Results tagged ‘ Mrs. Disco ’
I have crawled into a hole after revealing to the world the story of me clogging a toilet. As a result, I have “recruited” Mrs. Disco to write this week’s Fan Mail responses so as to not disappoint my fans.
Dude, Mrs. Disco is one hot babe. Does she obey your every beck and call?
Nick D., Cinque Terre, Italy
(ok, Nick isn’t actually from Italy, but he didn’t tell me where he’s from so we’re going to pretend he lives there in order to expand our already growing audience).
First, I’d like to say, why thank you, thank you very much Nicoluccio. I’m guessing you may have wonderful taste if you’re from one of my favorite places in the world, so I’m flattered someone as cultured and foreign as you would call me “one hot babe”. I take it as the utmost complimente. Are you single? Enjoy long walks from fishing village to fishing village? If so, get in touch with me at firstname.lastname@example.org because I’ve got a couple cute single friends. Wink. (Oh, and you can direct all flower and jewelry deliveries to Rosenblatt Stadium, 1202 Bert Murphy Ave, Omaha, NE 68107 Attention: Mrs. Disco).
Waiiit a second. Before you send endless compliments about how smart and funny I am and how lucky Disco is to have landed me think I better tackle the second part of your email. The question part, “Does she obey your every beck and call?”
I’m not sure if you were trying to butter me up right before implying I was a servant of Disco or what, but today’s your lucky day because I’m not going to kick your butt. I won’t even challenge you to a “who can bend into the best yoga pose” contest, either. Today, it was demanded of me, by His Disconess, I not only respond to his Fan Mail questions, but also do it with humor, wit, and as much good looks as he. Whew, tall order, but I’ll do my best.
Merriam-Webster online defines “beck and call” as: “ready to obey one’s command immediately”. And, just so you know, I only come-a-running in response to snapping, animal calls, or “Yo Bratface!”
- Snapping usually means I need to trim raw chicken, season it, place it flatly in a zip-lock bag, and write “Hayes” and the date with a sharpie so he has food to eat at the field.
- Any variety of an animal call usually means he’s out of clean underwear and I better bust my little booty into gear to have clean, non skid-marked underwear, sans-wrinkles ready before he departs for the field that day.
- “Yo Bratface” is more often than not used when Disco is frantically yelling from a bathroom with a clogged toilet and I need to fetch the perfect poop stick. Pronto!
So I guess you can decide whether I obey his every beck and call or not, but the main reason I’m handling Fan Mail Friday today is due to Disco’s extreme embarrassment and shame in sharing his poop-a-boo stories the other day. Hopefully I’ll be able to talk him out of his humiliated state soon… or whenever he snaps for me to jump to his every need.
You have made it clear you are “Disco” because you throw in the 70s. How hard does Mrs Disco throw? One would have to assume she also throws in the 70s. And if you throw 77 or 78 that leaves the possibility she throws harder than you. If so, are you man enough to admit it?
Pieter P., Munich, Germany
Pieter, any chance you are actually Peter Piper, who picked a peck of pickled peppers, with just a weird, fancy spelling?
Wie Gehts Die? Danke Gut! Kann ich bitte pfeffer ausgewählt haben?*
Ha! I’ll bet you didn’t think I’d actually be able to respond to you in your mother language, did you? To save the several hundred thousand fans who read Disco’s blog on a daily basis the trouble of hiring a translator just to enjoy the pure genius of these answers, I’ll spare you and respond in an ancient tribal language. Click. Cclick. Cluck. Click. Cllliick. Cliccckk.
Okay, okay. I swear, I’ll behave and respond to your question, Mr. Pieper. I, Mrs. Disco, throw my fastball overhand 92 on a good day, side arm about 90, and bowling like Disco roughly 82-83. My change up overhand is actually faster than my fastball, topping out at 97. I think it’s because my middle finger is stronger than my index finger, thus thrusting the ball at a greater velocity, lighting up radar guns across the universe. I’m still working on a knuckleball and I hear spitballs are no longer legal in professional baseball, which is fine with me ’cause I’m content just hitting off a tee with our 5-year-old nephew anyway.
