If you know me at all (and I have to assume you do, what with that one other entry I posted), you'll know that few things drive me more bat-shit crazy than having attention diverted from me.
Lots of chicks say that kind of crap as a way to come off princess-y and high-maintenance, because that's what's considered "confident" as of late. I think it may have something to do with a deadly combination of Sex and the City, Danica Patrick and L'Oreal (because I'm muthafuckin' worth it). Possibly partially due to that really irritating pissed off bunny that you see on everything from t-shirts to iPod cases to cocktail napkins, inviting you to lick its "rabbit hole" or whatever.
That thing I said, though? About the "attention diverting"? I seriously meant it. In a sad, almost (but not quite enough not to post on the Internet) embarrassing way. Like a three year old mixed with a maimed puppy mixed with Kanye West. Kinda in a "if you won't acknowledge me being funny/cute/cuddly/sexy/loud/screamy/weepy/hitty, then maybe you'll pay attention to me if I freaking kick one of the kittens into your recliner and light them both on fire" way. (I'd never, never light a kitten on fire, nor should you now be under the impression that I am in any way condoning kitten torching just because I threatened to torch a kitten. I would, however, absolutely torch a certain hunter green recliner and if one of the kittens happens to refuse to get up after I've told him repeatedly that hot burns babies, then I'll consider him collateral damage. No, really, don't set cats on fire).
So, to really bring my point home, I need quite a bit of tending to and it's one of the unfortunate ramifications of knowing me and I really am sorry. And I mean that without one trace of stupid angry bunny. You are all sugar-coated snowflakes for putting up with me and I pray for both you and one of your loved ones nightly.
This unsightly character trait is really, really inconvenient starting around the first part of August and ending what feels like eighty three weeks later. Or maybe February. Whatever.
I refer, of course, to none other than freaking football season.
I.
Hate.
It.
I hate that the large cups at Wendy's feature holographic defensive linemen. I hate the sound of pads and helmets crashing together. I hate feeling like doing laundry every time I watch any team wears white tights on a natural-turf field (that's what they're called, right? "Tights"? Because I initially typed "footies" but I'm almost positive that's not right and I'd bet you fifty cents that they're not called "pants". Are they "leggings"? What the hell, uniform people? Shouldn't it be easier to identify an article of freaking clothing?). (Wait, are they "long johns"? "Pantaloons"? "Hose"? This is really making me mad).
But I most especially, especially, super-especially hate being ignored. And I'm sure you're now expecting some tangent about Nate and his stupid Dallas Cowboys room (think I'm kidding? I'm looking at a commemorative bag of Cowboys' Fan Tostitos Corn Chips from 1996 at this very moment) and his aversion to grocery shopping on game days or freaking compromising and flipping between pointless pre-game shit and "Say Yes to the Dress", but I am not going to do that because I am gentle and accepting that way.
Because it's not just Nate who ignores me. It's friends, family, commercials on TV (what, am I suddenly not a consumer just because it's freaking October and nothing screams fall harvest like Miller Lite and Fatheads?). I can't even fake like I care because at about minute seven of the first quarter of any given game I've either dozed off, opened a book, decided I was hungry, or started harassing the dog, who, PS, seems to really enjoy football, too, because he's a goddamn JUDAS. Guys? The dog ignores me.
Everything is centered around "the game". There's not one damn plan to be made, at least not in Dallas, that doesn't hinge on "the game". Before, after, "as long as they're showing the game with sound", etc. And it makes me want to shatter my own knuckles.
The sport itself really doesn't bug me. I even kinda get the gist of what's happening (ever since my dad explained that the yellow line bisecting the field didn't "keep moving" as I accused it of doing, but was merely a visual aid that only the viewers at home could see to assist in determining the location of the line of scrimmage-suck it, I know what that is). I just don't like that no one will talk to me during anytime but commercials and half-time, and even then, they don't really want to talk about anything I'd like to discuss, like dog toys or what it would be like to have one noticeably larger boob.
The whole thing makes me feel like a little kid in the backseat during a road trip. Like, sure, you're along for the ride and all, and maybe sometimes you sing along to The Beach Boys or participate in a rousing game of I Spy. But mostly, you're just a wimpy little half-person who your parents had to bring along to Yellowstone because they chose to have sex at one time, trying not to get car sick by counting rows of whatever crop thrives near Yellowstone, and playing a fucking badass game of Mad Libs that no one gives a shit about because they're talking about where the next pee break should be and whether or not they actually got a solid "yes" out of the neighbor's kid to watch the cat.
And speaking of I Spy and Mad Libs? No joke, I would seriously watch either or both on Sunday nights in lieu of Tony Romo and his fluttery sleeves.
