Holding On

As if the off-field distractions of Olivia Munn — lately rumored to be Aaron Roger’s Achilles Heel on the field — weren’t enough, imagine the added distraction the Packers suffered when they learned some crazy lady in Alaska has a fetish for Clay Matthews

Then again, maybe this was an omen, because the much-maligned Packer’s defense pretty much shut down the Viqueen offense this past Sunday. By the start of the fourth quarter Mr. Bridgewater, the Viqueen’s QB, appeared on the sideline like a thoroughly beaten man, someone who just wanted the damn game to be over with so he could jump into his pajamas, go to bed and dream the game had never been played.

While Happy Wife ski joured with the dog, I found my myself seated on a bar stool at the Peanut Farm next to a portly young blond woman who happened to be a rabid Viqueen fan. We talked on and off as we watched the game together, drinking beer and devouring chicken wings — she preferred them Honey BBQ style while I went for the 2nd Alarm recipe. But I never got the sense she warmed to my wry commentary on the game, even when it was clearly self-deprecating toward the Packers. I tell ya, some people.

I caught her eyeing the home screen on my phone where it lay on the bar

Sexy, am I right?

Given her apparent Android envy, and the fact her team was down ten points, I started to feel bad for her, and thought I’d throw her a bone. I offered to do a selfie with her, “Actually, less a selfie and more an ‘Usie’,” I said. “Imagine, a Packer and a Viking, like a Jew and an Arab, putting their differences aside if only for a moment. What ya say?” She was completely unmoved by this offer of detente, and would have none of it.

I know, right?

 

A new look and feel here at the Alter Ego, hope you like it. Not much different than the last theme, certainly not content-wise. Comment link is at the bottom of each post, not at the top. I know, big Whoop. Yet to me it feels like a fresh canvas. With daylight still shortening to the tune of four minutes a day, something new, no matter how meager, feels good right now.

Four more weeks to solstice. Don’t think that on December 22nd I don’t put on my house slippers and go outside on the back deck and drink in that extra three seconds of daylight. I do. Less a drink, really; more like the evanescent drop of wine at the bottom of an otherwise empty glass. Everything that ends has to begin again, somewhere.