Softball Tournament with the Rad Sox and the Pacific National Exhibition (PNE)

“The goats have been sucked.”
That was how the Rad Sox season wound up Saturday afternoon. We started off the season with a fairly inspirational rallying cry before each game. However, as our less-than-stellar season progressed, the cry degraded to: “Don’t suck goats!”
Why goats? Dunno. It was Amy’s idea. We found it funny, and it put our games into perspective — don’t take it seriously. This was a good thing, considering how bad we usually lose. In our entire season, playoff games included, we stand at 24 games played, and only two wins.
Yes, two.
Why? Well, we were playing in a league with people who were (approximately) our age, unlike the “Old Sweaty Fat Guys” league the Sox were in last year. This, naturally, made them better than those in the “OSFG” league. We also had a problem of getting our key team members (i.e. the good players) to show up on a regular basis. This is partly the reason we lost all three of our games on Saturday.
Triple headers hurt. Especially if they start at 8:00am. I pulled myself out from under the sheets at 7:07am, and managed to trudge my way into some clothes and get down to the car. Because we had to be at our field at 7:40 (so dictated by our coaches), I wanted to give myself a fair bit of leeway. It took (usually) 30 minutes to drive from Metrotown to Kerrisdale (where Allison used to live), so I figured on about 20 minutes.
Even with a stop at Country Style to grab a dozen doughnuts, I still arrived 10 minutes early. No-one else showed until about 10 minutes later, during which I began to wonder if I was on the correct field. (I was, of course.)
Our first game was against our arch-rivals, the Bladerunners. We don’t much like them. They’re really annoying. Their coach uses a kid’s toy megaphone. It’s annoying. Their first baseperson starts off every inning with a “Three up, three down, Bladerunners!” in a fake gravelly voice. She’s annoying. And although we creamed them 24-7 the last time we met, we lost by six runs. That was really annoying.
Our game ended at 9:35, which meant we had just under four hours until our next game. It was time for breakfast. I headed downtown to meet the others for our morning meal. In the end, only Jonn and I ate, the others opting to work. (We’re on tight deadlines — two of our games are attempting to get out the door.)
I returned to the office following breakfast to wait out the remaining hour or so by playing video games. Not even through my first lap in “Need for Speed III”, my phone rang. Allison was looking for her parents.
The Collins’ were coming over for the weekend to go to the PNE … and watch the Rad Sox lose two softball games. They were supposed to call Allison when they got downtown, before boarding a bus to Oakridge Mall (which is close to the baseball diamonds we were playing at). Allison was concerned that they were lost (even though the Collins’ had travelled through Europe all on their own), and she was going to go find them. Thinking this wasn’t such a good idea (the Collins were to call our apartment, so I wanted Allison to stay), I offered to go look.
I cut my game short, hopped in my car, and headed out to Oakridge. I parked at the Safeway (the Collins were supposed to be waiting there), and walked inside. No sooner had I reached the entrance to Safeway inside the mall did my phone ring. In fact, I was holding it in my hand, and had already dialled the first four digits of my home phone number. It was Allison. The Collins had called. They were in the food court.
I waited with the Collins while they ate lunch, but had to head out to the ball park before Allison arrived. Even then, Allison and her parents were virtually right behind me, arriving mere minutes after me.
Our second game was up against the Paper Kings. We like them a lot better than the Bladerunners. Very nice people. We had to borrow a player from another team (one of the nice people from the Bladerunners) because we were short a woman — we have to have at least three on the field at any time. We played a very close game, ultimately losing by only a couple of runs. Barb (our borrowed player) was dying in the field towards the end, desperately in need of a toilet. No sooner was the last out called that she took off across the field towards the washrooms, somehow still managing to cross her legs at the same time.
Our third game was against the Tubeworms. They’re competitive. Not as bad as #69 on the Rippers (who would win the coveted “Jerk of the Year” award, if we had one in our league), but they just creamed us. Well, at least as much as a maximum of 10 runs can be considered a creaming. (League rules have a 10 run lead maximum during playoffs. There are a lot of weird rules in our league.)
We sucked goats. Our last game was the worst of the three. Probably because we were exhausted — physically, and emotionally. You can only take a beating for so long before you become really frustrated. I know I was frustrated — my last up to bat of the year was a pop-fly after two horrible fouls. It put me in a pretty rough mood for the rest of the day.
