If Noah Could Do It

The countdown clock now stands at 39 days until I leave for Knoxville. Noah lasted for 40 days and nights on an ark full of smelly animals and no WiFi. Surely I can stand 39 more days living in a tin can with very limited access to cable television.

Let me paint a picture of life with my parents. My tin box contains a very comfortable bed, a refrigerator/freezer, a working microwave, and access to Diet Pepsi purchased on sale. While there are three televisions in the box, none of them actually show any television programming or have the ability to play DVDs. As a result, I have brought in my own TV, upon which I can watch my four seasons of The West Wing, five seasons of The Good Wife, and seven seasons of Grey's Anatomy, as well as several fine feature films. 

That's the good part. Then there's the other part--the overwhelming, consuming, and nearly omnipresent heat. No, not heat. That's not nearly descriptive enough. The fiery furnaces of hell can take lessons from that box.

To be sure, there is an air conditioner, and, when it's working, it can create a comfortable climate.  Sadly, the wiring that supplies electricity to the box stems from the main house, which still seems to bear the technology of its initial construction in 1940. Things go haywire when the box's air conditioner is used, when a blow dryer is used, when the house air conditioner is used, and on and on and on. So, I am effectively limited to an overhead fan in the bedroom. But that's OK. About 1 a.m., the overhead fan can bring in cool air and bring the temp down to the low 80s. Accustomed to air conditioned coolness since I moved out of the ancestral home in 1983, this new climate is taking its toll. As a result of late nights awaiting a drop in temperature, I've been sleepy for over a week now. 

I am often welcomed into the big house, which can be pleasant when my mom makes something to eat. But damn I miss real television. In this house, 90 percent of TV viewing is limited to one show and only one show. The "ballgame."

My parents are inveterate fans of the San Francisco Giants. For them, this manifests as a desire to watch pre-game, game, and post-game coverage of each and every contest in which their team engages. This need for constant coverage means that any other television show, whether enjoyed like Jeopardy or hated like The Astronauts Wives Club, takes a back seat. 

I'm sorry I cannot record the dialogue that passes between my parents as they enjoy the interminable ball games. My dad constantly chides and scolds the players who do not execute well--if McGhehee hits into one more double play, I believe swear words he learned in the Navy may issue forth from my pater. My mother plays the role of Eeyore:  "he'll never get a hit," "they're going to lose the lead," "Buster Posey is too slow," "this guy can't pitch," "McGehee is going to hit into a double play" (OK, that last usually comes to pass).  

Ready for the game

I have tried to get into the spirit of ball game watching, fortifying myself with Anchor Steam's fabulous California Lager and with peanuts that have the Giants' logo on them. But it is never enough. Baseball on television is boring. It's just boring. Boring. 

But the days are going by, and I often escape to the girls' cottages or Reiner's pool. At the parentals' abode I have books to read and DVDs to watch, beer to drink and peanuts to eat. And, in the distance, the bright orange of UTK beckons. Only 39 more days....