Hold the Swagger, Please.

LET'S GO! I'M READY TO KICK SOME ASS! I'M READY TO RUN THROUGH A WALL! THESE GUYS ARE DEAD MEAT!

Oh, hi. Sorry, I'm just a little too jacked up on testosterone thanks to my new deodorant-Old Spice Gameday. I don't see what naming something Gameday has to do with how it smells either, but this is where I ended up. You see, normally I try to find a deodorant that does not have an overpowering scent, like Old Spice Original. However, lately, at least in Annapolis and my shopping radius (though it is still listed on the website), I have been unable to find the Original scent of anti-perspirant/deodorant. (Hey, you got your anti-perspirant in my deodorant! No, you got deodorant in my anti-perspirant!) I have found the Original scent deodorant alone, but this sweat machine I call a body needs heavy anti-perspirant reinforcements in the battle against B.O. Some people think B.O. is rugged and manly; I do not.

Dissapointed that the Original scent anti-perspirant was nowhere to be found I set out to find the least obtrusive scent available. Unfortunately for me, the chemists and the creative folks at Old Spice think it's necessary for guys to have 42 deodorant flavors to choose from. Then they assign them some of the dumbest names. Scanning the shelf presents the same problem I have when trying to buy handsoap, Gatorade or a slushie-What do all these cheesy names actually smell/taste like? I'm popping off lids, sniffing away, trying to sort through Arctic Blast, After Hours, Showtime, Pure Sport, Pacific Surge and Mountain Rush. What no Boom-Boom Berry Blast or Coniferous Breeze ? Finally, despite the fact that after a game I sometimes smell like three day old garbage, I settle on the Gameday flavor. It has the least overpowering scent and, not that I really care, sounds a little manly. At least more so than Ski Slope or Foaming Surf.

So I get home, apply a few swipes of the new stuff and relay my tale to my wife who proceeds to snicker and tell me I smell like a woman. Thanks Old Spice!

Four Out Of Five Babies Enjoy Rice Cereal. Guess Who Does Not.

As the photo might suggest, Day One of the "Introduce Rice Cereal to Grace via the Spoonful Experiment" didn't go so well. While I'm sure she'll grow to love it and certainly will master the art of eating from a spoon, she was less than thrilled with the first attempt. This "Dude, get that camera outta my face." moment came between the "Why do you keep shoving that gruel-covered plastic thing at me?" moment and the "Just bring me the damn bottle like we usually do because now I'm really hungry!" scream. Good times.

Other notes from the baby battlefront:
*Now a few days in, the rice cereal seems to have increased the frequency, ferocity and volume of the poo. Yesterday as I was changing her, I swear I could hear Jeff Goldblum behind me saying, "That's one big pile of shit."

*Grace refuses to crap in a wet diaper. I know she holds it so she can purposely soil a fresh one and drive me up the wall. When she poos it is usually not five to ten minutes after she has been changed. I worry that my daughter will be singularly responsible for filling the world's landfills just because she enjoys tweaking her parents.

*As Grace has discovered that her hands are more than just things that hang at the end of her arms and that she can grasp, pull and push with them, she has turned into Sylvester Stallone at feeding time. When drinking from the bottle she'll throw some Over the Top move at me, jerking the bottle out of her mouth and nearly out of my hand. A strong little bugger that one is. The first few times it was cute and funny; now it has become a constant battle for bottle control supremacy. Unfortunately, due to her cleft I can't just cede control and let her hold the bottle. (I still have to squeeze the formula into her mouth.) There is probably some metaphor about fathers and daughters and never again having the upper hand floating around in the situation but I really don't feel like thinking about that right now.

With Spring, Comes Our Pasttime.

In preparation for his upcoming baseball season, I have been playing catch with and pitching batting practice to Z for the better part of the week. It has reminded me why I love baseball so much. Not the game of millionaires and steroid fueled meatheads (though I don't begrudge any of them their paychecks and Camden Yards is still one of my favorite places on the planet); no, I've been enjoying the simple game of baseball that can as easy as tossing catch in the front yard. Zipping the ball back and forth requires no thought, no words, no analysis. You can lose yourself in the sunshine, the smell of the glove, the snap of cowhide smacking webbing, in the repetitive, but beautiful simplicity of stepping and throwing.

Steve McQueen bouncing a baseball off the wall to while away his time in the prison camp cooler in The Great Escape is just one example of baseball symbolizing America. Whether Abner Doubleday truly invented the game on American soil is irrelevant. The game was cultivated here- on vacant lots and pristine green grass, by spending hours bouncing tennis balls off the front steps and by feeding tokens into the batting cage, by making wiffleballs dance on the breeze and by marveling at the majestic sleight-of-hand of a well turned 6-4-3 double play. And, often, just by fathers and children, teammates and buddies, coaches and players, havin' a catch in the yard.

