I hate the Super Bowl. There, I said it. It actually feels good to get that out there. I know it seems so crazy, but let me explain.
I love college football. Love, love, love. I grew up watching Alabama football and I’ll spend the rest of my days doing the same. To me, watching a bunch of college kids work hard and play hard is fun. Those guys may not be making straight A’s but at least they are being held to some academic standard of achievement, albeit a minimum one. I’m not a fan of professional sports. To me, it is watching a group of grown men that are insanely rich get richer. And come on, who among us mere mortals wouldn’t like to list “play games” as our occupation? So maybe I have some resentment there about grown people playing games for ridiculous amounts of money. Here in the real world, we work pretty much 48 weeks out of the year and collect an amount per year that is probably equal to what professional athletes make in a single game.
The whole Super Bowl thing just depresses me for other reasons, too. For one thing, it is in the winter. And by winter, I mean the dead of winter. You know, the post-holiday funk, will the sun ever shine again part. To top it off, it’s on Sunday night, which for me, most weeks, is the dreaded, ugh tomorrow is Monday timeslot. So by all means, let’s all go to parties and eat too much and drink too much on a Sunday night. Monday will be awesome, no?
Next thing: As a former advertising major and current ad junkie, the Super Bowl should be a big, bold exercise in watching the creativity of agencies and companies in full flourish. Instead, it feels more like an exercise of “which commercial sucked the worst?” And “they spent HOW MUCH for those 30 seconds?!” Each year, for every Google "Parisian Love" there is an you can insert your own worst ad, I don’t even have one this year. It also makes me miss being in the ad world, too.
And last but not least, the 18 hours of continuous coverage? Come on, isn’t that a bit much? Pre-game, Kick off show, game, half time show, post game report, etc. etc. It’s too much. And it is all ratings driven and why do we have ratings? Ah yes, that money word, there it is again.
The Super Bowl is a habit, a pastime, a fun activity, a tradition for millions and good for you if you’re in that category. But me? Well, I’d rather catch up on shows on my DVR and read.
Why don’t you hit me with your best shot?
Hit me with your best shot
Fire Away
- Pat Benatar
So yeah, I haven’t written in ages. But I’m here today and it’s going to be a rant.
Ladies – why do we tear each other down? Whether it is intentional or not, why do we do it? You know what I mean – back handed “compliments,” jabs at self esteem, etc. I’m tired of witnessing innocent conversations quickly devolve from friendly joshing into line crossing in a matter of seconds. I’m the first to say that I’m the biggest joker there is and I routinely push the limits on acceptable kidding/insulting. But really though, when you cross over that line from joking to pulling at a thread of insecurity, it’s not funny, it’s ugly. Even if you meant no harm and honestly were “just joking.”
Guys, you live by different rules and I’ve seen all manner of insults, some incredibly hurtful, thrown around between dudes and neither party seems worse for the wear afterward. But keep in mind what I said above when joking around with the ladies around you.
Here are a few common sense rules, which today, constitute
The Dabbs Five
Five Things to Never Joke About With a Woman:
1) Her Weight
2) Her Age
3) Her Clothes
4) How she raises her kids
5) How she manages her…. (fill in the blank – time, household, money, etc.)
And I know some of you are curious, and I’ll give you a brief version. No, I wasn’t insulted today, nor did I do the insulting, but I witnessed an “I was just joking!” moment that set me off. “You’re just jealous because you can’t pull it off!!!” And by “it” she meant a cute dress and cute boots.
Really?
Really?!
I think that should be taken as a challenge. Game on!
So more car drama. Yes, you did the math correctly, it has been two months and this will be the fifth trip back to the place that supposedly fixed the whole radiator/water pump/cooling system thing by PUTTING IN ALL NEW STUFF. So how is it possible that it keeps leaking transmission fluid? I understand that the connections between the radiator (we’re on new radiator number 3 now) and the transmission are very tenuous, but come on, if it says RADIATOR right there in your name, you should be able to figure it out. Sort of how if you go to WAFFLE House, you tend to think they know how to prepare WAFFLES.
Anyway, I’m beyond done. I’m tired, I’m irritated and I just want to leave for a while. I’ll try to make through the next couple of weeks before I’m off the last week of the month. Say a prayer for my temper. It’s been working overtime lately.
