Tag Archives: Victory

Welcome to the Big Leagues

A few weeks ago our local minor league baseball team held a mid-summer promotion as a token of thanks for its sponsors.  Because I convinced my restaurant to write them a check with a fair number of zeros behind it early in the spring, my invitation arrived in the mail, crisp and sealed, waiting for an RSVP.

The event had its fair share of appeal.  Besides FREE food as well as FREE beer (though I was going to have to tap the Rockies or take a ride on the Silver Bullet, which is asking a lot of a manager of a brewery), they were also opening up the batting cage where we could take a few cuts and test our mettle on the same field where the soon-to-be-big-boys play ball.  In all honesty, I could have cared less about batting practice- they had me at FREE food and FREE beer (I can stomach anything, after all).  My wife, however, a varsity softball player herself, was intrigued.  It was a date!

With all the FREE going around, we went ahead and brought along our son.  No reason to deprive him of any discount-priced calories or the chance to see mommy crank a foul ball off her wrists, after all.

Dinner went down smooth, as anything does when you are able to lube it up with ballpark chili and chase it with banquet beer.  My wife went down to get her name on the better’s  list while I stayed put to get my money’s worth before making my own way down to support her efforts in the cage.

I tried to remain inconspicuous as I tried to find a seat, but at 6’4″, 250lbs and a few plastic cups in, incognito is difficult to do, and before I knew it I was recognized and on the list myself. 

Damn.

 Off to the dugout I went…

To loosen up and stretch…

…and wait for my intro music to play over the PA system before thousands (or tens) of my adoring fans (people patiently waiting their turn) raised to their feet in thunderous anticipation (drank their free beer and ate their free chili burgers and chips).


Let’s just saw I didn’t disappoint.

The first person to greet me at the steps of the dugout was my son.  I picked him up and we celebrated my trivial moment with a big hug and kiss, when I looked deep in his eyes and said,

“Hey, buddy, let me put you down.  Daddy really needs to pee.”

As luck would have it, there was a restroom at the end of the dugout.  While taking care of business, I felt the door to the tight bathroom open into my back where my son peeked around it and let me know he needed to go as well.  Suddenly I realized the opportunity had presented itself to allow me to pass along one of life’s great lessons:

“If you want to play in the Big Leagues, son, you must first pee were the Big Leaguer’s peed on their way to The Show.”

A Really Expensive Peep Show

The good brother that I am, for the past forever, I have been helping my sister rehabilitate a money-pit investment property that she bought during a momentary lapse with the crack-pipe.

She immediately dubbed it, “The Farm,” a term I think helped convince her of what she believed to be the property’s potential.  Something called “The Farm’” after all, can’t help but evoke images of cute grazing goats and magnificent galloping stallions, bountiful gardens, fresh air, and John Deere.

I, on the other hand, quickly embraced a much more realistic if not more snarky nickname for the property.  Something that highlighted a bit of its, shall we say, opportunities rather than solely its potential.  “A-Rusty-and-Cursed-Tin-Can-of-a-Singlewide-in-the-Middle-of-a-Useless-Five-Acre-Lot-with-Bad-Juju-and-Stray-Cats-in-the-Crawl-Space-who-would-Tear-into-your-Arm-for-Dinner-and-Claw-at-your-Eyes-for-Dessert” seemed to roll of the tongue after a few weeks of hard labor.  Eventually I would have to shorten it to “The RCTCSMUFALBJSCCSTADCED” for the sake of conversation, but you get the point.

"The RCTCSMUFALBJSCCSTADCED"- A deal at any price!

Let’s fast-forward a couple of years to this summer.  Long story short, but rather than return “The RCTCSMUFALBJSCCSTADCED” back to its former glory and cash in on the bustling real estate market, my sister has decided to actually reside in it for a while after her pending exodus from New Mexico.

But there was still an issue of a leaky roof that needed to be addressed as well as some other (obvious) details, and with her still living in another state and me having about eighteen jobs in addition to my role as a loving husband ans doting father, we agreed on the need to find some help to get it done. I began to ask around, when one of my friends mentioned his handyman uncle was unemployed and just needed something to keep him busy and pick up some extra cash in the process.

I bit, and Billy, err, Steve came out to work with me a few time so I could get a feel for where he was at.  Though by no means a rocket scientist, I got a good vibe that at least he kind of knew what he was doing so I set him free.  Armed with a detailed list of things that needed to get done, a few days later Billy err, Steve gave me a call letting me know that he “had just a small section of the roof to go” and was wondering if I could float him some of the cash I owed him when he was done.

Now, in my defense, he was related to one of my best friends, so I gave it the benefit of the doubt.  But sure enough, the next time I made the trek out to “The RCTCSMUFALBJSCCSTADCED,” expecting to find a finished product, the roof wasn’t even half done, the part that was looked like a blind monkey did it, and inside I found this-

Funny, there didn't used to be a HOLE IN THE CEILING!!!

and this-

No, I don't think that was meant to be an outdoor shower, either.

And to top it off, Billy err, Steve seems to be halfway to Mexico to boot.

***sigh***

So there I was a few days later, festering about being nearly a thousand dollars of my own personal savings deep into my sister’s investment, filling up a dumpster full of a porous roof, a collapsed ceiling, and tiny little bits of my shattered spirit.  That was until I stumbled across this gold mine:

Sorry about the resolution, but then again, how graphic do you need it to be? Pervert...

And now I sit eagerly awaiting a phone call from National Geographic, confident that I will get a handsome return on my own investment, and then some!


An Early 2010 Victory

So my wife is on an dirty hippie organic-super-all-natural health kick, yet I try to remain steadfast to the frugal values that reside deep within my core.

How do you think this usually turns out?

Gone forever are the 10 for $10 packs of mystery hot dogs and bleached white synthetic buns.  Gone are the BOGO’s of Hungry Man’s, $.99 2-liters, and half-price pints of Ben & Jerry’s.  Instead my body is being pumped full of whole grains, organic, fiber-induced goodness that I admit has kept me delightfully regular but has also left my wallet noticeably thinner.  All those additives actually make things cheaper! Who woulda’ thunk it?  But alas…

With all that said I am sure you can understand my apprehension while shopping over the weekend when I heard the wheels of my wife’s cart squeal over to the frozen food aisle where I was gazing longingly at my old friend, the Eskimo Pie.

I miss you, old friend...

“Umm,” she starts.  “can you come and look at something and make sure you’re seeing the same thing I am?”

Sweet, perhaps a blue light special on all hemp personal grooming products or patchouli scented eau du toiltte! I snickered to myself as I was led away by my invisible leash toward the meat department.

“It says this ground bison is only $1.50 a pound instead of $5.99 but I don’t get why.”

Always the skeptic I examined those packages from every angle, checking dates, color, label…and it all looked fine.  I even took a few over to the courtesy price scanner at the end of the toy isle, and every time got the same response:

***BEEP! $1.50 you cheap fuck! BEEP!***

I was convinced, and turned to my beautiful bride and gave her a toothy smile and a subtle nod conveying my eternal love.

“Cool, lets get a couple then.” she replied.

“THE HELL WE WILL!” I shot back.  We were getting them all…21 of ‘em!

Anyone have any good bison recipes?

Hoarding bona fide hormone-free, no anitbiotics, leaner-than-chicken, moo-free red meat is the exact reason why basement freezers were invented, after all.  Is it not?

And on the front of that freezer?  Like on overly-proud parent displaying their child’s first perfect spelling test on the refrigerator door with an over-sized magnet, the was but one last detail left:

A happy reminder everytime I go to prepare a healthy meal