Weird Dreams

I've had some weird dreams in my life... but last night was different and definitely kind of weird. So, rewind to a few hours ago, in the wee hours of the night... I'm sleeping away and I'm dreaming. In my dream, I'm trying to make Kelly laugh. And the way I'm trying to make Kelly laugh is by wearing a pair of her booty shorts. And I wasn't just wearing her short shorts...I was singing... a Bon Jovi song!

So, picture me in my dream, wearing shorts that are already short on Kelly and I'm singing "You give love a bad name" at the top of my lungs. I'm sure you could have done without that mental image I've just painted for you. But wait... this isn't the weird part. I would TOTALLY put on a pair of daisy dukes and sing songs from any band if I thought it would make Kelly laugh. I really would. In fact, I've done weirder to make her laugh... I'll spare you those details.

Anyway, in my dream, I'm singing loudly in Kelly's booty shorts and then something wakes me up. It was Kelly laughing (since being pregnant, she talks and does stuff in her sleep). I immediately look at her. Sure enough, she was sound asleep. So, either she was laughing at something funny in her dream... OR she was somehow in MY dream, laughing at me! What are the chances of that?

So, I've spent much of the morning wondering... does Kelly participate in my other dreams. Has she, too, played an underwear-clad Al Roker in tennis? Has she not only FOUND Waldo, but also dined with him at Chuck E' Cheese as I have? Has she.... well, you get the idea.

I'll keep you posted on this one.

The Tailgating "List"

This last weekend I went to the Redskins/Giants game at FedEx Field. My sister Beth and Brother-in-Law Aaron came up for it....and I went with a bunch of co-workers/friends. Now, if you're a novice to NFL games, you probably think you just go the game. Well, if you're a rookie that's what you do. You see, the real fun is in the tailgating. Especially if you're a Redskins fan... because, let's be honest, if you're paying hundreds of dollars to go watch them lose, you're not getting your money's worth -- you've got to turn it into something worthwhile.

Therefore, whenever I go to a Redskins game, it's an all day affair... complete with the pre-game AND post-game tailgate. It's really pretty simple, all you need to bring is a grill, charcoal, something to grill and copious amounts of beer (not that you'll drink it all... but you'll make lots of friends). Having been going to Redskins games for over a decade now, I have honed the tailgating craft and thought I was a professional.

That is, until this game. You see, this tailgate involved Jim (can't give up the last name... lest he get stuck in google forever). Jim is the Vice President of the company I work for. More importantly he is a lifelong Giants fan who has been tailgating since I've been in diapers. And, well, how can I say this... He has truly honed the craft and I am merely privileged to breathe his charcoal fumes.

Now, to fully understand what I'm about to tell you... you must first understand a bit about Jim. Everything he does is balls out. There is no holding back. If something is worth doing, it's worth making legendary. Take the 4th of July for example. Jim starts preparing for the 4th about 6 months in advance. He orders thousands of dollars worth of (ehem...illegal) fireworks from a catalogue. He's such a big customer that they call him in advance. He is to that fireworks company what a "whale" is to a casino in Vegas.

The explosives he orders have names like "Ultimate Retribution" and "American Vengeance" and they take up an entire closet in his home. And I'm not kidding. It is an arsenal that would make any militia proud. In fact, in the event of attack, I'm making a bee-line for Jim's house. Not necessarily for protection, I just think his fireworks stash can be lit off and will 'razzle-dazzle' the enemy and stall them long enough for me to make my escape.

