Cubbies!

At no time in my life have I been a baseball fan.  In fact, I've gone out of my way to tell people I didn't feel baseball was a real sport; on the contrary it seemed like a very unpassionate display of laziness to me.  Naturally, my prediliction for things not baseball was probably brought about by my inability to hit a ball, or catch a ball or judge a fly ball's distance from the batter to my glove.  My real disdain for baseball came about when I was playing catch with my younger brother, who was a pretty good baseball player in his own right, and ate a fastball rather than catching it with my gloved hand. 

My dad was a huge baseball fan, but most especially he was an Atlanta Braves fan.  When the braves won approximately ten games a year, he was still there in front of the television cheering them on.  For me, watching baseball on t.v. had all the fun, excitement and glamour of watching grass grow.  I thought George Carlin had it right when he said baseball would be a lot more fun if randomly placed land mines were planted in the outfield--now there's excitement!

Pops was a die hard Braves fan, and the Braves play-by-play analyst during the 70's and 80's was a gentleman named Skip Carey.  Skip did have a very contagious personality and he could at least bring the least favorite fan of the sport an occasional smile.  He was also a legacy sports commentator.  His father, Harry Carey, wasn't just the voice of the Chicago Cubs, he was the Chicago Cubs!  And while my dad hated most things yankee, he felt some weird kinship for Harry Carey and the Cubs and would tune into WGN television anytime the Braves weren't playing to watch this yankee team in what I'm certain he considered to be a foreign country (She-car-go, as he would say).

So, every now and again, I would watch part of most of a game with my dad, and sometimes we would watch a Cubs game together.  He would always laugh at Harry singing Take Me Out to the Ball Game and comment on how horrible the yankee team was (a team not so different from his beloved Braves).  Etched into my memory was the thatched looking field, cut and cared for by some guy who took great pride in his work.  The famed ivy crawling up the back wall of Wrigley Field, the bleachers behind center field and the folks on the roof tops of buildings getting to watch games for free are a few of the memories I have of the Chicago Cubs.

And here I am, thirty years later, living in the Chicago suburbs with an opportunity to see the Cubs play.  I would like to add that I've seen the Braves play a few times, both at the old Fulton County Stadium (Dale Murphy, Phil Niekro, Glenn Hubbard, Raphael Rameriz) and at Turner Field (post 1996 Olympics).  I was also at the new Yankee Stadium the night Derek Jeter broke Lou Gherig's all time hit record.  So,with tickets in hand, I told my daughter Cassidy, step daughter Abby and her friend Emma to be ready to ride to Wrigleyville by 4:00 PM on the 26th of June.  We were going to witness a terrible Cubs team beat up on another New York team, the Mets.  When I told people the Cubs were going to win, I was taunted and laughed at.  After all, the Cubs aren't that good this year and conversely, the Mets aren't that bad.

I donned a University of Alabama t-shirt and hat because I wanted to blend in with the fanbase at Wrigley.  We hopped in my wife's car and drove the thirty miles to the stadium; a thirty mile drive that took us around two hours to complete.  The traffic was lovely.  We parked (I had a parking pass--win!) then walked a block to the stadium.  Upon seeing Wrigley Field I got all excited, kinda like a fat kid in a donut shop.  It was something to behold, what with all that history and all!  I knew my dad was looking down, living vicariously through his oldest and most favorite son who didn't really like baseball, but who wanted to do this for the both of us. 

We handed our tickets to one of the ticket-takers and walked into the old stadium.  Immediately I spotted a guy with a University of Alabama hat on, and almost as quickly I yelled out, "Roll Tide!"  (Note: for those currently living on Saturn, Roll Tide is the war chant Alabama fans scream during sporting events, especially Alabama football games.  It is also exclusively used as a greeting when addressing other Bama fans, or used as a taunt when meeting Auburn fans.)  In return for my famous greeting, approximately fifteen people standing around me broke out into "Roll Tide Roll!"  It did my heart good and for a moment I thought Coach Paul Bear Bryant might be resurrected and come strolling down the halls of Wrigley. 

