I hate the whole house selling process. I'm not as stressed this time around, I'm sort of going with the flow, but the being ready at all times to show it is kicking my butt. It went up on Monday, and so far, no one has come by to see it. I am sort of going on the website to see how many people have checked it out online by the little ticker at the bottom, but I can't remember how many times I've done it so I don't know if that number is actual people or just me checking.
I've been doing the whole routine daily, just in case they call. Last year when we tried to sell, I would go all psycho everytime the phone rang and rush around like a monkey on crack worrying that it didn't look perfect. So this time, I'm keeping it perfect full time. That's just not my style. The house being perfect is not a priority for me as a rule. I don't like a mess, but I'm not obsessive about things. Houses in our little neck of the woods are moving, they're getting snatched up like hotcakes. But me being that one in a million girl, I'll have the only house in town not moving. Even though we are giving the place away.
Tomorrow is Saturday. That's the day that Jack wakes up at his usual time and plays Wii until I wake up. Sydney is lazy like me, she'll sleep in. But you watch, some hotshot will call at 8am wanting to see this place at 9am. And there I'll be, sweeping up whatever hair my border collie lost overnight, loading up both kids and all three dogs, and waiting for them to come in for 5 minutes and decide that my house is a craphole and they would rather live in the street. And right when they pull up, Mr. Jenkins from next door will come out in his boxers to get his paper. He'll shoot them dirty looks, because he doesn't want us to move. Then the pitbulls from the next neighborhood will make their way over here and attack someone or something. Or when they open the door something will fall off. Or one of the kids will have let one right before we walk out, and the smell will knock them off their feet when they walk in. Or I will remember that I left my bra hanging on the doorknob. There are so many things that can make a showing go wrong.
Meanwhile I'll be in the car with the kids arguing over who got the biggest sausage biscuit. The dogs growling at each other over dropped crumbs of the aforementioned sausage biscuits. Last time I tried to sell the house, this happened to me. Well the car stuff, I never left my bra on a doorknob. The dogs went nuts and I had to stop the car and get out and pull them off of each other. It sucks!
I just want this to be over with. Even if I have to deal with all that crap, I hope that someone comes by this weekend. And I'm keeping track of how many times I have checked how many people have looked at the listing on line. It only takes one person to fall in love with the joint. Here's to hoping that person is in the mood to buy.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Hawt Dawgs
Nearly 10 years ago, my friend Andy and I had an epiphany that the world, or at least our little town, needs a hot dog stand. We decided that we would be the ones to give the world the aforementioned hot dog stand, and we would name it "Hawt Dawgs". Then I moved away. Then we had kids. Then we got lazy. Two days ago, our dreams of Hawt Dawg was renewed. We really want to open a hot dog stand. We have decided to make a game plan, do some research and see if we can get it up and running by next spring's baseball season.
This desire to open Hawt Dawgs comes from both of us, for different reasons. Andy loves hot dogs. She believes that in heaven, there is a hot dog stand on every corner. It's her favorite food next to spaghetti. I have a love/hate relationships with hot dogs. I like them sometimes, but only the all beef ones and I prefer that they be cooked on a stick in a fire pit in my Nanas front yard. I am also hesitant to eat hot dogs because I try to eat well. Aside from my insatiable love of chocolate I try to avoid those sorts of things. I'm not always successful, but I shoot for it. I do enjoy a good Chicago dog.
Our biggest obstacle is our lack of motivation. Andy and I are very nearly the same person. We have struck fear in others with a simple smile and a shared giggle. No one knows exactly what we're up to, and they probably don't want to know. We have a history of great ideas, only to wake up the next morning deciding that the bed is warmer than the thought of actually putting our ideas into play. We're lazy. We're neck and neck in the lazy race. We lay around and argue over who is lazier. My sister, who is not at all lazy is quite annoyed by this. Because she will make plans with us, and there is a 50/50 chance that we're gonna back out. We drive her insane. Andy is a hard worker, she's a hot shot over at the local UPS. I am always busy doing something, PTO stuff, running errands for myself and other people. Taking the kids to their little activities. I'm not an unbusy person. But in spite of our ability to take care of our obligations, for the most part, we're lazy.
It is because of this laziness that our husbands are highly supportive of Hawt Dawgs. They don't think we'll ever get it done, so why even bother to do anything but say "hey honey, that's a great idea!" Like when we planned a joint family vacation for the past three years. Or when we told them we were going back to school. To be fair we are both still in school, there just isn't the same passion that there was back then. We are also looking at building new houses next door to each other. These are all things that they just nod their heads in agreement with.
But Hawt Dawgs will happen. And then everyone who doubts us can just eat our weiners!
This desire to open Hawt Dawgs comes from both of us, for different reasons. Andy loves hot dogs. She believes that in heaven, there is a hot dog stand on every corner. It's her favorite food next to spaghetti. I have a love/hate relationships with hot dogs. I like them sometimes, but only the all beef ones and I prefer that they be cooked on a stick in a fire pit in my Nanas front yard. I am also hesitant to eat hot dogs because I try to eat well. Aside from my insatiable love of chocolate I try to avoid those sorts of things. I'm not always successful, but I shoot for it. I do enjoy a good Chicago dog.
Our biggest obstacle is our lack of motivation. Andy and I are very nearly the same person. We have struck fear in others with a simple smile and a shared giggle. No one knows exactly what we're up to, and they probably don't want to know. We have a history of great ideas, only to wake up the next morning deciding that the bed is warmer than the thought of actually putting our ideas into play. We're lazy. We're neck and neck in the lazy race. We lay around and argue over who is lazier. My sister, who is not at all lazy is quite annoyed by this. Because she will make plans with us, and there is a 50/50 chance that we're gonna back out. We drive her insane. Andy is a hard worker, she's a hot shot over at the local UPS. I am always busy doing something, PTO stuff, running errands for myself and other people. Taking the kids to their little activities. I'm not an unbusy person. But in spite of our ability to take care of our obligations, for the most part, we're lazy.
It is because of this laziness that our husbands are highly supportive of Hawt Dawgs. They don't think we'll ever get it done, so why even bother to do anything but say "hey honey, that's a great idea!" Like when we planned a joint family vacation for the past three years. Or when we told them we were going back to school. To be fair we are both still in school, there just isn't the same passion that there was back then. We are also looking at building new houses next door to each other. These are all things that they just nod their heads in agreement with.
But Hawt Dawgs will happen. And then everyone who doubts us can just eat our weiners!
