Pour one out for Sheila

Today is what would have been my Mother's 70th birthday.  I'm going to celebrate this bittersweet event by going to a Civil War lecture with Brad and then returning home to pop the bottle of Perrier-Jouet* with Krishni in Sheila's honor. 

If you have a bottle of bubbly, pop the cork tonight, smile and tell a story about our classy lady.  If you have a fireplace and a copy of the Ned Devine soundtrack, all the better.  If you don't have a bottle of bubbly, for god sakes, go buy one.  You should always have a bottle of champagne on hand**.  

Sheila was a warm, smart, funny, compassionate woman who continues to be missed.  Happy birthday, Mom.  We all love you.

*Thanks Amber!
 **What's wrong with you?

Thanksgiving 2011

I LOVE Thanksgiving.  It is--by every calculation--my favorite holiday of the year.  Sure, I'm filled with childish glee come Christmas...who isn't?  Except for our friends of other faiths, of course.  Also, as discussed previously on this blog, Halloween is a truly special time to go barhopping.  And while it is not a government sanctioned holiday, the NBA draft absolutely should be, in my humble opinion.

However, none of these holidays holds a special place in my heart quite like Thanksgiving.  Why do I love Thanksgiving?  Because it is all about food.  No presents, no pressure; just eating and drinking.  And napping.  And football.  And family.

This Thanksgiving was a little bittersweet as it was the first major holiday without our beloved mother and her wonderful stuffing.  To lessen the pressure of the occasion, we all chipped in this year and it became sort of a Thanksgiving Potluck:  Dad made a Turducken, his famous gravy and the mashed potatoes, my brothers-in-law chipped in with stuffing and green bean casserole, Peggy made a spot-on Red Velvet Cake from my Mother's recipe, I brought the pies and Krishni made a truly bad-for-you batch of southern-style dinner rolls.

Of course, we all brought champagne. 

And god did we eat.  Over the 36 hours I was at my Father's house, I had probably 5 slices of pie and 2 slices of cake, two full meals of stuffing and gravy and, for ceremonial purposes and nothing more, a chunk of turkey. Clearly, I'm carb conscious. 

We also celebrated my adorable Godson's 2nd birthday with remote controlled cars and trucks, played with a bunch of toys at Toys R' Us, watched a ton of (bad) football, buried the kids in leaves in the unraked back-yard, saw the new Muppet movie--it was awesome--and drank a considerable amount of wine.

Considering this was the first major holiday without Mom, I consider it a smashing success.

Now, about the extra 10 pounds I am carrying around after the weekend...

Victory is Mine!

I won my fantasy baseball league!  Wait, Wait, strike that...I finally won my fantasy baseball league!

You see, for the last 6 years, I've been involved in various YahooSports.com fantasy baseball leagues.  Each year, I dominate the regular season, only to lose in the playoffs or, more often than not, the championship game.  I'm like the Buffalo Bills of Yahoo Sports.  Check it out:

2006:  John .316, 2nd Place
2007:  The Wookie Stompers, 2nd Place
2008:  Abe Vigoda's Boner, 5th Place (everyone else cheated)
2009:  Clown Baby, 2nd Place
2010:  Shark Week, 2nd Place

But finally, a team of mine broke through:

2011:  Fat Jesus, 1st Place

Woot!  Woot!

It wasn't easy though.  Turns out, my arch-enemy and best man Brad was my opponent in the finals.  A looooooooong while ago, back in March, Brad had the #1 overall pick in our fantasy draft.  Like any sane person, he drafted Albert Pujols with that #1 pick.

Seen here tattooing a ball into orbit

Not only did Brad luck into the #1 pick in our keeper league, he used it to draft the best baseball player (non-'roids division) of my generation. 

As luck would have it, Brad and I were locked in a virtual tie after a full slate of Sunday afternoon games.  There was just one game left in our fantasy baseball season--last night's Cardinals/Phillies matchup--to determine a league champion.  And, between our two teams, there was just one player active in that game:  Albert Freakin' Pujols. 