After grabbing a hot dog for each, at seven bucks apiece--ouch--we worked our way up the ramp to find our seats on the second level.  We sat just above the third base line in perfect territory to catch a foul ball that might float our way.  Soon the Cubs took the field and I jumped into action by cheering and just going plain old stupid.  The girls shied away from me, hoping they wouldn't run into anyone they knew.  Several folks walked up to me and gave me a Roll Tide; life was good.

Some new kid named Rizzo made his major league debut and the three girls all talked about how cute he was.  I hate girls.  Why can't they focus on the sport?  Why do teenager girls have to be all silly, smelly and boy crazy?  Anyway.....

I got up from my seat and danced to the music between innings, at least I called what I was doing dancing.  The girls, I'm certain, had a different opinion or interpretation for what I was doing, but dance I did because I was having fun.  I purchased a four dollar bag of peanuts for the girls who inhaled them pretty quickly--and I thought boys could eat. 

The Cubs went down 0-2 in the first inning and I wasn't liking it one bit.  I had predicted a win for the Cubbies and would have to eat crow when I returned to work (I work on Chicago's southside, notoriously pro-White Sox).  The girls continued to talk about the players "hotness" factor while I remained focused on the game, dancing and cheering.  I glanced over to find the girls beginning to loosen up--they were dancing, albeit in their seats.  Ha!  Things were getting better!

Our team battled their way back into the game and were soon leading 3-2.  The game was looking up!  The lights came on as the sun went down, the smell of peanuts, hotdogs and stale beer wafted through the park.  A couple of locals began terrorizing a lone Mets fan by screaming "Mets suck!"  I'll be the first to admit I expected more originality from a Chicago native, but I laughed nonetheless.  A couple of other Mets fans put orange and blue wigs on their heads, which caused my anti-Auburn radar to go off.  I controlled myself, meditated for a moment and remembered where I was.  These weren't Auburn fans, but like a bull seeing red, I wanted to charge at the them, berating them publicly for such an indecent display! 

We moved into later innings and a guest sang Take Me Out to the Ball Park during the seventh inning stretch.  The girls were up singing and swaying to the music.  Success!  They were having a good time.  I laughed and sang with them, swaying rhythmically to the old tune. 

As we moved into the top of the ninth the Cubs were leading 5-3.  And as luck would have it, the Mets couldn't seal the deal and wound up losing by that same score.  Vindicated for my prediction, I knew I could return to work the next day with my head held high.  Additionally, the girls had a blast at the old ball game.

And finally, I found two Auburn fans to accost.  This was the greatest night I had had in a long time.

dashing like a warrior

I've been athletic my entire life but I've never been a fan of running, although I do occasionally push myself on a treadmill or jogging path just to maintain some semblance of health.  After years of football, competitive powerlifting and martial arts, I elected just to try to be "healthy," but my ego won't allow for any of that.  So, as a friend began talking about this "race" she ran in last year and how much fun it was, I acted completely disinterested, mainly because I was.  Then the ultimate comment found its way from her mouth to my ears, "You should do it with us next year; it's a great time!"

She had laid down the gauntlet and I was forced to run through it.  And while Vicky probably didn't intend this to be a challenge, I took it as one.  Realizing how badly I would suffer during the race, I began hitting the treadmill during the winter months.  When registration opened on-line I begrudgingly signed up and paid my entrance fee to the Warrior Dash.  There was no way I was going to be shown up by a girl, and as chauvinistic as that sounds, I meant it.

As luck would have it, I changed jobs with my company and the amount of time I could spend training dwindled considerably, until eventually the number of hours spent working accounted for almost all of my time spent awake.  With only a couple of weeks before the cross-country 5k obstacle course, I began plotting how I would bow out.  I could fake an injury or talk about how I had to work over the weekend.  Perhaps Father's Day would supersede the race, because after all, when I signed up I didn't realize the race would fall on such an important day. 

