There is nothing quite as exhilarating as football Sunday when women all over America leave their homes en masse and head for the stores while their mates are safely ensconced in front of the tube. I cherish those sacred moments of football widowhood when I am free to roam the shops with wild abandon.
Men have never learned the error of their ways, or just how dangerous the game of football can be. Women can do more damage in an afternoon than most football players in an entire season. While Mark was home assuming his couch potato position, cheering his team on and devouring the Fritos, I was hitting the mall like a woman on a mission.