Anyway... so that is Jim. Nothing is done less than 100%. So, now back to the tailgate. I've already told you my list (grill, charcoal, meat, beer) -- it's brilliant in its simplicity. Jim, on the other hand, has cultivated a fool-proof tailgating checklist that has evolved over the years... and it is 2 pages long!!!! I'll spare you all 2 pages...but here are some of the highlights (my comments in italics):

Scotch
Cuban Cigars
Little Cigars -- I'm assuming the Cuban's must be "big", hence the differentiation
Phone (power) -- power? is there a non-powered phone? hmmm
Flask -- for, you know, chemistry experiments and stuff
Money -- this one cracks me up... wouldn't that be hilarious if he brought all this stuff... 2 pages worth and then got to the game and... crap... no money! And it also implies that he has stacks of it in a closet somewhere. I can just picture him calling out to his wife "honey, can you go into the garage and bring me the grill tools, some lighter fluid and... oh yeah... a stack of $20's."
Codeine -- naturally... no tailgate is complete without a hefty dose of painkillers
Aspirin -- Just in case the codeine doesn't do the trick
Cortisone Ointment -- Man, if I had a nickel for everytime my body broke out in a wicked rash at a tailgate...
Generator -- Yes, we had a generator... How else do you think the TV is going to work?
TV -- see above
Giant sign -- rats...I left my "giant" sign at home
Duct Tape -- duct tape? are we planning on kidnapping someone?
Giants Flag and US Flag -- because, one flag just simply isn't enough
Two "Big Grills" and football grill -- you see, one grill can only hold so much food. You need multiple grills... really
Ray -- Ray is a 'man' that holds grill tools. Crucially important, without "Ray" you might be forced to lay your grill tools elsewhere.
Big Coolers (4) -- yes... 4 big coolers
Black Cooler -- umm...because 4 non-black coolers are just not enough
Name Tags -- I used to get so tired of saying "hi, I'm scott... want a beer" Now, I just say "beer?" and they say, "sure, scott" -- it helps
Coffee Brewer -- at a tailgate? I blame the influence of Starbucks.
Water Cooler -- for those keeping score, that is cooler #6
Chip Bowl -- absolutely essential, eating directly from the bag is just so ghetto
Large Can opener -- the small one just won't cut it apparently
Corn Cob Holders -- Jim told me... in all seriousness... "if I don't bring the corn cob holders... the tailgate will be ruined"
Corn/Broccoli Pot
Water Pot -- obvious that you can't use your water pot as a corn/brocolli pot... isn't it?
Garlic Butter -- that's butter #1
Regular Butter -- butter variety #2
Margarine -- butter #3
Spray Butter -- yes, that's right, 4 different varieties of butter... did we miss any?

Okay...the list was twice this long... I've only pulled out the highlights.

Bottomline? We had a great tailgate with 15 or so of us, three grills going simultaneously, enough beer to sink a battle ship, and great food.

The irony of it all is that Jim had to borrow buns from me... but at least he didn't have to borrow cortisone ointment (because, as you know, it was on the list).

2 things I've learned in the last couple of weeks

OK.... being a dad has a learning curve... I'm constantly evolving and learning as I go. Here's what I've learned recently:

• While prancing around in your boxers with wedgie might sound like a good idea -- it's not. Please... let me explain. I'm goofing around with Reagan and Luke the other day and, for some reason, they want to play Superman and Wonder woman (or whatever Superhero they were trying to be) in their underwear. Well, it was almost bedtime... "so... sure. No problem kids... play in your underwear" I say. And they are having a great time and want me to play. So... you know... I'm down. So, I'm prancing (and I stress "prancing" ... there is positively no shame in my game when it comes to playing with the kids) around pretending I'm a Superhero and then Reagan says "I've got a wedgie" and pulls it out. OK, I know what you're thinking. Yes. She knows what a wedgie is. I blame Kelly. She must have taught her. Well.. then I think it would be really funny to say "Daddy's got a wedgie" and then run around and be goofy and..well.. you know... the kids will think I'm the greatest Dad ever. Unfortunately, things don't always go as planned and/or envisioned. So I hike my boxers up and run around saying "Daddy's got a wedgie! Daddy's got a wedgie!" Well, this sends Reagan into super hyper orbit. She goes crazy! I mean... she was JACKED up. She says "I'll fix it Daddy!" and comes running at me. And I'm not joking. She makes a b-line for me (w/hands extended) likes she's been shot out of a cannon. Before I have time to react, she plows right into me at full speed. Which would have been fine. Only she's about waist high to me. So, regrettably, my man grapes take the blunt of the force. I drop to floor like a sack of potatoes and let out a high pitched "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!" Reagan just laughs uncontrollably as I lay on the floor... in my boxers... with my self-inflicted wedgie. So, moral of the story.... running around your house with a wedgie isn't all that it's cracked up to be -- no pun intended.
  
