Adventures in Dating, Episode 9: The Requirements

This is the 11th installment of my Adventures in Dating series, and yet somehow only episode 9.  It's as perplexing as Herman Cain's candidacy only my approval ratings are higher.  (We do share a similar grasp of foreign policy.)  You can dig on episodes 1, 2, 3, 4, 4.5, 5, 6, 7 , 7 revisited and 8 here. 

First of all, I take umbrage with a comment I received regarding the Oompa Loompa. Umbrage, I say.

A friend, who shall remain nameless but who I call "Chad" because that's his name, mentioned to Derek that the Oompa Loompa sounded as though he would've been fun to date.

Umbrage alert!

Um...no.  The very fact that you think this makes me wonder if I took it too easy on the OL in my post.  When I mentioned that his eHarmony profile made a big show of his wealth, what I meant was that it was a big show.  As in make-believe, like my enthusiasm for skiing or how I never make my pets wear costumes. 

Look, maybe this makes me seem shallow, but your girl here, desperate or not, had no intention of hitching her wagon to someone needing financial assistance.  Been there, done that.  Twice. And have the collection of last names to prove it.  Trust me, this ain't no soup kitchen.

So maybe this is a good time to lay out what my requirements were...just so we're all on the same judgey page here.

Originally, I described my perfect man thusly:  A childless billionaire quadraplegic octogenarian in failing health.  I'd be unable to seal the deal, you see...and therefore exempt from it.  And there'd be no meddling kids to take me to court once he joined Uncle Marty and the angels.  The world would never find out that I was once an "exotic" dancer in a crappy bar in Mexia, Texas before rising to international fame as a Playmate and Guess model. 

Oh wait, there I go channeling Anna Nicole Smith again.  Hey, we all have our role models.

When my match.com suitors revealed themselves to be a largely shiftless lot with ridiculously large trucks, even larger mustaches and fake British accents-- but no billions-- I realized I might have to redefine my requirements.  And so, in no particular order, here they are.  Or were.  I'm having trouble with tense.

• You must be at least 5'8" to ride this ride.  I once carried on an email conversation with a super-cute guy named Darius for about a week.  We made it all the way to the planning-the-date stage before I noticed his profile listed his height as 5'4".  I'm 5'2"...but consistently wear 4" heels.  And if I can't climb you like a tree, what's the point?
• You must be gainfully employed.  In this instance, "gainfully" is code for a six-figure income.  Otherwise there is no gain for me.  Dabblers need not apply. 
• You must own real estate.  When you tell me that you rent an apartment "by choice" because ownership is such a hassle, it makes my nostrils flare. It makes me want to stand, point at you and yell "LIAR!"  If you meet the requirement immediately above, there's no freaking way you are "choosing" to rent.  You're over 40. Own it.  And some real estate.  
• You must not overuse "LOL" while texting.  If you feel the need to say things like "I had ribs for lunch...lol" then all I have to say is "TTFN."  Lol.
• You must have a firm command of the English language. If you are unsure of when to use "your" versus "you're" or are fond of the dangling modifier, I cannot hold a conversation with you, written or otherwise.  Husband #1 used to use the term "that's a mute point."  'Nuff said.
• You must be masculine.  It's fine if you like pina coladas, just don't order one unless we're alone (aside from staff) on your yacht. Getting caught in the rain is a bonus.
• You must not have tattoos.  I get the whole attraction of tats.  It's just that, should we ever need to go on the lam, you will become a liability with such an identifiable mark.
• Your credit card must not be declined on our third date.  Sadly, this happened.  With a man who represented himself as owning a company that charters flights and sells aircraft.  Um...yeah.  Me too. I'm selling a helicopter as I write this.
• You must be funny.  And not a little funny-- a LOT funny.  I once dated a very tall guy (6'5"-- he met the tree-climbing requirement, seriously, I had to stand on my running board to kiss him goodnight) who I mistook as funny because we laughed alot during our first 4 dates.  What I finally realized, at approximately 8 p.m. on New Year's Eve when there was no escape from the evening until midnight, was that he wasn't funny.  I was funny-- and I was laughing at my own jokes.  Should old acquaintance be forgot indeed.

These are not big things to ask for.  I was looking for an equal.  I was looking for a true partner.  I was looking for someone who could at least pick up the check 50% of the time.  And maybe occasionally pick up my dry-cleaning while he was at it.  What I got, with a few very-nice-just-not-right-for-me exceptions, was a group of men I wouldn't trust (and who were ill-qualified) to hold my purse while I tried on shoes.

But my mama didn't raise no quitters...and so onward I slogged.  And now onward I blog.

Gypsy

I love writing. 

The act of creating something from nothing, of making up entire people with histories and quirks, of fictionalizing parts of my life and rewriting the endings-- it's powerful.  So from time to time I hope you don't mind if I post some of my work for you. 

Today I'd like to share my version of a Thanksgiving story.  I wrote this in one afternoon in 2006, while sitting out on my deck in Houston.  Like most of my short stories (and rest assured, this one is quite short), it sprang almost fully-formed from my head.  This is both a blessing and a curse because to me, editing is kind of like getting plastic surgery for a newborn baby.  "Yes doctor, she's beautiful-- but I was hoping she'd have more pronounced cheek bones."

So is it perfect?  Nah.  My old writing professors would criticize me for telling you the story versus showing it to you.  I did try to weave a little symbolism into it and some of you will get it.  But perhaps most interesting of all is that when I wrote this particular one, I didn't think it was about me.

That being said, I think you'll recognize the storyteller.

So get comfy...and enjoy "Gypsy."

He had a gypsy soul.

She knew it well before he did… and moved in with him anyway. The knowledge that the day would come when the wanderlust would overcome the regular lust… well, let's just say she wasn't interested in being alone.

And that was always her undoing—she just wasn't much good at keeping her own company. Never had been. Attracting them was never the problem, hell, any fool with a reasonably good rack and a smart mouth can cast a net. Keeping them proved to be a bit more difficult. Time after time.

His brother had a place on the lake that they liked to visit on the weekends, especially in the winter. The starkness of the bare trees scratching the sullen sky… the wistful call of the loons who also wintered there… the homes shuttered for the season… it was perfect for them. Sufficiently broody, if you get my drift. And they always had it to themselves—no summer wave runners, no pervasive smell of roasting burgers and dogs, no happy shouts and laughter. Just them, and the obvious distance growing between them.

He kept asking her what was wrong and she wouldn't tell him. She couldn't explain how she always knew the axe was about to fall, could damn near hear the thing dangling above her head. He would never understand that she mourned the endings before they came so that she could walk away unscathed. So they sat out at night, bundled in store-bought quilts, drinking homemade White Lightning and naming the stars. And when he slept, she cried.