The next day was our trip to the PNE. We wanted to be there for the opening of the gates at 10:30 so we could quickly get into the PNE prize home. Every year since 1934 (not including the war years, when the PNE was used as a training camp and Japanese-Canadian internment centre), the PNE has offered a prize home. This year’s home is the largest ever offered: 4,189 square feet. It’s freaking huge. And frankly, not all that exciting. I’ve seen better. Like last year’s home. But it had a few design features we took away for use at a later date.
We ventured through the “As Seen On TV” building, where you can literally buy nearly anything you’ve seen advertised on TV. It’s usually packed full of people and really annoying demonstrations offered by people wearing hands-free microphones with solid understanding of the human need to buy useless junk. Okay, that’s a bit harsh, there are useful things in there, but you have to look for them. Like the fudge.
We wandered around a bit, eventually finding ourselves at the Pig Races. We couldn’t actually see them, however, as there was a tremendous wall of people surrounding the spectacle. We continued on to the Petting Zoo. Mr. Collins looked like a little kid as he got in line.
The Zoo is small — a gazebo about 30 feet across. Inside are chickens of various breeds, goats (old and young), sheep, donkeys, pigs, rabbits, chicks, ducklings, a couple of llamas, and lots of children. The animals are surprisingly content with people touching them all over.
Following our visit with the kids, we took a short hike through Hastings Park. This is the fate of the PNE. Although the PNE has resided in its current location since 1910, the city of Vancouver is slowly converting it into an actual park. We saw Phase I for the first time this year — a second of ground that had been dug out for large ponds that had once been part of the midway. Over the next three years, most of the park will be torn up and replaced with trees and grass. The PNE’s days are numbered.
You may be asking: “Why?” Simple answer: There’s no park on that side of town. More complicated reason: Although the PNE is the largest 4-H event in North America, it’s agricultural roots are beginning to die away — it’s really not the best place to hold these sorts of things anymore. There’s been talk for years of moving the agricultural events to Abbotsford, and the fair to Delta. At the moment, it’s only talk. The ultimate fate of the PNE is unknown, since no-one in government seems capable of making up their minds. It’s possible that in the struggle to sort all this out, the PNE might be brought to a final close.
After lunch, we visited Hastings Racetrack, to watch the horses. I’d never been to horse racing before. I don’t have any great desire to go again. Don’t get me wrong — it’s (a little) fascinating to watch, but after two races, you get the general idea. Unless you’re into the betting aspect of it, there’s not much pull.
It was then over to the Techni-Cal Superdogs show. We’d gone to the one last year, and thought it was pretty neat. This years show was, well, I leaned over to Allison just as the lights dimmed and muttered: “Let the cheese begin.”
The show was held in the Pacific Coliseum, formerly home to the Vancouver Canucks. It was dubbed “Hollywoof”, and featured the “race to the moon” — a doggie obstacle course that pitted one side of the coliseum against the other. My frustration from the day before seeped back in as our side kept losing races.
Sometimes, I think I’m not cut out for competition sports.
The highlight of the show was a race between a 160-pound Rottweiler and a one-pound ball of fuzz, called Hiccup. The ball of fuzz won. The low point of the show was the introduction of the leader for the blue side (our side of the coliseum) — Captain Woof. He was described (rather accurately) by the leader of the red side as a “Village People reject”.
Following the show, we went to see the Main Gate Theatre show. This was a production about the past 89 years of the PNE. It’s a musical, performed by four people (two men, two women) who appear to be theatre students. They’re pretty good actors, and decent singers. One of them looked a little like Gerry, but enough that I knew that it wasn’t him. Besides, I’ve heard Gerry sing… (Just kidding, Ger!)
Then it was a race down to the Pig Races. Mr. Collins and I cut through a few hundred people and managed to save four seats on the bench to watch the races. The track is simplistic, a horseshoe-shaped track with a pool of water and a slide in the middle (this is for the duck races).
Richard runs the thing. He started this many years ago, and spends most of the year touring with pigs and ducks. He told us that every May, he makes the trip from Woods Hole, Arkansas to Manitoba to collect four racing pigs. He then trains them (which he claims ain’t difficult) and takes them on tour.
