"You haven’t exercised in ten years," My sister, seated on the couch behind me, cracked open another chocolate bar. "A couple of downward dogs aren’t going to help you now. Besides, it looks like those puppies are on the loose. Dogfighting is illegal, immoral, and—especially in this case—exceedingly unattractive.”
Some things, such as swimming against an undertow, require a buddy. And if I’m ever in that situation, Sis is the one I want with me. She’d feel right at home with the sharks.
Today, I wish she’d find a feeding frenzy somewhere else. I gaze down where my toes should be. Perhaps Yoga isn’t the right form of exercise for me. The only thing about me that stretches is the gum stuck to the bottom of my shoe.
With visions of myself in a flirty white skirt, I decide to try the virtual tennis competition on the boys’ video game. I attempt a saucy backhand, send the controller flying, and nail my sister so hard in the face that she has a Pause button imprinted on her forehead. I resist the urge to press the thing to see if it works.
Nobody warned me about the dangers of virtual sports. Before the day is over, I’ve got tennis elbow, swimmer’s ear, and I’m signed up for a guest shot on House as a candidate for mysterious complications from Tommy John surgery.
“Why don’t you make a video of yourself trying to zip your jeans and hold out for a part in WrestleMania?” she smirked.
I grinned, “And I’ve got a show for you too.”
“And that is. . .”
“The Biggest Loser. You're a natural.”
Laugh
Showing posts with label controller. Show all posts
Showing posts with label controller. Show all posts
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Monday, February 23, 2009
Duck and Wiicover
When it comes to home entertainment systems, the Nintendo Wii is the best bet for indiscriminate head injuries I’ve ever encountered.
Now that there’s a video game that doesn’t require knowledge of the access code for disarming thermonuclear missiles in order to work the controller, millions of people around the globe are dropping their weapons of mass entertainment and turning to the Wii.
Personally, I appreciate the fact that any six year old can map out new nations using the XBox 360 or any of the PlayStation stable, but I’m past the age where bending over to tie my shoes can be accomplished without the aid of a small child and a first responder in an emergency vehicle . Dadgummit, I need help. So under the guise of rewarding good grades and the relief of high school graduation, we bought a Wii.
No longer forced to live life as a virtual spectator, I picked up my plastic controller and dove right into Wii Sports. The first day I came down with tennis elbow, pulled a hamstring, and bruised a bowl of Golden Delicious Apples that were loitering menacingly on the coffee table.
Sure there are some problem areas. I have trouble remembering to push the A button to start ("The big, round button under your thumb, Mom."), and I have trouble focusing on the play instead of watching the cute character on screen cavort around the court in her spiffy duds, but after that I’m home free.
Eventually through trial and broken glass, I discovered that it’s best to use the wrist strap to prevent unwanted projectile activity. It’s altogether unsettling to clock the dog in the head yet again with an errant game controller that flies across the living room as if it were on a nonstop flight to Paris. Then you have to stop the game in the middle of a set to transport the Labrador, who is holding a damp cloth to his forehead with one paw and muttering unkind words about your aim, to the vet. I have to admit to some feelings of guilt that he's given up retrieving because of a bit of bad aim on my part.
I don’t know about you, but there’s nobody like family to spout sarcastic comments and unkind advice when you’re trying your hand at a new activity, although I think the dog is very fetching in the new pith helmet, in spite of the obvious sarcastic implications. It fits a little tight around the ears and he’s somewhat wary of the chin strap, but it fits in just fine when he hides under the coffee table to phone his therapist.
The latest casualty was Bill Dear, but it seems like a grown man with dozens of years experience working with high voltage machinery would be aware of the dangers of an unsecured battery compartment door. Upon unpacking the system, the children had, as required by law, lost the little piece of plastic that keeps batteries neatly in place and, strictly against OSHA standards, secured the batteries in place with an unregulated rubber band.
My enthusiastic backswing launched a volley of battery bullets that took out the ugly lamp from his bachelor days, six wide-eyed Precious Moments figurines, and a Girl Scout delivering cookies at the side door. Bill just managed to avoid the rocket by executing a double somersault with a half twist over the back of the couch, which would have been Olympic gold material if he had left the ceiling fan in working order and managed to keep his feet together on the landing.
All in all, everything has worked out quite nicely. I got a new lamp, Bill Dear is expecting to be able to return to work next week and the dog has become quite attached to the technicians at the vet’s office.
Now that there’s a video game that doesn’t require knowledge of the access code for disarming thermonuclear missiles in order to work the controller, millions of people around the globe are dropping their weapons of mass entertainment and turning to the Wii.
Personally, I appreciate the fact that any six year old can map out new nations using the XBox 360 or any of the PlayStation stable, but I’m past the age where bending over to tie my shoes can be accomplished without the aid of a small child and a first responder in an emergency vehicle . Dadgummit, I need help. So under the guise of rewarding good grades and the relief of high school graduation, we bought a Wii.
