it’s cold, damp, cloudy and bleh today. I intended to go to Willow pond with Lily, but the cable guy came, left, another one came, he left, now I’m waiting for the first one. Nothing serious (as if TV of any sort could be important- phooey), but requiring much time and interference.
That’s the thing, I guess it’s a part of my upbringing. TV just isn’t very important to me, certainly not enough to justify interfering with my plans and all. Don’t get me wrong, I like a good show as much as the next guy, and have been known to ignore my family in favor of the latest episode of Dr. Who. So, I don’t really comprehend the need for High Definition, or y’know…a 40 inch monitor or the latest cable box with it’s umbilicus of a cord.
I have, however, learned to Just Accept It. That’s right. I have accepted that Sweet Daddio wants High Definition on a monitor the size of our bathrub. It makes him happy to see High Definition Car Crashes, and he’ll get the Super Bowl with the same crystalline clarity. He deserves it, he has worked very hard for his creature comforts and I will not begrudge them.
That doesn’t mean I understand it. “It’s a Guy Thing.” he reassures me. “It’s a Guy Thing.” I tell myself.
If I can have a hot pink pilates mat, he can have high def.
If I can buy a cd of Victorian images including cigar labels and Audubon birds, he can have the most complicated remote control on the planet, capable of controlling the Space Shuttle , DVD player, cable box, and TV.
A little over a week ago I asked him to be thinking of what kind of foods he’d like to have for The Super Bowl, because for all my character flaws, I want him to eat what he wants on SuperBowlSunday. “Brats,” he said, “with saurkraut and mustard. Maybe some kinda dip and chips.” I am not famous for my Guy Food. Indeed, if I fixed what I thought he needed it would be fruit and carrot sticks, but then I’d have the “Wife of a Guy” license revoked and I’d have to get recertified and let me tell you- THAT’S a pain in the ass. Have to go all the way to Atlanta for that. So, brats it is, probably boiled in beer and grilled outside, and some kinda dip…not bean, not salsa, not nacho. He thought maybe spinach artichoke, he likes that, and I can pretend a vegetable is involved and feel good about it.
I’m thinking I’ll removed every bit of girly anything from the living room, clear the coffee table of it’s artfully arranged magazines, and put a cooler somewhere , filled with ice and beer. Maybe he could invite Coworker, Wife and Kids over.
In the mean time, I am going to make some chocolate chip cookies, to make the house smell nice.