Pioneer Valley Days

Nate's Kid List Goes Wild

Well, I actually did it. I waited until my first birthday to complete my list of my top 10 first-year memories. And #1 involves animals -- lots of them, but one in particular. I'll take you through a brief overview.

#1: Animals in Captivity

We begin our zoological journey at a local farm and ice cream stand. Mom and Dad wouldn't give me any ice cream, though. Still, I was pretty lucky compared to this poor shmoe, a 30-year-old horse with a huge gash on his back leg. It's a good thing the sign said he was well-cared for. That sure made me feel better!

Thankfully, not every animal we came across this year was badly injured. These llamas at the Westfield Fair seemed rather pleased with themselves. I also saw pigs, goats, and corn dogs, and learned that people grow freakishly large vegetables in order to win big prizes. Kind of like an agricultural Barry Bonds.

Of course, who could forget our two big trips to Mystic Aquarium? I would like to say that these penguins were gathered around in anticipation of my visit, but as it turned out, they were waiting for their lunch. If I could talk back then, I would have told them that throwing a massive tantrum usually gets the food moving, too.

Then, in October, the weirdest thing happened. We got a visit from a little lion in our house! I wondered how Mom and Dad fed him -- you know how much lions eat. But Dad told me they just kept him around for an hour or so to snap a bunch of pictures, then set him free back into the wild. I miss that lion. He was a cutie.

I have no idea what this is, but it appeared at the back window of our car as we were driving through some place called the Lazy 5 Ranch in North Carolina. But instead of rolling up the window and getting the heck out of there, Dad was feeding this thing. Does that sound like safe parenting to you? Does Social Services know about this?

Next, when the first big snowstorm of the year arrived, Mom loaded me into my new sled and hitched the sled to a husky dog she rented for the day. He looked a lot like Maverick, but since when does Maverick do any work? So that was kind of funny. Otherwise, this husky dog was pretty cool. I wonder what became of him.

However, as interesting as all those animals are, the real number one on my list of first-year memories is my best pal, Ripley. We play so nicely! Like, just the other day I grabbed her nose, and she said, "Cut that out," so I pretended to cut it off by whacking it with the side of my hand. Then she said, "Knock that off," so I slapped her upside the head like I was trying to knock it off her shoulders, and I laughed and laughed. Then she said, "Don't push it, kid," so I stopped pushing against her face and pulled on her ears and lip instead. Then she was all, "Grrrrr," like she was about to say "Grrrrreat game, Nathan," but then Mom pulled her away before she was able to get the words out. Man, I love that dog.

Nate's Kid List Goes Shopping

I've been told I've been a bit lax in finishing up my list of top 10 first-year memories. But Dad is always hogging the computer. Seriously. I decided to grab a few minutes down here while he's upstairs in the kitchen, baking Mom some humble pie -- I mean, cake -- and muttering something about how at least Carl Edwards didn't cheat his way to 43rd place.

#2: Big Y

Dad likes food shopping. Mom does not like food shopping. (Of course, Mom knows how to use power tools, so they have a nice, complementary marriage.) So Mom is more than happy to let Dad buy the groceries each week. He started dragging me along very early in my life, and it became a cool sort of father-son date. Only, to me, it's not a date with Dad; he's just the chaperone. To me, these trips are more of a flirt session with every single woman I see as we stroll the aisles. Especially the AARP types who smile and talk to me in that infantile baby voice, like I'm some kind of, well, infant. I put up with it and smile back, because I like attention.

While I perform these cheerful host duties, Dad's outing goes somewhat differently. First, he buys his coffee from the bakery section by the front entrance. Then he consults his list, which is ordered according to the layout of the store aisles, an idea he got from Nonna in his younger, PathMark years. Then the strategy kicks in. Can he use a few silver coins today? A red one? Will he take his one gold coin to the grave with him? I can see Mom tossing it in his coffin at the wake someday, murmuring something about how precious it was to him, and then suddenly coming to her senses and fishing it back out, realizing you can get a whole prepared pizza with one of those suckers, or at least eight or 10 bucks off sea scallops.

