Incomplete.

Another awful three days is upon me. Wife’s job duties take her on a three-day trip to the Windy City about four times a year, and now is one of those times. She left at 3 this morning, taking Son with her to the sitter. Because of the logistics of where our sitter is located, where my job is located, and my mother-in-law’s willingness to take him on Wednesday nights, I won’t see him again till at least tomorrow night, perhaps even later if I can’t get off work on Friday. I miss both of them already, and it’s not even been 6 hours yet.

I become handcuffed and weighed down by my own inertia during these times. I know that I should really enjoy the time to myself, and should even be excited at the prospect of accomplishing things around the house without anyone underfoot. I have mentally put together a to-do list of things to accomplish tonight – laundry, mowing, cleaning, etc. - and I know that I probably won’t get to a one of them.

It gets lonely in our big ol’ house during these times. Our abode is a 100+ year old farmhouse that has held up surprisingly well in spite of 100-plus years of crappy Indiana weather. (Knock on wood, or formica, or your knuckle-rapper of choice.) 100 springs of tornadoes and severe storms, 100 winters of blizzards and freezing/thawing/re-freezing, 100 summers of blistering heat and soaking humidity. And, my wife believes, 100 years of ghosts. She might just talk me into believing as well before one of us is a widower. I’m more prone to believe on nights like the ones I’m about to embark upon.

Hey, maybe there will be some more of that exciting World Cup soccer on one of the ESPN networks tonight. The only thing more mindnumbingly dull than live soccer is soccer that is broadcast live and then replayed later, when you already know the outcome. (I’m unrefined and have a single-digit IQ … I know.) Faduck, Da-Da – it’s boring.

(“Faduck, Da-Da”? Well, that reminds me of a story. When I was first giving Son baths, I would lose patience with him because he wouldn’t stand up in the tub for me to wash his legs – even though I’d ask very nicely - or he’d splash the water out onto the floor, or otherwise not do the things I wanted him to do. Finally, one night, out of immense frustration, I threw up my hands and said, “Oh, f*** a duck, Son!” He looked at me and said, “Faduck, Da-Da?” I think there’s a parenting lesson there, somewhere.)

Anyway, soccer. (The furriners call it “foosball,” you know.) I think what makes me lose feeling in my kidneys whenever I watch it is the sheer neutrality of the game. You’ve seen enough soccer to get the gist of it: Team A kicks the ball up the field, attempts to run something resembling an offense (several players either stand around or run down to the end line until they can’t run anymore), a defender from Team B gets a foot on the ball and reverses the ball’s movement into the opposite direction, usually with a very high kick. This is accompanied by a sound coming from the crowd that sounds like a vacuum cleaner in an echo chamber.

One of the teams comes down with the ball, and then there’s a “tackle” of some sort. Sometimes nothing is called, sometimes a foul is called, sometimes a “yellow card” is given, and sometimes a “red card” is given, and it all seems very arbitrary. This is accompanied by some (admittedly clever) singing on the part of the crowd.

Play continues in this vein for the next 90 minutes, a random amount of time (“injury time” or “stoppage time”) is added on at the end – again, arbitrarily – and then hooligans will set fire to the stands.

It is, the furriners will tell you, The Most Beautiful Game In The World.

“So? You likes zee automobile racing, ca va? How you oogly Americans say … boring!”

Yes, but I watch racing solely for the wrecks anymore.

“You could watch zee futbol for zee groin shots! Ees same, oui?”

Dude, that’s sick. Go back to Poland.

And the lack of scoring is appalling. If I wanted to bear witness to a lack of scoring, I’d videotape my own life. Ho ho!

At any rate, I’m off course here without a compass, as usual. Point being … ah, hell, I forget.