Why don’t you release me?
- Duffy
UPDATED - Music is embedded, y'all. I love the Internet.
Dear Writer’s Block,
Ok, so we’ve had a good run of it, but I’m tired now. I’ve got people on me to update this thing so you and I are going to have to break up. I know it’s tough, but I’m sure we’ll get back together eventually. In the meantime, there are approximately a gazillion other bloggers out there that you can keep company. (Side note, apparently “gazillion” is actually a word, I didn’t get the red squiggly line underneath it).
Sincerely,
Amy
So how you gonna fix it, fix it, fix it
- Danity Kane
It’s not like there isn’t stuff to say, it’s just that many of you live this stuff with me on a regular basis and have been around for the car trouble and the car trouble followed by the car trouble. So I figure that horse is completely dead by now. And really, there isn’t a whole lot else to discuss. I’ve become incredibly boring. (I know, some of you are saying “become? Try always was”).
Have you ever gotten to the point when you run into someone you haven’t seen in a while you sort of feel that tiniest twinge of dread for the “So how’s it going” questions? This is a relatively new phenomenon for me. Probably because part of me wants to say, “How’s it going? HOW’S IT GOING? IT SUCKS, THAT’S HOW IT’S GOING.” But of course being a) a girl and b) a Southerner, only niceties are acceptable answers.
So it’s going. And those of you that I owe emails and phone calls to, I’m truly sorry. I’m working on it. Happy Summer!
-ames
PS - Duffy is awesome. And yes, I love "Damaged" by Danity Kane. Hate away!
I can’t take it anymore. I’ve got too much stuff. TOO MUCH STUFF. Too much stuff in my house, in my car, in my office and really too much in my brain. I’m sick of it.
I’ve always been a pack rat. Oh yeah, totally have. I have the ticket stubs from almost every movie and concert I’ve been to since I was sixteen. I had this grand idea of one day fashioning the stubs into some really cool art piece. But guess what? They are all in a bag in a box on top of my dresser. Nothing cool about that.
I go over to you people’s (you friend types that read this) pristine houses and see pictures online of your new houses and I think to myself, wow, I bet they don’t even have a junk drawer! Who needs a junk drawer besides me? It’s ridiculous. I see you people have a proper place for every single little thing and I doubt that any of you have bottles of shampoo and conditioner under your sink. You know, those ones you buy on sale, or only buy because they smell good? The ones that end up leaving your hair looking like a wet dog?
Now let me explain, I am not a hoarder or whatever. Not even close. I just tend to have things in closets that I should get rid of – things like the box my iron came in and an old UA flag that is cracked. But the biggest issue I have is paper. Who knew that grown ups could acquire so freaking much paper. If I had a dime for every piece of junk mail I get, I’d be sitting on a yacht in the Gulf right about now.
So what am I going to do about it? Well, I started by buying a shredder and I just went totally nuts on a bunch of stuff in my other bedroom. It’s a starting point. I’m going to go through my files and get rid of all those top halves of bills from 2004 where I wrote the check number and the date that I paid the bill. I’m going to get rid of my old apartment lease and just get rid of stuff in general. If it isn’t nailed down, or if it doesn’t have extreme sentimental value, it’s a goner.
Besides, it’s not like I have television to watch anymore at night, right? (I hate the strike, all making me productive and stuff. Geez.)
What up y’all? Yes, I quoted a Britney song on the blog. Oh well. It’s Amy, b@#$h. Ha. Anyway, the latest in the life and times of Dabbs involves the following – a new cell phone, keys locked in the Jeep, an 18th degree sunburn on my chest and one boot that’s still apparently made for walking. So to update on all four…
1) RIP to the LG cell phone that I have had for over two years. I loved that shiny little silver LG phone. The one that would let me know someone wanted to speak to me with a loud shout of “THAT MAY BE ALL I NEED… IN DARKNESS…” or “IIIIIIIIIIIIIIII WANNA BE WHERE YOU ARE, WANNA TAKE ALL I GOT.” As longtime readers of this blog know, that very phone has been through a lot. It survived a near drowning in the Crowdpleaser at the 2006 Polo Classic. But it couldn’t survive a drowning by Sprite from a Chick Fil-A cup. Sigh.