Oh, and Dad's good at reading nutritional labels, although it did take way too long for him to notice that certain carrot- and yam-intensive baby foods contain something like 540% of the recommended daily allowance of Vitamin A (that is not an exaggeration). He only noticed that after I had turned orange. But in the end, he's a pretty good shopper, I use my blanket to play a mean game of peek-a-boo with the grocery bagger, Mom doesn't have to deal with shopping -- it's definitely fun for the whole family. And I -- Hey, what's this? Dad just came downstairs. He's reading my post. I think he's going to pick me u--

Editor's note: I just have to cut in here and let you know what Nate did yesterday. When I'm putting groceries away, Nate's in his walker in the kitchen -- one of the only times he uses it. And he's always dashing over to the fridge and taking something questionable off the door, such as horseradish or capers. Well, yesterday, I finally noticed what he was doing. He took an item off the door (in this case, mustard), brought it to his mouth for a second, and then put it back on the shelf. In other words, he was imitating the way we take out food, eat it, and put it back. He did this several times as I watched and praised him. It was awesome. Such a little helper. Now, back to Nate.

Um, you just realized that's what I've been doing all this time, Dad? You are slow.

Nate's Kid List Isn't Captivated

Back in December, Mom said I should wait to write my list of first-year memories until my first birthday at the end of March. But judging by how often Dad lets me on the computer, I might not finish until then anyway. Onward!

#3: Noggin

I am not a big TV guy. I might glance up for a few moments, but if Jerry Remy isn't talking, I just can't be bothered. Yet, Dad has watched so much programming on the Noggin channel this year, supposedly because I might like it, that he insisted I include it on my list. He also claims that I like SportsCenter and Who Wants to Be a Millionaire, but we all know he just likes the Patriots and Meredith Vieira. At any rate, Dad asked me to come up with some impressions of his favorite Noggin shows. I won't include Maisy, which we already reviewed several months ago. As for the rest:

Miss Spider's Sunny Patch Friends

Wonderful show, with really strong messages. But, you might ask, how do a couple of adult spiders wind up raising eight kids, most of whom are clearly not spiders? You might say adoption, after their parents tragically died. But I don't think they're actually dead. They're actually hidden behind the wall, woven into webbed cocoons, in a permanent state of paralysis, providing the necessary nutrients to feed a family of 10. I'll bet nobuggy out there realized that, did you? Now you know.

Maggie and the Ferocious Beast

This annoying little show features a perky redhead, her obnoxious spotted pal, and a really neurotic pig named Hamilton who brings down every scene he's in. I'm waiting for the upcoming "very special episode" titled "Breakfast with the Beast":

BEAST: "Great googly moogly, this is good bacon!"
MAGGIE: "Thanks, Beast."
BEAST: "Where's Hamilton, by the way?"
MAGGIE: "Just eat your breakfast, Beast."

Dora the Explorer

Apparently some kids like this show -- maybe 'cause it makes them feel smart. Because compared to Dora, we're all brainiacs. I mean, she even makes her creepy simian companion seem like Stephen Hawking in comparison. Here's some actual dialogue:

DORA (who is standing on a road, about three feet from a goat, with no other scenery except a tree in the background): "I wonder where I can find a goat?"
(Long silence)
DORA: "I was told there was a goat here. Can you find the goat?"
(Long silence)
DORA: "I sure wish I could find that goat!"
GOAT: "I'm right here."
DORA: "Maybe you kids out there can help me find the goat!"
GOAT: "I'm right here!"
DORA: "Finding a goat sure is hard work!"
GOAT: "What's the matter with you?"
(Long silence)
DORA: "Where is that goat?"

And so on. It's absolutely unwatchable. Which means I'll probably really dig it someday, just to annoy Dad. I hope it's on at the same time as Millionaire. That'll really get his goat.

Oobi

Oobi and his three companions are actually hands fitted with plastic eyeballs who are kindhearted and never learned how to conjugate verbs. So you get dialogue like, "Oobi like Uma. Uma like Oobi? Oobi play with Uma!" and so on. It's mesmerizing, which is dangerous, because at any moment, when you're kind of lulled into complacency, they could start in with stuff like, "Oobi like you. You like Oobi. Oobi like Al Qaida. You like Al Qaida. You send Oobi money. Oobi funnel money across Pakistani border." It's way too risky, so we don't watch this much. Dad says it's because he doesn't want me to talk like Cookie Monster, but I know the real reason.

