Anna and I have just returned from a few days meandering the lands of our youth, not unlike Trot Nixon, who roamed Fenway's right field during the wrong half-innings wearing a foreign uniform while his 7-sporting doppelganger JD Drew nearly cost Josh Beckett his perfect record. No, JD, we're not saying "Drooooooooo!" In fact, there was a classic member of Red Sox Nation a few rows back who wasn't saying anything I can print in a family newsletter. Apparently he hadn't heard that the home team was enjoying a 13 1/2 game lead over the Bombers at the time of our visit, or that we actually won this World Series thing recently, and maybe it's time to relax just a tad. Stil, the bulging vein in the side of that guy's neck had more pop in it than our $70 million right-fielder's bat. The gaggle of septegenarian hens behind us came to the conclusion that, "he's not fit to wear Trot's number." We concur.
Also on the agenda during our visit, various Maine-ly activities, including several little league outings featuring at least a handful of players showing more zing than the anti-Trot, and the week's other highlight, our lobstering trip on Friday morning. It's tough to take pictures when your hands are covered with herring guts, so I didn't get a ton of documentation on the boat, but we did pull up an egger or two. We V-notched her nice and legal-like (Maine lobstermen mark all egg-bearing females which, once returned to the water are never legal to catch. You can see this one's fresh notch on the second tail fin from the left...) and safely returned her to the deep with her precious cargo of future lobster rolls. But I had to document these two pregnant ladies together.
That's all from the homeland. Tune in next week as we kick off DC in June with some kind of celebration of ludicrous humidity. Might as well embrace it. Gonna be a loooong sticky summer.
