Well tomorrow marks the first official day of Autumn here in the northern hemisphere. You know, the Autumnal Equinox? When the length of the day is equal to the length of the night and the Earth has orbited around the sun to the point at which the northern hemisphere is beginning to tilt AWAY from the sun? Or something like that. Whatever. I learned that last part from my 4th grader last week, so who knows if it is true. Alls I knows is that Autumn means two things:
- Only 95 days until Christmas.
- And, I am officially a football widow from now until The Superbowl.
Sorry to start your Monday with the Christmas countdown buzzkill. But really, I’m doing you a service. By my calculations, the stores will start blaring the carols and wrapping every surface in tinsel in less than one month. If you are mentally prepared for this impending assault on your senses, it will be less of a shock. You’re welcome.
Now as for the whole Football Widow thing. I have mixed feelings.
Sure, at first, it’s kinda nice. I suddenly have some free time. The Gatekeeper watches most of the major games on the big screen at his brother’s house. Eating his brother’s endless supply of queso dip. Filling his brother’s house with his startlingly emotional outbursts of joy and agony, (and ridiculously LOUD chewing sounds).
But as opposed to the Olympics, which is a nice mini-break for wives around the world, football season lasts for about one quarter of the whole year! It’s not called football “season” for nothing. Sure, it’s not everyday. But every weekend… for four months? Suddenly our entire lives revolve around game schedules. College games on Saturdays, pro games on Sundays and Mondays.
ME: “Rick and Nancy want to have us over for dinner on the 12th, hon.”
HIM: “The 12th? Lemme see. Oh, nope. That’s a really important Ohio State game. I need to be on the couch at my brother’s house by 8 PM. Can we be outta there by 7:30?”
ME: “Dude. That is so wrong. I’m not going to go over there for a nice dinner and be looking at our watches the whole time just so you can leave in time for football.”
HIM: “Then we can’t do it. Pick another day.”
Ack. Like we don’t have enough things to work around in our schedule… Cub Scout events and dance recitals and library book due dates and electrologist appointments… now I have to factor in televised football games too. Awesome.
Seriously. Two of my three children were born during football season and you should have seen the terror in this man’s face when he thought I was going into labor with #2 during a playoff game. Thank the Lord it was a false alarm, or he probably would have plugged my birth canal with a can of Pringles until the game was over. He’s got priorities, you know. Alright, alright, make that two cans of Pringles. I cannot tell a lie.
So there’s that. But the other thing is this… a woman has needs. I get kinda lonely after a while. And I get really damn tired of being a single mother (with none of the benefits like alimony or less laundry). So I’m practicing some footballish phrases that I’m hoping will entice him to stick around. I figure if I talk dirty enough, but with a football theme, he might not be so quick to high-tail it out of here every weekend. You know… the best of both worlds, minus Hannah Montana and Miley Cyrus.
Here’s a sampling of what I’ve come up with so far:
- Hey babe, wanna put it between the uprights?
- Run the ball right up the middle?
- Tackle my tight end?
- Toss it into the end zone later?
- Go deep?
- Penetrate the backfield?
Gosh, is it me, or is this game a little bit dirty? No wonder he loves it! And what’s with all the backdoor talk? Maybe I would feel a little better about this game if the end zone was lovingly referred to as a part of the female anatomy. As in: “AND. HE. COULD. GO. ALL. THE. WAY!!!! Into that vagina.” What? Too much?
And, excuse me, but, ahem, is it me, or is this game in general, a little, um, homo-erotic?
Not that there’s anything wrong with it. Just trying to understand the draw.
I was thinking about getting a cheerleader outfit, you know, just for fun. But on second thought, maybe I should get a football player’s uniform instead? Just a thought. And a whole butt load of queso dip. Pardon the pun.