I got bombarded with texts and e-mails asking how my training was going and what time my race was by those that were signed up to go.  I avoided all communication, still unsure of how I was going to back out, and feeling rather slimy for my lack of dedication.  On Saturday morning I changed my mind and told Cathy I was going to run.  I made sure my life insurance policy was up to date and our health insurance would cover any injury I might sustain.

Cassidy (my youngest daughter) and I hopped on Scooter early Sunday morning and rode south toward the little town of Channahon, Illinois.  Once we exited the interstate, traffic immediately picked up as the race goers were steadily clamoring into the remote parking area.  We rode uphill in a corn field and finally found a half-way decent parking spot; a spot I hoped was firm enough to hold the bike up since it had rained considerably the night before.

We tentatively walked toward the sea of tents housing event workers.  I found the tent where I had to sign my waiver then walked to the tent to get my running number, which I found out is called a "bib" in running circles.  I asked for directions to the starting line, bought Cassidy a hot dog and something to drink and directed her to the finish line to wait for me.  In the back of my mind I was hoping this wouldn't be the last time I got to see Peanut.

Back at the start line I did a few stretches.  The summer sun was already beating down at 10:30 AM, as the forecast called for a high somewhere in the neighborhood of ninety degrees.  A group of us took off down the trampled path, the course having been tamped down by the previous day's runners as well as the early risers on Sunday.  At the half mile point my heart rate was up and a small creek loomed straight ahead.  Our small pack of runners trudged through the cool water, our feet now sloshing inside our shoes.  At the one mile mark, the first obstacle loomed--the belly crawl under barbed wire through a mud pit. 

Assuming the mud was slick, I dove under the barbed wire and into the pit.  Two things happened at that point: 1.) I quickly realized the mud was very sticky rather than slick which prevented me from sliding, and 2.) landing the way I did on my front somehow resulted in my right testicle getting slammed between my body and Mother Earth.  I immediately rolled over on my back seizing my groin and groaning in pain.  No one seemed to notice or care that I was on the verge of vomiting in the mud pit, so I caught my breath, turned over on my side and belly crawled out, all the while my testicle screaming "stop!"

Upon exiting the sticky mud barbed wire thingee, I doubled over to catch my breath.  I'm sure most assumed I was already winded from the run; on the contrary, I was trying to get my testicle out of my throat.  The agony continued and got a little worse during my jog.  Obviously, I wasn't wearing a jock strap and the jostling about caused more discomfort.  Eventually, though, the pain subsided a little and I was able to refocus on the course just in time for the next obstacle--Mortimer's Crossing--a rope bridge with a single rope at its base.  We hovered only a few feet above ground, but our feet were muddy and traction was at a premium.  Fortunately, I didn't have a mishap, got across the bridge and jogged on.

The first water station was just beyond Mortimer's Crossing and I gulped happily then poured water on my sweat soaked and muddy head.  I think my testicle had swelled to approximately the size of a baseball and the pain would come and go between steps.  Onward I pressed, jogging a few more minutes before coming to the Vicious Valley--interconnected walls of plywood, each wall angled at approximately thirty-five degrees to form a "V."  Inside the walls were 2 x 4's one nailed to each wall to provide some footing as you duck walked across a few feet off the ground.  I traversed this obstacle easily and jumped to the ground almost three feet below.  My testicle screamed at me, and I, in turn, screamed back!  That hurt, but pain, as the Marines say, is fear leaving the body.  Currently, I had a lot of fear being left in this meadow.

The sun continued to bake my pasty white skin and the salty sweat from my forehead dripped relentlessly into my eyes.  I now had to walk a small parcel in order to slow my heartbeat, which was pulsing somewhere in the neighborhood of 60,000 beats per minute.  My testicle really hurt.

A small rock wall called "Vertical Limit" was up next.  Another easy obstacle for me, although I noticed several folks struggling because of the mud and water on the hand grips and foot holds.  I shimmied up the wall to find a pole on the other side, which stood to be slid down by participants with no pain in their loins.  I reached out and gingerly wrapped a leg around the post not caring if the heat baked the inside of my knee and thigh, just so long as the pole didn't come in contact with my friends down below.  I navigated this one successfully, smiled, then grimaced and took off again.