Thanksgiving weekend was the loneliest weekend of all on the lake, so it was no surprise that they both loved to spend it there. They did it up right, baking a turkey and mashing a huge pot of potatoes. They laughed when they sliced into their beautiful golden bird to find it still pink and raw on the inside. Both were content to eat the trimmings instead and then gorge themselves on pumpkin pie. As they pushed back from the table, he dabbed a bit of whipped cream on the end of her nose and said "I love you." She thought of suitcases and boxes, bare walls and empty rooms... but gave him a smile anyway.

On Sunday morning, she awoke to the sound of him playing his sax at the end of the pier. The notes hung in the air like fog, drawing her out of the warm bed they had shared and into the grey light of the morning. She didn't recognize the tune and realized it was something he had been working on, hiding from her, the way he always did with the new ones. He must have heard her bare feet on the deck because he didn't start when she placed her hand on his shoulder. He played on, filling the sky with music and as she walked around him, she wasn't surprised to see his tears.

With the last note hanging in the still morning air, he held her stare and said simply "I'm sorry."

She smiled, swept the hair from his forehead and said "Don't be."

Adventures in Dating, Episode 8: Oompa Loompa Doompity Don't

Okay, I'm having a social media crisis:  The Oompa Loompa sent me a Friend Request on Facebook.

Spoiler alert:  I've decided to ignore the request.  Some stories simply must be told... and the lure of knowing the mundane details of his life, like which Sex & The City girl he'd be or what he ate for breakfast ("Oatmeal with raisins, yes!") cannot stop me.

So here it is, the 10th installment of my "Adventures in Dating" series.  You can enjoy episodes 1, 2, 3, 4, 4.5, 5, 6, 7 and 7 revisited here.  How am I on #10 if this is the 8th episode?  Well, as previously stated, I'm a mathtard.  I barely understand how money works.

Let's travel back in time, shall we?  It's mid-March.  I've wasted the previous 6 months of my life on the freak show that is known as match.com.  Well, Yoda (my shrink) would say it wasn't wasted-- I was simply practicing my dating skills.  So skills summarily practiced, self-esteem completely deflated, and with nary a spring in my step, I embarked on a new lurch towards love via eHarmony.

For those of you without televsions but with a lot of free time on your hands, let me briefly explain (as if) the difference between the two sites.  On match.com, you can set search parameters and view the entire catalog of men within those parameters, the way you'd build the perfect Volvo for yourself or order a pizza from Dominos.  Romantic, right?  So basically, you've got a bunch of guys looking to get laid by the hottest chick they can score...and a bunch of women lying about their interests, their number of cats, and their level of desperation.  It's like going to a club in the late 80s, only without all the pesky human interaction and spastic dancing.

eHarmony, on the other hand, does not show you the entire oeuvre.  eHarmony is interested not at all in your witty description of yourself.  eHarmony makes you take an extensive survey about your deepest feelings about family, love, sex, money, etc and then ONLY shows you the men with whom you share those feelings.  And by the time you turn to eHarmony, you're so worn out from all of your horrific match.com dates that you're honest.  Except maybe about your number of cats.

In my exhaustion, I agreed to meet Bob. 

Like many men involved in online dating, Bob made a big show of his wealth in his photos (taken at various locations around the world, including the obligatory photo on a boat).  He described himself as an adventurer looking for a partner with whom to explore the world in the style of "The Amazing Race."  And if you know anything at all about me, it's that I'm a natural athlete, so clearly this was right up my alley.  I figured he had a great sense of humor because in one Halloween photo, he was dressed as George Hamilton complete with ridiculous fake tan and cheesy suit.  Plus, the computer said we were a good match, and who am I to argue with Computer Science?  I mean, I come on, I made a D- in COBOL.  That shit's ironclad.

As always, I was nervous before the date and my nerves were compounded by the fact that I was recovering from a sunburn and therefore had a peeling face.  I warned him ahead of time so that he wouldn't think there was something wrong with me...and we laughed and pretended like it mattered or it didn't or whatever, just for the love of God, show up so I don't have to die alone.

We met for dinner at a restaurant on the South side.  As I walked up to the door, there he was.  I definitely recognized him from his photos but was a little bit confused as to why he was still dressed in his George Hamilton costume.  As we said our hellos and shook hands, he took a look at my peeling skin and said "Oh, it doesn't look that bad!" effectively sweeping me off my feet with his gallantry and tact. 

I likely would have been offended if I wasn't trying so hard not to openly stare at his fake tan.  Seriously, he was absolutely tangerine, like Julian from "Bridget Jones's Diary."  And to make matters worse, he was a little on the short side.

We were seated by Vanessa, the hostess.  I know her name was Vanessa, because Bob apparently frequented this restaurant often and felt compelled to introduce me to all of the personnel.  Sadly, Tony wasn't working that night so our water glasses had to be refilled by a relative stranger.

Bob enjoyed talking about himself and was a bit of a name-dropper.  Yes, that Halloween photo was in fact taken at the Playboy Mansion (pause for dramatic effect, wait for gasp).  I tried to play along and act interested, but my heart was sinking.  He was a nice enough guy and he was clearly trying to impress me.  But as I plowed unenthusiastically through my seared ahi salad (my customary date dish-- it says "she's healthy but adventurous-- I can tell because she likes meaty fish") I just kept thinking "How can I take a 52 year-old man who fake tans seriously?"

So the date crawled to its end.  Before we walked out, I took a brief trip to the ladies room where I checked my text messages to find that two of my friends were coincidentally and unexpectedly sitting in the bar of the same restaurant and had been watching my super-hot date.  If I can paraphrase:  "Hey, I can see you.  How old is that guy?"

I didn't want Bob to know that we were being spied on...nor did I want to introduce him to my friends, so I let him walk me to my car.  I drove around the building, waited til he left, then parked again and went back in to join my friends.  I'm sure Vanessa and crew likely ratted me out later, but I really needed the girl time.

Try to contain your shock when I tell you that Bob asked me out again, via text.  I made Yoda tremendously proud by not taking the cowardly way out and was instead honest.  I texted back "You seem like a wonderful man, but this just isn't a match for me.  I wish you luck on your journey."  That second sentence is one that is quite hard for me to say (or text) with a straight face, but Bob was very much the type of man who is on a journey.




But not quite like this.


As bad dates go, it was harmless.  But it reconfirmed what match.com had taught me-- that online dating was never going to work for me.  And also that I should stop lying about my number of cats.  So I decided to give up for good.