And one more thing…obviously Disco is NOT man enough to admit it, otherwise he’d be answering these questions himself.
*Translation: How are you? I’m fine thank you. May I have a pickled pepper, please?
How old is too old to wear your hat backwards? I’ve heard that the general consensus is 27 yrs old. But I’ve also heard that trucker hats with velcro or snaps can be alloted an age much younger than that. Likewise, flex-fits can be worn backwards past 27 but there’s just an overall confusion on the entire matter. Please clarify for the masses before the hysteria consumes us all.
Kansas City, MO
Aaron, Aaron, Aaron. I’m willing to bet you’re 28 and still trying to pull off those dorky trucker hats with white mesh and random logos that sit like five feet up off your head aren’t you? Just kidding. ðŸ™‚ It’s a good thing you asked this question when I was responding because unless Disco was a fashionista (last time I checked I’m pretty sure Disco only had tapered jeans and old man sweaters hanging in his closet before he met me), I doubt he’d be able to give you any kind of sound and up-to-date fashion advice.
How old is too old to wear your hat backwards? I’m pretty sure if you’re not younger than 9 years old, you’re too old to wear it backwards (unless of course you’re a catcher) (or a ridiculously hot guy with a chiseled face and a little bit of scruff) (or my husband in the off-season when he’s allowed to have any facial hair).
Well, my hypothesis failed me. My plan was to show you pictures of the hottest of the hot guys out there who pull off backwards caps like exotic dancers pull off their clothes, but I’ve found my hypothesis to be invalid. It seems all the hotty-hot-hots are so hot they don’t ever go out with a backwards hat, let alone any kind of disguise covering their gorgeous faces. For instance, I scoured the internet and didn’t find any of these gems with a backwards cap of any kind.
So if you’re average looking without amazing hair and impeccable looks like the fellas pictured above (Utley, Hayes, Beckham, Hayes), you can wear a hat at any age. And if for some reason you’re blessed enough with a movie star face, you can wear whatever you want, whenever you want. Got that? Man, I’m getting myself all worked up over here with all these hotties, two of them being my ridiculously good looking husband, I’ve lost my thought process. Where was I?
Ah. fitted hats. Yea, you know, I guess you can wear them as long as they aren’t too tight so they don’t leave a ring around your head. I actually like guys in ball caps, so disregard everything I said above and dress up your head to your hearts desire. (Random side note: A while back before I met Disco, I threw a “Dress Your Head” party… you basically had to do something fun from the neck up. We had everything from pink wigs, to chicken hats, to one guy wearing ah sock. Yea, ‘parently he didn’t get the memo.)
Back to being serious for a second. Anyone can pull off pretty much anything if they’re confident. Confidence rises above all trends of what to and what not to wear. If you’re trying to pull off a rad Hurley trucker hat as long as you carry yourself with confidence (not cockiness, which is easily discoverable) you’re going to look great. Just one cardinal rule, unrelated to hats. Whatever you do, if you’re under the age of 55, please do NOT be seen in public wearing socks with your sandals. Capeche?
I haven’t written as much for a week or so now and I feel the need to explain why.
With the Royals’ Double-A Affiliate, the Northwest Arkansas Naturals, the travel isn’t that bad because you play 116 out of the 140 games within a three hour radius. But when you play outside the radius, it’s way outside. Like Corpus Christi or Midland, TX which are 16 and 13 hours away respectively.
Two weeks ago, the Naturals were at the end of a week long trip to Texas. At the very end of this trip, I got the exciting call up to Triple-A Omaha. On the day the O-Royals embarked on a 17-day road trip (to make room for the CWS in Omaha), Mrs. Disco and I drove up from Arkansas to meet them. So, despite not having a real home, we haven’t even been to our psuedo-home since June 1st and we won’t get to our new one until June 27th. Not that I need to be at home to post a blog, but I’ve had some bad luck with the Internet in hotels and most of our mornings seem to be spent at airports now, so it’s been tough to get stuff out. Don’t lose hope in life in general, though. These are extenuating circumstances and I will continue to do what I can to make your day as often as possible.
