to the window, to the walls

For the first time in years, I played tennis this afternoon, while playing hooky from work. I forgot how much I love playing, and I also forgot what crap I am at playing. Still, when you get a good slice at the ball, when you hear that perfect crack of the ball hitting your strings in just that sweet spot, ah... and not to mention, there's the whole matter of releasing endless amounts of aggression. And after yesterday's post, I think it's clear that I had a little steam that needed to be let out of the pressure cooker that is my brain. Right now, my wrist is killing me though, and slightly swollen, so this will be a short post. But I had to chronicle this classic exchange on the courts (it was me and two guys, one of whom is Richie Rich and the other is Mr. T):

Brimful: Way to intimidate Richie Rich, Mr.T!
Mr. T: Works every time.
RR: Yeah, the way Mr. T rushed the net, I was thinking 'has Mr. T had lunch? Because he sure looks hungry!'
Brimful: And he's hungry... for balls!

Yes, we're juvenile. Thing is, there were about seven hundred 'balls' jokes before this particular one, but this was the only one that originated from me. Why is it that men can make juvenile 'balls' jokes casually for hours, but if a woman makes one, they're reduced to such laughter that they can't even keep up a volley? I'm not complaining though... I have to admit that getting a laugh goes a long way for me.

After mailing out about ten Christmas packages, I was walking back to my apartment, taking in my neighborhood. The sun was shining, the streets were lively but not congested. On the corner, a market was selling bright, lovely looking tangerines. They called out to me and I went to buy them. Just as I did, a mariachi positioned himself in between the tangerines and oranges, and proceeded to serenade the sidewalk for the next ten minutes. It was perfectly perfect really.