But first, I checked my eHarmony inbox one more time... to find that a handsome man with a great-looking dog who lived in a little town southwest of Denver had contacted me. 

Bonus:  He can READ!


Shortly after that, this man became The Boy.  And that has made all the difference.

Life Moments: Lou Rawls Has Game

Every picture tells a story.  In this one, I'm meeting Lou Rawls.  Here's everything I remember:

• It is 1989 and I am at the National Association of Television Programming Executives convention in Houston, TX.
• I was hired to work in a booth dressed up as Jem, the rock & roll Barbie.
• I wanted to be an actress.
• I was a horrible actress.
• Yes, I was serious about that hair.  If I had teased those bangs any higher, they would've taken their ball and gone home.
• The watch I'm wearing did not work, but I liked the look of the fake diamonds around the face of it, so I continued to wear it.
• Lou Rawls and I bumped into each other in a hallway and he asked if I wanted to have my photo taken with him. 
•  I thought he was Ben Vereen and told him how much I enjoyed his performance in "Roots."
• To his credit, he thought this was funny.
• Just before this photo was snapped, Sweet Lou mentioned something about the two of us going to his hotel room.
• That's why he was chuckling and crowding my bubble.
• I had no idea how pasty I was at that time.
• I'm wearing 4 rings...I think that was every ring I owned at the time.  I have no idea why.
• You can't see it against that loud tie of his, but Lou was wearing a huge, solid gold pendant of the Greek Drama masks.  It had to be about 3 inches wide.
• I was the thinnest I would ever be in my adult life... 115 pounds.  I maintained this weight for roughly 45 seconds before I started gaining again.
• I thought I was fat.

While I Was Out, 11-08-11

So, it's been a week already.  Well, a week plus a day...but with the whole "falling back" concept, I'm hoping you missed the fact that I'm late with my weekly wrap up.

So you know that thing where you love a TV show and then for some reason you just stop watching it?  Kind of like how Elizabeth Taylor must've felt about all those husbands?  I hate to say it, but that has happened to me with "Glee."

When this show first came out, I was NUTS about it.  Correction:  BEFORE this show came out, I was nuts about it.  The extended preview made me cry.  "Being a part of something special makes you special, right?"  Oh Rachel Green, how I identified with you. 

And now?  Well the DVR still dutifully records it and hangs on to 5 episodes at a time and so each week, a little piece of musical heaven drops off my watch list like an illiterate kid slipping through the cracks of a public school.

How did this happen, I ask myself?  Well, it was the strangest thing.  At some point in the past year...life showed up on my doorstep.  In full technicolor and with its own glorious soundtrack not featuring the self-indulgently sad tunes of Barry Manilow.  And suddenly I didn't need "Glee" to tell me that all of those days I spent being a little nerdy (read: a LOT) in Show Choir were okay.  Suddenly I knew I was okay.

I credit Yoda (my shrink) with much of the growth, although she would insist that I did all the work.  She's a giver.  And mental health is a glorious thing.

Do I sometimes still get sad?  Absolutely.  One doesn't survive all the loss of the past couple of years without occasionally feeling a little melancholy.  One doesn't grow up being "Ogg the Dog" and "Ogg the Hog" without some bruising.  But on the whole, I'm baaaaa-aaack. 

And being back, safe and secure and confident in your own skin, well shit, that should have it's own show.

And maybe that's what this blog is:  my own show.  Apparently it will take the networks a little longer to get the hint.

So a huge, heartfelt thank you goes out to you-- my viewers (readers).  Your interest in the bizarre thing that has been my life truly sustains me when I'm feeling low.  There are now 584 of you in 9 countries and 40 states.  Italy, the UK, Germany, Vietnam, Norway, Costa Rica, Mexico... and most recently Russia.  It's so amazing to me that people who I don't know... and whose culture is wildly different than mine (assuming they're not all ex-pats) still enjoy my little stories.  Shout out to my peeps!

UPDATE:  598 readers from 10 countries.  G'day, Australia!

So, this week when when I wasn't not watching "Glee," alienating some of you by dogging on "Twilight" and creating a story about Pudge Gazelle and Christopher Phantom, writing a love letter to the Hairy Love of My Life, and being a Marketing Genius and amazing girl friend, I stayed pretty busy.  Here are some things I loved this week:

It's possible I'm becoming a little too ourdoorsy lately, but these are seriously gorgeous photos.

More proof that sometimes "Good morning" just means "good morning."

Even gorillas are better dancers than I am.

Have an extra 10 minutes?  Spend it here.

Hey Buffalo, you make a better door than a window.

So, this is perhaps a bit close for comfort.  How will Ben Affleck save us when he's busy being such a cute Dad?

And finally, if this one isn't appropriate for my life, I don't know what is.

Teaser:  I can feel a new episode of "Adventures in Dating" percolating!

In the meantime, to keep up with everything I do, become a FANdrea by clicking "Join this site."  You'll never miss a blog post and it's way less time-consuming and more legal than stalking (even though I do feel really close to you).

Woman's Best Friend

Sometimes I feel badly about the way I look...and this line of thinking leads me strange places:

• Had I been born with straight hair, my life would be wildly different.
• Had I been born without the fat gene, I'd have my own TV show.
• Had my maiden name been almost anything other than "Ogg," I would've been the Prom Queen.

And sometimes when I think these things I share them with Jackson because talking to my dog makes sense to me.

Today, Jackson spoke back and it made everything better.  He said:

Mommy, if you had been a straight-haired, thin prom queen with a normal last name that didn't rhyme with unfortunate barnyard animals, I'd never get to see you because you'd be out on the town always being fabulous and I'm a mountain dog and wouldn't want to live in L.A. or Paris or New York.  And I don't know where those places are so how would I find you? If you weren't you, right now we'd be jetting to Europe except you'd be unable to take me because I'm too big to be carried in a purse unless it was a really, really big purse and I know you don't like really big purses and I'd miss you an awful, awful lot while you were gone.

I really love that dog. Even if he speaks in run-on sentences, pees on stuff, and sheds 2 to 3 pounds of hair per day.

Thank you, Jackson. Mommy loves you too.

The little hairy love of my life.

Defrost: The Saga of Pudge Gazelle

It's Halloween.  And to be honest, I truly dislike handing out candy.

I like buying candy.  I like eating candy.  And if we were at the movies together (and we totally should go, by the way), I wouldn't mind sharing my candy with you.

I just don't like handing it out on Halloween.  And because of that, this year I simply dumped my candy in an orange plastic bowl and set it on a plant stand on my front porch.  Come n get it, kiddos!