• Juvenile t-shirts are not always such a good idea: You've seen the shirts. They're fairly ubiquitous these days. Sold at Target, the Mall, online etc they have goofy sayings like "I do my own stunts" and "Ladies Man" or whatever. Well, anyway... I recently bought one of these juvenile shirts figuring I would just wear it around the house. What did my shirt say, you ask? It said "I love hot moms" -- what can I say? I thought it was funny and, well, my wife is hot...and she's a mom... so, it worked for me. I would have preferred that it say "I love my hot wife" but for $9 it was close enough. I think it's important to note that Kelly was with me when I bought this (admittedly) sophmoric shirt. And, besides... I'm thinking Kelly is the only one that'll see it...so.. you know...no harm, no foul. Well...not exactly. A couple of Saturday's ago, I'm home with the kids by myself while Kelly takes her Dad out to lunch. Everything is going great until about bed time. Disaster strikes. Reagan fell and hit her head on the coffee table and got a pretty big cut that I knew would need stitches (which, on a side note, there is nothing worse than seeing your daughter in real pain... I would have given anything to have me be the one get hurt instead of her). So, I load Reagan and Luke in the Explorer and head to the emergency room. I'm feeling like a big loser and a crappy Dad. I mean, I don't get a ton of alone time with them and then the one time Kelly does leave me alone, we're going to the emergency room. Anyway, I get her to the hospital and I fill out their little form (you know... under the auspices of finding out what's wrong and doing "triage" -- but really making sure that you have insurance and that you'll pay) and I notice the nurse giving me kind of a funny look and focusing on my shirt. I assume it's the blood that got on me as I held Reagan and that she knew I was home alone and failed miserably in my parental duties. Then, it hits me. I look down and realize I'm wearing a shirt that says "I love hot moms"... uggh. So, anyway...just like when your mother tells you to always wear clean underwear in case you have an accident and you have to go to the emergency room... I have created a new axiom -- let's call it "the distributive property of adulthood" which dictates that you not wear juvenile t-shirts because you never know when you're going to have to take your child to the emergency room.

So... that's what I've learned recently. I think I'll send these in to Dr. Dobson so that he can include them in his next book. To my knowledge, he hasn't touched on these subjects yet.

The Circus -- Part 1

This weekend, we took the kids to the circus. They loved it. The elephants, the expert trapezers (if that's what they are called), the hype, the horses... not to mention the popcorn and other junk food. Bla, bla, bla....I know you didn't check the Faircloth Five blog during work hours just to hear about what Dad and Mom did with junior over the weekend. I didn't build up my readership by boring all 7 of you to death. You want the real story. And the observations are so copious, that I had to break this post up. I simply cannot have a post that is 50 pages long (well, I could, but Kelly would get upset with me).

Okay, first, the back story. The circus came rolling into our town this weekend (disclaimer: I'm not going to tell you the name of the circus because I don't want to get sued for libel. Everything I say is merely alleged and not proven). Of course, we decided to take our family. Oh, and we invited the grandparents to join in the fun...because, let's be honest... if the circus bores me... I always have fun analyzing them. I have so many things to talk about, I'm not sure where to start. So, let's just start with the beginning:

The Elephant ride: Upon arrival at the "big top", we are immediatly given all sorts of options of where we can blow our cash. The most compelling among them (not that the inflatable tweedie bird on a stick or the dollar store coloring books weren't tempting) was a ride on the elephant. At $8 a ride, I was game. I mean, how often do you get to sit on top of an elephant? I'll swing the $8 for that. So, I buy 2 tickets. One for Reagan and one for Luke. For some reason, apparently under the hypnotic powers of the "big top", I don't for once say to myself "umm...I'm entrusting the safety of my children to some dude from Omaha that gets his elephant to move by chucking marshmallows in its mouth."

