Falling for Bob?

         Well, well, well. Much has happened since you tuned into the last episode of Joni Baloney.  

          Two nights ago St. Bob, who thinks he’s still 18, decided to join in a volleyball game with teenagers at our church. That evening after he got home, he said, “I need to tell you something, but I don’t want you to say anything about it.”

          Oh, boy, is that ever a loaded request. I folded my arms. “What happened?” I asked.

          Turns out Bob’s shoe tripped him (yeah, right) and he fell. His palms were bruised, his neck was wrenched, and he landed on his unwilling hiney.  Which, I might add, is connected to his unwilling spine. 

          Oh—and he also hit his head but he’s sure he doesn’t have a concussion because he looked it up.

          “So, what were you worried that I would say?” I asked.

          “That I’m too old to be acting like an idiot and risking my health and maybe breaking something in a younger man’s game.”

          I smiled. “As long as you’ve heard the words, I don’t care who says them.” Just so we understand each other.

A much safer endeavor is to sit right where you are and click here for all kinds of life hacks on my Youtube channel.

'Tis the Season to be Falling

          I told you that St. Bob is recovering from a complete knee replacement, right?  Well, the whole reason he had to have it was due to a skiing accident 20 years ago.

           Turns out you should take your own skiis and adjust your own bindings. Instead, we had rented skiis and the doofus (yes, doofus) kid who tightened them for him gave it one or two cranks too many, and Bob’s skiis wouldn’t release.

          This wouldn’t have been a problem, except for Doofus #2 on a snowboard, who cut Bob off and caused him to fall.  Two doofuses are one too many, and Bob heard the snap! as he went down, his ski going one way and his leg going the other.

          I was at the top of the hill resting (some would say oblivious), completely unaware of the situation.  But soon I was heading toward a guy crumpled on the snow who looked an awful lot like my husband.  As I got closer I did the only sensible thing—I screamed.  And it wasn’t long before the ski patrol zipped up to us to assess the situation.

          Sure enough, his knee was out of commission (turned out to be a torn minuscus).  So the guys radioed for a toboggan, and began filling out paperwork, right there on the slope.

          “What do you do for a living?” one guy asked.

          “I play for the 49ers,” Bob said.  I just stared at him.  Seriously?  You’re going the macho route so you won’t look like a wimp?  Good grief.

          “Can you tell me what happened?” the fellow said.

          “Just write O.F.T.T.H.,” Bob said.  And when the fellow didn’t understand Bob just sighed, “Old Fart Trying Too Hard.”  Okay.  He’s back.

         Snowed in or snowed under, you need a good book. And you can do all your Christmas shopping in one place—find all my books right here.