It's a dimly-lit, cozy sort of Sunday today. Anywhere else and thick silent snow would be falling heavily, making the outside world an excuse instead of an option but here the rain keeps everything filigreed with drips and vaguely chill. Cozy in a different way as I walk around the house trying not to cough, taking every single hug that is offered up while I turn on lights and answer questions about dinner tonight.
Dinner? I don't know. Bacon and eggs and toast, probably. We'll see. We'll see is code for please someone go buy pizzas but it's Superbowl Sunday and pizza might be hard to come by. This isn't a football house. We no longer even try to pretend. It's a hockey house. There's a game on right now on at least five different screens. We need to pull Miller. The Avalanche just keeps scoring. Fix it quick, boys.
See, I know my hockey, through and through. Football never interested me even once.
Sam got home ten minutes ago, ripping off his shirt and tie as he went down the hall, coming back ten minutes later in a t-shirt and a big sweater, hair messed up, arms out for another hug. He bailed on a meeting. Too sick, need to sleep. It's become our battle cry as we limped through the end of January and I hope the groundhog doesn't see his shadow tomorrow and instead sees the light at the end of the tunnel for this miserable bitch of--
Aw, Canucks just lost again. 4 to 2. But when I lament their crappy playing lately someone will invariably point out at least they have more than fifty points at this stage.
Oh, right.
My Leafs. They always start so strong and then you can watch their energy evaporate before your very eyes. Too big in the contract, no incentive to do anything other than show up. They've lost it. You gotta be hungry. You gotta want it so bad. You have to, at the very least, try.
I'm going to try to nap and hopefully when I wake up the Seatraitors or the Patrihawks will have won and pizza will be available again without a three-hour wait.
