Father of the Year.

Like most parents do with their own kids, I sing silly songs to Grace all the time. Sometimes I make up lyrics and a tune, but since I really have little to no musical talent, I usually sing goofy new lyrics to existing tunes. Lately I've noticed an alarming tendency to sing clean lyrics to the tune of dirty songs that would never ever be appropriate to sing to my six month old daughter.

Examples:when making her bottle- Oh, me so hungry. Oh, oh me so hungry. Me eat for long time.

While she's really jumping in her bouncy seat-She's a very bouncy girl, who really loves her mama. She's Super Grace, Super Grace, She's Super Gracie.

Please, no one call Child Protective Services.

"Welcome to the Circus"

The only thing more improbable than the Caps' Game 7 win over the Rangers was the height of my leap off the couch when Sergei Federov scored the game-winning goal. My fat ass has not jumped that high in a long time. Amanda was afraid I was going to crash into something as I leapt over Grace's play mat(Grace wasn't on it) and took a lap around the kitchen silently screaming (so as to not alarm Grace). Think about it, a Caps fan, weighed on by the memories of past playoff failures, had to be an incurable optomist to think this team could complete the comeback against the Rangers. The Caps have compiled quite the greatest hits album of hope crushers before Tuesday night: Losing six out of seven game 7s. Peter Nedved. The Jagr Experiment. The Easter Epic. Last year's comeback falling short versus the Flyers. Too many blown three games to one leads. Esa Tikkanen. That's why Tuesday's victory, despite being only a first round series victory, feels so important.

The victory allows a fan base to breathe, once again aware that there is such a thing as Round 2. It allows the mind to fill with all the great memories of Caps past that make us love this team in the first place:Hunter "in alone" versus Philly in 1988. Al Iafrate blistering radar guns at the All-Star weekend. Dino. Bonzai hanging five goals on the Lightning. Kono, Dahlen and Halpern working the cycle. Godzilla carrying a team all the way to the Finals. Joe Juneau slipping an OT winner past Hasek that sent grown men shrieking like little girls.

It allows a fan base to dissect and celebrate a wacky series that joins a host of wacky playoff series in the Caps yearbook. The loudest arena I've ever been inside. Avery being such a douche that his own team benches him. Ovie adding to his highlight reel in Game 5. Matt Bradley grinding his way to not one, but two goals. Tortarella melting down and squirting fans when he was the one that needed to cool off. Bruce Boudreau having the balls to hand the helm of The Dissapointment Express to a kid goalie. Simeon Varlamov having the balls to right the ship and make Bruuuuuce look like a genius. A Tom Poti sighting. A Brashear suspension. (Deserved, by the way. Perhaps too severe, but definitely deserved.) Federov bailing out a tight team that was on the verge of a setback to reputation and development.

The danger here is that now, perhaps, the Caps breathe too big a sigh of relief. With a goal of simply improving on last year, which they have now accomplished, they are playing with house money. But they shouldn't be just "happy to be here" in Round 2. This team is good enough to go much deeper. If they don't, I will still be happy with this season. However, it will hurt like hell to go out to the Pens. That's why, instead of feeling like an end, the victory over the Rangers must feel like a beginning. The Caps slayed one Ghost of Playoffs Past by winning a Game 7. Now comes playoff nemesis Pittsburgh, a team that gives every Caps fan the heebie-jeebies. Somebody cue Ray Parker Jr.; there is more work to be done.

Caps, Beard Soldier On.

I honestly haven't been able to put together a cohesive post regarding the Caps' huge win over the Rangers on Tuesday. As a long suffering Caps fan it was almost too much to digest. I am shocked, elated, surprised and generally stunned that the Caps completed the trip back from being down three games to one. It's almost enough to drive the pessimist out of me. (yeah, right) I'll try to write something that makes sense in the coming days; until then enjoy this beautiful photo of my playoff peach fuzz. As you can see, it remains quite sad. Even sadder-this is the fullest, most robust beard I've ever grown. Ready for ZZ Top, I am not.

"The Pig Is a Filthy Animal"

I guess Jules from Pulp Fiction was right to not "dig on swine". The swine flu was pretty easy to ignore when it popped up in Elsewhere, USA. Now that a couple of probable cases have been discovered in Anne Arundel County, however, the hypochondria in me has slipped into overdrive. I know, logically, that if I take the same precautions as I would during a normal cold and flu season that I should be fine. Unfortunately, the hypochondriac doesn't think logically. With the evening news barking in my ear, I'll wonder which of the people I pass in the grocery store is about to give me this new influenza bug. Truthfully, I'm far more worried about Grace than myself. I'd hate for her to be exposed, but a bubble doesn't seem very practical. Do they make Popemobile strollers?

