Oh, boy. Oh, joy. Tonight is "Scream-Fest/Spring Riot" in the home of the SJG. Some big team is playing some big game. The menfolk are very, very excited. And, just between us, very, very loud. Don't they know the SJG is a delicate petal, an anti-screamer, a quiet, unassuming human who tries not to get all that worked up about anything, unless it involves an all-you-can-eat chocolate buffet? In this way, I keep my blood pressure low and the vast assortment of recently-inherited tchotchkes in one piece. But all hubby and the sons care about is Game 7. Game 7. Game... oh, you get the picture. I think it has something to do with a puck and a stick, a net here, a net over there, and some dudes going back and forth on skates. I can't remember the name of this game, but hubby and the sons are very, very, fond of it. So fond that they will gather in a room downstairs, a room with the largest big screen TV in the personal history of two people who got married in 1980 and used my original black and white Zenith from the '60s till it finally crapped out in time for the '84 Olympics... they will gather tonight and they will scream and yell and make scary guttural sounds that will scare the be-Moses out of the SJG.
In the midst of this
Geschrei-Fest, it
will take the SJG a few minutes to remember that:
a) This is a televised sporting event, not a wrestling match between two brothers.
b) This is how the three of them release manly pent-up feelings they can't express otherwise.
c) This is a good time for me to flee upstairs to the safety of my private hotel suite and order a hot fudge sundae from Room Service.
d) Why isn't anyone picking up?
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