Round 2

Writers Write

Sex and Altoids

I thought about doing a Valentine’s post the other day. Upon comparing the act to drunk texting my ex while watching The Notebook, I decided to pass it the fuck up. OK, in all fairness, my drunk texts are usually quite entertaining. But in this specific case, not posting right then was probably one of my best decisions. Ever.

– It’s not that I’m against love.

Oh, hell no. I adore love. I want love – the real stuff that’s mutually devoted, monogamous, and is built on trust, respect, and the three A’s: acceptance, appreciation, and attraction. Yes, attraction at some level is important. If you’re ugly inside, that radiates outward. And if you continue being internally ugly, you’ll attract the same in return.

– It’s not even that I hate Valentine’s Day.

I don’t. Not in its pure form. And not when it’s “celebrated” for the right reasons as opposed to being a requirement or test to prove your, or your honey’s, worth.

What do I hate? Commercialized guilt days that force one partner to feel like he or she needs to step up on a financial and gift level to avoid being a bad partner. And I loathe the fact that in this day and age, there are still more and more people who expect their partner to take the reins and “do it or else!” There are 2 people in a relationship. Do your part or GTFO.

Look, if you want to get your sweetie something, do it. Meaningful surprises are wonderful. But you don’t need Hallmark to tell you what to do and when to do it. And you sure as hell don’t need to feel like shit over being alone on a commercialized force-fed “holiday”. If you’re feeling lovey, be lovey. But don’t forget to love yourself as well. Show yourself that you’re worthy and enough, regardless if anyone else chooses to declare their love for you at the time. In other words, do something nice for yourself.. even if it’s just watching back-to-back rom coms that would normally make you want to poke your eye out with a spork.

On that note, I have to wonder how many couples came home after watching 50 Shades and wound up at the hospital over trying shit they had no business trying. Thoughts like not only make me giggle, but they totally make me grateful that I’m single right now. Experimentation and fantasies are awesome. But if you’re stupid enough to emulate a bullshit fictional story that completely twists and degrades a specific lifestyle based on safety and trust (and thereby get something stuck up your keister), you deserve to be part of a medical team’s favorite story that they’ll tell for the rest of their lives to a bar full of drunk coworkers.

Speaking of which, once work settles and I finish beta reading a friend’s wip, I may be able to finally get back to my own wip. An awesome friend gave me the breakthrough I needed to crush a two-year block. Now I can almost smell the beginning of my second draft brewing.

On a completely different subject, I don’t think I’m supposed to pop Altoids like candy. But damn if they don’t keep me awake!

If you’ve gotten this far, enjoy this brilliant ditty. You deserve it.


Flutie, the Flutist, and Football Fanatics

I’m from a football family. Men, women, kids.. doesn’t matter. We all love football. It’s in our blood. We’ve coached (great uncle), played (uncle and kiddo), cheered (nieces), twirled (aunt), led pep squads and performed in nationally competitive marching bands (me), and enjoyed the vice every Sunday or Monday night for years – or at least when we can (practically everyone else in the family). However, we tend to love different teams – which just adds to the fun.

Ma, bro-in-law, and niece’s fiance are Browns girls (see what I did there? Exactly) all the way.

Sis and nephew (and ex hub – kiddo’s dad) are Steelers fanatics.

I love the Bengals and the Patriots.

I refuse to be a Brown’s fan out of spite. Same with Steelers. There are reasons for this.

First, the Steelers. They’re a good team. There’s no doubt about that. Their Super Bowl record alone proves that. However, they were my ex husband’s favorite team. He picked on my Bengals whenever they played the Steelers. And since my guys SUCKED ASS at the time, I learned to loathe his team. When my sister and nephew joined the ranks and began the shit, the fuckers had to go. I left the country just in time to avoid killing all three. OK, it probably had very little to do with the football team, but still.

