bananas

Last night the New York Giants won the superbowl. I love football. If we are home on Sunday, I faithfully watch my teams from preseason through the playoffs. I have crushes on the cute quarterbacks and claim that Troy Aikman, now announcer for Fox, was my high school sweetheart.

Dave doesn't like football. Or maybe he just doesn't understand it. He told me he would watch some of the game with me last night, but he must have only seen a play or two. Which was fine with me.

When the game ended, people living on our block who might have never heard of football would have known that the Giants won. People filled the streets in their blue and white jerseys. Cars stuffed with people drove by honking. People were spilling out of the windows and sunroofs of the cars shouting and cheering and the people standing on the street were giving them high fives.

Suddenly, just like that, Dave loved football. He so badly wanted us to go out and join the revelry. Get in our car and have me poke my head through the sunroof yelling and receiving high fives. He kept opening our window and peeking out to get a better view of the crowds, the flying rolls of toilet paper and the police keeping things in line.

The cheering lasted for hours and amazingly, Andrew, whose window faces that street, slept through the whole thing. One solid perk of the urban baby is that they sleep when noisy things happen. At least ours does.

We went to sleep hearing cheering and shouts of joy. Dave, still excited from the happy scene, asked why I wasn't more excited.

I wanted the Patriots to win.