Monday, February 23, 2009
It's My Birthday!
Today is my birthday, I’m 39. I remember when 39 was a lifetime away. Now the bright lights of 40 are within my sight and I’m wondering where the last 20 years went. I’m ok with 39, I mean 40 is the new 30 now. I don’t really feel 39, but I look every minute of it courtesy of Jack and Sydney. I have so much gray hair at this point that it looks like I had gray highlights put in professionally. I also have to watch the caterpillar that wants to crawl across my upper lip when I’m not watching. I’ve reached that point, the one that requires me to tell the nice lady at the nail salon to go ahead and wax my upper lip and chin rather than doing my eyebrows. I have to prioritize. I can pluck my eyebrows. Have you ever pulled a little hair off of your upper lip? I’d rather have a monkey punch me right in the crotch. Repeatedly.
I had a good birthday. I always have good birthdays. The only one I can remember being bad was my 26th and I’d rather not get into the specifics of that one. When I was 10 I had 4 birthday parties. That was a very good year. My 21st birthday was a memorable one, it kicked off the summer of ruthlessness that I still look back on fondly to this day. OK sometimes with shame but the good kind. On my 30th birthday I met my Bob. Actually that was when I realized Bob was right in front of me, ripe for the pickin’. I’ll get into that story next month on our anniversary. Last year Bob threw me a surprise party! Unfortunately I was deathly ill with a horrible, either sinus infection or perhaps the flu. I don’t remember much of that birthday except that my doppelganger Andy made me a coconut cake and I couldn't taste it. That sucked.
Today I woke up to balloons everywhere. Jack and Sydney each got me a card and signed them. Jack was watching the Spongebob movie and so the card has all the characters from the movie, INCLUDING the Goofy Goober. He’s the little brown guy with the blue dancing cane.
Sydney gave me a princess birthday card, with a ton of balloons. She then proceeded to spill root beer on it. You will see that she also drew Spongebob on her card.
Bob made me a cake, and my parents came for dinner. My mother in law and Bob’s cousin from Chicago came by for dessert. It was a nice, quiet, birthday. The best kind.
I had a good birthday. I always have good birthdays. The only one I can remember being bad was my 26th and I’d rather not get into the specifics of that one. When I was 10 I had 4 birthday parties. That was a very good year. My 21st birthday was a memorable one, it kicked off the summer of ruthlessness that I still look back on fondly to this day. OK sometimes with shame but the good kind. On my 30th birthday I met my Bob. Actually that was when I realized Bob was right in front of me, ripe for the pickin’. I’ll get into that story next month on our anniversary. Last year Bob threw me a surprise party! Unfortunately I was deathly ill with a horrible, either sinus infection or perhaps the flu. I don’t remember much of that birthday except that my doppelganger Andy made me a coconut cake and I couldn't taste it. That sucked.
Today I woke up to balloons everywhere. Jack and Sydney each got me a card and signed them. Jack was watching the Spongebob movie and so the card has all the characters from the movie, INCLUDING the Goofy Goober. He’s the little brown guy with the blue dancing cane.
Sydney gave me a princess birthday card, with a ton of balloons. She then proceeded to spill root beer on it. You will see that she also drew Spongebob on her card.
Bob made me a cake, and my parents came for dinner. My mother in law and Bob’s cousin from Chicago came by for dessert. It was a nice, quiet, birthday. The best kind.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Bob Went Shopping
I'm sick, I have strep. Things have been so insane this week, and I can't even remember the last time I went grocery shopping. Today I gave Bob a list of things that I needed like soup, crackers, pudding, ice, etc. I told him to go to the store and get whatever he thinks he might like to eat the next couple of days and I would go when I felt better. He took the kids shopping with him. When I take the kids shopping with me, I spend most of my time telling them no we will not be buying orange Scooby Doo applesauce, and other things that catch their beady little eyes. I always tell them no on Gogurts because while I have no problem with Gogurts, if I tell them no, then they think they're getting one past me and it keeps them from trying it with anything else. It works for all parties. When I shop, I buy in bulk, I use coupons, I make lists, I rarely buy on impulse, and I always look for the best bang for my buck. It's my system, and it works.
Bob doesn't do that. He cames home an hour later, with bags and bags of things. Things that I would never buy, and all brand name to boot. He called me to tell me that he had bought a bunch, and that it was mostly because the kids picked stuff out. I knew what this meant. Scooby snacks in individual bags, three different kinds of crackers shaped like different sorts of animals, some of them in multiple colors, the above mentioned orange Scooby Doo applesauce. Sydney has a serious addiction to all things Scoob. I didn't even look past the bag with the cookies. The kids had this wild look in their eyes like they couldn't believe their take. They didn't even know where to begin! You know what this all means? This means all that crap in sitting in my pantry, just sitting there waiting for me. There is a reason I don't buy this stuff, it's like a drunk buying beer to keep around for company. Fortunately I'm having a hard time keeping things down, so there is no temptation right now, but you know the minute I feel better I'm going to be starving to death. And I'm not going to head for the soup and crackers. Sometimes I think he does that so that I won't ever ask him to go grocery shopping again.
And, he forgot my ice. Dammit.
Bob doesn't do that. He cames home an hour later, with bags and bags of things. Things that I would never buy, and all brand name to boot. He called me to tell me that he had bought a bunch, and that it was mostly because the kids picked stuff out. I knew what this meant. Scooby snacks in individual bags, three different kinds of crackers shaped like different sorts of animals, some of them in multiple colors, the above mentioned orange Scooby Doo applesauce. Sydney has a serious addiction to all things Scoob. I didn't even look past the bag with the cookies. The kids had this wild look in their eyes like they couldn't believe their take. They didn't even know where to begin! You know what this all means? This means all that crap in sitting in my pantry, just sitting there waiting for me. There is a reason I don't buy this stuff, it's like a drunk buying beer to keep around for company. Fortunately I'm having a hard time keeping things down, so there is no temptation right now, but you know the minute I feel better I'm going to be starving to death. And I'm not going to head for the soup and crackers. Sometimes I think he does that so that I won't ever ask him to go grocery shopping again.
And, he forgot my ice. Dammit.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
What's going on with me
1) I have strep throat courtesy of my dear son.
2) I spent way too much money today on rugs and other things that I thought I needed to get in order to make my house look more desirable.
3) I have until 4pm tomorrow to have the house ready to be listed, that's when our realtor is coming over.
4) I have strep throat and my house looks like I went out of town and left a house full of frat boys to take care of things.
