Ho hum. Another Super Bowl. Anyone who says it’s as big a thrill the third time around is either lying, or kidding themselves.

Now if I could just wake up.

Seeing as how I’ve done such a wonderful job of caffeine impulse control (curse my damn ingenuity), I’m desperate for some pick-me-up. I could ask one of my coworkers to sneak up on me at random times during the day to try and scare me. “BOO!” That just might keep me on my toes. Here’s another thought, I could lance myself with a thumb tack. There’s nothing like a little sharp pain and self mutilation to get you going in the morning.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

What I could really use is a Starbucks Mocha Frappachino. Sweet. Cold. Refreshing. Caffeinated. Manna from heaven.

Wait a second! I’m an adult. I have a God given right to blame someone else for my fatigue. It’s all Cheryl’s fault. Yeah, that’s the ticket! She was like some kind of homemaker boot camp drill sergeant this weekend. “YOU CALL THAT CLEAN? WHAT’S A MATTER BOY? DIDN’T YOUR MAMA TEACH YOU TO MOP?” Sadly, on Saturday morning we did more before 9 a.m. than I had all month – and I’ve got the mop hand calluses to prove it.