Month: September 2019

It’s going to be a long month. Since I’ve become quite the Swiftie lately, Taylor’s been playing with my emotions. I don’t know what you call new music that comes out anymore. It’s not an album. Nor a CD. I just keep asking Alexa to play it and one day I figure she’ll talk back. “No. Enough. Get a life”. Ms. Swift is a brilliant writer. As am I. She lays it all out there in such a compelling way. Can’t make that sh*t up. Since her and I have bonded like this (I know I know I sound like I’m twelve), I want to be more thoughtful in my writing. I do not have ducks. Or a row. I have geese, and they’re pooping all over the driveway. No no that’s not the thoughtful part. Just like our dear Gwenyth, I’m trying to do some ‘conscious uncoupling’. For no good reason, which is a reason in itself I guess. In theory, I want to live my life like someone took off my electric collar and left the gate open. On to the next family that will treat me better. Even though I know that’s dumb and no one ‘accidentally’ drops that much steak on the floor. The Universe just likes to make me uncomfortable enough every now and then that I have to move. And drink my way through it. And know when I just need to get out of this page. And listen to my girl. ‘My hearts been borrowed and yours has been blue’.

I got up early! Who could sleep? I texted everyone I knew who I thought might be up. They were. I put deodorant on at least three times because I couldn’t concentrate on mundane things like dressing myself. Fortunately, I had picked out my outfit a week earlier. I paced. I listened to the sports shows trying to calm down but they only got me more jazzed. Had to get to the stadium! My peeps were right there with me so we headed up an hour early just to soak in the atmosphere and share share share with our fellow nutballs. Finally it’s time! The roar of the crowd. The adulation! My Men ran down the field and scored! The thunderous applause! The shaking of the floor! And then the Factory of Sadness reopened. My Man (no names please) missed the PAT and the exhale of seventy-thousand lovers collectively rose into the universe. Whoosh. Still surprised gravity held us down. My six hours of giddy madness were over. But what a ride it was! I tried all off-season not to be that long suffering fan who never has anything good to say. Kept my skepticism to myself (sort of, baby steps), and even wore a rubber band on my wrist to the game so my peeps could negatively reinforce me with a wicked snap when I got out of line. Soon I was doing it to myself as my thoughts were cascading in my head just needing an outlet. My wrist was getting puffier and puffier (darn Bloody) and before I completely cut off my circulation my dearest pulled it off and shot it into the crowd. Hope someone else put it on and carried on the storied tradition. I tried. We tried. I’ll just entertain myself by watching my Men on the cover of ESPN, or naked inside, and move on to Cincinnati. Anybody who understands that reference has my same problem and I feel for you #BillBelichick. I don’t roll a joint often, but when I do, it’s usually an ankle. Alas, still have my sense of humor. Kind of. I just keep telling myself it doesn’t matter if you win or lose, it’s whether you beat the spread. God, I love football. As for me and my house, we will serve wine. SIP 24:7