30 December 2007

Oh, God, it hurts.



That's all. I really don't want to talk about it.

But I will.

Jim Sorgi? He looked worse than Derek on Derek's worse day. Has he ever taken a professional snap before?

But I guess I'm official. As a new Browns fan just this season, I get to say it for the first time: We'll get there next year.

28 December 2007

Don't cry, Derek

Look, Derek Anderson. I know I've been hard on you at times, but in the end, you are my quarterback. So act like one. Stop being a pussy.

What's this crap about you stomping out of a press conference because some wiseacre asks you if Quinn should get some reps Sunday? You walked out? You got your wittle feelings hurt? Come on! Do you think Tom Brady would handle something like that? Nah. He'd act like the quarterback. So let's work on that, shall we? I'll help. Picture yourself in the following scenario:

Wiseacre reporter: "Hey Derek, you think this is a good week for Quinn to get some reps? And by the way, did you remember that you had four picks last week?"

Derek Anderson: "I'm the starting quarterback. Romeo Crennel is the head coach. That's a question for the coach. Next?"

See how smooth that was? Believe me, Derek, I am a champion bait-grabber and it always leads to frustration. Don't do it. If you can't handle some idiot in a press conference, how the heck do you plan to handle the playoffs? Think about it.

26 December 2007

Five Instant Hottifiers for Men

Due to the massive amount of spam emails I get for penis enlargement devices/pills/techniques, I venture to guess that men think about their junk all the time. I have other evidence to prove this theory besides email, such as the fact that every man I know who thinks he is hung like a horse mentions it all the time, and the best way men have to tease each other--besides accusing each other of being gay--is to suggest their buddy has a small pecker. So these emails promise to give you the single most important thing in the world to make you attractive to women: a huge dick.

Men, you don't need a yard-long piece of rebar in your pants to attract women. You don't need to be perfectly gorgeous. You don't need washboard abs. You don't need a Corvette. You don't need a million dollars in the bank. If you want to look sexy for women, I offer you Five Instant Hottifiers for Men.

1. The Smile

Ok, so I have a fetish for teeth. That's beside the point. Take a look at this random actor. Isn't he hot? Isn't that a beautiful smile? Doesn't it say, "Hey, I'm cool, you're cool." A smile makes you approachable. It's warm. It's CONFIDENT. I don't care who you are, guys. If you can't look at this fellow and see that his smile makes him sexy, you're just trying to be too straight.

So brush up on it. Practice in the mirror if you have to. Get some whitening strips if you think you need them. But smile already. The mouth is the sexiest part of the body. It talks, it eats, it sings, it kisses. It has a tongue inside it. Think about it. Chicks like all that stuff.

2. Boots

Yes, boots. Western boots, work boots, biker boots, jump boots. Doesn't matter what kind, they are all hot. You know how sexy you think a woman looks in those high heels? Well you're right. It makes our legs look longer. It makes our posture straighter. It changes our entire carriage. And what high heels do for women, boots do for men. You'll be instantly taller, straighter, leaner. And you'll have an air of command about you. Boots say you've got stuff to do and you by-God know how to get it done. I have never seen a man that boots couldn't improve.

3. A uniform

Uniforms come in many styles. The mind jumps immediately to the military uniform or the police uniform, and those are certainly great. Those uniforms say you're looking out for me. I'm safe with you. You'd kill for me. My mind also leaps to football uniforms, or, for most guys, just a jersey. Those say you like to play rough. You're fun. Whatever your uniform is, wear it with pride. For example, check out the suit. Uniform, you ask? Yeah. It's the business uniform. It says, "I make the big bucks," or "I know what I'm talking about," or "Trust me." Hmm? If you don't have another kind of uniform, a good suit is bank. Just make sure it fits properly and didn't come from the Salvation Army box. A suit is an investment and will last for years. Black or navy, and if you need more than one, consider camel. Wear it like you own it and like you own everything else you see too.

4. A white shirt

A white button-up shirt is great. It's clean. It's classic. It's ready for anything. You can wear it with your suit or you can wear it with your jeans. It will flatter your complexion no matter how fair or dark you are. It's elegant, sporty, conservative and fresh, all at the same time. You cannot go wrong with it. And at a bar full of guys wearing their black, you'll be the eye-catcher. A white shirt can go home to meet mother, and will also look great on that chick whose name you can't remember the next morning. She'll want to keep it, by the way. Goes with the territory. Small sacrifice.

5. Dirt

Yes! Dirt is awesome, and like a uniform, comes in many varieties. Just look at pretty Brady Quinn with is eye black smeared on his pretty face. He's fierce! He's not afraid to get down and dirty, hell no. And your dirt might be the grease from a car or the dust from a construction site or the sweat from a good workout. Just note that there is a difference between being dirty and being funky. As long as it is fresh dirt, you're good. It just makes us want to give you a good scrubbing.

So there they are. Simple and require no pumps, pills or implants.

Glad It's Over

Don't get me wrong. I'm no Scrooge. I actually enjoy Christmas. Mostly. I like the lights. I like buying presents and wrapping presents. Of course, I like getting presents too sometimes. What I don't like is the bullshit.

This year my household nearly came to blows over where and when we celebrated with each set of in-laws. Christmas Eve? Saturday before Christmas? Morning? Evening? Meet at the rest stop halfway between?

It wasn't always like this. Before you get married, your holidays are set. You know where you go on what day and there is no question. But then the grandchildren grow up and get married and you have this whole other set of in-laws and outlaws around which to plan. And the more grandchildren there are in a family, the more interlopers there are with which to contend.

And invariably, each Christmas is expected to exceed the last in grandiosity. Bigger presents, better presents, more expensive presents. Exotic food. Strange "new" traditions, which is an absolute oxymoron. As much fun as Dirty Santa is, Mother, don't come around telling me we have "always done it" when we have not and I only ever heard of it three years ago!

Next year I am thinking of boycotting Christmas outright. Well, not a complete boycott. I'll still buy presents, but I'll have them delivered by mail the week before. That will save me on wrapping paper and tape as well. And perhaps that 20 pounds of holiday weight gain as well.

Win and You're In

Yes, Derek. That's what we thought too. What exactly does that hands-on-helmet gesture mean? Possibilities:

1. Shit!

2. Damn!

3. I suck!

4. When will this be over?

I wonder if those little wristbands with the plays on them actually call for games with four interceptions? You know, just to keep things exciting. Just to make the fans pray for a Titans loss in order to make the playoffs. You had your destiny in your own hands, Derek. Instead, you kept your helmet there on Sunday. Four times. Any one of them back and the Browns win. Of course, you know this. I'm just saying.

17 December 2007

To Winners


I was delighted to see the Miami Dolphins of 2007 get their first win of the season. I felt miserable for them all year. No matter how much money a guy makes, to fail so horribly at what you do is not something I'd wish on anyone. So when they got the overtime win with that notoriously deadly Lemon-to-Camarillo pass, I was thrilled. Of course, they beat Cleveland's traitorous AFC North rivals, the Baltimoron Ratbirds, so the win couldn't have come over a better team unless it was Pittsburgh.

And I'm on record right now hoping that, unless my team can pull off one of the biggest upsets in the history of football and beat New England in the second round of the playoffs, I want the Patriots to go all the way, perfectly. Undefeated. And it's not because I have the hots for Tom Brady. We've already established that it is grossly unfair for him to be so gorgeous and talented as well. I admit, it is because I want somebody--ANYBODY--to equal that 1972 undefeated Dolphins season and shut Don Shula and the rest of those guys up.

