Fun in French Lick, Indiana

The Mrs. and I took some time off work before and after the Labor Day weekend to have a little family summer vacation. Several months ago, the Mrs. found a good deal on-line for a night at the Valley of the Springs Resort in French Lick, Indiana, that included admission to the attached Big Splash Adventure.

These are our stories (insert dramatic two-note "Law and Order" sound here).

French Lick is a little over two hours from the Indianapolis metropolitan area, so it was just long enough to feel like we "got away" and short enough that we didn't blow half of our trip on driving. The last part of the trip, in particular, from Bedford to French Lick on US 50 and US 150 is pretty: winding, hilly roads through wooded areas.

Valley of the Springs Resort

If you're relying on Google Maps to find the hotel, they have you looking on the wrong side of the road. The hotel is on your left as you travel south on State Road 56. You're barely out of West Baden Springs and into French Lick when you get to the entrance. The resort could invest a little money into signage, as they only have a small wooden sign at ground level. Thanks to Google Maps and the small sign, we missed it on our first pass and felt lucky to have seen it on our second pass through town. There is a Subway sandwich shop directly across the street from the entrance to the resort. If you reach the train museum, you've gone too far.

That minor irritation aside, we drove up the steep, winding driveway to find the resort and large water park at the top of the hill. There were hardly any cars in the parking lot, but we got there right at check-in time, so we figured it would fill up as the night progressed.

Inside, it's decorated in a nautical theme throughout the lobby. It still smells like new paint and new carpet, so I asked the very friendly desk attendant when the facility opened. She said they opened for business in March of 2009. It's also a non-smoking facility throughout, so that helped to keep it smelling fresh and new. (For those who smoke, you can smoke outside, and there are a number of places to safely dispose of butts without littering.)

At check-in, they fixed all four of us up with wristbands. Now, I'll admit that I don't travel much, but I thought these wristbands were really cool. The bands that the Mrs. and I wore had electronic chips in them, and when we held a band up to the electric eye on our room door, the door unlocked! (I have a cousin who is a hotel manager in California, and if he's reading this, he's probably howling with laughter right now, but this is the first time I've encountered this kind of thing in my limited travels.) Want to eat at the hotel restaurant and charge it to your room? They scan your wristband! Want to buy something in the sundry shop and charge it to your room? They scan your wristband! The wristband was also our pass into the water park, and they were, of course, waterproof. So we never had to carry a hotel key, our wallets, money, or credit cards around. It was very convenient!

In a nutshell, our room was very nice. It had two queen beds in it, and they were comfortable. We had a nice wooded view out of our window. Free wi-fi in the room. TV with about 30 channels. All the usual amenities. I wouldn't describe the rooms as "luxurious," but it was quite comfortable. The resort is very family-oriented, the staff was extremely friendly and helpful, and the whole place was new and clean. We ate dinner at the restaurant in the hotel, and we paid normal prices for a sit-down dinner. I had a huge Cobb salad with a grilled chicken breast on it for $10. The Mrs. had a big cheeseburger and fries, and it was around $8. The kids' meals--around $6 a piece--were enormous. They each got spaghetti, and they got a large bowl of it. Plus they got two sides and a drink with their meals. And while we waited for our food (which took a lot longer than it seemed like it should, since we were one of only two families in the whole place at the time), they provided Olivia and June with crayons and paper.

The sundry/souvenir shop is as expensive as you'd expect from a hotel. We got the girls each a t-shirt for $13 a piece, and you pay the normal $2 for a bottle of pop, but I've been gouged worse at other hotels.

Our package included a free breakfast, but we discovered that the resort seems to offer that free breakfast to all of its guests. It was certainly more than a continental breakfast. It was a buffet, so you helped yourself to whatever you wanted, which included fresh fruit, cold cereal, milk, sausage patties, bacon, sausage links, scrambled eggs, pancakes, cinnamon French toast sticks, Amish bread, juice, coffee, and probably more that I don't remember. And take as many trips up there as you want. I was absolutely stuffed after I was done.

Big Splash Adventure

On the second floor of the resort, you walk directly into Big Splash Adventure Water Park, a 40,000 square foot park with stuff to do for everyone of all ages. Our girls (ages 3 and 2) spent most of their time in the kiddie pool, which was 3 inches deep on one end and gradually increased to 9 inches deep in the "deep" end. There were swings in the middle of it that swung, bounced, and twirled around. There were in-pool fountains to play in, and there was a small bucket overhead that filled up with water and occasionally dumped over, soaking whoever was under it. At the 9-inch end was a small water slide that our girls absolutely LOVED!!

They had enormous water slides, some that you navigate with tubes (single or double, provided free) and some that were body chutes. I did both body chutes. One is blue, and the other is yellow. If you like being enclosed in a completely dark tube while rocketing downward and twisting and turning with absolutely no forewarning whatsoever, try the blue chute. If you prefer enough light to be able to see what bends are coming up, take the yellow chute. Both were fun rides, but I preferred the yellow chute. The Mrs. did one of the slides that require a tube, and she said it felt like she was free-falling in parts. She looked a little shell-shocked when she got back.

In another section, they have much more mellow slides for younger kids. Again, the blue chute is pitch dark, while the yellow chute allows plenty of light inside to see where you're headed. Olivia wanted nothing to do with those slides, but June was more than happy to go down the slides with me over and over and over again. That entire apparatus has a huge bucket at the top that fills with water and then spills over, and there are all devices all over the place that dump or spray water all over you.

Meandering through about half the park is a lazy river where you can float on a tube. I think I recall it being 3'6" deep (the Mrs. remembers it as 2'6", so it's somewhere in that neighborhood), and you periodically get showered with water by various devices as you float through.

There was another pool that we never got in, but it had basketball goals on the sides, a big floating dolphin that kids could climb on, a rope ladder to walk across the water (or fall off of into the water), and it seemed like there was something else in that pool to do that I now can't remember.

There was an adults-only area that was fenced off. It was basically a big sitting pool. We never got in it, so I don't know if the water was heated more than the rest of the park, but there's at least a safe-haven for adults who want to soak without having kids splashing all around them.

The entire facility has a retractable roof, which was open both days we were there, allowing plenty of natural sunlight in. But even if it's cold or rainy outside, they can close the roof and keep the water park going. The water is heated, so it was very comfortable to be in or out of the water.

They also had an outdoor pool. It started at zero depth and gradually increased in depth as you waded in. It had some fountains in it, and some more basketball goals, but the water was pretty cold, so Olivia preferred the indoor activities. June, however, kept the Mrs. occupied in the outdoor pool for quite some time.

