I stupidly decided to play tennis on a record cold LA day. And to make matters even worse, I only packed knee-length pants. We didn’t even make it to a full hour on the court.
Turk and I had just arrived on the courts today, when I popped open my trunk to get my racket. I looked in there and saw a copy of Fifty Shades of Grey. I asked Turk if it was his, and he seemed greatly offended by the question. “Why the fuck would I leave chick-lit in your car?” “You’re the only person I know who owns a copy.” “It’s Carla who owns a copy! Not me.” “Same shit.”
The mystery has not been solved. And till then, the book will most definitely remain in the trunk.
There is no other sports announcer that upsets me as much as she does. Or one who offers such irrelevant commentary.
My excitement over finding tennis on the TV was quickly overshadowed by my disgust at hearing Mary Carillo.
Playing tennis in Vans. I will be having difficulties getting to my car tomorrow.
I was going to post about how much I love Djokovic. About how amazingly ridiculous that match was—though I only caught the last two sets, it seriously was one of the better I’ve seen. About how much Djokovic smiles when he plays, which is adorable. About how whenever I watch him play, all I want to do is get on a court and play better. And about how whenever the cameras panned out to Djokovic’s box, all I could think of was how horrible it must be to be sitting behind floppy Vlade Divac.
And then I came across this.
Is Djokovic Bruce Banner? Is he turning into the Hulk here? How necessary is this, really? Once again, I find myself questioning why I root for him. Just a little.