The Wee-Wee Thing That Makes You Not Get Hit By The Baseball

My cell phone rang while I was at work. It was Diane (it's always Diane). "So...did you leave something out that you shouldn't left out for the girls to find?"

My mind raced and I suddenly had the feeling of being sent to the principle's office. Chainsaw? No, I don't own one. Nudie books? No, I don't own any of those either. Condoms? No, we haven't...never mind. I couldn't think of a single thing that I could've left out that was about to get me in trouble. I was hardly even home today because I had gotten up early to go....ohhhh...

For the past few months, a couple of my co-workers have been badgering me to get up early in the morning and drive 30 minutes to a park on the other side of town to play baseball. Not softball. Baseball. Not on a team. Not in a league. Just a handfull of guys getting together for batting and infield practice. Now I haven't thrown a baseball in 20 years, which, after throwing softballs for the past 20 years, is a bigger deal than one might think. And while I wasn't completely disinterested in playing baseball, I was infinitely more interested in gazing at the insides of my eyelids while enjoying the relative comfort of my bed.

This week the stress level at work has ratcheted-up two or three HUNDRED notches due to renovations that will add six radio stations and three more TV stations to our building. Around Wednesday I noticed a knot in my stomach that would not go away, and I knew I was reaching the limit. I also knew I needed a release (besides heavy drinking), so on Thursday morning I reinstated my free weights workout, and that afternoon I told my co-workers I would meet them at the ball field on Saturday morning. I am now reminded why exercise is such an effective means of stress-relief: your body is in such pain that your worries are now focused on whether or not you can stand up, pick up a pen, comb your hair, or blink rather than all the other random crap going on around you.

Saturday morning I got up early and met three other guys out at the ball field for a two hour workout, at the end of which I knew I was in trouble. Still, it was good to get out there and be active for a change. We finished up, and I rushed home for a quick shower before heading in to work. It was in my haste to get ready for work that I committed my transgression: I left my cup out. It's not like I left it on the kitchen table or counter top or anywhere that needed to be completely re-sanitized. I just left it out on my dresser, where Kyra found it. Apparently, when she finally figured out what it was for, she freaked: "YOU MEAN IT GOES ON HIS WEINER??"

I got her on the phone where she took her turn chastising me. "Dad, did you know you left your thing out?"

"What thing?" I teased.

"YOU know...the wee-wee-thing-that-makes-you-not-get-hit-by-the-baseball."

I had to laugh at that, like my cup has magical powers to steer baseballs away from my nads.

"My cup?"

"Yes, you left it out and it was really gross."

"I'm sorry, Sweetie. I won't let it happen again."

"Good."

Today I'm paying ten-fold for my transgression. It hurts to breathe.

The Girls Are Back In School Today, Do Daa, Do Daa...

This is me doing a happy, happy dance.

Whoops. This is me closing the blinds.

This is me resuming my happy, happy dance.

Don't get me wrong, I love my children dearly, but there's only so much petty squabbling one can take. And the Tucson summers are so hot, it's not like I can shove them out the door to go play. They'll die. Then I'll feel guilty. Which is why I love our school district's decision to have a year-round school year. So whilst all of you are still dealing with your whiny, bickering children, mine are being dealt with by yet-to-be-proven-competent teachers! HA!

I'm sorry. I apologize. I'm sure your kids aren't "whiny" or "bickering" and that my girls' teachers are perfectly competent. I guess I'm just giddy with all the silence around here.

I Called Him "Chico" And Lived to Tell About It

Diane reminds me on a regular basis that I have a not-so-healthy affinity with my car horn, and I, in turn, remind her that she should mind her own freakin' beeswax. I should probably listen to my wife more.

I had to work a longer shift Tuesday night to cover a coworker's vacation, so I was driving home a little later than normal...like the roads-are-totally-deserted later-than-normal. As I was driving home, I came upon a slow-moving vehicle that, though it remained in it's lane, seemed to be drifting excessively within the lines. I kept my distance. We came to a stop light and both of us maneuvered into the left turn lane. The road onto which we were turning started out with several hundred yards of two lanes before merging into a single lane. Since I didn't want to be stuck behind this potentially impaired individual, I decided that I would pass him if I had the opportunity. The light changed, he meandered into the right lane, and I made my move. That's when all the bad things began to happen.

As I turned into the left lane and attempted to pass, I was abruptly cut off by my liquor-imbibed amigo as he cranked the wheel hard to the left and shot out right in front of me. I jammed on the brakes to avoid hitting him, and yes, you guessed it, I instinctively reached for the horn and gave it a nice long blast, you know, just to let him know I was there. It must of worked because he over-corrected and shot back across the right lane and off the road, plunging my car in a cloud of dust before returning to the road. This pretty much confirmed my suspicion that this individual was indeed drunk, so I backed way off and let him go on his merry way.