Go figure. I'm usually overly cautious. And I'm still not troubled by this until my in-laws arrive and are worried that I've only gotten 2 tickets and don't plan to ride with them. Now, a word about the in-laws. They are great people. They are kind, generous and wonderful grandparents. However, Safety is definitely not one of their strong suits. They take all kinds of unnecessary risks. They've been skydiving for goodness sakes. I mean, they should be taking strolls along the pond feeding the frickin' ducks or playing shuffle board on the deck of a cruise ship... not jumping out of perfectly good airplanes. So, anyway, when they show concern that I'm entrusting the 2 most important things in my life to a marshmallow eating pachaderm led around by Bubba the circus clown... I get a little worried. Well, anyway, they go pay the extra $8 to ride with them and make sure they are safe. Probably a smart move. Gramps is clearly visible in the picture above. Safety First, my friends.

The Circus Workers: These guys fascinate me. I'm intrigued by them more than carnies who are a tough class to beat. I mean, at this circus, the workers were carnies with "talent." Because the guy that sold the tickets and the guy that showed me my seat and the guy that walked around with the elephant all appeared in the show. I'm not joking. The girl that sold me my tickets was later flying around on the trapeze. The guy that showed me my seats was later wearing a spandex tiger outfit. Or, on second thought, maybe he wasn't part of the show and just enjoyed animal print spandex? Who knows?(I've put in a call to Sen. Craig for clarification.)

Trapezers: Again, I'm not sure what you call multiple people performing a trapeze act. So, I've settled on "trapezers" -- you'll just have to bear with me for now. Most interesting thing about these guys was the dude that "catches" the flying female was overweight. I mean, we've all seen a trapeze act. But you simply haven't seen a trapeze act until you've seen a chunky bald man with his well-furred chest (painfully visible, by the way, via the U-shaped plunge of his "sweet" outfit) dangling upside down in spandex. Seriously. It simply cannot be beat.

The "Big Top" Beauty: This circus had a ringmaster. But, apparently, the ring master was not enough. They had the "Big Top" Beauty complete with evening gown, high heels and a feather boa. I was completely fascinated with her. She lip synced the national anthem and "Wind Beneath my Wings". Her evening gown collected pine shavings (certainly intended for containing the animal poop) as she sauntered around the ring. Yes, you read that right. There was a routine done to the "Wind Beneath my Wings"... and the best part of the lip syncing was that they didn't even try to get a cover version. It was definitely Bette Midler. Anyway, I suppose the routine was supposed to stir the emotions and empower me to do great things...like fly and stuff. But I couldn't stop watching her lip syncing to get inspired because it was really off... seriously...it was Britney Spears bad. Not that if she had lip synced it flawlessly I would have had any different reaction... but I do think it's noteable.

Anyway, at some point, I lean over to my father-in-law and say something like, "I'm sure she's riddled with STD's". Now, that was NOT a nice thing to say and I probably wouldn't admit that I said that, except I have to tell you I said that because of the response of my father-in-law. So, here's how that conversation went:

ME: "I'm sure she's riddled with STD's"

Father-in-Law: "Ya, it was probably the midgets."

Wait. Hold the phone. The midgets? Are midgets at circuses harbingers of syphilis and other undesireable conditions? If so, this was news to me... but he said it with such conviction that it must be true... right?

Ahh... anyway, I love the circus and could go on and on. But I'll stop there for now.

When Green is Brown and Purple is blue...

OK...so...see the circle above. Do you see a "45"? According to the website I got the picture off of.... you should.

