Welp. We did indeed
2005-12-12, 12:27 p.m.
Welp. We did indeed go to the TSU football game Friday night, and it was a good game, all up until our team lost in overtime. I think at least 50% of Texas is very, very angry with Coach David Bailiff, whom DW and some of his friends know from running around drinking and playing sports together 20 years ago. DW wanted to storm onto the sidelines and give Coach some help. Like his foot in his ass or something.
Here are some snippets of what you might have heard my little husband screaming, had you been sitting in the stands next to us:
“WHERE’S MY SAFETY??? WHERE’S MY SAFETY???”
“AWWW, DAVID! WHAT ARE YOU DOOOOING????”
“OH HOLY SMOKES – DON’T KNEEL!!!” (Coach gave up with 1 ˝ minutes left, and rather than play it out, got his boys to kneel, forcing us into overtime. Yeah, I don’t really understand it, but there you are.)
“AWWW, COME ON, BLUE! HOW CAN YOU CALL THAT???”
At this one, one of the folks sitting behind us asked, “Blue?” and we had to explain that DW was mostly used to arguing with baseball referees, and calls all game officials “Blue.” Which I punctuated by hollering out “You’re my boy, Blue!”
And I have repeatedly screeched at him “WHERE’S MY SAFETY??? WHERE’S MY SAFETY???” He never seems to get tired of that.
One of our friends contends that the kids on the team deserved to win the game, but the coach did NOT with such dismal coaching decisions, and DW says that the team’s defense shares in the blame for the defeat. I just holler “Where’s my safeteeeee? Where’s my safeteeee?”
That’s about all the football talk y’all are going to get out of me for a long, long time.
Let’s talk about something else now. How about shoes? I ran to Office Max this morning to get some 2006 calendar pages and printer ink, and decided that (1) proper foot attire must necessarily be considered an office supply and (2) my proximity to DSW practically required that I get my feet outfitted in proper office attire PRONTO. So I bought shoes today, and I put them on in the car in the shoe store parking lot.
These are so comfie, yet stylish, that my feet had little orgasms when I put them on with my newly-purchased socks. I refuse to say “trouser socks” (although I will apparently write it, won’t I?) because, hello, redundant. Of course I’m wearing trousers, you ninny. Pants socks.
Let’s skip back in time to the rest of the weekend, shall we? Oooh, that was kind of a mistake on your part, because it’s really boring in here. We’ll just say that there was nothing all that magically and alcoholically-fueled fun, but nothing all that terrible, and the house is moderately clean, the groceries are moderately stocked, friends were moderately socialized with, and Christmas presents are moderately bought, but not yet wrapped.
We got Lil Guy that trampoline, and it currently resides in its box in the dilapidated chicken shed that sits out back. Which we need to tear down, but that’s a whole nuther story. Back to the tramp. Oh, I’m sorry, did that confuse you all? You wonder whom amongst you I’m talking about? The TRAMPOLINE, you tramps.
I’m not dragging the trampoline back in the house, it won’t be wrapped, and it won’t be magically assembled and waiting in the backyard for LG when he awakes on Christmas morn. There’s going to be a scavenger hunt. I’m going to get him and his lil cousins running back and forth, to and fro, willy and nilly, through the house, out in the yard, back in the house, etc etc etc until they get that final clue to run out to the chicken shed and there’ll be LG’s trampoline. Still in the box, but hopefully I’ll get enough of a fire lit under my ass to at least put a bow on it or something. That’s a good Christmas Day activity for the menfolks, don’t you think? Assembling the trampoline.
My in-laws wanted to buy him a TV for Christmas, and I told them that for less money than they were planning, they could go to Target and get him a very basic bike – something to actually get his ass outside and away from the TV.
Other than that, the child asked for a down comforter and a set of nice sheets. Can you tell he’s using the household cast-offs right now? Normally, a cheap-ass down comforter in king size is at least $100, but I found one on Overstock for $40, and a set of 300-count sheets for $30. Score! This will help make up for the fact that he sleeps on a cast-off mattress that sits on the floor.
In other news, I went to the airport yesterday evening to pick up LG from the ski trip his dad, one M. Surly, took him on, and once we had LG’s bag, I said “OK, if that’s it, let’s go. Hug your dad good-bye.” Mr. Surly then said, “Ah. I need you to give me a, ah, ride to my parents’ house. My car’s over there.”
I mean! Ballsy sonofabitch! I made him ride in the backseat.
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