No longer forced to live life as a virtual spectator, I picked up my plastic controller and dove right into Wii Sports. The first day I came down with tennis elbow, pulled a hamstring, and bruised a bowl of Golden Delicious Apples that were loitering menacingly on the coffee table.
Sure there are some problem areas. I have trouble remembering to push the A button to start ("The big, round button under your thumb, Mom."), and I have trouble focusing on the play instead of watching the cute character on screen cavort around the court in her spiffy duds, but after that I’m home free.
Eventually through trial and broken glass, I discovered that it’s best to use the wrist strap to prevent unwanted projectile activity. It’s altogether unsettling to clock the dog in the head yet again with an errant game controller that flies across the living room as if it were on a nonstop flight to Paris. Then you have to stop the game in the middle of a set to transport the Labrador, who is holding a damp cloth to his forehead with one paw and muttering unkind words about your aim, to the vet. I have to admit to some feelings of guilt that he's given up retrieving because of a bit of bad aim on my part.
I don’t know about you, but there’s nobody like family to spout sarcastic comments and unkind advice when you’re trying your hand at a new activity, although I think the dog is very fetching in the new pith helmet, in spite of the obvious sarcastic implications. It fits a little tight around the ears and he’s somewhat wary of the chin strap, but it fits in just fine when he hides under the coffee table to phone his therapist.
The latest casualty was Bill Dear, but it seems like a grown man with dozens of years experience working with high voltage machinery would be aware of the dangers of an unsecured battery compartment door. Upon unpacking the system, the children had, as required by law, lost the little piece of plastic that keeps batteries neatly in place and, strictly against OSHA standards, secured the batteries in place with an unregulated rubber band.
My enthusiastic backswing launched a volley of battery bullets that took out the ugly lamp from his bachelor days, six wide-eyed Precious Moments figurines, and a Girl Scout delivering cookies at the side door. Bill just managed to avoid the rocket by executing a double somersault with a half twist over the back of the couch, which would have been Olympic gold material if he had left the ceiling fan in working order and managed to keep his feet together on the landing.
All in all, everything has worked out quite nicely. I got a new lamp, Bill Dear is expecting to be able to return to work next week and the dog has become quite attached to the technicians at the vet’s office.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Missing Inaction
Frankly, I’m a bit concerned about the strategic national defense of a country who openly solicits assistance from my son. I’m not saying that he’s not capable of fulfilling his patriotic duty, but I just can’t believe that an eighteen year old that goes all white around the mouth and makes the pouty face when his applesauce touches his pork chop is going to be reliable with rations packed into an indestructible Hefty bag.
As soon as my son entered his senior year in high school, the United States Army began a postal crusade to win his affections. Our mailbox was bombarded with pamphlets extorting the virtues of Army life that boasted so many bonuses and benefits it resembled a campaign for a timeshare in an exotic land where you could experience the world, earn an education, and operate heavy artillery. All this with a meal plan and government issued fashion accessories.
This kid has remarkable experience with real-life tactical weapons. He masterminded the construction of a working tabletop trebuchet for his younger brother’s science project, and provided ammunition in the form of toy farm animals to launch at the family dog. (Bo survived several near-misses and a plastic cow in his water bowl.) His present stockpile of munitions includes a marshmallow gun made from plastic pipe, three foam rubber swords, and a heavy duty water gun that leaks.
If it’s his video game skills that has the Army all atwitter, I can understand their excitement. To his credit, he has defeated enemy armies and crushed mighty weaponry on practically every game system on the market. He is a virtual expert in guerilla warfare with camo-clad GI Joe types, and a definitive power in open battle with earthbound aliens. But I just can’t believe that worldwide thermonuclear war will pause for him to get a snack and watch reruns of The Family Guy.
Fortunately for those of us who depend on the Armed Forces to maintain peace at the borders and keep terrorists out of the potato salad, Son Number One opted for college life instead of a military experience. Reportedly, Uncle Sam likes soldiers who can take out the enemy without having to stop and reload their controller with AA batteries.
As soon as my son entered his senior year in high school, the United States Army began a postal crusade to win his affections. Our mailbox was bombarded with pamphlets extorting the virtues of Army life that boasted so many bonuses and benefits it resembled a campaign for a timeshare in an exotic land where you could experience the world, earn an education, and operate heavy artillery. All this with a meal plan and government issued fashion accessories.
This kid has remarkable experience with real-life tactical weapons. He masterminded the construction of a working tabletop trebuchet for his younger brother’s science project, and provided ammunition in the form of toy farm animals to launch at the family dog. (Bo survived several near-misses and a plastic cow in his water bowl.) His present stockpile of munitions includes a marshmallow gun made from plastic pipe, three foam rubber swords, and a heavy duty water gun that leaks.
