Saturday, July 14, 2007

You can't leave first until you chug a beer.

The G saw I’d dusted off the cleats and softball uniform last night and asked if I was seriously considering playing this morning, since just three weeks ago I was hobbling around on crutches. Yes, dear. They’re called the playoffs.

But she was probably less worried about the current state of my ankle and more so about the possibility of me showing up to late her best friend’s wedding that starts in 90 minutes. And that’s actually a justified concern since I’ve pulled that stunt before.

Well, we were knocked out after two games and I’ve had plenty of time to get ready. Her real concern, though, should have been the line drive I took straight to the orbital bone. It’s not the worst black I’ve had but it’s pretty shiny. And this steak isn’t helping much.

I’m going to wear my glasses with the thickest frames and hope she doesn’t notice. Nobody say anything until Sunday.

Update: The black eye went undetected until the G's mom ran her big fat mouth. She's been employing this unwelcome habit recently to increasing degrees of disasterous-ness. Ours is more resembling your typical sitcom son-in-law/mother-in-law antagonistic relationship everyday.

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