The game: Patriots at Giants
The beer: Coronado Blue Bridge Coffee Stout
The result: Win, 27–26
The commentary: It’s getting eerie around here. Undefeated (though not nearly so) as in 2007, visiting “New York” to play the Giants in one for the ages. And remaining undefeated through it all! Is this a sign of what’s to come? Is that a good thing?

People have been talking around here about an undefeated season since week two, which is admirable even for this fickle fanbase—if we’d blown that lead to the Bills the same people would have called for Belichick’s head and #JimmyTime would have blown up the internet. Just see tomorrow morning if Brady plays against type. (Meanwhile, McCourty and Harmon are perfecting the bad angle in the presence, and continued mastery, of Professor Brandon Meriweather. Whenever we do lose it will surely be their fault.)

It’s wonderful to have a yard big enough to host parties, ponies and jungle gyms. With a yard, though, comes the hell of fallen leaves. I’ve complained of our old condo sporting a yard just big enough to maintain for appearances but useless in any other sense, other than collecting flying sheets of that Globe Direct bullshit that you cannot opt out of.

Sunday afternoon the three of us made what might qualify as a dent in the process of filling two barrels plus a dozen yard waste bags with leaves and leaves and leaves. So much remains that A. is demanding we hire a landscaper to take care of the rest. Lesson learned, I suppose, that next year I should not wait for every last leaf to fall before picking up the rake.

It’s not all bad.

Big week for health news in our household between virus-related grossness and, oh, this. Whenever you are lying on the bed and your four-year-old daughter is jumping up and down next to you, listen as your brain screams “End this now!” Otherwise it’s your own damn fault. Skull met skull and somehow G. didn’t hurt herself too badly. I needed to find a local dentist anyway.

Lastly, here is something G. insists is not a self-portrait. Coy smile and all-pink outfit? Riiight. I made the mistake of describing it to A. as wearing a pink tutu, a pink top and pink pants when G interjected: “A tutu and a shirt. No pants!” Never question an artist.

Up next: Tonight! Rex Ryan! Without a net! Cheers!