In the olden days, women would stop whatever they were doing in the middle of the day to watch their "stories." "Stories" was another word for soap opera. In our family, mom watched "As the World Turns."
Just as religiously as mom stopping every day at noon to watch "her stories," every Friday night, my dad would announce, "I'm going watch my fights." He would then go off to the "den," pop the handle on his recliner and watch boxing for hours. The "den" in those days was an eight foot by eight foot room in the middle of the house with a chair, a couch and a twenty year old black and white television set. The "den" also had a door on each wall leading to various rooms in the house. So, people were constantly walking in front of him while he watched his fights.
These days, dad has his own room in a big house that he shares only with my mother. So, nobody's walking in front of the TV anymore. He's also got cable, so he doesn't have to wait until Friday night to watch the fights. However, although his television is color, I still think it's twenty years old. Dad always gets the oldest television in the house. That's just the rule.
Since dad's been sick, he doesn't watch television in his room. He sits in his recliner in the living room and watches the big fancy schmancy television. Of course, being outnumbered by women in this family (4 to 2), the fights were rarely, if ever, watched in the living room.
This past Saturday night, my mom and I decided to bite the bullet and watch the fights with dad on the big TV. Dad was a good sport about it, but I don't think he was prepared for the female play-by-play that occurs when women decide to watch "the fights."
"I hate that guys pants."
"Oh,my God! He's bleeding!"
"Why doesn't somebody stop this thing?"
"Is that his mother? Even his mother can't watch. Oh, that poor woman."
"Oh, isn't that nice. He wants to be a lawyer and help poor people."
"That guy from New York talks too much."
"I hate that guy from New York."
"Why are they booing? How rude."
"Now, I feel sorry for that little guy from New York."
"Why doesn't somebody stop this thing?!"
"Oh, my God! Look at his eye!!"
I think we've given dad a little extra motivation to get his strength back. I'm pretty sure he can't wait to watch "his fights" on that twenty year old television in his quiet little room without the commentary from the ya-ya sisterhood.
Just as religiously as mom stopping every day at noon to watch "her stories," every Friday night, my dad would announce, "I'm going watch my fights." He would then go off to the "den," pop the handle on his recliner and watch boxing for hours. The "den" in those days was an eight foot by eight foot room in the middle of the house with a chair, a couch and a twenty year old black and white television set. The "den" also had a door on each wall leading to various rooms in the house. So, people were constantly walking in front of him while he watched his fights.
These days, dad has his own room in a big house that he shares only with my mother. So, nobody's walking in front of the TV anymore. He's also got cable, so he doesn't have to wait until Friday night to watch the fights. However, although his television is color, I still think it's twenty years old. Dad always gets the oldest television in the house. That's just the rule.
Since dad's been sick, he doesn't watch television in his room. He sits in his recliner in the living room and watches the big fancy schmancy television. Of course, being outnumbered by women in this family (4 to 2), the fights were rarely, if ever, watched in the living room.
This past Saturday night, my mom and I decided to bite the bullet and watch the fights with dad on the big TV. Dad was a good sport about it, but I don't think he was prepared for the female play-by-play that occurs when women decide to watch "the fights."
"I hate that guys pants."
"Oh,my God! He's bleeding!"
"Why doesn't somebody stop this thing?"
"Is that his mother? Even his mother can't watch. Oh, that poor woman."
"Oh, isn't that nice. He wants to be a lawyer and help poor people."
"That guy from New York talks too much."
"I hate that guy from New York."
"Why are they booing? How rude."
"Now, I feel sorry for that little guy from New York."
"Why doesn't somebody stop this thing?!"
"Oh, my God! Look at his eye!!"
I think we've given dad a little extra motivation to get his strength back. I'm pretty sure he can't wait to watch "his fights" on that twenty year old television in his quiet little room without the commentary from the ya-ya sisterhood.
1 comment:
LOL! Subtle as a sledgehammer ;-)
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