Sigh. Go Titans . . . .

I’m so happy I picked the Titans for my team.  Yeah, that was a good call.

About a week after I made my big announcement here in which I was giddy with excitement over having a team to call my own, my friend Billie asked if I wanted to go to a Titans’ game.  She had tickets and parking passes and a bottle of wine for tailgating.  Being a rabid fan and all, I said yes. 

That was the weekend we played the Bears.  Did any of you see that game?  What an embarrassment that was.  It was just pure humiliation.  I’m pretty sure that every time the Bears trotted out their defense, we gave them the ball and they scored.  Our first two points of the game were awarded because of a mistake made BY THE OTHER TEAM.  I’ll say this, the Titans have pretty colors.  That’s something.  I picked something pretty, right?

Billie and I spent the entire game sitting four rows back from the end zone and in a sea of Bears fans.  There were four people to the right of us wearing Titan’s colors and literally ever other person around us wore orange and navy and had a beer in hand.  The whole stadium was like that.  Those are some dedicated fans right there. 

Over and over again, every time the Titans did something stupid, Billie and I would slump lower in our seats.  When we initially arrived we were proud of our sweatshirts and jerseys but by the 90th Bears’ touchdown, we were practically sitting on the concrete floor under our seats and couldn’t find enough material to cover anything we had on identifying us as a Titan.  And also after the 90th touchdown, Billie and I just started telling everyone around us, “It’s our Southern hospitality.  We let you win.  Plus, we brought the cheerleaders.  You’re welcome.”  And the Bears seemed truly grateful for that. 

So about the Bears’ fans . . . . will anyone shoot me if I say they were nice?  They really were. Some of the nicest people I’ve ever met sat next to us.  The men who were so complimentary of our cheerleaders were also complimentary of Billie and me.  They liked our hair and our voices and our niceness.  I asked a few of them where the Chicago hot guys were, you know, the ones they were supposed to bring in trade for our cheerleaders.  Their response:  “We are from Chicago.  We look like sausages.  We eat well.” Noted.

And proven.  Those same guys invited Billie and me to their after game celebration tailgate party.  A group of them rented an RV, loaded it up with food and booze and drove down here for the weekend and so they had parties every night.  One of the guys owns a chain of restaurants in Chicago and brought one of his giant logs of gyro meat and the thingamabob you cook it on.  They had sausages of every sort.  They had chips and pretzels and caramel corn and beer and liquor and some more beer and sausages.  Their one nod to good health was the tub of raw onions they had for the sandwiches and the lone tomato they picked up somewhere along the way. 

The group of them invented a sandwich for this road trip, called the Road Trip 2012 Man Sandwich Gyro Griller or some such nonsense.  I called it a Heart Attack on a Bun.  The sandwich started with a buttered grilled hoagie bun which was topped with at least one grilled sausage split in half lengthwise.  Into the sausage was layered an extraordinary amount of shaved gyro meat.  It was then topped with raw onion, a tomato, and more tzatziki sauce than can be good for you.  Good luck trying to eat that.  I did try it, minus the onion naturally, and after a few bites felt a little tight in my chest so I tossed the rest.  Oof.

Those guys were a lot of fun.  They were perfect gentlemen, too, which was a nice change.  Not every man who plies you with tasty beverages and food and then cleans up after you, actually washing dishes and taking out the trash, has noble intentions.  At least not in my experience.  We made no promises to keep in touch but after reading the news the following week, I sort of wish we had.  I think those guys would be inordinately proud to know that not only did the Chicago fans drink the stadium dry that day, they also wiped out nearly every bar downtown of beer.  Unheard of. 

Chicago Bears – beer drinkers, sausage cookers, football players.  What an experience.  By the way, I’m still a loyal fan of my team.  I just wish I’d get the chance to attend a game in which I don’t leave in utter humiliation.  Sigh. 


Adios, Amoebas! (Or, Tying Up Loose Ends Before I Leave For A Month)

Well, guys, this will be my final post before leaving for a month.  I’m going to miss you.  I wonder how many times I’ll want to make fun of myself over the next 30 days when I won’t be able to share here.  I’ll try to save them up for my 30 days of blogging in December.