My dislike of the Browns has everything to do with the team, though. While married to my first hub, we were active in sports activities. We supported state football champions and hit the H.S games as often as possible. We went to the Football HOF inductee ceremony every year. And one year, we went to a Browns exhibition game at the local champ stadium. Having a VIP pass at the time allowed us to roam freely. That’s when I learned what overpaid babies those fuckers really were.. and how willing they were to cheat not only on the field, but their fans as well. This was right before Art Model fucked Cleveland up the rear. But still, he wasn’t the one telling his starting line to whine over it being too cold and not having the right lighting for their closeups; followed by threats to leave if fans didn’t cheer louder for them on the field, and then making little kids cry by getting into fights with the parents over refusing to take pictures or sign autographs. It was a demo game. THEY WERE THERE TO MINGLE WITH THE FANS!!

Oh, I know the team has evolved. But they’re still the same spoiled fucktards in my eyes.

On the other hand, when I really like someone, I tend to be their biggest cheerleader. It’s just one of my quirks. I met several of the Bengals in the late ’80s. I knew Boomer Esiason personally for years and I loved him. Sitting in the stands and having him wave or wink at me, or getting a quick surprise hug after meet-n-greets, helped make a loyal fan out of a teenage girl. He wasn’t just a good player, he was a good guy. And he led the fuck out of his team. My heart broke when they lost the ’89 Super Bowl.

I became a Pats fan later that year. My college marching band was asked to play for a Buffalo Bills home game. They played the Patriots that day. I sat in the front stands with my cohort – mostly Bills fans. We met Jim Kelly, and he was nice but cocky as hell. As we all walked off the field after the game, a cute Pats player ran up to me and offered me his arm. I looked over, offered a coy smile, linked his arm, and noticed the name. Flutie. Immediately, the giggles started as I held up my instrument and made an ass of myself…

“You’re Flutie and I’m a flutist. We already have a connection!” (In my defense, my flirting skills have improved. Somewhat.)

I melted at his smile and shrunk at his chuckle. Covering for my idiocy, I said “It’s OK. I really don’t ride the short bus”.

*record scratch*

This is when it pays to:

A. Think before speaking, and

B. Say something completely idiotic a year or two before the cute football player who makes you a stammering mughead has an autistic kid.

So, bullet dodged. I still felt like an idiot for saying it and for flirting with a very happily married man, regardless of how fine he looked in spandex. When he transferred to the Bills the next year, it totally threw me off. I’d root for the Bills when they didn’t play the Bengals or Pats, but I remained a Pats fan in the hopes he’d return. Besides, they just rocked. He gave me my wish in 2005. Unfortunately, I had already moved to Canada and I couldn’t catch most NFL games where we lived.

And then he did the unthinkable – he transferred to the Canadian Football League! MF’er! As much as I wanted to, I just couldn’t bring myself to root for the CFL.. even if they did play a version of American football. Instead, I hid out among the French *spit* and whined every year over not being able to root for (or cuss at) my guys. Flutie may have left the NFL, but I remained a Pats fan nonetheless.

It’s been over a decade since I’ve been able to watch my teams. To be honest, I wasn’t even sure I’d bother with the Super Bowl this year. And then the text came. As I was working, sis sent: “The game just started. Your fucking team is up. Want wings?” Well, let me think for half a second. The rest was history.

Was it the best game ever? Not even close. But it was a good game, even with the constant family and friend rubbing of “The cheaters shouldn’t have been there in the first place!” True. It is. I don’t condone cheating and they deserved more than a fine for that shit. But they made it and they won. The rest can shut it. I’m not making excuses, but football is not an innocent game. It’s nasty and competitive as fuck. And some of the players are real douche bags. So that petty final minute brawl? Give me a damn break.

**How about the biggest baby of all, Jim MacMahon’s 1986 Super Bowl moon on national TV towards a helicopter camera crew?

**Or how what about when good old Eugene Robinson won the Bart Starr Award for “high moral character” (a “Christian” moral award) in 1999, only to get arrested within a few HOURS for soliciting an undercover cop for prostitution. Whoops!

Sorry, but deflategate and a pissy fit were child’s play. And that’s pretty much what most of these players are anymore: overpaid babies. But damn, they’re fun to watch!