There is really something sick about hoping a team loses just so you can say your team was the only one to go undefeated. Be proud if that is the case, but don't wish the failure on others and certainly don't celebrate it with a champagne toast. And Mercury Morris...please. You are 60 years old. You don't need to be on SportsCenter rapping trash-talk about some stuff that happened 35 years ago and waiting to celebrate a Patriots loss should that occur. I mean, seriously: Does anybody think the 1976 Tampa Bay Bucks were hoping this year's Miami team would duplicate their winless season just so they won't be the only one's? I doubt it. That would be classless, to wish someone that pain. Equally classless to hope no one else very gets to feel the supreme joy of a perfect year.

Go Pats, and way to go 2007 Dolphins.

13 December 2007

Off-Topic Frivolity and Its Enemies

KardiacKat is dead. My handle in the Cleveland Browns forum has been "yellow-carded" by the Nazis at Advance.net yet again. And this is no mere 24-hour ban for swearing. It's execution. And by IP address too.

This isn't the first time, nor will it be the last, I feel certain. It's no big deal, and yet it irks.

While some forum regulars frequently use racial slurs, pick fights and even stalk other posters, my good buddy and I, as best we can figure, are banned for Off-Topic Frivolity. My God! The scourge of Burl Ives Christmas song lyrics cannot and will not be tolerated!

I appreciate that the forum was set up for the discussion of the Cleveland Browns (who will clinch a playoff berth this Sunday--Book It!), but how many times can a sane human being debate the Derek Anderson vs. Brady Quinn issue before a little Burl Ives is needed to sooth raging tempers and restore calm and order? And what's so wrong with confirming the recipe for cinnamon pecans from the forum's resident trained chef? Is it so bad to wax poetic now and then over the genius of Mel Brooks? Must we refrain from all esoteric banter?

Fuck it.

I have created three new handles and all three have been sniped by the mods. I will risk no more innocent handle lives. At least not for a couple of weeks. That is my holiday gift to Advance.net. I'd sing Holly Jolly Christmas for them too, but I'm afraid the internet might blow up.

09 December 2007

Grossly unfair

New England Patriots quarterback Tom Brady is gorgeous. This is an affront to justice.

Is it not enough that he gets to be the quarterback? The face of the team? The most important player on the field?

Is it not enough he's won Super Bowls, and been named the Super Bowl MVP twice and the Sports Illustrated Sportsman of the Year once?

Is it not enough that he's a bazzillionaire who dates super models and spends his off seasons at Canne and Sundance, and is perfectly at home in a L.A. hotspot or a Broadway play? Not enough he is as comfortable in Armani as he is in a jersey?

Is it not enough to be the top-rated quarterback in the NFL this season and be on track to an elusive undefeated season?

No. None of that is enough. He has to be ridiculously gorgeous too. He can wear a Stetson cowboy hat, a plain black toque or even that ridiculous little snap-brim newsboy cap he had on a few weeks ago on the Monday Night Football post-game, and look fantastic in all of them. I swear, he's in GQ as often as he's in SI. He's a fashion icon, so much so that Kirk Herbstreit was wearing that same ridiculous newsboy cap the next week on ESPN College GameDay.

For the sake of us all, for parity, for balance in the universe, Tom Brady should injure himself in the face and bring back some sense of equality. Really, Tom. You have enough. You don't have to also be better looking that most of the world. Take one for humanity and just smack yourself in the head with a piece of rebar or something.

But on second thought...Tom Brady with that eyeblack on his face AND a jagged scar cutting roguishly across his eyebrow...

...what? Where was I? I passed out for a second.

06 December 2007

More Baby Jesus

I found this really cool website called FOUND Magazine. It features mostly notes but sometimes pictures that people just find in the course of their day.

Here's the link: http://www.foundmagazine.com/find/2394

The whole thing prompts me to think, what would I do if I found a stray Baby Jesus in the manger? Likely, I'd put it in my purse and give it to my son later, or perhaps put it under my Christmas tree. And then I read the note again and realize those would not be the right things to do. :(

04 December 2007

A Baby Jesus Story

Christmas tends to make people nostalgic. Besides that it is the time when families tend to gather, it is also the end of another year, which calls for reminiscing.

My son, like many children, has always been fond of babies, and Baby Jesus is all the more special. Last year, he even got to play Jesus' "step" father Joseph at the Christmas play at my mother's church. Mary was played by a lovely brown-eyed blond. Sparky tried to put his arm around her during the whole play, which she rebuffed quite visibly. "Well, she was my wife!" was his explanation.

But back to Baby Jesus. From his youngest years, Sparky tended to kidnap B.J. from the little nativity scenes my mother puts out around the house. Finally, she decided one of the Jesus-in-the-manger figures would have to take one for the team, and she gave Sparky his very own Baby Jesus. It was a little ceramic or porcelain model, much like the one pictured here. He treasured it. He played with it all the time and with all his other toys. B.J. was regularly protected by Power Rangers or guarded by Luke Skywalker.

Needless to say, Sparky developed what some would call "a personal relationship" with his Lord. So much so that B.J. suffered much abuse and roughhousing. This culminated in a spectacle, witnessed by many, that I will cherish as one of my fondest holiday memories.

One evening, when we had a house full of company, he came running into the living room saying, "Look at my Baby Jesus trick! Look at my Baby Jesus trick!"

Then he shot Baby Jesus across the room out of his pirate ship cannon.

I realize it is blasphemous that I laughed my ass off about this, but I couldn't help it. Since then, I have always thought Baby Jesus Trick would be a great name for a band.

28 November 2007

Minding the Farm

I've had the great pleasure today to babysit my hometown city hall. My mother, the town's clerk, is away at Municipal Election School, so I'm minding the farm. It's been an exciting day!

This isn't my first go as substitute town guardian. My mom was clerk years ago, and I often babysat town hall as a teenager during the summer when school was not in session. Things have not changed a bit.

So far today, I have looked up telephone numbers for seven different callers. The older people can always remember the number to town hall, but can't remember where their own telephone book is. I suppose it might be that the numbers are very small and difficult to read. So I look up the numbers for them. I've had to call the animal shelter to pick up a stray dog. I've also had to dispatch the police chief for a petty theft. I've tested the tornado siren, which is working quite well.

The exciting news of the week is that the recreation center is finally going up. The storm shelter/basement/foundation has been in place for months, but the building components didn't arrive on time. The truck came today, and the news spread like kudzu. I took a picture of the progress to send to the local newspaper. It will likely make front page.

Though I realize more and more that I should have gone someplace bigger when I was many years younger, there is something still very appealing about the small places. It's simple and unrushed. It's pleasing to think that the entire town will drive or walk by to see the progress on a community center, which will likely find itself used primarily as a place for old men to play Rook and checkers.

It's all right to be little bitty, Alan Jackson sang. There is nothing wrong with being content with small pleasures and small things and small places. I wish I had stayed content with them. Now I'm not exactly sure what to do.

The Truth (Book It.)

I don't want to give the impression that it is all fun and games in the Cleveland Browns forum. Oh no. We discuss all manner of deeply important topics. Why today alone we discussed whether or not the Browns should have the old throwback numbers on their helmets, exactly what would be an appropriate uniform for an internet BFF, and who got laid last night. These are no frivolous matters.

We also delved into a discussion of Truth. What is it? Does it exist? Must it necessarily be uttered? Can two contradictory truths exist at the same time? I report happily that the discussion resulted in few insults and no flames whatsoever. (Amazing, given that not all of us actually got laid last night.)

