A really dumb thing...and, also, don't try this at home.

Before I tell this story, I have to warn you, if you have any kind of maternal/paternal stake in my husband's life, any instinct that wishes to protect him from danger, even danger from his own stupidity, then you should probably not read the rest of this entry (I will give you one hint, though, if he was seriously injured, you probably would have heard about it by now). However, if you are up for a good laugh at another's blind trust in his own good luck and denial of his own mortality, then read on...

It's a lazy Sunday afternoon, and we are using our free time to recover from a recent trip out of the country, both physically and laundraically (i.e. washing clothes). I am unloading the dryer when from upstairs I hear the beginnings of a thought process which can only end badly. "I wonder how many times our [non-existent] kids will want to slide down these stairs in the laundry basket?" I'm in a silly mood so I answer, "Probably thousands, and, hey, you should try it first - that way, you can say, 'yes, son, I tried doing that and that's how I broke my hip...'" The reply: "Yeah, I think I could do it. I would need to wear a helmet though...and pillows - I definitely need pillows." What. the. heck. He's kidding, right?

I come around to the foot of the stairs to confirm that, no, he's not kidding. He has strapped his bicycle helmet on his head and two pillows around his waist. There he is, love of my life and father to my non-existent children, squatting into a blue plastic laundry basket, perched precariously at the top of our wooden staircase (which end in a short stretch of hardwood floor, followed by our closed, solid-metal, front door). He gets back out of the basket. Thank God - he was kidding. "I think I'm gonna need more pillows." "Wow," I stammer, still assuming this is a joke. "Okay, well, hold on. Let me get the video camera so that when the insurance company accuses me of killing you, they'll see that you did this voluntarily."

By the time I come back with the camera, he is strapped in, muttering something about keeping his weight back in the basket. He begins scootching the basket toward the edge of the stairs. As I press "record", he begins to tip forward, the look on his face a combination of crazed-adventurer and 13-year-old boy. As he takes off, I give one last warning, "If you break that laundry basket, I'm going to be so mad at you."

About halfway through his 2.5 seconds of glory, the look on his face changes from adventurer's glee to doomed terror. He reaches out for the bannister as the basket gets going faster than he is. Next thing I know, my husband, love of my life, is lying on his back on the floor next to our front door, face frozen, eyes staring wildly at the ceiling. I can see him doing a mental checklist - "I can wiggle my toes, I can wiggle my fingers..." He immediately began deriding himself for not thinking to pad the floor at the bottom of the steps - "That's where I needed to put the pillows - and on the front door, too! Man, how could I not think of that?"

I hope you will be happy to know that he did not, in fact, break his hip. It was his tailbone, and it was just a very deep bone bruise (which he claims that even now, weeks later, still bothers him when he climbs stairs). And, I'm also pleased to say that he didn't break the laundry basket. He is appropriately thankful for having escaped with the least amount of damage possible, and I think we all learned that it doesn't matter how much padding you carry with you if the place you land is a hardwood floor.

Universal language

Today I walked downstairs to the sounds of "Telemundo" on our TV. Now, I must say, my husband and I are not diverse enough to know Spanish, and Telemundo does not typically make appearances on our TV screen. I was curious until I walked around the corner and saw what was actually on the screen:

The World Cup - Brazil vs. France

You must understand that my husband is a sports nut. Nut? Oh, no, that's not really the right word. It's more like a lifestyle. ESPN sponsors us - "Tonight, Stuart Scott hosts: 'Dinner with the Hills' on ESPN." (Stuart Scott is a name I shouldn't know.) My grandparents gave him a subscription to Sports Illustrated for his birthday, and he said, "It's the best present I've ever gotten." (Does a wedding ring count as a present?) I have walked in to find him watching Female Trick-Shot Pool on ESPN2. (He has been following Allison whats-her-name for a few years now - evidently she's the Tiger Woods of Female Trick-Shot Pool.)

So, when Brazil (the favored team to win the World Cup) plays France, and none of his regular channels carry it, so what? It's only a slight problem that he doesn't understand what the announcers are saying - when they replay a foul, for instance, he might not understand the commentary about it, but he knows it was a foul. And after a player took a ball to his sensitive area and landed on the ground in pain, one commentator said, "Ouch" - no need to translate that.

I tend to give him a hard time about this, but really, I admire his dedication to something. It is amazing how sports can be a universal language. For example, when we were watching the NBA draft this week, after JJ was picked, we heard a shout of excitement from our teenage neighbors (whom we truly don't have anything in common with!) And today, around the world, people are glued to their media outlets, watching grown men kick a ball. It makes me kinda glad that it's on, in Spanish, at our house. In a way, it links me to the world - even if I don't understand the words.