My normal workday usually consists of the following things.
1. Me shucking and jiving and trying to convince someone they absolutely, positively NEED a new sofa, bedroom suite, mattress set, or kitchen table. Shoot, I'm not proud; I'll sell a $59 dollar bed frame on credit if I have to.
2. Trying, and usually failing, to complete the USA Today crossword without having to get on the Internet for help. Seriously, I'm supposed to know who the King of England in 1359 was?
3. Worrying about Ciera at Middle School, Rakes terrorizing his kindergarten class, and Trot slipping unknown out of the neighbors house where she's keeping him to "explore" the run off pond at the end of the street.
4. Thinking of various ways to torture Chip Carey. Today I came up with making him listen to calls of his own broadcasts while tied to an ant hill lathered in butter while I yell "FISTED!" into his ears with a megaphone for assistance.
5. Wondering what Theo and Tito have up their sleeve. This past year brought us Rocco Baldelli, John Smoltz, Brad Penny, and mercifully, Victor Martinez. They are the manager and GM of a team with the most insane, illogical fan base in all of sports, have somehow managed to win 2 World Titles in the last 7 years, made the playoffs 6 out of those 7, and STILL people get on the phone, computer, and most likely Western Union to express the desire they both be fired and run out of town.
I had a lot of lucid, well thought out opinions on all this while I was at work, but as per usual, as soon as I arrived home to the sights and sounds of my children destroying tonight's Chinese take out and after baths, books, 4 times getting out of bed, and Ciera freaking out about her math homework those somewhat intelligent thoughts have gone the way of the record player, 8 track, and leisure suits.
All I'm left with is this.
In Tito and Theo I Trust.
Is it really just day 4 of the off season?
She’d Pick Me Every Time
14 hours ago