2) And just like the June 2006 incident, this one phone incident also went hand and hand with a Jeep situation. My keys were locked in my Jeep and a nice, old security guard was able to use something akin to a blood pressure pump to open the door enough to stick a long, metal stick inside and pop the lock button. I was on my way home after that terribly long day when I stopped at the Chick Fil-A and sat my Sprite into the cup holder (next to my cell). I had of course forgotten that the earrings I had on the day before were driving me crazy, so they were also in the cup holder. By the time I got home, my phone was literally floating.
3) A few weeks ago a the Alabama/Tennessee game (can I get a Roll Tide!?) I got one of the worst sunburns of my entire life on my neck, right ear, and chest. My chest is still red. Seriously, still red. It’s been almost a month.
4) I went for another check up on my foot and had to stay in the boot another two weeks. Y’all, I don’t think it will ever be normal again. Double sigh. But such is life. I just hope all of my right shoes still fit! I go back Monday for another check.
I’m over it. So very, very over it. At this point I don’t know what to say other than please, just cut us a bit of slack. Call me crazy, but maybe a rain shower or 18? Maybe a cool wave in the neighborhood of the mid-90s every day? Give me something. At this point, my hair needs its own freaking zip code, know what I mean? I picked an awesome time to grow it out, by the way. Summer and long hair are about as amiable as Phil Fulmer and an Alabama fan. My grass is almost dead, my flowers never really bloomed and a coworker assures me that his wife and son literally fried an egg on the sidewalk. It’s all too much. I’m actually surprised that people aren’t rending their garments on the sidewalks in protest. Thanks August, you’re awesome. Now back the hell off before we all up and move to Canada, ok? Don’t push me – heat does crazy things to people.
My birthday is next Monday. I only bring it up to say, wow, my last two weeks as a 28 year old were no fun. (Ok, I’m just assuming about the rest of this week, we shall see.) Anyway, I spent the first half of last week with a stomach virus complete with all the typical ailments that go along with that and I’ll spare you the details. Meanwhile, I also developed a new floater in my eye. This wouldn’t be such a big deal if the thing wasn’t HUGE and as annoying as a flock of seagulls looking for lunch on the beach. I even managed to maintain a fever most of the days of the week.
So I had to go to the eye doctor to make sure my retina hadn’t detached. And I think you two guys reading this that think I’m a hypochondriac have learned that I’m not, right?? Anyway, the vitreous layer of my eye pulled away from the retina, causing some cells to break away and become my brand new floater. And bonus! There isn’t a thing in the world they can do about it. Awesome. Once this happens to one eye, there’s a risk of it happening to the other, so I have to go back for a check in six weeks to be sure both retinas are still intact. Meanwhile, they dilated my eyes and I could barely drive the four blocks back to work. My pupils were the size of dimes – literally. If you ever wondered what I’d look like with raven eyes, that was your chance. Anyway, I had to get Grace to come get me and take me home and I had to catch a ride to work the next day with a nice coworker. Loving my life.
Somewhere around Thursday I started getting a sore throat. I assumed it was from being sick earlier in the week. Meanwhile Holli, who I had dinner with two days before the virus, had strep throat. Oh and yeah, she had the stomach bug, too, so it could only mean that strep was forthcoming, right? The last time I had step I was thirteen and I literally thought I was dying, I had a fever over 104 and had to get in ice water baths and sleep with ice packs on me. So here’s hoping I never catch it again in my lifetime.
I did manage to avoid strep this time (knocking on every wood or wood like surface within 10 feet of me) but I developed a cough. You know the kind – the uncontrollable hacking cough. The kind that makes your eyes water and your nose run and causes your body to convulse so violently that you fear your frontal lobe will promptly exit via your forehead or your nose. The kind of cough that will not allow you to sleep. But the kind of cough, that a trip to the doctor would only yield the requisite “upper respiratory infection” diagnosis, which basically means, “ha ha, you tool, you just wasted that copay money because there ain’t a damn thing I can do for you. But I will write you a prescription for Guafisen – which, yes, you are correct, that is found in most over the counter cold remedies.”
What’s a girl to do? Besides complain to y’all, that is.
