It’s Reigning Men

This one’s dedicated to the lads.

Yes, I’m talking about you – you handsome XY with the raised brow.  You really do have a reason to read this woman’s blog.

Although I will warn you in advance:  there is NO Paypal and I won’t be web-caming with you.

Damn.  Just lost half the male readership…

For the 3 of you that remain, I PROMISE  THAT THIS POST WILL NOT TURN YOU INTO A GIRL.  Unless that’s what you want.  If so, may I suggest my post on hot flashes?  Can’t get anymore womanly than that.

But I digress.

What follows here is my 2 cents on the subject of…drum roll please…

{whispering} football.

Football season is upon us.

C’mon boys!  Join me in proclaiming this magical moment. Shout it from every water tower, penthouse rooftop, roadside crew and convertible beemer.  Wail about it while you serve those fries, cross examine that witness or change that oil.  Don’t forget to use your diaphragm.  Breathe in deeply and bellow it to the heavens.


Football has returned, and with it comes the biggest trade of the year: the moment when contractually-obligated family men cast off their itchy Clark Kent personas and become “common sense-free” agents with a remote control in one hand and a brewsky in the other.

These are true men of steel.  As long as that steel makes up a keg or describes a team out of Pittsburgh.

And this football season couldn’t have gotten here any faster, for it’s been an agonizingly long summer of anything BUT football.

And by anything I mean that American Girl Museum, that 10 hour road trip to Disneyland, visits to Chuck E. Cheese on a Saturday night, Smurf movie-induced nightmares for your 2 year old, water parks, that beach house with the busted plumbing, dinners in Cinderella’s castle, flat tires nowhere near an exit, “It’s a Small World”, and those wrenching, surprise (for YOU) visits to your mother-in-law’s house.

In other words, all that comprises the 9th circle of Hell.

But you can escape the heat now, dust off that recliner and tune IN to that 70 inch screen.

Tuning IN will certainly help you tune OUT how you chased your toddler around a bikini-clad resort while your struggled to change the swim diaper to a pull-up.

A few rough tackles should erase once and for all that night you took your ‘tween daughter and her posse into McDonald’s.  Yep, THAT overcrowded McDonald’s that didn’t have the sense or decency to serve you alcohol at a moment it was most needed: when the giggling conversation at your table turned to which member of One Direction was the most “nail-able”.

The synthetic green of turf will likely aid you in forgetting the summer battle of you – astride a petroleum-powered steed – attempting to hold sway over a burgeoning lawn.  You knew Tru-Green was a bad idea when the season turned wetter than the first 3 rows of a Shamu show.  And when your lawn created a relatively stable system of government AND got it’s own Netflix account, that’s when the war was over.

Here’s the biggie:  WORRY NO MORE about any score other than the one on the screen.  Does it matter now if and when the little lady is gonna put out?  Hell, no.  YOU HAVE FOOTBALL AGAIN.

Not that your attempted pass was ever looking that good, right?  Your spouse knows everything from your old high school locker combination to the number of attractive women in your office (seven).

So riddle me this.  Three weeks of tampax wrappers in the trashcan?

That is indicative of some other-worldly feminine flaw that you shouldn’t have to decipher, because HOW ON EARTH could something so wife-controlled be so imprecise?

For God’s sake, someone please throw a flag.

“Personal foul.  Illegal use of feminine hygiene products – 25 yards.  Extra yardage assessed for roughing the passer.”

Hey, look.  You’re on the 1 yard line now.

Aaaaaannd, you STILL can’t score.

Well, craptastic.

Shall we just put aside all those non-football woes and return to the one true SANITY of bad referees, up-tight tight-ends, nightclub drug arrests and plastic faces shaking two poms – hopefully at the same time – in your face.

(It’s a silicone thing.  More isn’t necessarily better.  Placement is what counts.)

What’s makes FOOTBALL SEASON SO RIGHT  is the availability of the orgasmic frivolity.

Monday nights, Thursday nights, Saturdays ALL DAY, Sundays ALL DAY, with sports radio and news talking about it over…and over…and over….


Until February.

Or until a strike.

Whichever comes first.