There are several lifeguards on duty, and they actually pay attention. Every now and then, we'd hear a whistle chirp as someone's horseplay got to be too much, they'd slow running kids down to a walk, and one of them even (very politely) stopped me and Olivia in the lazy river because I wasn't properly in my tube. They carry flotation devices around their torsos, and while I don't think the water anywhere is more than 4 or 5 feet deep, it was nice to see attentive lifeguards on duty.

For $6, you can purchase a locker wristband that works the same way as your hotel room wristband, allowing you to use one of the many lockers to put your stuff in while you play. It was worth it to us, as we had clothes for four, plus our camera to secure. It's not like there was riff-raff lurking in every corner, and thanks to the hotel wristbands, we didn't have to bring our wallets to the pool, but once you get playing in the water with your kids, your attention is not on your stuff sitting poolside. So it was $6 well-spent, as far as we were concerned.

There were nice, big, clean bathrooms in the water park, and right inside, there were a handful of video games that spit out tickets that could be turned in for some cheap crap. Olivia got herself a plastic princess wand and two little plastic bracelets from her winnings. They also sell candy, pizza, pop, water, sandwiches, and assorted other food there, and they have several changing rooms. They also provide towels for the water park at no cost.

It was a great experience there. The entire time we were there, it never got even remotely crowded, which shocked us, since it was a holiday weekend. But I certainly wasn't complaining, given my loathing of people in herds. There were lots of other kids there, many of whom were our kids' age, so I wasn't overly horrified when our girls tried to single-handedly dismantle the restaurant at dinner, because two tables over, someone else's kids were doing the same thing.

The staff was terrific. We didn't meet a single staff member who was anything but friendly and helpful. The place was clean, the prices were decent, and everything you could want for a family stay was available.

On Saturday afternoon after check-out, we ventured over to the train museum in French Lick, since our girls are big fans of trains. They got to climb on some old trains, and there were options to take one- or two-hour train rides, some of which included a realistic train robbery along the way. While we didn't take the train rides, the girls enjoyed their time with the choo-choo's. They have a small gift shop there, too, that also sells popcorn, drinks, and some candy. If you can avoid it, though, don't park in the parking lot directly in front of the train station. There is angled parking on each side, but only one way in and out, so it's a breeze to get in, but a complete nightmare trying to get out. There is a parking lot across the train tracks from the museum that is a normal sized lot. I'm not sure how you get in there, but I wish we would have.

On our way home, we stopped at the French Lick Winery and got a couple bottles of cherry wine that my sister recommended. Since she was willing to dog-sit for us at a moment's notice, we left one of the bottles on her countertop when we picked up the dog. We've yet to try our own bottle, but we probably will tonight. We were just too exhausted last night when we got home. But the winery looked nice, and they have a restaurant inside. It's probably worth checking out if you're without children, or your kids are older than 3 and 2.

French Lick also has grand hotels and casinos there, but we didn't get to those. The Mrs. and I are interested in heading back down there, though, sometime when we have overnight childcare. I do enjoy video poker! And I'd like to check out that winery in more depth.

We got to French Lick and back on half a tank of gas. So if you're in central Indiana and looking for a fun but relatively inexpensive get-away, keep that area of the state in mind. I highly recommend Valley of the Springs Resort and Big Splash Adventure Water Park.

Mr. Magoo Hangs In There

The close game I was expecting last night on the softball diamond turned into a 17-7 blowout, and we were on the 7 end of it. Rotator Cuff Boy didn't bother to show up, despite calling one of our other players yesterday morning to ask what time the game started, and one of our women was about 15-20 minutes late to the game, with no warning. So we got off to a dismal start.

We had some bright spots throughout the game, but for the most part, about half the team acted like they were demoralized or tired or didn't want to be there or something. Our batting was mostly terrible, and our fielding was no better. Very frustrating, since we should have been able to play a close game with this team.

You're on the edge of your seat wondering how Mr. Magoo did out in right-centerfield, aren't you? I knew you were.

Well, I didn't do all that badly, which was kind of a surprise given how long it's been since I've played out there. I chuckled ruefully to myself in the first inning as the other team sent three consecutive left-handed batters to the plate. I put myself in right-centerfield in an effort to minimize the number of fly balls that I had to judge and the number of throws I'd have to make with a bum elbow, since most batters are right-handed, and most righties pull the ball into left field. But wouldn't you know it, the other team had a whole bunch of left-handed batters, in addition to a couple of righties who routinely hit it out my way. I wound up being about as active as our left fielder last night.

I'm happy to report that I did not have to make any Runs of Shame to the wall to retrieve a fly ball that I misjudged. I made several catches, and my coworker, the left-centerfielder, was good about calling out when I was out of position, so I could adjust before disaster struck.

I wrote yesterday that it was going to work to my advantage that the sun was still up. That absolutely held true. However, the sun worked against me on one play. They hit a routine fly ball to centerfield, which was no problem...until the last second. There are trees lining the road behind home plate, and as the game progressed, the sun started to set behind those trees, casting shade over about half the outfield. The fly ball was just barely on the sunny side of the field, so as I left the shadows and moved under the ball, I suddenly got a direct view of the sun. I'm not entirely sure what happened next, since I was completely blinded, but the ball hit my glove and came out.

Fortunately, my face was there to stop it.

Since I could see nothing but white light, I had no idea where the ball was for the last ten feet or so of its flight. I was relying on luck that the ball might come down where I thought it would, and counting on my sense of touch to know when to close my glove. I was lucky...but too slow. The next thing I knew, I was on my butt, my sunglasses were all cockeyed on my face, and the ball was on the ground a few feet away. I scrambled for the ball and threw to the blurry blob that I think was our shortstop. I sat there in frustration for a few seconds and then became aware that a lot of people were asking me if I was okay. Apparently, it looked a lot worse than it really was. Chuck said that from his vantage point on the pitcher's mound, he thought I took the shot directly to my face. But the ball actually hit my glove first, thus losing a lot of momentum, and then my sunglasses absorbed a lot of the impact (and amazingly, they didn't break!). I didn't even realize that the ball had hit my skin. My main concern was that I could see nothing but white out of my left eye after staring directly into the sun.

I got up and returned to my spot in the outfield, but I didn't have any time to think about how I was going to compensate for having vision in only one eye. The very next pitch that Chuck threw was launched right back at me. It was short, so I had to run up on it. I wound up sliding under it and catching it cleanly. I'm really not sure how.

