Eponymous

I'm about to make a crazy analogy; no need to call me on it, I already know.  I hope you're not offended, but there's a great line in The Princess Bride, just as Buttercup is about to off herself in perhaps the most painful and savage suicide in history (seriously, trying to stab yourself in the heart?!), Westley pipes in with this gem: "There's a shortage of perfect breasts in this world.  T'would be a pity to damage yours."  Well spoken, sir.  It may seem odd, but that's how I felt about this last weekend.  Let's just say there's a shortage of perfect weekends, but this one was a Buttercup.

Let's start with this: I am easily satisfied when it comes to time off.  51 weekends a year I do my laundry and sleep until 9 am, and that's enough for me.  Anything beyond that is pure gravy (if gravy is your measuring liquid of choice.)  So the chance to see my beloved Texas Rangers in action, live and and in person, is an entire boat of Mom's world-famous gravy.  Back to back games?  That's an open-faced roast beef.  Me and my brother openly rooting for the Rangers at Safeco Field?  Insert your favorite food.

The brother, his wife, and rossnation... rolled into Safeco Field like a freight train on Saturday.  That is, if a freight train could pull off a Josh Hamilton jersey like the 'nation.  But as we all know, trains don't wear clothes.  And let me be clear, the best place in the world to watch a baseball game is Safeco Field.  End of story.  I understand that Fenway has more history, and Wrigley is the friendly confines, and on and on.  You can make a case for every ballpark (except Tropicana.)  But if you want comfortable weather, a pristine field, a good seat, and a nice selection of ballpark (read unhealthy) food, there is no contest.  Safeco doesn't even smell like forty thousand people.  They retracted the roof just before game time, it was 67 degrees, we had seats halfway up the third base line, and the smell of garlic was hanging in the air like delicious tear gas.  It is, quite simply, perfect.

I don't remember my first baseball game, but I'd like to think it was a lot like this.  I am still in awe of how green the grass is, the sharp contrast it makes with the cleanest dirt on earth, the chalk on the world's largest chalkboard.  Baseball didn't grow up, and neither did I, I just got bigger.  Which is why my heart still paused briefly when Ian Kinsler lifted his bat and took a mighty cut at the third pitch of the game.  The 'nation and the brother stood, almost in slow motion, the only ones in a sea of Mariners fans, and watched as the ball rocketed into the seats in left field, and I raised my glove in joy.  There is triumph, and then there is being alone in that triumph, as Grant and I were in that moment.  It's your first kiss, the birth of a child, the winning lotto number.  It's an elation so pure you could sterilize with it.  And then you get booed, and you do not care.

The Rangers won their tenth game in a row on Saturday, and it was never really in doubt.  Ian hit another home run in the eighth inning, and 30 thousand other souls went home with a brick on their hearts, but not us.  On Sunday Grant and I watched the Rangers win again from the comfort and anonymity of the box seats, easily the best view I've ever had of a baseball game, as long as you don't count my couch, which I don't.  We gorged on garlic fries (if crack was a starch), fish and chips, a 12 dollar hefeweizen, and the knowledge that the Rangers hadn't let us down.  It was a Buttercup of a weekend, and even the 5 hour drive back to Moscow couldn't have made it any less perky.

rossnation... out.

Super Ocho (as the Spaniards would say)

This is perhaps the most misleading business name ever; there is nothing super about this place.  On the one hand, I've stayed in some fairly janky motels in my day.  Like the one in Gardena, California, where I woke up one morning to find the hallway cordoned off because someone had been stabbed the night before.  Or the hotel in Bowling Green, Ohio with the carpet that smelled like... stuff.  And to be fair, my apartment isn't exactly the Four Seasons.  So I've got no beef with the Super 8 in Moscow: it's clean, it's got internet, and, most importantly, a flat surface to sleep on.  But it is not super.  In fact, I'm not even sure it's 8!

So why am I in a motel in the town I live in?  Natural disaster, act of God, the dangers of old buildings?  All of the above.  In a cruel twist of fate, my bedroom ceiling leaks when the upstairs neighbor uses her kitchen sink.  If I was in a romantic comedy, this would be how I met my soulmate.  I'd go upstairs to ask if she was setting up a swimming pool in the kitchen, and you can imagine there would be a lot of slow motion shots of her tossing her hair, and probably some uncomfortable stammering on my part.  Actually, that's kind of what happened, minus anything clever coming out of my mouth.  But honestly, Ryan Reynolds I am not.  (Tweet @rossconation to tell me who you think I am.)  

So the downside of this whole ordeal is I'm staying in a motel for a few days while they rip apart my bedroom to look for the pipe that's leaking, and then a few more days while they put my bedroom back together.  In fairness to my very sweet landlord, the real downside is that it will probably cost a pretty penny.  But, as we all know, landlords are flush with cash.

So what, you're asking, is the upside?  Well, permit me a wry smile as I tell you.  The upside to situation is this:  you cannot imagine the relief I felt when I realized that the ceiling was leaking onto my bed...  and that I had not, as I first thought, wet it.

rossnation... revlieved.  and out.