June 14: Brush, Floss, and Dry Off

One of my favorite parts of the day while growing up was when my sister and I would brush our teeth just before going to bed. Our bathroom counter had two sinks that shared a large mirror and I always enjoyed sharing the time with her.

The act of brushing and flossing one's teeth followed by some gargling is supposed to be a relatively quick routine. For me, however, it always took twice as long as it should have. You see, every single night, I was too preoccupied with trying to make Lindsay laugh to concentrate on getting in and out of the bathroom.

The one night that I will never forget started off like any other. We were both in front of our respected sinks applying toothpaste to our soft-bristled, dentist recommended toothbrushes. We both used gentle, circular motions as I made nonsensical noises and obnoxious faces in the mirror. Lindsay wasn't responding to the usual acts so I was forced to up the ante.

After tossing her used piece of floss in the waste basket, she proceeded to swish her mouth with cinnamon-flavored Act mouthwash. Because of my efforts at making her lose control with laughter, I was still brushing, but the inevitable laugh was waiting for the perfect moment to emerge. That moment came when Lindsay leaned her head back to gargle.

I can't remember what I said or did, but it was the breaking point for my dear sister. As she was gargling, the laughter erupted from within and sent her mouthwash straight up and out of her mouth toward the ceiling. Her instant reflex was to close her mouth and lean forward to spit what was left of the mouthwash into the sink, but as she did this, the cinnamon projectile came crashing down on her back. It was beautiful.

I had a pretty happy childhood, but I will never forget the quality times I spent with my sister while brushing my teeth. Since that fateful night, she has refused to gargle while in my presence and I couldn't be happier to have achieved that level of fear within her.

June 13: Something to Lift the Spirits

In the 1930s, a nation cheered for a small horse named Seabiscuit and an old boxer by the name of Jim Braddock. Times were tough and these two characters pulled an entire country together and gave hope to millions. In 2010, a young man emerged from a city in California and found himself in the spotlight as he pitched in the capital of a battered nation.

A few days ago, I received an email from my aunt from Washington DC. The subject line was "Our New Pitcher" and she was referring to the young phenom, Stephen Strasburg of the Washington Nationals. "As you can imagine" she wrote, "DC is a buzz over Stephen Strasburg. We watched the first game by TV and the stadium was completely sold out with standing room only." She went on to tell me about how her husband became emotional to see the young man pitch because it reminded him of when he was given the opportunity to be a bat boy for a Major League club when he was younger. She concluded the paragraph with, "It is so nice to have something so exciting to lift the spirits of so many who are having a tough time."

Seabiscuit, Braddock, Strasburg? I don't think so. Don't get me wrong, he's an amazing pitcher and a lot of fun to watch and root for. His fastball routinely hits one hundred on the gun and his changeup is faster than a lot of pitchers' fastballs. In his Major League debut on Tuesday, he struck out fourteen without issuing a single walk; a first in MLB history. He struck out the last seven batters he faced. Through four innings of work today, he had already struck out an additional seven hitters. Suffice it to say, he's good.

My issue with him being a beacon of hope and inspiration for millions lies in the insane contract he signed last year when he was drafted. Before throwing a single pitch at the professional level, he already had a $15.1 million dollar deal for four years. He received a $7.5 million bonus for signing and then another $2.5 million just fifteen days after the contract was approved by the Commissioner's office. After the four years is up on that first contract, the sky is the limit. Who knows where the economy will be, but I guarantee you it won't affect the right-hander.

The country was in disarray when Seabiscuit beat War Admiral and Braddock (literally) beat Max Baer. Two average Joes stepped into the spotlight and shocked and inspired everyone. Dreams really can come true, but how is rooting for a rich superstar athlete comparable? Sure, he'll be pitching in the nation's capital for the next few years and it's fun to watch him, but is this really our next Cinderella story?

June 12: Would You Like Pus With That?

