A Rambling on the ball

In light of the events of the last few days...

• passing of a dear kitty friend
• horrible and disturbing advice from my doctor
• grumpier than heck children
• the end of the Olympics
  
• and a rotten old body that does NOT like going for 2 weeks with out it's meds

.... I am feeling introverted and sarcastic - melancholy and maniacal - and otherwise completely pissed off.

So to satisfy my need to write - and the insistence of everyone around me who thinks I should do it more - I will take the lead from the headlines and some of my favorite blog reading and ramble on for a few.... Do keep in mind - I intend to keep it short - but myfingers do the walking and the thinking and the talking - you should meet them for lunch sometime, they are great company!

And so it begins....

The Ball

Early in our relationship – I discovered that despite all my feminine wiles, creative seduction, and downright obsession, that I would always take 2^nd place in my husband’s life - 1^st place would ultimately always go to that darn ball.

This truth came to light the night I first watched him play volleyball. The experience was quite like nothing I had ever witnessed, my nerves were raw, quivering, frightened beyond anything my young mind could imagine. There he was, moments away from becoming one with a brick wall, slowed only by a low stack of bleachers. The crowd was hushed in anguished anticipation, blood lust perched upon their lips. And then there it was, with a tremendous smack of flesh against leather, lighting white, it burst overhead into the playing field. Scramble, stumble, the other team makes their own appeal to the mercy of the volleyball gods, but to no avail.

Even as I had barely begun to deal with understanding the important query of whether or not I had worn just the right outfit or should I have gone with my Adidas over the sequin flip flops - Ear piercing cheers, applauding, stomping, and all manner of rowdiness usurped the room like a thick fog, the ball was dropped, in bounds, score! Despite the emotional contagion that ruled the moment – my eyes could see nothing or no one else besides him. Him, covered in blood. Him, jumping around like a banshee hooting and hollering. Him, love struck, spell bound, mesmerized, by the beautiful, blazing, ball.

Lest you think I jest, we have the medical bills to prove it: broken ribs, torn brachial plexus, more broken ribs, back surgery, sprains, strains, aches and pains. Don't even get me started on flames and knives and the love of raw meat - AND the search for wood in poison ivy infested lands.

Over the years I have tried endlessly, and unsuccessfully to meet my match, my hope often piqued as new varieties of the ball come and go into his heart: the softball, the football, the racquetball, the Foosball, the basketball, and the ever-coveted cue ball, but alas, the power of the ball goes unrequited.

I have tried covering myself in leather, only to find it difficult to breathe. I have scoured the internet for safe ways to become more electrifying. Finally, after the opinions of my young daughters forced upon me by way of passage into this world - I have agreed to use my body as both food storage and a portable furnace – growing more and more round as time goes by. One day I hope to measure in at precisely 360 degrees in circumference. On that glorious day you will find me rolling at a dangerously exciting speed to the nearest tattoo parlor for a big bold Wilson directly across my forehead.

Until then I will resign myself to a traditional life of meal making, and event planning, church going and grocery shopping, date night and babysitter hiring. There I will be, always holding out hope that at the very least God will take up a liking for Star Trek and get himself one of those "Beam me up Scotty" machines - and then I guess I will have to settle for plan F.

Oh, what a life it is.