If it’s his video game skills that has the Army all atwitter, I can understand their excitement. To his credit, he has defeated enemy armies and crushed mighty weaponry on practically every game system on the market. He is a virtual expert in guerilla warfare with camo-clad GI Joe types, and a definitive power in open battle with earthbound aliens. But I just can’t believe that worldwide thermonuclear war will pause for him to get a snack and watch reruns of The Family Guy.
Fortunately for those of us who depend on the Armed Forces to maintain peace at the borders and keep terrorists out of the potato salad, Son Number One opted for college life instead of a military experience. Reportedly, Uncle Sam likes soldiers who can take out the enemy without having to stop and reload their controller with AA batteries.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Let Your Fingers Do the Walking
If I see one more women’s magazine exhorting me to walk myself thin, I think I’ll hurl a bucket of brownie mix. If walking made me thin, my weight would register in the negative numbers by now.
Today I walked to the car and back three times. When I made the first trip back to the house to get my car keys, I heard my husband humming and starting the water for a shower. Rounding the corner back into the kitchen, I spied a blue sleeve hanging from the top of the refrigerator (don’t ask), and grabbed the overshirt for my son to wear for “Blue for Spirit” day.
“Here’s you a blue shirt.” I chirped, sliding into the driver’s seat.
“Grunt,” he replied. Since I happen to know that a single syllable grunt is teenagerspeak for “Thanks Mom, without you I would be like a wireless game controller with dead batteries,” I was overcome with maternal love. Until I realized he had also forgotten his shoes.
Sending that boy back into the house is like watching an Infomercial for the Thighmaster and waiting for plot development.
I jogged up the hill and took the steps to the back door two at a time. It took me three laps down the hall, through his room, and around the kitchen table before I found two shoes that matched. I decided not to ask about the cross-trainer in the microwave. In the shower, Hubby was midway through "The House of the Rising Sun" with accompanying voice-produced instrumentals.
“Ready to go?” I asked wearily as I climbed into the car, sucking up some early morning effervescence from the caffeine-loaded diet soda I kept in the drink holder.
Grunt.
“I love you too, Sweetie,” I beamed and reached for the keys. The keys that were still in the house where I’d dropped them to get the Spirit Shirt. Shouldering open the car door, I trudged the winding trail to the kitchen door and snagged the keys.
Back in the car, I sank again into the driver’s seat. Sweat was battling hairspray for control of my ’do. “Let’s go. We’re late.”
Grunt.
“Do you really need your band instrument every day? Aren't the notes the same as yesterday?”
Raised eyebrow.
I opened the car door and looked up the steep, rock-strewn hill toward the house. Then I whipped out my cell phone. A musical, waterlogged voice answered.
Why should I reap all the benefits of walking? Last night over dessert, I noticed Hubby has some love handles that definitely could use some work.
Today I walked to the car and back three times. When I made the first trip back to the house to get my car keys, I heard my husband humming and starting the water for a shower. Rounding the corner back into the kitchen, I spied a blue sleeve hanging from the top of the refrigerator (don’t ask), and grabbed the overshirt for my son to wear for “Blue for Spirit” day.
“Here’s you a blue shirt.” I chirped, sliding into the driver’s seat.
“Grunt,” he replied. Since I happen to know that a single syllable grunt is teenagerspeak for “Thanks Mom, without you I would be like a wireless game controller with dead batteries,” I was overcome with maternal love. Until I realized he had also forgotten his shoes.
Sending that boy back into the house is like watching an Infomercial for the Thighmaster and waiting for plot development.
I jogged up the hill and took the steps to the back door two at a time. It took me three laps down the hall, through his room, and around the kitchen table before I found two shoes that matched. I decided not to ask about the cross-trainer in the microwave. In the shower, Hubby was midway through "The House of the Rising Sun" with accompanying voice-produced instrumentals.
“Ready to go?” I asked wearily as I climbed into the car, sucking up some early morning effervescence from the caffeine-loaded diet soda I kept in the drink holder.
Grunt.
“I love you too, Sweetie,” I beamed and reached for the keys. The keys that were still in the house where I’d dropped them to get the Spirit Shirt. Shouldering open the car door, I trudged the winding trail to the kitchen door and snagged the keys.
Back in the car, I sank again into the driver’s seat. Sweat was battling hairspray for control of my ’do. “Let’s go. We’re late.”
Grunt.
“Do you really need your band instrument every day? Aren't the notes the same as yesterday?”
Raised eyebrow.
I opened the car door and looked up the steep, rock-strewn hill toward the house. Then I whipped out my cell phone. A musical, waterlogged voice answered.
Why should I reap all the benefits of walking? Last night over dessert, I noticed Hubby has some love handles that definitely could use some work.
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