I said that, just because something is true, doesn't mean you have to say it. My Granny taught me that. For example, I may detest feta cheese. Perhaps I'm allergic and risk death by consuming it. The fact that you say you love it does not call for my declaration of feta hate simply because it is true I hate it. Even if asked directly, must I say, "I hate that shit! Are you trying to kill me?" or could I simply say, "I don't care for it. I'm allergic."

In regard to other areas of Truth, such as religion, the territory is even more difficult to navigate. Since faith can be neither proved nor disproved, my Truth as a Zoroastrian may be in direct contradiction to your Truth as a Neo-Pagan, let alone the Truth of an Atheist. All of us believes the Truth for ourselves. And while these many conflicting truths may be enjoyable and educational to discuss, there is no point arguing them. No one can win.

My friend deymond, who I anticipate will respond to this post, argues that we should not fear Truth nor fear to utter it at will. It isn't that I fear the Truth, but rather that I loathe unnecessary confrontation. I try to avoid the most inflammatory language, even if it is more true, for the sake of not alienating the other parties in the discussion. I would rather be misunderstood because I wasn't clear enough than be misunderstood because I put someone on the defensive. Conflict is normal and can't be avoided. Aggression is a choice.

Nine times out of 10, the Truth on the tip of your tongue is trivial and can go unsaid. The world will continue to spin quite nicely, and tomorrow you'll be happy you bit your tongue. And that's the Truth.

27 November 2007

Talking to Kids

My son and a school friend came home from school today and demanded snacks. I made Scooter a ham-and-onion sandwich (he's recently decided he LOVES onions), and I asked Daisy, a first grader, if she wanted a ham sandwich also.

"Yes. I just want mayonnaise and eggs," she said.

"You mean mayonnaise and ham?"

"No, just mayonnaise and eggs."

"So you want an egg sandwich?"

"Yes. It's my best sandwich. Isn't it yours?"

Yep.

* * *

A few days ago my son was talking to my sister.

"Are you gonna have a little cousin for me to play with?" he asked her.

"Yes, and when we do, we're going to name him Captain Awesome."

"That's a good name. But why not Ned?"

Ned?

* * *

"Mommy, what would win...?" is a question Scooter has asked me for years. Literally, since he was about two years old, he's been very concerned on who or what would win some fictional battle. The who and what varies as he gets older and his interests change. In the early days, it was all real, existing animals. Later, the question involved Power Rangers and dinosaurs.

This week: "Mommy, what would win? Mecha-Godzilla or Darth Vader from Episode III?"

My brain seized.

At least he's got a good imagination.

Here's Your Blessing

Somebody asked me today what I meant by being "blessed out." This is one of those nice Southern phrases which means something other than what it seems to mean. After all, to be "blessed" would be, well, a blessing, would it not?

Don't be fooled. This blessing is not what it seems. To be blessed out is the same thing as being cursed out, but without the swear words. In fact, mere swearing pales in comparison to a good blessin'.

My grandmother never swears. (She's also never even smelled a drink of alcohol, she claims, though this does not explain the bottle of "cough medicine" in the pantry, does it?) I can remember a day as a small child when visiting my grandparents. Some men came to shoot some of the dozens of yard chickens roaming the place. I was glad, because I always hated those damn things. My grandmother instructed them to shoot as many banty chickens as they liked, so long as they didn't shoot that big Dominecker rooster. Well then, they shot it right off the bat.

So my grandmother commenced blessing. Papaw got me by the hand and said, "We better just go inside and wait." We did. By the window so we could see. She blessed those men for a good 20 minutes, and they just stood there, .22 rifles hanging limply in the crooks of their arms, their heads hung low, taking their blessing. Occasionally they nodded and muttered something like, "yes ma'am."

While I am fluent in various forms of swearing, from mild "French" to full-on "Sailor," the classic Southern blessin' out is an outstanding example of how to talk really ugly to somebody and sound perfectly angelic at the same time.

23 November 2007

Indigestion

I'm sick of Bear Grylls. Disgusted by him. Repulsed. It isn't his nasally British accent (though it is rather nasal), and it isn't his habit of rubbing mud on himself to keep the mosquitoes away. It's his insistence on eating disgusting things on camera for show.

In spite of my efforts to avoid Man Vs. Wild on The Discovery Channel, my husband somehow has control of the remote and I find I'm halfway through a program before Bear Grylls eats something disgusting and I say, "what the hell?"

I'm no wuss. I used to watch The Operation on The Learning Channel all the time. I love forensic science shows. I secretly dream of being the Luminol technician in some murder-prone city. I once wanted to be an undertaker. So it isn't just that Bear Grylls eats roadkill that I find disgusting. It's that he doesn't have to and still does it anyway.

Forget the revelations of Grylls and crew spending nights at the Marriott when they were supposed to be stranded in the wilderness. That's not even relevant to this discussion. I don't mind that these "survival" scenarios are set up. It's the knowledge they impart that's important. But Bear Grylls is insistent up on imparting the knowledge that he will eat from the dead zebra carcass of a lion's kill, or bite the head off a live frog or snake, or rip into the belly of a salmon fresh from the steam. He never builds a fire. Never. Apparently, in spite of the fact that raw meat can contain bacteria and God only knows what sort of cooties you can get from the flesh of a dead zebra which has already been chewed on by lions, building a fire is not an option for the manly Bear Grylls. What did I expect? He goes by the name Bear.

To make matters worse, he will drink liquids from the half-digested food in a camel's stomach rather than dig for water or suck on a cactus, and he will drink his own urine after being "stranded" for five minutes rather than find a stream. Bear Grylls is not afraid to drink his own urine. After five minutes of being stranded. With a crew. Near the Marriott.

Listen up, Grylls. Here's your list:

1. Build a fucking fire. Cook the meat. It will taste better and be less likely to kill you, and after all, your show is about surviving.

2. Don't drink piss until you are sure there isn't a stream 100 yards over that next ridge. If you're going to impress me by consuming penile output, why not fellate yourself instead for the protein?

3. There is only one Bear and that's Bryant, and even British guys who drink piss should know enough to know that.

21 November 2007

Questions

I like questions. Questions are fun. A friend of mine likes to play a question game. He'll ask a question like, "If you could go anywhere in the world, where would it be?" waits for the answer, and then asks, "Why?" Once that one is answered, he'll ask "Why?" again. You think you've already answered, but you find you didn't answer completely. You can continue asking "Why?" again and again, until you reach the core of the matter. It's very revealing and very fun. There's a pressure to that sort of questioning that challenges you to come up with the whole answer. The best part of it is, sometimes you had no idea what the whole answer is or will be until you get to it and you are surprised. Try it sometime.

I also have a little book called The Book of Questions that I bought at least 15 years ago. I came across the book again the other day when cleaning and flipped through it. It's interesting to see how your answers may have changed from years back. One interesting part of the book is that many of the questions require that you "assume you are single" or "assume you haven't been to college" or some other thing. The questions actually contain that instruction. Some people are so grounded in reality they can't answer questions like that without a little help.

Sometimes people are also afraid of hurting the feelings of friends and loved ones when they ask themselves questions, so they can't come up with their true answer. For example, someone might ask you a classic question like, "if you knew then what you know now, what would you have done after high school graduation?" This question is hard for lots of people because changing something means your entire life might be changed. You might not be married to the same person, have children, know the friends you know. But the point of such self-exploration is not to dismiss the life you have. The point is to look at the changes you think you'd make, figure out what you'd hope to gain from such changes, and then apply that knowledge to your life now.

