ok, i was a sucker for marcia

It’s 7:30 in the morning, a time in which bears should be hibernating. We are not.

As luck would have it, I realize in an epiphany (my news feed) that Tom Brady, lesser-known brother of the Brady Bunch, is waging battle against the Seattle Seahawks in a place called “Germany” (probably somewhere in eastern Washington), on CBS.

Mo had expressed interest in watching the game, so I declare, “You’re forgetting to watch something!” She has not a clue.

I turn on the TV to CBS, where the game should be. We are greeted by a fascinating story on Van Gogh, and how Americans didn’t like him until Kirk Douglas portrayed him in a movie. I think Kirk Douglas is the guy in “Fatal Attraction,” but I had my eyes closed during the ice pick scene, so can’t be certain.

Mo enjoys the segment greatly, much to my chagrin. So I point out, that NO, that was NOT what she was forgetting to watch. The game is on.

Except it’s not.

I have another epiphany (my google search.) It says, yes indeedy the game is on CBS, but it is Not Available In Your Area.

Mo says it MUST be on. It’s football. It’s ALWAYS on.

I assure her that’s not the case. Because of restrictions and contractual obligations and the far-left conspiracy that blocks anything coming out of Florida, the Tampa Bay games is not being shown.

Mo is unconvinced. She thinks the game must be on somewhere, even though it is most certainly not. I can’t believe I’m married to this person. I am a guy. We know football.

To mollify her (lordy, Mo loves to be mollified), I flip around. CBS. No. NBC. No. ESPN. No. Hallmark Movie Channel. Christmas movie. I smugly turn to her. See?



She grabs the remote control and talks to it. “NFL,” she says.

And in a Hallmark Christmas Movie Miracle, the game appears on our Barbie Dream House TV screen. Channel 301. I’m fairly certain we only get 100 channels, and this is that Hallmark movie thing where the guy who looks suspiciously like Santa is up to holiday hijinks.

Still, there it is. Tom Brady is throwing a pass into the turf. No doubt intentionally, because after all, he IS Tom Brady. On the bright side, the pass does not hit Marcia in the nose.

We watch the game, although I’m almost certain this is not possible and I will wake up from hibernation soon only to discover it was a dream.

I am haunted by hearing that command that shattered by notions about life and order and Cousin Oliver. “NFL.”

God, I hate it when Mo is right.

This is likely why Van Gogh cut off his ear.

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