Any time you get called up, it’s an exciting time, so I’d like to share the story of my recent promotion to Triple-A with you. Depending on how much a fan you are, you may have a preconceived notion of what a promotion is like for the player. This story is 100% true and hopefully will make you laugh and make you realize, it’s not always as glamorous as it seems.
In Arkansas, Mrs. Disco found a host family for us to live with and the people were amazing. I’m not just saying this because they are probably reading (Hi guys, we miss you, btw!), but honestly, they were perfect hosts for us. They had a gorgeous house, were there enough that we got to know them, but were gone enough that we got to enjoy the house like it was ours. They made us feel comfortable and completely at home. They were generous, thoughtful, and perfect. Oh, yeah, and did I mention they had a pristine pool in the back?
It was a perfect set-up and Mrs. Disco and I thoroughly enjoyed it our entire stay. We loved every minute there and loved every square inch of that house…except for one single incident about a month ago.
Another bonus of the house was the neighbors had three adorable little kids (twins, age four, and a 14-month old). One day we were playing with the kids and 4-year-old Connor told me he had to go potty. Our host parents were not home, so I brought Connor in and asked him if he knew which bathroom he was supposed to go in. He said yes and walked directly to one of the two guest bathrooms downstairs just off the kitchen. I didn’t know how much involvement I would have, so I stayed within ear shot just down the hall. I heard the seat go up and then heard the sound of a tiny stream going into the toilet. I was proud of the little guy and was impressed. I didn’t know how big a deal it was for him, so didn’t want to make it one, but he was doing great. Kids are so easy, I thought.
“Yeah, buddy, I’m here.”
“I need to go poopy.”
“OK, do you need help?”
Unsure what was going to happen, I walked into the bathroom to find a tiny person with his bathing suit down around his ankles looking at me. I put the toilet seat down and he picked up his hands in a motion I knew meant he wanted help getting up on the toilet. I obliged and soon, we were in business again. Ha, kids are so easy.
“Yeah, buddy, I’m right here.”
“Mommy wipes me cause I don’t know how to yet.”
I walked back into the bathroom to find the little guy still sitting on the toilet. I didn’t know what was about to happen, but didn’t want to seem confused. I knew I would need toilet paper at some point, so I wrapped my hand and upper arm in toilet paper, took a deep breath and was ready for action. I looked at him and he looked at me. He didn’t move.
“Yup.” He took a quick look back at his bottom as if to say, “It’s still there, isn’t it?”
If you wake up in the middle of the night and the room is pitch black, your familiarity with the room is key. If it’s your bedroom and you’ve lived there for years, you can get around without even a hint of a light on. If it’s a hotel room and you just checked in late that night, odds are you’re going to walk into a wall.
I sighed and reached behind him. I was 100% in a foreign hotel room and walked smack into a wall. As a complete novice, my hand had no idea where it was going or what it was doing and before I knew it, I realized it was under water. “Poopy” water. I had gone too deep, overshot the target I was unfamiliar with, and dunked my hand in kid-poop-water. It was mostly cold. I made eye contact with Connor. He was smiling. His feet were dangling off the edges of the toilet, his little bathing suit resting on the ground below.
I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, dry heave, or play poop-a-boo with my little potty buddy sitting there inches from my face. He seemed to be enjoying this thoroughly.
By the time this charade was over, Connor probably had some remnants between his cheeks, but I can guarantee you I had more between my knuckles after dunking my hand on two (and a half) occasions. Connor threw his bathing suit back on and ran outside to go play some more. I threw up in my mouth and ran to the sink to find some bleach for my hand. My right hand, no less! It took close to a week for me stop getting nauseous when I was half-way into brushing my teeth and something would trigger the poop soup memory. With every flashback, I would condemn that one toilet as being the only part of the house I would have a bad taste for when we left. I cursed at it and grew a disliking for the room every time I passed it on the way to the kitchen.
I told you that story to tell you this one:
It was a normal day at our host family’s house; the first one in a long time, for that matter, as we had just gotten back late that night from our road swing in Texas. After a nice breakfast with Mrs. Disco, we were sitting in the kitchen catching up with the real world and the on-line world on our computers. I don’t know if it was the granola or the yogurt or the eggs, but I got the urge to go to the bathroom and had the foresight to know I wasn’t going to have time to get upstairs. So, for the first time since we had moved in two months prior, the same bathroom I had cursed for weeks was my only salvation.
