Baby Its Cold Outside...

Okay. So not THAT cold. But a drop from 74 degrees at 9 am to below 50 degrees by noon coupled with Mom cleaning out the closet made for a prime photo op.

Even Emma, the child who refuses to wear hats, had a smile on her face.

We really had a great weekend. Mom Heff came down and visited. The girls were the last of the grandkids who had yet to go to the pumpkin farm with "Rah-Rah". Erin and Maddie enjoyed the hayride, we picked out two pumpkins (the "brewers" one ended up as a traditional jack o lantern while the other displays its Tiger pride), and headed out. It was a good time, although the girls didn't quite seem to get the whole concept.

There are so many lovely sights this time of year.

Emma on the phone to her pumpkin broker?

"My, you are a small one, aren't you?"

"And then, the little one looked at me while you cut its top off!"



The other benefit of this little trip by Mom was that Erin and I were able to thoroughly enjoy the high school's dinner auction that night. Arriving early to hang out with some of the teachers, we wandered downstairs and perused the goods. I made the initial $30 silent auction bid on the signed Vince Young jersey. I can't believe I didn't end up with it! What a gyp! We did however have a blast dancing the night away with our friends from the staff. And nothing livens a party like the old man who teaches Spanish dancing with a bottle on his head. Priceless!

Kim and I throwing up gang signs. "I'm gonna break your dawgs!"

Odie, Jeff, Karner, and I at the "after party" downstairs. Good times. Good times.

The baseball coaches...Karner, Janetzke, and Wilke Texas Ranger.

Me and my hot date.

As we bundle up, another shout out to Aunt Mary and her Rockies as they keep rollin' over everyone in their way! Go ROCKS Go!

(The ball is now in your court, Kathryn Marie. Blog, gosh darn it!)

Fight Club...

It was a dark and stormy night...

Well, at least it was dark.

After supervising the Homecoming dance with several other of our fine faculty, we all decided to celebrate a relatively uneventful night with a couple of adult beverages at a local establishment.

Upon arriving at one of our "usual" spots, we came to find out that this once proud watering hole had gone the way of the MTV generation by sponsoring a local DJ to blare profane music in a tiny room making conversation, even our own thoughts being heard nearly impossible. After watching a few of the patrons do some stupid human tricks (involving their barstools, heads, and the ceiling fan above their table) we decided to try our luck out on the deck in the front. We found it rather delightful to be able to place audible signals with the visible movements of one another's mouths. After about 15 minutes, one of my colleagues heard a song coming from inside that I had just finished dancing with the kids at school. It was a sort of "electric slide" (I believe the kid's call it the "cupid shuffle") to which I decided I would honor my friend's request and give the whole group something to laugh about. (Author's Note: Anyone who knows me will agree that such outlandish behavior is not necessarily an indicator of how much I have partaken in the beverages.)

As I began my "groove", I noted that all the teachers there were staring in my direction, but not at me. Rather they were trained on something behind me. Clueless to the focus of their attention, I heard a voice to which I could not place an identity. As I turned around, there was a face, barely peering over the railing, leering at me. Standing about 5'7", 160 pounds was a shirtless, red ball cap tipped to the side, tatooed, pierced punk rocker wannabe look alike (Travis Barker for those of you familiar with Blink 182) See photo below for reference.


Apparently the dumbfounded look on my face was cause enough for this passerby to begin his diatribe...

"Yeah. You like that? You like that?....You like that? Where you at? Where you at? Where you at?"

Apparently everything this young man does is in threes. But he wasn't done. And none of the seven of us had moved or said a word. Then came the kicker. The piece de resistance...

"I'm gonna break...your...dawgs."

At this point none of us knew what to do. Do we laugh out loud as we wanted to because this guy was just messing with us and wanted to join in the fun? Apparently his girlfriend was embarrassed enough to try to pull him away from the deck and he wandered down the street, not to be heard from again.

A surreal experience, one you probably had to be there to appreciate, but at least now we have a catchy slogan for our faculty t-shirts this year!

Rock On...

No Tigers.

No Brewers.

No problem.

The baseball gods smile on us once again. Ever since we moved to Texas, the Major League playoffs have given me at least one sentimental favorite to cheer for.

In 2004, you had the St. Louis Cardinals (my brother in law's team), the Houston Astros (my new "hometown" team), and who couldn't root for the Boston Red Sox as they vanquished the Evil Empire.

In 2005, you had the same National League players, but by this time all of the Red Bird fans had become a little much to stomach so I had to pull for the "hometown team". Of course, my other brother in law's team felt the need to rip out the hearts deep in Texas. The Pale Hose had their moment in the sun.

In 2oo6, could it be true? Could the baseball gods really be on our side? The Tigers fended off the vaunted Yankees and then throttled the Athletics. Alas, we would bow to those pesky Cardinals. But man, oh man. What a ride.

So what would 2007 bring? The boys from Motown brought expectations, the guys in Brewtown brought potential not seen in some time. For most of the months that followed it looked as if we would be able to enjoy an indian summer. But alas, that would be the cruelest pun. October was welcomed as the official start to football season.

But wait!

What light through yonder window breaks?

It is the Wild Card! And the Colorado Rockies are the sun!

I know if Aunt Mary wasn't actually in the "Rock Pile" losing her mind, she was somewhere near a television or radio acting the part of the fool. And why not. She's a loyal fan. She deserves this moment.

Of course, the baseball gods couldn't let a playoff go by without holding my interest. They must have know this was the only way to keep me in the fold. Otherwise, why would I stay up until close to midnight, losing my mind as Jorge Julio blew the game in the 13th, or as Kaz, and Tulo, and Holliday all took their place among the other glorious...Rockies...of the...past? I digress. Why? WHY I ASK should I be waking my wife as I thrust my fists into the air when Matt Holliday took his memorable nose dive into playoff history?

Because, I. AM. A ROCKIE. (via Aunt Mary.)

So FIGHT ON, Matt Holliday!

Strike 'em out, Jeff Francis!

Manage...um...well, Clint Hurdle!

Beat the Phillies! (Mets fans everywhere are behind you, right Anne?)

Rock On, boys. Rock On.