Pigs run pretty darn quickly. In fact, the actual race takes about 10 seconds. If that. So in order to make a show out of it, Richard also races ducks. They don’t race the same distance as the pigs — they go about a fourth of the distance, then up a ramp and down a slide into a pool of water.
Then the pigs come out. Unlike the ducks, the pigs have names, such as Hammy Fay Bacon (Tammy Fay Bakker). Then the gate opens, they tear around the track, up a ramp at the other end, whip down the front of the cages to a dish containing exactly one mini-donut. That’s what the pigs race for. Frankly, I could understand that.
I understood that so much that the first thing I did after the race was buy a bag of mini-donuts. They’re not quite as tasty as the Tiny Tom Donuts at the CNE, but they’re pretty darn close.
After we pigged out on the mini-donuts, we headed out to get a hat. Bank 1, making a foray into the Canadian credit card market, was offering hats if you signed up for their card. This was when I temporarily lost the Collins’.
I had to make use of the facilities. I raced in, telling the Collins they could keep going and I would catch up. When I came back out moments later, I couldn’t see them. So I raced into the “As Seen On TV” building to find them. I raced around for about ten minutes, somehow managing to miss two of them twice, before spotting Mr. Collins looking for me.
Our PNE visit came to close. I was thankful for that — the lower half of my body was about ready to fall off. My legs were still reeling from the punishment I’d dealt them the day before. Allison’s feet were threatening to go on strike, so it was good timing on a whole.
Undoubtedly, you may be wondering why it’s been a month since the last Observer’s Log. I’ve been busy. Really, really busy. With several major projects on the go at any one time, I haven’t had a lot of energy to whip one of these off. Not to mention that Allison and I have been laying low since the last weekend of July, to try and cope with the stress.
However, it’s high time for an update, so I’m sending one out. Hopefully, they’ll be a bit more frequent from now on.

Wayne Gretzky, The Great One, Retires

The shock came Thursday night, when I accidentally ran into the press conference while flipping channels — Gretzky was going to retire.
I couldn’t help but think to myself: “Wow.” That was about all I could think of — this was a man who had been a name brand since I was seven years old. I remember reading my Owl Magazine in 1979, reading about some young hotshot about to enter the NHL, to play for some team in Edmonton.
Two decades later, he left the NHL, taking his number with him — 99. Some say he was the greatest player who ever lived, some say he was the greatest player who will ever live. I say that when all’s said and done, Wayne Gretzky is The Great One.
I watched the official announcement on Friday at work (we have TVs all over the hallways, which are regularly tuned to TSN or SportsNet — used to be ESPN, but we don’t like them anymore). We discussed amongst ourselves just what this announcement really meant to the world, and to each other.
When Gretzky entered the league, it was a popular sport — mostly in Canada, and to a lesser degree, the States. Suddenly, this kid started tearing things apart. In a few short years, he brought the Oilers, previously thought of as some hick start-up, to victory in the Stanley Cup. Gretzky had made his mark — only he wouldn’t stop there.
He kept going, and making marks wherever he stepped. The name Gretzky is synonymous with hockey … or perhaps, is hockey synonymous with Gretzky? Either way, both are changed for life. And Gretzky’s marks will probably never fade. The league is more likely to fade before The Great One’s legend.
He is a legend, you know. His name is spoken in hushed tones when he enters a room. Kids (especially those playing hockey) are left wide-eyed and wide-mouthed should they ever see him in public. And with his seemingly doubtful return to hockey (or so says his father), his feats will be exaggerated, his skill embellished, and perhaps even his name dropped, until we know only of “The Great One”.
In the meantime, the NHL is in trouble. Like when the NBA lost Jordon, the NHL is without the best ambassador it had for decades. There is no-one to pick up the torch. Sure, Jagr and Kariya have both been listed as the two most likely to become the “next” Great One, but they can never come close to being like Gretzky.
Gretzky had presence. He had humility. He had patience. And above all else, he played for a team … not for himself. There is no-one playing hockey with those qualities. Perhaps in a few years, Gretzky may start coaching — maybe then he’ll train someone properly. But until then, the NHL will remain boxing on ice, with no-one to show what skill can do for the game.
Saturday provided us relief from hockey, so that Allison and I could prepare ourselves for a later period in our lives. We babysitted (babysat? — aye, there’s the rub) for our friend, Kelly. And I mean baby — six months old.