So it's 8:00 p.m. and I'm crouching in my dark upstairs bedroom alone, watching the same ridiculously bad "Ghost Adventures" special I watched last year and eating a mini box of Milk Duds because I apparently really like my dentist and want to buy him a place in Aspen.  And I think it's about time that I used the bully pulpit of my blog to rip on the "Twilight" series.

Don't get me wrong, I've never read any of the books or seen any of the movies.  But this will not stop me from mocking them.  Oh, no.  I do this in the grand tradition of my Dad dismissing "Sex & The City" (which he has never seen) with a disgusted wave of his hand and the horribly inaccurate statement:  "Single women in their 30's don't have sex with that many men or talk about it like that."  In fact, SATC is among life's most repugnant things to my Dad...and I know this because he refers to it as "that Sex & The City."  In the way that he refers to its star as "that Sarah Jessica Parker," or to any black actor other than Morgan Freeman as "that Will Smith."

So, that "Twilight." 

Look, I totally get that pre-pubescent schoolgirls are going to get breathlessly caught up in the idea of loving a handsome and misunderstood outcast who can and will love them forever.  What I don't get is how sophisticated and normally rational women that I respect fall for it.  I once found myself sitting at a table with four female colleagues, all very accomplished, successful women.  At some point, the conversation turned to "Twilight" and these ladies spent the next twenty minutes arguing the merits of vampire over werewolf and werewolf over vampire as boyfriend material.  I was aghast.  When I had heard enough, I simply asked "Why not a leprechaun?  I mean, there would always be gold."  And they all laughed, of course, and then politely informed me that there aren't any leprechauns.  To which I replied, "For God's sake, there aren't any vampires or werewolves either!"

Which brings me to the actress cast as Bella:  Kristen Stewart. 

Was this some kind of brother-in-law deal?  Is she the Director's niece?  Does she have naked photos of Spielberg and she's not afraid to use them?

She's a somewhat pretty girl...but good GOD, she has negative charisma. It's like watching a young and less homely Barefoot Contessa trying to emote.  Take, for example, this comparison of her emotions to that of the much-superior Emma Watson:

And seriously... the dude that plays Edward...Is this that whole "we like him because his masculinity doesn't frighten us" thing?  I personally could never be with a man (alive, dead or undead) who spends more time on his hair than I do.  And how does he do it if he has no reflection??

And the neanderthal that plays Jacob-- with that massively protuding brow, wouldn't he be better suited for Frankenstein?

And really?  Bella Swan?  Jacob Black?  I can't even mock these names because they are such phenomenally delightful examples of character names that will get you kicked out of the Creative Writing program down at the local JuCo.  Or leisure learning annex.  Or daycare.

Which actually got me to thinking:  With all the new ghost hunting shows popping up on TV, I think ghosts are the new vampires.  And now that food shows have surpassed design shows in popularity, I think I'm on to something.  I'm going to write a book called "Defrost" about a ghost chef.  I'll name him Christopher Phantom and give him a chubby but preternaturally graceful heroine named Pudge Gazelle. 

I'm going to be a gazillionaire.  And you can say you knew me when I came up with the idea while hiding from candy-seeking missiles on Halloween.

And for the record, it's now 8:35 p.m. and those greedy little candy-grubbing bastards have cleaned me out. 

Ugh, I hate giving out that candy.

While I Was Out, 10-31-11

So, it's been a week already. 

Here's how I know I'm an awful person:  Yesterday my friend Stacy texted me the following:

I got to use your line this morning in the elevator...only because this lady was so rude.  She said "to make a long story short,' and so of course I said "too late."  Please note she wasn't even talking to me.  It was awesome!  I'm awesome!  You're awesome!

I'm a good friend.  I encourage my friends...and apparently, I encourage them to be rude.

But seriously, that's pretty awesome.

So I started the week by admitting that, like millions of other people, I tend to use technology almost solely to take amusing photos of my pets.

Then, with a nod to Halloween, I explained that I'm a cyborg with very clear death demands.

But when I wasn't being a bad influence on my friends, being a Marketing Genius, or freaking you out with my mortality, I stayed pretty busy.  Here's some stuff I loved this week:

Any Halloween clip that features anything dry-humping Al Roker's leg had me at "hump."  But the truly hysterical part of this is that the woman in this segment was demonstrating how to decoupage a pumpkin.  And that's not even double entendre!

Now I know what my Starbucks crew is really thinking when I hit the drive-thru every morning.

Did you hear the hubbub this year about people choosing to dress up as other ethnicities for Halloween?  Apparently the furor went farther than we thought.

I can't help it.  I love squirrels.

This may shock you, but I dig science.  This concept is pretty freaking cool...and by the way, the next time you eat calamari, I think you should say "Wow, this tastes so intelligent!"

That being said, I can't help myself.   Seriously, I have poor impulse control.

Tired of the whole "Occupy" thing?  You're not alone.  Not even in your refridgerator.

God help me, the ski slopes are open in Colorado.

And finally, Happy Halloween, Siri!  And people who ask me stupid questions!

To keep up with everything I do, become a FANdrea by clicking "Join this site."  You'll never miss a blog post and it's way less time-consuming and more legal than stalking (even though I do feel really close to you).

Cyborg, You Borg, We All Borg

It's almost Halloween, so I have a confession to make:  I'm a cyborg.

That's right.  Part woman, part machine.  Not so much in the sexy and futuristic "Bladerunner" way, but in the "at-least-I-won't-die-in-the-Macy's-parking-lot-clutching-a-coupon" way.  But for fuck's sake, that sale was worth it!

Here's a haiku I wrote about it:

Dumb little defib

wired to my heart always

on you I depend.

One of the uber-cool things about having a defibrillator and being a cyborg-- other than the obvious cosmetic benefit of having a giant scar on my chest-- is that the batteries to the dfib only last 7 or 8 years, necessitating "minor" surgery every so often in which people actually look at and touch your heart. When you're one of the world's pre-eminent naval gazers like me, this means you're forced to deal with your own mortality a little more often than those living the non-cyborg lifestyle.

I had my defib replaced in the summer of 2010, prompting many people to remark on how "brave" I was.  Um, no.  You know how when a celebrity has an illness, everyone writes about his or her "brave battle" against it?  Yeah, not so much.  I was brave in the kind of way where you throw a series of mini fits of rage/panic attacks of the "no wire hangers" sort that would make Joan Crawford proud.  Seriously, in terms of drama it was some of my best work.  William Shatner himself would be shamed by the overreaction.

3 days prior to this surgery, I sent the following email to my sister, and three of my best friends.

