For (Mama's) Love of the Game

Yesterday, I did the unthinkable.

I woke Ella up from a nap, put her in her least favorite place - her car-seat - and took off.

She immediately began to cry. Nay, she immediately began to scream.

And, yet, I kept driving.

In fact, I all but ignored her cries.

This mama, who is firmly anti-cry-it-out, let her little one cry it out.

All out.

All the way to - can you believe it? - McDonalds.

There I sat, in the parking lot of the worst offender, in my opinion, in the travesty that is this country's rising obesity rates.

I extricated my poor sweaty baby from her car-seat, fed her, and waited.

I waited, waited, and waited.

Meanwhile, Ella fussed and fussed and fussed.

Finally, a large truck pulled up. I passed a $5 bill to the driver. They passed a small package back to me.

ThenI put my child back in her seat and let her scream as we drove all the way home.

And, the entire way, I actually smiled.

Her cries barely phased me, in fact.

Because I'd gotten what I'd needed. For a steal, to boot. I was tickled pink at that little package laying next to me on the passenger seat.

Finally, home again, I unloaded my hollering baby and, before even rocking her back to sleep, made her watch as I opened the little brown package reverently.

Then, with silence, we both pondered the beauty that lay before us:

That, my friends, is a Gator onesie - source

Just another hint that the most special time of year - college football season - is upon us.

And Ella finally has the last piece for the adorable little ensemble she's ready to wear (much to her father's chagrin) on Saturday.

Hallejuah and amen.

Screaming baby? No big deal.

Because as of tomorrow, my daughter will be donning her onesie, matching her mama's T-shirt, and learning the ways of a Saturday in the fall.

Again, hallejuah and amen.

All is right in my world.

***

I actually found the onesie on a used baby and children's swap page on Facebook. Turns out, the woman, and infamous large truck driver, had this onesie for her daughter and sold it to me in mint condition, with the promise that she had plenty more Gator gear for babies where that came from.

To which I gave her my most solemn word that I would buy every last cotton-pickin', orange-and-blue piece off of her, Lord willing.

What can I say? It's all for the love of the game.

***

Happy Friday, everyone!

Never Let It Be Said...

...That I don't love my husband.

Because in my big consignment shopping spree last week, I put down many a cute, ruffly, sweet little dress that I would have loved-loved-loved for Baby Girl to wear.

I was trying to be reasonable and practical and not spend our life savings all in one day on 3-6 month little girl clothing.

But one of the things I did pick up? One of the things I did keep in my basket, and one of the things I did actually purchase at the end of the day?

What makes it worse is that this is actually a little boy's outfit. Sigh. Be still my pink-ruffled-loving heart.

Oh, yeah.

You read that right. Baby Girl's got her very own set of Arkansas Razorback basketball duds.

I get nauseous just looking at them, to be perfectly honest.

But when I brought them home, my husband positively beamed.

Sigh.

I'm still debating if it was worth it.

***

For those of you keeping track, this means the hubs is winning.

Currently, Baby Girl owns two Arkansas Razorbacks outfits and only one piece of clothing rep-ping my alma mater, the University of Florida Gators.

It's a crying shame.

And if I was stuck anywhere other than South Carolina, i.e., enemy territory, I would rectify this situation post haste.

Still, in the mean time, my husband's gloating.

He thinks he's won the battle.

Little does he know that I'll win the war.

Because currently? I'm on the hunt for the world's most obnoxious and spirited orange-and-blue infant tutu, which Baby Girl will be sporting on the opening day of college football season like it's her job.

This uncomfortable imbalance will not last for long.

Soon, the natural order of things will be restored (in all their orange and blue finery) and all will be right in my world once again.

***

Seriously, if you know anyone who makes baby tutus, I'm interested. Send them my way ASAP.

Happy Wednesday, everyone!

And So It Begins

On Saturday, we attended a potluck with a bunch of other sailors and their wives.

We had a great time, as we're all wont to do, when there is good food and slightly inappropriate board games involved.