5) I have a very nice cleaning lady named Rhoda coming over in the morning to clean my house.
6) I've been cleaning all evening in preparation for Rhoda because I am convinced that if I don't she will tell everyone in town that I'm a horrible housekeeper and when I go to Walmart everyone will stare and point at me and whisper.
7) I still think that the world revolves around me.
8) Jack is reading. How is this possible? The days of spelling dirty words is soon to come to an end.
9) We painted Jack's room and took down the Snoopy Sports border that we so lovingly put up when I was pregnant and we couldn't wait to meet him. It's all about Batman and Superman now.
10) My husband cried more than I did, but it was the paint fumes of course.
11) I hate personality theories. I really do. It will prove to be the death of my GPA.
12) I'm skipping out on PTO popcorn sales tomorrow. And I skipped out on the PTO reading program yesterday.
13) I am turning 39 on Monday. I just threw away my fake ID. How the hell am I this close to 40?
14) I look like I'm turning 39 on Monday. Again, how the hell?
15) My husband says I look 18. My husband is cooler than the other side of the pillow. My husband is also quite full of poo.
2) I spent way too much money today on rugs and other things that I thought I needed to get in order to make my house look more desirable.
3) I have until 4pm tomorrow to have the house ready to be listed, that's when our realtor is coming over.
4) I have strep throat and my house looks like I went out of town and left a house full of frat boys to take care of things.
5) I have a very nice cleaning lady named Rhoda coming over in the morning to clean my house.
6) I've been cleaning all evening in preparation for Rhoda because I am convinced that if I don't she will tell everyone in town that I'm a horrible housekeeper and when I go to Walmart everyone will stare and point at me and whisper.
7) I still think that the world revolves around me.
8) Jack is reading. How is this possible? The days of spelling dirty words is soon to come to an end.
9) We painted Jack's room and took down the Snoopy Sports border that we so lovingly put up when I was pregnant and we couldn't wait to meet him. It's all about Batman and Superman now.
10) My husband cried more than I did, but it was the paint fumes of course.
11) I hate personality theories. I really do. It will prove to be the death of my GPA.
12) I'm skipping out on PTO popcorn sales tomorrow. And I skipped out on the PTO reading program yesterday.
13) I am turning 39 on Monday. I just threw away my fake ID. How the hell am I this close to 40?
14) I look like I'm turning 39 on Monday. Again, how the hell?
15) My husband says I look 18. My husband is cooler than the other side of the pillow. My husband is also quite full of poo.
Monday, February 16, 2009
DPD - Degenerative Patience Disorder
I was suppose to have my house ready to go on the market today. It's not. I'm shooting for Friday but who knows. This whole thing has my DPD acting up. DPD, or degenerative patience disorder, seems to be something that comes along when you near 40. I'll be 39 a week from today, and there will be plenty to say about that in the week ahead.
Bob has DPD bad. He's all kinds of eat up with it. There are certain things that really set it off. Kids running around after eating an entire box of valentines candy. Dogs staring at you, asking for something but you can't figure it out. That one really throws Bob into fits. He hates it when dogs stare at him. Dropping things, oh dear lawd the dropping of things. Don't get me started on those little baggies at the grocery store, I nearly had a meltdown today because I couldn't get the stupid opening apart to put limes in there. I dropped one and my head almost exploded. Our friend Trevor stubbed the tip of his toe on a highchair a couple of weeks ago and the cries of anguish could be heard as far as three counties away. To be fair, stubbing your toe hurts like a SOB. But I think that the thing that really, really makes me go ballistic has to be parking lots. Specifically the one at our local Walmart Supercenter. This deserves it's own entry one day soon. Let's just say that people really irritate me in parking lots.
There is no known cure for DPD, but there are ways to alleviate the symptoms. I've found that there are two in particular that have worked wonders for me. Xanax and Riesling. Never together, well maybe after a particular stressful day but very rarely. I'm tempted to carry around little shooters of Riesling, but there's that whole driving with the kids and needing to be sober thing. Blah blah blah.
So, as you get closer to 40, be on the look out for signs of DPD. When it happens to you, you'll know it. And so will anyone who happens upon your wrath.
Bob has DPD bad. He's all kinds of eat up with it. There are certain things that really set it off. Kids running around after eating an entire box of valentines candy. Dogs staring at you, asking for something but you can't figure it out. That one really throws Bob into fits. He hates it when dogs stare at him. Dropping things, oh dear lawd the dropping of things. Don't get me started on those little baggies at the grocery store, I nearly had a meltdown today because I couldn't get the stupid opening apart to put limes in there. I dropped one and my head almost exploded. Our friend Trevor stubbed the tip of his toe on a highchair a couple of weeks ago and the cries of anguish could be heard as far as three counties away. To be fair, stubbing your toe hurts like a SOB. But I think that the thing that really, really makes me go ballistic has to be parking lots. Specifically the one at our local Walmart Supercenter. This deserves it's own entry one day soon. Let's just say that people really irritate me in parking lots.
There is no known cure for DPD, but there are ways to alleviate the symptoms. I've found that there are two in particular that have worked wonders for me. Xanax and Riesling. Never together, well maybe after a particular stressful day but very rarely. I'm tempted to carry around little shooters of Riesling, but there's that whole driving with the kids and needing to be sober thing. Blah blah blah.
So, as you get closer to 40, be on the look out for signs of DPD. When it happens to you, you'll know it. And so will anyone who happens upon your wrath.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Lost Keys
For whatever reason, I lose my keys all the time. It's very frustrating because to save my life I have no recollection of where I last saw them. I'm flighty by nature, so it's not so surprising but it's extremely irritating for me, as well as my husband.
If I go to someone's house, I call out to everyone where I am putting my keys in hopes that someone will recall my voice. The main place that this happens seems to be my Nanas. Because when I walk in the door my mind goes blank. I've had as many as 10 people searching for my keys at one time. I went so far as to buy this little clip thing for my key chain, so that when I go somewhere I can just hook the keys to my bag, or whatever I happen to be carrying. I do not, however, hook my keys to clothing. I just can't pull the trigger on that. I also have one specific area, near my door where I leave my keys. Therefore, they are either on my bag, or in that spot. I made a vow never to spend another minute searching for my damn keys. Until Friday...
