Real Women Don't Bake Quiche

I’m what you would call an avid sports fan.  For better or for worse, usually worse, I root for the NY Jets and overall, I consider myself a football fanatic.  When I say a fanatic, I mean I know football inside and out.  I don’t watch it because my husband watches it or because I want to see young men in tight uniforms.  I watch it because I love the thrill of athletic competition and I’ve made it my business to know the game.

But as a woman and a sports fan, I find the token women “sportscasters” who are popping up all over the sidelines particularly annoying because if they didn’t have an earpiece or a cue card to read off of, wouldn’t know if they were standing on a gridiron or a waffle iron. 

I also have trouble with the ‘cutesy’ women fans who have no other inclination than to jump on the band wagon for whatever team wins the most; and in my neck of the woods, that’s the Giants and Yankees. 

A young girl I work with has a NY Giants candy dish on her desk.  As I stood nearby one day I heard a Dallas Cowboy fan convey his hatred for his team’s NFC east rival.  The young girl giggled and commented that she rooted for both the Giants and the Cowboys.  Now anybody that knows football knows it’s not humanly possible to root for both the Giants and Cowboys.  It’s like saying you don’t care who wins the seventh game of the World Series between the Yankees and the Red Sox (if they could play each other) because you like both teams.  It’s just not done.

I’ve often wondered if my husband would rather I kept my mouth shut and didn’t argue with him over whether or not Eli Manning is an elite quarterback or if he would prefer it if I just sat back and drooled over the young men in their tight uniforms.    Truthfully I wish he’d button his mouth and ogle the cheerleaders.

Now I Know My ABC's

Have people in general lost their collective minds when it comes to sound parenting skills?  Because, as a society, they are raising over-indulged, ego-maniacal, know-it-all twits. 

My husband told me that on his way home from work one night he saw, hanging in front of a house, a 4’ by 8’ banner emblazoned with the phrase  “CONGRATULATIONS ON GRADUATING FROM PRE-K.” 

Now a few things come to mind here, not the least of which is: can a Pre-K kid even read that?  And secondly, what’s the requirement for graduating from Pre-K:  Competitive Pooping?  Vomiting for Distance?

Be afraid.  Be very afraid.

Next Time Mayan Your Own Business

It’s December 21, 2012 and I’m sitting at my desk at work.  It’s 8:04.  Damn Mayans.

I didn’t set my alarm this morning but my dopey dogs woke me around 5:00 am.  I heard the intense wind and rain.  It was all very promising.  The guaranteed time for my earthly departure was promised to be 6:11.  I wasn’t going to get up but my dogs wanted to eat.  I tried to explain that they didn’t want to go to the afterlife bloated, but they didn’t care.

I woke my husband at 6:00 and told him he had 11 minutes left.  He asked me if I wanted coffee; I told him no.  Who wants to be spinning towards the netherworld with a full head of steam? 

The appointed time came and went.  I blinked at 6:11 but I was still here.  Nobody keeps their word anymore. 

Do you know that people actually prepared for this?  I heard that some folks were building strong houses, quite nice in fact, with enough food to last them a good long time.  They were prepared.

Amateurs.

You want prepared?  I didn’t clean my shower or shave my legs.  

Damn Mayans.

Now, not only do I have to pick up take out tonite for dinner, since the only food I have in my house is the brown rice I was leaving for the cockroaches, but I imagine I will have quite the wait at motor vehicles.

What do you want to bet somebody institutes a class-action lawsuit due to extreme credit card debt?

Damn Mayans.

The Art of Gift Giving

My husband is a very generous man.

One year on Christmas I was playing Santa Claus, handing out the gifts that were under the tree.     

I pulled out a big box and looked at the tag.  It said the gift was for me and was from Santa.  Was that supposed to confuse me?  I mean, it was my husband Jack's handwriting and I’m not 4 years old.

I un-wrapped the gift, opened the box and to my surprise and pretend delight found that inside was a genuine Riddell NFL Jets helmet.  I mean, I’m a big Jets fan but what on earth was I supposed to do with that thing, use it as a shower cap?  Not to mention the fact that the stupid thing cost $285, but what the heck, it was Christmas, right, and aren’t we just supposed to be gracious and say thanks?  So that’s what I did.  I thanked Jack.

I pulled out the next big box and looked at the tag.  It said the gift was for Jack and was from Santa.  That confused me because it was my husband Jack's handwriting.  He generally acts like he's 4 years old.

He un-wrapped the gift, opened the box and to his pretend surprise and delight found that inside was a genuine Riddell NFL Giants helmet.  I mean, he’s a big Giants fan, but what on earth was he supposed to do with that thing?  He’s going bald for God’s sake.  Not to mention that fact that the stupid thing cost $285, but what the heck, it was Christmas right, and aren't we just supposed to be gracious and say thanks?  So that's what he did.  He thanked himself.

We scrimmage out in the front yard.

When the Time is Right, You'll Be Frozen

Can someone please explain to me the significance of the bathtubs in the Cialis commercial for erectile dysfunction?   

If you haven’t seen the commercial, I’ll paint a picture:  two bathtubs, side by side, outside, usually overhanging a cliff, and all you can see is the back of two people’s heads; one in each tub. 