I don't. It's all dots to me. I am colorblind. No problem....it's created some interesting times in my life....such as:

• In 2nd Grade when we studied the Mexicans, I used green crayons to color in their skin on my 'ditto' -- because...duh...mexican's are green...right?
• Grapes are purple....not blue. Found that out about 10 years ago.
• Peanut Butter is brown, not green. Found that out last week.
• I once ordered Peanut Butter chocolate ice cream at Baskin Robbins and pointed at what I thought was the right thing....except it was watermelon (pink & green). Yikes.
• I had trouble programming the garage because I couldn't tell if the "self" learn button was orange or green. Apparently, I chose incorrectly because for 2 weeks anytime our neighbor left for work, our garage door opened (no worries, I fixed it).
• I wore a purple shirt to work for a year or so until someone told me it was purple. No self-respecting man wears a purple dress shirt. I thought it was blue...what can I say?
• I'm amazed when my kids can tell what color something is. To me, it's kind of a guess. But, apparently, colors are like numbers....they just are what they are. Fascinating.
• When I was a kid, we would go to this "laser tag" place. One team was red. One team was green. We could tell each other apart by the lights on our vests and helmets. You got points for shooting the other team and negative points for shooting your own team. I would dominate a round and come out thinking I'd have a bazillion points. Only to check my score and see me dead last with NEGATIVE a bazillion points. Apparently, I kept shooting my own team. No wonder everyone on my team kept yelling at me. Interestingly enough, I still had fun.
• Trying to pick out paint colors is maddening. That's one reason I just let Kelly do all the decorating (Okay, so I don't need a reason to let Kelly do all the decorating).
• Brown could be green. Purple could be blue. Green can sometimes be yellow. Pink could conceivably be purple (depending on the shade). But Black is alway black and white is always white (except a dark blue can look black and a light purple/pink/yellow can look white). Other than that, I see colors perfectly.
• You know how they color coordinate computer cables to the back of your computer. Utterly useless to me. I have...and will continue to...plug the wrong plugs into the wrong slots. Trial and error works best for me usually.
• I cannot even tell you the colors of this blog. I would guess purple and blue. Though it could be dark blue on blue or purple on light purple. I'm pretty sure there's orange in there, but if you told me it was brown...I'd be cool with that.

So, that's it for now. I'm sure Kelly will have about 1,000 other stories. I get by. I think I'm disqualified for employment in the military (see my laser tag experience), FBI, CIA and interior decorating. Thankfully for me, politics does not require proper interpretation of the color spectrum.

Difference between guys and girls #1

Kelly and I live within a few minutes walk of the shores of the Potomac. There is a great overlook that has got to have a good 60-80 foot dropoff.

So, now imagine Kelly and I standing atop this cliff on the Potomac and looking out over this majestic view... I just know what she's thinking.

She's reveling in the glory of what God has created. She taking in all the sights. The sound of the rushing water. The colors of the sky. The lush forest that surrounds us. She'll probably spot some of the wildlife....perhaps a squirrel jumping from tree to tree, a deer looking for berries or an eagle gliding effortlessly across the sky. In her silence, I know she is just absorbing the majesty of the situation.

I, on the other hand, I'm consumed by a desire to spit off the cliff. Guys... YOU know what I'm talking about. I simply cannot enjoy the situation until I've either spit or thrown a rock off the cliff into the water to make a really big splash. Once I've got that out of my system... then -- and only then can I start to enjoy my surroundings. That is how guys are hardwired by the Almighty.

So, today, my son had to go the bathroom really bad. Unfortunately, all bathrooms at the in-laws were occupied. I figured we would just wait at first, but then he went into an all out pee pee dance, so I asked him if he wanted to go in the "grass" potty (knowing full well he wanted to -- because, let's be honest....few things are more compelling to a boy than the "grass" potty).

Of course, being a guy, he immediately said yes.

So, I rush him out the backdoor onto the deck to let him pee in the grass. But, then, as I'm taking him out there, my natural tendencies take over and I think ... "wouldn't it be cool to pee off the top rail of the deck?"

So, I ask Luke "Do you want to go on the grass potty from the top of the deck?"

Of course, once again, being a guy, he is physically incapable of saying no to such an opportunity (For in a man's life, you just inherently know that the opportunity to pee off the top of the deck may, perhaps, never present itself again... and, you know... carpe diem).

So, I hold him up on the highest point of the deck and he lets it fly.