I came back to the dugout at the end of the inning to find a lot of people interested in my face. I still didn't feel any pain, but the Mrs. said it was red and starting to swell just under my left eye. A couple teammates predicted a shiner in my future. I was more concerned about still seeing a big white blob out of my left eye, and I had to bat.

Even after the game, when the adrenaline subsided, I never felt pain in my face. By the time I got out of the shower at home, there was no swelling or redness, and absolutely no pain. This morning, same deal.

As far as batting went, I had my typical 2-for-3 night. I hit a line drive so hard that I put a dent in my bat. It'll go in the books as a triple, thanks to very loose scoring in rec league softball, but it was probably really only a double. Chuck was on first base when I hit it, and I could hear their fielders shouting instructions to each other while the ball was in play, and I knew they were more concerned about getting Chuck out than they were about me. So while they tried unsuccessfully to keep him from scoring, I made it to third base easily. I'm bummed about my bat, though. I love that bat, and so does about half of our team and several players on the Mrs.'s team. I undercut the ball in my second at-bat and popped up to the second baseman, but my third at-bat was another solid shot into the outfield for a single, despite the white blob in my left eye.

So altogether, not a bad night for me individually, but a rough night for the team. It was real darn close to being a REALLY bad night for Olivia, though. One of our batters hit a towering foul ball that went into the grassy area where Olivia was running around. Olivia has not yet learned what it means when everyone screams "HEADS!!!" As she was running, the ball dropped less than six inches in front of her. She was startled by its arrival for about a nanosecond, but then kept on running around. Whew!

Two-for-three at the plate, including an RBI "triple", a run scored, no major gaffes out in right-centerfield, some decent catches out there, no significant injuries, and my daughter didn't get her skull caved in by a foul ball. I can live with that. Oh, and the elbow held up pretty well. On a couple of my throws to the infield that had to travel some distance, I got a little shot of pain as I released the ball, but for the most part, it wasn't bad. And I was pleasantly surprised to awaken this morning with absolutely no soreness in my elbow.

I'll miss next week's game, so Chuck will wear the coach's hat, and I won't have any softball stories to share. The game will be against the team that massacred us in the first week, though, so there probably wouldn't have been any stories to share, anyway.

And Starting In the Outfield: Mr. Magoo!

Tonight's softball game ought to be real interesting. One of our male players is out of town for work, and he's normally one of our outfielders. I don't have a guy to replace him in the outfield tonight.

Except for me. Mr. Magoo.

I used to play a lot of outfield in my younger days until my depth perception started to fail me. Now that I'm older, I can see the ball in the air, but it just looks like a stationary white dot to me. I don't have any clue as to what trajectory it's taking. I hate the feeling of thinking that I'm right under the ball, only to discover at the last second that's it's headed about ten feet over my head. Then I hear all my teammates say "OHHHHHH!!" in frustration, and I have to make the Run of Shame all the way to the fence to get the ball. Inevitably, by the time I turn to throw the ball in, the batter has already rounded third and is a half-dozen steps away from home plate. It always seems to happen with runners on base, too, so what should have been a routine out turns into two or three runs for the other team. And when the inning is finally over, and I sulk into the dugout, I'm not sure which is worse: my teammates telling me that it's "okay" (when I know it's not), or dead silence from everyone.

Years ago, I moved to the infield. At the time, I was nervous about taking a ball in the teeth or the man-jewels because I wasn't used to dealing with the speed of the ball in the infield, so I wore a mouthpiece and an athletic cup, much to the amusement of my teammates at the time. As it turns out, though, when I have very little time to react to a line drive, I can field it just fine. And grounders are easy for me to track, as opposed to fly balls. The mouthpiece quickly went to the wayside, although I still wear a cup. I've been an infielder ever since.

Tonight, however, I don't have a choice. We use three males on the infield. Chuck is our pitcher, so there's one male. I have pitched in the past, but I'm not very good at it at all. If the other team isn't gracious enough to swing at pretty much everything, it quickly turns into a walk-fest. Chuck is good at pitching. So is our left fielder, who is our #2 pitcher. And our #3 pitcher is the guy who's out of town tonight. So I'm fourth string, at best. And in what I expect to be a close game tonight, why would I start a fourth-stringer when our starter is available? Not gonna do it.

Second base is really my position of choice, with or without a wounded elbow. But the guy who is playing second base tonight apparently has a torn rotator cuff, so he wants to keep his throwing to a minimum. Why he's still playing with a torn rotator cuff is beyond me (what kind of drooling moron continues playing rec league softball, even after injuring himself?!), but he paid his money, so I have to put him somewhere.

That leaves shortstop. My last tour at shortstop was disastrous. I lost the game for the team two weeks ago. Last week, I put our youngest, quickest guy there (and it helps that shortstop is his favorite position to play), and he made all kinds of plays that I never would have made there. And even if I didn't have him at shortstop tonight, just the thought of making a dozen or more throws to first base from shortstop makes my elbow hurt.

The rest of the infield positions are occupied by women. So that leaves the outfield.

Softball uses four outfielders, instead of three as in baseball. Left field is usually the busiest outfield spot, since most batters are right-handed, and most right-handed batters pull the ball into left field. So I'm going to play right-centerfield. With any luck, not much will come my way, saving me from too many Runs of Shame and/or too many throws to the infield. Our left-centerfielder is a woman who works in my office, so I told her yesterday afternoon that I'm going to need her help on any fly balls coming my way. If she can yell "BACK!" or "UP!" or "LEFT!" or "RIGHT!", that would help a lot. She said she'll be happy to tell me where to go, and what to do with the ball. She said it with a little grin on her face, which I thought was odd. I think there may have been some sort of hidden meaning there.

I will have the advantage of a 6:15pm game time. The sun will still be up. This is significant because as the sunlight fades, my vision gets worse. I find the park lights to be incredibly distracting, and losing a fly ball in the lights just compounds the problem. Lots of sunlight and no park lights will work to my benefit, so at least I'll have that going for me.

I'm not telling Chuck about it before the game because he'll spend all afternoon trying to talk me into taking his pitcher spot, just to be nice, when he and I both know that's not the right move. I'm just going to wait until we take the field to start the game and enjoy that look on his face when he says, "What the.........?!" as Mr. Magoo jogs toward right-centerfield.

A Potpourri of Stuff

As someone kindly pointed out a few minutes ago, it's been 11 days since I posted last. Time really got away from me for awhile! Let's see what's been going on.