Daddy Blooper.

Have you ever spilled coffee all over the inside of your trunk because you folded and stowed the stroller without remembering that the wife's full cup of joe was still in the cupholder? No? Your car thanks you.

The Beard Lives Another Day.

Through some serious good fortune I watched tonight's game 5 of the Caps-Rangers series from the club level at Verizon Center. I still think I know how this series ends, but I didn't let that stop me from enjoying tonight. What a game.

*Muckers and grinders everywhere are celebrating tonight after watching Matt Bradley pot two goals in the first period. One was a sweet deke and the other a cheapie that found a hole. Both goals gave the Caps some early mo and kept the crowd revved up.

* That was easily the loudest game I've attended. To use the tired expression, the atmosphere was electric. From the opening draw the crowd was nuts; there was a sustained buzz that I had never heard in that building before. The Caps did not need their fake decibel meter tonight; you could barely hear after the first goal. The only hiccup was the dope that apparently poured his beer on Ranger coach John Tortarella. I have no love for Tortarella, however that's just classless. That is the kind of thing that you might expect in NY or Philly. Though it was hilarious watching Jim Schoenfeld wrestle Torts on the bench preventing him from whacking the fan with a stick.

*Speaking of classless, the Rangers scratched Sean Avery tonight. It looked like they missed his edge. I was hoping to see him play so I could see him freighttrained in person. Oh well. Colton Orr kept up the dirty stuff, though, with the his clotheslining of Nick Backstrom. Bruce Boudreau was smart to keep his stars on the bench for the last five minutes of the game. If the score in game 6 gets out of hand it might explode into a bloodbath.

*Alex Ovechkin scored another incredible goal. This video does it no justice, the in-house replay showed just how great it was. He shrugs off one defender (Drury, I think) who tries to hit him, pushes the puck through the moving skates of Derrick Morris, kicks the puck back up to his stick, falls down and pushes it past Lundqvist. Silly stuff. The fans move to the edge of their seats every time he touches the puck. And are rewarded way more often than you would think possible.

*Simeon Varlomov earned his second shutout of the series. He wasn't dominant, but made every play. Even after the game, during the celebration, as someone slid the game puck towards him, he casually flipped it away from the net with his glove. H wasn't going to let any pucks behind him tonight.

So, after all that, as great as it was, the Caps still need two straight wins to win the series. Likely? No. But after what I saw and felt otnight, anything seems possible.

I Know How This Movie Ends.

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Not Yet Soured By Playoffs Past.

Gracie and I were Rocking the Red during the third period of the Caps' 4-0 shutout of the Rangers last night. Look how intently she's analyzing the Caps penalty kill unit. Or perhaps she's looking for an escape route. Either way, I was loving it. (Also, for my sanity, I've decided to write no more Caps posts until this series is over.)

New Blog Alert

I've been meaning to post a new link for several weeks now. My beautiful bride is writing again, posting at With Grace. Hopefully you'll enjoy her tales of madcap adventures raising her cute kid and putting up with her incredibly handsome and brainy husband.

Rangers 4-Capitals 3

With two days until Game 2 of the Caps-Rangers, there is plenty of time to stew over game 1 and chew on the possibilties for game 2. In Game 1 there was a nice mix of the good, the bad and the so-so.

THE GOOD
-The Capitals' centers: The Caps centers dominated in the faceoff circle, winning 46 of 64 faceoffs. This helped the power play rack up zone time and led to several quality scoring chances right off of draws.

-The Caps' power play: 2 for 7 doesn't sound great at first glance, but 28% is a better clip than the Caps' PP (which ranked second in the league) operated at all season. Not to mention that the Rangers PK was top ranked by giving up goals at only a 14% rate. One reason the PP was successful was :

-Traffic: Guys went to the net and took the abuse necessary to disrupt Henrik Lundqvist. Tomas Fleischmann's deflection goal was a direct result of setting up in the meat grinder. Brooks Laich clogged the crease on the Caps' third goal, allowing Alex Semin to fire home the juicy rebound. Traffic in front of Lundqvist is a must if the Caps are to solve King Henrik. He's just too good when he can see the puck.

-Ovechkin:What more can be said about this guy? He was everywhere-hitting, earning two assists, firing shots from all over and completely undressing Rangers D-men a couple of times.

THE BAD

-Jose Theodore: Theodore said it perfect himself after the game, "I wasn't good enough." Theodore, or as Washington Post columnist Mike Wise has dubbed him, Jose Threeormore let the supposedly anemic Rangers offense pierce the net four times on only twenty-one shots. The first goal and fourth, game-winning goal are saves he must make. The second and third goals, both on the PK, maybe get a bit of a pass. They were both great, top shelf shots with the defense a man down. However, any goalie that wins in the playoffs makes those kinds of saves; pulling out a big stop when it seems unlikely can bolster the confidence of the entire team. Just as letting in softies can deflate an entire team.

