October: The Bane of My Existence

Any ESPN watcher is well aware that "there's only ONE October!"

On behalf of the wives of America: thank goodness.

For us, October is the most dreaded month of the year. Not because the warm summer months have officially departed. Nor owing to the fact that the Halloween smorgasbord of candy completely derails our diets. No. These things are of petty significance. What we're really concerned with is losing our husbands . . . to baseball playoffs.

It happens perennially. The first chilly airs of winter whistle through the air, leaves tumble from their branches, and our husbands become mindless MLB zombies, glued to Sportscenter. To women out there who have not yet experienced this bizarre event (single, engaged, just married, etc), allow me to offer you some advice:

Throughout the month of October, don't even try having a normal conversation with your husband--unless, of course, "normal conversation" to you involves pinch-runners, RBI's and batting averages. If not, get used to blank stares paired with pre-recorded responses: "OK, sounds great, no way, whatever, psch. OK, sounds great, no way, whatever, psch."

When his response-track becomes disjointed from your question-track, communicative errors ensue.

"Honey, can you help me move this piece of furniture?"

"No way."

"Darling, let's go out to eat."

"Whatever."

"Baby, I'm in the mood."

"Psch."

Also, be prepared to answer dicey questions from neighbors who are concerned over the recent escalation in yelling they hear from your home.

"Hey uh . . . how are you and Brock doing? Good? Oh, no reason. Just wondering. Um . . . if you ever need anything Kristi--ANYTHING--just let me know okay? My door's always open."

Little do they know, the incoherent screaming they're eavesdropping upon is not from martial disputes, but is instead a response to professional athletes who apparently don't know what they're doing.

"NOOO!! YOU'RE SERIOUSLY GOING TO WALK HIM?? DON'T YOU KNOW THE LINE-UP? AAAH HIT HIM HIT HIM HIT HIM HE'S STEALING SECOND!! THROWW!! IDIOT! YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!!"

Losing your husband to baseball is made even worse by the fact that it's all he ever talks about. It's like he's having an affair and won't shut up about how cool his mistress is. Say "sayanora" to discussing life goals, political issues and feelings. Stimulating conversations don't exist in October. Get used to hearing about the curse of the Billy goat, endless rants on why the Red Sox suck, and the history of the Dodgers and Vin Scully. The irony of Manny Ramirez playing for Joe Torre. How Coco Crisp really does look like the Cocoa Krispies monkey when he squints at bat.

Luckily, there is light at the end of the tunnel. With the handing out of the last piece of Halloween candy, November--and a new era--begins. The final game in the World Series has been played and at last your husband's focus can return to you. No more Angels, Red Sox, Dodgers, Cubs, Phillies, Brewers, Rays or White Sox. Only peace.

25 days and counting. I can't wait.

And go Angels.