43 days…

… until Opening Day.

Of baseball season, that is, for all you non-baseball people.

But for all the baseball nuts out there, among whom I proudly count myself – a dubious distinction, I suppose – I want to offer up just a hint at the promise of Spring.

As I’ve already mentioned, I’m a fan of the 90s TV show “Northern Exposure.” It seemed to hit the nail on the proverbial head about certain things – issues of the day, human emotion, relationships between men and women, and just plain relationships. But “NX” also discussed ideas, both Big and small. And the show’s loquacious DJ, “Chris in the Morning” Stevens, provided some of NX’s best musings (or ramblings) on those ideas. He expounded on the Big and the small, from Descartes’ “thinking is being” (cogito ergo sum) to Jack London’s dogs, to Jung’s collective unconscious. Ideas were real to Chris, which is one of the reasons I liked the character so well.

But he was also one of the aforementioned baseball lunatics. In one episode, while attempting to complete his Master’s in comparative literature – his thesis being, “Casey at the Bat: An anti-filiopietistic metaphor for America’s role in post-Cold War geopolitics” (say that 10x fast) – Chris is stymied by the two professors who were dispatched to the tiny town of Cicely to hear him defend his thesis. Seems they’re at loggerheads as to the pre-modern vs. post-modern approach to interpreting literature, let alone as to what the hell Casey has to do with any of it. Chris comes up with a solution.

This is one of my favorite scenes. It always reminds me that the beauty of baseball – or any beloved sport, for that matter – lies in what is felt, and not in what is thunk, or over-thunk, as the case may be.

This is for Mark H., and any other lunatics out there. The 30-below and frozen tundra won’t stick around forever; it’s just around the corner, baby.

Northern Exposure: The Graduate — Casey at the Bat

 

For all the Moms out there

Dear Santa,

I’ve been a good mom all year. I’ve fed, cleaned and cuddled my children on demand, visited the doctor’s office more than my doctor, sold sixty-two cases of candy bars to raise money to plant a shade tree on the school playground. I was hoping you could spread my list out over several Christmases, since I had to write this letter with my son’s red crayon, on the back of a receipt in the laundry room between cycles, and who knows when I’ll find anymore free time in the next 18 years.

Here are my Christmas wishes:

I’d like a pair of legs that don’t ache (in any color, except purple, which I already have) and arms that don’t hurt or flap in the breeze, but are strong enough to pull my screaming child out of the candy aisle in the grocery store.

I’d also like a waist, since I lost mine somewhere in the seventh month of my last pregnancy.

If you’re hauling big ticket items this year I’d like fingerprint resistant windows and a radio that only plays adult music; a television that doesn’t broadcast any programs containing talking animals; and a refrigerator with a secret compartment behind the crisper where I can hide to talk on the phone.

On the practical side, I could use a talking doll that says, “Yes, Mommy” to boost my parental confidence, along with two kids who don’t fight and three pairs of jeans that will zip all the way up without the use of power tools.

I could also use a recording of Tibetan monks chanting “Don’t eat in the living room” and “Take your hands off your brother,” because my voice seems to be just out of my children’s hearing range and can only be heard by the dog.

If it’s too late to find any of these products, I’d settle for enough time to brush my teeth and comb my hair in the same morning, or the luxury of eating food warmer than room temperature without it being served in a Styrofoam container.

If you don’t mind, I could also use a few Christmas miracles to brighten the holiday season. Would it be too much trouble to declare ketchup a vegetable? (Note to Steph: !!!) It will clear my conscience immensely. It would be helpful if you could coerce my children to help around the house without demanding payment as if they were the bosses of an organized crime family.

Well, Santa, the buzzer on the dryer is ringing and my son saw my feet under the laundry room door. I think he wants his crayon back.

Have a safe trip and remember to leave your wet boots by the door and come in and dry off so you don’t catch cold.

Help yourself to cookies on the table but don’t eat too many or leave crumbs on the carpet.

Yours Always,
MOM…!

P.S. One more thing… you can cancel all my requests if you can keep my children young enough to believe in Santa.

 

Late at night… (self-absorption alert!)

… I could really do without:

Scheming and pompous ex’s (well… one, anyway); the necessity to read two plays, each by deathly depressing men; the need to put old 80s shit on the TV in order to have some company; a cat who seemingly throws up at the slightest sight of food, making yet another stain on my already pockmarked carpet. I love him, but lordy…

Trying to find the ‘up’ in these days of the Triduum. I’ll get there; Saturday’s Vigil will help, will bring me back to the best guide to life.

Good things? Wonderful friends to spend the day with, as Erin and I spent today.

T’s Daily Link-O-Rama: Beauty and the Beast TV Series Companion, By Peter J. Formaini