And then, toward the end, a friend of ours pulled out two little gift bags, a twinkle in her eye.

She gave one to my husband and one to me.

And then she told us to open them.

Who would have guessed what lay in their depths?

I couldn't stop laughing.

Our friends know us so well.

My husband proudly lay the Arkansas onesie on his chest, while I oooh-ed and ahhh-ed over the adorable Florida track suit, which my child - boy or girl - will most definitely be wearing every Saturday come fall.

Although my husband was less than thrilled with that little fact.

We actually argued about it all the way home.

Which, honestly, was probably all m fault, as I was the one who told him that "Of course I'll let our child wear the Arkansas outfit. To bed."

What? I was just being truthful.

Still, the hubs was a little miffed.

But as far as I see it, if I'm going to push a child out into this world, I have the right to lay claim to their college football allegiances.

There's got to be some perk to childbirth besides the agonizing hours of painful labor. (And, you know, the baby.)

So I'm finally pulling my first Mom Card.

Bring on the orange and blue, Baby. You can save the red and white for bed time.
***
Happy Thursday!

Bean-No

This Saturday, the hubs and I were finally alone.

We planned to spend the morning and early afternoon watching our favorite football teams play.

This basically involved me laughing at my husband as he danced around, yelling and shirtless, watching his Arkansas Razorbacks carry out a narrow, last-second win against Georgia, while three hours later, he found me bellowing at my Florida Gators to "KILL HIM!" as Tennessee scored another touchdown.

There is nothing more entertaining than watching your spouse freak out about something as relatively unimportant as college football.

Anyways, because we were watching our games alone this week, I didn't prepare my normal smorgasbord of football dips and nips. I love my husband, but I'm not going to spend 45 minutes rolling pigs into blankets when it's just he and I in our boxer shorts.

Which is why, when 2 p.m. rolled around, we were famished.

Scrounging through our pantry, I bellowed out to the living room, "What do you want to eat for our football lunch, hun?"

Largely ignoring me, he mumbled back, "Whatever you want, babe" - a surefire sign that he's not actually paying attention to what I'm saying.

So I grabbed a can of refried beans, some tomatoes, onions, and cheese, and yelled back, "OK, good. Then I'm making my favorite bean dip!"

I was met with silence.

I took this to be a positive sign, so I started cooking.

I was salivating and moving quickly, not having eaten much all day, which is why I startled when the hubs walked up behind me.

He stopped, sniffed the warming pot of beans, and smacked me on the butt.

"Bean dip?" he said, incredulously. "Really? Bean dip? Like you need to eat anymore beans?"

Then, like man in disgust, he waved his hand in front of his nose - the veritable adult-version of "P-U!" - and left the room as if he'd smelled a dead animal.

I paused, realizing what, exactly, this all meant.

You see, it seems romance is finally dead. After almost two years of marriage, I've apparently killed it with my excessive diet of bean dip.

Not that I even hesitated from eating every last bite of it right after my husband managed to insult me.

Because, when it comes down to it, my marriage will last forever, toxic fumes or no. But football season comes but once a year.

So bring on the bean dip. My husband will live.

Or at least as long as we can keep a window cracked during the game.

***

Happy Monday, everyone!

In the Dark

On Saturday, we hosted 12 sailor-friends of my husbands for 11 hours of football.

My house was over-run with men and chips and pigs-in-a-blanket and as many dips and appetizers as I could make in the few precious morning hours I had before all the hooting and hollering and jostling for couch position began between my husband and his friends.

It was a day my husband wanted, and a day my husband got.

And it was a day in which, after feeding all the men, I retreated to our bedroom with a glass of tea in one hand and a book in the other.

Other than the occasional "Woo!" and "Oh crap!" that came from the other room, I was left in relative peace, considering how many loud, stinky men were in my house.

Which is why, quite honestly, six or seven hours got away from me.