The gravity of my bathroom choice went unnoticed at first because it was out of such necessity. But once I was settled and the situation was under control, I started to ponder the implications of being in the very bathroom I had shunned my entire stay. It was a weird feeling to be in Connor’s shoes this time around. After a while, perhaps my fears had subsided some, but I began to notice all my hatred had perhaps been unfounded as the bathroom really wasn’t that bad. It was decorated with soft colors and an interesting decor that made it surprisingly pleasant. I had hated this room for weeks, but now began to think it was all for naught. The entire house was amazing, why would I think this one room was out to get me. I shouldn’t let one bad experience ruin this room, right?
I stood up with a feeling of
a new sense of appreciation for the bathroom and flushed. I felt in-touch with my fears and emotions and for this I was grateful and proud. As I stood up, I felt taller than when I walked in.
I pushed the lever down and the normal flushing sound was absent. Instead, I heard the sound coming from the toilet that makes your heart sink. The sound is disheartening enough when you are in your own home, but as a guest, it can cause panic. Thankfully this morning our host family was out of town on vacation for a week, so I didn’t have that embarrassment to endure, but regardless, it’s never a good feeling to see the level of water rise around your own waste instead of flushing the slate clean. It had taken weeks, but eventually the bathroom had it’s revenge! I gave it the opportunity and it did not waste any time in getting back at me for all the bad things I had to say about it.
Revenge is a stinky cologne.
My heart began to beat quickly and my mind raced to come up with a solution. Sadly, a quick scan of my memory told me our host family had not outlined where to find a plunger. A second and third attempt to flush did nothing, so I decided there was nothing I could do and I returned to my computer to see if Father Time could work some magic for me.
I collected myself, after all, though the situation was not improving, thankfully it was not getting any worse, so I returned to the kitchen. As I sat at the my computer, the phone rang and our manager broke the great news I would be moving up to Triple-A! Just like that the course of my morning took a 180-degree turn and everything sprung into action as the cheers and happy phone calls and hugs led to packing up and loading of the car to go to Omaha! The clogged toilet of doom could not be further from my giddy mind. Over the course of the next few hours Mrs. Disco and I happily skipped around the house packing our belongings and removing any fingerprints to leave the house looking the way it did the day we moved in. After all, with our host family out of town, we wouldn’t even be able to say goodbye to them, we had to leave the house as nice as we found it. Estimated Time of Departure: 3:00pm.
As the afternoon wore on and we got closer and closer to being ready to make the drive to Omaha, I ran a checklist in my head to make sure we had gotten everything out of the house. Man, it was a big house. ETD: 4:00pm. As I gave mental clearance to the beautiful rooms on the first floor, I got past the kitchen and my eyes settled on the bathroom from hell. It was far from fingerprint-free. It immediately earned it’s way out of my good graces. What a short-lived stay.
Now, I debated not sharing this story at all because social norms would suggest it’s a bit “too much information” and an over-the-top embarrassment. There was a point for close to a week where I had actually convinced myself not to tell the tale.
But I began to think, “why do they sell plungers?” If, in this story, I was the first guy EVER to plug a toilet, plungers would not be mass-produced. There’s a number of Plunger CEO’s somewhere who have very nice houses that have been built by clogged toilets. This eased my inhibitions a bit. And not to get into too much detail, but I will add this disclaimer. I am of the impression this toilet of doom is predisposed to clogs due to a small intake. True, I have based this on one incident, but I can tell you my offering did not seem overly over-bearing.
