture tells a thousand stories; to anyone with an ounce of common sense, it's been pretty apparent Barry didn't turn into Mr. Olympia at the young age of 37 without a little help.

If someone tells you they think differently? I can guarantee you they believe OJ was innocent, we didn't land on the moon, and Milli Vanilla got a raw deal.

Look, I'll be the first to admit that PED's or not, whenever Barry was at the plate, I made sure I tried to watch; the guy was UNBELIEVABLE. The way he could just wait and wait for that perfect pitch and then launch it into the next county? It was the sports world equivalent of a Picasso painting, only you have to imagine Pablo tripping on LSD or something to get the same effect.

However, it looks like the Government has morphed into Kurt Russell in "Tombstone" and has told Barry's agent that they are coming. And hell's coming with them.

Today, THIS BIT OF NEWS came out. Looks like the end is finally near, one way or another. A judge released the Balco testimony to the public, along with phone taps, a diary by Bond's trainer Greg Anderson, and everything else short a picture of Bond's sticking a needle in his rear end wearing a "I took the Clear and the Cream and all I got was this lousy T-Shirt".

In a sport that values statistics and numbers more than any other, the all time Home Run king is going to go out not having streets, schools, and awards named after him but will leave his 15 minutes of fame as the poster child for the war against performance enhancing drugs.

Somehow, that makes part of me have a sad.

Ease My Pain

Pitchers and Catchers report next week.

I've kept my mind occupied with football, 24, LOST, and wondering if that is really Regis Philbin's hair or if he wears a rug (I'm going with a toup; it's too perfect) for the past 4 months.

A lot can happen in that time; Trot is now mostly potty trained, save for the occasional "Woops. I thought the laundry room was the bathroom". I can actually hold a conversation with Rakes where he is listening; yes, it's like a German Shepherd staring at you while you talk about NOT tearing up the furniture, then as soon as you are done the sofa looks like it belongs in Fred Sanford's house. But he IS listening.

Manny still doesn't have a contract, Tek does, and John Smoltz will be wearing the second letter of the alphabet on his cap rather than the first. We elected a new President, the same old crap is going on in the Middle East, and by some strange turn of events I look 4 years older and Ang looks 14 years younger. Whoever said life was fair?

None of that matters, though. Spring Training is upon us, Opening Day is right around the corner, and in a little over 3 months I'll be in Boston, MA to see the Sox play the Mets and participate in MEGAPALOOZA 2009.

Short of a asteroid striking my house or NESN hiring Chip Carey and Buck Martinez there is pretty much nothing the world can throw at me to sandblast the smile off my face.

Ease His Pain.

Costner is freaking brilliant.

Day off? What day off?

No, it didn't snow again.

That is about the only thing that didn't happen today. Got up at 8 so I could take a shower and get Rakes to pre-school. Came home and read the paper while picking up a living room full of Lego's, then headed out to eat lunch with Ciera at school at the Ungodly hour of 10:30 am.

Left there and ran uptown to register Rakes for Spring Soccer then broke about 17 motor vehicles laws to get to his pre-school by noon to pick him up.

Came home, fed the animals lunch and went outside for 2 hours to play; and by play I mean chase tennis balls, soccer balls, and tricycles down the driveway, street, and back yard. Got Trot put down for nap just in time for Ciera to get home from school, Rakes settled in front of the PS2, and myself out of the house for 60 minutes of solitude; What I wouldn't give for Superman's Fortress of Solitude on days like this.

Ate supper, cleaned up the dishes, bathed the boys, and played "Star Wars Legos" with Rakes for an hour; right now? The boys are eating a snack and I've got a stop watch counting down until bedtime and Jack Bauer.

I have no clue how Angie does this EVERYDAY.

I gotta go back to work tomorrow to catch my breath.

PS: I wouldn't have it any other way.

Super Bowl Sunday

As I watched the game tonight from my sofa, I was reminded of why sports hold such a high place in our society. I'd be remiss if I failed to mention Rakes was lying next to me and kicking me in the gibley's while he played Batman on his Nintendo DS, Trot was wearing a long sleeve shirt, his underoos, and a belt for some unknown reason and Ciera was asking me if I knew who some pre-adolescent on Disney was. All the while, Ang is either on the phone, asking me how old Bruce Springsteen is, or wondering aloud for the 1,358th time why those guys wore their hair that long.

I mention all that just to let you know that my brain already feels like oatmeal and I'm just into the second paragraph of this post; so cut me some slack, ok?

Watching the Cardinals take the lead, then seeing the Steelers come back and win the game my emotions went from one end of the spectrum to the other, I yelled at the tv and cursed under my breath. What I didn't do? Not once did I think about the depressed economy or wonder how sales would be at the store next week.

For a few brief hours, I didn't worry about the mortgage payment, the credit card bill, or the stock market. Economics, wars, and stimulus packages didn't cross my mind for the whole game and that is basically what I'm trying to get across.

Tonight, sports did exactly what it was supposed to do; it provided a diversion from reality so I could completely invest myself in what was going on in Tampa Bay.

Tomorrow it won't really matter who won or who lost. I'll still have my worries and headaches I had at 6:30 tonight.

But tonight?

I was a fan.

If a football game can do all this for me, do you now understand what a 162 game baseball season means? Is it all beginning to make sense?

Spring Training is just around the corner.

Thank God.