But you know, I can’t post to my primarily female following without giving a good reason why I’m waxing on so much about the game.  After all, this is a blog entirely devoid of athletics except for the occasional wrestling with another woman over a triple clearanced designer handbag at TJ Maxx.

So this little post is about to turn even MORE cahhhhh-razzzy.  Because now is when I reveal, for the first time ever, how yours truly will have her very own Fantasy Football team this season.

I heard that collective gasp, btw.

Oh, just stop getting freaked out by the sudden boost in parka sales to hellish residents**.  Pick your gaping mouth up off my blog and allow me completely agree there’s an unfortunate disaster awaiting this decision.

Perhaps I’ll gain a bit of manly assistance if I act blonde enough.  Maybe I’ll gain a little respect.

Doubtful, but I’ll try.

I NEED HELP… {eyelashes batting}

Aaaand… I just lost my last two male readers.

Hey, don’t blame me.  I didn’t beg to have a Fantasy team.  I’m just assisting the son who wants to have a big FF league this year.  I’m told I have to call it that:  FF.  You can call it whatever you want.  Currently, the men are all grunting that FF has always meant Fantasy Football.

I was thinking French Fries, Founding Fathers….or an eFFin big bra size.

I’m told by my league manager, my son, that I’ll soon be sleeping, eating and filing my nails based entirely on the actions of a group of guys I don’t even recognize.

Save for Peyton.  Peyton….something. I’ll remember it shortly.  I know Peyton because he went to my school and he does that Oreo commercial. Have I mentioned in previous posts how I love Oreos? Cream!!!

Btw, Peyton does that cute little Oreo spot with his brother…. something Manning.  God, what IS his name?

Ya see?  It’s the names…and the faces…and what position they play on the field.

Yeah. I don’t know any of that.

But periodically, I will breeze more slowly than usual through the man cave and catch the last few utterances on that ESP channel.  I’ll catch a few names here and there.

Names like Tom Brady….of the well-known Brady Bunch.  Tom is apparently that little nerdy blonde cousin who lived with the family.  And it looks to MOI like little Tom Brady grew up…and THEN some.  Not that I am complaining.  Men like Tom make me VERY interested to watch football, in a strictly visual “oh my, which part of that is the jock?” sense.

My flippant hubby says Tom is married to a Victoria’s Secret model.

Hah. As IF.

Models DO NOT date athletes because they are TOO sweaty.  The athletes..not the models.

The sweaty models have a Paypal account and will web-cam with you, btw.

Let’s see….I remember hearing about some guy named Drew Breezes.  I actually think I had that scent in a Glade air freshener.  It was the perfect combination of testosterone, astroturf and cinnamon.

But my dog got too close and tried to roll around on it like it was road kill.

Goodbye Mr. Breezes.

Here’s a name that rolls off the tongue but sounds totally fake:



That’s a childhood vaccination. Or a genetic marker.

Or maybe it’s that droid that looks like C3PO but is a different color and doesn’t speak as eloquently as C3PO and is definitely not as smart as R2D2.

OMG, did that sound completely droid racist?


Hey George Lucas, your subpar prequel to Star Wars has turned me into a droid racist.  I’m so ashamed because I now realize that perhaps maybe there is a chance that I possibly might be a droid racist.

This is a horror I’ve not felt since grade school, and that was when Kermit tried to hook up with a pig.  It took years of therapy, but I can finally say that green and pink do look good together…as long as one of them isn’t amphibian.

But I’m older now – MUCH older.  And I’m strong and smart and VERY crafty.

And I LOVED every single Star Wars episode and I am most certainly NO droid racist.

Alright, dammit.

Give me my eFFin list of guys and let’s play this game.

But I hope you don’t mind if I change the roster a bit so I can remember who everyone is and what they’re doing.

And as this is fantasy, I’ve got the perfect system in mind…

At the moment Tom’s jock runs onto the field…

{referee whistle sounds}

“Red 4 standing by.”

“Red 6 standing by.”

“RG3 standing by.”

Start your run, boys.  Let’s blow up this death star and rescue the princess.


**droid racists, all of them

*****UPDATE**** My draft was announced this morning and I’ve got the OREO boys on my team!!!!  Yay!  The ultimate battle of cream versus cookie.  I’d better go buy a shitload of milk.



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