Baseball and Toads

Last night I was privileged to watch my oldest child play baseball.  My dad came to watch the game as well.

Baseball is more confusing than I had originally thought.  Apparently, the first foul ball you hit is a strike, but only if it’s the first or maybe second strike.  I think.  Also, if a runner is on second and there’s a pop up, he (or she!) can not progress to third until the ball is caught.  And if the catcher drops the ball after the pitcher throws it to him, the ball is considered in play and the runner can advance bases, but it’s not stealing.  Stealing is when the pitcher is holding on to the ball. 

No one, not even God, knows what a balk is.

“I don’t know as much about baseball as I thought I did,” I admitted to my dad.

“Quite frankly, I’m alarmed at how little you know,” he said. 

Caleb pitched for the first time last night, and during the second inning, he struck out three kids in a row.  I am proud as a peacock and a little hard to be around at the moment.  Caleb also hit a kid in the foot, but that kid never made it home, so it didn’t really matter.  I mean home in the baseball sense, not the physical embodiment of a dwelling place sense.  No harm, no foul. 

We came home, everyone had a popsicle, and went to bed.  I let Kiah out to go to the bathroom and then went out on the deck to escort her back in the house.  Kiah demands an escort.  She previously used her end-of-the-night bathroom break to play the “let’s chase me around the yard like a looney-bird” game, but although she can still gain speed when need be, the lack of her front leg has made sudden turns and playful bounds difficult for her.  She understands this and no longer waits for me to come within two feet of her before she laughs like a hyena and vanishes into the night.  Instead, she stands submissively and allows me to lead her back inside.  This new routine has honestly been a lot easier on my nerves.  My blood pressure has gone down and I swear a lot less. 

When it rains, all the toads come out, hopping around like they own the backyard.  In an effort not to step on one last night, I slipped on the deck and fell into a puddle as Kiah looked on and the toad hopped precariously close to the entrance of my house.  I blacked out for at least twenty minutes.

That’s not true.  I did not black out at all.  I added that for dramatic effect.  In fact, I was fine, although quite damp.  While I lay there, stretched out on the slick deck, Kiah galumphed over my legs, went into the house, and jumped with muddy feet onto the beige couch.

Sometimes I don’t like her. 

I don’t like toads lately, either. 

I do like baseball.  In the late hours of the evening, I changed into my comfy pajamas and climbed into bed.  I had just begun to read a book when I heard Caleb talking in his sleep.

“OUT!”

I can only assume he was having baseball dreams and was blissfully unaware of his mother’s close encounter with a brazen toad.  If he had been awake, he would probably have pronounced me out and Kiah safe at home.  Because that’s the way you think when you’ve got nothing but baseball on your mind. 

Don't tell me about the world. Not today. It's springtime and they're knocking baseball around fields where the grass is damp and green in the morning and the kids are trying to hit the curve ball. ~Pete Hamill

Life is Like a Baseball Game

Life at our house is much like a baseball game.  Most of the time, it's a bit slow with occasional and sudden moments of intense frenzy and running around like looney-birds.  Also, at any given moment my kids scream out things like "POPCORN!,"  while John screams out, "BEER!"  And I am prone to blurting out "The Star Spangled Banner" at least once a day.  So, yes, our life is much like a baseball game.

We took Danny and Caleb to the season opener of the Red Wings on Saturday.  On Sunday, we enjoyed a musical and convicting service at our church, and then had a lovely dinner with family in Lockport, where I offended everyone by calling Jesus "the ultimate zombie."  Personally, I believe Jesus MUST have a sense of humor; otherwise, how do you explain the platypus? 

Some photos from the weekend:

I bought the twins sunglasses when March tricked me into believing sunny days would reign well into next November.

Oversized sunglasses are in.

Ella loves to pose.

My mom and sister arranged an Easter egg hunt. 



Not too old to search for candy.

Someone's mouth is full.

We decorated cookies.

 

Ben insisted my mom get out red sprinkles because red is his favorite color. This poor rabbit looks like it's been slaughtered.

 

Amazing blue skies.

We went to the Red Wings opening day on Saturday.
This is Daniel without a hot dog.

This is Danny with a hot dog.
You can draw your own conclusion. 
All right, I'll tell you.
Life is better with a hot dog. 

