I know, I know. It’s Valentine's Day. I should write something sweet or sappy or romantic-ish.
Romance isn’t my strong suit, but I’ve been told I Remember Paperclips isn’t half bad. That’s all I’ve got to say about that.
And actually, today is last night for me (remember that cool time-travel thing we can do when we write and read), and I’m watching the Super Bowl. And writing this blog. I’ve been living dangerously lately with the deadline thing—in day job responsibilities and writing life.
I don’t like football.
I like football as much as I like obligatory holidays.
I watch because the Hubs and the Adult-ish Male Child are watching. The Hubs's team isn't on the field for this one. We’re next-state neighbors to the Bengals, so that’s “our team” for the night. And they’ve got the whole underdog thing going on, which I can get on board with. Until I’m bored with it.
My son doesn’t watch football much at all. So he’s already started with the questions. “What just happened?” “Why are they running like that?” “What color of uniform are we rooting for again?”
But the most important question: “Is the pizza here yet?”
No it isn’t. The pizza is late. Restaurants in this area are grossly understaffed. We might get our order before the World Series.
I also tune in for the occasional commercial. So far, we’ve got the McDonald’s “Uhhhhhhh” and the announcement of an installation in one of my favorite franchises: Jurassic Park. People, the raptors are coming back with original cast members in June.
I can’t wait for June…
I digress. Presently, I can’t wait for the end of this game. I didn’t sleep last night and… wait. Dolly Parton just needed to get something off her chest—her words, not mine.
Good grief. There’s too much going on in this room. Four cats (we grand-kitty-sat for Castiel Monroe while Adultish-Male Child tromped around in the Sonora Desert). Little Miss is throwing a fit because not one uniform has any hint of purple in it… and why can’t the cool guy with the purple hair be on “our team?”
Yet another pizza ETA request.
I don’t know when the pizza’s coming, guys. Any time now…
A loud groan from the menfolk tells me our team of the night is behind. And they’re blaming themselves. The hubs and the son. They tell me that whatever team they root for tends to lose, statistically speaking. So, my sincerest apologies to the Cowboys, Reds, and Hoosiers. It’s the Paul family’s fault that you’ve lost any game y’all have ever played in the last 45 years or so. Sorry for your luck.
When I watch any sporting event, about halfway through I start genuinely praying that the game doesn’t go into overtime—I’m over it before the first half/quarter/timeout/commercial break. It doesn’t help that game clock time transitions into dog-year time when you’re just not a fan…
Oh. My. Gosh. Guys! Arnold has a mini pegasus named Peggy. I don’t even know what the commercial was advertising for. Mini winged horse. Next best thing to a unicorn.
And how many of you totally fell for the floating psychedelic QR Code commercial? I did when it turned purple and Little Miss shocked me into action. But I was too slow. So yet another commercial that I have no idea what they were advertising—
Goats! Avenger goats. Star Wars Goats. Up Goats. Goats everywhere…
Cue the cat fight. Amara Mino is not a fan of Castiel Monroe and sent him flying into the wall. Stella Marie excused herself to wait in the bedroom until the pizza comes and Malachi Maxwell sits in the corner shaking his head. Malachi, after all, has told Castiel all week not to be in the same room as Amara Mino…
Little Miss finds this much more amusing than grown men chasing each other. Though she does feel bad about the purple-haired man’s injury.
And the pizza’s here… Hot, steamy and delivered by a young man with an impressive man-bun and sweet disposition, even if he was terrified of our slightly steep but snow-covered drive.
Half time. My favorite questions come from the interviewers chasing down the coaches (who clearly have nothing better to do at half time): “What do you do to win the game?” or something along those lines. And the reply: We need to make more plays.
Well.
There you have it.
How to win a Super Bowl.
Make plays.
Head slap…
And the halftime show is gonna cost me major $$$$. Little Miss spotted two pairs of boots and a tracksuit that she’d like to have custom ordered in chubby-little-imp size. With holes in the back of the tracksuit for her wings…
The second half in a nutshell: The hours of rest my middle insomnia stole over last seven days has caught up with me. I can’t even pretend to be human let alone upright…
Good night boys and goodnight kitties…
From this paragraph forward, I’m writing Monday morning.
So good morning…
Google tells me the Bengals lost. (See my blanket apology above to all the teams my guys ever root for.)
I bet the post-game and post-post-game interviews went something like this:
Tell us how you did it: We made the plays.
Tell us why you lost: We didn’t make the plays. And the Pauls rooted for us.
And that’s a Super Bowl Wrap.
You all have a lovely day. Do something you adore with someone you can tolerate. Or do something you can tolerate with someone you adore.
Either way… go out there and make plays.