Nearly two weeks ago, I injured my elbow in a softball game. Naturally, I didn't see a doctor about it (that's just crazy talk!), nor did I stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night, but according to the Mrs.'s on-line research, it sounds like I hyperextended it. So ice, compression, and Advil have been my friends for the past couple of weeks. Except for one night, when I must have pushed the envelope a bit on the recommended dosage of Advil and found myself emptying the contents of my stomach in the bathroom at 2:00am. More ice and less Advil after that. I haven't done much in the way of physical activity involving that elbow, although I did throw a frisbee for a little while over this past weekend. I was sore the next day, but not too bad.

Because of my elbow issues, and because we had a double-header last week, I didn't play in the field in either game. We had enough people there that I could bat, but I wasn't about to try to throw a softball, especially for two games. In the first game, we were annihilated, 18-3, by a far superior team. Thank goodness for the mercy rule. In my one at-bat--yes, just one--I hit a deep fly ball that was, unfortunately, caught by one of their outfielders. As for the elbow, yes, it hurt. And yes, there was much ice, Advil, compression, and cursing the next day.

In the second game, we finally notched our first victory of the season, 10-5. Granted, the other team was one player short, and about half of their roster looked to be my parents' age or older, but IT WAS A WIN, DAMMIT!! I went 2-for-3 at the plate with two singles. Our team is now 1-3-1 on the year.

In other news, I spent around $400 on a new windshield for our seemingly cursed Toyota Sienna that we just bought this spring. Recall from a previous post that we have already put $700 into the coolant system after running over some road debris. Well, this time I was toodling down the highway, minding my own business, when a rock came out of nowhere and flew into the windshield. I called a glass place, and they came out to my office and filled the hole and two little cracks that were already appearing. They said it was a pretty big chip, and they weren't sure if a repair job would solve the problem. They finished at 4:00pm. By 6:00pm, it was cracked again. So a few days and $400 later, the glass guys came back out and replaced the windshield. $1100 in repairs before the damn thing had its first oil change. As I pulled into the oil change place, I half-expected a water buffalo to come out of nowhere and plow into the side of the van, or three of the tires to spontaneously explode, or a 100-lb. bird to have a heart attack and fall 6000 feet into my roof at 125 mph. But I got the oil changed without incident, and now hopefully this jinx is broken. I still love the van, but man, it has sure had some bad ju-ju so far.

Work's been an endless whirlwind lately. I've spent a lot of time on a probationer that I tried to transfer to Illinois. The transfer didn't go to my favorite Illinois probation officer (although it looked like it was coming her way in the beginning), but rather to the complete opposite side of that state. Long story short, the probationer was far from truthful about the living arrangements there, the Illinois PO was quick to catch it, there was fantastic communication back and forth for about four days while things got sorted out, and it all worked out in the end. It was just very time-consuming, and a wee bit on the urgent side. You see, the person is on probation for Arson. And there are some mental health issues. Yeah. Not exactly who you want running around without supervision, is it? But have no fear. The probationer is in jail, and another Illinois PO did a terrific job.

I helped my parents move from the country into the city two weekends ago, and I like their new place. They seem to like it, too. They have high-speed internet and a wireless network in their house now, something that wasn't possible in their old place. Mom apparently spent an evening recently discovering the bliss of being on the Internet, pulling up websites in 3 seconds rather than 23 minutes, while sitting on the couch connected to absolutely nothing. My sister took their remaining horse to her place, and it's soon to be someone else's responsibility to keep up with the 30 acres of property out in the country from which they just moved. My folks don't even have to mow their own yard now. Life is good. I'm thinking about trapping a raccoon or something, though, and setting it loose in their garage, just so they don't get soft. Maybe a skunk. Or a badger. Bring a little taste of country living to them in the city. I'm a thoughtful son like that.

The kids are fine. Olivia continues to do her best to drive us to an early grave with her sass and attitude. June is growing like a weed, and her vocabulary is exploding. She fell in the driveway today and took a good-sized chunk out of her big toe, as well as a couple layers of skin off her knee. I was still at work, but Chuck and his wife were visiting at the time, and Chuck says June only cried for a minute or two. Then she sat down and started picking at her toe, apparently curious about all the red stuff coming out of it. The Mrs. took her inside, washed out her toe, pour hydrogen peroxide in it, spread some antibiotic ointment on it, and wrapped it up with a Band-Aid. She reports that June didn't even flinch throughout the whole process. She is one tough little kid! This isn't the first time she has shown her high tolerance for pain. A few months ago, she went elbow first into the concrete and had a pretty impressive wound that needed treatment. We cringed as we poured the hydrogen peroxide on her arm, expecting her to absolutely come unglued when it made contact with her raw meat. Instead, she was fascinated by the bubbles. She may have a future as a professional fighter. Olivia, not so much. That kid could fall on a stack of pillows, and she'd come up acting like she had three compound fractures and a severed artery. Maybe acting will be her career choice.

The Mrs. just had a birthday. I think she had a good day. It wasn't the Worst Birthday Ever, thank goodness. That was a few years ago, but that's a story for another day when I don't have to get up for work in less than five hours. Her mom's birthday was a couple days before hers, so we all got together at my in-laws' house over this past weekend. It was another great trip. The weather was unbelievably awesome, we got to swim in their pool, we had lots of outstanding food as usual, and it was a fun time.

That's about all that's been happening around here that's worth mentioning. Maybe I'll have something more entertaining to discuss after our softball game Wednesday night.

It's Hell Getting Old, Isn't It?

I took to the softball field again last night, still floating on my success from last week's return from hiatus. The results were not the same as last week. I returned to shortstop, which was a big mistake. To summarize, the word "Hoover" did not come out of Chuck's or anyone else's mouth last night.

Things went fairly well for awhile, although I had one terrible throw to our second baseman early in the game. It was about a ten-foot throw, and yet I still somehow threw it behind him and into the outfield. I later softly tossed an accurate one to him for an out, and an inning or two later, I rocketed one to him from a very short distance, and we got the baserunner out by a hair. I also threw a laser to first base that was on-target. I knew it was a close play, but I thought we got the runner out. The umpire called her safe, though. Our first baseman says she had the ball in her glove before she felt the woman hit the bag, and Chuck, who pitches, says the ball beat her there by a step. But it's rec league softball, and there's only one umpire on the field, so what are you going to do? No use hollering about it.

I got a good reminder about why I wear an athletic cup. It doesn't happen often, but when it does, I thank my lucky stars that I'm wearing one. This time, it was a routine grounder, but I took my eyes off the ball, trying to locate the runner. I took that grounder right in the family jewels. Thanks to that cup, though, I was able to quickly recover and throw the runner out. Otherwise, I'd probably still be lying on the field in the fetal position.