Jack's Big Music Show

Any show featuring a dog that plays the drums is fine by me. It's colorful, energetic, and filled with bouncy tunes. And since no Noggin show is allowed to have more than four different episodes, Dad can catch the flower-growing episode on a regular basis, which features Rebecca Frezza's "H2O+O2+SUN," which Dad says is so catchy it should be on the radio. In fact, most of Noggin's stock performers tend to wander through here, including the ubiquitous Laurie Berkner, who has a funky Northampton vibe and (Dad says) is this generation's slightly more fetching answer to Carole and Paula. Whoever the heck they are.

Moose A. Moose and Zee

I like to think these between-show emcees are the saner cousins of Hallmark characters Hoops and Yoyo, and they're probably the best thing about Noggin. And if I actually watched much TV, they would teach me about patterns, shapes, and Spanish words for colors 74 times per day. Because that's about all these cheerful guys know. Oh, and Moose can also bake a blueberry pie using just four blueberries. I've seen it. Quite impressive.

Someday, maybe I'll dig this stuff more, but for now, color me only mildly amused. Now, back to Dora.

DORA: "I'm still looking for that goat!"
GOAT: "I'm right here! Next to you!"
DORA: "Oh, gooooooooat! Where aaaaaaaare you?"
GOAT: "You're a mooooooooron!"
DORA: "Maybe someday I'll find that goat!"
GOAT: "Dammit, Dora!"

Nate's Kid List Snuggles Up

Hey, Nate's kid list is back! Did you miss me? No? Well, there's no need to be rude. Anyway, on with the countdown.

#4: My Best Friend

So, I have this dog named Ripley who's usually very nice. But once in a while, if she's annoyed, she brings up this incident that happened when she was only a few months old. It seems that Dad had her in the garage the day before the family was set to begin a Maine vacation. I think they had been walking in the muddy woods, and he was drying her off. He told her to sit when he went to close the automatic garage door, and she did sit -- for a few seconds, before mosying over toward the rapidly closing door.

Now, at this time, I'm told, Dad was standing between the door and the button. He admits that he should have immediately gone back and pressed the button to stop the door. But all this happened in mere moments, and while he called Ripley back, he thought the sensors would stop the door if she got too close. The thing was, she could actually go under the sensors (she was just a little puppy!), and when she craned her neck to see what wonders lurked under the door, the door didn't stop, and Dad dashed toward her in a panic. Sure enough, the door closed on Ripley's head (again, why didn't Dad just go back for the button?), and Dad started screaming for Mom even as he got his hands under the door and started to pull up. (As Mom tells it, Ripley was screaming too.) After a second or two, Dad did lift the door back up, as tiny metal screws fell from who knows where. The garage door has never really been the same, but fortunately, Ripley was OK, because the door landed on her surprisingly durable cranium, and not her neck. Dad was a wreck for a few days (he's kind of overemotional to begin with), and he says the garage-door incident was his first step in really bonding with the new dog.

I'd like to remind Dad that I'm bonding with him just fine, so don't get any ideas.

Anyway, I say all this to note that Ripley gets a little annoying with her recounting of this incident every time she feels slighted in some way. She should take a lesson from my best friend, an unnamed stuffed dog (Dad calls him B. F. Dogg) who always accompanies me in the car and in the stroller. He's very cuddly, so I like to hold him, but I was just a baby last year, so sometimes my tiny hands would drop him on the road. And before she noticed he had fallen, Mom would run over his head with the giant stroller wheels. It has happened more than once, and he even has the tire marks to prove it! But has my best friend ever complained? No, he has not! Even when he had to hold his breath for a half-hour in the washing machine, only to be told that faint tracks were still plainly visible on the back of his head, he just sucked it up, smiled, and said nothing. Unlike Ripley, who shows no scars at all, yet practically threatens to drag Dad's rear end into court for damages every time he refuses to scratch her belly or toss her a cucumber. See, she loves salad. Also extortion.

Don't get me wrong -- I like Ripley. But when I think of all the time my best friend and I have spent strolling the streets of our neighborhood, or settling down for long road trips, I realize that I'd much rather hang out with him. He's much less talky, clingy, and annoying.

I guess that means I like him better than Dad, too.

Nate's Kid List Really Milks It

#5: The Oversensitive Vaudeville Cow

Auntie Tami brought him over one day. She said (and I believe the label might have said) he was a donkey, but he was clearly mislabeled. He's a cow, and also a hand puppet, and he quickly took up residence in the bathroom, hanging beside the tub from a hook on the towel rack, awaiting his not-quite-regular appearances during my bathtime. He has informed Mom and Dad that, as a cow, he's not really comfortable hanging from a hook, if they get his drift, which they do. But their resp0nse seems to be, uh, tough crap, Mr. Cow.

