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November 28th, 1999


It's Sunday. You know what that means, don't you? That's right! It's movie day!

My husband, bless his desperately confused heart, is convinced I am the jinx that is keeping the Denver Broncos from rising to the top like the magnificent flotsam that they are. As a result, on Sunday football days, I need to remove myself from the home - even if we aren't playing - in order to "cleanse" the NFL of my bad mo-jo.

So, today I shall be off to the movies which means more reviews for you tomorrow. Oh, and we did manage to get out to see the new
Toy Story. This is, in my humble opinion, the children's movie of the year. I should have a review up on it some time today. Go see it if you can.

And now, in keeping with that sports motif, I bring you this.

Who can truly understand the phenomenon we call football? When this season rolls around I could paint myself Astroturf Green, mark myself off according and hop around naked in front of my husband yelling,

"Someone fumbled the ball at my 50-yard-line! Quick, recover it and take it in for a touchdown!"

I would be lucky if he batted an eye.

Men take sports very, very seriously. I once, in error, admired an extraordinary catch made by the opposing team. I added insult to this injury by actually saying this aloud.

"Wow! That was a nice catch!"

Had I taken out a butcher knife and ran at him telling him to unzip his pants because a weasel was ferreting up his pants leg, I don't think I could have gotten a more incredulous look.

"What the hell was that supposed to mean?"

"Well, it was a nice catch. Did you see how he practically climbed up the hockey mask of that guy in orange to catch the ball?"

His nasal cavities flare like a bull's.

"That is a face mask! Not a hockey mask!"

I already knew this but I like a good joke.

"It's just a game honey. You don't have to get so excited."

"It is not just a game! This is the game! My game! I need to win this one!"

"Baby, I hate to tell you this but they skipped you on the roster this year. I don't think they are interested in a draft who can't bend down to get a cake pan out of the cupboard without his knee popping out of place like a defective jack in the box."

Someone scores a touchdown

"Woo! Look honey! I think we got a home run!"

"Oh. That's it. If you insist on being in here, you just have to shut...oh...wait...go baby! Go! Bring it on home, my man! Yes! We got a safety!"

"Safety? Look at him all crumpled up there in the driving range. That doesn't look safe at all. Is that confetti all over the ground or did all of his teeth fall out? This is really a violent game. I am worried about you. I think you need some therapy."

"Shut up."

"You're getting bitter. Hey, who is that guy on the field? He looks a lot like that pantyhose commercial guy. Why would they let a panty hose commercial guy sit there on the sidelines? Are they all wearing pantyhose under their suits?"

"That's Joe Namath. He...oh, never mind. Look who I'm talking to."

I now take the opportunity, during a very important pass, to accidentally squish the remote beneath my thigh and switch the station to Sesame Street.


"Woops, sorry."

I leisurely fumble with the buttons and flip to an infomercial pandering spray on paint for thinning hair.

"Oh, hey. That looks kinda helpful. I wonder if we can get some for you."

At this point he tosses me the keys to the car and his checkbook.

"Just go buy something, will you."

And that, ladies, is a real touchdown.


Unless otherwise specified, all material
Copyright 1999 by
Marijke Hildreth



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