I managed through several other obstacles, up and down muddy slopes (some weren't so fortunate and had to be carted off in ambulances because of broken and twisted ankles and dehydration), finally coming to a small muddy creek.  The muddy creek quickly became a rocky creek, which turned into an overly muddy slope with ropes dangling down to help runners get to the top.  I watched a runner, who had around his neck a digital camera, fall on his chest, subsequently breaking said camera and knocking the wind out of him.  I chuckled because I'm mean like that, and seeing someone else get hurt took my mind off my aching testicle, so I laughed harder, an evil chuckle rivaled only by Vincent Price on Michael Jackson's Thriller album. 

Eventually, after slipping numerous times on the way to the top, I reached the summit and saw the Cargo Climb.  This is the wall of meshed ropes used in the military to train America's finest.  I caught my breath, overcome with exhaustion, my testicle feeling as though it would fall off my body, and scurried up and over the ropes, leaped across two small pits of fire, then jumped feet first into the last obstacle--the "Muddy Mayhem," a pit filled with water and mud about three feet deep.  I coasted and swam through the muck, the pit approximately fifty yards long, until I was able to gain my footing on an extremely muddy and slick field just before the finish line.  I watched one guy fall and slide right in front of me and as I hovered over him, I broke into my umpire impression and screamed and signaled, "Safe!"  He looked as though he wanted to punch me, but knew better because it would have turned into a guy-on-guy mud rassling event, and who wants to see that?  Besides, the pain in my testicle was giving me so much grief, I probably would have gone all Mike Tyson on him and simply bitten his ear right off.

I crossed the finish line where Cassidy was waiting on me, a huge smile on her face.  She laughed at the site of her daddy covered with mud then snapped a picture of me before I found the hose to rinse myself off.  Will I do this again?  Oh yeah!  Next year my hope is to leave injury free--my testicle has also put in that request.

A business of our own

The wife and I often throw around ideas by which we might become independently wealthy or at least independently independent.  If you look at your current situation, and you work for "the man" or the "woman" you are essentially co-dependent, due largely in part because you depend on the company for sustenance.  This is absolutely fine for those folks who have no problem with working for someone, abiding by somelse's rules and being told when/where you have to work.  As a matter of fact, I'm a lover of those who create jobs for others.  It's just that at this point in my life I have a desire to branch out and try a few things on my own. 

Without giving our double top secret plans away, I've gone through a process of elimination when it comes to my future career possibilities.  Below is a list, which isn't comprehensive by any stretch of the imagination, of those career choices I've scratched from my "maybe" list:

• Chippendale dancer--can you say Chris Farley?  My six pack abs are in hibernation but the possibility of dancing brought about by "man-scaping" has made this plausible.
• Astronaut--this was a possibility until someone told me I had to have above average math skills.  Scratch.
• Police officer--this sounded cool until my run-in with the state trooper in Indianapolis.  I can't be a douche like that guy.  Next.
• Doctor--I have to be smart.  Ain't happening.
• Actor--I have to be skinny and an idiot.  I'm halfway there.  Winning!
• Lawn service owner--my Spanish sucks.
• Wal-Mart greeter--I admire these people and wouldn't mind giving it a go, but I would probably get in trouble for telling people they can't enter the store "dressed like that."
• Master brewer--this one caught my attention and I'm keeping it on my radar.
• Lead guitarist/singer in my own band--I wanted to do this, but I can't play or sing.
• Poet--I was told that bathroom lymrics weren't recognized as "poetic."  But I say they've never heard me recite, "They paint these walls to cover my pen....."
• Cult leader--I can't sit still long enough to prophesy.
• Politician--I have to be full of crap and have lots of skeletons in my closet.  Hhhmmmm.........
• Fireman--this was a possibility, but when I attempted to negotiate only fighting fires between nine in the morning to five in the afternoon I was asked to leave the firehouse.
• Weatherman--I actually got a screen test, but couldn't stop repeating myself everytime I said, "hook echo." 
• State road employee--I can't quite figure out what fifteen of these guys do while one actually works, so I don't know what qualifications to put on my resume.
• CIA agent--I was cool with this until I was told I had to keep a secret.  Dang it.
• President of a large bank--I have a conscious and couldn't screw people out of their money.
• Master carpenter--I love building things but struggle getting corners squared.
• Electrician--I got laughed at during the interview when I kept touching the end of the wire and quickly withdrawing my hand because I simply wanted to make sure the wire wasn't live.