I will check in periodically to post my guest slots and to give you updates on my word count.  50,000 is the goal.  To know me is to know my love of words so you know I can reach the count.  Let’s just hope they make sense.  You know, I signed up for NaNoWriMo two years ago.  I wrote 250 words on November 1, 2010 and then got a phone call from a friend.  We started talking about boys and that was all she wrote, literally.  NaNoWriMo was dead to me.   

Oh, I chose a football team!  I know you’ve all been waiting to hear that.  It took me a while. I had lots of input from you and most especially from Coach, who taught me how to look at stats and how to look up helmets and logos.  What really helped me, though, was Martie.  She said, “You can’t be a fair weather fan.  You pick a team and you support them through the good and the bad.  No waffling and changing to the team that plays better.”  And then Coach chimed in with the same advice.  He’s a long time Alabama fan and a longtime Cowboys fan, rabid even through the lean years.  So, okay.  I have no choice but to be a Titans fan.  Nashville is mine.  The Titans are mine.  They play like doody most of the time, and even though the lean years will last for ages, I will support them.  I was never more proud in all my life than when they beat the Lions and then the Steelers (!).  I realized I really want them to do well.  So call me a Titan. The end.

Except it isn’t.  I also have a secondary team.  I just can’t seem to get over the Ram’s horns.  Seriously.  Those helmets with the horns just slay me, and so those of you who lecture me about perpetuating the stereotype, get over it.  I picked a team because of a helmet that turns me on.  At least I didn’t pick a team because of a hot guy.  For the record, I also read the team’s history and would like to share with you that they were the first  NFL team to add a logo to their helmet (swoon) and also the first NFL team to add black teammates after the WWII era.  Suck on that, haters! (And also, while I’m being Fickle Fanny over here, I really want to see the Texans win the Super Bowl.  The longhorns!  Those uniforms!  It’s Texas, y’all.  I am moved.) (And yes, I realize that the Texans were not even on my nominated list but I hadn’t seen the logo yet.  I had no idea . . .)

And just because I can, because you expect it, and because this is me we are talking about:  

Hottie Titan

Hottie Ram

Hottie Texan

I haven’t talked about my dinners with my seniors in a while either.  I had dinner with them last week and as per usual, had a blast.  I love those people so much.  I want to tell you about a couple more of them.  JoAnne, who has only been two or three times, just embarrasses me to death every time she attends.  She’s adorable. She wears a fall (a chunk of hair you attach to your head to make you look like you have more hair) or a funky hat every time and so you look at her and think, “Well, isn’t she cute. Full of spunk, that one.”  And then she opens her mouth and proves it and you could just slam your forehead into the butter dish, you are so horrified. 

“NO! I don’t want a SALAD!  I have GALL BLADDER issues!  Take it AWAY!“

“This is the WORST coffee I have ever tasted!  I can make better at home! BRING ME more sugar!”

“Those CHILDREN need to be SPANKED!  My meal is RUINED!”

I can honestly say that I agree with her in nearly every instance but I prefer to keep my opinions if not to myself, at least confined to the guests at my table.  Not JoAnne.  Everyone knows where she stands.

The other person I want to tell you about is Bob.  Bob has only missed maybe one or two dinners the whole time I’ve been doing this.  He’s in his 60s, I guess.  He’s never been married.  He purchased his house in one lump sum, no payments, ever.  He’s terrified of being late and being left behind.  He ends every sentence with an “uh?” 

“Hey, Jimmie-uh?  Do I have enough-uh money-uh for dessert? Uh?”  He brings $28 to every dinner and we figure out what he can have for that price and still leave a fair tip.  He’s the gentlest soul and I love him.  He was the first of the group to realize that I knew how to work a standard cell phone and so asked me to program some numbers in for him.  Now we all spend the first ten minutes of every dinner shuffling phones back and forth to me so that I can clear out voice mails and add contacts.  Once a month everyone gets squared away.

I probably have so many other things to share but I’m out of space and time.  A whole month.  What will you do without me?

For those of you who are helping me this month, THANK YOU!  Boss, Prom Date Will, Jonquil, Esteban, Woney, and Studio Bukowski – thank you!  Boss and Esteban have already sent goodies over and I just hee hawed.  I cannot wait to read and post your stuff.  Anyone else in?  I still have a full grown cat up for grabs.