Tuesday, February 05, 2013

Access To Winter Baseball

My house was added on to some 20 years ago in a makeshift split-level fashion, in that my own bedroom is over two then new bedrooms.  Essentially you just walk down the long front hallway and turn right upon seeing an un-doored set of stairs that leads directly to my room, up a ratty carpet that needed replacing ten years ago, but, hey, I just don't have the cash, and it really isn't bothering me.

But I saw this photo on the Thrifty Decor blog and I loved, loved, loved those barn doors.  Someday I'll do that to my room, the barn doors should fit perfectly, an answer to that which I'd been thinking about for a very long time.

When I someday live here all alone, I'd sure want doors that shut.

But for now?  I need to be able to bolt out of bed and run downstairs at a moment's notice.

This morning as everyone was in their rooms preparing for the school day we all heard a high-pitched series of screams, not a yelping, and it continued unabated.  I figured it was Riley, the Chihuahua Cat, as he's the only one who can consistently hit those decibels, but needless to say we all came running, converging in the aforementioned narrow hallway, looking up the ugly carpeted stairs to my room, where the constipated little bugger was hunched up, squalling and screaming because he and Shatter, AKA No No Bad Dog, must've gotten into something that made the tiny one's pooping difficult.

Like I don't have enough to worry about?

Everyone busted out laughing and we got Riley outside where he found immediate relief.

But my heart kept pounding hard, that crappy cortisol flooding my being again, interfering with me ever being able to completely heal from a decade of trauma.  My automatic response to loud noises, slams, bangs, or crashes.

My sweet Lab/Chow mix, Lizzie, is nearly 14 years old, and has slowed down so much that it's almost heartbreaking.  Yesterday she accidentally knocked over a houseplant, not a difficult thing to do as they're everywhere, but seriously she looked at me with oh so stricken eyes and I ran to pet and comfort her.  She's an incredibly sweet dog.  She mainly spends her days on one specific couch, her throne where she watches over the family.

As a puppy years ago, she'd chosen Daniel as her favorite human.

Night before last my TV remote, referred to as a clicker by me, because I click through mindless stuff rapidly, well it simply stopped functioning. I'd tried changing out the batteries, shaking it, fiddling with it to no avail, that sucker was done.

I have so little available to distract me from my stress, worry, and trauma, that I've fallen completely in love with my TV's ability to help me zone out mindlessly, and heck fire, you know we're only 6 days away from the pitchers and the catchers reporting to Spring Training - which reminds me, I've always wanted Charter Cable Company to give us access to winter baseball in the Caribbean.

An aside to my buddy, Deputy Kandy - we'd scrape up the big bucks for that, right?

Fredi Gonzalez had told the National Guard folks that day that Juan Francisco had done very well playing in the off season, that there were no worries about him not doing well in Chipper Jones' former position, which also reminds me that a tribute from 9/30/12 is still on my DVR.  I still haven't watched it, because I so hated to see him retire.  I know it will make me cry, and I already have enough to cry about as it is.

Juan Francisco is the one who looks like my son, Big Joe.  "Did Juan Francisco just blow my mom a kiss?" Daniel hollered in delight last season, when we were in Sun Trust seats, and I'd been able to meet a few players, never so emotionally giddy in my life until last week when this very proud Mama watched her son, Daniel, brief the Braves about what he does for a living.

6'5" Jason Heyward looking UP to my son Daniel, another outstanding phenomenal man, in a world of some overall wussy kind of males nowadays.  Metro-sexuals?  No me gusta.  Whatever happened to real men?  Men that don't pluck, wax, shave or wear face cream.

Oh, honey, crown me Queen For A Day - show that likely none of y'all know what I'm talking about as I was a kid watching it on my Pa's TV.  Pa was Grandpa's dad and it was the 1950s and we didn't have a TV, but Pa lived two blocks away.

See?  I can't necessarily legitimately cry about stuff around here, I project - just like my kids do. A learned behavior certainly after all these years of being unexpectedly hit upside my hard head every single time I get turned around good.

Anyway - back to that original thought, my dang clicker broke, and I was vapidly, stupidly lost without it.  I'm not gonna be held hostage to some show that I can usually click out of, so I got up to turn it off, and I read a book instead, which is likely what I ought to do anyway, but sometimes I'm just too banged up to concentrate on the printed word.

My brain feels raw and damaged, my nerve endings usually on fire, my stress levels high - I'm a prime candidate for Yoga yet I keep oppositionally rebelling against that which would clearly help calm me down.

At Charter the lady tried to charge me $4 for a replacement clicker.

I balked.  They didn't charge me last time.

"I pay $165 a month for cable, two DVRs, and Internet service with no movie channels, no premium channels, and it's still that high," I began, probably looking like I was fixing to cry.  That wouldn't be very good for business.

"Have a good day Sweetheart," she told me, handing me the new clicker and aiming, no she bum rushed me out the door.

I practically told her I loved her, slobbering in my gratitude, emotionally unhinged anyway after so many emotional concussions I've endured.

Oh, Dear Lord, please bring on Springtime.

Or give me access to winter baseball.  Yeah, like spy cam or something, that'd be so cool.  I want volume too, I'd love to hear them discussing the strategies that I later end up yelling at my TV about during the regular season.

Turner Field is calling my name.