After that, though, the wheels came off the wagon. Somewhere around the third inning, I was standing on first base after hitting my second single of the night (I went 2-for-3 again last night, and only a great play by their shortstop kept it from being a 3-for-3 night). The batter behind me put the ball in play, so off to second base I went. Except that about two steps into it, I blew a tire. I could feel my right quadriceps pull, and the other team had no trouble throwing me out at second. That pain in my thigh paled in comparison to what was to come, however.

Somewhere around the fourth or fifth inning, I fielded a grounder, and the baserunner was quick, so I had to put some extra gas on the throw. Just before I released the ball, my elbow came apart. It felt like the whole thing exploded and then went back into place. It was excruciating, and it literally brought me to my knees. My throw wound up somewhere on the other side of town. As I knelt, holding my elbow in my glove, Chuck jokingly asked if I wanted him to pick up my elbow and return it to me. I managed a feeble grin, to which he replied, "It's hell getting old, isn't it?"

We entered the bottom of the 7th (and last) inning in a 6-6 tie. A grounder got past me that I should have gotten. It would have been a difficult play, but I still should have gotten it. That baserunner would eventually end up on third base with one out. A grounder came right to me, and for some asinine reason, I lost all brain function and threw it to first base. There were a couple problems with this decision. First, as soon as I started to release the ball, my elbow made it real clear what an idiot I was. That sensation of a grenade going off in my arm, of course, resulted in my throw missing our first baseman by about a city block. The runner on third could have done the Fox Trot and still crossed the plate with time to spare. Second, even if the throw had been true, our first baseman had no chance to then try to throw the runner out at home, especially since it wouldn't have been a force out. Chuck would have had to tag her out. It was a completely moronic decision to throw. I should have just held on to the ball after fielding it. Game over. We lose, 7-6.

As I hobbled on my throbbing leg to get into line to shake hands with the other team, my elbow felt like it was on fire, and I was vaguely aware of the stinging sensation of raspberries on my knee and elbow from yet another fielding fiasco, just to add more injury to injury.

My pride is still laying in a crumpled heap on the field.

My teammates were gracious about it, but I felt (and still feel) absolutely terrible. I told Chuck that if it wouldn't have hurt so much, I'd have thrown my glove in anger. But I was also acutely aware of the sportsmanship example I needed to set for my daughters, who had both been cheering me on throughout the game. So there would be no glove-throwing.

As I was sitting on the ground after the game, struggling to find the least painful way to get my cleats off, Olivia ran over to me and asked why I was so slow in getting my shoes off.

"Do you have a boo-boo, Daddy?" she asked.

"No, honey," I lied. "Daddy just didn't have a very good game tonight."

"That's okay, Daddy," she said, giving me a hug.

As I soaked up a brief second of physical and mental rejuvenation from my daughter, she pulled away with a disgusted look and said, "Ew, Daddy! Why are you wet?! And you stink!" And then she ran back to the Mrs. and June.

Ahhhh, kids.

Why Some Species Eat Their Young

I woke up late this morning. My alarm clock is the Mrs., and she did her part to wake me up on time, but I fell back asleep, and she didn't discover me for another thirty minutes.

When I got out of the shower, Olivia was still asleep. The Mrs. gets June up and ready before she leaves for work, but Olivia is usually still asleep when the Mrs. begins her commute. I'm normally out of the shower thirty minutes earlier, so it's usually not a big deal to get her up and ready for daycare. But this morning, we only had about 20 minutes before we had to leave.

So I got Olivia up and prepared her favorite breakfast: a bowl of cereal. She then spent the next 15 minutes eating it. Recall that we only had 20 minutes to begin with. She'd take a bite, watch some TV, take another bite, dance around a little bit, watch some more TV, take another bite, talk to her sister, pick at her toenail, ask me if I remember some obscure event from three months ago that she claimed happened "last night" (because everything in her world happened "last night"), watch some more TV, dance some more, try out some gymnastics moves, comment on the birds outside, take another bite.......... I told her nicely that we were running behind, so we needed to hurry up.

And just like my sister did when we were kids, she shifted into Granny Mode.

When she FINALLY finished her cereal (including meticulously picking out just the right straw with which to slurp up the milk in her bowl), she announced that she had to pee. So I heard her in the bathroom taking care of business...but she never came out. I went back to the bathroom to find her sitting on the toilet, buck naked, playing with a doll. "What are you DOING, Olivia?! We need to GO!" I said (slightly less nicely than the first time I tried to light a fire under her). "I'm waiting for the pee-pee to come out," she calmly explained, as if I'm an idiot for asking.

After a few more minutes, I finally got her into her bedroom, where she (of course) immediately rejected the clothes I had laid out for her. She didn't want to wear shorts. She wanted to wear a skirt. She didn't want to wear that shirt. She wanted long sleeves because "it's cold outside." (It's predicted to push 90 degrees today in central Indiana.) She wanted to wear a pink skirt, green rain boots, and a blue long-sleeved shirt. I told her that she's going to be roasting by 9:00am, and her clothes don't match. "Yes, they do," she said. "No, they don't," I said. "Yes, they do," she said. A big argument ensued. For the third time, I told her that we need to get going. I'll admit, my tone was significantly less nice than the first or second times I mentioned it. Minutes passed, and Olivia was no closer to being dressed. And we still had to do her hair, which was a rat's nest.

At this point, I could feel my heartbeat in my eyelid, in between uncontrollable twitching, so I figured it was a good time to take a breather and step back from the conflict. I got my car keys to start loading the car with the daycare bag and some stuff for work. Well, my daughters are like Pavlov's dogs when it comes to the sound of my car keys. I can jingle my keys, and my girls are at the door in about a nanosecond ready to come along, wherever I might be going.

This conditioning resulted in disaster this morning.

As I walked into the garage with my arms full, already 20 minutes late, I heard Olivia screaming in her room like she's being murdered. The next thing I knew, she was running out into the garage, bawling her eyes out, shrieking at the very tip-top of her lungs, "DON'T LEAVE ME!!!!! I WANNA GO TO DAYCARE!!!!!"

Some significant details about this moment in time:

1) I had the garage door up, since I had just rolled the trash can out to the curb;

2) there were about a dozen neighborhood kids and their parents outside waiting for the school bus; and,

3) Olivia was still buck naked.

I'm really surprised that the police didn't show up about five minutes later.

