Tonight, Canada's Olympic Men's Hockey Team is playing Switzerland. The announcer said we would be "exacting our revenge" against them. Revenge? Really?
In between stuffing himself full of crackers and goat cheese, Mr. Man wonders why revenge is even necessary against a neutral country. We weren't doing battle against them in either of the World Wars. Where's the beef? It's here, apparently, and it's hockey beef -- the juiciest kind.
So in celebration of this event, Mr. Man has made hamburgers and potato wedges for dinner. I don't quite get the connection, but it's a night free of cooking for me so I'll take it. And in typical meat-eating man style, these burgers are Olympic sized. I tried to flatten them a bit before taking a bite, as my first attempt messily showed me I'm not quite the big mouth I sometimes know I can be.
[uh oh, Switzerland just cut our lead in half]
Dinner was consumed fairly quickly -- pub grub at home often is -- and now Mr. Man has moved on to a beer, firmly cementing himself into a corner of the couch.
But my favourite part of the evening is not the sound of oohing and aahing at the shots on net. It's not even that dinner was made for me. It's the squeaking of the coffee table during the plays. Mr. Man plants his foot on a corner of the coffee table when he's watching hockey, and his knees and ankles twitch as if he's actually skating in the game. I don't even think he knows he does this, but I find it endearingly funny.
Now if only I could train him to unconsciously make those dish scrubbing and rinsing motions and lead him to the kitchen sink more often.
[yikes. Switzerland just tied it up]
In between stuffing himself full of crackers and goat cheese, Mr. Man wonders why revenge is even necessary against a neutral country. We weren't doing battle against them in either of the World Wars. Where's the beef? It's here, apparently, and it's hockey beef -- the juiciest kind.
So in celebration of this event, Mr. Man has made hamburgers and potato wedges for dinner. I don't quite get the connection, but it's a night free of cooking for me so I'll take it. And in typical meat-eating man style, these burgers are Olympic sized. I tried to flatten them a bit before taking a bite, as my first attempt messily showed me I'm not quite the big mouth I sometimes know I can be.
[uh oh, Switzerland just cut our lead in half]
Dinner was consumed fairly quickly -- pub grub at home often is -- and now Mr. Man has moved on to a beer, firmly cementing himself into a corner of the couch.
But my favourite part of the evening is not the sound of oohing and aahing at the shots on net. It's not even that dinner was made for me. It's the squeaking of the coffee table during the plays. Mr. Man plants his foot on a corner of the coffee table when he's watching hockey, and his knees and ankles twitch as if he's actually skating in the game. I don't even think he knows he does this, but I find it endearingly funny.
Now if only I could train him to unconsciously make those dish scrubbing and rinsing motions and lead him to the kitchen sink more often.
[yikes. Switzerland just tied it up]
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