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

jinx

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:

Baseball:

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.

Hockey:

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.

Football:

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

Basketball:

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!

Conclusion:
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?

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…

So Cute I Could Eat Your Whole Face

“You know, ferrets like to eat babies’ faces.”

My attention had drifted away from Patty’s conversation with her sister and brother-in-law. For the past half-hour of our visit to their home, all I caught was “nothing, nothing, Brian, nothing, you’re not, nothing, listening.” I missed nothing. This juicy rodent-shaped morsel beckoned me back.

“Go on…?”

Already, the seeds of a kids’ story were taking root in my brain. For a working title, I chose The Ferret Fancies Sally. This rolled off the tongue with greater ease than my initial idea—Mr. Ferret Bores an Angry Hole Through a Tiny Head—which seemed a touch wordy for a children’s title.

Patty added, “It’s true. Ferrets will just gnaw straight through.” Kathleen then added, “I bet a lot of parents don’t like to keep ferrets around because of this.” I was glad she tacked this on, because it’s the sort of anomaly that catches one by surprise—like, “Good moms don’t let toddlers play with food processors,” or “Two of three dentists agree it’s unwise to clean a loaded gun with your mouth.”

We were half-watching Fatal Attractions, a new show about animal lovers who convinced themselves tigers and giant lizards made good stand-ins for lap dogs, and later had "Oops...who knew?" moments. I had little desire to watch TV, but after my sister-in-law tossed out the farm-themed tablecloth in which, on a previous visit, I pointed out numerous dildos disguised as grain silos, I lacked ready conversation starters.

(I’m not a betting man, but my guess is my brother-in-law sprung for a new tablecloth rather than eat his dinner each night on a sea of provincial but prosthetic dongs. Mission accomplished. So we watched TV while I tried to conjure other ways to make my hosts insecure about their home accessories. But I digress...)

These true-life stories are heart-rending and tragic—but in a nice way. To my mind, if you think a black panther is a more trustworthy companion than a golden retriever, you (a) have a gambling problem, and (b) are blog-worthy. In my upcoming book, I started a chapter by fondly recalling the violent death of Timothy Treadwell, who did the world a huge solid when he tried everything short of bathing in beef broth to make sure grizzly bears saw him as lunch. It worked.

I paid attention to a particularly harrowing segment about a woman so ripped up by a chimp that police thought she was a ripped-up man. Through the screams of both chimp and man-woman, the caller shrieked to the 911 dispatcher, “Kill him. It don’t matter. It don’t matter.” On the screen, subtitles mirrored this message.

My sister-in-law gasped. I also gasped. I said, “I know, right? She should have said, ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Silly goose.”

A victim of another chimp attack removed his latex nose from his face (his real nose in the stomach of said chimp). This was cool, but I wondered where he had purchased his new “nose”, which in no way matched his skin tone. If a chimp munched off my schnozz, I’d have fun with my predicament. I’d buy something from Party City, like a clown’s nose or crocodile’s snout. That way, I could entertain young children who, upon pulling the nose away, would scream themselves to sleep every night through adolescence. After this, just TRY to tap the little gaffer on the nose and say "boop". Priceless.

I laughed and laughed at the funny people and their dangerous pets— and then came the part about genitals.

It would seem that chimps, when attacking, peel off the victim’s face, then hands, then feet. This, I believe, is unfortunate. The chimps then rip off and consume the genitals. This, I believe, is most unfortunate, especially since Party City doesn’t sell good stand-ins other than balloons, which would seem like showing off.

A short time later, as we said our goodbyes, I made a mental note. On my next visit, I would present my sister-in-law with my undivided attention—that, and a shiny new, conversation-provoking tablecloth.

My first-ever guest post!

I wrote my first-ever guest post this morning, for Cajun Book Lady . Please check it out when you have a chance! It's not every day one makes someone spit their energy drink all over their computer.

Cheers,
Brian