Hall of Blame

To celebrate the first day of my favorite season (Baseball!), I'm reposting a tidbit created a few years ago during the height of the steroid superstories. Seems to me that it should be easy to tell who's on steroids. The Captain took them for a week to rid himself of a mysterious rash, and was meaner than a fire ant the whole time. As a lifelong Yankee fan, any reference to George Steinbrenner is respectfully meant to be taken exactly as intended.

Major league baseball is embroiled in a scandal so big that by comparison Marge Schott looks as sweet and innocent as, say George Steinbrenner, except that old Marge has gone to that great big dugout in the sky, and Steinbrenner is still hanging around trying to make the rest of Joe Torre’s hair fall out. Marge Schott was a very bad lady who gained fame by mistreating minorities, such as baseball players and her coaching staff, as opposed to George Steinbrenner who was never a lady at all.

Apparently, one baseball player, who shall remain nameless except on the cover of his best-selling book and on the front page of all the newspapers that showed the­ Congressional proceedings, ingested enough performance-enhancing medication throughout his baseball career to give him biceps the size of vitamin-enhanced hams. This particular baseball player claims that most of the other baseball players he knows also took performance-enhancing medication and that is why baseball players make the field look like a meat-lovers pizza when they all come out to play ball.

For the most part, the other players involved say they are innocent babes who grew extraneous body parts the size of small wildebeests through good genes. None of them mentioned who the good genes originally belonged to, or if they came in small bottles with instructions that read: Take one every four hours as needed for ginormous growth spurts.

The government took charge of the steroid scandal for two reasons: 1.Because baseball people have a notoriously difficult time discussing anything without a large man in a suit and chest protector squatting over them hollering Hiiiiiieeeeehhh!!! while pointing his finger, and 2.Because government employees don’t have anything else to do until it’s time to campaign for a Federal holiday to honor Shoeless Joe Jackson, another famous baseball player who got in trouble for not doing anything.

In a dazzling display of intelligence, the government brought several large baseball players to Washington where the government people asked them questions to trick them into giving themselves away. “Did you take steroids?” the government people asked. “No,” the baseball players responded. “And anybody who says we did is a stinky goo-head.” Here all the baseball players stared meaningfully at the book-writing baseball player. Well, they stared meaningfully in his direction, but a lot of them have bad eyesight from years of not taking steroids and weren’t sure exactly where he was sitting.

Major League Baseball, an organization so important it is nearly always written with initial caps, banned the used of steroids in the year 2002. Some baseball players thought they said stereos because they had bad hearing from years of not using steroids, and also from listening to loud stereo music with headphones on, so they were unaware that they were supposed to deny steroid use.

Therefore, Major League Baseball, who hopes to someday be written in all caps, instituted testing for steroids two years later and promised that anyone who got caught would have to sit and watch the game before cashing their paycheck. These days they’re getting really tough and the baseball powers that belong to the exclusive Baseball Rules Club considered instituting a penalty of at least $10,000 which is as much to a Major League Baseball Player as a shiny new quarter is to you and me.

This season, the average baseball fan is ready for the Government People and the Major League Baseball People and the Baseball Players with Thighs the Size of Boston Butts, no offense to the Red Sox, to stop arguing so that he can finally go to the ball bark and settle down in his seat with a nutritionally enhanced and nitrate fortified hot dog served in an enriched bun, and for one afternoon forget death, taxes, and whether it’s a crime against nature for Washington D.C to be home to a baseball team.

And if a large man in a suit and chest protector points his finger at anybody, he’d better be sure he knows his balls from his strikes.

Getting My Good Side

What I lack in skill as a roadtrip copilot, I make up for with a total lack of talent as a navigator. As far as I'm concerned, maps have an unfair advantage when it comes to computing distance since there is always more than one inch to travel in real life, and North is never in the same place twice. So, having no sense of obligation to duty, it remains a fact that when I climb in the passenger seat my eyes drop into the closed position, my mouth hangs open, and I have no idea that I’m of this world until I’m drowning in a pool of drool and my internal Rest Area sensor flashes an emergency signal just as we whip past the official roadside facilities.

Traditionally, the personal riding shotgun holds the title of Photographer General in Charge of Scenic Stuff, and fulfills the duties of securing pictures of Important Vacation Memories, such as the historical marker where my bladder gave way to temptation, roadway turbulence and the 64 ounce Biggie drink I sucked down without sharing three exits back. The saying “Let the Punishment Fit the Crime” can be downright embarrassing on an Interstate toll road at high noon.