A half a day later, I finally emerged from our bedroom after sunset, desperate to make myself some dinner, though my house was still full to the brim of men yelling at football-playing college students.

I'd fought it for a while, but the darkness coming through the window, plus my rumbling tummy, left me no choice but to venture out into the veritable wilderness.

Which is why I left my relatively dusky bedroom and then proceeded to stumble directly into complete and utter darkness.

Yes, there, in my living room, were 12 able-bodied men, 14 bowls of corn chips, and not a lamp lit.

Of the four light sources I've placed in my living room, not a single one had been turned on.

The T.V. managed to provide a faint glow in the room, lighting their faces up from time to time, but that was it.

I'm not sure how a one of them managed to even differentiate between plain, hint of lime, or jalapeno corn chips. Heck, I'm not sure how they even managed to find the bowls holding the chips two feet directly in front of them. It was just that dark.

Standing there watching them, though, it occurred to me that they didn't seem to care. And I guess I really shouldn't have been surprised, because, after all, my husband does this a lot.

All the time, in fact.

If I'm not actively sitting next to him on the couch, he will let dusk fade to dark, casting our entire living room black, and he will continue to watch TV, play XBox, or Google his interests with the best of them. Without wasting a few spare seconds to turn on the floor lamp sitting next to the couch.

He'll just sit there.

Sans light.

All night.

It drives me nuts.

But I never thought he'd subject our company to such treatment.

Such deep, dark treatment.

Literally.

I was mortified. And shocked beyond all belief that it hadn't occurred to him - or to any of them! - to turn on a light, for Pete's sake!

So, I did what any well-meaning wife and hostess - not wanting to publicly chastise her husband - would in this situation.

I made my dinner, poured more tea, and returned to our bedroom.

And then I promptly grabbed my cell phone and immediately texted the hubs:

"There are four perfectly functioning lamps in that room should you choose to not make your guests sit in darkness."

The next time I walked by the living room, all the lamps had been turned on.

***

Please tell me I'm not the only one with a husband who eschews light. Sometimes, he tells me he prefers to sit in darkness. This, of course, mystifies me. I'd have every light in our house blazing till bed time if I could. I open all of our blinds when I'm in the house during the day time, even if it causes a dreaded glare on the hub's beloved T.V. Meanwhile, my husband never, ever opens a even blind.

But me? I can't live without enough light. It drives me nuts to sit in the dark, unless, of course, I'm sleeping.

Am I crazy? Or is this just a woman-man thing?

Tell me I'm not alone in this. Because if so, I might just have to sit in one of my well-lit rooms and cry.

***

Happy Monday, everyone!

Behind Enemy Lines

For the last seven years, I've enjoyed the relative comfort that comes with living in the same town as my alma mater.

Every Saturday, during the fall, the entire town would shut down to cheer on our beloved University of Florida Gators.

And, being that I still worked and lived in the town where I received my college diplomas, I took it as a given that I got to be part of that rah-rah spirit.

If you weren't at the game, or throwing a Game Day party, you were attending someone else's tailgate or attending your neighbor's Game Day party. During the autumn season, where I lived at least, you never asked a person, "What are you doing on Saturday?"

Because everybody - and I do mean everybody - was watching or attending the game. It was simply a fact of life.

Not to mention that everybody was also bedecked out in our beloved Gator orange and blue, singing rousing rounds of "We Are The Boys of Old Florida," and Gator-chomping their arms about for at least three to four hours straight.
During away games, entire neighborhoods scream and roar when the Gators score a touch-down. People run into the streets and high five each other, yelling "Go Gators!" to passersby, after a particularly hard-won victory.

And a loss? Oh, a loss renders the entire city speechless. And so solemn and mournful that grown men can be seen crying actual tears without the least bit of shame.

That, my friends, is what Game Day is like in Gator Country.

But, for me at least, those are memories of yore. Long gone and very likely never to be seen again.

For now, you see, I've gone rogue.

I'm behind enemy lines, waving my orange-and-blue flag vigorously in my solitude.

