I don't like watching baseball—any sports, for that matter. I swear that I don't. My father has to schedule regular chiropractor appointments after Sunday's football game—quite obviously, I have the propensity in my genes to become highly agitated from watching such events. (not that I would enjoy them anyway, you understand!)

I try telling Miles this, I say, "Miles, I don't like watching sports." Just like that. I assume that he understands my meaning as I make sure to speak slowly and with common vernacular. Imagine my surprise when I discover that we're scheduled to watch the next Cubs game tonight.

I simplify my statement. "Miles," I say, "No Baseball." I add a few gestures to aid his understanding. He nods innocently, and proceeds to find WGN (of "The CUBS Play Here" fame) among the channels and signals to me in such a way that I can only interpret as "get comfortable, the game is about to begin."

Ok, ok, so I get a little excitable when they make a good play (airborne spheres and accelerating clubs—I dare you to remain in repose. I mean, REALLY). Yeah, I jump around a bit I suppose. Perhaps, I even offer some elated shouting and melodic cheering. This in no way should be construed to mean that I am enjoying myself. No Siree—Quite the opposite, I assure you.

I believe my feelings on the matter to be altogether obvious (they can be nothing but), and am bothered and not a little perturbed that my own husband is insensitive to them.

Well I'm off to study caveman drawings in preparation of my next communication attempt.

Oh, CUBS WON!—(*cough*) If anyone out there actually cares about such things.