And you know what? He loved it. He giggled while he was doing it.

And I was cracking up, too.

So, I ask everyone the following questions given this situation. You are standing atop a cliff, overlooking the Potomac. No one is around.

(1) First, state your gender

(2) Looking out over the cliff, do you:
a) Just take it all in and enjoy

b) spit
c) immediately look around for a rock to throw and throw it
d) look for the biggest rock and throw it as high as you can to "make a really big splash"
e) none of the above

if you select "none of the above"... please elaborate.

Got Change for a Dollar?

Odd question, I know... I'll get to that in a minute. For now, rewind to a month ago. Luke was napping and woke up screaming. I ran up to his room and he was holding his eye saying "get it out...get it out." Needless to say, I was worried and he was, indeed, in some real pain.

So, we took him to the emergency room (since it was after the Dr. was closed on a Saturday). And, while at the doctor, he improved enough to tell us what happened. Basically, he was sleeping with this toy camel that friends of ours brought back from Egypt for him. Somehow, he scratched his eye with it. Thankfully, though, he did not scratch his cornea or anything and they sent him home and he was fine.

Since that time, he has referred to the camel as "that stinkin' camel" (Kelly's preferred adjective for anything she doesn't like is 'stinkin' and he, obviously, has picked up on that).

Now with one trip to the emergency room under this belt, Luke apparently wanted to take trip #2 last night. Here's the story:

I was brushing Luke's teeth and noticed he was holding a nickel. I didn't really think much of it. He was excited to put it in his piggy bank. I forgot about the nickel. Until, that is, I put him on the ground to put his clothes on for bed. At that point, he made kind of a gagging noise.

I thought it might have been a hair or something caught in his mouth... but, anyway, it wasn't a good sound, so I picked him up really quick and then he had this confused look on his face and said, "My penny! Where did my penny go?" (He has yet to learn the difference between a penny and a nickel -- or a chuck e. cheese token for that matter). And he was reaching in his mouth and grabbing at his tongue.

Then the lightbulb went off...I think he swallowed the nickel. Obviously, I'm concerned -- but I know it'll probably just "pass"....Kelly wanted to call 911...Luke just wanted his frickin' nickel back. So we all compromise and decide to call his doctor in the morning to see what they say.

"Go straight to the emergency room," they say, "to make sure it's not stuck in his esophagus." So, we trek down to Lansdowne hospital (between his last visit, my near-miss vasectomy, and this time -- we've seen entirely too much of Lansdowne Hospitial) and get the x-ray.

Luke tells anyone that will listen that the nickel is in his tummy and he wants it back. So, we go to the X-ray room. Luke says "cheese" when the nurse tells him she's just going to take a picture -- very cute. The X-Ray confirms our diagnosis. Nickel in the tummy. Dr's assure us there are no problems and that it will just pass in a couple of days.

Logically, it makes me wonder if Luke will start calling the nickel "that stinkin' nickel" -- because, let's be honest -- that nickel is going to truly be stinkin'....

Anyway, to answer the question, Got change for a dollar?

The answer is No... but maybe Luke will in about 2 to 3 days. Well, he'll have to go to his piggy bank for the rest, but he'll be on the right track. So, until then, you are just going to have to be patient.

Cigars, Champagne and Shakespeare

William Shakespeare once wrote: “If I chance to talk a little wild, forgive me.”

I love this quote. Somehow, I think it gives me validation to talk and/or write off the cuff. As long as I’m not being crude, I feel I have pretty good license to talk a bit “wild” at times.

So, this brings me to today. Today is the 20th Anniversary of the company that I work for. This is a big accomplishment and something to celebrate for sure. So, I wanted to get my boss a little something to (1) show my appreciation and (2) help him celebrate a bit.