One of my favorite questions is, "what would you do if you won the lottery?" Again, there are people who can play this game and people who can't. And some play it better than others. If you ask yourself this question, do yourself a favor and dispense with the "pay off my debt, donate to my kid's school, buy my mom a house," and other bullshit. That stuff is such a given, not to mention so unimaginative, it isn't worth the ink to print, the breath to speak, nor the wear and tear on your manicure to type.

Now then, what would you do? Travel the world? Why?
Go back to school? To learn what? Why?

I'd travel the world because I want to see places that were there before me and will be there when I'm gone. I want to walk where a million other strangers have walked so that I can have it in common with them.

I'd learn to weld. I want to make weird metal sculputures.

I'd go to cooking school because "not know how to cook is like not knowing how to fuck" according to one of my favorite directors, Robert Rodriguez.

I'd have a little donkey with a flowered hat to pull a cart in the Christmas parade just because I want one.

What would you do? Ask yourself a question.

Holes

I'm a Swiss cheese. I have some empty spots. Don't be alarmed; yes, my life is reasonably complete. I'm not on the verge of running away with the circus or anything like that. I'm a well-aged Swiss cheese with just a few holes here and there.

I've never been to Europe. That's a hole for me that I hope to fill sometime before I die. Until I do, it will remain a hole. Not all people feel this way. There are plenty of people who have barely left the confines of their home town or home state, and are perfectly happy, and that's good for them. I make no judgment on their contentment to live in a smaller world. It's an enviable trait, to be content where you are. And it's certainly cheaper to stay home than to spend a week in Paris.

Music is another hole. I've said before that I've toyed with musical instruments off and on for years, never getting anywhere. This is my own fault. I'm too much of an instant gratification girl to have the patience to learn. Realizing that, I at least know what I have to do to fill this particular hole. I can do it as long as I remind myself that it can't be filled instantly. Now I just need a guitar.

The biggest hole is the Adventure hole. I'm not sure what sort of adventure I need. I have nothing particular in mind. Going back to school for a new degree could be a great adventure. Moving to a large city would be very adventurous for me. A week in Paris would be quite an adventure, and fill two holes at once. (No jokes, please, ya perverts.) Of course, adventure can come along at any time. You just have to recognize it and go for it I suppose. That's difficult for a person who has always been timid about risking things. But at least knowing that now is a step in the right direction.

I don't know that I could ever NOT be a Swiss cheese. I'm too rooted in imagination to be completely solid. That's not necessarily a bad thing though. I will always have some niche I can work at filling. That should keep me busy for the rest of my life.

17 November 2007

What the hell?

Let's see here. So far Bama has lost to Georgia, LSU and Florida State. Those you could forget. Didn't pick the Tide to win those anyhow. Then they lost to Mississippi State. Today... Louisiana-Monroe??? WTF?

As much as I have a shameful crush on you, Nick Saban, Tommy racks up six in a row this year on his way to Texas A&M, and you will feel the heat of the fickle and impatient Alabama fan base. Sorry dude. It sucks. But who would expect you to work a miracle in one season. Oh, that's right. The entire Bama Nation.

Just hang in there though. It's about the process. It's about finishing what you start, relative to improving and moving forward. I have faith in you, Nick. I believe you want to win every game you play and "dominate the other team in the state." You'll just have to wait until next year.

WANTED: SEC Coaches

Houston Nutt is gone from Arkansas at the end of the season. Speculation is that Les Miles will go to Michigan, Phil Fulmer will leave coaching and go into some administrative position and Tommy Tubberville will leave my Auburn Tigers and go to Texas A&M. In case you can't count, that leaves a whopping four head coaching positions open in SEC football. That's a full one third of the conference.

So please, review your resumes and put in your applications now. We will pay you well, thanks to Bama's breaking of the bank for Nick Saban. Just make sure you remember to pack your cup. We like instant gratification in the SEC, so if you can't beat your arch rival in the first year or contend for the SEC Championship in your second year or vie for the BCS National Championship in your third year, you're gonna take it in the nuts.

But if you desire to be worshiped as a god on earth, come coach in the SEC. We will worship you. Membership at your church will increase just so people can say they go to church with you. Your wife's pet charity will suddenly get a flood of donations. You'll be offered endorsement contracts by everyone from Ford Motor Company to Ford's Feed & Tack. Hamburgers and barbecue platters will bear your name. Children will be named for you. Just win.

And win in a hurry. And win big. No pressure.

16 November 2007

Browns Need 'Complete Game'

In order to earn a wildcard berth in the playoffs, The Cleveland Browns must start playing a complete game.

While his success in the NFL is questionable, I really appreciate Coach Nick Saban's recent talk about what a complete game means and how Bama has "only played one complete game all year." The lack of a complete game was evident in the 31-28 loss to Pittsburgh last week.

The Browns defense has been weak all year, so we knew it would take a shootout to beat the Squealers. Funny now how it seemed to be the offense that let us down. Eric Wright led the Browns defense with 12 tackles and a sack, and the fellas put on their best defensive show of the year, IMO. So what happened to Derek Anderson? Braylon Edwards? The rest of the O? While the defense was busy holding one of the best teams in the conference to a manageable score, the offense went AWOL. Forget the kick. The object is to score touchdowns. One side of the ball stepped up, but the other side lay down. It wasn't a complete game.

Until Romeo and the boys put together this elusive complete game, the rest of the season remains in question despite its marshmallow consistency. If we want to secure a chance for a wildcard spot, a complete game is the only way to get it.

15 November 2007

Cheap Woman

I like cubic zirconia. What's it to you? I realize I'm damaging the diamonds-are-forever, and the whole caring enough to give the very best thing, but in my book that's horseshit. You can buy me a $5,000 ring. Or you can buy me five $1,000 rings. Or you can buy me 50 rings at $100 a pop. Or I can get a friggin' pirate's treasure of $20 baubles and be happy as a pig in slop. I'm easy and I'm cheap.

Some people will never understand this. The label is king, the "authenticity" is paramount. And these people who feel that the very best is the only thing acceptable will never be satisfied for fear that the best they've got isn't the very best.

I like Chef Boyardee ravioli. I realize that it is not Italian food. It is what it is. And I like it. I wear $15 jeans from Wal-Mart because they feel good. I once got a pair of jeans for Christmas that cost my father $100--and that was 20 years ago. They didn't fit right. We took them back and I got enough Wal-Mart jeans to last me for the next five years.

This doesn't mean I don't indulge myself some things. Of course I do. For example, I love a Sak handbag. Difference is, I buy mine used from eBay for $10 instead of new at the store for $50. I'm plenty happy to live this way. There are plenty worse things than being cheap. Like being impossible to please.

Time to Grow a Pair

The problem with being a pleaser by nature is that you get screwed. There are a million maxims and idioms and mantras and proverbs and fortune cookies full of wisdom for people like me. Essentially, they all say the same thing: grow some nuts.

And they're right. The truth is, I'm not actually a pleaser. I'm actually a pussy, and inevitably, after I pussy out about something, I kick myself and stew in my own resentment and self-loathing until I'm impossible to deal with.

This doesn't excuse the vile ways or advantage-taking of others (see previous post), but it places a fair amount of blame on the common denominator. I am the common denominator in every screwing I have ever suffered. And sadly, I seldom see these events as a screwing until it is too late. I hope to mend my ways ASAHMFP.

I have sought advice on the matter, and am more than willing to take more suggestions on how I go about growing a big pair of balls. I love symbolism and I'm a visual person, so I will start carrying a pair of large stones in my pocket to remind me, literally, to have a pair. I may even fondle them through my jeans like guys do, just to keep them in my mind.

What Comes Around

I'm trying to figure out what exactly I did six months or a year ago or whenever it was to have such Karma visited upon me as it has been recently.