Despite my reasoning that plungers are mass-produced, I was still apprehensive about posting this. What finally made up my mind in favor posting was when I reminisced about the time in college when I ran into a girl I knew from class as I was checking out of Walmart at 11pm with only a plunger in my hand. Nothing says, “I eat a lot of fiber and bran and have healthy bowels and stay very regular, and as a result, may or may not have my own feces seeping across my bathroom floor as we speak,” like being caught buying a plunger. I felt terrible for myself and wanted to crawl into a hole (though, with my luck, I probably would not have fit), but had to feel even worse for the girl. She had to make small talk with me as we waited in line at the only open register. “Come here often?” Doesn’t really work in that situation. I think she went with, “what do you normally buy here?” to try to change the subject but I brought everything full circle when I started talking about the knock-off Grape Nuts I had just discovered earlier that morning. It was a traumatic experience for me, and my classmate as well. But, if I can survive 5 minutes holding a plunger in line with my classmate, I can survive telling this story. I just hope my audience can fully enjoy my embarrassment this time. So don’t feel bad for me, besides, admit it, you’ve been here before!
Remembering the mess in the bathroom prior to leaving was bittersweet; I was grateful I remembered because I don’t know how to describe what it would have been like to be half-way to Omaha and remember I had left a toilet clogged for our amazing host family who would not find it for another week. “Thanks for letting us stay in your amazing house for two months, guys, we left a little floating token of our appreciation in the toilet just off the kitchen…” On the other hand, I had no desire to go in to the war zone and make amends. ETD: 5:00pm.
I entered the bathroom with much the same approach I had weeks before with Connor: I didn’t really know what I needed to do next, but I knew it wasn’t going to be fun. I had no idea where a plunger was in the house and didn’t want to spend the time or money to go buy one at the store. I tried flushing again; again to no avail. I wanted to rip the toilet out of the wall. It seemed to be smiling at me, thrilled to have gotten it’s payback.
I stood over the toilet weighing my options. No plunger. Flushing was doing nothing, but thankfully didn’t cause the water level to rise so I decide to try flushing a few more times. The water level stayed the same, but none of the problem went away. I had been packing all day and this was not the way I wanted my call-up to go. I was so excited to get to Omaha, but this clog was standing in my way. It had taken a year of success at the Double-A level to get to Omaha, did I really need this one road block?
Twenty-four hours later, I approached the mound in Des Moines, IA as the bases were loaded with no one out and the heart of the Iowa Cubs order coming up. “Tough situation” our manager said and handed me the ball. As the catcher walked back to the plate to receive my warm up tosses, I had a second to reflect on the statement and couldn’t help but think back…I couldn’t help but smile as I thought, “if only these eight thousand people could have seen me just a day ago.”
The pool looked as pristine and perfect as ever as I walked past it to the bushes in the back yard. Within seconds of arriving at the bushes, I found the perfect stick. Moments before, while embarrassingly weighing my options with Mrs. Disco, she suggested the “poop stick” method of breaking up the blockage. It seemed to be the best option available at the time. So I went in the back yard and found a stick about two feet long and about as thick as my pinky in the back yard and walked back into the house. My day had gone from the penthouse to…well you know where this saying goes. For Mrs. Disco, however, the day was looking up. She had to spend several arduous hours (ETD: 6:00pm, btw) packing her pretty little heart
out, but now she was able to reap the reward of watching her husband use a poop stick. She was laughing hysterically in the kitchen as I walked by, scowling.
In the bathroom, I shoved the stick into the toilet and started moving it around (ETD: 6:30) to break up what needed to be broken. I was thrilled to have a tool to aid me this time, but I couldn’t help but be upset at the toilet of doom. Mrs. Disco couldn’t help but be doubled over at the waist slapping her knees. In a sick, karmic kind of way, though, it was a beautiful closure of our stay in the house. As the sweat started to form on my brow, I did my best to effectively execute the PS method, all whilst not picturing what was taking place at the other end of the stick. After what seemed like an hour (ETD: 7:00pm), a beautiful, resounding flush was successful!
I stood, Rocky-esque, with my hands up over my head (I left the stick sitting in the toilet to minimize drippage), victorious. Mrs. Disco caught her breath and rubbed her sore abdominal muscles, which had been convulsing for the length of the procedure.
I washed the poop stick in the now-clean toilet and carried it outside to dispose of it where I found it. As I walked to the bushes to lay the stick to rest, Connor came running up to me from next door, “Mr. Chris, what are you doing with that stick?”