So, this begs the question… what did I get him? Well, my general philosophy on man-gifts can be summed up in three words:

Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms

Now, I realize that many of you may think of this as merely a Federal Agency. Well, that’s where you selling yourself short. Think of alcohol, tobacco and firearms anytime you need to find the aforementioned man-gift. So, what I do is start running through my options:

(1) Alcohol: a good wine or decent bottle of champagne? Or possibly a decent microbrew or import?
(2) Tobacco: is the recipient a cigar smoker? Pipe smoker? A box of good cigars is always a great gift
(3) Firearms: not a drinker or smoker? Well, how about a shotgun or semi-automatic?

I’ve found most guys would be appreciative of any gifts falling into these 3 categories. So, ripping a page from this playbook, I decide to pick up a bottle of Veuve Clicquot Champagne and a box of Nat Sherman cigars. I really wanted to get him a muzzle loader rifle, but feared I might be surrounded by a Swat Team if I took that to work. So, needless to say, the champagne and cigars were (in my view) a solid choice.

Now, to the card… the “note of congratulations” as it were… I’ve got a good relationship with him and he “gets” my sense of humor. So, I had no worries about being all fake and phony. So, as Shakespeare would say, I had chance to “talk wild” and here’s what I wrote:

Dear Richard,
Congratulations on 20 years of successful business. This is an accomplishment for which you should take great pride. It takes a massive set of brass balls to not only start a business, but to make it successful and thriving over the years. So, please enjoy this box of cigars and the champagne. Not to help you celebrate 20 years, but to celebrate your massive set of brass balls. I can assure you this is the only note you will EVER receive extolling the virtues of balls – specifically… yours. So, congratulations again!
Scott

Umm… I’m not kidding.

My Addiction

You know those "just say no" classes they make you take in 6th grade. Ya, the ones where they teach you how to do all kinds of drugs you would have never thought about doing. I mean, you're 12 and they are teaching you about snorting coke and sniffing glue. Let me assure you, at that early age, I never considered the possibilities... but thanks to those classes, I now knew.

Well, I didn't learn much... other than that bong resin will cloud your synapses and make you dumber -- and possibly have the munchies. What I do remember is the "Signs and symptoms of Addiction".... I remember them so well, that I am ready to confess to you today that I have all the classics signs of addiction. My addiction, you ask? The Washington Redskins.

Like a crack addict, I was an addict early on when the highs were good. I was a rabid fan at the age of 6. I couldn't sleep the night of Super Bowl XVII (1983) when we (notice I say "we" -- I am part of the team) beat the Dolphins. I cried -- yes cried -- when we got dominated by Marcus Allen and the Raiders. To this day, I know Marcus Allen cheated. There is simply no other way he could run all over my Redskins like that. And I rejoiced when we enjoyed winning season after winning season throughout the 80's and early 90's (winning 2 more Super Bowl's).

Then, like a crack addict...the highs didn't last long enough. The other shoe dropped and now I am in misery year after freaking year as my Redskins are in a quagmire of losing, losing, losing. And like the addict...by the time I discovered the low's were much more severe than the high's, I was already hooked. An addict. A junkie. Desperately in need of rehab.

So, how do I know I'm hooked? Using my 6th grade knowledge, I submit to you today, the classic signs (Kelly can verify each and every one):

• Expressing feeling of exhaustion, depression, and hopelessness: Umm...after the Redskins lose, I am distraught. I'm depressed. In truth, I want to cry. I really do. I get a lump in my throat... I'm agitated. I am in the depths of despair.

• Engaging in secretive behaviors: You know how they say you're a drunk when you just want to do it by yourself in a closet somewhere? Well, that's just how I feel when watching the Redskins. I DON'T want to watch it with others. I prefer sitting in a room by myself with no distractions, focusing on the game...and only the game. No questions (it's taken my Mother-in-law years to learn this -- umm...well, actually she still hasn't learned this). Leave me alone. Let me watch. That way, if I have to throw my TV set through the window, I can do so without anyone seeing.

• Making inappropriate remarks: I don't swear. It's just not in my vocabulary. I never have the urge. Unless the Redskins are playing like a bunch of skirt-wearing girls and they make me swear! (well..my version... lot's of "frickin" "dagnabbits" "son of a biscuit" - you get the idea)

• Talking about your drug of choice and surrounding yourself with others that have the same habit: There are so few "real" Redskin fans.... and when I find one...I cling to them like a wet blanket.