Betrayal.

Et tu, bitches? God, I am so right to prefer male friends.

It hurts when friends of decades decide to make you the frog to their gig. You wonder what hit you. You never see it coming. You feel like a fool. And all this time you thought you were a nice person and that they were also nice persons and that things would work out for all. Then they do something ridiculous like tell lies about you or take your job or turn another friend against you, and if that don't throw your hat in the creek I don't know what will. Really, the shit that has happened to me recently goes beyond mere hat throwing. My entire trousseau has been dumped in the mudhole. The specific infractions matter not; in the end they are all the same. They are attacks of opportunity committed by opportunistic traitors. They are bad kitties, shitting in your sandbox.

And still I persist in my Pollyanna ways. I believe in remorse. I have faith in contrition. I appreciate regret. I have felt all those things myself at times in my life, and been thankful to gain forgiveness for a transgression. Strangely enough, I've been called naive and too trusting and too forgiving by EVERY ONE of the friends who have recently torn my guts asunder. I wonder how they feel about that now?

Karma is a bitch, ladies, and it takes one to know one. I've paid for something I did, even if I don't know what. And you will too.

14 November 2007

Ashes to Ashes

My friends and family have always considered me a bit of a pyromaniac. I am quite fond of candles, fireplaces, a chimenea, tiki torches and bonfires. So far I haven't burned down a house or anything.

Yesterday I built a cleansing fire. I gathered a lot of junk from around the house. Old clothes even the charity thrift store wouldn't dare sell were tossed into a pile. Television boxes and other assorted cardboard junk harboring mold and mildew in the storage shed were stacked. A couple old chairs, so broken there was no hope of repair, were dragged out of the pantry and put into the burn pile. It was a nice fire.

I was watching the fire from the back porch and noticed a table I have had for 30 years at least. It started as a small vanity table in my bedroom when I was about 6 or 7 years old. Over the years it was alternately used as a desk, a plant stand, a foyer catch-all, bill-paying station, and even a breakfast table. The years had not been good to this table. It was cheap and spindly from the beginning, and time only added to the wobbles, cracks and decay. The boards that were joined together to form the bean-shaped top had started to separate, but over the years I'd just add another coat of paint and fill in those cracks and pretend it was as good as new.

Of course it was not as good as new, which was why its job at the moment was on the back porch supporting a small fountain and assorted cans and bottles of insect repellent, wasp poison and charcoal starter fluid. It didn't live in the house anymore because it just wasn't any good. My husband had suggested ditching the table multiple times, but I always refused. I'd always had the table. I couldn't let it go. Until yesterday.

My fire was dying down and I hated for it to end, so I looked at the table. No doubt it would burn like a Guy Fawkes dummy. It was time for it to go. I got the table and tossed it off the porch. A leg broke off it upon landing and the small drawer popped out. I easily snapped the other rickety legs off and then tossed it all onto the remains of the fire. In a moment it caught. For a nanosecond I felt a surge of panic. My table! But then while I watched the latex of a dozen paint jobs blister and bubble and shrink away I wondered why I had waited so long. This table was symbolic of all the useless, sentimental clutter that keeps me bogged down. And now it was going up in smoke.

It was very satisfying to burn that table. It had served its purpose in the world. Done. I burned more things today. I liked it.

11 November 2007

Pink on the Inside

At one time I protested against the allegation I was the "girliest girl" in my circle of friends. My basis for protesting was the fact that, among all the girls in my circle, I'm the only one who ever changed the oil in the car, went hunting (or even fired a weapon at all), or owned anything camouflage. This seemed like a sound argument.

But as I glance down at my fingernail decorations (flowers with rhinestones), I realize I'm full of shit. One look in my closet confirms it. Examining the contents of my purse leaves no doubt. My cell phone is pink and its screen decor is Hello Kitty. My iPod is pink, and its engraving proclaims me a princess. I have two messenger bags, both black and professional on the outside, but hot pink on the inside.

At this moment, the contents of my purse include: five lipsticks, two body sprays, assorted jewelry, a miniature teddy bear, a book of "love poems," a journal and my very nice, expensive pen. The pen is pink, by the way.

So I give up. I'm a girl, full-fledged. I'm gonna go put on my Browns jersey and my eye-black stickers now, but it won't change the fact that I'm all pink on the inside.

10 November 2007

For my fellow Disorganisms

Years ago I put a sticky note on my compter. (I use a Mac, so my sticky notes are actually little electronic notes on the desktop and not real paper. How very green of me.) The note said, "You are Organized and Efficient." It was a lie, but I was hoping it would inspire.

My disorganization is wide-ranging, sparing no area of my life. My desk is a mess. My house is a mess. My purse is a mess. While it has been said that a messy desk is a sign of genius, I am inclined to think some fellow messy person just made that up to console our feelings and confuse the neat-freaks for whom incongruities will sometimes ruin an entire day. Hehehe.

Truth is, the mess is depressing when it gets to be too much. Being the instant gratification sort, I look for quick fixes for my problem. I actually purchased something once called "pile sorters." These were folders, complete with a labeling area, designed to lay flat on your desk. In a pile, as it were. The organization part was that you put the papers you normally pile up on your desk inside the pile sorter folders, and thusly sorted, you are instantly organized! When cleaning the other day, I found my pile sorter folders--all empty--at the bottom of a big pile of papers, most of which ended up in the trash.

I've bought a million "organizer" handbags, which never help and only add to the clutter in my closet. I'm the proud owner of a new Palm Pilot aimed at figuratively organizing everything in my life. So far, I have loaded some pictures into it.

Short on Quarterbacks

It's been a bad weekend for college football here in Alabama. My Auburn Tigers lost to their oldest rival, Georgia, via pure backwoods beatdown, and Bama lost to Mississippi State, which just should never happen. Croomed again.

Central to both of these losses are the starting quarterbacks, who both turned in sorry-ass performances yet again this season. Brandon Cox virtually duplicated his performance from last year's loss to the Dawgs, including the four interceptions, while John Parker Wilson still wants to throw the ball on every down as long as it is out-of-bounds or to the other team.

Modern college football no longer relies on running the ball up the gut seven plays out of 10. The quarterback must know how to find his hot receiver, release the ball on the last step of his drop, and make the big play happen. His job is not to stand out there looking pretty while the running back and tight end do all the hard work.

Now...if standing there looking pretty was all they had to do, Brandon and John Parker would have it made. (Click on the pics to enlarge!) They are both pretty tasty with that black stuff under their eyes, and JPW has the most bite-worthy lips I have witnessed on a college football player in some time. Believe me, I pay attention.

But I also pay attention to how many times they give the ball to the enemy or end up on their ass with a lost of eight or more yards. It's happened to both of them more than my liking this season. This is Brandon's last season as a starting college quarterback due to graduation. This could very well be JPW's last due to poor performance. In two weeks they will meet each other in the Iron Bowl--a religious holiday here in Alabama--and I hold out hope for good performances from each of them. However, the outcome could just be decided on which quarterback sucks least, and that is not an encouraging situation.

24 October 2007

Dirty, dirty boy

And now, a haiku:

i do love mike rowe
dirty jobs, he is the man
so pretty messy!

Dirty Jobs on The Discovery Channel is probably my favorite show on television right now. Mike Rowe is an absolutely gorgeous guy, with no shame about taking his shirt off, but better than that, he's funny! In a past life he used to pimp Diamonique® on QVC and once sang with the Baltimore Opera! Wait a second. Hmm. He's from Baltimore. That might mean he's a Ravens fan. Well, nobody's perfect.

