I decided to take this whole post off my other blog, and put it here. Too much truth.
Philip is now watching the Eagles. Two hours ago, he was screaming at the Jets. Another Sunday has gone down the drain. I hate football season, but baseball season is longer, so I'm screwed either way.
I made a great dinner today. Roasted chicken...beautiful bird. Mashed potatoes, green beans, gravy, yummy. I wish that I had taken a picture before I carved it up.
Had to call the boys in from the living room to eat it. I say boys, because on football Sunday, Philip acts like one. He spends the day yelling at the tv and making a complete ass out of himself.
I thought that I timed the dinner well enough: 4:00. It was supposed to be between games. But they did not want to miss the beginning of the Eagles game, so they shoveled down their food like it was take out from McDonald's. Then they parked their butts back on the couch. I was left to clean the table, wash the dishes, and put them away, with no help from either one of them. I felt like the maid.
Maybe I'm just overreacting, but I would love to spend at least one Sunday out with the family. I'm sick of being a football widow.
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