As I stated above, this list is not comprehensive by any means, but I figured I needed a list, recognize my own faults, flaws and limitations then begin eliminating those careers that don't necessarily fit.

Scooter

For those who follow my blog, you know I enjoy writing about my life, the funny things I encounter along the way, my personal interpretations of "things" that I find humorous and interesting and hilarious discussion or dialogue.  Riding my motorcycle is very theraputic for me; most of the time riding lacks much humor, nor does it allow me to engage in any sort of discussion.  What riding does allow me to do is to clear my mind and enjoy Americana, experiencing it through all senses, something cages (what bikers call closed in vehicles) will not.  Many times, though, there has been some funny dialogue that took place on rides when I've stopped to get gas, stay overnight somewhere or simply slowing down because there's contstruction work going on.  The book I'm still working on details a couple of those adventures and some of the events of those rides, but today I had a chance to think back on some of the more humorous things that have happened or been said while on the open road.

My buddy Kerry Lee has consistently given me a hard time because Scooter (the name I've given my bike) is Japanese made.  Harley Davidson riders always give the "rice burners" difficulty through good natured ribbing and Kerry takes every advantage of the opportunity with me--primarily because I'm a class A smart ass and wear him out at all costs.  I don't blame him one bit for taking what most would consider an easy shot at me, but while he and I were riding through the Smokey Mountains of Tennessee he lost the baffles from his 2002 Harley Davidson Heritage Softail Classic.  The baffles are placed inside tail pipes on motorcycles and both muffle and change a bike's sound and are largely responsible for the musical roar you hear while bikers throttle their engines.  While we were riding his somehow came loose and flew out of the tail pipe.  When we stopped at a traffic light he was obviously embarrassed and upset at the sound of his machine, not to mention the bike's riding performance.  Not wanting to miss an opportunity to give Kerry some grief I glanced over at him, seeing his head hanging low to avoid the confused stares proffered by curious onlookers, and said with a straight face, "Hey, your bike sounds like a rice burner.  I know a good mechanic if you need one."  With that I erupted into laughter and we rode on, his bike sounding like a sick and dying big horned sheep, Kerry fuming at my wise crack.

While riding through New Orleans Kerry Lee and I decided to stay the night and hang out in the French Quarter.  We were in a club on Bourbon Street and I told him I had to go to the restroom but would be back in a minute.  Upon my return, I found him making out with a chick.  This chick was a parapelegic and bound to a wheelchair.  I was flabbergasted and felt my body going into shock, as I was certain he was probably breaking at least twenty laws even though we were in Louisiana.  Ugh.

During another ride, Kerry and I were in Destin, Florida and had spent a gruelling day in and out of construction.  The temperature was somewhere north of hotter than the hinges of hell but things were looking up as we exited a construction zone and traversed a bridge.  On the bay below a "fishing rodeo" was taking place.  By fishing rodeo, this meant hundreds of boats and thousands of girls in bikinis.  I was twisting in and out of traffic to get a look at the scene in the salty inlet when I noticed a set of red and blue lights erupt behind me.  I received a ticket from the most pissed off cop you could ever imagine to meet.  He was approximately four feet nothing and had obviously been bullied while in high school; now it was his time to get even with the world.  "Do you know how fast you were riding," he screamed at me?! 

