I feel as if I’ve lived 4 days all in this Sunday. We had a soccer tournament in Cincinnati this weekend and like clock work, our Sunday game began at 7 f’ing 30! 7:30! On a Sunday!!
Of course I did the responsible thing and showered around 7:30 pm the night before and in bed by 8.
I am quiet confident I was still drunk when I awoke at 5:30 a.m. Apparently at some point I had taken my pants off as I was only wearing my shirt and socks. The night before, another mother and I joined my husband and 2 other dads in the lobby for drinks. I had come prepared and had a nice Cabernet for the evening. When it ran out, I accessed the hotel bar for another 2 glasses.
“This is inhumane!” I yelled out to no one. “I’m workin’ on like 4 hours of sleep here.”
“Yeah, I’m guessing you’re feelin’ pretty rough right now,” my husband said.
“Well I’m not showering.” I protested. In fact, I simply found my jeans from last night, threw them on, ran my hand through my hair and brushed my teeth.
‘Fuck it!’ I thought, ‘we’re all gonna look like death this morning.’
Though it was still dark outside, I opted to put my sunglasses on but for what? Privacy? To hide that I was trying to catch a nap? I have no idea what my game plan was with that. My husband looked over and started to laugh at my shades. This made me think of Bridesmaids and I had to say it. I rolled my head over to him and said, “Help me, I’m poor.”
I don’t know if he thought it was funny but it made me laugh.
On the Field
Look, I don’t pretend to know the rules of soccer but our ref was really bad. Within the first 5 minutes, one of the dads (we will call him T) screamed at the ref…then again….then again. And the ref needed a harsh scolding as he was calling everything on our boys and not the other team. At one point, I was quiet confident the other team must had tipped him to favor their plays. Finally, the ref was done and came over to us. We started whistling and looking every other direction but his.
“Sir, if you don’t stop yelling, you hav’ leave,” the ref said in broken English.
And without missing a beat and with absolute confidence, T jetted his chin at the ref, arms folded and said, “Vaffanculo”.
Though I’m Italian, I don’t speak it. I also know maybe 10 words tops from hearing it in my home. But instincts kicked in and I knew what had happened and began to laugh uncontrollably. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to realize what it meant. It means “fuck you” in Italian.
So yeah, those were a few things that happened this weekend. How was your weekend? Did you get into any shenanigans? I want to hear about it friends!!!
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