Dry Dock

Last night as I left campus I passed the Texas Wesleyan baseball team playing. To a baseball fan like me, seeing the first game of the spring is a welcome occurrence. No, more than that. It’s like a sign from God, like a divine Post-It note that reads, You’re going to make it; the good thing is coming back. Breathe.

 

***

 

Two weeks until we depart for our spring training trip. We leave on St. Patrick’s day, in fact. I plan to spend the whole weekend identifying myself as Pat McCrotch.

 

***

 

I dreamed that my employer’s facilities were on a dry-docked ship that they suddenly decided to send back out across the sea. We got no notice, no chance to change clothes, no chance to contact our families first. And I looked at my cellphone and saw that it needed charging and was bummed that I didn’t have the charger with me.

 

***

 

Weekend plans:

 

We may have stumbled upon a babysitter for tomorrow night. That would give Kelli and me a chance to finally use the Carrabbas gift card we got for Christmas. That would be great.

 

If the babysitter falls through I’ll park my pasty white butt in a sports bar (probably Hooters again) to watch UFC (is it #58?) on PPV tomorrow night.

 

It’s USA vs. Canada, and I’ve gotta say, some of those Canadian fighters look like bad news. David Loiseau, with those vicious elbows, looks damn near unstoppable. And George St. Pierres, who made Frank Trig look like an amateur, is no walk in the park either.

 

I like Rich Franklin, but man… I dunno.

 

***

 

Monday night, of course, is Van Morrison. I can’t wait.

 

***

 

I’m about ready to go all Lord of the Flies here. I’m gonna start a bonfire by the fax machines, wear a loincloth made from an inter-office delivery envelope, and paint my face with Liquid Paper. I will declare myself ruler of Traffic-onia.

 

Then I will take a nap.