Okay, not to be morbid or anything, but I just want to remind you of my death demands, should something go horribly wrong on Monday. I am relying on you!

1. I have two life insurance policies.  I have a loan against one of them, but I don’t know what that means in terms of payout.  
2. I think I may also have a life insurance policy through my company.  Don't know how to tell.
3. I have a 401(k), but I don't really know what that is.
4. I own some stock. I’m not sure if there is a beneficiary for stock or 401(k)s  because I’m stupid about that stuff.
5. I do not have a Will.  But damned if I haven't always had a Way.
6. When I survive this surgery and feel sheepish about sending this email, remind me to get my financial shit together.
7. "Vegetable" is not a good look for me-- you know how I even hate candid photos.  If I go all brain-dead and drooley, pull the plug.  I am not kidding.  Plug the plug or I will haunt you.
8. I wish to be cremated. I’d like my ashes taken back to Texas… not sure where I want to be sprinkled, but I’ll stew on that over the weekend. Won’t that be fun??
9. Mmmmm...stew.
10. I would prefer a cocktail party to a funeral.   It should be catered.  There should be an open bar and definitely a champagne toast (I'm picturing many). Please no deviled eggs on the buffet and no carnations in the arrangements. You must make sure this is a festive thing—I wish to be celebrated, not mourned.
11. Celebrate me, dammit!
12. Please find the absolute best photo of me possible and put it in a frame in lieu of a viewing. I should look thin in this photo, so Photoshop it if necessary. There will be no “viewing” of my dead body. If you let there be a viewing, see #7 above because I will completely haunt your asses.
13. There are several songs that must be played at my cocktail party:
    1. Good Riddance, by Green Day
    2. I Won’t Back Down, by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers
    3. I’m Gonna Live Forever, by Billy Joe Shaver
    4. Say, by John Mayer
    5. Amazing Grace
    6. You Make My Dreams Come True, by Hall & Oates
14. Everyone, and I mean everyone, must 80s dance to #f above.
15. I understand that Mom and Dad will want a religious service and that’s okay too. Please be sure they use 1 Corinthians 15:55 and Psalm 27:1 (my absolute favorite).
16. But I want a cocktail party.
17. If there is an obituary, please make me sound more important and wonderful and happy in death than I was in life. See #10 above.
18. There are some things in my bedside table that I would prefer Mom and Dad not see. Second drawer. Take care of that.
19. Don't judge me for #18.
20. I love you all beyond measure… Time, distance and death will never, ever change that.

Spoiler alert:  I survived the surgery.  It was like a Christmas in July miracle.  The kind of miracle that takes place like 10 times a day in every cardiac unit of every hospital in the world.  Not unlike childbirth...or the 1980 U.S. Olympic Hockey team.

That's the problem with self-indulgent emails written while in a free-form panic:  They stick around to remind you what a poozer you are. 

Sigh, even as a cyborg, I'm still uncool.

NerdTime

You know that stage in a relationship where you just can't get enough of each other? 

When you're apart you just want to be with him. 

When you go to sleep you want him there.

When you wake up you want him there.

When his sister comes to visit you drink your body weight in wine, profess your undying love for him to her, and then force him to sing "Endless Love" with you.

(No?  That last one was just me?  Whatevs, people.)

Well, fortunately, there's an app for that.  It's called FaceTime. And anyone with a Mac, iPad or iPhone can use it to video chat.  So sometimes on the three nights per week we don't spend together, The Boy and I FaceTime.

It's taken me awhile to get the hang of it.  And by that I mean it's taken me awhile to figure out how/where to set up my iPad so that I look as slim and attractive as possible.  For those of you facing this dilemma, here's a tip:  Lie on your stomach with your head turned towards the camera. Seriously, my eyebrows look exquisite from this angle.

Ideally, we have a lot to say in these video chats.  Sometimes we catch up on our day and mock corporate America.  Sometimes we discuss super-important current events like the Project Runway finale (although that's probably more just me talking and him nodding and trying to look interested while enjoying my eyebrows).  And sometimes, like all couples, we basically have nothing to say and yet keep talking anyway.

Last Wednesday was one of those times...and so with this amazing technology at our fingertips, here is what our conversation ended up looking like:

Why yes, that is in fact my cat Cali and his dog Gus.

Clearly Cali hasn't figured out how to play up her eyebrows.  And Gus is literally phoning it in.

Amateurs.

While I Was Out 10-25-11

So, it's been a week + 1 day already.  Sue me, I'm tardy with my wrap-up.

When you're in a relationship, I think it's possible to have separate interests-- as long as you communicate well.  For instance, here's an actual Instant Message conversation between me and The Boy from last night:

Derek:  Hmmm...maybe I need to watercool my PC.

Andrea:  ?

Derek:  It's a super-nerd thing.

Andrea:  And so clearly I know nothing about it.

Derek:  Instead of using fans and air to cool your CPU, you put a radiator and water pump in your PC to  cool it the same way you cool your car.

Andrea:  Sounds...um... overwrought.

Derek:  That's kind of the point.  It's like when guys put big engines and paint flames on their car
  ...but the nerd version of that.

Andrea:  (going thru the mail) Ooooo-- the White House Black Market Catalog arrived!

Derek:  (silence)

Andrea:  Yay!  Patterned tights are in again this year.    I love being "on trend."

Derek:  Yeah, um...I don't have any idea what you're talking about.

Andrea:  It's like when a guy paints flames on his car.

Derek:  Ah.


Okay, so I'll admit it:  This week, the posting was slim.

I started the week by telling you all about the stalker I cultivated last Fall through match.com.

I then admitted I obsess over previous posts and felt compelled to update the one on my stalker to explain how I killed Uncle Marty.

I'd also like to go on record with the following statement:  I do know that if Freddie is an actual shut-in and his Uncle Marty did in fact pass away, I'm a complete and total shit.

Okay, with my conscience now clear, I can move on.

So when I wasn't entertaining you with yet another really uncomfortable dating situation, being a Marketing Genius, or educating The Boy on women's hosiery fads, I stayed pretty busy.  Here's some stuff I loved last week:

More from my beloved AT AT.

Please take a moment to color my underwear important.

Yet another reason I love Adele.

Afraid of spiders?  See one get his comeuppance.

I have more in common with this guy than just the way I look in my Forever Lazy.

I now have a pretty good idea what life was like for my big sister when we were growing up... although I probably wore a shirt.  Probably.

Happy Halloween, Google Plus!

And finally, Toast toasts toast.

To keep up with everything I do, become a FANdrea by clicking "Join this site."  You'll never miss a blog post and it's way less time-consuming and more legal than stalking (even though I do feel really close to you).

