Crack is whack

I am being held hostage by the World Cup.

Okay, well maybe not me, but at the very least, our TV is on constant black-and-white ball surveillance duty. All day Saturday, all day Sunday, and for at least two hours every evening, for the last two weeks - with weeks more to go.

So of course it's on in the background the other night as I'm getting dinner ready. The vuvuzelas are out in full force. Like a swarm of annoying flies. That never, ever stops. For ninety minutes. Seriously, I am all for rooting on your team. I'll scream my lungs out at a Vol football game. You know, at the exciting parts - a first down, a touchdown, a really spectacular stop. But not for an entire game without ever stopping. These South Africans must have a ridiculous lung capacity.

But then again, if they waited around to only blow when something interesting happened in a game of soccer, I guess they'd be a sad, sorry, quiet bunch....HA!

So I'm doing my best to make dinner while resisting the urge to swat at imaginary gnats that seem to be swarming literally in my ears, when:

Nate: You know you can buy vuvuzelas on the internet.

Sara: And your point would be?

Nate: You should get me one.

Sara: I'm thinking, no.

Nate: Why not?

Sara: Are you smoking crack? Have you met yourself? You're like a 12-year-old trapped in a 29-year-old body. If you had one of those things, you'd never stop blowing it, probably right in my face.

Nate: I know. Wouldn't that be awesome?

Sara: Yeah. Awesome. That's exactly the word that comes to mind.