There was no school this past Friday, so my sweet nephew, Bradley spent the night. This meant that I did not sleep at all. In bed by 1am, up by 6am, and two redheads who dream of chasing rabbits and wrestling bears in bed with me. I woke up black, blue and exhausted Friday morning. At around 8am, I got my little Sam Sam who spends a couple of hours each morning with me, and his big sister because again, no school. So I had a house full of kids. I had tons of homework, my house was to be ready to go on the market tomorrow, it's not btw, and I was so tired I felt like I had stayed up all night doing shots of Chambord tea.
So Sam Sam's mom, Andy, came home, and she volunteered to take all the kids to the park so I could get caught up on some stuff. Since I have the "bus" that fits a ton of kids, I told her to take my car. The next day Jack woke up with strep throat (I know, right?) and I was getting ready to take him to the doctor, and I went to my spot to get my keys. They weren't there. I called and asked Andy where they were, and she said she had left them here. Bob and I looked all over for them, and she looked all over her belongings, but the keys were gone. It was one of those "my life would be perfect if only" moments.
OK, I only have one set of keys. I have another key, but it won't actually start the car, it will only open the doors. I know this is stupid, but I'm a very busy woman and unless I can't find my keys, it's not something I think about. Up until today we still couldn't find the keys anywhere. I called Andy and she looked again, we were all puzzled. She has strep throat now, and so she wasn't feeling like dealing with the lost keys, so I told her I would call tomorrow and get the dealer to take care of it. I was resigned that maybe the dog ate them or something.
She calls this evening, and my keys were at my Nanas. The one place that I always seem to lose them. When she left here, she went over there, and emptied her pockets, thus leaving my keys at Nanas. So I'm NOT crazy. And I didn't lose them! Andy did! My system is still in tact!
So you would think that my first duty for tomorrow would be to get up to the dealer and get another key, wouldn't you? But I won't. I know me. I won't. I won't even think of it again until I've lost the keys again. Plus, if I do that, then I won't be forced to look for my keys and I'll just be back to one set again anyway. Because not taking care of things like that until it's a problem is how I roll.
If I go to someone's house, I call out to everyone where I am putting my keys in hopes that someone will recall my voice. The main place that this happens seems to be my Nanas. Because when I walk in the door my mind goes blank. I've had as many as 10 people searching for my keys at one time. I went so far as to buy this little clip thing for my key chain, so that when I go somewhere I can just hook the keys to my bag, or whatever I happen to be carrying. I do not, however, hook my keys to clothing. I just can't pull the trigger on that. I also have one specific area, near my door where I leave my keys. Therefore, they are either on my bag, or in that spot. I made a vow never to spend another minute searching for my damn keys. Until Friday...
There was no school this past Friday, so my sweet nephew, Bradley spent the night. This meant that I did not sleep at all. In bed by 1am, up by 6am, and two redheads who dream of chasing rabbits and wrestling bears in bed with me. I woke up black, blue and exhausted Friday morning. At around 8am, I got my little Sam Sam who spends a couple of hours each morning with me, and his big sister because again, no school. So I had a house full of kids. I had tons of homework, my house was to be ready to go on the market tomorrow, it's not btw, and I was so tired I felt like I had stayed up all night doing shots of Chambord tea.
So Sam Sam's mom, Andy, came home, and she volunteered to take all the kids to the park so I could get caught up on some stuff. Since I have the "bus" that fits a ton of kids, I told her to take my car. The next day Jack woke up with strep throat (I know, right?) and I was getting ready to take him to the doctor, and I went to my spot to get my keys. They weren't there. I called and asked Andy where they were, and she said she had left them here. Bob and I looked all over for them, and she looked all over her belongings, but the keys were gone. It was one of those "my life would be perfect if only" moments.
OK, I only have one set of keys. I have another key, but it won't actually start the car, it will only open the doors. I know this is stupid, but I'm a very busy woman and unless I can't find my keys, it's not something I think about. Up until today we still couldn't find the keys anywhere. I called Andy and she looked again, we were all puzzled. She has strep throat now, and so she wasn't feeling like dealing with the lost keys, so I told her I would call tomorrow and get the dealer to take care of it. I was resigned that maybe the dog ate them or something.
She calls this evening, and my keys were at my Nanas. The one place that I always seem to lose them. When she left here, she went over there, and emptied her pockets, thus leaving my keys at Nanas. So I'm NOT crazy. And I didn't lose them! Andy did! My system is still in tact!
So you would think that my first duty for tomorrow would be to get up to the dealer and get another key, wouldn't you? But I won't. I know me. I won't. I won't even think of it again until I've lost the keys again. Plus, if I do that, then I won't be forced to look for my keys and I'll just be back to one set again anyway. Because not taking care of things like that until it's a problem is how I roll.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
I Am Technologys Bitch
It's happened. I've turned into my Nana. I do not understand any of these new fangled mechanical thingamajiggs. And I don't want to. There's too much out there.
When I was a kid, we were lucky when dad got a new tv and gave us the old tv that needed needle nose pliers to change the channel. And a computer? Forget that. My house has 4 tv's, two dvd players, three computers, two cellphones, 3 game systems, and one land line that I actually thought was messed up but simply wasn't plugged in. I swear to you that's true. And we would be lost without these things. If we had to share a computer? It would be ugly. If we had to argue over what to watch? Forget that. What would we do on snow days if we didn't have our choice of games? I have no idea.
Yet of all these things that we have, that we use daily, I only get bare minimum use of them. There are things on my cell phone that I will never use because I have no idea how to. I have the cingular ring tone, because I don't know how to change it to AC/DC. I could set up all kinds of things on my computer I'm sure, but when Bob starts to explain it to me, my eyes glaze over and I turn into Forrest Gump. I could be doing Wii Fit. But I'd probably break a hip.
I don't want to know how to text message. I would rather just talk. Why do I need to text? What purpose does it serve? What am I gonna do? Type 800813 and send it to Bob? What's he gonna do? See "BOOBIE" on his screen and get riled up? Come on. I need a new phone, and I like the Palm Centro, but why? Really I just need a jitterbug.
I don't know how to use the DVD player. If I HAD to do it, I suppose I could, but I don't want to. I don't watch DVD's without Bob, and even then I don't ever watch anything from start to finish. Although I did watch "Zack and Miri Make A Porno" the other night and it was great. My kids can work the DVD player, but I can't. If Bob's not here, I'll ask them to do it. If they aren't here, then I don't need to watch it.
If my computer does anything slightly wonky, I shut it down, close it, and call Bob. If he isn't here, I use his computer until he gets home and fixes it. I don't care, I don't have the patience to figure out what's wrong with this stuff.
