I left home at 8:30 am and got home at 8:15 pm.
Spent the day trying to convince people who don't have the money they ABSOLUTELY needed to buy furniture and the more it costs the better.
Trot's mouth looks like he just got out of the cage with Chuck Liddell, Ciera is going to dance in a Cotillion with me in April (Odds are 50/50 I cry), and Rakes is having a sleepover tonight with his Cousin Jered. I'm 38, look 58, and feel 98.
But even though I won't get to actually see the game?
Thinking about Beckett stomping, snarling, and cursing at the sky while pitching in a meaningless game tomorrow against the Marlins gives me a happy.
Only 16 days: 16 hours: and 20 minutes from Opening Day.
Not that I'm counting.