This week I learned to never, ever doubt my husband.
Not that I normally do. Dude is awesome, an absolute prince and I'm damn lucky to have him. But several months ago when they announced that "Spamalot" was coming here in February, I told him that this would be the only thing I'd want for my birthday. I know the tickets are expensive and, frankly, we have enough stuff in the house without adding to it. So that was my one and only request.
Every now and then in the months that followed I'd drop a hint to remind him, hoping that he wouldn't wait until the last minute to buy the tickets. Because lord knows I've procrastinated on this type of thing. And sure enough, last month the performing arts center's website had a big "SOLD OUT" banner across the show's listing. So the neurotic idiot in me wondered if he had indeed procrastinated and we'd be out of luck. It wouldn't have angered me - he has always been one of the most thoughtful gift-givers I've ever known - but I've wanted to see this show for years and it would have been a disappointment at the very least.
But on my birthday he told me to close my eyes... and presented me with tickets to the show. Orchestra seats. Purchased more than three months ago.
Love. That. Man.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Monday, February 6, 2012
Week ending Feb. 5 - Someone needs driving lessons
This week I learned that, despite what my parents always told me, I do not have the biggest wise-mouth in the world. That honor goes to Giselle Bundchen, who tried in vain to keep her yapper shut last night after her husband, Tom Brady, and the Patriots lost the Super Bowl to my Giants.
For those of you who either don't give a flying fig about football or live in a cave, Giselle was on her way to comfort her husband after the game. At first she was able to ignore potshots being shouted at her - including the rude-yet-quite-hilarious, "Eli owns your husband" from one Giants fan. But at that point she turned to her friend and, loudly enough for recorders to pick up, said:
Oh, honey. I feel your pain. I've let shit come out of my mouth that never, ever should have left the depths of my pea-sized brain. I appreciate how you stand by your man and support him in his work. And quite frankly, you're right. One catch by Welker and we'd be looking at a very different blog post here.
But you should also know that wide receivers cannot f***ing commit intentional grounding while in the end zone, thereby costing their team two points on a safety. Wide receivers cannot f***ing throw a pass into coverage, ripe for the picking by Chase Blackburn.
Only quarterbacks can do that. Losing quarterbacks.
Not to mention that even if I weren't a Giants fan, I'd have a hard time feeling sorry for Tom Brady. I know, I know... athletes are competitive, they take losses personally, blah blah blah. But he led the Patriots to three Super Bowl victories in four years, and now he goes home every night to bang a supermodel. Feeling bad for him losing last night's game is like feeling bad for Warren Buffett if he lost money on an investment.
You'd figure that Giselle would have calibrated her mind-to-mouth filter when she called Tom's child by Bridget Moynahan her own child, or perhaps when she said that "There should be a worldwide law, in my opinion, that mothers should breastfeed their babies for six months."
But some of us have slower learning curves, I suppose. And curves are hard to navigate when you're driving the big bus you ran over your husband's teammates with.
For those of you who either don't give a flying fig about football or live in a cave, Giselle was on her way to comfort her husband after the game. At first she was able to ignore potshots being shouted at her - including the rude-yet-quite-hilarious, "Eli owns your husband" from one Giants fan. But at that point she turned to her friend and, loudly enough for recorders to pick up, said:
My husband cannot f***ing throw the ball and catch the ball at the same time. I can't believe they dropped the ball so many times.
Oh, honey. I feel your pain. I've let shit come out of my mouth that never, ever should have left the depths of my pea-sized brain. I appreciate how you stand by your man and support him in his work. And quite frankly, you're right. One catch by Welker and we'd be looking at a very different blog post here.
But you should also know that wide receivers cannot f***ing commit intentional grounding while in the end zone, thereby costing their team two points on a safety. Wide receivers cannot f***ing throw a pass into coverage, ripe for the picking by Chase Blackburn.
Only quarterbacks can do that. Losing quarterbacks.
Not to mention that even if I weren't a Giants fan, I'd have a hard time feeling sorry for Tom Brady. I know, I know... athletes are competitive, they take losses personally, blah blah blah. But he led the Patriots to three Super Bowl victories in four years, and now he goes home every night to bang a supermodel. Feeling bad for him losing last night's game is like feeling bad for Warren Buffett if he lost money on an investment.
You'd figure that Giselle would have calibrated her mind-to-mouth filter when she called Tom's child by Bridget Moynahan her own child, or perhaps when she said that "There should be a worldwide law, in my opinion, that mothers should breastfeed their babies for six months."
But some of us have slower learning curves, I suppose. And curves are hard to navigate when you're driving the big bus you ran over your husband's teammates with.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
A midweek question
Can someone please tell me what the hell this is about?
They're called "Superfan" suits, and in the past couple of years I've seen them in the stands at college football and basketball games.
But to me it looks more like someone is searching for a green screen. Or perhaps a super hero got a world-class wedgie in which his tights were pulled up and over his entire body. And it has to be terribly inconvenient if you get hungry or thirsty. Not to mention... NO FACE. Does nobody else find this creepy?
Please, enlighten me. Because I was a crazy college kid myself a couple of decades ago, yet I never felt the urge to dress like this. And this is from someone who willingly wore a full-body band uniform in 100 degree heat.
They're called "Superfan" suits, and in the past couple of years I've seen them in the stands at college football and basketball games.
But to me it looks more like someone is searching for a green screen. Or perhaps a super hero got a world-class wedgie in which his tights were pulled up and over his entire body. And it has to be terribly inconvenient if you get hungry or thirsty. Not to mention... NO FACE. Does nobody else find this creepy?
Please, enlighten me. Because I was a crazy college kid myself a couple of decades ago, yet I never felt the urge to dress like this. And this is from someone who willingly wore a full-body band uniform in 100 degree heat.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Feb. 1 - The inevitalbe change in plans
Today I learned that my aspirations simply run too high.
I made it a month with blogging almost every day and I'm pretty proud of that, butthat much thinking is really hard there's only so much I can write about while keeping it entertaining for everyone.
So from here on out, "What I Learned Today" becomes "What I Learned This Week" - with occasional mid-week sidebars. Check for the first installment this Sunday, either before or after the Super Bowl. I'll have had a decent amount of beer by then, so it should be pretty entertaining!
I made it a month with blogging almost every day and I'm pretty proud of that, but
So from here on out, "What I Learned Today" becomes "What I Learned This Week" - with occasional mid-week sidebars. Check for the first installment this Sunday, either before or after the Super Bowl. I'll have had a decent amount of beer by then, so it should be pretty entertaining!
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