This we did as a favour, not because we really wanted to babysit — we had a lot of other things we needed to do that day. But in the end, it served as good practice for me. (Although, thankfully, I didn’t have to change any diapers!)
Gemma and mother appeared at about 1pm. After some quick instructions and presentation of Gemma’s things, Kelly quickly ducked out the door, and left her pride and joy in our capable hands.
Okay, in *Allison’s* capable hands. Mine aren’t quite so capable.
As was demonstrated when I decided it was time for Gemma’s lunch. You’d figure that somewhere along the line, instinct would lead you to want to eat. Through all my psychology courses, they told us about how repeated action leads to learning — you eat a few times, you’d think you’d remember how to eat. But no: “That spoon is a foreign object, and you gotta be kidding me if you think I’m gonna eat any of that Pablum, pal!”
I got more of the Pablum on her face than in her mouth.
After a little while, Gemma suddenly figured out I was giving her food. Suddenly, she couldn’t get enough. I was fighting for control of the spoon, holding the plate in place, and desperately trying to shovel as much Pablum and liquified squash as Gemma’d take. Then Allison took over for a while. After a few minutes, Gemma stopped eating.
That afternoon, we realised why parents relish nap time — babies pass out, and stay that way for a few hours. We really noticed this when Gemma got up — she wasn’t too pleased about it.
Kelly arrived just after 5:30 to remove Gemma from the premises, along with Allison’s old computer (having agreed to buy it).
We were exhausted, and weren’t too keen on cleaning up so we could make dinner. So we went out to a nearby restaurant called (are you ready for this?) the “Seafood Shack”.
Yeah, I know what you’re thinking — sounds really classy, doesn’t it?
We didn’t know what we were getting into, but with an Entertainment Book coupon (allowing for a 2 for 1 special), we thought it was worth a try. We were quite pleasantly surprised: The decor was decent (furnished in late IKEA), the service was outstanding (except for how long it took to get the bill), and the food was … well, if you come to visit, we’ll take you there and let you judge for yourself.
Allison dined on blackened Louisiana catfish on linguini, and having sampled a few pieces, I can safely say that it was very tasty. I opted for the Seafood Risotto. This was a wonderful melange of clams and mussels (both in the shell), with scallops, shrimp, and a thick, flavourful tomato sauce. The presentation of both dishes was exquisite.
Sunday brought the day that most Canadians wish didn’t have to come — Wayne Gretzky’s last game. And for the blasphemy of all blasphemies, we didn’t watch the game. We had a good reason, though — we had to do all the errands we couldn’t do the day before (on account of having a baby temporarily disrupt our lives). But fear not — we did watch until the first commercial in the first period.
And for the record, I would like to state that I accurately predicted the NHL’s decision to unilaterally retire the number ’99’ from all teams. It actually brought a tear to my eye.
Gretzky is gone, and hockey will never be the same. I have found that I do want children, but not for a few years. I will now eat a lot more seafood than I would normally admit to. Maybe next time, I’ll be the one to change the diaper.

Touring in and around Victoria

Our long weekend started Thursday night, when Allison’s company decided to hold an employee appreciation event at Metropolis (an entertainment-centric mall a couple of blocks from our apartment). Interlogic was springing for two hours of video games at Sega Playdium, and then dinner at the Rainforest Cafe.
We didn’t find out about these plans until Wednesday night, so I was unable to make the video games (already having made plans to the “The Matrix” with some of my co-workers). However, I made an effort to drop by for dinner.
This was the first time I’d met Allison’s new co-workers, and most of them seemed very nice. Claire, in particular, was extremely cordial — but since she’s the HR manager, I guess that’s to be expected.
When we returned home, we made our final decision to go to Victoria for the weekend. We had tentative plans for some time, but we based our final decision to go on the fact that Allison’s grandmother was in the Royal Jubilee Hospital in Victoria. Her grandmother had been the focal point of the Collins/Vailmont Easter for about 30 years, and it just seemed wrong not to come over and cheer her up.
(As you may recall, we were in Nanaimo last Easter, engaged in Easter egg hunts in the grandparent’s yard. This would be the first year in about three decades where the hunt would not happen.)
Early Friday morning, we hauled ourselves out of bed, and hit the road to Tsawwassen. Because of the Easter weekend, BC Ferries were running trips every hour, instead of every two hours, which was the norm. This was good for us, since we didn’t need to worry about missing a sailing … which we did.
