it’s a chick thing
I live with two men, a male dog and four cats, one of whom is male. So I am pretty much outnumbered. And I deal with it just fine most of the time.
There is a lot of sports. A lot. As in, there is always a television (or even 2 or 3) tuned in to a game of some sort or another. Always. If my husband is home, there is sports. Even if he is lying there, eyes closed, and snoring (which in my mind means he is asleep), there is sports. But if I try to sneak in and change the station, or turn it off, he wakes up and says, “What’s the score?” Seriously.
I don’t mind, really. It actually works out okay for me because then I have time to do the things I like. Artsy things. Writing. Reading. Knitting. Gardening. Folding laundry. (It’s still better than football).
But my house is small, so in the background, always: sports. I know things about sports because of this. Player’s names. (Best one ever: Jerricho Cotchery.) Player’s scandals. (I get a little tired of these.) Johnny Damon (Have you seen Johnny Damon?) Rules of the game. (Still learning, but sometimes I even surprise myself.) It is amazing what you pick up when you’re not really listening. Audio osmosis.
But recently, there’s a new thing that kind of threw me for a loop. My husband, the jock, has suddenly started watching…Gossip Girl. Oh yes, you read that correctly. And he giggles (yes giggles!) while watching it. He actually stays up past his bedtime when it’s on. And he keeps inviting me to come and watch it with him. (I’ve tried, but I just can’t. It’s that bad.)
Should I be worried? Is he finally getting in touch with his inner “sensitive-new-age-guy?”
I’ve checked his forehead, no fever. I’ve teased him about it, to no avail. Even his 25-year-old daughter thinks it a little, well, odd.
I kind of like it when he giggles.