That's More Like It.

I've been bashing the Washington Capitals pretty hard the last couple weeks, however, I'm happy to say I don't feel like doing that this morning. Even though Nashville drew first blood, figuratively and literally, the Caps played the way we all know they are capable and ended their four game losing streak with a hard fought victory. For the first time in a long time, the Caps put together a complete performance. Backchecking forwards helped the defense. Puck chasing forecheckers played the cycle game, grinding down the Nashville defense. And, miracle of miracles, the Caps' big defensemen actually hit someone. There were some big collisions all night, but none was bigger than Shoane Morrisson decking Jason Arnott square in the chest with his shoulder. The hit put Arnott on his ass and out of the game.

This game was fun to watch because it included everything that makes hockey great: a playoff intensity (Nashville desperate to make the playoffs, Washington desperate to break out of their funk), amazing goaltending (Theodore was good, Ellis was outstanding), two beautiful, tic tac toe goals from the Caps and three fun fights. Donald Brashear took a rare beating from Wade Belak and Matt Bradley looked like he'd been bobbing for razor blades after getting wailed on by Jordan Tootoo, but the fights seemed to energize the Caps. Washington outworked Nashville from end to end and solved Ellis just often enough to earn two points. Hopefully, they can put together another solid effort Thursday in Philly. I'm not ready to declare the Caps back, but man were they fun to watch last night.

Aging Hotel-Enemy of the Germophobe

I had the occasion to spend Saturday night in a respected but aging hotel in Ocean City. As a hypochondriac germophobe I'm not a huge fan of hotels to begin with, but when the room looks like it hasn't been updated since I was in junior high school I'm even more wary. (Which is pretty ridiculous because a newer, shinier, cleaner "looking" hotel can be dirtier than an old hotel, but whatever.) To the germophobe, a hotel room is a hazard zone fraught with peril. Thanks to Dateline NBC (bedbugs, blacklights and moldy carpet, oh my!) and my subscription to Staphylococcus Illustrated, I know what dangers await in the hotel room. I can take a shower in a hotel bath and not feel clean. Once, because I was staying by myself for the week on a work trip, I wiped nearly every hard surface in the room (including the tv remote) with antibacterial wipes. Upon entering a hotel room my OCD senses start tingling as my good sense does battle with the hat trick of unknowns-Who stayed here last, what godawful things did they do while here, and how well was it really cleaned by the housekeeper that makes five bucks an hour?

The first step, and I think all my germophobe counterparts hiding behind their surgical masks out there will agree, is always to remove the bed spread and toss it in the corner because I will have no use for that filth ridden rag for the duration of my stay. I only had to be told once that many hotels don't change the bedspreads between guests. I don't even know if it's true or not, but I don't take any chances. They are lucky I don't set fire to it upon arrival. One thing's for sure, I refuse to share a bed cover with Johnny SpankIt who just spent the down time on his business trip watching porn with the hand lotion nearby.

Once I disposed of the bedspread, a quick survey of the room netted a few other sights that immediately triggered the psychosomatic itching. Is that crusty red stain dribbling down the front of the nightstand drawer old pizza sauce...or dried blood? The stains on the exposed side of the boxspring guarantee that I won't be looking under the sheets at what other treats have been left on the actual mattress. And let's not even speak of the faded couch that was spotted enough that I didn't sit on it for fear that it might actually be sticky. I had to bite my tongue the next morning when my mother-in-law sat my infant daughter on the armrest to play. Good thing Amanda waited until we were on our way home to tell me that my mother-in-law had also dropped Grace's bib on the couch and then used it wipe the drool from Grace's mouth.

Maybe it's time to purchase an RV.

Again?

I made a vow to myself that my next post would be about something other than hockey or complaining about the Capitals. Consider the promise broken. The Caps' shitstink performances Sunday against Florida and tonight versus Carolina, plus the looming trade deadline, has pushed me into writing about them. Forget trades, GM George McPhee should be concerned with one thing tomorrow- How long is the heart transplant list? McPhee needs to be on standby with his little white and red cooler, ready to hop a chopper to whatever hospital fields an accident victim who doesn't pull through. Because if the Caps don't start playing with more heart they are the ones who aren't going to pull through. Standing around in your own zone while opponents bounce around like carnival acrobats is no longer acceptable. Giving up two shorthanded goals in one period is no longer acceptable. Leaving your inexperienced goalie hanging is no longer acceptable. Please George, prep the OR before this team flatlines in April.