I won't bore you with the details but I had a .899 to .889 lead in OPS (On base Percentage Plus Slugging Percentage) heading into that last game.  And, after Pujols destroyed the very 1st pitch he saw 15 rows deep into the left field stands, I was suddenly down .899 to .907.  My only hope for victory was for Mr. Pujols to go hitless in his last few at bats.

He did, in fact, go hitless in his next 2 appearances heading into his final at bat in the 8th inning.  Brad was up 7-6 (categories-wise) and if I could flip OPS, I would win the league.  So, 6 months after we had all gathered at various computers around the city and country, our entire fantasy baseball league literally came down to one at bat.  It was simple:  If Albert reached base via a hit, a walk, or a hit by pitch, Brad would win.  If Albert made an out, I would win.

At this point, I was a little drunk and nervous and kinda shaking...I think Krishni was a little worried about me. 

Albert Pujols came to the plate in what would likely be his last at bat of the game and took strike one, ball one, missed at a pitch and...struck out!  "YES!  Victory is mine!  Wo-hoo!  Wait, why is he still in the box?  Christ, he fouled off that last pitch!  No!  Nooooooo!"

I have never in my life been more sure that a hit was forthcoming than at that moment.  I knew--deep down in my testicles--that Pujols was not only going to get a hit, he was going to deposit another one onto the left field concourse, making the recipient of that ball amazingly happy, as I chugged vodka in soul-crushing defeat. 

Happily, that was not to be.  On the next pitch, the greatest hitter of my generation swung and missed at a sinker, low and inside.  I screamed for joy, Krishni asked "What happened?" and I gave her an awkward high-five.  We popped the $12 bottle of "champagne" that she had purchased for the occasion and we shared some bubbly as I reveled in my victory and giggled for the next 20 minutes. 

Thank god for stupid shit.  What would life be without it?

Sheila

My Mother is dying.

There's no way around it:  she's been fighting cancer and the cancer is winning.  She was, after all, diagnosed with 4th stage colon cancer back in October of 2005...she really should have died a long time ago.  She's playing with house money at this point.  Doesn't make this any easier.

We got the word last week from her doctors that they were going to stop her therapy.  The good folks at Northwestern Medical have deemed that her treatment is doing more harm than good at this stage of her cancer.  They insist they are not giving up on her; they are just stopping the treatment.  With the typical "For now" caveat that gives hope to the family but at the same time, we know the score.

She will die.  Sooner rather than later.

Sheila is in good spirits, mind you.  Obviously, she doesn't want to die.  Who does?   But she knows how lucky she's been.  She has 5 kids that have gone on to live pretty amazing lives, all marrying "up", as my sister put it, and all raised in the reflection of Don and Sheila.  She has 9 grand kids that have filled her refrigerator with all sorts of cute pictures and photos.  She has a set of brothers that has assisted her every step of the way with visits, occasional dollars and general Irish levity that you just can't find anywhere else.  She has a wonderful community at Benet Academy, the High School at which she's worked for the last 31 years; they've been so good to her and us through all of this drama that it almost regains my faith in the Catholic church.  Almost. 

She has left her mark on so many students at the Academy that when I put out word that we were having a celebration for my Mom surviving cancer for 5 years, I was inundated with messages and emails from former classmates and kids that graduated years after me, most of whom I did not know.  People felt the need to celebrate her life and with good reason.

But this weekend will be different.  Most of her family will be in town for the 4th of July celebration in Lisle, Illinois.  We will eat Bubba Burgers, drink copious amounts of wine, laugh and watch fireworks glisten in the sky.  We will all hug and say our goodbyes on Monday but one goodbye will have an air of finality that the others lack. 

But we have some time left.  There will be time for more laughter, more hugs, more music, more champagne, more Ned Devine.

And damned if we're not going to enjoy that time.