Football season is here

A lot of our guy friends have a love for the pig-skin throwing sport we Americans stupidly named Football.  I would have named it other very clever names, had I been asked.  Those friends’ other halves hate that their husbands spend all day every Saturday and Sunday glued to the TV watching any game, randomly yelling like the players can hear him and interrupting her nap, randomly deciding he knows more than the ref and decides to list reasons why to her, randomly explaining every last detail of that play to her and then forgetting she is in the room. 

Guys, ever wonder why your wife is so enthusiastic about Superbowl Sunday?  It is the end of football season, and for the rest of the year, it’s you and her…doing what she wants to do…like scrapbooking.

Oh my gosh, I feel suffocated from writing that.

In our house, on July 3, my football season started. 

The Tour De France is upon us, my friends.

The only differences here, I guess, are that I agreed to get the upgraded cable package just so we could get Versus, that I break my promise not to look up the results daily, that I too follow Lance’s twitter, that I am seriously looking into a fantasy cycling team, that I spent the first 45 minutes of my morning reading a 5 page online article about the Lyle Lovett look-alike whom we casually call The Boss instead of the news or a normal blog read, that I can name more cyclists in the tour than any girl and half the guys I know, that I know the difference between yellow, green, and polka dots, that I have started planning our trip to the tour next year (newsflash to the husband), and that I can’t wait to get home and watch what we already know happens, happen.

So if you’re looking for us, we’re somewhere you wouldn’t normally find us: on the couch watching TV. 

Every night.  Until July 25th.

I’ve got a fever.

And the only prescription is more cow bell.