For the first time in seven years, I no longer live in the same city as my team.

I'm now in the great state of South Carolina, where Gators are few and far between, but Gamecocks and Tigers roam free.

I'm in Clemson and USC country, and I don't know what to do about it.

You see, I haven't left the SEC. I'm still squarely located in the South, where Southeastern Conference football reigns supreme, and where SEC rivalries are all anyone can talk about it.

For instance, in a restaurant last week, my husband - wearing a Gator shirt - got stopped three different times in a six-minute period to talk about "his team right there." (What makes this even funnier is that the hubs technically roots for another SEC rival - the University of Arkansas Razorbacks - but used to have to where Gator stuff to his old job on Saturdays - yes, we're that serious about Game Day - so he owns some orange-and-blue paraphernalia of his own, much to my utter amusement.)

The truth is, all my Gator memorabilia is starting to become a little threadbare. I can no longer run into the nearest store and pick up a new Game Day T-shirt. Not unless I want to be wearing burgundy and white or the Clemson Tiger paw prints.

Which I'd sooner die than do, by the way. (Bless their hearts, I'm sure the University of South Carolina is a lovely school, but they were seriously misguided when they decided to humor middle-school boys everywhere and select the Gamecocks as their mascot.)

Still, all that? All that I can live with. I just consider it another opportunity to save money.

The reality of my Gator isolation is far, far worse.

Because here in our new home, I - gasp! - won't be able to watch each and every single game this season. Not in person on the field. And not even on my husband's silly-big flat-screen T.V.

Take this weekend. The Gators play the University of South Florida. Which, in their grand line-up, is their least important game all season.

Which is why no major network is covering the game. Not even the resident cable stations - ESPN and all its affiliates - are broadcasting the game here. I'm not even sure we can find it on pay-per-view, what with our distinctly South-Carolina-themed cable package.

Seriously, I don't know what to do about these sub-standard living conditions. What will I do with my Saturday? How will I spend my time? Where will I wear my orange and blue without fear of ridicule and recrimination?

I'm being reduced to watching the ticker tape streaming below other, supposedly more important games on ESPN, in hopes of watching the score increase in the Gators' favor.

The hubs has suggested I try and catch the game on something called ESPN 360. But that sounds undoubtedly complicated and far beyond the capabilities of our sub-par Internet's speed. (Thank you, Comcast. You, too, are another big minus to living here behind enemy lines.)

Oh, life is tough. It's like I'm being punished for not being a fair-weather fan.

All I want to do is cheer on my non-phallic-themed football team of choice. Is that too much to ask?

How long do I have to stand here in my Gator garb screaming "ORANGE!" and "BLUE!" by myself? And for what?

So I can sit here, alone, stranded, behind enemy lines during football season?

A girl can only take so much.

So, please, send your troops, send your boys of Old Florida, send me reinforcements dressed in orange and blue. Send me a cable package that will carry each and every Florida football game in real time.

I will wait.

And I will forever continue my battle cry.

Even if no one can hear me. Even if they taunt me till kingdom come. Even if my Georgia-Bulldog-flag-flying neighbor gives me the middle finger.

I will cry on, "Go Gators!"

***

Happy Friday, everyone!

Me, My Family, and Some Famous People: Part 2

Find Part 1 here.

***

So while I was en route to a fun and fabulous John Mayer concert, I took a call from my brother.

Who was in Washington, D.C., being all high-end and impressive.

Because my baby bro had been invited to the President's National Prayer Breakfast.

Apparently, he's just that important.

So while his big sis is just a teacher who's lucky enough to sing along with John Mayer one weekend, my brother - a plain, old military officer - gets to represent the state of Florida at the President's National Shindig for All Things Prayerful and Sacred.

Yes, my little brother prayed with President Barack Obama.

And Vice President Joe Biden.

And several other senators and congressional representatives, who - when not praying - were all too eager to shake his hand, buy him drinks, and talk to him about his life for the day-and-half event.