The kids are on spring break for the week, and let me tell you, I am going nuts.  Wherever I am, there's a child underfoot, begging me for a snack or tattling on Daniel. Poor Daniel is always the one who gets tattled on.  Caleb retreats into his own room to read or play by himself a lot of the time.

When you get Caleb alone, he is conversely really talkative and will share things on his mind.  He told John, "Dad?  I'm happiest at home.  I'd rather just stay home than go anywhere else."

Often, I give myself a hard time for not having a more organized life, a neater home, a stricter schedule.  But my kids- they don't seem to care.  They revel in the chaos and rest in the peaceful moments in between.

Life is like a baseball game.  It's dirty, hard, sometimes horribly predictable, sometimes full of surprises, the players always striving to get home. 

I'm glad my kids are home. 

It's not a party until...

... your six-year old has diarrhea all over your friend’s bathroom floor.

But that was later in the evening.

Before the diarrhea came the chicken wings.

We begin on Saturday evening, when our family went to eat out at Quaker State and Lube, which is supposed to have the best chicken wings around. Unfortunately, the wings were not up to par. They were overcooked and, for a place that has the word “lube” right there in their name, incredibly dry.

“This is unusual,” John insisted. “They are not up to par.”

“Denny’s wings are better than these,” I said.

Yesterday, we had big Super Bowl plans, and I set our to prove that I could make better chicken wings than the ones that had been served at Quaker State and Lube.  ("They're usually so much better than that," said John.  "They really weren't up to par.")  I was going to follow the traditional Frank’s Red Hot recipe, but John had a better idea. He had read about the “best way to make Buffalo wings” from a guy who writes for Deadspin. I was strongly encouraged to follow said recipe.

The Jamboroo is a weekly Deadspin column written by Drew Magary, whose book The Postmortal I received for Christmas. (Thanks Lisa!) I actually had no idea he was a sports writer, so this was an odd coincidence. Recently, Magary gave 20 rules for having a Super Bowl party, including: You must have a high definition television. Do not mix partisan and nonpartisan guests. Buy a plunger. Mandatory food items: Wings, Nacho Cheese Doritos, Nachos, chips and salsa, chili, guacamole, eight foot long italian sub, cookies, jar of frosting with spoon in it (for me only). Always keep a separate room to stage monkey fights in. Etcetera, etcetera… all very practical suggestions. I would’ve totally have fought him over the jar of frosting with spoon in it. We ignored his no kids rule, however, and found out how very wise he actually was in making these rules. Comes from years of experience, I suppose.

Anyway, the wings. My initial plan had been to use the slow cooker, but the slow cooker was dismissed as “disgusting” and “what are you completely crazy, are you not even from western New York you idiot?” by both a beloved family member and the internet.

I found Magary to be an irreverent chef with a foul mouth. Rachael Ray he is not. Nonetheless, I had great success with his baked chicken wing recipe. Here is a modified version. (I improved it even further- no kidding!):

Buy a club pack of cheapo wings from your local favorite spot to buy club packs. Take (thawed) wings and mix them with olive oil (2-3 TB) and Adobo seasoning ( 2-3 TB; found in the ethnic section, by all the Goya.)

Line a casserole dish with tinfoil, and make sure it is covered with olive oil so the wings don’t stick. You don’t want to lose the skin! You can also line the dish with parchment paper to avoid using extra oil, but the tinfoil makes the wings crispier. Yum.

Bake chicken wings at 400 degrees for 40 minutes, flipping halfway through.
Meanwhile, melt a stick of butter and mix with half of a large bottle of Frank Red Hot, less if you prefer “mild” wings, more if you prefer “hot.”

When wings are done, douse those suckers with the buffalo wing sauce. Stick them back in the oven for another 20-30 minutes, reducing heat to 300 degrees. This allows the sauce to really bake into the wings. You will have plenty of sauce left over for dipping.

Serve with blue cheese dressing and celery. Impress friends and family. Become referred to by all as “the wing lady.”

Ben possibly ate too much junk food. While my girlfriends and I were doing our Superbowl thing, i.e. playing Rummikub and deciding that Madonna looked like person whose chiropractor had told her to take it easy that night, Ben was sampling the chicken wings, the éclair cake, the chips and dip, cheese balls, cupcakes, cookies, etc. Hence, the diarrhea on my poor friend’s bathroom floor.