My kids play Wii or any other video-type game like pro's. Jack is a Lego fah-reek. I tried to play "Cooking with Mama" about a month ago and I finally handed it over to Sydney and went to my room. Mama sucks. I play Bubbletown on my computer. And I LOVE Bubbletown. That's the extent of my game playing abilities. And even at that I've never gotten past level 10. Those little Suri Cruises drive me insane.
I blame Bob for this. He's a techno geek, and he can fix anything. And he's one of those "MOVE" guys when something breaks. Like move it before your stupidity jumps into the computer/dvd player/wii/etc.
However, I can work the DVR. And I have become quite accustomed to it. The other day our receiver was all crackhead and I couldn't remember how I existed without DVR. I never watch commercials. I never miss a show. I love my DVR. I want the new one that records 3 things at once. I would get TIVO but I could never figure that out.
So, I'll stick to mastering the DVR and Bubbletown. These are things I enjoy, they are priority. Maybe I will get a Palm Centro, and maybe I will change the ringtone to AC/DC (or Neil Diamond!). But I won't text! That's one line that I will never cross. I'm not organized enough to text. I'd send dirty messages to my uncle thinking I was sending them to Bob. You don't do that in Oklahoma without raising red flags all over town. I'm just sayin'...
When I was a kid, we were lucky when dad got a new tv and gave us the old tv that needed needle nose pliers to change the channel. And a computer? Forget that. My house has 4 tv's, two dvd players, three computers, two cellphones, 3 game systems, and one land line that I actually thought was messed up but simply wasn't plugged in. I swear to you that's true. And we would be lost without these things. If we had to share a computer? It would be ugly. If we had to argue over what to watch? Forget that. What would we do on snow days if we didn't have our choice of games? I have no idea.
Yet of all these things that we have, that we use daily, I only get bare minimum use of them. There are things on my cell phone that I will never use because I have no idea how to. I have the cingular ring tone, because I don't know how to change it to AC/DC. I could set up all kinds of things on my computer I'm sure, but when Bob starts to explain it to me, my eyes glaze over and I turn into Forrest Gump. I could be doing Wii Fit. But I'd probably break a hip.
I don't want to know how to text message. I would rather just talk. Why do I need to text? What purpose does it serve? What am I gonna do? Type 800813 and send it to Bob? What's he gonna do? See "BOOBIE" on his screen and get riled up? Come on. I need a new phone, and I like the Palm Centro, but why? Really I just need a jitterbug.
I don't know how to use the DVD player. If I HAD to do it, I suppose I could, but I don't want to. I don't watch DVD's without Bob, and even then I don't ever watch anything from start to finish. Although I did watch "Zack and Miri Make A Porno" the other night and it was great. My kids can work the DVD player, but I can't. If Bob's not here, I'll ask them to do it. If they aren't here, then I don't need to watch it.
If my computer does anything slightly wonky, I shut it down, close it, and call Bob. If he isn't here, I use his computer until he gets home and fixes it. I don't care, I don't have the patience to figure out what's wrong with this stuff.
My kids play Wii or any other video-type game like pro's. Jack is a Lego fah-reek. I tried to play "Cooking with Mama" about a month ago and I finally handed it over to Sydney and went to my room. Mama sucks. I play Bubbletown on my computer. And I LOVE Bubbletown. That's the extent of my game playing abilities. And even at that I've never gotten past level 10. Those little Suri Cruises drive me insane.
I blame Bob for this. He's a techno geek, and he can fix anything. And he's one of those "MOVE" guys when something breaks. Like move it before your stupidity jumps into the computer/dvd player/wii/etc.
However, I can work the DVR. And I have become quite accustomed to it. The other day our receiver was all crackhead and I couldn't remember how I existed without DVR. I never watch commercials. I never miss a show. I love my DVR. I want the new one that records 3 things at once. I would get TIVO but I could never figure that out.
So, I'll stick to mastering the DVR and Bubbletown. These are things I enjoy, they are priority. Maybe I will get a Palm Centro, and maybe I will change the ringtone to AC/DC (or Neil Diamond!). But I won't text! That's one line that I will never cross. I'm not organized enough to text. I'd send dirty messages to my uncle thinking I was sending them to Bob. You don't do that in Oklahoma without raising red flags all over town. I'm just sayin'...
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Road Trip!
We are considering a trip to Chicago or Houston this March, and it will be our first real trip since we had kids. When Bob was a kid he and his parents went to Florida often to visit his grandparents. Bob is an only child and his trips were made in a big fancy Cadillac with the whole back seat to himself (can you even imagine?) He would kick back and play with his GI Joes, read, color, pretty much anything he could do at home. I imagine his dad, in his flowery bowling shirt, would pull into HoJo’s for a nice meal before they took time to see touristy things on their way to the sunshine state. I picture his mom with a little martini shaker in a secret wet bar in the glove compartment. I see her wearing the latest beach wear couture with giant Jackie O sunglasses, snapping her fingers while she sang along to her Sinatra 8 tracks and enjoyed the scenery. These trips were quiet, civilized, serene, just nice.
We took trips too. It was either my parents, my sister and me. Or it was my mom, my aunt, my nana and all my cousins. Neither of them were quiet, civilized, serene or nice.
Trips with my dad were…well…umm…fun? We would set pre arranged estimated departure and arrival times. But we never left on time. We always left at least 3 hours early if not the night before. We never had a Cadi. We usually had Ford and most likely the passengers side door wouldn’t open from the inside (this was such a source of angst for me as a kid. My sister would let me out of the car when we got to school, and I would get out limping as if I were too injured to open the door myself, that should have been a HUGE red flag for my mom). The first thing my dad would do was light up a Winston. My mom would immediately start waving her arms and rolling down the window, asking him if he just wanted to kill us all before we got there. Then telling him to crack his window if he was going to smoke. This was no good. This meant that the smoke would waft behind him and to us. PLUS, if the window was cracked, the A/C wasn’t doing it’s job and that’s not fun for us. Then he would pop in either Elvis or Neil Diamond, and he turned it up all the way because the only speakers were in the back and he couldn’t hear the music, because the friggin’ window was cracked! We stopped for meals, that we ate in the car. I once got an entire cup of McDonalds OJ dropped on my head because dad took a too quick turn into a Texaco outside of Chattanooga, TN. To this day I hate orange juice. And I wasn’t the least bit surprised by that whole OJ Simpson thing.