I went to the dentist last week. I don’t really mind going in for a cleaning, but that’s because I have pretty decent teeth and I try pretty hard to take good care of them. The past few weeks I’ve done a lot of traveling and therefore I haven’t had time to really get serious with my dental hygiene. You know, when I’m aware I have a dentist appointment coming up, I’m straight up in front of the mirror brushing and flossing like I’m about to meet the Queen or something. Making sure my teeth are sparkling and what not. Well, when you’re dealing with chunks of time away from your home base, and you’re working with a travel sized toothbrush and water you’re not used to, some of the focus manages to slip off the impending dental appointment.
I haven’t been flossing. (Various sounds of indignation pipe up from the reading audience). I know. I also find it hard to believe. It really just occurred to me the day before my appointment that the ol’ floss hadn’t been out of the drawer in a while. It was too late to worry about it, though and I proceeded to the dental appointment with some trepidation.
I used to want to be a dentist. I’m not exactly sure why. Well, maybe it was because I was born an old soul. Really, truly, I was. When I was four, and all the other kids wanted to be Batman or a firefighter when they grew up, I wanted to be a dentist because, well, it just seemed like the practical thing to do. I have a sneaking suspicion this thought was placed in my young and still forming brain by repeated viewings of “Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer.” Remember the elf that wanted to go to dental school? Seriously – you make TOYS, how fun is that, but instead, he wanted to be a dentist. I always knew that if I could do whatever I wanted, practical or not, I would have totally been a detective. (Those of you that know me really well, know that I would be a kick ass detective. I’m still observant to a fault.) Anyway, I got older and discovered how long dental school would take and I backed right off that idea really quick.
Anyway, the hygienist comes to the waiting room and calls for Abby. I was totally irritated. She’s cleaned my teeth every six months for probably the past year and a half and she called me Abby Dabbs. (Insert your own Abby Dabby jokes here.) We get to the room and she discovers that I haven’t updated my health form. So after that fun, it’s time to begin. I don’t know much about teeth, but it always fascinates me that they start by taking the little miniature ice pick (call it what you want) and pressing on each tooth. It’s almost as if they’re counting to make sure they are all still there from your last visit. I’m pretty sure if I had lost a tooth in the past six months, I would lead with that, as opposed to, “Yeah, I’m doing ok, how are you?” She let out a sigh and wearily said, “So, you been flossing?”
You know what, I thought? Screw it. “Nope, I really haven’t. I’ve been traveling some lately and have been kind of busy.” She acknowledged that traveling makes it harder to keep your flossing straight and then launched into the speech. “So you know the stats, right? I mean about flossing and all that.” “Yeah, I do.” Now, I couldn’t quote them to you, but I’m pretty sure the stats are every time you fail to floss a small child has their favorite toy taken away from them or something like that. Oh and something about heart disease and gum disease being linked, right? I’m on it, got it.
She proceeded to the scraping part and ugh, I hate that. The actual cleaning business isn’t that bad, but the scraping? Yuck. Then we get to the flossing. On the upper teeth, I’m pretty sure she was trying to jerk the floss up through my gums and into my nasal cavities. For the lower teeth, she was hell bent on ripping the floss through my gums and out my chin. I know she was thinking, “That’ll teach ya not to floss, bitch” the whole time. Oh well, when she finally finished she told me "everything looked good except, you know, you need to really floss, really floss every day.” Then the dentist came in with his cute self and his whiter than snow teeth and was super nice. So, moral of the story? Floss. Don’t be like me. And to quote Regina King, “If I wasn’t an actress, I would be working in dental hygiene because I think it’s important for folks to have their mouth situation straight.” You heard her, get your mouth situations straight, y’all.
Baby I hate it
I feel bad that I don't feel bad
-- Rascal Flatts
Have you ever gotten to the point where you just flat out don't care anymore? Whether it is about a situation, relationship or whatever, sometimes I reach the point where I really, really just don't care anymore.
I know I care when I get angry, irritated, frustrated or cry, scream or hit my fist up against something. When I show emotion, whatever that emotion might be, on some level, I care. What's more scary is when I don't even do those things and I just go, "Huh" in response and shrug my shoulders.
I don't really like to get to that point, but sometimes you just do.
I'm pretty much there about some stuff.
And no, nothing regarding any single one of you that reads this site - and yes, I know all of you that do.
Just another Amy observation and thought I'd share.
"I'm a hustler homie
You a customer cronie
Got some dirt on my shoulder, could you brush it off for me?"
- Jay-Z