I didn’t know where to start. The same smiley eyes that I had been inches from weeks before had no idea what I was doing with the stick. Connor seemed genuinely confused as to why we had said goodbye just after lunchtime
and yet were still here playing with a
(poop) stick in the back yard past his bedtime. I debated telling him the story, but looked at the clock and saw it was close to 8:00pm. He wouldn’t get it even if I did tell him, I thought.
So instead, we said goodbye and Mrs. Disco and I were finally able to get on our way to Omaha and tackle the next “tough situation”.
A lot of firsts this monday. first flight with a pro team. first travel in AAA hence the first flight. first time i can remember going through securtiy without my trusty backoack. first time ever on a plane with a tucked in dress shirt. wore somthing called “slacks” which are like pants.
Mrs. disco was able to find a ticket to new orleans that happened to be the same flight so we got to travel together. she got bumped from second leg of trip, so i had to carry my glove instead of hiding it in her bag which caused for a lot of “rookie” comments from teammat
i’m typing on msr. disco’s computer tonight because mine is already b[packed for the upcoming road trip. she has a mac, so this post will probably be cooler than the others and probably take some getting used to. at least if my experience is any indication of yours, that will be the case
we leave for midland and frisco tonight at 2am after outr game finished at 10. so tracy and i rushed home so i could get some non-bus-floor hours of sleep and now we are getting ready to head back to the field
Alright, in all honesty I really don’t have anything funny to write about today (or last week for that matter) so I am just going to ramble for a bit and then take a poll.
I’ll give you an update to my last entry about how our plans always get ruined… Unfortunately no plans have been interrupted yet… but I HAVE made progress in getting more settled and I finished ironing all of the wrinkled clothes that were in our suitcases…. so hopefully soon we’ll be stressing out while trying to pack everything in a frenzy to head to Kansas City. Or Omaha. I guess we’ll take either.
You know how I mentioned Arkansas is located in tornado alley, right? Well, we’ve had a couple tornado watches and warnings already and I am unavoidably obsessed with tornado safety right now. Did you know you are NOT supposed to climb up into an overpass if a tornado is coming your way??? Apparently it creates more suction and can rip limbs off if you’re unlucky. And just so you know, if the tornado is completely unavoidable, lying in a ditch is your best bet because the wind velocity is closer to zero the lower to the ground you are. (So I’ve been reading, anyway).
If it’s not sunny (it hasn’t been since getting here), I am scouring the sky looking for funnel looking clouds and being heighteningly aware of any ditches in the surrounding areas. I know precisely where all good ditches are between our house and the field. I was in the mall last week when tornado sirens started going off and someone came over the loud speaker telling everyone to stay in the mall because a tornado like clouds with rotation were been spotted directly over us. Luckily, we didn’t spot one, but that same storm passing through MO sucked an older couple from their home and threw them in a field nearby! Oh… well, actually that was a different storm – the one where the Naturals had to evacuate their hotel rooms in Springfield because of a tornado two blocks away. Anyway, enough tornado obsessing and on to my poll.
Okay, here’s some info leading up to it – this Saturday, the NWA Naturals are opening the stadium up to the public as camping grounds for fans to stay over night. Families bring their tents and sleeping bags and after the game everyone runs on the field to secure their spots. Sounds like fun doesn’t it?
So, here’s my poll. Should Chris and I pitch a tent at Arvest Ballpark this Saturday night?
Now, here are some pros and cons.
Pros (Basically reasons I want to go):
1. This is a great opportunity to break Chris into camping while having the option to use modern facilities instead of a bush and without freezing or worrying about bears.
Chris has never been camping! EVER! He grew up in the city,
whereas I grew up in a small town and love camping. The only problem is
that it’s really only fun to camp when it’s nice weather, but Chris
works when it’s warm out and you’re not going to catch either of us
camping in Chicago November through January, that’s for sure.
2. The guys have an off-day on Sunday, so we don’t have to worry about rushing home just to get ready to come back to the field.
3. We’ll finally have the chance to do something fun besides go shopping with no money, playing Catan, or writing our books.
Cons (Chris’s reasoning):
1. He’s so famous that he’ll be signing autographs all night and not get to enjoy my company. (Solution: bring him a disguise. Seriously, no one is going to recognize him without his uniform on anyways, right??)