Arriving about ten minutes too late to make the 10:00 sailing, we parked the car and opted for a late breakfast — pizza. But this was no ordinary pizza, it was *breakfast* pizza: Eggs, onions, ham, green peppers, cheese, but no tomato sauce. It was surprisingly tasty, and fairly expensive. If they made announcements, it would go something like this:
“Your attention, please. BC Ferries is happy to charge you exceedingly high prices for low-quality food that you will buy because you are hungry from trying to get here on time not to miss a sailing, or your children are begging you into submission…”
We made the 11:00 sailing with no trouble.
We sailed across on the Spirit of British Columbia, the largest short-distance ferry in the fleet (another larger ferry carts passengers up the coast, which is an overnight trip). It’s a massive vessel, about the size of a small cruise ship. It makes the trip fairly enjoyable … at least if you don’t suffer from motion sickness.
Procuring a seat in the corner of the cafeteria, I ran cover by buying some snack food while Allison worked. BC Ferries doesn’t take kindly to people sucking up table space, so I made an effort to make them think we were eating … just really really slowly.
Arriving in Victoria, we found it was raining. We had hoped that the weather would be nice for a change, but the generally poor weather was following us around. And no, before you think it, one does not get used to continually bad weather; one gets increasingly irritable.
After a short drive into Victoria, we headed over to the Royal Jubilee Hospital to check in with the family elders. After parking, we wandered inside, and attempted to find Allison’s parents. We knew they were there — Allison’s Aunt Robin drives a very recognisable car.
Luckily for us, we ran into Robin on the second floor, while attempting to find the washroom. Allison’s grandmother was pleased to see us, as were her parents. We visited briefly as a pair, then ducked into the TV room.
We stayed at the hospital until around 6:00 or so, at which time we headed over to Robin’s apartment for dinner.
We slept on the floor that night, a probably-not-so-great idea. I woke with a stiffness bordering on rigor mortis, Allison not better off. But we grinned and bore it, and had a leisurely breakfast with Robin, Allison’s parents, and her grandfather.
The morning was significantly brighter than the previous day, the sun having actually shone through for a change. After a quick visit to the hospital, we opted for a tour of Victoria. Okay, maybe not *really* a tour — we had been there before, after all — but it was a good excuse to go out.
We drove downtown, parking on a side street near the Eaton Centre. We had only an hour (the parking meter went no further) to wander about. So we wandered … right into Roger’s Chocolates.
Roger’s is a mainstay in parts of BC — it’s an old company, specialising in some very tasty treats. It’s like Laura Secord back east … only better. Our mission was to obtain Easter chocolates for the family — this was not going to be a typical Easter, so we thought it better that we make an effort to do something special.
After our romp through the chocolate shop, we walked around the harbour area, wandering into The Empress hotel. We checked out the prices of the lunch menus, suffered sticker shock, and proceeded back outside again.
After moving the car to a less time-dependent location (a very cheap parking garage), we hopped out to find some lunch. We headed into an Indian restaurant, and promptly started inquring about the soup of the day. That’s when we found out that there was no lunch special on weekends, which meant the prices more than doubled. We made a hasty exit and went into another Indian restaurant two doors down.
Being a beautiful day, we spent a fair bit of time wandering along the walkway around the inner harbour. You could hear the mainstay bagpiper from across the harbour with no difficulty.
Walking around towards the parliment buildings, we passed a congregation of people, surrounding a small brass band, and a boat covered with flowers. Our first impression was that someone was being married. It wasn’t until a while later that it occurred to us that it was actually a memorial service.
The walkways were packed with people, all relishing in the bright sunshine. (It was so bright that I nearly got a sunburn!) But the temperature was still cool, so only the brave (or the stupid) wore shorts. And yes, I did have a pair with me — it was still too cool for my liking.
Buskers were about, too. We saw one busker whose act we remembered from the year before. There were a few differences, which made the overall show pretty good, certainly worth the two dollars Allison gave the busker.
On the way back to the car, we checked for the availability of a hotel — we weren’t too keen on staying on the floor for a second night. We found one hotel room left for $30, and promptly headed off before we lost it.
The Friendship Inn has been in Victoria since the dawn of time, or sometime roughly near it. The buildings are old, the rooms musty, and the mattresses somewhat curved. But for $30, I wasn’t about to complain any. Well, maybe except for the people “living” next door. We didn’t leave our things, opting to bring them back with us.
