Got into the spirit of Valentine’s Day by cooking a nice dinner, exchanging mushy cards, taking a long hot bath together, laying on the futon mattress on the living room floor in front of the crackling fireplace and feeding each other chocolate covered strawberries. When the strawberries were finished and the wine had been drunk we had enough time for a nice, extended round of boom shaka laka laka. Afterward we laid there and watched the fire burn down before shuffling off to bed to climb beneath warm covers and engage in romantic cuddling. 15 months ago
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Despite it being an emotionally draining weekend I summoned up some football fever and tuned into the Super Bowl tonight. I had made a bet with a co-worker for $40 that New England would squeek by with a victory. Part of the now annual ritual in our household is to lay wager with my wife over which team will win. Winnings are to be paid out in sexual favors relevent to the score of the game. Tonight we bet that whoever’s team came out on top, that person would get to be… well, on bottom. Foreplay related to the winning score – minutes for every point – and other little treats based on game stats. My wife doesn’t follow football, doesn’t know the teams or the towns or the stats. But last year she picked the winner and I delivered substantial pleasuring in our post-game party.
I also bailed on my diet restrictions to indulge in some nasty, greasy, fatty and sugary football foods. I’ve been very good the last four weeks and have dropped off almost 10 pounds (maybe more). I figured a little festive food would be a good reward.
I made S. pick a team and she went with the Patriots, which was, of course, the team I had picked. I could see myself settling in like a soldier into a foxhole that night, paying off my debt. S. spent the evening upstairs studying while I sat on the couch and munched the curiously unsatisfactory junk food I’d been mentally craving all week. She came down for the half-time show and for the last 46 seconds of the game. Only time I ever saw her cheer and curse for a football team.
Patriots – 17; Giants – 21
I would have been up jumping from couch to couch doing a happy dance except I was feeling queasy and nauseous and even had to take a break from juicing our meals for the next day so I could sit down. I think that food that I haven’t been eating for several weeks was trying to poison me. I think it is poison. I have a rule; I only vomit when I’ve had too much to drink. I sat down for about 10 minutes and did some deep breathing and felt somewhat better. I’m trying to catch something anyway, I’ve had a sore throat and phlegmy cough all weekend.
So, I didn’t go to any tailgate parties or superbowl bashes at anyone’s house. I didn’t go to a sports bar and toss back pitchers of beer, screaming at the big screen televisions (in fact I haven’t done that in about 12 years). My celebration was modest and quiet but I felt still earnest and supportive. And when I changed channels at the end of the game, damn if Milla wasn’t machine-gunning zombies on Cinemax. A pretty perfect, sports-filled evening.
I will have to pay up tomorrow, but the loss will be sweetened by the thought of collecting on the other, more intimate, wager I made. 15 months ago