"Nope, but I'm pretty sure you're about to tell me," I replied, hoping he would find my retort funny.  On the contrary, I earned a ticket for speeding and riding in the state of Florida with no helmet because I couldn't produce proof of $10,000 worth of medical liability insurance.  It's true--look it up.  When I gave the officer my medical insurance card, which didn't provide the amount of liability insurance I was covered up to, he inquired as to the amount.  "Well, if you'll call that 1-800 number on the back, sir (I was attempting to be polite after he obviously didn't find me funny), you'll see that I'm covered up to....."  He didn't give me a chance to finish. 

"Do I look like your GD (you know the abbreviation) secretary?"

"Tell ya what officer, why don't you go ahead and write that ticket," I replied?

While riding through Kentucky several years ago with my good friend Becky, I accidentally sprayed her with some very disgusting spittle, as she rode her bike just behind me.  This was during my chewing tobacco years and riding a motorcyle never deterred my from putting a wad of Red Man in my mouth.  She didn't find my spit funny at all, but I cackled.  As I look back on it (and especially since I've stopped smokeless tobacco) I see her side of the issue. 

Just today, on our ride from the Chicago suburbs to Beloit, Wisconsin, my wife, who never, ever sweats, remarked, "My butt is soaked."  The outdoor temperature was 90+ degrees and much hotter than that on the open highway.  I laughed all the way to the state line. 

There's been a ton of adventures and generally funny stuff that's happened while I've ridden across this great country.  These are just a sampling of the stories that reminded me of a time......

The Bama Trip (and it is a trip) Part V

Saturday evening brought about an end to this Bama journey but left me with an indelible taste for the state in general and the area in particular.  Cathy and I are both counting the days until our next trip and now recognize our new house as our home. 
A few other memorable moments from the trip:

• Meeting our next door neighbors who are exceptionally nice and polite.  Danny told us, when asked where we live and where we were from (and upon my telling him Marshall County is home), "Once you get Sand Mountain between your toes you always come back."
• We had a couple of bonfires while we were there and the kids roasted hot dogs and made smores. 
• We met Molly, the neighbor's dog, who will be the subject of a later writing. 
• I got to see friends and family that I haven't seen in a long time.  And I hope it'll be a long time before I see some of them again.
• We saw numerous turtles coming out of the lake making their annual pilgrimage to lay their eggs away from the water and natural predators.  Many of them made their way through our yard; apparently they weren't aware they were trespassing.
• Alabama drivers are still the worst in the country; glad to see some things haven't changed.
• I've learned that I've lost some of my patience for the pace of the South--I hope to correct this very soon.
• Alabamians love my wife but strangers don't want to talk to the yankee.
• I didn't get a ticket in Indiana, nor did I see the Indiana state trooper in the white undercover Dodge pick-up truck.
• Wintzell's has really good food.
• I'm getting tired of Cracker Barrel.
• I'm really tired of Lowe's.
• I'm really, really tired of hanging blinds and curtain rods.

This concludes my five part Bama Trip series.  Can't wait for the next road romp!

The Bama Trip (and it is a trip) Part IV

Okay look--by Wednesday I was worn slap out, sunburned, dehydrated and wanting to do absolutely nothing.  I was going to lay down the law with the wife and tell her right quick that I wasn't working on that particular day.

As a result I went to Lowe's with her, helped pick out curtain rods, hit a few other stores and prepared to install both the curtain rods and blinds.  As I've told you all before: I wear the pants in the family....she just tells me which pair to wear.

With a ratcheting screw driver in hand, I hung what seemed like four or five hundred curtain rods.  In all actuality I put up about ten of them, but I cranked on that screw driver until I thought my hand and elbow would fall off.  I put beds together while Cathy continued putting stuff up in the house.  I was amazed at how quickly she managed to organize and situate things.  If only I could get her to hang up curtain rods I would have had it made. 

We had a security system put in and this good looking muscular kid showed up to install it.  Cassidy, Abby and my wife ogled the guy while I did the weed eating on Thursday.  Whatever keeps them occupied I reckon; I just wanted to take enough time weed eating that I wouldn't be given another task.  Hopefully the security system guy would strike a few hundred double biceps poses for the girls so I would be left alone.

