Because I am still (happily) in a malt beverage and Red Sox-induced delirium, the last thing I’m going to do is ruin an otherwise perfect October 31 with thoughts about my least favorite holiday. Instead, I’ll just recycle my standard Halloween post. The original, and still the best, folks.
Holy Mother of God, is it Halloween again? Already? How I could have missed this given the flurry of Martha Stewart Halloween hints that clutter up my email this time of year is a mystery. Perhaps it’s because this is the first year the little Slattern has not been home for the holiday, and as such the first year I have not had to make or even think about costumes. Anyways…in recognition of this, my least favorite holiday, I give you…drum roll please…last year’s post. Don’t be disappointed. It was a corker.
I hate Halloween. The costume hysteria, the sugar meltdown, the sugar coma, the instant weight gain, the toilet paper in the trees, the stink of scorched pumpkin innards, and that’s before we even begin to deal with the children.
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C’mon ladies, grab a Lazy Boy and a brew. It’s fun!
I love sports generally, and Boston sports in particular. Not playing so much, but watching them live and on TV. Give me a handy pack, a bag of Lays and a tub of onion dip and I am good to go for an entire Sunday. Put me on the first base line a Fenway, and I’ll sit right there blissed out on peanuts and watery Coors, screaming at the umpires and participating in the wave for nine full innings. I’ve never actually been to Foxboro, but I have my dreams, most of which involve Wes Welker, the Real Housewives of South Boston and mocking chants of “Hey Rex, suck my toes.” I have been to the Boston Garden, but my memories of the occasions are, not surprisingly, a bit hazy. I’ll even listen to sports radio on a long drive, though Mr Slattern, whose brain is larger and somewhat more evolved than mine I’ll admit, prefers me to confine these binges to solo trips. Given the blue-ness of the air and my propensity for enraged commentary, especially when listening to that soppy fool Michael Kay, it is, I suppose understandable.
In any case, as I was saying, I am a fan, and as such am puzzled by the general lack of enthusiasm evidenced by a significant number of my gender. Why anyone in her right mind would watch Sleepless in Seattle at all, let alone instead of a playoff game, is a complete mystery to me. I can only conclude that the Estrogen Disinformation Network is winning the propaganda war, and this will not stand. There is way too much fun to be had on the Sunday sofa, so I’m taking it upon myself to drag my uninformed sisters to the party.
Why I like sports (and you should, too)
There is even the occasional miracle.
You might just spot a Kardashian in the stands (if you go in for that kind of thing).
You get your heroes and villains all in one place.
Team jerseys finally come in figure flattering styles.
Wearing a cap means you don’t have to wash your hair.
Then of course there’s Tom Brady.
And for the single gals out there who think all the good ones are either taken, gay or hiding, let me offer up this little piece of advice. Get yourselves to a sports bar on a Sunday afternoon, order up a brew (not a diet coke or a glass of white wine) and wait for the party to start. Trust me on this one. You will not be lacking for attention.
What’ve you got to lose?
I’m a sports fan, and unapologetically so. I love it all, and provided Boston is playing (or someone — anyone really — is beating the Yankees), I will happily sit in front of the tube for hours while working my way through a handy pack, watching baseball, football, basketball or hockey and turning the air blue with a filthy stream of invective and smack talk. In truth, I’ve even been known to take in the final rounds of golf tournaments, various college sports and the odd tennis match. I do have some standards, and as such I draw the line at bowling (it’s the shoes) and NASCAR (it’s just, I don’t know… everything).
This year, however, owing to some pressing personal commitments I haven’t really been following the Olympics. Just not that into it somehow. I missed the opening ceremonies and the unfortunate American athletes in their Pepé Le Pew costumes. I missed Sir Paul whipping the crowd into a nostalgic frenzy. I missed the Queen with her silly pink hat and her mean mouth.
But Sunday after dragging my ass to the gym, I finally got the Olympic bug while slogging along on the elliptical, and here’s why:
Horses prancing sideways, top hats, formal dress and a big group of people who actually got ponies for their fourth birthdays! And it appears it’s all taking place at Downtown Abbey! I cannot get enough of the equestrian events.
I am totally hooked. Or hoofed, perhaps. I can’t wait ’til the rodeo part gets underway — no one beats the US of A in roping and barrel riding.
Whaddya mean there’s no rodeo competition? No clowns? No bulls either? Not even a lasso contest? What a gyp.