Adventures in Dating, Episode 7 Revisited: The Time I Killed Uncle Marty

An update to Episode 7 of "Adventures in Dating."  

I have a horrible habit of going back to my previous posts and reading and re-reading them and obsessing about how I could have written each one better.  I usually decide to leave them alone and remind myself that I'm not actually getting paid for this and perhaps I should put a bit more time into my paying gig... but this time Stacy reminded me that I forgot to mention Freddie's "Uncle Marty."

Sigh. 

I've never been a murderer before, so it's possible I blocked this from my memory.

As you may recall, Freddie was either a 14-year old boy, a wheelchair-bound hunchbacked shut-in with 4-inch long fingernails who saved his scabs, or a slightly overweight old-fashioned millionaire with an affinity for gummi snacks.  I wish I could be more specific, but I'm apparently not a good judge of character.  So that's pretty much as far as I can narrow the field. 

So yes, Freddie was freaking me out... and because I lacked the sense of self to say "Hey, this isn't a match for me," I just became very busy.  Most of us have been on the wrong side of the "I'm just not that into you" equation, so it's not surprising that the Fredster recognized the pattern.  And so suddenly and without warning, "Uncle Marty's" health began to fail.

"Who the hell is 'Uncle Marty?'" you may find yourself asking.  I know I did.  But the heretofore unmentioned "Uncle Marty" was apparently one of the guiding forces in young Frederick's life and it was destroying him to watch his loved one die.  Had he ever mentioned this relationship before in the hours and hours we spent talking?  No.  But a man's heart is like the ocean... Oh wait, that's not quite right.  A man's heart is directly tied to his penis and when the catch of the day starts making a run on the end of the line, a man's penis has to stand strong.

Am I mixing metaphors all over the place?  You bet.  I'm in uncharted waters here.

I want you to draw me like one of your French girls, Freddie.



Because last Fall I was a complete tool, I of course replied with a series of platitudes that would have made a glittery little coffee cup greeting card proud.  Did I suspect that "Uncle Marty" was no more real than the $32 million, the fishing boat, and the buff physique from twenty years ago?  Absolutely. And hence the unnecessary quotation marks around his name.

But I couldn't risk it.

  

So each time I faded away, Freddie trotted out the plight of "Uncle Marty" and each time I did the "right" thing by serving up a bunch of banalities which simply continued our conversation... much to the delight of his little stalking, creepy (and quite likely) enlarged heart. 

When I finally stopped replying, it should come as no surprise, "Uncle Marty" died.  In fact, the way Freddie described it in his poorly-spelled and mercilessly punctuated email, "Uncle Marty" joined the angels.

I tried to feel something, other than abject terror that this freakshow had my home address.  I'm a nice person.  You know, deep down, underneath all the sarcasm and judginess and dating sanctimoniousness.  But all I felt was relief that "Uncle Marty's" pain was over and that meant mine was too.

As I write this, The Boy is researching Freddie.  He says it's because he wants to keep me safe...but I suspect he's also curious to know if my Haribo Hero was for real...if there was $32 million, an Uncle Marty, any of it.

Admit it-- you're a little curious too.

The last time Freddie contacted me (which I think was roughly 6 weeks ago, so look for an update in two weeks), he invited me to lunch again.  Stacy BEGGED me to go so we'd have some new material...but as much as I love that girl, I don't want to find myself chained up in a well in someone's basement, putting the lotion on my skin. 

If only match.com had allowed videos then.  On a side note, I had that poodle's haircut in 1985.

Call me selfish.

Adventures in Dating, Episode 7: Stalk It Up to Experience

This is the 8th installment of my Adventures in Dating series.  You can chuckle at my misfortune in episodes One, Two, Three, Four, Four 1/2, Five and Six here.

Last Fall, I cultivated a stalker via match.com.  Which in retrospect is kind of designed to do precisely that.  His name was Freddie. 

Yes, Freddie.

The funny thing is, we were about one week into it and I emailed my Texas girls and told them that I was pretty sure I had met someone really special.

Well, not really met, per se, since we had only spoken on the phone and texted at this point.  But sure, he was special.  Why?  Um, I think it was because he was paying attention to me and no one else was.  And God knows, I had a long and sheepish history of liking the people who liked me.  If you were to ask me why I married my first husband, the truest answer I could give you is "because he asked."

Freddie allegedly lived in Phoenix but maintained a residence here in Denver as well.  He owned his own commercial real estate company and business was gooooooood, people.  In fact, he rarely even flew commercial.

What did he look like?  Well, I'm not really sure.  He had 3 photos on his match.com profile:  One of his alleged dog sitting in his alleged Jeep at the beach, one of the back of his shoulders and head reeling in a marlin or sailfish on a boat, and one from about 100 yards away of him looking incredibly buff on a jet ski.  Okay, if I was being honest with myself, the jet ski photo was suspiciously yellowed and crinkly-looking, like something quite old that had been scanned into the computer, and probably at Walgreens.  But hey, maybe he left it in the sun or something?  Maybe on his boat while he was sport fishing?  And after all, the back of his head certainly looked attractive enough, even if the shoulder looked slightly meaty.

This is where I remind you that I was lonely. Terribly lonely.

Plus, Freddie said his net worth was $32 million.  I actually had to ask a friend if that was good.  Clearly, I have an issue with finance-- and have long felt that math is a faith-based initiative.

So we chatted by phone at night and texted during the day.  And why didn't we meet in person?  Well, it seems Freddie grew up Catholic and felt it was improper for us to go on a date until my divorce was final...which was roughly 60 days away.  So "we" decided to wait.  Yes, I'll admit I thought it was something right out of a rom-com-like plot line in which the mega-rich hero is a little portly and needs to slim down before meeting the girl of his dreams... but I told myself that he was trying to do the right thing.

Insert Rocky-like montage of Freddie on a stationary bike in his amazing home gym, watching his personal chef preparing a chicken breast for him, jogging on the treadmill while staring dreamily at my photo (which would be taped to the display screen), peering hopefully over his belly at the numbers on his scale as they head south.

This is simply how my head works.

Freddie wasn't so much about the spelling.  And his punctuation was...well, let's go with creative.  And sure, sometimes he muttered things under his breath that sounded strangely like words he was pretending I was saying.  Still, I soldiered on for a few weeks, certain that I had met a nice guy who was just trying to do the old-fashioned thing.  A nice guy who talked a lot about taking me on fabulous trips via chartered planes.

In what can only be described as a rookie mistake, when he asked me for my home address because he wanted to mail me a gift... I gave it to him.