Was there a study done that claims that if a man sits in a tub long enough his erectile dysfunction will go away?  Is that the connection?  What if the water is cold?  Didn't we learn anything from Seinfeld?  Or are they pointing out that a side effect of the drug is that you will develop an intense need to invest in mountain living and outdoor plumbing? 

Then they interview couples to discuss “when the time is right.”  And although they don't come right out and say it, they mean when the time is right to have sex.  If the time is right, wouldn't it make more sense if they were both in the same tub?  That's the commercial I'd like to see.

Sign O' The Times

Was Netflix not the single greatest invention of its time since Al Gore patented the microwave oven?  I mean, really, could we get any lazier as a society? 

All I had to do was roll myself to my mailbox with my donut and Latte to receive a veritable plethora of movies that they pulled from my ‘queue.’ Then I rolled myself back to my couch where I sat on my cellulite ridden behind for hours on end watching an endless parade of films and TV shows with no threat of late fees. 

Then, when I decided I’d seen enough and wanted something different, all I had to do was waddle my way back down to the mailbox.  The most strenuous thing that was required of me was that I put the flag up.  And I could probably have paid somebody to do that for me.

Now, as if all that wasn’t easy enough, you can stream almost anything you want instantly to whatever device you have.  How did that come about?  Did somebody complain because toddling to their mailbox had become too cumbersome?  Honestly, how quickly do you have to watch every episode of American Idol?  Pretty soon they’ll start beaming the movies right into our heads while we sleep so we can critique them over a dozen eggs, a pound of bacon and a loaf of toast at breakfast.

Thanks to the Internet, we are rapidly becoming a society that will have no need for honest to goodness face to face contact with another human being. 

Personally, I can’t wait.    

See It, Be It

Since I’m a world famous blogger, with millions of fans around the globe, I have to have a keen eye for the bizarre.  I have to be at the ready at all times so that when I see it, I can make a note about it so I can comment on it later.  I know you’re all counting on me.  And I’m up to the task.  I’m the ultimate professional.  I carry a pen and notebook. 

The other day I found a piece of paper with one of my observations on it.  It said “Popsicle Sticks on the paper.”

As soon as I remember what the heck that means, I’ll be sure to tell you about it. 

I’m sure it’s hysterical.

It's No Free For All

Professional sports is the only place on earth I can think of where small, old white men, without weapons, can step in the middle of big black men fighting, order them to stop, and not only get away with it, but penalize them for it as well. 

Picture Perfect

My husband and I took a ride out the other day and as we drove down our block I saw that a neighbor of ours was having a patio put in.  There were 4 or 5, what I am assuming were Mexicans, doing the labor. 

On our way back home I realized that another neighbor, who seems to have some sort of allergic reaction to lawn mowers, had his lawn professionally mowed every week by, you guessed it, Mexicans. 

At that moment it occurred to me that when we had our property professionally landscaped many years ago, it was done by a team of, well, Mexicans.  In fact, every time we need some maintenance done on our property, it’s done by Mexicans. 

Then I got to wondering, why isn’t all of Mexico a nicely landscaped place?  It’s obvious these folks have a real knack for mowing, seeding, planting shrubs and building patios and decks.  So why does it always look so dilapidated and run down?  When I posed this question to my husband he said it’s because of a bad economy and because the people that live there are too poor to purchase what they need. 

What a shame.  Clearly these people have the know-how and ability to create some magnificent landscapes.  Somebody should tell them that tourism would increase ten-fold if, after they snuck out of the country and fixed up our property, they snuck back into theirs smuggling grass seed and Scott’s turf builder.

L-L-L Losers and the Jets

I was born into the wrong family.  I don’t mean a family without money either; I mean I was born into a family that roots for the Mets and Jets.  You know, losers.

The N.Y. Jets have a quarterback issue right now in that their current quarterback, Mark Sanchez, stinks.  As a football fanatic, I listen to all of the Sports talk radio shows and this is what the experts are saying:  one of the reasons the Jets have to play Sanchez is because of his 5 year contract.  In 2012 he stands to make about $11+ million and another $8+ million in 2013 and similar amounts in 2014-2016.  And because he stinks, the Jets can’t trade him because no one will want him at that price.  Rex Ryan, Jets head coach, has staunchly supported Sanchez week after horrible week.  Why you ask?  As one analyst put it, coaches have to be very careful with their quarterback’s psyche, because if they criticize them, they’ll play even worse.  Yesterday, during the football game I actually heard Brian Billick, TV announcer and former coach, say that if the Jets coach pulled Mark Sanchez, he would be “done” emotionally. 

Really?  At $11 million, he can afford a team of competent psychiatrists to help ease his bruised ego.  Not to mention any number of apt female companions, all willing to “help” him through his pain.  As far as his contract goes, they’re gonna have to pay him if he wins and pay him if he loses.  I say let him sit on the bench and give someone else a chance. 

More importantly however; and something no one is addressing:  what about the psyche of the average fan, me in particular, and how this has negatively affected me?  And what about the psyche of my poor dog who, after Sanchez threw his third pick, got hit in the head with the towel I threw.  

Curses to my mother and father.