I then took Olivia back in the house and did the best I could to dress her, since it was like trying to dress a crazed wildcat on steroids. In the meantime, I counseled her on the negative impact of her dilly-dallying and arguing in relation to my ability to get to work on time when I had an early appointment, and especially in this economy where my employer has to cut 20% from its budget, and losing a job wouldn't really be the most opportune occurrence when our ability to maintain the lifestyle to which we have become accustomed is reliant on both of our incomes. Of course, those weren't my exact words, and I seriously doubt that any culture in the world would consider my presentation to be even remotely close to "nice" at this point. My volume level had to be increased, too, since I was trying discuss this matter with her while she was screaming and crying and flailing everywhere.

She wound up with shorts on (but not snapped), a shirt over her head with one arm through a sleeve, no shoes, and her hair still in a rat's nest. I was sweating profusely after rasslin' the bear, and I had a couple of scrapes on my arm and something that I think is snot on my shirt. I'm really not sure whose snot it was, either.

At least June was perceptive enough throughout this entire ordeal to just quietly climb into her car seat without saying a word.

Olivia then screamed as loudly as she possibly could at a pitch that came just short of shattering glass for the first fifteen minutes of the drive to daycare. Then it was dead silent the rest of the way. Finally, as we turned onto the daycare provider's street, Olivia said, "Daddy? Remember 'last night' when you threw my shoes in the car?" "Yes, Olivia," I said, "I remember that. It was 20 minutes ago." "I caught one," she said. And sure enough, she had one shoe on.

Our daycare provider took one look at all of us on her doorstep, and I couldn't tell for sure, but it sure looked to me like she was stifling a smile and choking back a laugh. It's always funny when it happens to somebody else, isnt' it? Olivia, looking like a blonde version of Little Orphan Annie, cheerfully gave me a kiss and bounced inside, ready to greet her playmates for the day, as if nothing happened.

About halfway to work, I was finally able to grin a little bit about it. Shortly thereafter, my eye stopped twitching.

And yes, I was late for work. So far, though, I still have my job.

The Triumphant (Sort Of) Return to Softball

Last night was my much anticipated (by me, at least) return to the softball field after a nearly four year layoff. After our short-handed team was demolished last week, 15-4 (thank goodness for the mercy rule), we were facing a team that had narrowly lost their game last week, 21-19.

Some stifling heat and humidity that had blanketed central Indiana for several days blew out of town on Tuesday, leaving yesterday as a perfect night for softball. I was totally jacked up and nervous and anxious to get the game underway. As Chuck and I headed to the park together, he admitted that he, too, had some butterflies in his stomach since this was also his first game back from a multi-year retirement.

Adding to the excitement and anxiety was the fact that the Mrs. brought Olivia and June to the ballpark to watch me play. This was the first time they had ever seen their Daddy play softball, so of course I wanted to put on a good show for them.

We were the visiting team, so we batted first. I was sixth in the batting order, and we had three outs before it was my turn to bat. So in the bottom of the first inning, I ran out on the field to play shortstop--a position I haven't played since college, close to 20 years ago, when I was much younger, slimmer, and faster. Now I was just out there praying that I wouldn't be a disaster at a busy position and lose the game for the team.

My fielding started well. A grounder came pretty much right at me, I fielded it cleanly, and fired it to first base. I have no difficulty making the ball travel at a high velocity. I occasionally have some difficulty, however, hitting the broad side of a barn with the ball when I throw it. So I took a little bit off my throw to first base and delivered it right in the breadbasket for an out. Whew! Glad to have that first one out of the way. (After the inning ended, the first baseman still complained that her hand was throbbing from that throw, even though I made a conscious effort to slow it down. "Oh, yeah," I thought to myself, "I still got it!")

In top of the second inning, I had my first at-bat. For as long as I've played recreational softball, I've had the philosophy that I'm not here to walk. I'm here to hit the ball. If the ball is somewhere in the same zip code as home plate, I'm swinging. So on the first pitch I saw, I drove it just over the infield, right in front of the centerfielders. My trademark shot. I arrived at first base, darn happy to have not struck out. I advanced to second on a hit by the woman batting behind me, and then Chuck came to the plate. He calmly drilled a double that scored two runs, including me.

What a show-off.

As the game progressed, we were in a see-saw battle with the other team. We'd take the lead, then they'd take it back. We'd regain the lead, and they'd take it back. I don't think there was ever more than a two or three run difference in the score at any given time. My fielding continued to be solid, and I even made a couple of plays I was particularly proud of. One was a screaming grounder that I snagged at my shoelaces in a full sprint. My ensuing soft underhanded toss to our second baseman forced out the base runner. The other was a line drive to my right. I had to run, jump, and reach across my body with my glove. I was as surprised as anyone that the ball was in my glove when I came down, robbing the batter of a base hit. And I didn't even pull or dislocate any body parts on the way up or down.

In my second at-bat, the first pitch was once again good enough for me to swing at. I undercut it, though, and it went about seven miles straight up in the air with some sort of wicked backspin on it. I ran it out, because that's what I was always taught to do in youth baseball, and sure enough, my effort paid off. Their second baseman dropped it. I stood on first base, feeling a little guilty for being 2-for-2 (by rec league softball scoring standards) after that wimpy little "hit."

Karma would even things out, though.

In my third at-bat, the first pitch seemed too far inside, and I can't hit it well when it's inside. However, as I watched the ball come in, I realized it was actually right over the plate. I was too far up in the batter's box. A called strike. "Dummy!" I thought to myself. So I took a step back, got myself situated in the proper spot, and the next pitch was in the exact same location as the first one. I crushed it. I nailed it right in the sweet spot of the bat, right in the most powerful part of my swing, right in the center of the ball. Right to their centerfielder. I'm not sure he even had to take two steps to get to it. That made up for the wimpy "hit" that should have been an out, I suppose. So I finished the night batting 2-for-3, which I was mighty pleased with. Three at-bats, and I saw a total of four pitches. That's how I play ball.

We began the seventh (and last) inning in a 7-6 deficit. We scored two runs in the top of the seventh inning to make it 8-7 in our favor. All we had to do was hold them scoreless in the bottom of the seventh, and we'd even up our record for the season. I was pretty darned pleased with myself at shortstop. A few grounders had gotten past me that I probably would have gotten to back in my college days, but I was having such success with the ones I could get my glove on that Chuck was calling me "Hoover," as in the vacuum. I had even fielded a grounder and thrown it to first base with A LOT of mustard on it, dead center in the first baseman's glove. Our second baseman reported hearing the ball hiss as it crossed the infield, just as the Mrs. had reported hearing four years ago when she played first base and had to field my throws. I still had the cannon arm, and all of my throws were on-target. I was invincible!