• Angry outbursts, irratibility, manic behavior: When they are playing well or have just won, I'm on cloud 9... when they lose or are playing bad... I am rotten to be around.


• Uncharacteristically Violent: When I was 12 my brother walked in on the end of a game where the Eagles (who were not a good team at the time) had just beaten my team. He said "Holy Crap! The Redskins lost to the Eagles!" and he laughed. I punched him in the face. (and I'm sure I got my fair beating in return, I might add)

So, there you have it. I'm an addict. There's no turning back. I can't wait for the season to start -- even though I know it's going to give me some of my lowest low's of the year. But I also know it will give me some of the highest high's.

I know what you're thinking. You've acknowledged that you're an addict. You see the changes it makes in you. And you're a great father... So, surely, you are not going to introduce your children to this dreadful affliction.

WRONG! Went to training camp yesterday, pictures of kids with Chief Zee. Let the season begin!

HAIL TO THE REDSKINS!

Ode to Black Thunder

Today I said goodbye to Black Thunder. For those that don't know, Black Thunder was my 1998 Ford Escort. She was preceded by the Babe Wagon, a 1993 Ford Escort. For those that are counting, that is almost 15 years of Ford glory. Sold her on craigslist in less than an hour, my friends (on a tangent, I have a gift... A GIFT I say for craigslist'ing skeeelz. One of my listings even made lofty "best of" status..check it out here: http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/wdc/256561491.html )

Many of you are familiar with Black Thunder's...umm... "features". Let me count them for you:

• The rear spoiler: Let me just say this...that spoiler was so incredibly necessary... because when I was flying down the road, maxing her out at 65 mph's... the shear power of all 4 cylinders kicking into gear could have possibly sent me spiraling out of control. But thanks to that spoiler, I was able to keep all 4 tires squarely planted on the pavement.


• The oddly tinted windows: When you've got a ride like Black Thunder, you've got to pimp her out. And that's just what the previous owner did (I bought BT for a mere $7500 in '99 with 13K miles). They spared no expense in tinting the windows. Well, not exactly... they must have run out of money and only tinted the back ones. That's right...it was just like a mullet -- "business in the front... party in the back"


• That sweet engine: About 3 years ago, Black Thunder started whining like a school girl. I mean, it was just this high pitched whine. It was no big deal when we were in the 'burg... I mean, we just fit in there. But then we moved to Northern Virginia -- one of the richest areas in the nation. And, then my wife would be embarassed of me when I would come home from work and she'd be able to know I was on my way a few streets ahead of time by hearing that gentle purr of Black Thunder. I suppose I could have gotten it fixed...but that leads me to my next feature


• It's amazing healing qualities: With most cars, if it develops an odd sound, you take it immediately to a mechanic. Not with Black Thunder. Over the years, Black Thunder developed an assortment of odd sounds. I found the best plan of action was to IGNORE the sound. The car never broke down and the sound would eventually go away... except for that whine.


• The exterior "sheen": The auto washing/waxing industry is just a scam -- and Black Thunder is (was) living proof of this. Nothing -- dare I say NOTHING -- can compare to a nice protective sheen of bug guts, dust and road grime. It provided a lasting, protective and eye appealing alternative to those expensive waxes and other cleaners.

I could go on and on. Black Thunder was legendary to those who knew her, just as The Babe Wagon was before it. To know her was to love her... well, to know her was to make fun of me for loving her. But, the bottom line is that it got from point A to point B quite capably over the years. It left me on the side of the road only once (and a special thanks to Justin Prather for pushing her into that rest stop on 81). I made a commitment when I bought her that I would "ride her until the wheels fell off" -- and, while I didn't keep that promise, I certainly got my money's worth.

So, (sniffle, sniffle)... Goodbye Black Thunder... know that your legacy will live on in the hearts of those that loved you (well, that would just be me... but, you get the idea)