January 19, 2012

At the News Desk during a commercial ...


Her - "Dude, that was foul."
Him - "Hey, that wasn't mine."


January 16, 2012

Hypothermic Tennis Musings! 

I am watching my eldest child compete in a tennis tournament. It is in a giant dome structure of air-filled plastic fabric over concrete, like a high-tech circus tent. It’s like watching four tennis matches within the guts of a grounded dirigible. When the exhaust fan kicks on you can feel the air leaving the structure. I am suddenly fearful of suffocation.

There is no proper viewing area so the parents sit around the courts to watch. I am a mere ten feet from the sideline with no form of netting or fencing to protect me from a wayward return. These children are children, so at least one wayward return is guaranteed. I was going to peruse a magazine while the match took place, but my close proximity to the court along with the speed they fire shots back and forth means they have my full attention. I am also wearing new eyeglasses, all but guaranteeing I will take a fuzzy balled shot to the face.

We had pasta for dinner tonite, a good carbohydrate-laden meal to give The Eldest Child energy for her tournament. This and a caffeine loaded soda will all but guarantee she can’t use exhaustion as an excuse for not winning. Pasta with red sauce always gives me gas. I mention this to The Wife who comments that maybe it’s because of all the antioxidants in the sauce. I reply with, “What? This is how the oxidants escape? Out my butt?” She gives me "That Look". Every time I fart it drifts gently to my right towards The Wife. She hasn’t said anything yet, so it must not smell.

Then The Wife moves closer. “The gas smell is getting pretty bad right there,” she says pointing next to her. “What, you're blaming me?” I ask, trying to appear innocent. She looks at me questioningly for a second, then chuckles. “No, I meant the propane smell from the heaters.” Still smiling innocently, I fart again.

It’s mid-January and I’m embarrassed to report our Christmas tree is still up, proof positive we are lazy when we’re home and very busy when we’re not. We decided to leave the tree up a few more days and call it our Martin Luther King Junior tree. We’ll put lights back on it, but don’t ask how we decorated it.

Next match. The Eldest Child won her first match eight games to three. Good for her! The next match is in a different dome and the wall of this dome is even closer to the court than the last one. I am now only three feet from the pole holding the net. Every time the ball hits the net I wince reflexively and wait to be struck. There is an electrical conduit next to my butt and I suddenly fear to fart. I could be electrocuted leaning back to avoid a wayward return. Or maybe my butt cheeks will succumb to frost bite. Five minutes in and my bottom is cold. I only hope The Eldest Child wins this match, to atone for all the suffering her parents are currently experiencing. 

The Eldest Child lost her second match and we move on to match number three on a new court. It is an interesting thing to watch a tennis match at ground level. The ball seems faster down here. I’m beginning to think that sitting here was a bad idea. They are hitting the ball very hard and very close. I imagine this is what the line judges experience, only without the threat of electrocution or frostbite.

BAM! First strike! 

The Eldest Child hit a return right at us! It glanced off the ball holder hanging off the net pole and launched an empty ball can right at us. I winced reflexively and squeezed my eyes shut, biting my lip to keep from screaming like a little girl. The plastic can whizzed past me and tumbled towards The Wife, barely missing her knee. Both players appeared momentarily mortified but quickly recovered their normal scornful teenage expressions.

I now have a cool breeze rising up my backside and my crossed legs are sore. I’m happy I can still feel my legs because my butt is numb. The upside is that I finally stopped farting, probably because my sphincter’s frozen shut. I’m now worried the gas – all those oxidants we talked about earlier – will build up to dangerous levels and turn into free radicals that will Jihad against my intestines. I’m also afraid my aimless ramblings are a sign of stage-one hypothermia. I’ve lost feeling in both butt cheeks and my scrotum’s going numb. Fortunately I’m done having children. They need to hurry this game up. They are tied at four games apiece (first one to eight wins).

Now The Eldest Child’s down seven games to four. The Wife orders me to not stare at The Eldest Child when she serves, as if making eye contact is somehow distracting her. The Wife tries to explain, “You know, that sense you get when someone’s watching you and you just have to look back at them?” I liken it to how park rangers advise you to never look an angry bear in the eye if you encounter one pooping in the woods. The Eldest Child just won her fifth game. Maybe The Wife was right. I decide to spend the rest of the match not watching her and hope I don’t get hit by a wayward ball. 

The Eldest Child fights back and ties it up seven to seven. I decide to watch the tie breaker, still not actually watching her serve. She finally loses five to three in a best of eight tie-breaker. She does seem to play better if I don’t watch. I try not to take it personally as I rub the blood back into my numb bottom when we depart.

Mid-Winter Tennis Fun!