He even ate dinner with William P. Young, the author of the hit novel The Shack.

But besides rubbing elbows with the Obamas and other D.C. elite, he made a friend - a friend who, where I come from, pretty much trumps meeting the President of the United States.

It all started when my brother took his seat for dinner the first night.

Being young and nervous, and desperately trying to hang on in a conversation with U.S. senator Bill Nelson, my brother felt relieved when a younger guy about his age sat down next to him.

My brother said he recognized the guy, but barely. It was the classic, "I think I know you from somewhere. But where?" scenario.

Nervously, my brother gave his new table-mate a smile. The young guy smiles back, extends his hand, and says, "Hi there. I'm Tim."

My brother nods, smiles, introduces himself, all while wondering, "Who's Tim, and how do I know him?"

Tim, it turned out, was very interested in my brother, his military career, his relationship with God, and his general outlook on life.

My brother said they were having a genuinely nice, fraternal conversation when Tim haphazardly mentioned something about "being nervous with the draft coming up."

And by "draft," he totally meant the NFL Draft.

As in, the place all big-time college football players go to be farmed out according to their rank and talent level.

It's enough to make a grown man quake with fear.

Even if that grown man happens to be the one and only Tim Tebow.

Or, in other words, my brother's new best friend.

Yes, my brother had befriended - unknowingly, mind you - University of Florida former quarterback, Heisman Trophy-winner, controversial Super Bowl commercial star, and Christian powerhouse Tim Tebow.

source

At this point, my brother did the obligatory tie-in and managed to mention that his dear big sister was also a fellow Florida Gator - a proud University of Florida alumni.

He also may or may not have mentioned the fact that his sister makes a mean pot roast and still lives in the UF vicinity should Tim ever need a home-cooked meal while he's finishing up his bachelor's degree this year.

Or I may have imagined that part.

But whatever.

My brother ate dinner with the President and chatted up Tim Tebow.

In some weird six degrees of separation, I am now a de-facto politico who wines and dines infamous college football players.

Or I'm just a high-school teacher with a wild imagination who enjoys living vicariously through my little brother.

My life is uber-exciting, people. Uber.

But still! Tim Tebow and my brother. Just a bunch of old chums. Laughing and talking and praying and sharing war stories from the football field and the pool. (My brother - who is actually Tim's age - was a college water polo player.)

All while President Barack and First Lady Michelle look on beneficently. (Or at least that's how I imagined it going down.)

What a weekend.

For my brother.

I'm just the sister he told about it.

But still, a girl can dream.

So here's hoping one day my brother brings his new friend Tim over for dinner.

And hey, the President can totally come, too.

***

Happy Tuesday everyone! And if you haven't done so yet, don't forget to enter my Bloggy Birthday Giveaway!

A house divided (and a puppy update)

I'm sad to report that, one week away from our first anniversary, marital bliss has flown right out the window.

Right now, my husband is my worst enemy.

Because he's wearing red.

And white.

And far too much memorabilia bearing a charging, uglier-than-sin pig.

We are a house divided.

For this weekend at least.

Because at 3:30 p.m., this Saturday, at Eastern Standard Time, my alma mater plays his alma mater.

Or, to put it bluntly:

My alma mater kicks his alma mater's red-and-white piggy butts!

Yes, that's right. I'm a University of Florida Gator. He's a University of Arkansas Razorback. This is probably what most couples mean when they file for "irreconcilable differences" on their divorce papers, don't you think?

So, seeing as the hubs and I are officially not on speaking terms for the rest of the weekend, I thought I'd leave him a little love note, a little token of my affection, until Sunday rolls around (and he returns to his senses.)

Dear Hubs,

I don't want you to be terribly worried about this weekend.

I know we don't see eye to eye on this matter (simply because I know how to pick a winner and you're too busy making hog calls around the house to make a rational decision.)

Still, I love you, my dear (my poor, messed-up-in-the-head dear,) and I would never let a little game of pigskin come between us.