Friday came and Cathy told me to take the day off.  I decided to go fishing and ran to our local Wal-Mart to buy some crickets and worms.  I asked my next door neighbor if I could fish off their pier and she agreed.  She agreed because I told her if she wouldn't let me fish off it, I would be asking her husband to build me one.  Laughing, she told me to go ahead.  The millfoil was so thick the fish didn't get to awful close to my bait, resulting in a lot of drowned crickets and worms but no bream.  I also saw a cloud blowing up so I packed it up and walked back to the house.  Cathy asked how the fishing had gone?  "Not too good."  "Oh," she replied, "why don't you edge the driveway?" 

I had never understood why husbands beat their wives.....until now.

The Bama Trip (and it is a trip) Part III

Cathy worked diligently in the house to get things put away and organized.  I sat around and moaned about how sore I was after unloading all of our crap.  We stayed at Mom's Sunday night but moved to our new home Monday evening and met my friends Rachel and Tonya for dinner.  We got to see friends and I got to eat.  It was a win/win.

Monday saw the dawn of a new era for us--the Lowe's Era.  If we made one trip to Lowe's we made a thousand.  By the end of the week I was on speaking terms with just about every employee, knew something about most of them and probably knew a few of their kin folks.  Had there been an opportunity to run for President of Lowe's I would have been a front runner because it seemed like I politiced as much as I purchased, which was a lot.

Tuesday we had the stuff we had ordered from Lowe's delivered to the house.  Specifically, my new riding mower showed up.  I gave the instruction manual a cursory glance, threw it aside and cranked ole girl up.  The transmission wouldn't engage but my temper did--I was not happy.  For ten minutes I fiddled with the mower, actually read the manual and gradually became more frustrated.  Finally, in a huff, I got off Big Green fully prepared to give it a kick when I noticed a metal "bar" sticking out the lower bottom of the mower.  Alongside the bar was a diagram depicting the engagement of the transmission (I just had to push the bar in).  In my defense, it wasn't outlined in the manual, which made me even madder.

I hopped back on Big Green and proceded to mow.....and mow.......and mow.  When I got tired of mowing, I mowed some more.....and more....and more.  My skin tone was now a beautiful crimson, which ironically matches my favorite football team's colors.  My skin hurt like Donte' Hightower had just sacked me for a twenty yard loss.  The bugs ate on me like a bucktoothed kid would chew on a cob of corn.  I stank like a dumpster.  But at the end of the day I had mowed five and a half acres of land (with help from Harvey, my step-pops). 

I took a shower and my wife asked if I wanted to go to Lowe's because we needed something else.  I wondered if I would get the house in the divorce.

The Bama Trip (and it is a trip) Part II

I awoke just outside Nashville, Tennessee and looked over at my wife who had taken on the chore of driving around O' My God Early.  Her eyes were beginning to glaze over but she continued on like the trooper she is, however, I didn't want her to drive through Nash-Vegas because of the multiple switchbacks on I-65 (if you've ever driven through Nashville you know exactly what I'm talking about).  She could certainly handle the drive, but I didn't want to subject her to unfamiliar roads while she was that tired, so I asked her to pull over so I could take the wheel. 

I got us through Nasty-ville and across the Alabama state line.  We pulled over at the rest stop on 65; you know, the one with the rocket.  Once again I was fighting sleep deprivation so Cathy agreed to get us to my mom's house.  She's just awesome like that.

We finally arrived at mom's place around 5:45 AM on Saturday, got a couple of hours of sleep then got up to head to a family reunion.  I had forgotten what it was like to be at one of my family reunions and laughed at the lunacy that is a redneck gathering (rather sophisticated rednecks, if you will).  I surveyed the family asking if anyone was interested in helping me unload our moving POD later in the day.  No luck!  Yep, they were already treating me like family.  Actually, I did have a cousin step up and say he would help, so that's cool (and I know he's probably reading this so he would have called me out anyway).

