Tuesday, April 20, 2010

The Life & Times of Jinx Misfortune (a.k.a. Me)


1. A person or thing that is believed to bring bad luck.
2. A condition or period of bad luck that appears to have been caused by a specific person or thing.
3. Me.

I am fast coming to the disturbing realization I am a living curse to any sports team I support. Let’s look at the evidence:


I love the White Sox with a passion. I read anything and everything about them, even during the frigid months of winter. I could wear White Sox clothing every day of the week without donning the same item twice. If my wife cried out, “Oh, Mark Buehrle!!!” during a round of slap-and-tickle, I’d beat my chest with pride. I own White Sox furniture, for God’s sake.

On the first day of the season, I paced through my home for hours before the first pitch, and forced Patty to endure about 300 text messages with every play of the game (and most of the opening ceremonies, through which I cried a little bit).

So far this season, the Sox own a 4-9 record, their worst in 13 years. I’m starting to think my beloved team may finish with a 4-158 record. Why? Probably me.


I’m a Toronto Maple Leafs fan. They haven’t made the playoffs in five years. For as long as I’ve been a fan, they’ve either sucked or mostly sucked. Even diehard fans refer to them as the “Laffs” or the “Make-Beliefs”. I sometimes refer to them as, simply, "Those motherf***ing, good-for-nothing, piece of s*** a**holes."  Aloud, I leave out the asterisks.

Before I was born, the Leafs won the Cup twelve times. Since then? Once—two months after I was born—when I was too busy refining my diaper-filling technique to care about hockey. With the Leafs out of things (again), I’ve started to root for the Blackhawks in the playoffs. Sorry, Chicago.


I cheer for the Chicago Bears. I did not cheer for them in 1985. Lucky them.


I didn’t really follow the Bulls this year, so they made the playoffs. I tuned in for a few minutes of the first two playoff games—and the Cavaliers are up two games to zip. Ta-daa!

I, like the teams I root for, suck. The only comfort I can take in my ongoing sports nightmare is that the Cubs—for whom I hold no special warmth—aren’t doing much better than the Sox. Now that I’ve said that, though, they’ll probably win the World Series, the only good aspect of which will be my ability to find better White Sox gear on sale at T.J. Maxx.

Life’s funny that way. Why am I not laughing?


Monday, April 5, 2010

Ah, Poopy Puppy Love

Patty and our friend Cindy chatted on the phone the other night. This normally wouldn't be significant enough to report here. After all, the discussion usually falls into the category of what I affectionately call "girl blather" or " random, sports-impeding noise", and seldom ventures into my preferred "sexy talk".

This time was different. I clearly heard Patty end a sentence with “French kissing”. I turned down the TV (I had cranked the volume just seconds before in hopes of drowning out their voices, so Patty was actually yelling “FRENCH KISSING!!!”...which made it even hotter.) I asked Patty to put the call on speakerphone.

Cindy’s voice flooded the room.

"You're saying there's dozens of Facebook photos of your kid and his girlfriend making out? Ewww...

“Dozens. Maybe hundreds. If the photos of them slobbering all over each other weren’t enough to make a mom cringe, get this: there's a bunch of pictures of them kissing the dog. And each other, while they're kissing the dog.”

 Cindy: “You're lying. The dog? Really? They’re kissing the dog?”

Patty: "Yep. Kissing. The Dog."

Me: “On the dog's lips?”

I asked Patty to take the call off speakerphone. She would not.

Patty said, “Well, they say dogs have cleaner mouths than humans do.”

Cindy: “There’s no way a dog’s mouth is cleaner than a human mouth. Look at the shit they eat.”

 Me: “You mean like shit?”

The who’s-got-a-filthier-mouth debate between the gals almost became heated. I couldn’t understand why. Unless they were kicking around the idea of taking turns swapping spit with an Irish Setter (which, for reasons that unsettled me, seemed just a little sexy), did it really matter who won the argument?

From where I sit, I don’t care if a dog’s mouth is as sterile as an operating theater; there’s no good reason for me to probe it with my tongue, unless of course there's some way to get a buzz from the spit. Besides, sure as shit, I’d end up kissing the dog that tucked into a decomposing squirrel or well-filled diaper five minutes pre-kiss. It’s just not worth it, no matter how cute the dog—or how strong the temptation.

Still, I Googled. I needed to know.

Turns out, both dogs and humans have disgusting mouths—cesspools, really. We shouldn’t kiss dogs but, it turns out, we really shouldn’t kiss each other, either.

 As I researched a conclusive answer to this debate, I also learned:
  • With a little elbow grease and the right products, one can remove poop from wood floors, carpets, walls, ceilings and mattresses
  • People everywhere find countless varieties of “unknown” poop in their homes 
  • Insurance companies will sometimes pay a claim if you have a poop explosion in your house 
  • One should not eat poop (of any variety)
  • Parents aren't fond of pictures of their kids making out with pets, or each other
  • Poop sticks to parakeets’ feet
In case you were wondering…

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