So, I'm calling a bit of a truce (because there is no need for pranks when it's obvious my team's already going to win. )

Honey, fear not. I will be the bigger person, and I will not dye your Saturday morning eggs a spirited shade of orange and blue this year. (I am, however, wearing my "Beat Arkansas" button. To bed.)

I will not throw orange and blue streamers all over our house this year. (But I will write "ARKANSAS SUCKS" on the steamed-up bathroom mirror tonight.)

And I will not insist on singing "We Are the Boys Of Old Florida" at the top of my lungs every hour on the hour this weekend. (But I will change my cell phone ring to the Gator Fight Song. As well as yours, too. See how that goes over in your Arkansas-only skybox!)

So, baby, don't worry about us; we'll get through this and be closer than ever, I just know it.

And no, you don't have to thank me.

I mean, yeah, sure, it's not easy loving a man who loves a substandard SEC college football team, but I manage.

And yeah, it's not easy having my house defiled by a guy who has spent the last week yelling "Soooieee!" - which has to be the least civilized pig-themed football cheer ever, by the way - but I'll be OK.

Because I love you.

Because I'm your wife.

Because in the end, when it's all over, the best team will win.

And if that best team isn't mine, you will be sleeping on the couch.

Love,
Your Gator-lovin' wife

***

I want to thank all of you who weighed in and offered help and support for Ruby the Ear-less Stray. It's so good to know that there are other dog lovers out there fighting with us.

That being said, we've notified Animal Services.

Funny thing, actually. My husband works in restaurants, and in a weird answer to prayer, a group of Animal Control employees ventured in for lunch yesterday. Patrick said he took it as a sign and told them all about it. They said they'd make a visit, at the very least.

Many of you were right. She is a pit mix, and most likely, she and the other two pups they still have were being trained to be fight dogs. This is a nasty hobby that far too many North Floridians participate in. It's part of the reason our area is so over-run with pit bull mixes. They've taken to calling them "Florida breeds," they're so common. Most mutts have pit bull in them, according to the Humane Societies around here. Luckily, there are advocates for these dogs. Several organizations rally and support just pit bull strays and their adoptive parents in the North Florida/South Georgia area.

But because of their aggressive tendencies, pit bulls are harder to find adoptive families for, no matter how sweet they are. So, if you live close, and are interested in adopting Ruby, please e-mail me at britr@ufl.edu. I want to make sure she finds a good home.

And please, say a prayer for our safety, too. I didn't really emphasize it in yesterday's post, but I promise I'm not being over-dramatic or just plain chicken. I know the residents of the house are bad news (read: violent and armed. With guns.) I think we'll fine, but just in case...

And as for the children, don't ask how I know this, but they already have a file at our local family services office. (Goes to show you how stretched thin and substandard our government services are, considering how the children are still living there.) Turns out, multiple neighbors have contacted authorities about this issue already, so I'll keep you all posted on what becomes of it all.

***

So, that's it around here, for this week at least! Happy Friday, everyone! Have a wonderful weekend!

This is why God doesn't take sides in sporting events

Every team has their own version of it.

A little diddly designed to let the world know that God himself roots for their team.

Especially down here below the Mason-Dixon Line.

In my town, we're a little partial to the ever-so-simple and yet clever-enough-to-be-printed-on-countless-T-shirts mantra:

The sun is orange,
The sky is blue,
God must be,
A Gator, too!

(And let me just say, we don't stop there. I have a crocheted Christmas tree ornament that declares "Santa is a Gator" that I bought at a craft fair. You can't get more Southern than that, my friends.)

Yes, we definitely love our sports teams in this country, so much so that we're willing to deck our own babies out in "House Divided" onesies, playing virtual King Solomons and splitting our children right down the middle. (My poor kids will have to wear orange and blue and red and white, for the Florida Gators and the Arkansas Razorbacks. Talk about a fashion disaster.)

It's amazing what we'll do to cheer on a bunch of people in multi-colored jerseys tossing around various balls.

