How a Hockey Wife was Born

It was a late night for this Redneck. While I don't generally announce this fact, (it is rather shameful,) I am married to a sports nut. For the most part, Boo is as close to perfect as a man can get. If you discount the scratching in public, the nose hairs peeking out, and (my favorite,) the farts he lets loose in the heart of darkness. But since perfection is not possible, I chose the next best thing. My hubs. And for a while, besides the man-grooming thing, all seemed well in our happy little romance. The bastard reeled me in with pretty words, flashy baubles, and good sex. I fell for him, hook, line and sinker. (I even managed to over look the fact that this was a man who believes work boots constitutes casual foot wear. Don't worry dear internet, I beat that out of him.)

But then something shifted, and my passionate man began, sniff, ignoring me. I lost him to the NHL. As Canadians, this is not so shocking. Hockey flows through our veins right along with our red blood cells. And most men I know can rattle off stats quicker than multiplying two and two. But my Boo, he never let on. He deceived me. Golf, bah. Football, only if there is beer involved and nothing better to do. Basketball, fun to play but he would rather clip his toenails than watch it on telly. Boo led me to believe that while playing sports is fun to do, watching them on t.v. is a poor substitute. And he would much rather keep my body warm. Sweet, right?

Then hockey season rolled around and I lost him. Officially, I am a hockey widow. It is so bad that he bought a small t.v. for out in the garage so he can watch his precious game in peace. Away from his nagging, annoying wife. What happened to the loving, sensitive man I married? Oh yeah, he's sitting in a lawn chair out in the garage, drinking beer and yelling at the t.v. screen.

I had to do a quick reassessment. I could either whine about my widowhood or I could join in the fun. While as an unenlightened chicky I leaned towards the whining; being the redneck I am, and a patriotic Canadian, I jumped on the bandwagon. So I dragged my husband off his folding lawn chair and brought him indoors. Where he now nestles in to the couch, drinks beer and yells at the t.v. While sitting right beside me. Rubbing my feet. Like any good man should do.

So I am celebrating his team's victory. Not because I want them to win the cup or anything. No, because my Boo gives a damn good foot rub. And he likes my monkey toes.