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?
So yesterday I’m sitting on the uptown F train wondering how the hell I’m going to get back in the swing, blogwise, after an extended hiatus from any serious writing. I mean I am racking my brain for inspiration and just coming up empty, teetering on the edge of some serious writer’s block and staring down the barrel of a full fledged panic attack.
And it is just then, in my moment of despair, that the gods of blogorreah smile down upon me and the proverbial clouds part — well actually the two fat guys standing directly in front of me took off for empty seats at either end of the car. So anyways I look up and I see this.
Yankees cologne. Yup, really. And just to be sure everyone can get in on the act, there’s also a fragrance for her. Look!
Now I’m not going to elaborate on the obvious, cheap references to the smell of Sabathia’s jock, a Bronx urinal or A-Rod’s preferred feminine wash; instead, I will just say, “Thank you, Mssrs Steinbrenner, Jeter and Rodriguez. You have reignited the flickering spark of snark in my twisted, Boston sports-obsessed mind and lit my way back to the land of the writing. Once again.”
Hey Tom Brady, let’s play my favorite game!
I love this game, which I call Conjecture, and have found that it’s especially fun to play after a few drinks, but then again what isn’t? Really you can insert anything when starting with the question, “If you were a __________ (car/color/animal/surgical instrument/sub section of the Penal Code, etc.), what would you be?” Since I’ve got Sazeracs on the brain at the moment, I’m thinking about cocktails, and with the imminent return of my New England Patriots to the field, I’m all about football. So as we ready ourselves for the big game, I thought it might be fun to play a quick round with some of my favorite New England Patriots, but since they’re all busy practicing and I don’t know them personally, I’ll stand in.
Triumph in my search for the most elusive of rolls
Some of you may recall that in an earlier post I expounded on the many merits of the finger roll, not the least of which is it’s ability to absorb vast quantities of alcohol. It’s real rumble food, folks. And now that the Superbowl and all it’s bone crushing, Belichick-genius-or-madman glory is nearly here, I’ve once again taken up the quest to find finger rolls in the metropolis, where the munchkin of the bread world is about as easy to locate as a native New Yorker in Times Square.
And so I am thrilled to report that the good folks at the Gold Medal Bakery are still fighting the good fight and putting out these little gems. They assure me you can reliably find them at Stop & Shop grocery stores, and lo and behold there’s one a mere three miles from my house! So I called them and arranged to pick up two dozen TOMORROW which will give me plenty of time to whip up the requisite batches of ham salad and egg salad to accompany the baked beans and cole slaw for my Patriots party menu. And beer of course. I’ve been saving up my carb allocation for three weeks, my friends, and on Sunday at last beer and bread will be back on the menu. I am beside myself.