What I love about the show is that it champions those nasty jobs nobody wants to do but still have to be done. Most of us are lucky and get to be reasonably clean throughout the day. Mike lets you know that it's only dirt (or bat shit or tar or fish guts or whatever) and it WILL wash off. Nothing wrong at all with good, honest, dirty work.

Also, I'd like to go on record right now as volunteering to give Mike a good scrubbin' any time he needs it.



19 October 2007

The Ghost in My Room

I have a problem. I'm a skeptic, but I'm a skeptic who wants desperately to believe. The fact is, I do believe in ghosts, try as I did to explain the experience some other way.

When I was a teenager, I lived in the attic of my family's home. The attic was half finished and half simply storage. My room was huge and perfect. It had nooks and crannies. It was another world. It was my haven.

One night, after returning home from a date very late, I prepared for sleep. I was about to draw the curtain around my bed when I saw a man in the far corner of the room near the stairway. He was large and he said nothing. He was dressed in rugged work clothes and had a hat with a wide brim. He was either a black man or a white man baked dark in the sun. I never knew which, and neither does my sister, but I'll get to that in a bit.

Needless to say, I was immediately frightened. It was very late though, and I imagined that I was dreaming or drifting into dream. I quickly shook off the vision. But a few weeks later I saw him again, this time in a different part of the room. He was still distant from me, but I could not shake him off so easily this time. That night I just closed my eyes and wished him away and never looked again until I was asleep.

After that, I saw him in the daylight also, but only a few times and only glimpses. Even so, I began to feel like he was always lingering. Finally one night I woke up to see him at the foot of my bed. He was obscured in shadow, with the brim of his hat low ever his eyes, but it was the closest he'd been to me. I sat up and addressed him directly. I said, "you can't be here. You can't be in my room. You have to leave here!" and he vanished. I never saw him again. In time, I assured myself that, despite my desperate desire to believe in all things magic, I had merely made my visitor up from thin air.

Years later, my sister remarked offhand that there was a ghost in the attic. The attic room became hers when I left home, and she said there was a ghost there. A man. He was either a black man or a white man baked dark by the sun. She couldn't decide which.

"Did he wear a hat?" I asked. She nodded.

"Was he a black man?" she asked.

"I'm not sure," I said. "His hat covered his face."

"And he was always in shadow," we said together.

After further discussion we found that we both saw our visitor when we got our first serious boyfriends and dated a lot. We thought that he might be jealous or maybe just protective of us. He was real though.

Misfortune

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Yesterday I had lunch with my husband at the local Chinese restaurant. The spring rolls were excellent, as ever, but the fortunes in the cookies continue to reach an all-time low in quality. Mine said, "Enjoy the weather." His said, "Hard work is its own reward."

"Enjoy the weather" is not a fortune. It's an order. And while I am a big fan of the gloomy, rainy, thundery weather we had yesterday, and did, in fact, plan to enjoy it, this cookie gave me neither insight into my future nor a shred of inspiration.

"Hard work is its own reward," is not a fortune either. One might call it a proverb or a maxim if one wanted to to sound fancy, but essentially it is merely a comment. And not even an original comment.

A good fortune, whether from a cookie or a tarot card reader or a palmist, is both cryptic and possible. One of the best fortunes I ever got said, "Now is a good time to explore." Hmm. Explore. Right away, the mind runs to what, exactly, should be explored and even with whom it should be. The possibilities are near endless, and yet nearly anything could qualify.

There are those true believers who seek out mystics with the full conviction that they will learn something true. The rest of us play such games for a different purpose, I believe. Because we want the glimmer of prospect. In this life, for so many, enjoying the weather or being satisfied that you've put in an honest day's work may be as good as it gets. But it's that glimmer of prospect that keeps us going.

15 October 2007

Men

I love men. I can scarcely tolerate the company of women, partly because, as I've said before, women are hateful, and partly because I have enough feminine silliness of my own to more than suffice for a gathering.

I suppose men are just easy. Simple, direct. When they aren't working, they like food, sex and sports. I can relate to all of that.

Men also make me laugh. I particularly like it when they imply that their buddy is gay. The most homophobic man in the world will think nothing of telling his friend to blow him or worse. It's kind of like that ceremonial humping that monkeys do in the wild to establish the hierarchy of power. And in the meantime, if you're lucky, you get to sit aside and watch and laugh. It's a pure delight.

And all men are the same regardless of age. Once they have reached puberty, their mentalities are fixed forever. You can count on it. It's actually comforting. With men, you get potty humor, belching, occasional celebratory destruction of lamps and sundry, and someone to reach the high shelves and tote the heavy stuff. And all they want is food and sex and to watch the game. It's really quite fair.

14 October 2007

Football ramblings

Quinn...when?
Just my luck, Derek Anderson has turned into a quarterback. I'm never gonna see Pretty Brady Quinn take a snap this year. Not that it would matter anyhow, since the TV conspires to never show a Browns game in north Alabama.

My stiff-arm needs work
My left arm is sore. I stiff-armed a running back Friday night when he got forced out of bounds on my side. This might be a good time to say that I cover high school football for the local newspaper on Fridays even though I don't work there full time anymore. Anyway, he was gonna run me over. I turned slightly, put out my arm (to hopefully protect my camera), and now my arm, from elbow to shoulder, is "stove up" as we say in the South. He didn't knock me down though! He checked up a bit I have no doubt. Last season when I got hit, my flash was broken off the camera. That sucked.

Bicep band mystery solved
I have been wondering about those narrow bands I see a lot of the players wear. Some wear just one set, right at the elbow, and others wear a pair on each arm, with one above and one below the bicep. Their purpose is similar to the classic sweatband, but made more narrow and better fitting. However, as I suspected, they are mostly meant to look sexy-cool. Nike, which manufactures such bands, even calls them "gun flaunters." Here's a link to theirs: http://www.nike.com/index.jhtml?l=nikestore,pdp,_pdp,gid-110404/pid-110403#l=nikestore,pdp,_pdp,cid-1/gid-110404/pid-110406&re=US&co=US&la=EN. I'm searching the internet frantically for a picture of Alabama quarterback John Parker Wilson in his bicep bands, which looked more than acceptable. Fear not. I shall persist.

I've got the music in me

Not exactly. I'd like to think I have the music in me and can just play an instrument without much effort. It doesn't work that way for most people, of course.

It's not like other "arts." It's not like being a writer. You know what you have to do to be a writer? Write. It took me about five minutes to set up this blog, and since it is technically "published" when I hit that orange key at the bottom, there ya go. I'm a writer. I do have some experience at writing though. All my life, writing stories, diary entries, manifestos, confessions, complaints, poems or other such nonsense has been natural for me. I studied English and journalism in college, and I spent 12 years in newspapers. But still, writing is only writing. You can always write even if it isn't particularly great in somebody else's mind.

Music isn't like painting either. I do some painting too. Van Gogh said, "If you hear a voice inside you saying 'you are not a painter,' then by all means paint and that voice will be silenced." Painting is just that easy. And who cares if it's "good?" Just like writing, whether good or bad, you can paint for your own pleasure and that is its greatest value.

But music requires talent and discipline and some training for most people. You can't just pick up a guitar and turn into Eric Clapton. If you could, I'd be an orchestra by now. I have a bunch of instruments, each one purchased because I thought "this should be a snap to learn." To date, I have purchased a harmonica, recorder (flute), bongo drums, ukulele, dulcimer, electric keyboard, guiro, tambourine and accordion. I have even constructed an Australian lagerphone from a board, a hoe handle and beer caps (Here is a picture of one. Mine isn't quite so fancy. http://nla.gov.au/nla.pic-vn3063082 ) In spite of this array of instruments, I have yet to play a single song fit for even my own ears.

