At Week's End, The Weekend

You're probably wondering if Vanessa's "friend" Connie is her real name. Yes, it is. Long ago, when we first met, I asked Connie if she cared if I used her real name. She said no, everything about her is an open book. "You can look it up," she said. I've never Googled her, but maybe I should, because she's a little frightening.

Connie paid us a surprise visit last Sunday (the 9th). She said she would still until the end of the weekend, which to us meant that afternoon. She rephrased later and said, "until week's end," which to us was yesterday. It's Monday. She's still here.

She's not staying with us. Vanessa has a rule that beginning February 14th, we do not have guests stay at our home until the end of baseball season. This rule has been in effect ever since I was with Chicago and we had that remarkable run back in 1993. My first ring, Chicago's first in 80-something years... Unforgettable.

We lived outside of Chicago then, in Lake Forest. The relatives, the old friends, the acquaintances... they all came out of the woodwork that year, asking for tickets, a place to stay, signed memorabilia - you name it. I think the night before Game 7 we had 10 people staying over in addition to Vanessa, the girls and me. Not a comfortable situation when you're scheduled to pitch that night in 35 degree weather, the biggest game possibly ever in my life, and I'm home that morning wondering if Cousin Todd was smoking in my backyard and flicking his butts onto my lawn (he was).

Since then, nobody stays over. They can sleep in a tent at a nearby campground, or in an RV somewhere (not in our driveway), or in a hotel. Connie stayed in a hotel this week. All week. She's there now, but probably enroute as I type this. She would have liked to stay over. It's easy to tell someone wants to spend the night when you have to literally push that person out your door at 11pm (Vanessa claims she gave a friendly shove - I was already in bed).

Not sure when she's going home, but Vanessa is exhausted. Two weeks of spring training left before the season starts. We'll be back in New Jersey soon enough, and Connie lives just three houses down. Vanessa gets enough of her when we're home. I'm just happy I have a reason to leave the house alone every day. But Vanessa is stuck. Got a charity thing? Connie can help. Need to go food shopping? Connie will push the cart. Need to slit your wrists? Connie will be ready with rags to clean the blood off the floor.

Yeah, sick stuff. So, does Connie know I'm writing this stuff about her? Here's the weird thing: Yes. She does. She reads this blog every day. She comes over and quotes lines to Vanessa. Vanessa, who only scans this a couple times a week at the most (looking to see what I've said about her), thinks Connie likes the attention. So am I helping or hurting? Should I commit to a news blackout of Connie? Not sure what that would prove. She'd probably keep reading, waiting to see her name in print. I can write about her more often. No, she'd enjoy that too. I asked Vanessa. "What should I do?" She just held out her wrists and said she had no idea. I was pushed aside suddenly, as Connie came bounding out from another room, rags in her hands, ready to wipe up my wife's sacrificial blood.