We took the kids home after that incidence, right before the end of the third period. The three boys were determined to stay awake to see whether or not Tom Brady would fail and take his anger out on his model girlfriend.  2/3rds didn't make it:

Caleb is glad to see the Giants win. 

Today's song is, of course, from Queen.  Sorry Patriots fans. 

I've heard this song dozens of times in my lifetime, but I've never seen  this video.  Holy cow, what is he wearing.  It's audacious, even for a gay man. And there are an alarming number of men without shirts on in the audience. 

All I Know About Hockey I Learned From The Mighty Ducks

When deciding whether or not to accompany John to various soirees, I seriously consider two things: the horrors of mingling versus good food. Sometimes the food comes out on top. Sometimes it doesn’t. On Wednesday night, the food was linked to a free Sabres game, so I went. I had a massive hankering for a stadium cheeseburger.

I had a bad day Wednesday. My cowlick refused to conform to the basic architecture of my head, I had a huge zit right smack in the middle of my forehead, my kids were completely stir-crazy, and I’d received what I’m sure are the first of many rejections in the mail. Writing rejections are the worst. There’s no sugarcoating. They never say, “It’s not you, it’s us.” They might as well write the following:

Holly,


It’s not us, it’s totally you.


This isn’t what we’re looking for at all.


I guess you can submit again sometime, but get a clue first. Sheesh.


From,
A very, very mean editor.

Little did they know I would later attend Buffalo’s most highfalutin event on a Wednesday evening. That’s right. My day was bound to get better!

And what does the stay-at-home mom wear to a post-work highfalutin event at a hockey arena? These are the types of fashion questions that boggle my stay-at-home mom mind. John intended to go in his suit. If I had gone in a suit, people would’ve assumed I’d come from work. I would be faced with awkward, “What do you do?” questions. So, I opted for jeans, a nice top, and high-heeled boots. I made John change into khakis and a sweater.

We were very underdressed. And there were no cheeseburgers. Just a lukewarm pasta bar. I shook hands with one of the most powerful men in New York State government, and stood by sanguinely while John chatted with Mayor Brown and former Mayor Masiello, who shook my hand and told me it was lovely to see me again.

We’ve never met.

“The food here sucks,” I told them. “I want a cheeseburger.” (I didn't really say that.  But I was thinking it.)

One state legislator shook my hand for what seemed an excessive amount of time and then gave me his card, and told me to call him if I needed anything, anything at all. The card is still in my jacket pocket, and I intend to use it the next time I get lost in Buffalo.

“I'm looking for the exit to 33. No, I don’t need a GPS; I have your business card.”

At least there was the hockey game to look forward to! And we had great seats. Unfortunately, we were seated next to a perfect contender for that show Girls Gone Wild, and she also happened to be a Rangers fan. In the middle of the first period, we moved down and proceeded to watch the most boring hockey game that has ever not been broadcast on Time Warner Cable.

Luckily, at the beginning of the second period, Buffalo’s only gay, black, die-hard Sabres fan joined us, automatically raising our spirits, warming me up with a good cuddle, and flamboyantly explaining the makeup of the Sabres’s fourth line, which was helpful because even though I’ve watched hundreds of Sabres games over the past 15 years, I still don’t know what icing is.

“Icing! Icing!” I yell.

“That’s not icing,” says John.

“High sticking, then? Was it high sticking?”

Honestly, everything I know about hockey I learned from the Disney film The Mighty Ducks.

“Treat it like an egg, Gerbe! You’re not treating the puck like an egg! Form the flying V! Where’s the flying V? Why don’t they ever do the flying V?”

This is when John buries his face in his hands and doesn’t come up for a while. Gay, black, die-hard Sabres fan wasn't embarrassed to be seated next to me. We scorned the hot Rangers fan and yelled at Ryan Miller for his lazy goal-keeping.

On the way home, John and I listened to a most excellent podcast called, “How Did This Get Made?”, a show that discusses movies so terrible they’re amazing. They deconstruct gems like “Jingle All the Way,” “Twilight,” and “Superman 3.” We listened to the podcast about "Superman 3", or, "Superman: The One Where Supes Gets all Rapey."

On Wednesday night, I took a gamble, and I chose food over the horrors of mingling. And I lost that bet. But I had a good time anyway.

Mayor, it was lovely to see you again, too.