I don't know much, but I know I love you: Ferry magazines & snacks. Yes, you are too expensive, full of junk, advertisements, sugar, calories, pictures & info I've already read online on and on, but I cannot quit you. All the tabloids, plus some fashion-y friends and music digests, in combination with the 12 dollar Rogers caramel corn means I could conceivably be trapped in my trunk for the entire ride and I'd be A-OK.

I didn't play, but somehow, of course, I am sore: Sunday, under a blue sky and on a field of dead grass, Nuv and all his friends played football. I can't properly articulate how awesome it was to see all these boys get serious, and run, catch, chest bump, scream, clap hands, huddle and insult each other. I took a million pictures on three different cameras so they can look back in 30 years at how virile and hairy they all were. After getting high (on LIFE Dad, Life) two awesome things happened. 
My in-laws unexpectedly showed up to watch, and Nuv fell catching a ball and rammed his head and neck into the ground like a jackhammer.
As Rocky keenly observed, I then "laid an egg." 
I had to simultaneously bite back the shrieks that exploded into my mouth as I had visions of paralysis and/or decapitation, not sprint onto the field like a panic mongering over-reacting wife to drag Nuv to a Hospital, and also talk calmly to Nuv's mom like everything was cool with me, with her bleeding Son, and just life in general.
God help me.
Nuv was fine; Mom & Pop Takhar left, and I settled down by listening to Pat Rymer yell hilariously mean things at his friends.
In the end, it was a stunner of a day; Vancouver reigned supreme, Victoria handled defeat graciously, Jill was the loveliest Ref turned player ever, and my Husband is still blessedly, gorgeously, alive.