I’m not a family favorite when it comes to photography because, as a general rule, when I assume the nesting position I adopt when traveling, I end up sitting on the camera, so the only pictures we get are of intimate and not altogether attractive family secrets. So far, I’ve felt no inclination to stage a viewing of family vacation slides.

“What is that?” the Captain made a face usually associated with the consumption of unappealing vegetables as he squinted at the blurry object on the digital screen.

“I’m not sure, but I think it’s the Continental Divide,” I answered, accidentally disconnecting power to the camera by tossing it casually out of the car window.

“Hey! We needed that to complete our Four Corners of America Photographic Display!”

“The only display those pictures would complete could get us excommunicated from the PTA, the Smiling Seniors Sunday School Class, and the 7-11 Coffee Club.”

“The Coffee Club?”

I can call his mother any name I want, but even Juan Valdez couldn’t save me if I abuse his coffee privileges.

“They should use a better grade of ink on those cups. The last time I stood up, the words, “Biggie Size is Better” were tattooed on my. . .”

“Okay, so you drive and I’ll take the pictures.”

We retrieved the camera,which unfortunately was still operational after a close encounter with a lurking mud puddle and swapped seats. While I maneuvered the driver’s seat into dwarf position so that I could reach the pedals without having to hire extra feet, Cap popped his seat back and stretched his legs into the glove compartment. Before I could say “What are these squiggly lines on the map,” he was snoring loud enough to set off the car alarm and signal a passing police cruiser.

He jerked awake. “What’s that noise?” His hair had taken a route of its own, there were peanut shells in his ear, and a Ho Ho wrapper was stuck to one cheek.

I waved airily at the officer who had pulled over and was phoning in our tag number to Federal authorities.

“That was the sound of me rounding out our Four Corners of America Photographic display,” I grinned, tucking the camera under the front seat.

There are some vacation memories you want to relive. And some are only good for blackmail.

Social Networking for Dummies--Just Kidding

Recently I decided to reach out and embrace the infinite possibilities offered by the information superhighway that gathers the whole world into one unified neighborhood.

I now have no friends on five different social networking sites.

I find that if you’re socially inept on one site, it’s not a stretch to frighten away potential buddies on all the others. Sort of an example in the “learn by doing” school of thought. I’m a Twit on Twitter and I’m more of a Plucker than a Plurker.

One problem could be that the Help functions are written for people that understand, well, written instructions. I’m more of a seek and destroy kind of gal.

With diligence and great effort, I managed to create five different passwords known only in a foreign country by someone named Achmed, and post an e-mail to a foreign government stating my intentions to become their comrade. That one could explain the unmarked helicopter that’s been circling my house for the past few days.

Since no one sporting a uniform and badge showed up at my door to halt my efforts, I decided to try again.

I was slaving away over a hot FaceBook, trying to figure out whether I could import and export without seeking permission from the Federal Trade Commission when my son, resplendent with all the wisdom that twenty years of free meals my kitchen can offer, strolled past the computer.

“You’re not going to put that picture up, are you?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because you’ll never get any friends. And if MY friends see it, I’ll have to sell the computer and take up weasel wrestling in Wyoming.”

“Very funny. How’s this one?” I admired a lovely shot of me squinting into the sun and pointing to a mountain in the standard “Here I am by a landmark” pose. I’m not sure what I’m wearing, but it was probably very stylish at the time.

“Fine if you want to attract every loser in the universe.”

I brightened. “I haven’t already?”

“Mom. You want to be careful about the image you project to the world.”

“What image should I project?”

“One that says “Not Ryan’s Mom.”

“Okay, how about this one?” I clicked on a thumbnail picture that sprang into a full-screen image. The picture showed me grinning happily cheek-to-cheek with a handsomely decorated papier mache goat. We were both wearing pink clothes and bemused expressions.

“That’s good. Cut out the one on the left.”

“But that’s me.”

“Well, you don’t want to embarrass the goat.”

I studied the picture. The goat smiled slyly.

With sudden decisiveness I punched the button that would display the picture for all the world to see.

Son One glanced at the screen. “You might want to change the caption.”

“Why?” I asked, trying to find a spot on my trifocals that would read the nanoprint onscreen.

“You left the caption from the old picture. It says, “My high school reunion was a big hit. Here I am standing with my old math teacher.”

I grinned and admired the photo again. “I think I'll leave it. I look like a cool kid standing next to that old goat.”