For the Packers, at least. For me it was great! I slept in (until 7 – hoohah!), helped Seth work on the house, and took a very long bubble bath.
Before the bath and the painting and the drinking rosé cider while painting, I went to the grocery store. I love this store – it’s on the edge of town, family owned, and truly, one of the best shopping experiences I’ve ever had. I love it so much that even when it’s game day Sunday and the entrance is a sea of green and gold, there are no available carts, and the bakery runs out of wheat bread to make subs with, I still go. I brave the crowds and stand in line and buy my favorite kettle chips (which were on sale, score).
It’s filled with pink screwdrivers, a pink level, a pink tape measure. It used to have a pink hammer too, but I accidentally busted it in half last year.
This little tool bag has served me well over the last eight years. My mom gave it to me my freshman year of college – stating that I shouldn’t be away from home without a way to fix things. She got it in pink because she loves me and I love pink.
I have carried this bag with me ever since. Through every move – across state lines and back again. I had it with me in South Carolina, it lives in my coat closet now. It stayed on a top shelf in my apartment junior and senior year of college.
It was there, and it was then, that it was frequently borrowed by my neighbors. I was the only girl on my floor – the three other apartments being occupied by males and their male roommates.
At first, they mocked the pink tools – their petite size and their “feminine” hue. Then, little by little, the knocks on my door increased.
“Can I borrow your hammer?”
“Hey, do you have a screwdriver?”
“Wait…are you baking?”
That last one was unrelated to tools and home improvement, but it happened nonetheless. Inevitably, the scent of whatever I was making would waft across the hall and into the other apartments. They’d come over for a few brownies or a slice of cake or warm cookies.