Perhaps this is the cause of his hyper-emotional state, and why he doesn't come out during bathtime as much as Mom would like. I say Mom, because she's the only one who laughs at his jokes or enjoys his extemporaneous song-and-dance routines. To me, he's sort of amusing, and I'll smile briefly at him before turning my attention to my rubber duck, or simply splashing around. I may not be his biggest fan (another possible reason why he's so neurotic), but he has to make my list of top 2005 memories for one simple reason: he tries so darn hard.

Who else could come up with the groaners he does, and keep coming back for more? One night, he got on a duck theme:

Cow: "What do you call a mallard on The Apprentice?"
Me: "What?"
Cow: "A Trumpduck!"
Me: "Yeah, that's great. Wow, look at the time, I--"
Cow: "What do you call a mallard in Dublin?"
Me (preparing for the worst): "Um, what?"
Cow: "Duck of the Irish!"
Me: "Please go away."

Oh, it gets worse. Sometimes he adds a new verse to the song of the evoo, which is adapted from "The Song of the Cebu," from VeggieTales, something else that interests Dad much more than me. Yes, he sings entire songs about extra-virgin olive oil. And if you needed me to tell you what evoo is, then you haven't been watching hit Food Network shows such as Rachael Ray Drinks It All In or Rachael Ray's European Benders.

But sometimes the cow gets tired of being unappreciated (or, as he calls it, "udderly unloved"), so he doesn't show up at all, even though Mom really wants him to. And sometimes, I have to admit, I kind of miss his pathetic attempts at crooning "It's Not Easy Being Blue" or jokes like, "What does a pirate pay for corn? Buck an ear!" Or conversations like the following, after the cow joked about being hungry for a hamburger:

Mom: "You know what hamburger is, right?"
Cow: "Oh. Wow. Oh yeah."
(Long pause)
Cow: "You know, I had a burger once."
Mom: "Really?"
Cow: "Yeah. I ate it with some fava beans and a nice chianti."

And then, after the bath, it's back up on the hook, where he's often heard to practice songs like "You'll Never Find Another Nate Like Mine," which are clearly meant to get me into his good graces, but which more likely directly contributed to the death of Lou Rawls. Yes, despite his pouty fits, you can always count on the cow coming back for more:

Cow: "Hey, Nate."
Me: "What now?"
Cow: "Why did the cow have to appear in court?"
Me: "I have a feeling I'm gonna find out."
Cow: "He got a moooooving violation. Ha! Get it? A moooooving violation! Ha ha ha ha--"
Me: "That's it. Come here, you little--"
Cow: (Strangled sounds, followed by splashing and gurgling)
Me: "That's better. Now where's my duck?"

Nate's Kid List Makes a Visit

#6: Appleton Corporation

From my research in the many baby-rearing books that Dad somehow never gets around to reading, I've learned that it's important to engage the baby in interesting and intellect-building activities -- you know, take him places outside the house. As for me, I'm lucky if I get dragged to the grocery store or one of Dad's haircuts or allergy shots. Ooooohh. Fascinating, Dad. I can just feel myself getting smarter.

In his defense, he will occasionally bring me on a job appointment, usually to take a photograph of some CEO. I've already seen the insides of a TV studio, a bank headquarters, a construction site, and a few other places here in the Pioneer Valley. But more often, when Dad needs to run to a quick appointment, I get dropped off at Mom's place of work, where I am allowed to strike terror and annoyance into the hearts of her co-workers with my intense fussiness. Either that, or charm the heck out of everyone. It depends on my mood. I'm an unpredictable child.

These are exciting mornings, actually. There's always the thrill of seeing the gritty, rough-and-tumble, mean streets of Holyoke, although I'm told that Sheriff Scott and his deputies swept in and cleaned up this one-horse town, and crack sales are no longer conducted at the McDonald's drive-through and on the front steps of day-care centers. So it's slightly less gritty. But there are so many other reasons to look forward to visiting Appleton, like getting passed around from one admirer to another as soon as I arrive in the office. Of course, occasionally one of them gets that "I might just take this baby home" look in her eye, and I have to talk her down with tales of how cranky I get at the dinner table when Mom doesn't feed me Cheerios fast enough. Yeah, most of all, I think I like being the center of attention, and I definitely get that at Appleton.

