I’m up to my eyeballs in shirts last week. I’m taking pictures, I’m making shirts, I’m taking more pictures. I’m losing my mind.
My husband says to me…”hey, babe. Clinton Portis is supposed to have a good week. You really should play him.”
Famous last words. In my spare 2.7 seconds of time, I log on to my fantasy team and put in Portis. I do nothing else.
I don’t put Barber in….
I’ll say it again, I put Portis in instead of Barber. But I’m too tired to notice. I proceed to get my ass handed to me because Barber makes 30 points ON THE BENCH. I’m out of the playoffs.
My husband wins and goes onto the finals. Had I won last week, I would be playing him this week for The Winner Who Takes All. That is, officially, the last day I ever take his advice on anything. Ever. Now? Now I’m in the competition for number 4. Woo. effing. hoo.