-Jeff Schultz: One goal doesn't lose a game, but Schultz was front and center as he got embarrassingly turned inside-out by Dubinsky on the game-winning goal. Jeff Schultz is a big man who could put guys on their can but won't; in this case all he had to do was stay between Dubinsky and the goal. Instead, he follows the puck fake, steps to the outside and clumsily falls down as Dubinsky rolls by. You know who falls for that fake? I do. An uncoordinated, overweight rec league player who didn't start playing hockey until he was 19 years old falls on his face after biting on a lousy fake, not an NHL quality defenseman. Coach Boudreau on Schultz, "This is the NHL, you get beat one-on-one, you can't hide from that. That's not an error of anything than he didn't get the job done on that play."

-Penalties: Once again, the Caps managed to take two delay of game penalties for shooting the puck off the rink. Then they let a Rangers power play that ranked 28th in the league cash in on 2 of 4 chances.

THE SO-SO

Sergei Federov: He was great in the face-off circle but otherwise looked slow and off-kilter. Maybe he's dinged or maybe he's just showing his age. He also took one of the delay of game penalties.

-The Officiating: The Zebras weren't in top form tonight, missing a lot. On the Ranger's first goal two penalties should have been called on the Rags as they rushed up ice. Nik Antropov interfered with Fleischmann eliminating a back checker and super-douche Sean Avery slewfooted Mike Green at the blue line allowing Gomez to walk in unimpeded on Theodore. The refs also missed a high stick to Federov's mush early in the game and the linesman flat out blew the offsides call on an Ovechkin dash to the middle. The Caps did get a break, however, when the Rangers were whistled for a tripping call late when it looked like it was only Ovie's own momentum that made him fall.

-Flipping the Switch:There has been talk for weeks about whether the Caps could "turn it back on" when the playoffs started after playing meaningless games for a while. I would say that they did successfully turn it back on. They played hard, passionate hockey from the opening draw. They looked pretty sharp and stuck to their puck possession system, eliminating many of the odd-man rushes and general sloppy plays that characterized their last 10-15 games. Unfortunately, that still didn't translate into a win.

-The Playoff Beard: My beard is so-so to begin with, but now it seems extremely pointless. I believe fellow bearder Killer received an online message that simply read, "Shave your shit now, Dude." Hah! It's much too early for that. This a best-of-seven, damnit.

So, what does this all mean for Game 2? The obvious question is whether or not Boudreau should bench Theodore in favor of 21 year old rookie goalie Simeon Vharlamov. If you believe that playing Theodore means you are going to be in an 0-2 hole then you may as well give Vharlamov a shot. I prefer to think that Theo can bounce back. I also don't think throwing a kid with only 5 games of NHL experience into the Stanley Cup playoff frying pan is the best idea for his long term growth. Everybody must remain calm and let this thing play out. Nobody thought the Caps were going to sweep this series. Besides, if I may rationalize this loss away for a moment, the Caps are 6-13 all time in playoff series in which they one the first game. (I'm trying to ignore that they are 4-6 alltime when losing the first game). I said it weeks ago and I'll say it again- This team is good enough to win the Cup and has enough flaws (goaltending, defense,stupid penalties) to go out in the first round. I will root like hell, but I will not believe they will win this series until I see them shaking hands with dissapointed Rangers. Until then, I watch the series the way I always do-expext the worst, hope for the best.

Drool All Over 'Em, Let 'Em Know You're There.

Grace's teething stage has hit overdrive. Lots of gnawing, drooling, crying, drooling, sore gums and more drooling, yet only two teeth have popped through. I think one of these days she's going to wake up with five new ones at once. In the meantime, she's drooling so much that Jim Cantore is in my front yard setting up a live remote. I'd consider building an Ark, but I think Grace would gnaw through it faster than the termites.

In other awesome baby developments, Grace has started laughing. Not just grinning, cooing and squealing; she has delivered some full-on, cute as hell, HAHAHA belly laughs. Just not for me. I can earn the coos/smiles/squeals of delights, but no belly laughs. Amanda's the goddamn Richard Pryor of the family apparently, while Grace gets as stonefaced as Buckingham Palace guards at a Jim Belushi show when I try to make her laugh. Then, the other day, it got worse. Upon hearing some serious baby laughter I peeked around the corner to see Grace laughing at the cat. THE CAT. My nemesis, the cat, elicits hysterical laughter from my daughter where I cannot. I guess pooping in potted plants and pissing outside the litter box passes for funny these days. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go try to work up a hairball.

