No internet for four days is enough to kill a gal. It’s a building-wide issue, or I’d have happily commandeered a neighbor’s apartment, deeming it a matter of national emergency.

With a possible four more days of this hell on earth, I gave up on the hourly jaunts to Starbucks for wifi, grabbed the kids last night, and headed into Manhattan, holing up in a secret undisclosed location with internet signal a-plenty. Meaning now I only have like 172 or so emails to catch up on, 600 million blogs to read, and 90 posts rattling around in my head–including a Plastics for Dummies (Like Me) Resource Guide based on last week’s post about potential baby bottle hazards and all your stellar recommendations. Keep the links coming and I’ll include them fo sho.

This all wouldn’t be quite so bad if it weren’t mid-September.

In other words, as of yesterday, I am a football widow.

You might think I’m immune to the syndrome, me with my fancy NYC address and my expensive shoes and my ability to properly pronounce croissant. But nope, that doesn’t stop my sigOth from heading out to “the Redskins bar” (one of several) every Sunday, and coming home either a happy drunk or a grumpy, pass-out-on-the-couch drunk, depending on how well one guy in tight pants threw a little ball to another guy in tight pants.

Oh Sage, if only you knew how close you were to being named Clinton Portis.

Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be Cowboys fans.