Trips with the “ladies” of my family usually involved the three of them and seven kids. These trips were usually made in a station wagon. And always in the heat of summer. The last trip I remember there was a van, but there was a bar thing that blocked the A/C to the back seats. We did get to stay in a hotel room. A hotel room, as in ONE hotel room. The 10 of us. Oh and we got a soda. A soda, as in ONE soda between the seven of us. If we made the mistake of giving one of the two boys the drink first, no one got a drink. Meanwhile, the Supremes where in the front seat with a Pepsi and a bag of Corn nuts each. And the air was blowing right on them!
These trips are events that my sister and my cousins and I talk about often. Not fondly, but often. We aren’t too damaged. I mean sure, none of us will share a drink with anyone. And we all refuse to drive a car with no A/C . Oh and if we all go somewhere we insist on each taking our own cars so that no one has to sit in the back seat. But aside from that and a few little harmless tics we’re cool.
I think that I remember once, somewhere at that point where the trip from Oklahoma to North Carolina, and Illinois to Florida meet, that I saw a big fancy black Cadillac with a boy in the back seat napping on a feather pillow while the cool air from the A/C vent blew his soft hair. I saw him as I stuck my head out the window of a crappy pea green Ford, trying to get a breath of fresh air while Elvis Presley blasted about treating him like a fool.
I recently took a short jaunt with my parents up to OKC. I was sitting in the back seat of his truck with my kids, and my mom was in the front with him. Dad lit up a friggin’ Winston and my mom started waving her arms around and telling him to crack the window! I looked at my kids and I told them “I’m sorry that we aren’t in a Cadillac listening to Frank Sinatra. But we are in a nice Ford. Now, cover your nose and breath through your mouth, we’ll be home soon”.
We took trips too. It was either my parents, my sister and me. Or it was my mom, my aunt, my nana and all my cousins. Neither of them were quiet, civilized, serene or nice.
Trips with my dad were…well…umm…fun? We would set pre arranged estimated departure and arrival times. But we never left on time. We always left at least 3 hours early if not the night before. We never had a Cadi. We usually had Ford and most likely the passengers side door wouldn’t open from the inside (this was such a source of angst for me as a kid. My sister would let me out of the car when we got to school, and I would get out limping as if I were too injured to open the door myself, that should have been a HUGE red flag for my mom). The first thing my dad would do was light up a Winston. My mom would immediately start waving her arms and rolling down the window, asking him if he just wanted to kill us all before we got there. Then telling him to crack his window if he was going to smoke. This was no good. This meant that the smoke would waft behind him and to us. PLUS, if the window was cracked, the A/C wasn’t doing it’s job and that’s not fun for us. Then he would pop in either Elvis or Neil Diamond, and he turned it up all the way because the only speakers were in the back and he couldn’t hear the music, because the friggin’ window was cracked! We stopped for meals, that we ate in the car. I once got an entire cup of McDonalds OJ dropped on my head because dad took a too quick turn into a Texaco outside of Chattanooga, TN. To this day I hate orange juice. And I wasn’t the least bit surprised by that whole OJ Simpson thing.
Trips with the “ladies” of my family usually involved the three of them and seven kids. These trips were usually made in a station wagon. And always in the heat of summer. The last trip I remember there was a van, but there was a bar thing that blocked the A/C to the back seats. We did get to stay in a hotel room. A hotel room, as in ONE hotel room. The 10 of us. Oh and we got a soda. A soda, as in ONE soda between the seven of us. If we made the mistake of giving one of the two boys the drink first, no one got a drink. Meanwhile, the Supremes where in the front seat with a Pepsi and a bag of Corn nuts each. And the air was blowing right on them!
These trips are events that my sister and my cousins and I talk about often. Not fondly, but often. We aren’t too damaged. I mean sure, none of us will share a drink with anyone. And we all refuse to drive a car with no A/C . Oh and if we all go somewhere we insist on each taking our own cars so that no one has to sit in the back seat. But aside from that and a few little harmless tics we’re cool.
I think that I remember once, somewhere at that point where the trip from Oklahoma to North Carolina, and Illinois to Florida meet, that I saw a big fancy black Cadillac with a boy in the back seat napping on a feather pillow while the cool air from the A/C vent blew his soft hair. I saw him as I stuck my head out the window of a crappy pea green Ford, trying to get a breath of fresh air while Elvis Presley blasted about treating him like a fool.
I recently took a short jaunt with my parents up to OKC. I was sitting in the back seat of his truck with my kids, and my mom was in the front with him. Dad lit up a friggin’ Winston and my mom started waving her arms around and telling him to crack the window! I looked at my kids and I told them “I’m sorry that we aren’t in a Cadillac listening to Frank Sinatra. But we are in a nice Ford. Now, cover your nose and breath through your mouth, we’ll be home soon”.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Hot dog!
My Bob is from Chicago, and he is all about Chicago. He loves the White Sox and when he gets riled up or drunk he sounds like Mike Ditka. I love it.
One of the best things about Chicago is the hot dog. If you have never had an authentic Chicago dog, I don't think what I'm about to tell you will sound anything short of ridiculous. In Chicago, hot dogs are a way of life. There is a place called Portillos that has the best hot dogs in town, and we went there far too often when we lived there. We moved away from the Windy City just over 7 years ago, and we haven't been back yet. Therefore, Bob hasn't had a Chicago dog in 7 years. So for his birthday last year, his mother wanted to order her angel some hot dogs from Portillos. We were having a big 40th birthday party and buying "gourment" hot dogs for 40 people was a little too much even for her. We kept putting it off, until this past week and today the big brown truck pulled up and brought to us a humongous box from Portillos.
Inside was a packet of 10 hot dogs, with buns, hot dog seasoning, relish, pickles, tomatoes, onions and the cherry on top, the sport peppers. Apparently sport peppers are only available in Illinois and nothing else will do. So tonight I took to preparing the hot dogs...
The tomatoes had to be sliced just so, the onions had to be diced just right, and even the pickles required special care. The peppers were ready to go. Once I had it all on the table, my precious sat down and meticulously built the perfect Chicago hot dog.
And once the preparation was done, and the perfect hot dog had been built, there was only one thing left to do.
I have to admit, they were good. They were damn good. Was it worth the money that was spent to have them shipped fresh all the way from Chicago? That has yet to be determined. But for him, it was worth all that and a 2 liter of Coke.
And not to be outdone, the elusive Taco dog...