I'm getting a guitar next. That's the one. Hell, everybody plays guitar. It'll be a snap.

11 October 2007

The Trouble With Women, Part 2

I have the good fortune to teach a substance abuse curriculum called Too Good for Drugs. Instead of beating kids over the head with anti-drug messages and a lot of "just say no," the program teaches life skills like goal-setting, stress management and choosing good relationships. One of the best lessons is on being assertive. Most kids are not assertive; they're aggressive or passive, which is the extreme on either side. I find that most women never seem to get out of that habit even after they have reached adulthood.

I have always been passive. The result of that, if you've read previously, is a simmering resentment. Primarily, though, I can't be angry with anyone but myself. I am learning to assert my will and stand up for my needs. That sounds like not a good thing for the husband and son in my life, or my friends or strangers in general, but it really is good for them too. When I reach a feeling of being heard and being respected I can return those same favors without any of the resentment that is so often apparent. It isn't easy to get there though.

A lot of women are like me, but the rest tend to be aggressive. They'd like to think they are assertive and merely emulating the confident qualities we find so attractive in men, but I have rarely met a woman who actually pulls it off successfully. Instead, they adopt the Bitch persona. It's a false facade. It isn't assertive. It's insecure. And do you know what embracing the Bitch personal makes you? It doesn't make you clever or assertive or strong. It makes you a Bitch.

So what can we do? Somewhere in the middle is the right spot, but how do you get there and maintain it? And why does it seem so easy for men? The same men, I might add, who can't match a pair of socks or remember a three-item grocery list to save their lives.

Revenge is a dish best served electronically.

I'm suffering a week-long ban from the Browns forum. It's self--imposed; I lost a bet. Last week I posted boldly that the Browns could actually beat the Patriots, however unlikely that might be. I had faith, you see. I believed! I was on the bandwagon.

Then one of the founding fathers of the Browns forum said, "wanna bet?" That was my undoing.

This betting is a forum tradition. They do it all the time. The typical terms are, if you lose, you stay out of the forum for a week. You can look, but you can't post. This was my first challenge, and it was a sucker bet. I couldn't lay off or I would have been labeled nutless. And worse, I was so keen on protecting my figurative manhood that I didn't even ask for the points! As it turns out, the points wouldn't have helped anyway. The Trickster knew I wouldn't be able to say no. So this week he's posted 10 times more than usual, knowing I can read it, reminding everyone how miserable I am.

But ah, revenge. Every time I read something I can't post back to, I just send him an email vent about it. I think I hit him 17 times yesterday. Can you hear my soft, satisfied chuckle?

Uh oh...

I'm torn. By writing, pursuing my muse, creating my {coughs} art...I've pushed Pretty Brady Quinn down the page. I kinda liked him up here with me. This could send me into a serious downward spiral if I don't do something fast....

{makes note to shop Dollar Tree for tchotchkes ASAP}

Crazy is as crazy does (not).

Me: "You reckon I'd qualify for a 'crazy check?'"
My friend the lawyer: "You? Absolutely."

I still don't know whether to take that enthusiastic response as good news or bad, but it's probably true either way.

On my father's side of the family you find the serious depressives: multiple suicides, alcoholics, abusive types and the generally morose. My mother's side holds the eccentrics: the "cat lady" types (except without the cats), the annoyingly histrionic and the hermit-like pack rats who seem to live in the middle of a rummage sale with all their life's treasures surrounding them. I have some of all of that, which leaves me often on the verge of tears yet strangely comforted by the mountains of do-dads, kitsch and swag that make my life complete and meaningful.

I have not yet resorted to defrauding the American taxpayer by applying for mental disability compensation. It's a thought, but truly, as I have remained honest in my present job, I clearly don't have the lack of scruples required to scam. Maybe I'm just not smart enough. In my two years (so far) as a bureaucrat, I have seen enough to leave me disgusted, bewildered and, yes, slightly crazier than I was to start. When I total up the "administrative fees," the folks getting paid $25 an hour to do nothing and the exorbitant prices government agencies are willing to pay for junk (yea kitsch!), yet only in chunks of $5,000 so you can't get a discount, it leaves me wondering if I'm the last honest person (read: idiot) left in the country. Of course I'm not. There are plenty of other people here who are just as crazy as I am.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying the occasional Sharpie marker multi-pack hasn't accidentally made it's way to my house once in a while. I just don't have 15 cousins on the payroll earning a living playing computer solitaire and surfing the net all day. Hell no! That's my job!

10 October 2007

Romeo, start Quinn!

People, is it not time to put Brady Quinn on the field? Don't we all pretty much agree that Derek Anderson is a solid "back-up" quarterback? Hasn't he been inconsistent enough? If we're going to see rookie mistakes, let's see them from the rookie, huh?

The Cleveland Browns have two creampuffs coming up in the schedule. Miami and St. Louis are consensus 31 and 32 in the power rankings, respectively. BUT, after that we've got Seattle and then travel to Pittsburgh and the Ravens, our two biggest and most hated rivals.

When are we going to see what Quinn can do in a real game? Wouldn't it be nice to have him game-tested so he can be an option at Pittsburgh and Baltimore? If it's me, I'd give DA the first half at Miami so he can work out some of his obvious kinks, and then Quinn gets second half and ALL of the Rams. Otherwise, we've got another gun in the cabinet but we don't know if it's loaded.

As to the assertion that Quinn is just "not ready," the boy is not a hothouse flower. He had 46 starts at Notre Dame, and even though we SEC fans are not terribly inclined to put on our knee pads for the mighty Golden Domers, I know that there are only a handful of schools that EVERYBODY thinks of automatically when they think of football. Notre Dame is one of them, if not THE one. The pressure to succeed there, I'll lay odds, is more intense than the pressure to succeed in Cleveland, and he withstood that pressure as an 18-year-old freshman. He's a grown man now.

Besides that, look at him? Ain't he pretty?

09 October 2007

Pussy





Well, you paid attention to THAT, didn't you? Since it's October and Halloween is my favorite holiday, here's a pic of my sweet kitten. She's a little black witch's cat named Persephone.

The Trouble With Women

In my last post, I found power by talking tough in some of my favorite male accents. I could have opted for strong female voices like Demi Moore or Kathleen Turner, but I really just don't like women.

My mother tells me I preferred the company of men from the second I was born. My earliest playmates were almost exclusively male. My closest high school friend was female, but the majority of my friends were boys. As an adult, the ratio of male friends to female friends is probably 5 to 1.

This doesn't mean I'm macho or anything. I'm "one of the guys," but still plenty girly. I own at least a million handbags, I wear a tiara in the bathtub, my cell phone is pink, I sleep with teddy bears and my fingernails have sparkly flowers on them at this very moment. I don't mind femininity; I just can't stand most of the fems involved in it.

Women are mean. They carry on vendettas FOREVER. The girl who hated you in seventh grade still does. Men may fight, and it may even come down to fisticuffs, but when it's over, it's over. Seldom will men engage in a long-running spitefest, unless it's in an internet sports forum.

Women feel a constant need to compete with each other. This isn't the way men compete either. When men compete, they force themselves and each other to excel. When women compete, they force each other to overdramatize small things, minimize significant things and turn their lives into nothing more than a shallow facade. Women demean themselves and each other.