And several days later, it arrived.  A greeting card.  More exactly, a glitter-covered greeting card, with a drawing of two cups of coffee on it (cuz coffee-liking was something we had in common), and some free verse about how glad he was that I was his friend.  He signed it "Luv ya lots," a sentiment I hadn't seen since 500 people signed it in my high school yearbook.

I truly wish you could see the glitter.

I tried to imagine my handsome multi-millionaire game fisherman in the Hallmark store, choosing that card.  And I just couldn't.  His handwriting was a huge childish scrawl, and he wrote things like "your [sic] the best."  I began to suspect that my Freddie wasn't a slightly overweight yet incredibly successful businessman with whom I would spend lazy afternoons in the tropics...but rather a shut-in.  Or perhaps a 14-year old with a prematurely deep voice, likely caused by a disfiguring and inoperable tumor.

Before you start to think that Freddie was just a sweet and socially awkward guy, understand that at the same time that he was sending me his sparkly little greeting card, his texting and emailing had taken on a decidedly naughty tone.  Freddie had ideas.  Lots of ideas-- some of which strangely involved gummi bears.  And he was interested in talking me through each one of them.  Incongruously, he signed each of these emails "Take care and God bless."  It's one thing to be the object of someone's desire... it's quite another to be the object of a pseudo-religious nutjob's completely bizarre desires which involve high-fructose corn syrup and other things we don't speak about in polite company.  Especially when you really don't know what he looks like.  And he has your home address.

I stopped taking his calls, responding to his texts and emails.  I started feeling weird (well, more weird than usual) when I went out in public because I wouldn't know him if I saw him on the street (unless he was about 100 yards away and slightly yellowed). 

On the outside, my Texas girls and I laughed about it.  Stacy and I decided that he was a 500-pound wheelchair-bound hunchback who lived in in my attic.  We admired his chutzpah for getting his wheelchair up there, especially while carrying his oxygen tank.

But inside I worried.  A lot.

Freddie got upset with me for dropping him.  His emails and texts escalated rapidly...and then suddenly stopped.  He sent me a final missive in which he told me he was deleting my info from his Blackberry and I wouldn't be hearing from him again.  But that he'd be in town in January and maybe we could have lunch.

Sigh. 

This was last November, and I still hear from Freddie every two months.  It is so to-the-day that I'd swear he has an Outlook reminder that pops up saying "Stalk Andrea."  Sometimes he'll do something like accidentally send me an empty email...with the hope that I'll hit reply.  I don't.

I do still have the greeting card.  It sits in a tray on the desk in my home office...mostly because if I disappear at some point, it contains his handwriting, his home address, and likely his DNA.  Also because sometimes Stacy texts me with "Take care and God bless" and I return the favor by sending her a photo of the card.

So what did we learn?  Well, we learned to keep our home address to ourselves.  We learned that there is a seedy side to the gummi bear.  And we learned to get a recent photo and a fairly immediate date before entering into a virtual relationship with an old-fashioned hunchback.

Damn it, I was never meant to fly commercial.

Yes, really.

While I Was Out 10-17-11

So, it's been a week already.

Have you ever had a conversation with someone on Ambien?  If you ever get the chance, totally do it.  I once had a 15 minute chat with my Ambien-grooving ex about the Dream Police.  No, not the Cheap Trick song-- the actual Dream Police.  I taunted him with this for years. 

Well last night, it was my turn.  The Boy decided he wanted to talk to Andrien (that's me on Ambien) and in an effort to see how out-of-it I was, he asked me "Do you know who I am?"  I apparently smiled and said "Yes. You're my husband."

Oh yes. Yes, I did.

He laughed and said "No I'm not."  And I said "Not yet.  But you will be."

Don't you wish you were this cool?

So this week I started off by admitting that I couldn't Find the Funny but tried to anyway by comparing myself to Elizabeth Shue and sharing the weirdest movie scene of all time.

I then found the funny hiding in the unintentional erotic language of football.  Illegal use of hands!  Roughing the passer! 

And finally this week I showed off my fancy college education by criticizing television commercials.  To be fair, I think it's a feat of writing that I worked the word "Hoohah" into that post 6 times.  I almost can't stop saying it now, which will likely become an HR issue for me at some point.

But when I wasn't entertaining you, being a Marketing Genius, or celebrating my 6 month anniversary with The Boy by telling him that he's going to marry me, I stayed pretty busy.  Here's some stuff I loved last week:

Now that we've all been waking up Full of Awesome, it's time to start our Daily Affirmations like 4-year old Jessica.  I can do anything good!  On a side note, her dance moves are better than mine.

Poor thing doesn't understand yet that her curls aren't her friends.

Yeah... I'm gonna need you to go ahead and-uh work late tonight.  I am Business Cat!

I seriously almost peed my pants over the whippet dressed like a Star Wars AT-AT Walker.  Do yourself a favor and scroll all the way to the end to see two bonus photos of this hapless creature.

You know it's love when you do your imitation of a "Guy on a Buffalo" naked in the hot tub and your boyfriend not only cannot stop laughing but still inexplicably finds you attractive.

Hey wolf, I've got something for you... it's a kick from a buffalo!

Interested in pursuing a menage-a-trois, but not sure how to invite your third?  Have I got the greeting card for you!

6 degrees indeed.  I love Bacon. 

And finally, I'm not sure when they start with the cookie-selling, but I'd suggest you buy a box.  Perhaps several.

To keep up with everything I do, become a FANdrea by clicking "Join this site."  You'll never miss a blog post and it's way less time-consuming and more legal than stalking (even though I do feel really close to you).

Zippity Hoohah

In one of my college courses I distinctly remember learning that one can never successfully advertise one's product with a negative.  The product-- or at the very least, the purchase of the product-- should make you faster, taller, better looking, smarter, richer or more popular... it should never cause you to be the object of ridicule.  Before I continue, let me just say  that yes, people who get Radio-Television degrees really do take classes and occasionally we even pay attention, so shuddit.  I'm pretty sure I scored a solid C in this class. 

So either the conventional thinking on this has changed, or some of the people making creative decisions these days missed that class.  I totally understand.  I missed a lot of classes, just not this one.   Exhibit A:  The Chevy Volt commercial.

People hate me because of my car.  You should buy one and be hated too. I wish there were more buttons I could button on this shirt so I could look even more like a tight ass.

For starters, I think it's a mistake to associate your product with a pressing need to go to the bathroom...even if your product is designed to make people go to the bathroom, which I presume is not one of the features of the Chevy Volt.  I can't be sure, though, because this dude clearly needs to go to the bathroom.  Secondly, everyone at the gas station hates this guy because of the car he bought.  How does this make one feel good about his choice of car?  Does the smugness he feels over having an electric/hybrid car make up for the overall scorn?

