I don't think my husband has ever yelled at me. Not once, really. He's an exceptionally laid-back guy.
Until, of course, it comes to watching sports. Then his voice reaches decibels previously unknown in this household.
I don't understand it; I never will. Screaming at the TV? Yelling at your team? Maybe it's a guy thing; I don't know. It doesn't seem like fun to me, but since he's been doing it faithfully every season - football and basketball - for nearly 20 years now, there must be some appeal.
Of course, now that we have children, his vocabulary isn't quite as colorful. There's far more, "God Bless Americas!" and "C'mon now, guys!! and far fewer epithets then there used to be.
Actually, God isn't mentioned nearly as much as He used to be. That stopped the day after a particularly stressful Chicago Bears game, when my young daughter and I were driving to the store.
"Jesus Christ, mom, roll down a window," she told me. Dad and I had a talk later.
My husband says the team senses the enthusiasm. My little boy seems to get a kick out of it. As for me and my daughter, we'll just stay upstairs, watch movies and eat popcorn. Sans screaming, thanks anyway.
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