The kids and I are on our own today, since it's a work day and since tomorrow is Boy-Sunday, in which boys who never put down their hockey sticks or guitars or tools actually stop and watch the Superbowl, you know, in case other boys bring it up later in the year. It screams masculine. It screams something about stereotypes too, I dunno, I don't hear very well, PJ.
There, there. It's only one day and then you can go back to sweet, precious hockey. I love hockey. I do not love football.
We've already grocery-shopped, done the house chores, eaten breakfast and lunch and gotten the laundry started. Everyone is clean, the beds are made and the cats are lazing in the sun coming through the living room window, enjoying the view of the melting snow in the backyard.
It's a heat wave. My favorite kind of wave.
I've even oiled my countertops and butcher blocks. Something I swear I'll do once a month but seem to do every three. I talked to my mother on the phone and I stocked up on rockets and skittles because if the groundhog doesn't see his shadow on Monday I think I might throw a party.
And now, if you'll excuse me, in between the marathon of running up and down the stairs doing laundry, since the bedrooms are on the third floor but the washer and dryer are in the basement, I'm going to curl up in the window seat with my new copy of Rolling Stone with a haggard-looking Bruce Springsteen on the cover and eat some of these skittles before they melt in this heat.