Maybe the World Isn't Such a Bad Place After All.

I think it is no secret that I am a skeptical, cynical, curmudgeonly pessimist. I've been known to utter the phrase "I hate people." because, well, I sometimes hate people in general. However, a small, but impactful event recently reminded that not everyone out there is a jackass.

Friday night found the family and a friend hanging out at the Barnes and Noble in Bowie, MD. We were feeding Grace at the Cafe (she just loves her mocha lattes) and she was being a little fussy. I try to be aware when the girl is loud (especially in a bookstore) because I am sensitive to the other patrons who don't necessarily find a wailing baby to be the perfect accompaniment to their coffee break. When Grace calmed down and completed her feeding I left her with mom and started browsing. I'll paraphrase the exchange I had with another customer because, though I've tried, I can't remember exactly what he said:

Older Gentleman: "Are you the dad?"
Me: (Immediately thinking he's going to give me a hard time about the noise.) "Yes."
OG: (Handing me a Barnes and Noble bag.) "Then consider this a gift from a stranger. You have a lovely family. Enjoy your baby."
Me: barely able to get out a stunned "Thank You."

After showing Amanda the gift, which was a small gift set from the book Guess How Much I Love You, we both went over and thanked him again and spoke with him (and his wife and granddaughter) for a bit. He simply said he was a grandfather who loved kids and that having babies around brought great joy (or something like that). I told him that gestures like his helped restore my faith in people. A brief exchange to be sure, but one that will stick with me for a long time. And one that hopefully I can use as a teaching moment with Grace one day. Sometimes, no matter how many amazing people you have in your life, it takes a stranger to shine a light on what's really important. Thank you, Sir.

Everybody Grow a Weirdo Beardo.

It's time for my annual exercise in futility:the playoff beard. Futile on one hand because the superstition has never helped the Caps advance beyond round one. Futile on the other hand because I can't grow a beard any better than your average eighth grader. But this year my ratty, patchy, peach fuzz could actually help people. The Caps are having a beard-a-thon to raise money for Capitals Charities. So good luck and happy growing! If you want to sponsor me go here .

Bowling Alley-Enemy of the Germophobe #2

Thanks to the cringe inducing feedback I received (some in the comments, but mostly talking to people) after my post on filthy hotel rooms I have decided to make The Enemy of the Germophobe a recurring series. I have no shortage of places and things that gross me out, so stay tuned.

Today's installment is that house of horrors known as the bowling alley. Let's start with the obvious-the shoes. Foot funk is gross. Community foot funk is really gross. Maybe when ordering shoes I need to specify that I want the size 13 pair not just turned in by the guy with trenchfoot. And don't tell me about the anti-bacterial spray they keep on the counter. That stuff is about as effective as the Orioles bullpen. One squirt in the heel is no match for the germs that lurk in the toejam neighborhood. And the guy half-spraying them wants to be holding those shoes about as much as I want to be wearing them. The sweet odiferous cocktail of foot sweat and pleather is more than enough to turn your stomach. If I want to smell old cheese at the bowling alley I will head for the snack bar.

Which, because I'm a dope, is exactly what I did last night because we were bowling around dinner time. There's a good chance (I hope) that this snack bar is cleaner than most drive-thrus I seem unable to avoid. However, at the drive-thru I can't see what goes on with my food. Which you would think would drive me nuts, except that my overwhelming need for saturated fat usually pushes the fear out of my brain. Anyway, back at the bowling alley's E. Coli Cafe I first get to witness the lack of hand washing after money handling. Then I hear "Ooh, good save!" and look up in time to see my frozen burger patty picked up off a shelf under the counter where it had landed after slipping out of the cook's hand on the way to the grill. I'm glad it didn't hit the floor, but I'm pretty sure that dark shelf must be where all the cockroaches hang out while the lights are on. "Excuse me, Mam, maybe you could sprinkle a few tainted peanuts and pistachios on the roll for good measure."

Finally, beware the dreaded finger holes looming on every ball. These havens of disease force the germophobe to weigh the pros and cons of wearing a latex glove when he bowls. Only the embarrassment of looking ridiculous keeps the gloves at home. Though, wearing one glove Michael Jackson-style really wouldn't look much sillier than those crazy wrist supports the serious bowlers wear. Think about it- how many nose picks, crotch scratches and wedgie pulls grace bowler fingertips just prior to picking up the ball? Nasty, right? Forget the ball polisher, I want my bowling alley to have an autoclave.

I love to bowl; the bowling alley, like the liquor store and the back room at the video store, is one of America's great melting pots. I just wish that I didn't feel the need to shower when I'm finished.

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.