2. They’re probably going to kick everyone out at 8 o’clock in the morning, which will completely interrupt his nine hours of consistent sleep schedule. (Solution: Ask the grounds crew to allow Mr. & Mrs. Disco to sleep in until 10AM.)
3. He’s just so famous that kids are going to be knocking on our tent all night asking for autographs and we won’t get any sleep (also see #2).
Secretly I think he’s afraid to try something new, so I decided to put the poll out there to see what you guys think. (Maybe you’ll help my case of doing something fun for a change!)
So… camping or no camping? And give me some reasons.
You can post a comment here or write to “email@example.com” if you don’t want to create a username and password.
**** Update by the Mrs. – I definitely prefer a nice hotel room with air conditioning, a fancy shower head, and a comfortable bed any day… but when do you ever get the opportunity to camp in a baseball stadium?? So, it’s not like I’m saying let’s go rough it in monsoon like storms with grizzlies and monster sized bugs. I’m with the girlie girls who like their hotels… but if you were going to break your husband into camping, perhaps his only time to camp… EVER… you’d have to admit, this is a pretty easy time, wouldn’t you think? ****
Personally I think Chris’s last post about Texas was hilarious because you have to admit, it’s pretty true, don’t ya think? Chris and I have many great friends from Texas, including the ones I’m about to write about… oh, I should probably mention who the “I” is in this blog. It’s the wife writing. I was supposed to post this last Wednesday under a new series, “Wednesdays Are For My Wife” (or something different if we can come up with something more clever…. any ideas, you can comment here or email firstname.lastname@example.org).
Anyway, hi, I’m Tracy, Mrs. Disco to some, but you can call me anything you’d like as long as you don’t call me a cleat chaser. Oh, heck, you can even call me that if you want because that label doesn’t really count until they are making millions, right? I’m a lot more of a rambler than Chris is, so excuse this nonsense I’m going on about.
First, I will share with you the stipulation Chris gave me before writing this blog: If his “rating” dropped any lower than where it currently stands, I would be banned from future blogging. If, on the other hand, it boosted his popularity level, then I would be able to continue with occasional guest appearances, as they are deemed necessary. So, help me out by reading this post about twenty extra times and leaving comments raving about how Chris’s wife’s blogs are way more interesting than his. Or not.
I’d like to give you an insider’s look into the secret life of a minor leaguer’s wife. There are so many aspects of this lifestyle that truly just downright stink for a player’s wife, but luckily for me (and for you I guess), I enjoy turning frustrating experiences into funny stories I can laugh about later.
One aspect that never changes is the fact that we live with only the belongings that fit into our car and are on the road living in non-ideal conditions for seven months of every year, more than half of the time without our husbands. We pack and unpack a minimum of five times every season and that doesn’t account for last minute promotions. We need different things for different places, so it’s not like we can take one suitcase and be done with it. Oh that would be too easy and nothing in the minor league lifestyle is easy (except the groupies. OH! Did I just say that out loud?!). : ) Whew, back to my story. We need everything from obvious stuff like his baseball gear (luckily he’s not a position player otherwise we wouldn’t have room for his bats) to kitchen stuff like pots and pans and dishes to our vacuum and cleaning supplies since I’m a neat freak and too poor to buy new ones in every city. We also need clothes for two seasons (summer clothes for Spring Training in sunny Arizona, winter clothes for the start of the season so we don’t freeze to death in the stands, and then cute little dress up clothes and heels so our husbands can proudly wave at us after a game).
Side rant about clothes: When I first started going to Chris’s games in Low-A Burlington, I wore a baseball cap, t-shirt, jeans, and flip flops because isn’t that what you’re supposed to wear to a baseball game anyway??? I noticed some of the more seasoned wives were more stylishly dressed in designer jeans, with fancy handbags, make up, and heels. Frankly, I thought they looked a little silly for wearing pumps and looking so dolled up at a simple baseball game… but then I mentioned this to Chris and to my surprise he joked that apparently we’re supposed to rise through the minor leagues together to prepare us for the big leagues. We deduced that the lower level girls have to learn how to dress and behave like a big leaguer’s wife, so they work their way up the levels just like the players do. Hrmph. So, now here we are in Double-A and yes, I sheepishly admit I now come to games slightly dolled up. I still think you can probably tell the difference between the big league wives and me simply because I have a knock-off purse and my hair is usually in a pony tail, whereas the big league wives must get their hair and nails done before every game because they look a little more fabulous than I do. I did just get a pair of fancy designer jeans, so I think I’m almost ready for a promotion to a Triple-A wife soon; I hope Chris is ready for the move, too!