One of the best things about Chicago is the hot dog. If you have never had an authentic Chicago dog, I don't think what I'm about to tell you will sound anything short of ridiculous. In Chicago, hot dogs are a way of life. There is a place called Portillos that has the best hot dogs in town, and we went there far too often when we lived there. We moved away from the Windy City just over 7 years ago, and we haven't been back yet. Therefore, Bob hasn't had a Chicago dog in 7 years. So for his birthday last year, his mother wanted to order her angel some hot dogs from Portillos. We were having a big 40th birthday party and buying "gourment" hot dogs for 40 people was a little too much even for her. We kept putting it off, until this past week and today the big brown truck pulled up and brought to us a humongous box from Portillos.
Inside was a packet of 10 hot dogs, with buns, hot dog seasoning, relish, pickles, tomatoes, onions and the cherry on top, the sport peppers. Apparently sport peppers are only available in Illinois and nothing else will do. So tonight I took to preparing the hot dogs...
The tomatoes had to be sliced just so, the onions had to be diced just right, and even the pickles required special care. The peppers were ready to go. Once I had it all on the table, my precious sat down and meticulously built the perfect Chicago hot dog.
And once the preparation was done, and the perfect hot dog had been built, there was only one thing left to do.
I have to admit, they were good. They were damn good. Was it worth the money that was spent to have them shipped fresh all the way from Chicago? That has yet to be determined. But for him, it was worth all that and a 2 liter of Coke.
And not to be outdone, the elusive Taco dog...
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
I blew
I knew it was going to happen. I tried to lay perfectly still and not move so as to not awaken the gods of tossing my cookies. I was doing ok until sweet little Sydney came in to my room and said she needed me to go to the potty with her. That just got things all stirred up. I feel completely hungover. I feel like I tied one on last night, and I woke up half expecting to find the phone off the hook and then shriek in terror after realizing I drunk dialed someone I should not have. Fortunately I only attempted to call my mother to "check on me in the night". I can see the bright lights of 40, and I still want my mom to check on me in the night when I get sick.
I even had the hangover water dreams. I didn't dare attempt to drink anything because it would never stay down, so I was dying of thirst at about 1am. When I was a booze hound, I would awaken to dreams of cupboards full of water bottles, of glasses upon glasses of cool, ice water. I would wake up desperately thirsty, but waaaay too sick at my stomach to actually drink anything. This is how I feel today. I'm not a drinker, the occasional wine with dinner is all I do. There is a reason for that, I hate feeling like crap, I no longer have time for it. But here I sit, sick as a dog and dying of thirst.
Both of my babies are sick, and my big baby is sick as well. He's so sick he's leaving work early. I've seen him go to work with pneumonia. He never misses work (I, on the other hand, call in sick if I stump my toe).
So wish us luck, my hope is that it passes at the 24 hour mark. Then I can bleach the entire house and get rid of this bastard germ that has taken over our lives.
I even had the hangover water dreams. I didn't dare attempt to drink anything because it would never stay down, so I was dying of thirst at about 1am. When I was a booze hound, I would awaken to dreams of cupboards full of water bottles, of glasses upon glasses of cool, ice water. I would wake up desperately thirsty, but waaaay too sick at my stomach to actually drink anything. This is how I feel today. I'm not a drinker, the occasional wine with dinner is all I do. There is a reason for that, I hate feeling like crap, I no longer have time for it. But here I sit, sick as a dog and dying of thirst.
Both of my babies are sick, and my big baby is sick as well. He's so sick he's leaving work early. I've seen him go to work with pneumonia. He never misses work (I, on the other hand, call in sick if I stump my toe).
So wish us luck, my hope is that it passes at the 24 hour mark. Then I can bleach the entire house and get rid of this bastard germ that has taken over our lives.
Monday, February 2, 2009
My life would be perfect if only...
Oh.my.gah. My son threw up in the car tonight. He was sitting in the third row and he threw up. Could he have wedged himself into a more hard to get to place? This is something that I really didn't want to ever have to deal with.
When things like this happen, I call them "my life would be perfect if..." moments. I get them a lot. Sometimes it's as simple as "if I hadn't stumped my toe", or "I didn't have to stop for gas". But sometimes it's something a little more substantial. I give you, "The Rat Incident".
When Jack was about 6 weeks old, and I had gotten about 4 hrs of consecutive sleep and was feeling pretty good, I decided to surprise Bob by throwing out the trash. I put my precious newborn in his little swing so he could watch a Baby Einstein video. I opened the garage door, and I saw a rat the size of a baby kangaroo run away from me. When this happened, I screamed and ran into the bedroom where my exhausted from staying up with the baby husband was blissfully sleeping. I ran right past my innocent, defenseless baby boy, and jumped onto the bed screaming. All I could get out was "rat!" and he knew what was happening. I'm terrified of rats, mice, etc. He jumped out of bed, asking me where the baby was, and my first thought was "the rat will eat my baby!" He ran through the house towards the kitchen, then he ran back into the living room and said "the door is open, the door to the house is open, you left it open!" I guess I didn't shut the door completely in my panic. For all we knew that rat was in our house!
My sister once told me, "that rat is more afraid of you than you are of it". I told her that wasn't possible or that rat would have dropped dead the minute I opened that door. Either that or I would have been cleaning up rat poop for a month because I nearly wet myself when I saw that bastard rat running away from me.
Later that evening, my sweet, brave husband decided to do some laundry. I told him I wasn't doing it, and at this time I was doing about 3 loads a day because Jack was a spitter. So my hero, puts on jeans, tucks them into some boots, and wears a long sleeved shirt. Then he proceeded to enter the garage carrying a sword that was as tall as the door (I wish I was kidding, I really do). I wasn't sure what he thought he would do with it, but I was sure I wasn't going to go in there so if he needed to put on a dress that was cool with me. This is how we did laundry for about two weeks. During that two weeks, we had put out some poison. That rat would take the poison, but it would leave something in it's place. Like a red pen cap. It made me even more skeeved out because I always took comfort in the fact that rodents are dumb. But if it was smart enough to think I might believe that a red pen cap was a piece of that poison than I was underestimating it. Finally one day, Bob found the rat dead. I had told him how big this rat was, and his fear was based solely on that thing being the size of a 6 week old St. Bernard puppy. He came around the front of the house with the giant rat in a pizza box. It was about the size of my fist. But it's tail was as long as my arm and that's even worse. In fact, I'm not 100% sure that it was a rat, it might have been the neighbors guinea pig, but either way it didn't belong in my garage. If it was a guinea pig that would explain why it was smart enough to leave a red pen cap when it took the poison. So maybe rodents are dumb after all.