Still, you almost have to pick an alliance. You either never watch a sports game in your life - which, let's face it, is virtually impossible in this day and age - or you choose a side.

And way back when I was 18, when I made the decision to attend the University of Florida, I chose to be a Gator.

I'll be honest; I didn't choose the school because of its stellar athletics. (I know. Perish the thought.)

I chose UF because I got a full-ride to attend the school, and my parents were in no position to send me away to the private college of my dreams. (William & Mary, I sometimes still fantasize about you, with your quaint setting and your historical surroundings. You will always be my first love. Sniff, sniff.)

But I made the best of it, and if that meant spending inordinate amounts of the time in the blazing Florida sun cheering on a football team, screaming "Orange!" and "Blue!", I was in.

Now, at the time, I was by no means just jumping on the bandwagon.

The Florida Gators were in a bit of slump during my college attendance. We were dealing with a less-than-hallowed coach (remember Ron Zook?) who spent a few too many hours in the dining hall (I know this because so did I) than on the practice field.

So when I say I cheered for the Gators in the blazing sun, I should also mentioned that I cheered for the Gators in the blazing sun while watching them lose very important games.

It wasn't a bright spot in our history, and I was no fair-weather fan.

But times have changed. We Gator fans are now in the almost-sacred era of Urban Meyer, Tim Tebow and National Championships. (Oh, my!)

Apparently, we're winners once again, and if you listen to the natives in this town (yes, I still live in the town where I went to college) it's because several of our restaurants have resurrected shrines of Tim Tebow - there's actually a life-sized wooden carving outside one infamous grill here - and that Tebow himself has a direct line to God.

Apparently, the aforementioned natives didn't get the memo that God doesn't take sides in sporting events.

They can't quite grasp that, yes, the sun is indeed orange, and sure, the sky is rather blue, but the grass is also green, and the flowers are also gold. And Notre Dame has Touchdown Jesus.

It's just all so confusing.

I mean, I hate to think about it, but my good blog-friend Traci and I will be cheering against each other this weekend. (Traci, I know our friendship is stronger than this, right? I mean, both of our teams wear orange - granted, very different shades of orange, but orange nonetheless! Promise we'll still be friends after it's all over? Promise?)

Or that dear, sweet Amber is an LSU alum and fan. (Amber, please tell me we will still be on speaking terms in two weeks time.)

Than there's another good blog-friend and Oklahoma fan, Sam, who doesn't hold much love for any Gators. It's only because she's a sweet enough to look past my SEC team of choice that she still remains my friend today. (Seriously, Sam, thanks for looking past my affinity for the orange and blue.)

Not to mention all of you out there who are Georgia Bulldogs, Arkansas Razorbacks (like my darned husband,) or (gasp!) Florida State Seminoles.

I'm sure you all hate me and my Gator-loving ways right about now, don't you?

I can't say I blame you. I mean, everybody loves the underdog.

And right now?

The Gators are the anti-underdog.

We're not getting a lot of love unless we're among our own these days.

My whole point is: Life's hard when we're not all rooting for the same team.

And as we enter into the real meat of the college football season, I may or may not allude on my blog to the fact that I attended a football game, which the Gators may or may not have won, which I may or may not be fairly happy about, which means we may or may not beat your team of choice, which means you may or may not be unhappy, which means you may or may not want to kill any and all Gators you can get your hands on.

Allegedly.

So if you see me wearing orange and blue in a picture, please don't take it as a personal affront.

If I mention that my team won - again, allegedly - don't send me hate mail.

If I dangle my "Santa is a Gator" ornament proudly before you all in some future post, please, don't take it personally.

Because if it came down to football v. blog friends, I'd pick you all any day of the week.

Even if you are a Florida State Seminole.

Go Gators (and everybody else!)

***

Dad, how proud are you right about now? I managed a blog post about football! And I even included Touchdown Jesus. I guess I really am your daughter:)

Have a wonderful weekend everyone!