Friday Happiness :: Supabah* edition

This weekend will run the gamut from:

Aforementioned Friday night:: sleepover party for ten-year-old birthday girl and her friends.

Saturday morning:: pancake breakfast and subsequent collapsing into stupor after party ends.

Saturday afternoon:: nursery school torture sugar winterfest.

Saturday night::loving it up, whilst one post-winterfest three-year-old sleeps it off.

Sunday afternoon:: art opening for a local photographer and friend.

And then...

I need to mention, that one of the reasons I have married a man completely a-typical, sports-fan wise, is that (Oh. Hi Bri! Hi, Dad! Are you listening? Well, um...) I was raised amongst a breed of man (five of them) who could actually make an entire afternoon out of watching.golf. That's right.

I'm not even talking about the endless playing of golf, throwing of baseballs, bouncing of basketballs, running of miles, rehashing ad infinitum of every.stroke of every.hole of an entire round of golf. Sometimes two rounds.

I'm just talking about the watching. The eyes still fixated on the t.v. screen but empty glass raised toward sister watching. The food. The socks. The smells.

Not a lot of sister-love being paid when there's a game to be watched. I'm obviously scarred for life.

So, now. The husband who couldn't.care.less. The husband, manly in every other way, who has to hmm and haw when the subject of "the game" gets brought up.

Except for the Super Bowl. And for one Sunday of the year, just like every other (apparently!) bitter year of my young life, I am a sports widow.

All of a sudden, I've got a beer-drinking, nacho-eating, glossy-eyed sports fan on my hands.

And you know what?

I'm right there to fill his glass.

But for the rest of us, we can watch this*. And then go knit, or something.

Enjoy your weekend. Thanks for reading.
tt