Okay, back to the original reason I am blogging. (Ya can’t say I didn’t warn you about the rambling.)
We had a slight delay in getting to Arkansas from Arizona due to a little mishap our friends (from Texas) had along the way. It coincidentally had to do with suitcases full of clothes that didn’t fit into their car, so they were strapped to the roof. I’ll bet you can see where this is going, but don’t get too excited, it doesn’t end as badly as you might hope. Chris and I left Arizona right after he finished pitching in his last Spring Training game and our friends left about an hour before us. After a long day of driving, we stopped in different cities for the night and oddly enough ended up driving alongside one another about three hours into the trip on the second day. After driving together for about an hour, our friends called our cell to ask if we could take a look at the top of their car because it was making some funny noises. As they were pulling up along side us, we noticed the front part of the luggage on the top of the car was getting a little wind under it, but it looked fairly secure. Whilst still on the phone with them, they continued to drive past so we could get a good look at the entire top of their car when we realized they were starting to lose luggage off the back of their car!!!
Chris was driving, so he couldn’t really see whether anything was really falling off or not, but I started yelling into the phone for our friends to pull over! “Pull over! You’re about to lose luggage off the back of your car!!!” all the while I’m laughing hysterically and almost unable to clearly tell them how critical it was for them to get off the road now!!
Chris thought I was kidding as did our friends, so for a good half mile both cars continued to drive 70 mph on a busy highway with a big blue suitcase dangling off the roof into their back window hanging on by two very thin cords. The problem is they couldn’t see the suitcase in their window because just like every other minor leaguer, there was so much stuff in their car they couldn’t see out their back windows. I’m now gasping for air I’m laughing so hard while very urgently pleading for Chris to pull over so our friends would follow. Everyone eventually realizes I was NOT kidding and we head to a safe place on the shoulder to find most of the luggage probably seconds from becoming road kill.
Our friends had about five big suitcases on top of their car secured down by a tarp and one of those bungee cord nets. It had worked well for the first four hundred miles, but the second day of driving must have taken its toll on the net and it was starting to give way little by little. Our friends re-secured the netting and we set out on our jolly way for about ten minutes when suddenly the suitcases made a drastic shift to the back of the car, almost looking like they were about to shoot off like missiles. We feverishly began honking our horn and flashing our lights hoping to avoid another near-death experience for the luggage and we again both pulled over. This time they took the entire net off the car, re-positioned the luggage, and more diligently secured everything. We even offered some extra twine we had in our car and added that new support to the apparent fragile rear end area and set off on our jolly way for a second time.
Chris and I watched their luggage like hawks now impressed by how well the luggage in the back of the car was staying in place. What we didn’t notice was now the front luggage was no longer secured well and the hooks on the bungee net were starting to fly off and cause the tarp to look like a parachute on top of their car. We decided to take a drive by to check out the front of their parachute and HOLY COW (!) the front suit case has so much air under it now, it’s standing up on the back corner of itself about to flip up and go flying over their car! Again, I start waving my arms wildly, pointing at the top of their car with big panic stricken eyes trying to get them to pull over AGAIN! This time there was an exit to an old country road we pulled off to and then used the rest of the twine to tie their stuff down for good!
I guess that’s why they say third times a charm because sure enough, this time everything held well enough to get our friends safely to Arkansas with all of the much needed designer clothing a Double-A wife will need for a season.
Honestly, angels were watching over our friends on their trip from Spring Training to Double-A because based purely on physics they should have lost all of their luggage multiple times and it really would have caused a horrible accident because it’s not like a normal car would have driven over their Texas-sized suitcases like it was a pebble from Rhode Island. Could you imagine the sight it would have been to witness a blue torpedo shooting off someone’s car at 70 mph??