Still here. 43 days to go. What’s new? Well, the wife and I have taken to watching Jeopardy regularly. It hits 7:30 and we’re parked on the couch, dinner laid out on the TV trays in front of us. We’re old now. Can you turn up the volume a notch? Another notch? We’re also deaf now.
Actually, it happens a bit more frantically, like this:
“Hurry up, turn it up!” I say, mouth full of food.
“Where’s the remote?” the wife asks.
“CRAP Alex is already through with the introductions. We’re gonna miss the categories.”
And yes, we’re on a first-name basis with the man. He’s basically my father. Face it, Alex Trebek is basically your father, too.
Panicked, we scan the room for the remote.
Hang on, let me back a minute, back to that part where I casually dropped the fact that we’re eating on TV trays in front of the TV. Our lives have devolved to this. It began innocently enough — when the wife was on bedrest and we wanted to minimize the walking from room to room. But now they’re still here, and we sort of like them.
Anyway, back to REMOTE CONTROL EXPEDITION 2014. By which I mean, it’s been visually located, but it’s a million miles away. By which I mean, it’s just out of arm’s reach, over there on that end table. That stupid end table!
After eight months of pregnancy, the couch has become not so much something we sit on, but rather something we get into. We’ve taken to calling it “the hole.” It’s no longer “go sit on the couch.” It’s “go get in the hole.” The Black Hole of sunken leather, crumbs, loose change and hidden dog toys.
Simply standing up to go get the remote isn’t an option. There are steps. Multiple, daunting steps, like an IKEA manual. Step one: climb out of the hole. Step two: squeeze past the dinner tray careful not to knock it over. Step three: tip-toe over the very very pregnant wife.
ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED: the remote!
Step four: fumble for the buttons. By the way, Alex is already reading the first answer, and we’re TOTALLY MISSING IT. What are we on? Step two million? Tip-toe back over very very prego. Step five million: squeeze back past dinner tray. Step sixty-million: climb back into the hole.
Okay? Okay. Point remote, turn it up.
“OH MY GOD, YOU ACCIDENTALLY CHANGED THE CHANNEL,” Very Very Prego screams in horror.
Indeed, it is horrific. Now we’re on Little Women: LA, a show that I can unfortunately identify and perhaps even speak conversationally about. Just kidding, I have no idea what that is.
“GO BACK GO BACK GO BACK,” Very Very Prego is mantra-ing to me.
I’m sweating, pouring over all of these buttons on this remote. This stupid remote! Ah, there it is.
We settle in, chewing our dinner like horses, playing along and shouting out answers. My tactic is to shout out “What Is The Ottoman Empire?” if all else fails. I swear that’s one of the question-answers every episode. I also enjoy egging on the contestants to make it a true Daily Double, like a drunk heckler at a baseball game.
“Pfft. Pfffffft. Should have done it. Should have done it. Always playing it safe, like little baby scared-y cats.”
The wife encourages me and praises when I shout out the answers first. “Wow, how did you know that honey? You’re so smart!” she says.
Me? I don’t play that way. I play to win. When she gets answers right, I mutter “easy one” to myself. Anyone with a half a brain could sweep Ancient World Maps Found in the Archaeological Ruins of Mesopotamia.
Remember, if the answer is just on the tip of your tongue, it basically counts as being right. And if you instantly shout “I knew that one, I just couldn’t think of it fast enough,” after the answer is given, that also counts. But only for me. Not for the wife.
You think I’m asshole at couch Jeopardy, you should see me at mini-golf. “That should count hole-in-ones” are my hidden talent. And that plaster gorilla overseeing the course is my spirit animal. Face it, it’s basically your spirit animal, too.