Sometimes Dad brings Mom lunch, too. I heard that once he laid out a big candlelight spread in the lunch room for a romantic pizza meal, complete with orange soda served in wine glasses. But the last few times, it's pretty much been Filet O' Fish at Mom's desk. Yes, he's a real Valentino, that Dad.

One final note: I really messed up the first few financial statements Mom let me prepare while she ran out for coffee. But on the last one, I made only 14 errors! The auditors will be very happy.

Nate's Kid List Chows Down

Dad's pretty sick this week, so I hope he used some Lysol on this keyboard before I sat down. Anyway, where were we before we took a holiday break? Ah, yes, #7 on my list of 2005 memories.

#7: The Munchies

You know, I'm a total guy. I flirt with the ladies, I'm always trying to grab the remote control, and when I'm hungry, I demand to be fed. But my cravings are far from random. Oh, no -- I'm actually quite discerning in my culinary tastes. I'm like a tiny Rachael Ray, only cuter, perkier, and less alcohol-dependent.

Speaking of hitting the bottle -- yes, I drink that awful Nutramigen, but only because of a milk allergy that manifested itself early on as bloody stool. (And not "bloody stool" in the way that a proper British gentleman would mean "oh, that darn chair," but actual bloody stool. It was kind of gross.) And sure, I still eat pureed fruits, vegetables, and chicken from jars, although I much prefer little pieces of pasta, pierogi, butternut squash, hamburger, or whatever else happens to be on Mom or Dad's plate. My tiny front teeth are certainly coming in handy!

And yes, I do enjoy Cheerios and Gerber puffed rice (especially the banana flavor) and a few sips of juice while Mom and Dad are enjoying their supper. They know a tasty snack keeps me from cranking too much at the dinner table. It's like food extortion. But, in the end, even that isn't what my belly craves the most. Nope. Do you want to know what really makes my mouth water?

Wallpaper.

Needless to say, the crib is a little farther from the wall these days.

Nate's Kid List Breaks Your Heart

#8: The Exersaucer

I was almost three months old in late June when I met her: the Exersaucer. She was sleek and colorful, made from tough plastic but graceful in her movements and musical of voice. I was immediately entranced. Who was this Exersaucer? Reluctantly (seriously -- Dad had to shove my flailing legs through), I climbed on.

Those were magical days. My growing legs gained strength and dexterity as I balanced and swayed with the rocking movements. Among her attractive qualities was a book-like toy, and as I flipped its plastic pages, she taught me language and literature, repeating to me the letters, numbers, colors, and shapes that graced each page. Her sweet voice echoes in my mind even now, like a thrilling, postmodern haiku unrestricted by syllable counts:

"Triangle.
Purple triangle.
Three purple triangles."

She taught me that the apple is red, that the cat is orange, and countless other nuggets of wisdom, at least until the batteries ran out. But the plastic pull toys hanging by festive strings ran off different batteries, and when I yanked them, oh, the songs she would play! And who could forget my first cell phone? It was hers, and she shared it with me, both of us laughing when it rang, because Dad would look around, confused, thinking it was his phone. It was our private joke, and a really funny one. Really, who ever calls Dad?

I don't know what happened, but we eventually drifted apart. Perhaps it was inevitable. She left the living room (Mom and Dad very rudely said she was taking up too much space) and took up residence in the basement office. I was jealous of the time Dad got to spend with her down there, and one day, when he took me downstairs and tried to load me onto the Exersaucer, I got mad and stamped and cried. Dad lifted me out, thinking I just wanted to crawl around, but I was mad at her. It wasn't fair, really, or rational, but I was hurt. I missed her --  and you always hurt the ones you love, I suppose.

Yet, a cold distance remained, and things were never the same between us. Mom brought the Exersaucer upstairs recently and tried to lift me on, but I just cried again. In truth, we had grown apart. Maybe I was just a different person than I had been in my youth. Dad shrugged it off, saying something about kids going through cycles with their toys, but he doesn't understand. She was more than a toy to me. She was my Exersaucer. She taught me so much, and then -- well, I just don't want to think about it anymore.