After destroying one of the seven deadly sins (gluttony) at the reunion, we put the car on Highway 431 southbound for our new home.  The day of reckoning had officially arrived!  When we pulled up to the house, the POD had been gingerly placed, part of my long driveway cracked and broken under its weight.  "Wonderful," I thought, "something else to fix and pay for."  We unlocked the house and opened the POD to find everything as we had packed it--crammed to the POD gills.  Much to my surprise, two of my uncles and one of my aunts showed up to help!  Had I not been so manly, I would have cried.  Instead, I jumped into the POD and began handing them really, really heavy boxes and furniture before they changed their minds.  Did I mention it was ninety-six freaking degrees and around 1000% humidity? 

We got everything unloaded pretty quickly and moved into the house where Cathy wanted it.  Couches, chairs, tables, beds, some very heavy bedroom furniture, desks, etc. were placed with care.  I couldn't have asked for better help; my mom and step-dad had jumped into the fray to help too. 

After finishing the unpacking and telling my extended family thanks and bidding them farewell, I took some time to survey our property.  The grass had only been cut once since March and was now around mid-shin height in some areas while other areas were overgrown to the point of being renamed the Upton Rainforest Preserve.  This was going to be fun to mow--insert sarcasm--but unfortunately my mower wouldn't arrive until Tuesday.  This gave me a couple of days for the wife and I to get the house in order before tackling the five plus acres of hay and faux wheat.

And thus began my two hundred trips to Lowe's.  You know why Lowe's knows?  Because you have to go there so often!

The Bama Trip (and it is a trip) Part I

I've spent the last week removed from what most would consider civilization; that is, disconnected electronically from the rest of the world.  Admittedly, it was a struggle for me at first, but after a day or two of jerky withdrawals I was able to focus on the things that mattered--like moving into my new home.  I've had a few hours to recall my ride to and stay in Alabama and since it's been a couple of weeks since my last post, I thought I would share this recent run of memories with you, faithful reader.

I worked all day Friday May 25th at my job that actually pays me money.  I distinguish between this job and my home "job," because I'm not paid to work at home, or at least not monetarily. The 25th began around 6:00 AM and wrapped up around 4:00 PM, a fairly typical work day, minus an hour or two.  I was excited about getting to Alabama and my new home, but had to drive to my Chicago home to pick up the wife and Abby before swinging through Indiana to pick up my youngest, Cassidy.  Memorial Day traffic was brutal and for two hours we were stuck in a flotilla of cars and trucks trying to get out of the city.

We finally picked up Cassidy and hit Interstate 65 South pointing toward Alabama and the promised land.  Everyone else was giddy and chatty; I was focused but tired.  Driving across Indiana is like walking across broken glass barefoot for six hours, but not as pleasant.  And given my recent run-in with Indianapolis law enforcement personnel, I was forced to drive pretty close to the speed limit because my domestic navigator was insistent that I do so.

Sometime around Elizabethtown, Kentucky, which equated to 1:00 AM CST (and almost twenty-four hours without sleep), I began to see large birds and figurines standing along the roadside.  When I say large birds and figurines, I'm not talking about your run-of-the-mill buzzard; on the contrary, I'm talking about birds, wings tucked stoicly by their sides, majestically standing four stories tall.  I realize now I was not at all frightened but simply amazed at how large these birds were!  And the figurines of clowns and people from American history were just as impressive. 

Now, I reckon when my wife awoke from her nap on the passenger side she must have noted the look of utter amazement on my face.  "Do you need me to drive, honey?"

I quickly shook my head wanting to engage her in conversation and show her the gigantic birds and figurines lining the expressway.  However, once I had shook my head and cleared the cobwebs I realized I must have been halucinating.  Fortunately, I didn't say anything to her about what I had "seen," and replied, "Uh, yeah.  You can drive."

We changed places, my head hit the head rest on the seat and I didn't remember anything else until Nashville, Tennessee.......