And speaking of products related to going to the bathroom...have you seen the "Enjoy the Go" commercials for Charmin?  I mean, I know these were brought to us by the folks who showed us a teddy bear with dingleberries in recent years...but seriously?  Do we need to spend this much time talking about pooping?  Do we consider this progress?

Enjoy the... oh God, it's just too gross.  I'll buy your product if you'll just stop talking about poop.

But perhaps the most disturbing commercials as of late have been the "Hail to the V" series for Summer's Eve.  Unfamiliar?  Could be because they were so racist and offensive that they were pulled from the air... Don't get me wrong, I'm sure it's difficult to write a compelling TV ad when your product is something used on the Hoohah.  But knowing the difficulty that I have in getting things approved through my legal department (who once refused to let me use the word "secure" when describing a security product), I'm completely amazed this got the green-light. 

The premise here is a talking hand (a la Senor Wences) as an ethnic vagina imploring her owner to take better care of her.  Before you watch this, please understand one thing very clearly:  This was not a joke.  This was an actual television ad intended to increase Summer Eve's market share in the world of Hoohah products.

There is much to wonder about this Down Under. 

There was also a Hispanic version involving multiple childbirths and a leopard thong...if you don't believe me, just google it.  It's too pathetic to post here and I just think a talking vagina that needs subtitles is something I'm not cool enough to write about.  I'll leave that to Eve Ensler.  Or perhaps J.Lo.  I'm thinking her Hoohah has a tale to tell.  Hoohah from the block, if you will.

As often happens while writing a blog, I've been sitting here for a while trying to figure out how to write myself out.  The Boy suggested I write a dialogue between the nether-regions of my body but I will take the high road here.  I refuse to anthropomorphize my body parts for your reading enjoyment.

So how about we end this with a positive negative?  While the purchase of this product still resulted in a negative experience for this guy, I think it works because he comes out looking like a hero. He literally gets better looking as the commercial goes on because his wife is such a harpy. 

John Clark can have you, you ungrateful Hoohah!

At least he doesn't look as though he needs to go to the bathroom.  So thank you, AT&T. 

First Down-the Hatch

With all due respect to baseball fans... I cry uncle.  It's mid-October and... enough already.  Even the announcers are disinterested and the sportscasters on my local news station are reporting on baseball with all the enthusiasm one would bring to the Bataan Death March.  I don't even understand how teams keep playing when they know they can't go to the World Series.  That's as pointless to me as window shopping.  Or exercise.

So I think the overwhelming question is this:  Are you ready for some football?  Yeah?  Well, let's go to the map:

Um, what's up with the way Texas is split 70/30 Cowboys/Texans?

My team is the Philadelphia Eagles.  This statement generally generates the "Oh, are you from Philly?" question . I'm not.  The next question is always "Why Philadelphia then?"  Well, quite simply, I'm a girl.  So when the Oilers left my hometown of Houston and I was forced to pick another team, I deployed a tried and true female tactic:  I went with my favorite color, green.

As I saw it, the color green gave me three choices:  the Jets, the Packers, or the Eagles.  First, let's get one thing straight:  This Dan Jenkins-reading girl was never gonna cheer for the dog-ass Jets.  And the Packers?  Please.  That just sounded gross.  But the Eagles-- now they sounded like a good, solid working-class team.  Plus the mascot is an animal and everyone knows animals are cute.

Okay, maybe not this animal.



Yes, I now know there was a fourth choice in the Seattle Seahawks but it was the nineties and I honestly was unaware that Seattle had anything except coffee shops, grunge music, and the Space Needle.

And that's the beauty of football:  It doesn't have to make sense.  Any game that asks morbidly obese men to wear white stretch pants while playing in the grass is pretty much saying "Get your freak on, baby.  All are welcome here."  Feel like arriving at the stadium at 8:00 a.m. to stand around and eat burnt hotdogs from a football helmet-shaped grill?  Help yourself.  Feel like foregoing your shirt and grease-painting your expansive belly and man boobs in sub-zero temperatures?  Well, why the hell wouldn't you?  Want to throw batteries at Santa Claus? Welcome to Philadelphia. The City of Brotherly Love.

Football is an hour-long game that inexplicably takes four hours.  For years you had John Madden yammering away like someone's half-deaf grandfather gone off his crazy pills.  Yeah, Turducken, we get it. Now stop screaming and scrawling on the Zonkastrator like a spastic toddler.  There are scantily-clad pole-dancers/cheerleaders, keeping the fans warm with their all-American ass-shaking/team spirit.  Serious sportscasters talk with deep gravitas about some guy's groin injury as if it were a matter of national security.  An almost life-like Troy Aikman quotes statistics like a wooden-faced puppet who just wants to be a real boy.  There's $20 parking, $12 beer, $7 hot dogs and the ability to shriek "We're number 1!" for absolutely free.

I'll admit that in 1994 I didn't know a thing about football.  All I knew was that I was newly-married to a sports fanatic and if I didn't learn the game I'd never see the man.  (Had I known then what I know now about said fanatic, I'd have stayed ignorant.)  But like the dutiful little wife I was never destined to become, every Sunday I sat in front of the TV with a football encyclopedia in my lap and each time a penalty was called or I heard one of the announcers mention the name of a play, I'd look it up in the book.  If that's not dedication people, I don't know what is. Sadly I eventually realized I loved the game more than I loved the man... and threw a philosophical flag at the entire marriage.  Personal foul, you creep.  100-yard penalty.  4th down?  Nah, hit the showers, asshole.

Once I truly understood the game, I really enjoyed watching it, if only for all of the sexual innuendo.  Get your backfield in motion? Ooo-ah, ooo-ah!  Taking it deep into the end zone?  Bow-chicka-wow-wow!  Splitting the uprights?  Oooooh yeah.  The endless possibilities totally appeal to the 12-year old boy in me and any given Sunday will find me giggling like a school girl over the unintentionally erotic quotes from whatever game I'm watching.

So my thought is this:  Let's just end the baseball season due to lack of interest.  Let's talk more football.  In fact, let's talk a lot more erotic football-- and let's have the sportscasters keep score of the outrageously sexual things that get said during a game. 

Even better, let's make it a drinking game.  There are definitely a couple of tight ends that I'd like to see go bottoms up. 

And I honestly don't even know what that means.

What's your favorite football-related sexual innuendo?  I need to add to my repertoire.  And stock my liquor cabinet.