But karma would humble me again.

With a runner on second base, their batter hit a pop-up a few feet behind second base. I was running for it, trying to track the ball with my horrid depth perception (especially with dimming light as the sun set). It was going to be an over-the-shoulder catch to begin with, but I thought I was under it...until the very last second, when I realized I was not. I corkscrewed myself into the ground trying to recover, but the ball came out of my glove, my cleats lost traction on the dew-covered grass, and the next thing I knew, I was flat on my stomach with the ball rolling away from me. Fortunately two of our outfielders were Johnny-on-the-spot with their back-up. One of them retrieved the ball and threw it in to the infield, but it was too late. It was now an 8-8 game. I felt like a complete turd. It only got worse as the other team moved runners to second and third with only one out. My worst fears had come true. I had lost the game for the team. Right in front of my wife and kids, too. I wanted to crawl under a rock.

Through some great fielding by my teammates, however, including a grounder fielded by Chuck, we got the final two outs without any more of their runners scoring. Final score: Us 8, Them 8. By league rule, if the hour time limit is up (and it was), a tie is simply recorded in the standings as a tie. There would be no extra innings. Thank goodness, because I was wiped out!

So we didn't lose. I had a good night at the plate, and with one glaring exception, I had a better night on defense than I could have ever hoped for. I got to hear my kids cheering for me throughout the game, which was REALLY cool. We played an exciting back-and-forth game that came right down to the wire. Chuck pitched, batted, and fielded well, too, and like me, he enjoyed himself immensely. The weather was perfect. And I escaped without injury, aside from some sore thighs today. I had a total blast! I can't wait until next Wednesday night!

A Beacon of Light

As bleak and dark as my professional life has been lately, a beacon of light appeared yesterday.

A little background first. I supervise all the probationers in my county who transfer in from other states. I also transfer any out-of-state probationers sentenced in our Courts. There is a nationwide protocol called the Interstate Compact that governs transfers from one state to another. Any sort of detailed explanation of it would immediately put you to sleep. Suffice it to say that it is rather complex, full of regulations and time constraints, and I've yet to talk to a probation officer anywhere who enjoys it. There are supposedly heavy sanctions for not following the Compact's rules, yet I constantly see violations of those rules, ranging from minor to blatant, and nothing ever comes of it.

It may seem counterintuitive, but it's actually much easier to transfer felonies through the Interstate Compact than it is to transfer misdemeanors. There are so many more misdemeanors than felonies that the Compact chooses to focus its efforts and resources on regulating the more serious offenders, rather than getting bogged down by every shoplifter and public drunk in the nation. So there are only a very few misdemeanors that can be transferred.

If a case meets certain criteria, the other state is required to accept supervision. If a case doesn't meet all the criteria, though, the receiving state has the option of rejecting supervision. And I can count on one hand the number of times a state has accepted a transfer that they weren't required to accept. It's extremely rare. (Hawaii, Oklahoma, and Georgia, you guys rock!)

In the vast majority of states I have dealt with, they don't want the extra work, so supervision is rejected. Who cares what's best for the probationer, right? As long as the receiving state is getting out of doing work.

I really hate that. At an indescribable level. It goes against everything that we as probation officers are here to do: assist probationers with their rehabilitation.

As a result, I have some probationers living as far away as Colorado who are basically unsupervised, since the receiving state isn't willing to do any work that they're not absolutely required to do. That doesn't do anyone any good. The probationer doesn't know where to receive services there, I don't know where the probationer can receive services there, and I can't do home visits and breath tests and urine screens and all our other neat little tricks of supervision when the probationer is 2000 miles away. I absolutely do not understand why a probation officer wouldn't take that into consideration when deciding on whether or not to supervise a case.

So fast-forward to yesterday. I was just assigned to a guy who was convicted of a misdemeanor in one of our Courts, but who has a lengthy and violent criminal history. I haven't even met the guy yet, but his criminal history is literally 19 pages long, so I know he's a career criminal. Most of the time, a probationer's criminal history is a page or two long. Maybe three pages. So this guy is probably not going to get the key to the city anytime soon...unless he shoots someone and steals it. Which he just might do.

The problem is that he lives in Illinois. Illinois isn't going to be required to accept supervision through the Interstate Compact because it's a misdeanor. Even my two-year-old daughter could figure out that this guy is a drug dealer, so I really don't want him running around Illinois without someone keeping a thumb on him. I can't imagine that the local authorities in the city where he lives would want that, either.

Fortunately for me, I know a probation officer from his county in Illinois. I've had several positive professional dealings with her over the years. There is a major interstate that runs through each of our counties that has become a rather busy drug pipeline. Our local law enforcement knows this, so they frequently sit out on the interstate and hunt for bad guys hauling drugs from Indianapolis to Illinois and back. They often catch them. As a result, this isn't the first time that one of my probationers has lived in this particular city in Illinois.

So I send the Illinois probation officer an e-mail, filling her in on this guy, and asking if her department has ever dealt with him before. Her response gave me hope again for my profession.

Her department hadn't supervised him in quite a long time, but she quickly provided me with several local police reports from the past few years involving this guy. She also said that her office prefers to supervise the people in their community, even if the probationer isn't eligible for transfer through the Interstate Compact. (I wanted to cheer out loud when I read that. Someone else thinks like I do! It's a miracle!) So if I'll send his file to her directly, instead of messing with the Interstate Compact, she'll supervise him for me.

I was floored! She voluntarily took the time to provide me more information about the guy, she identified the problem of trying to transfer supervision through the Compact, and she volunteered to solve the problem! She wasn't trying to get out of work, or do as little as possible to avoid rocking her boat. She did EXTRA work, and she volunteered to do even more extra work for me for most of the next year! She went out of her way to help out a colleague from another state who she has never met. It's almost...dare I say it...like we are ON THE SAME TEAM, WORKING TOWARD THE SAME GOAL! What a novel concept!

This isn't the first time she has pleasantly surprised me with her work ethic, the way she thinks, and her willingness to provide and share information. I've gotten cases from her in the past that include so much additional information in them that I feel like I know the probationer before I even meet him or her (and that's a very, very good thing).

In today's world where screw-your-neighbor is the standard operating procedure, this probation officer from Illinois chose to help her neighbor, instead. And for that, I am very appreciative. Thank you for your help on this case, Illinois probation officer, and for renewing a little bit of my faith in humanity and our profession.