I followed him all the way to my subdivision (oh great) where I eventually pulled up beside him at a stoplight. Why I pulled up next to a dude I knew was drunk is a question I continue to ask myself, a question to which I have no good answer. Probably the best one is that "I'm stupid", but the ones I've been going with are closer to "I was tired" or "I wasn't thinking", which is just a variation of "I'm stupid". Anyway, I pull up next to him, and he immediately confronted me. And since it was a pleasant Arizona evening, I had my windows down so I had no problem deciphering his message:

"HEY! YOU F***IN' HONK YOUR HORN AT ME?"

I probably just should have kept my eyes straight ahead and done nothing, but "I'm stupid", remember? I turned and looked and found myself staring into the glassy eyes of a behemoth of a man. He was stone-faced drunk and looking for a fight. At this point I figured I could do two things: I could ignore him and piss him off, or I could respond and piss him off. Guess which one I chose.

"Yeah, when you practically run me off the road, I honk my horn."

Well, that was enough for him. He started fumbling around at his gearshift on the steering wheel, then at his seat belt. Then he found the door handle and opened the door. "Alright, you! Get out of the car!" And he started climbing out of his car.

Now I'm a supposedly responsible, law-abiding, happily married father of two. I have a mortgage and own a minivan. I'm not supposed to get involved in street fights with chiseled, inebriated chuckleheads in the wee hours of the morning. I knew I needed to get out of there, pronto. But just when I thought my stupidity had reached its limits, I got stupider. I left him with a departing inquiry:

"Had a little too much to drink tonight, there, chico?"

And then I fled against the red light.

Before you label me as a racist, please allow me to try to explain myself. My high school Spanish teacher used to call us "chicos" and "chicas" (that's "boys" and "girls" to those of you not proficient in the Spanish language), and it stuck with me, especially under circumstances in which someone has pissed me off. On those occasions, these particular individuals, regardless of race, have become "chicos". It's not the best habit in our politically correct society, especially here in Southern AZ, but it's so fully ingrained in my vocabulary that it's going to be tough to break. Incidentally, "chico" also means "little" or "small", which is funny to me because this dude was huge. He was also white. I should have called him "Bubba".

So now I'm racing for home and trying to lose this guy. I had a good lead on him, but was reluctant to go too fast through a heavily populated area. I also didn't want this jerk driving his SUV into someone's bedroom, so I set a brisk, but responsible pace, the only level-headed decision of the evening. I monitored my rear-view mirror and finally spotted him FLYING up the road behind me. He blew right through a stop sign and came bearing down on me, eventually pulling in right behind me and tailgating me. That's it, I thought, I can't go home, so I slowed down and just kept driving.

He followed me for a couple of minutes with no sign of backing off, so I grabbed my cell phone, dialed 911, and headed for the closest police station. How the hell do I get myself into these situations? Well he either got tired or wised up to my plan because a few minutes later he turned around and went home. I sighed a sigh of relief, and when I thought it was safe to do so, I did the same.

So what has this experience taught me? 1. Don't honk. 2. Keep my mouth shut. and 3. Take an alternative route home, especially if I fail to follow #1 and #2. Oh yeah, and never, NEVER, call them "chico".

The Big One

I've always taken a certain measure of pride in the fact that I wed an older woman. There's a mystique to the older woman, a sexiness, a hotness, and an added layer of difficulty to the hunt. You see, I think it's fairly easy for an older man to score a younger bride, but you've really got to amp up your game to bag an older one. They're wiser. They know our tricks. And we'd better be pretty frickin' special if they're going to pass up their sugar daddy for us. Well I did it and I'm proud.

I also happen to be talking completely though my anus because we were stupid frickin' kids when we met and started dating, and our difference in age is a mere six months. But tomorrow that six month age difference will magically transform into a seemingly bottomless chasm as my bride ceases to be a 30-something. Yes, tomorrow is Diane's birthday, and it's a big'un. Tomorrow my bride turns 40.

FORTY.

4.0.

But that doesn't distress me at all. I, as a younger husband, think it's HOT. I get to sleep with a 40 year-old woman! What really bothers me is the knowledge that MY 40th is only six months away. Then I'll probably cry.

Perfect

We're back from what I believe to be the perfect vacation...lots of laying around, playing in the surf, drinking cervezas and margaritas, and eating ourselves silly. Here are some pics from the trip.


The view from our back patio...not too shabby, eh?


Our not-too-humble abode...six bedrooms,
five bathrooms, an elevator, and a hot tub
built for about 10.


Cousins...my girls hamming it up with my nieces. They
never made it to sleep before 11 pm the whole vacation.


Looks like a scene from Jaws...


Takin' a break, mugging for the camera...


Kyra, practicing her "surfing"...


Kailey, building castles with her cousins...


The fam...yeah, I'm the pasty white guy in the back...