My family members are all pretty different, but there is one thing that we all agree on: our love of football season. Sundays meant we all gathered around the TV. Mom would serve chili dogs and threaten our lives if we spilled any on the couches. Dad and my sister would be cheering so loudly that there would be an inevitable spill. If it was warm out, Dad would grill after the game was over and the steaks tasted better if their favorite teams played well that day. There was an excitement in the air that all three look forward to each football season.

For me, football season was a little different. Sundays were family days, so my parents wanted me to hang out even if I wasn’t into football. This normally meant that I was bribed with a new book or craft project to work on while everyone else was paying attention to the TV. (Side bar note to Husband: Now do you see why I think I deserve a present every time I have to sit through something boring? You can blame my parents.) Football season means something entirely different to me. Instead of sports, when football season comes around I get really excited about new crafts. The local hobby stores bring out their Christmas gear in the Fall so when I see blue and silver, instead of thinking of the Cowboys, I am picturing glittery snowflakes and expensive gift ribbon. Red and gold doesn’t symbolize the 49ers to me; it symbolizes the decadence of the holiday season draped over lush pine trees.

So every fall, my family writes the games on the calendar while I make note of the sales. They put their season tickets in a safe spot while I make sure my coupons are tucked into my purse. They pull out their logo gear and deck out in their favorite colors while I make sure I am wearing comfortable walking/shopping shoes. They are drinking beer and eating hot dogs while I am drinking water to stay hydrated and snacking on whatever I can find in my purse to hold me over until I get home. They come home cranky if their teams lose and I come home cranky if I had my heart set on an item that was out of stock.

When my dad called to tell me he was flying out of town to see the first pre-season game, I got super excited. Sure enough, I hit my local Michaels and found Christmas boxes being unpacked. My dad got to watch his Cowboys beat the Bengals while I came home with bags full of loot for less than $30. I’m not sure which of us was happier.

While we have our differences, the important thing is that we all love the football season. The only big difference is that their view of the season involves sports.

Last week, the Phoenix are was hit with a major wind storm. Dan and I happened to be home at the same time, which is a rarity in itself. Add the winds up to 68 mph and the downpour of rain, and you’ve got a perfect example of the world ending.

For you Phoenix residents, “rain” is that wet stuff falling from the sky. No, not the misters on your patio. That stuff that floods our streets and makes our roof leak.

Anyway, during this storm the wind made our windows rattle to the point that Dan opened the blinds even though it was pitch black outside. His logic was that “if something comes flying at the window, I want to be able to see death approaching.” This was interrupted by me whimpering “I don’t want to die” when something loud crashed outside.

We awoke in the morning to find a tree sprawled across the backyard. We were lucky that A)the tree was not larger and thus did not hit the house, B)the tree did not break anything besides an old plant pot and C)the tree was not full of spiders that crawled away, fleeing the storm and the sudden crashing of their natural home, came through our doggy door and infested our house.

These are the sorts of scenarios I think up when I’m tired and scared, and there’s a major storm outside.

The insurance people wanted pictures so I figured I’d show you guys some photos too. Here’s a before picture. For the record, I did not take a random photo of our backyard. This is from the wedding 3 years ago. So the tree is was (RIP) a little bigger than you see here. It’s the tree on the right.

And after:

It’s been a week and the tree is still there. I’m not entirely sure what’s going to happen to it. Thankfully, my dad is taking care of the getting rid of the tree and all the insurance stuff. It’ll probably stay exactly where it is until he comes home on Sunday for the holidays.

Being an adult is hard.

My parents used to mention grandkids a lot. It started a little after we had gotten married until my parents realized that they didn’t want to feel old and be called “grandma” or “grandpa.” The baby mumblings quieted down significantly until about a year ago. Suddenly, every other conversation ended up being steered towards children in some way. Not that they were pressuring me to have kids, of course. They just wanted to tell me the funny/cute/endearing story about the baby/toddler/child they saw. No ulterior motive, of course.

I finally told them that we wanted to wait until I was done with school before we even began thinking about kids. This appealed to their logic and they promised not to mention grandkids to me until May of 2010. However, my parents are sneakier than I give them credit for.

My aunt casually texts me to say that I should have kids. If they had grandbabies, my parents might have flown out from Texas for Thanksgiving.

My sister visits them and calls me to say “they talked about babies like ALL weekend. I think they want you to start having kids.”

Instead of harassing me directly, my parents are using relatives and other loved ones to pass along baby musings. I guess they technically kept their word, since they never said anything to me directly. The next time I use loopholes to get my way, however, Dan will know that the trait comes from both sides of my family.