Football Fakery

          On a recent flight I happened to sit beside a coach who was on his way to two football games. “Texas A&M vs. Auburn, then Cowboys vs Dolphins,” he said. I tried to carry the conversation but finally admitted I know absolutely nothing about these teams or players. I told him that when my husband is watching and says, “That was a terrible call,” I shout, “What is the MATTER with him?” Or, if one team trades a good player away I notice his dismay and say, “Can you believe that? What were they THINKING?!”

I even shared my collection of ideas with this coach, for how to improve various sports, which I blogged about here. It includes the brilliant (my own critique) idea for soccer, which is to eliminate the goalies and thus raise the scores. We were laughing away (he’d had a couple of vodka tonics, so I can’t claim all the credit for his ebullient mood), but then he had an idea of his own.

He said I should tell my husband that I found a new hobby: Fantasy Football. And he would even help me design my team.  DONE! I couldn’t wait. But I knew it would have to be a text because St. Bob would never let me run out my phony rope if I called him.

Here’s my text: I started a new hobby. I’ve joined a Fantasy Football League. See what you think of my lineup: Quarterback Mahoney, hook up with Kelsey from KC, Gurley as running back, also Barclay. Beckham for wide receiver, Kittle from SF, Zuerlain as kicker and then use the Chicago defense. And it only cost me $100 cash to join.

          St. Bob texted right back: Who is this really?

          Later he said, “You don’t even know which end of the football to hold.”  I didn’t tell him that these objects should be re-named, since they really aren’t in the round shape of a ball.        

          Then today he said “Drew Brees has to have thumb surgery.” 

          “Who is that? Do we know him?”

          He just stared at me. “You don’t know who that is?” Turns out he plays for St. Bob’s favorite team, the Saints.

          “Well, that’s HORRIBLE!” I said, a performance that deserves an Oscar. “Brew Dreeze definitely needs to use his thumb if he’s playing football!”

          “Brew Dreeze?”  

          Yikes. I quickly corrected myself, then asked, “What part does he play?”

          “You don’t know he’s the quarterback?” St. Bob was almost apoplectic.

          Hey. I once painted our bedroom Saints Pants Gold to surprise Bob. I’d be surprised if any of those players have a bedroom like that. So if you ask me, that’s a home run hit.

You know all that down time in football? You could read an entire book of mine in one game’s down time. Find ‘em all right here.

Billions of Micro-Beads

          Is it utterly impossible for a Hilton to travel on an airline without something ridiculous happening?  Apparently, yes.  Although St. Bob and I are not dead, yet, so I guess we can still hope for an uneventful trip someday.

          This time it was Bob.  He was flying from California where we live, to visit his brother in Mississippi.  And, since it was a red-eye flight, he brought  along one of those travel pillows for your neck.

          Here is where you stop reading, if you are sharing this story with a child.  Because we all want children to be law-abiding citizens, right?  We like stories that show good guys getting dessert, let’s say, and bad guys getting their just desserts. We do not want kids thinking that the minute you obey a rule, your whole life goes down the toilet.

          And yet, here’s what happened.  Bob decided to curl up with his pillow and get a little shut-eye.  Except  there was an annoying tag-- the scratchy tag that tells you not to remove it.

          Well, all these mattress and pillow tags also say, if you read the fine print, that the consumer can remove it, so Bob does.  And whammo—the seam splits open and the tiny, styrofoam micro-beads inside explode into the airplane.

          They cover Bob.  They cover his seat.  They cover the floor, and they cover the passenger next to him.  The entire seating area now looks like a snow globe. 

          Not only that, but these Styrofoam balls stick to you because of static electricity, something exacerbated by dry air, and airplanes are notorious for the driest air you can find.  Bob apologizes to his mortified seatmate, and the two of them begin trying to scrape off the little balls, none of which want to budge.  Like burrs, they hunker down into the weave of these guys’ clothing, and even a sticky lint roller would probably not pull them off.

          A flight attendant brings a damp towel, but what you really need are eight or nine damp blankets.  It’s a total disaster, and other passengers nearby are scooting into empty seats a good distance away, because spreading into the aisle are clearly round, white cooties.

          Bob arrives looking like the abominable snowman, and no one will walk within ten feet of him.  His seatmate is still madly trying to brush off the stubborn little beads.  Bob calls me from the terminal and I laugh for twenty minutes and beg him to take pictures.  He will not.

          But I think the city of Jackson should have declared a Snow Day, and sent a TV reporter to interview Bob.  Then I could have posted a video as well.  Pity.

You can read about similar disasters in my novel, Sisters in the Mix, however.  One of them has a TV cooking show and OCD.  Guaranteed to liven up your summer.

Can't I Just Get to My Gate?

          Last time I told you I saw the Space Station up in the night sky, while I was in Orange County.  But getting to Orange County from Northern California, where I live, was another story (too bad I couldn’t have stowed away on the Space Station).

          You know the deal.  You get your boarding pass online, 24 hours before your flight.  You pack your bags.  You get St. Bob to take you to the airport.  At least I do. 

          And then, the minute St. Bob pulls away from the curb, trouble begins.  My bag, which I had weighed at home, has now magically gained 3 pounds.  The limit is 50 pounds and apparently it now weighs 51.  No big deal, right?  Wrong.  Unless I remove a pound of weight from the bag, I will be charged an additional $50.00.

          I resist sneering, “Yeah, that seems fair—fifty bucks for a one-pound item.”  And, if weight is a concern, why not weigh the passengers AND their bags to see the total we’re hauling down to Orange County, right?

          I open my bag and spread out my luggage for all to see, and remove a book, stashing it in my purse.  I fold it all up again, zip it, weigh it, and finally I’m headed to the security screening area.  I pull out the boarding pass I printed at home, but it won’t read.  “You might want to get a new printer,” the guy says. Then, like he’s reading xrays or something, announces, “You have breaks in your bar code.”  Well, heaven forbid he just type in the numbers.  No; I must traipse all the way across the terminal to a little monitor where I can type in my info and get the boarding pass that way.

          Finally I’m back.  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he says now.  “Your driver’s license expired last month.” 

          WHAT?!   “The DMV never sent me a notice,” I say.  He says the same thing happened to him—apparently they don’t do that anymore.  And, of course, I never look at my license because I had a bug on my lips when that picture was taken (blogged about that disaster here), so I had no idea it was approaching expiration.

          “But we have a grace period,” the fellow explains, and he lets me through.  Now it’s time to walk through the giant scanner where you hold your arms up like you’re being robbed at gunpoint.  And, of course, lights flash and buzzers ring like I’m wearing enough chains to qualify as a Jacob Marley Christmas Carol character.

          Apparently the Velcro wrap on my wrist for tendonitis, is the culprit.  I am escorted, under great suspicion, to a woman who rubs it with bomb powder-detecting strips.  She places the strips in what appears to be a strip analyzer and whew!  I pass. 

          I finally collapse into a chair at my gate and then realize that I will be coming home to an expired driver’s license.  So I call the DMV, and after ten minutes of speaking to recordings, I have an appointment for when I get back .  And just wait until I tell you about that adventure.  Next  time.  Stay tuned.

I hope you’ve ordered my latest novels.  Just keep them in your carry-on bag.