My husband told me tonight that I had to sign up for his Fantasy Football league otherwise there would be an odd number of teams and nobody would get to play.
I am not a football person. The extent of my interest in the game involves wearing cute football tee's and eating cheese dip. Otherwise, I am just not interested.
But because I am a good wife, I have agreed to play Fantasy Football this year. Woot. (FYI-I named my team "Forced To Play." And I picked a purple helmet for my avatar because it was the prettiest.)
In other news, I am desperately trying to finish writing an article for work that is sucking my life force out of me pore by pore. And, yes, I'm being dramatic, but good lord you would be too if you had to write about this stuff for a living. Whenever I get tasked with a project like this one I just want to explode out of my body and send a different piece of me to every corner of the world to experience some new exhilarating adventure.
Does anyone else ever feel that way? Maybe minus the exploding part? Bueller?
Anyways, that's why I need to finish this article. So I can stop daydreaming of spontaneously combusting and sending my big toe off to Venice and my elbow to Paris.
Wish me luck.