The Trials and Tribulations of Coaching a Softball Team

I had been mulling over a blog about the amazing frequency and regularity of failures to communicate. I've been experiencing an incredible amount of frustration lately, feeling as though people expect me to have psychic abilities that allow me to know what they're thinking, what they expect of me, what needs to be done, what's already been done, etc.

An example of this is a number of e-mails containing important information or requests for feedback that I have sent to a variety of people, all of which have gone completely unanswered. That really pisses me off. Seriously, is it that difficult to send a "thank you" or a "got it" or a "I'll be there" e-mail back to let me know, at least, that you received the information? It's not like e-mails never get lost in cyberspace or junk mail filters or anything.

So anyway, I had most of a blog worked out in my head about failure to communicate. I was even going to use a picture of Paul Newman from the movie "Cool Hand Luke."

But I also wanted to update everyone on how softball was progressing.

As it turns out, the two topics came together last night in a perfect storm.

Let's take it from the softball perspective, and you'll easily see the failure-to-communicate theme intertwined.

As you know from previous posts, I e-mailed the guy who runs a local softball park to tell him that I'd like to be a free agent, should any teams need an extra player. Over a month later, I'm still waiting on a reply of any kind from him. So as another local softball park advertised registration for their fall league, Chuck and I talked about it for awhile and ultimately decided to put together a co-ed team. We had a bunch of people who said they were interested. We were just a couple women short, which is no big deal, right?

Well, several hours later, spread over several days, after talking to no fewer than 42,756 women--many of whom committed, then backed out, then committed again, then backed out again--we finally got firm "yes"es from six women. We only field five players of each gender at a time, but this isn't my first rodeo. The chances of getting all twelve people at the ballpark at the same time are slim to none.

So we had six women and six men. We can bat twelve people, and then we'll have an extra player of each gender to rotate in and out on defense, since most of us are 40-ish and, um, not exactly in peak physical condition. Great plan, right? Heck, everyone even paid within a day or two. No deadbeats. Everything's good.

I'd like to also point out that I had no intentions of coaching this team when we were in the planning stages. I was just along for the ride. But as circumstances developed, I just sort of fell into that role. For those who have played softball, you know what an albatross this is. For those who haven't played, suffice it to say that NOBODY wants to be the coach. Ever. And for very good reason.

The first game was last night. On Monday, when I got the season schedule from the park, I e-mailed it to everyone, and asked them to let me know their status ASAP. Exactly two people got back to me. Chuck was on a family vacation that was planned weeks ago, and we all knew about it. I was also going to miss the first game because it coincided with Olivia's final session of gymnastics, at which she was getting a trophy. I wasn't about to miss that. And a third male player was going to be out of state. So we were three men down.

In the interest of time and space, I'll omit the details of what happened over the next three days leading up to the game, but in what consumed no less than 10 hours of my time, I had all kinds of people tell me they were in, then out, then in, then out, then in, and on and on and on. At one point, I only had two male players. At another point, I only had six total players. Of course, I was just guessing on most people's availability, since so few bothered to respond to my e-mail asking for everyone's status. Ultimately, though, I wound up with six men and six women, thanks to some substitute players that one of our ladies rounded up for us.

I suckered--er, convinced--a woman on the team who works in my office to captain the team for one night, since Chuck and I would both be gone. I brought the scorebook to her, and even had a batting order made up, and positions where everyone could play. Should be smooth sailing for her, I thought.

Kudos to her for not interrupting me at my daughter's gymnastics session, but as I was heading home from the gym, I got a text from her that our team had lost, 15-4. Oh well, I thought. Another text from her followed, about how the other team really killed us by hitting the ball all over the outfield. Yep, that'll happen sometimes, I thought. Another text: maybe part of the problem was that we only had 10 people show up, and the 10th person showed up late, and then didn't want to play in the field (for reasons that remain a mystery to me), so we played with one less outfielder than normal. I nearly drove into a tree as I blew my stack.

So the batting order had to be completely redone, the fielding positions were all screwed up, and we only had nine fielders when we should have had ten. The temporary team captain was very gracious about it, but it was certainly no smooth sailing.

The two people who didn't show up are boyfriend/girlfriend. Boyfriend has a bum shoulder, I had been told, and wanted to play first base to avoid having to throw. I guess at some point, he decided that he doesn't want to play at all. He just didn't bother to tell anyone, or whoever he told didn't bother to tell me. And because boyfriend didn't play, girlfriend didn't show up, either. Again, I'm not sure why, and we had no warning whatsoever of her absence, either. I hear rumor that they may not play at all this season, but of course, I'm getting all my information about this a day late and from third-hand sources, so who knows.

So I still haven't stepped onto a softball field yet, and softball is even more aggravating than it was when the first park was ignoring me. Next Wednesday, though, Chuck and I will both be back, which should help a lot on a number of levels. I hope.

I don't regret missing the game at all, though, because I got to see my little girl run up the podium with a big grin on her face, get her very first trophy she has ever owned from her instructor that she idolizes, yell out to me in the crowd, and then proudly hoist her trophy above her head, beaming from ear to ear, as she got her picture taken. She talked about her trophy the whole way home, and I had to pry it out of her hands at bedtime. This morning, her first words to me were, "Remember last night, when I got my trophy?" And our daycare provider barely had the door open before Olivia was yammering to her about her trophy. When I got home, it was "Daddy! Remember when I got a trophy and you took my picture?" It may just be a little participation trophy, but to a 3-year-old, it's very important. And I'm happy as a clam that I was there to see her get it.

A Fun Read

The Mrs. took the kids to her parents' house for the weekend--no marital problems here; it was a planned trip--so I've enjoyed a couple days of quiet and solitude around the house, in addition to some unrestricted time with Chuck and other good friends. Nothing really exciting going on, so I've been perusing the Internet for a variety of things and stumbled across a blog that has repeatedly made me laugh out loud.

I added it to the list of blogs that I follow, which can be found in the right-hand column of this page, but subtle additions like that sometimes go unnoticed, so I wanted to point it out to everyone.

In summary, it's written by a guy who has been having some difficulty with his landlord. And that's putting it very mildly. I'm not sure what makes it so funny for me: that the landlord is a complete lunatic, or that the author has a writing style that I find to be absolutely hilarious. Maybe a little of both. As an added bonus, the author appears to be from my neck of the woods--Indianapolis--although the story takes place just outside of Chicago.

Enjoy Gary.

http://strangerthaneviction.tumblr.com/