So, my weekend was less week-endy and more fraught with work and household chores and tending to my broken son whose temporary splint is already beginning to smell like something left in the fridge for two days past its expiration date.
When I wasn’t spraying deodorizer in my son’s general vicinity, manning the cash register at the store or folding yet another load of junior-sized skivvies, socks and tank tops (how many pairs of socks and underwear do kids need to go through a day? Sheesh!), I was watching Friday Night Lights on DVD because, as much as I hate to admit it; my Dad was right about it not being a show all about football. There are actual relationships and interesting story lines and shit.
And, um, Tim Riggins.
So, I admit it, Dad; you were right and I was wrong and now I am enduring marathon-sessions of watching seasons 1-3 on DVD. I am almost caught up enough to understand what is going on in the season 4 episodes on NBC. Happy? Of course you are.
In the interest of full disclosure I should tell you that I am also entertaining rather impure thoughts of Taylor Kitsch, who, Jana delighted in informing me, is young enough to be my son. Technically? That is incorrect as Google lists his date of birth as being in 1981, making him only thirteen years younger than me and; when I was thirteen I was still blushing over hand-holding at The Muppet Movie, not doing the wild thing, therefore, Jana is wrong.
Also, Ashton Kutcher is twelve years younger than Demi Moore and I don’t hear anyone accusing her of pedophilia.
I’m just sayin’.
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