Take childbirth. It's not a contest, ladies. I could tell you that I was in labor for 36 hours (TRUE) in an effort to make myself some kind of procreative heroine, but the truth is I barely remember it. Only that I was exhausted. When I listen to other women describe the agony of their labor, the misery of their pregnancy, the horror that was the most common thing in the world, frankly I just want to kill them. You had a child. It wasn't the easiest thing you ever did, but wasn't it great? Aren't you glad you did it? THEN MOVE ON AND STFU instead of turning your moment of joy into a war story and your child into an attempted murderer.

It's in our nature to be this way, otherwise we wouldn't do it. I wouldn't anyhow, but I find myself despising my fellow women as interlopers in an otherwise perfect world. I'm as bad as any of 'em.

Perhaps in my next life I can be a dude and settle my differences in mature ways, like arm wrestling.

Everybody Doesn't Have to Like You

I have to tell myself that a lot. It's hard for me to remember because I'm a pleaser by nature. It has always been my habit to do what people expect, defer to the plans/needs/ideas/whims of others, and to keep my complaints to myself. Matt Damon has a line in The Departed: "I'm fuckin' Irish. I can live with something being wrong for the rest of my life." That's always been my way, which is probably why my therapist says I am "simmering with resentment."

But she's right. I am simmering. If I don't learn to vent, this pressure cooker is going to blow the roof outta the kitchen. {smiles sweetly}

So, I came up with a few affirmations. Some mantras, if you will. I say them out loud. Sometimes with different accents. Say them along with me if you're simmering:

"What? I'm 'too friendly?' Go to hell you fuckin' snob."
I'll just stick with Matt Damon's Boston accent for that one.

"Sorry I don't worship your uninformed opinion. Try back next week."
Try that one in a sort of dry, Jerry Orbach, Lenny-the-cop voice. OR, if you're feeling particularly sassy, you can do it in his Lumiere voice from Beauty and the Beast.

"This time, we're gonna do things my way."
Nicholson. Without question.

So I say these and similar things a few times a day, and it at least makes me feel better for the moment. Fake it 'til you make it kind of thing. I'm open to other empowering suggestions, short of criminal acts. {smiles sweetly again}


Doing My Part for Innovation

I saw author John Kao on the Colbert Report the other night. Funny fellow who could really hold his own on a show like that. Anyway, his book is Innovation Nation: How America Is Losing Its Innovation Edge, Why It Matters, and What We Can Do to Get It Back. Naturally, he talked a lot about how we need to learn more math and science in America and how my generation needs to stop being a bunch of slackers. Agreed. To do my part I will share some of my recent innovations.

* Lifting gloves. Normally you'd use these when bench pressing. (check out Brady Quinn benching like a lineman in the NFL Combine this year here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qPVur-kSlwE ) My innovation is to use the lifting gloves when I have to shoot football on Friday nights when the weather is cold. You can't operate a camera with gloves on, but lifting gloves leave your fingertips exposed for ease of camera use! This also allows your manicure to remain visible, and that's important.

* Speaking of manicures, get more use from your clear nail polish by using it to stop a run in your hose, waterproof/smudgeproof labels, get rid of warts (a week or so you will see the difference) and protect the eye paint on your child's action figures.

* Did I mention panty hose and knee highs? First, they make good ropes. Second, I have restuffed many a teddy bear with worn out nylons. Knee highs can be cut into circles and used as ponytail holders. These are great for girl athletes because there are no hard metal parts (which are prohibited in competition often) and the nylons are gentle on hair.

How's that for innovation? I am doing my part for America's future.



08 October 2007

CLEVELAND BROWNS, HELL YEAH!

You've seen me mention the Browns in a previous post and it might have occurred to you to wonder why a gal born and raised in the South would be a Browns fan. It was an accident. I got banished from a different football forum for fraternizing with a couple of renegades from the Browns forum. When they realized I was a poster without a country, they invited me up to the Browns forum and there you have it.

I love football and I'm a sucker for the underdog, so it was just a match made in Purgatory. If you're a Browns fan, you know why I said that. I latch on quickly and I'm faithful, so I will bark for the long haul. In fact, I only started this blog because I'm on hiatus from the Browns forum after losing a bet that we'd beat the Patriots last Sunday. I know. That was a tough bet. But that's how mother-effing faithful I am! Go Browns! Woof!

Walt Whitman, Catch-22 and Winnie-the-Pooh

"The untold want, by life and land ne'er granted,
Now, voyager, sail thou forth to seek and find."

That's Walt. Isn't it beautiful? I mean, I realize it doesn't rhyme at the end of every sentence and it isn't written in iambic pentameter, but it's poetry nevertheless. My friend the Judge and I disagree on this point. He's married to rhyme. He insists Walt writes prose. I asked, "are you saying a dirty limerick is more of a poem than Whitman?!?!?!????" Nearly won him over with that rhetorical question. Meh. He can think it's prose. The most poetic prose written. Pick up Leaves of Grass.

Catch-22 by Joseph Heller is one of the best books I've ever read. It's hysterical black humor. One page will have you laughing so hard at the most absurd thing, and then in one sentence (spoiler alert!) Nately is dead and your guts are ripped out. Give it a shot if you haven't read it.

Winnie-the-Pooh is also hysterical in its own way. I laughed at those stories as a kid, as a teen, as the parent of a baby, toddler and "tween" (ugh, who invents these words?), and again just as a grown-up. I'm quite fond of author A. A. Milne's use of profound capitalization. Read 'em again if it's been a while.

I have a fat ass.

Well, I may, as far as you know, have a fat ass. I don't try to hide the fact (much, anyway) that I'm a big girl. Always have been. If I can stand it, so can you. What I can't stand are other people's views on the rightness or wrongness of my fat ass.

A fellow I post with on the Cleveland Browns forum (http://www.cleveland.com/forums/browns/index.ssf) likes to draw attention to my proportions by calling me "chunky butt" or "heavy check" or, my favorite used only once, "double stuff." He does it with love, I feel certain, as he is quick to defend me against malicious trolls and frequently reminds his fellow fellows that "you don't want to be stuck with a size zero chick with winter on the way." In fact, he's even told me that when he comes home to Alabama to visit his relatives I can work some of my "pelvis crushing magic" on him. Naturally, I'm flattered. The fact is, MRWILKS makes me laugh because he never misses his shot for a shot and because he only jests with me because he knows I can take it.

Apparently, I'm wrong for this. My other group of friends thinks MRWILKS is an asshole and that my "desperate need for attention" prompts me to take his insults, much like an abused child takes a beating from his drunkard of a parent, because any attention is good attention.

They could be right.

On the other hand, they could be pushing their own body-insecurity issues on me, not to mention their own brand of political correctness.

The fact is, just like you, MRWILKS has no idea whether I actually have a fat ass or not. For all any of you know, I could be a size zero chick in danger of hypothermia at the first frost. That being the possibility, just let me laugh at what I think is funny, if you please, particularly when I can laugh at myself. People don't do enough laughing at themselves these days.

Besides. When I giggle it makes my big butt jiggle in a sort of ticklish way.

Who the hell am I?

Hmm. There's a question. Who the hell am I, at 37, writing a blog? I'll figure that out eventually, but here are the basics: I'm married, mother of one, born and raised on the South. My friends recently voted me "Most Likely to End Up Dismembered in Somebody's Freezer." My "friends" are quite cynical sometimes, which is why we haven't gotten along lately. I take Prozac. I love football. I want to have sex with Brady Quinn just once (TRUE). I believe in ghosts and magic. New Orleans is my favorite place so far. I have a Thomas Jefferson action figure, I collect teddy bears and elephant carvings, and I'm addicted to Diet Sunkist Orange. I call it Diet Crack.