If you go just west of Victoria, you’ll run into Esquimalt. Dependng on who you ask, Esquimalt is either a scary, run-down, naval base-influenced town; or it’s a fairly nice little suburb. I personally vote for the latter. Don’t get me wrong — there are some seedy areas (but then, even Oakville has its seedy areas).
We drove about, looking at the houses, even looking into an open house out of curiousity, just to see what was about. We drove up and down, back and forth, eventually finding ourselves back in Victoria again.
So we drove up and down, back and forth, until we found ourselves driving along Dallas Road, heading into Oak Bay. We had driven along this route before the previous year, only it was Allison driving, and it was at night. It pretty much ended the same way, with us passing along the north side of UVic trying to find our way back into Victoria.
We returned to the hospital towards dinnertime, to check on everyone milling around Allison’s grandmother. We were surprised to find Randy and Jane (Allison’s brother and sister) in attendence, and we had to do a double take when we saw Brenna and Cameron (Allison’s cousins, who live in Parksville). They were on their way back to Nanaimo (and Parksville). We nearly passed each other in the hall.
Dinner was at Robin’s again, only instead of the home-cooked meal we ate the night before, we had Kentucky Fried Chicken.
As a child, I remember loving Kentucky Fried Chicken. Of course, as a child, I could eat whatever I wanted without any consequences. As an adult, I am convinced that KFC is evidence of Satan’s existence. Allison and I both regretted dinner…
On the way back to our hotel that night, I noticed something a little strange — the car seemed to be a bit louder. In fact, it vibrated a bit more, too. In the back of my mind, I knew what the problem was. In the front of my mind, I was denying it with every ounce of my strength.
The next morning, the truth finally decided it would not be contained. On the way out to have something to eat, the muffler broke loose. Well, partially loose — there was a large rubber bracket holding the muffer to the car. As Allison’s mother would point out later, every time my car and the island have anything to do with one another, I have problems with the car.
Pulling off to the side, I whipped out my trusty bungee cord, and lashed the stupid muffler to the underside of the car. Ideally, I would’ve just taken the muffler off, but that rubber connector just taunted me.
We headed back to Vancouver in early afternoon, realising that if we hurried, we could get to Granville Island before it closed. (It was this revelation that made Allison convinced that she couldn’t live anywhere outside of Vancouver — she couldn’t get to the Market whenever she wanted.)
A good weekend. It’s been a long time since we’ve had a good weekend. I mean a weekend where we didn’t have to worry about being rained on. Believe me — that’s a long time.
After a leisurely rising Saturday morning, I went out to get my muffler fixed. That was my first mistake — I found out that the entire exhaust system was about two minutes from giving out. $200 later, I was out getting my car washed. That was my second mistake — Allison wanted me home earlier than that to clean. As soon as I got in, we were running back out again.
We were going to spend the afternoon at Granville Island (yes, we go there a lot) looking around the market and buying food for dinner. It was a good way to spend the afternoon.
Sunday started off even more beautifully than Saturday. It was warm (we opened all the windows for the first time this year) and sunny — the day was just waiting to be enjoyed. So we spent an hour cleaning. Don’t laugh — you’d be surprised how good that made us feel.
As we were working, Allison heard a news story on the TV, talking about how the Alberta Report (a group of ultra right-wing wackos from Alberta — although there are those who think that *anyone* from Alberta is an ultra right-wing wacko) was going to take their message to Toronto, which the Report viewed as where most of the evils in Canada came from.
It was then that it suddenly hit me — I didn’t view Toronto (or Oakville, for that matter) as home. In fact, it seemed somewhat foreign to me. It was no longer a place that was comforting, familiar — it was very distant, cold, disparate from everything I could think of.
It was with a great and sudden shock that I realised that I have become a BCer: I complain about the rain and the cold (despite the fact that it’s not that cold), I wear sandals as often as possible (I’m wearing them right now), I can’t stand the NDP government (but will probably vote for them because all the alternatives are far worse), and view the east as an entirely different place. Canada is certainly different when you’re not in the centre of the universe anymore…
At any rate, after our quick spring clean, we jumped in the car, and ran out to enjoy the day. We ended the day with a quick pasta dish, which for some unknown reason, made the whole weekend complete.