During that two week period, everytime I thought about that filthy thing being in my garage, I would say "my life would be perfect if that bastard rat wasn't in my garage". And this is what I thought as I was cleaning up that 3rd row seat after Jack tossed his lunch. My life would be perfect if he hadn't thrown up in the car.
Now my life would be perfect if I didn't think I was going to be the next to blow.
When things like this happen, I call them "my life would be perfect if..." moments. I get them a lot. Sometimes it's as simple as "if I hadn't stumped my toe", or "I didn't have to stop for gas". But sometimes it's something a little more substantial. I give you, "The Rat Incident".
When Jack was about 6 weeks old, and I had gotten about 4 hrs of consecutive sleep and was feeling pretty good, I decided to surprise Bob by throwing out the trash. I put my precious newborn in his little swing so he could watch a Baby Einstein video. I opened the garage door, and I saw a rat the size of a baby kangaroo run away from me. When this happened, I screamed and ran into the bedroom where my exhausted from staying up with the baby husband was blissfully sleeping. I ran right past my innocent, defenseless baby boy, and jumped onto the bed screaming. All I could get out was "rat!" and he knew what was happening. I'm terrified of rats, mice, etc. He jumped out of bed, asking me where the baby was, and my first thought was "the rat will eat my baby!" He ran through the house towards the kitchen, then he ran back into the living room and said "the door is open, the door to the house is open, you left it open!" I guess I didn't shut the door completely in my panic. For all we knew that rat was in our house!
My sister once told me, "that rat is more afraid of you than you are of it". I told her that wasn't possible or that rat would have dropped dead the minute I opened that door. Either that or I would have been cleaning up rat poop for a month because I nearly wet myself when I saw that bastard rat running away from me.
Later that evening, my sweet, brave husband decided to do some laundry. I told him I wasn't doing it, and at this time I was doing about 3 loads a day because Jack was a spitter. So my hero, puts on jeans, tucks them into some boots, and wears a long sleeved shirt. Then he proceeded to enter the garage carrying a sword that was as tall as the door (I wish I was kidding, I really do). I wasn't sure what he thought he would do with it, but I was sure I wasn't going to go in there so if he needed to put on a dress that was cool with me. This is how we did laundry for about two weeks. During that two weeks, we had put out some poison. That rat would take the poison, but it would leave something in it's place. Like a red pen cap. It made me even more skeeved out because I always took comfort in the fact that rodents are dumb. But if it was smart enough to think I might believe that a red pen cap was a piece of that poison than I was underestimating it. Finally one day, Bob found the rat dead. I had told him how big this rat was, and his fear was based solely on that thing being the size of a 6 week old St. Bernard puppy. He came around the front of the house with the giant rat in a pizza box. It was about the size of my fist. But it's tail was as long as my arm and that's even worse. In fact, I'm not 100% sure that it was a rat, it might have been the neighbors guinea pig, but either way it didn't belong in my garage. If it was a guinea pig that would explain why it was smart enough to leave a red pen cap when it took the poison. So maybe rodents are dumb after all.
During that two week period, everytime I thought about that filthy thing being in my garage, I would say "my life would be perfect if that bastard rat wasn't in my garage". And this is what I thought as I was cleaning up that 3rd row seat after Jack tossed his lunch. My life would be perfect if he hadn't thrown up in the car.
Now my life would be perfect if I didn't think I was going to be the next to blow.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
The holiest of days
Today is a very special day in our home. The anticipation leading up to it, the careful and meticulous preparations, we invite our loved one's over to celebrate that which must be celebrated. It's the one holiday that my husband takes seriously and insists on the entire family acknowledging. It's the Superbowl.
He doesn't care if there are no candy hearts with little sweet sayings on them. If he never had to color an Easter egg he would be fine. If it weren't for beer on the the 4th of July, it would just be another hot summer day. Come November, who cares about pilgrims? He hates turkey. And while he does seem to have some feelings towards Christmas, if the stockings aren't hung by the chimney with care, he'd be fine.
But let us not forget this most special of all Sundays in late January/early February. Let us have a refrigerator full of beer, a plate full of nacho's, and most importantly, quiet. On this day he wakes up like a kid on Christmas morning. His eyes all a glaze, his heart a flutter, the hope and promise of this day. After the game, he'll lay his sweet head down to go to sleep. Visions of first downs and beer commercials dancing through his head. He'll wake up tomorrow, wishing it was still Sunday. Mostly because he has to go to work, but also because it will be so very long before he can watch another football game, and an entire year before he gets to don his faded Vikings jersey, load up on pizza rolls and other disgusting food I only allow on this special day, and sit and watch this glorious event.
So today I say to him, have your day baby. It's all yours. No light bulbs will be changed today. No dogs will stare at you, begging you for something that you can't figure out. All I ask is that if the team you want to win doesn't, please don't go on and on for a year about bad calls like you did last year. And please don't sleep in the same room with me after drinking all that beer and sitting all day, we both know what it does to your system. I'm just sayin'...
Happy Superbowl!
He doesn't care if there are no candy hearts with little sweet sayings on them. If he never had to color an Easter egg he would be fine. If it weren't for beer on the the 4th of July, it would just be another hot summer day. Come November, who cares about pilgrims? He hates turkey. And while he does seem to have some feelings towards Christmas, if the stockings aren't hung by the chimney with care, he'd be fine.
But let us not forget this most special of all Sundays in late January/early February. Let us have a refrigerator full of beer, a plate full of nacho's, and most importantly, quiet. On this day he wakes up like a kid on Christmas morning. His eyes all a glaze, his heart a flutter, the hope and promise of this day. After the game, he'll lay his sweet head down to go to sleep. Visions of first downs and beer commercials dancing through his head. He'll wake up tomorrow, wishing it was still Sunday. Mostly because he has to go to work, but also because it will be so very long before he can watch another football game, and an entire year before he gets to don his faded Vikings jersey, load up on pizza rolls and other disgusting food I only allow on this special day, and sit and watch this glorious event.
So today I say to him, have your day baby. It's all yours. No light bulbs will be changed today. No dogs will stare at you, begging you for something that you can't figure out. All I ask is that if the team you want to win doesn't, please don't go on and on for a year about bad calls like you did last year. And please don't sleep in the same room with me after drinking all that beer and sitting all day, we both know what it does to your system. I'm just sayin'...
Happy Superbowl!
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