Which I’m off to the links, seduced by the notion that I may have them all to myself, what with every red-blooded American male but me getting ready for the Superbowl. Which I still intend to catch, my sortie window being so very early, like. Prepared for the realization that there may be other men with the exact same plan, acting as spoilers for my fairway fantasy.
Which is rather a long way of saying that, between one thing and another, there will be very little else going on about the house today.
Which, the keys are in it, and Giants in a squeaker, not that I have any dog in that hunt.
Update: Was I right? I think I was.