Two or three days ago I came home from work only to find a white zit on my chin. Thanks, everyone. Yeah, it's embarrassing to tell a friend that there's something growing on his face, but it's the polite thing to do. You're saving him future embarrassment by giving him the opportunity to fix the problem right then and there. This way, he doesn't have to wonder how long he had this monster upstaging him when he finds it at the end of the day like I did. Anyway, I popped the beast and squeezed out its guts until I bled.

The next day the spot on my chin was red. Understandable. I went throughout my day hoping it wasn't too obvious that I had taken measures into my own hands. I asked a few people if it was very noticeable and they said that it was now that I had brought it to their attention, but not before then.

Fast forward to tonight. Fast forward through my entire day of work thinking the zit was gone. Fast forward to the moment I get home and see that the thing was twice as big and twice as white as it was two or three days ago. Thanks, everyone. Man, puberty sucks.

June 11: Scrubbing in the Rain

For whatever reason, I've always preferred to wash my truck myself. I enjoy spending time in the sun and I like the fact that I know all of the hard to reach crevices are getting cleaned. I used to wash my truck every time I went home from college because my parents have a steep driveway and it was easy to park on the hill and let the water run out of the bed.

Coincidentally, every time I washed it, it would always rain within the week. It could go months without a drop, but as soon as my truck was clean, the sky would open and my hard work would be ruined. Within the last year or so I've come up with a way to beat the weather and for the very first time, I'm revealing my secret. Are you ready? I wash my truck in the rain and with the rain.

That's right, when it's raining and I feel like it's going to continue for at least a half an hour longer and my truck needs a cleaning, you can find me in my board shorts scrubbing away. I simply take a bucket with some car soap, fill it with water from a faucet and go to work. What's great about this method is I always get a spot-free rinse. I don't know how it works, but I leave my truck in the rain after I've lathered it up and when I come back and the sun is shining, the vehicle looks fantastic.

Being out there with the cold rain falling on a bare back can get a little chilly and I've even washed my truck this way in the middle of January. The latter was miserable, but it was worth the finished product. I've always wondered what my neighbors were thinking when they would drive by and see me washing my truck wearing only board shorts with it pouring down rain. They were probably thinking, "Smart kid."

So there you have it. The next time it rains and your car needs a cleaning, I recommend going the cheap route and use Mother Nature as your source of water. It's exhilarating to be so cold while doing a chore that most people hate doing. It's also fun wondering if you're going to spend the next week in bed with the flu.

June 10: Sandlot Baseball

There is a Church of Latter Day Saints about a mile away from the home I grew up in. When I was fifteen or sixteen, the church put in a baseball diamond for youth programs and church sponsored family events. I'm not a Mormon, but that didn't stop me from taking advantage of the fenced-in yard.

Since that field was built, I spent countless afternoons shagging fly balls, crushing home runs and playing catch with friends. I've since moved away, but the sandlot kid in me never left. I've convinced coworkers to join me on local fields for years now and no matter who I play with or how many people we get together, the fun factor remains high.

There's just something fantastic about getting out in the sun and tossing a baseball around. I love everything (with the exception of pitching to an invisible target) from warming up with a simple game of catch to running the outfield trying to make that Web Gem catch. It's such a simple activity without rules and everyone is simply at ease. There's a pitcher, a batter, and if we're lucky, an outfielder or two to throw the ball back to the infield. The players rotate positions until everyone's worn out. Nothing else. Beautiful.

Since those days on the LDS field, I've probably lost twice as many balls as I've found, but that never seems to matter. What matters is getting to let that energetic, innocent kid out of me. I could play every day and I only wish I was better so I could have played competitively in high school.

June 9: Killer Hat, Man!

The game had just finished and I had a hankerin' for some ice cream. Unfortunately, my supply was out and I was forced to walk up the hill to the nearest gas station to pick a pint up for myself. When I entered the store, I noticed that the Mexican attendant was wearing what looked to be a brand new Washington Nationals baseball hat.

The game I had been watching was none other than that of the Nationals and Pirates where Stephen Strasburg was making his highly anticipated Major League debut. He was absolutely dominant and worthy of the media attention he had been receiving for the past year or so.