Last week, though, I pulled myself up alongside her and pulled one of the rings, and I heard that beautiful music once again. And I thought I caught her smile, if just for a second. And in my head (and only in my head, because Dad never did bother to replace the batteries), I could still hear that lilting, melancholy voice:

"Two green circles."

And also:

"The bus is yellow."

And if I really listened hard enough,

"Johnny Damon sucks."

Nate's Kid List Eats Out

#9: Cracker Barrel

In thinking back on my memories from 2005, few are as vivid as the sounds (perky waitresses), smells (biscuits and gravy), and sights (massive, precariously suspended farm implements) of Cracker Barrel. Mom and Dad first hauled me there when I was just three weeks old, figuring that it's a family restaurant, and it's kind of loud, so if I cry, the sound should pretty much blend into the overall din.

But I didn't cry. Lying there in my carrier, I simply ... went to sleep. And considering how rare sleep was that first month, I imagine Mom's chicken tenderloins and Dad's fried catfish were seasoned with the salty tang of joyful tears. So they kept bringing me, every week or two, just to have a meal outside the house. And when I outgrew my carrier, Cracker Barrel was the site of my very first outside-the-home highchair experience. I looked like such a big boy, sitting there next to Mom, as both of us stared across the table at Dad, wondering how anyone could eat biscuits -- or anything -- dipped in a substance made from both sausage and cream. The next few times we went, Dad would say he should have brought his camera to snap a picture of big-boy Nate at the table. But the one time he did bring it, we left in a huff when the wait was too long, so I have no photos to share. Sorry.

Oh, there were other iffy moments, like the time, back in the carrier days, when a waitress shook my foot until I woke up, so I could amuse her with my adorable expression. I'm assuming she wasn't paying much attention to Mom and Dad's expressions, which were ... um, not quite so adorable. But overall, along with church and the mall, Cracker Barrel has become one of our main family outings, even though I still haven't tried that gravy.

Mom says that's a good thing.

Nate's Kid List Leads Off

Good morning. It's me, Joe. I know my posting schedule has been erratic at best, but you're going to want to log onto Pioneer Valley Days for the next couple of weeks. When I asked Nathan to provide some kind of year-in-review feature, he said he was inspired by my 50 Childhood Memories list, and he wanted to do something similar for his first year. Jenn points out that he's only 9 months old, but year-in-review lists are a December tradition; who wants to read one in March? So I'm going to hand the keyboard over to Nate Doggie now, as he begins to count down his top 10 memories of year 1. Or at least year 0.75.

#10: Jerry Remy

Hi, the Natester here. Now, I realize that I am a perfect baby who's so good that I practically raise myself, requiring no actual effort, wisdom or good judgment from loving parents. But there was a time -- you won't believe this, but it's true -- when I (a) refused to go to bed before 10 or 11 p.m., and (b) cranked and moaned all the way until aforementioned 10 or 11 p.m. Dad would sometimes load me up in my stroller and push me up and down the street late at night. We must have looked like stalkers, judging by the paranoid stares from the elderly guy next door, who stood at his doorway with a look that suggested he was holding a telephone with 9-1 already pressed. But those walks were effective for only so long, and then I'd start to whimper again. And sometimes Mom or Dad would rock me or sing to me, but that wouldn't always work, either. No, there was really only one thing that calmed me down, and that was the soothing voice of Jerry Remy, former Red Sox second baseman and current color commentator extraordinaire for Sox games on NESN.

It was like magic, really. I'd be lying on my back (this was in the pre-crawling, pre-rolling days), miserably letting my parents know how tedious and bleak my life was, when suddenly Mom would change the channel (and by the way, Dad, no woman is going to control the remote when I'm married), and there they were, the whole gang -- Manny, Papi, Schilling, Judas Damon -- and then I would hear that voice. The Remdawg. I was mesmerized. That voice was a rock of comfort and consistency in my confusing world, as reliable and ever-present as that huge Dunkin' Donuts banner in the outfield that they would show us every couple innings. When I heard that voice, a wave of contentment came over me, and I knew that everything would be all right -- that I do have reason to be happy, that hope and beauty are everywhere, and that maybe, just maybe, the Red Sox will win the World Series during my lifetime. Sure, this moment of happiness would eventually fade into fussiness, especially when Mom changed the channel again, but while it lasted, it was real, and it was mine.

Oh, and Damon can kiss my Balmex-slathered butt.