I don't normally make a habit of talking to people based on what ball cap they happen to be wearing, but because of the coincidence of Strasburg's debut and the gas station clerk's hat, I thought I would engage in a friendly baseball chat. I grabbed my Blue Bell Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream and approached the counter.

"Did you see Strasburg's game tonight?" I asked casually.

The Hispanic man ignorantly smiled and shook his head while making some kind of nonsensical noise. "Are you a fan of the Nationals, or do you just like the hat?" I asked trying to save him from his embarrassment of being talked to like a human being. Again, he smiled like an idiot and with a goofy little chuckle he said, "hat."

I hate this thing people do with the baseball hats. I can't understand why someone would wear a $35 dollar hat with a team logo on it just because they like the style. I like the little leprechaun that Notre Dame uses for a mascot, but I don't know anything about the school or the athletics department. Sure, I got a pair of Fightin' Irish boxers after I saw Rudy, but that wasn't necessarily an article of clothing that could start many conversations.

You like the white curly W on a solid red hat? Why? Because it's the same W that Walgreens uses? If you don't know anything about a team, don't wear their gear. If you absolutely have to wear it, make sure you don't wear it on the team's biggest game. People that know a thing or two about the team will ask you questions about the game. You're going to have to answer those questions by responding that you don't know what they're talking about.

I can't tell you how many times I've approached a guy wearing a Padres hat in hopes that he would know that day's score only to be told that he just likes that hat. Really? An S and a D interweaving with each other? Yeah, it's spectacular, isn't it? It's such a revolutionary idea for the world of fashion. Do me and the rest of the sporting world a favor and wear a Quicksilver hat instead.

June 8: The Waiting Room

Jerry Seinfeld on being called in to see the doctor: "And then, they finally call you and it’s a very exciting moment. They finally call you, and you stand up and you kinda look around at the other people in the room. 'Well, I guess I’ve been chosen. I’ll see you all later.' You know, so you think you’re going to see the doctor, but you’re not, are you? No. You’re going into the next waiting room. The littler waiting room."

I can usually relate to this feeling of angst when I find myself in a waiting room, but sometimes I wish I had more time. Today I sat down on a leather seat in a local barber shop to wait for a trim when I noticed the most recent issue of Sports Illustrated in the magazine rack. The picture of the three USA soccer players was so big that it blocked out most of the magazine's title causing me to nearly miss it.

When I grabbed the issue, I didn't anticipate any articles worth reading. I'm not a soccer fan at all and I assumed that with the arrival of the World Cup, most of the magazine would be designated for the subject. I expected to just breeze through the pages and look at the pictures, but when I saw the MLB Draft Preview in the Table of Contents, the race was on.

I promptly turned to page 58 to read about the projected (and actual) number one pick, Bryce Harper. I read an article on the seventeen-year-old in an issue from last year so I didn't feel too much pressure to finish today's. I was more interested in the projected pick of the Padres and who they actually chose. It wasn't until I saw the side article on the Padres' first overall pick in 2004, however, that I really started to feel pressed for time.

The girl at the front desk told me that I would only have to wait for about five minutes and I had already been sitting there for the quoted time. Any minute now they would call my name and I would be forced to put the magazine down. I started speed-reading through the text which meant I wasn't retaining any of it. All I could think about was the fact that if I didn't read fast enough, I wouldn't get to the end. I think the story was about how the Padres neglected the work they had done in scouting the top prospects in that year's draft and went with a cheap local punk named Matt Bush. He went on to be a complete bust for the Padres and the other prospects are now big names in the Majors.

I finished the article before getting called to the chair, but I didn't get to read near enough of the Draft preview. If I hadn't planned on going for a row right after my hair cut, I might have stayed just to finish the reading. In fact, I did that a few weeks ago when I got my stitches out. I went back to the waiting room and finished an article about Derek Jeter, Andy Pettitte, Jorge Posada, and Mariano Rivera.

The point I'm trying to make here is waiting rooms with short waits shouldn't have good magazines. I don't know how one would regulate this, but someone should start figuring it out. I'm sick of feeling rushed in the waiting room and I won't put up with it any longer.