Thursday, October 21, 2010

Favre-Well, Brett

When I was 18 years old I fell deeply in love with an older man.  He was filled with excitement about life and his career, and his enthusiasm was infectious.  I fell under his spell after seeing him only once on a cold December afternoon.  I'll never forget turning to the little boy I was babysitting for and saying, "Whoa, who's that?"  My heart thumped in my chest and I felt light-headed.

"That's Brett Favre, duh," said the charming little moppet.  I was hooked.

I can't even tell you the derision I faced because of my love for Brett.  My family, devout Bears fans, was shocked and appalled by my Favre jersey, not to mention my Brett Favre ornament.  I traveled to Wisconsin to see him play a game at home and down to Miami to see him play the Dolphins.  I can quote his scene from "There's Something About Mary" word for word.  

In 2006, I went downtown to Neimen Marcus  to see Brett Favre make an appearance for Sensodyne toothpaste.  Oh, the things we do for love (me) and money (Brett).

We made direct eye contact twice, and I felt incredibly guilty when I saw his wife in the crowd (because as we've established, I'm crazy and have more Catholic guilt than pores). 

I forgave him his faults and foibles and interceptions and loved him unconditionally, even when he signed with the Vikings, my 32nd favorite team in the NFL.  The retirement sagas of the past few years were rough, but still, I defended him and cheered for him and slept in my faded Favre jersey.

But now... penis-gate.  (I know my mom is cringing right now because she thinks I'm going to talk about the disappointingly small size of Brett Favre's penis.  Don't worry, Mom!  I won't do that!)  

Seriously, how frickin gross is that?  Some older guy hits on a woman he works with, she doesn't respond to his advances so he sends peener pics to her phone?  I'm sorry, but my women's studies minor and my common sense won't let me call that anything other than sexual harassment and creepy, icky, lecherous behavior.

At first it was funny, just because so many people who knew about my love of Mr. Favre sent me the pictures, and I admit there was some, uh, curiosity on my part about that whole area of his anatomy.  But now, ick.  I am grossed out even seeing him on the sidelines.  I'm embarrassed for his family and for any of the ladies he sent "little gifts" to, and yeah, the little there means exactly what you think it means. 

So I am finally over my crush on Brett Favre, 14 years after it started.  I can't support someone who does something like that.  Plus, he never texted anything to me, even after the restraining order expired!

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Pretty Much Got Nothin' Today

Nothing makes you feel like a bigger failure in your career than opening a magazine devoted to your field and seeing this ad:

Whoa.  I am still at the point in life where I think I'm doing okay because I don't worry about spending too much money at the grocery store and people in my field are concerned about private jet travel options?  I am doing something wrong.  For the record, this was the first time I had ever actually opened the magazine, which is sent to my house for free and has been coming since 2005.  Maybe that's what I'm doing wrong!

I was at my mom's house last week and ended up scanning a bunch of old pictures.  Doesn't this one look like it was destined to be on a missing person's poster or a milk carton at some point?

Sadly I still have the same hairdo. 

Wednesday, October 13, 2010


Oh man, I have been absolutely glued to the TV watching the live rescues of the 33 trapped miners in Chile.  Just looking at that hole and the contraption that the rescue workers willingly stepped into to ride a half mile into the earth gives me the heebie jeebies.  Amazing.  They are braver people than me.

CNN really patted themselves on the back a lot last night, praising the rescue as "the ultimate live shot" and  the best event on TV since the moon landing.  Not that I don't agree, but they did have their moments of D'oh, mostly involving Larry King.  This was my favorite.

Talk about expert reporting and super sources!  I've been to the coal mine at the Museum of Science and Industry.  CNN should interview me next!

In the eleven hours of coverage I watched (I kind of wish I were kidding), they talked a lot about the miners possibly suffering Vitamin D deficiencies from lack of sunlight.  My ears perked up because my doctors have just found that I have a really low level of Vitamin D.  Interestingly enough (at least to me, bear with me, people) is that they think it's because of the high SPF sunscreen I have to wear because of my Vitilligo.  Also I don't eat yogurt because I can't get past the fact that it's alive (7.5 yrs old mentally, I agree) and I don't eat egg yolks because of the color.  It's like my whole life ganged up on me in order to make me have a Vitamin D deficiency and suffer depression because of it.  Heavy sigh.

Anyway, I am feeling a lot better.  I think actually sleeping has had a lot to do with it, but who knows, maybe this Vitamin D theory could be on to something.  I've been using my full-spectrum sun lamp and watching a lot of "Friday Night Lights: Season 4," so that could be helping too.

The bottom line is that I'm no longer crying for no reason in the shower or laying in bed for days at a time!  Yay baby steps.  Please keep your fingers crossed that I continue to tiptoe out of all of this, if nothing else then because I'm sure you're sick of reading about it.

And yes, I did just sort of kind of compare the 33 men who make $12K a year doing a horribly dangerous job and who were trapped in a mine for 69 days to my terrible Vitamin D deficiency due to my SPF 100 sunscreen.  First world problems, I have them.

Monday, October 11, 2010

A Marathon, Not Even Involving "Real Housewives"

The Chicago Marathon runs right past my condo.  This is nice because I can watch people struggle, spit, drop crumbled water cups and generally wish they were dead from the comfort of my own balcony while sipping a Diet Coke and wearing Christmas slippers.  I will say that the marathon is extremely difficult to sleep through, particularly when you have a mentally ill dog who shakes repeatedly and pees from fear as thousands of people run past his safe haven.

This year I was up very early, because I had some people to cheer for as they bizarrely undertook running for 26 miles in a race that they knew they wouldn't win.

My sister Kerry has wonderful friends, and two of them, Sarah Rodriguez and Renee Woods, ran the Chicago marathon in order to raise funds for Lyme Disease research.  Kerry and I got up at the crack of dawn, early enough to cheer on the leaders, the guys who run 26 miles in the time it takes to watch 2/3 of "Titanic."

There were some extremely interesting runners, but my favorite was this fella.  It takes a big commitment to being entertaining to run so far in this getup.

Both Sarah and Renee finished the race, thereby accomplishing something I will never, ever do.  

Congrats to these ladies and thank you both for being such wonderful friends to my sister.  Thanks for raising awareness for Lyme Disease and for making the rest of us look lazy and goal-less.

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

Desert Dessert

I just got yelled at on the phone by my mom for not writing here in the last few days.  It's embarrassing to get chastened by someone who shaves her eyebrows instead of plucking them and has eaten over two tons of peanut M&M's in her lifetime, so I figured I'd better get my butt in gear and post something before she shows up at my door with her best friend, White Merlot $5 wine.

Sorry for the radio silence on this end.  Palm Springs was beautiful and relaxing, just what the doctor ordered. 

We basically sat around the pool and read books and laughed, three of my favorite activities. 

Palm Springs was having a heat wave while we were there and temperatures reached 115 degrees.  My cousin Missy determined that this might be a sign that an earthquake was imminent.  She scoured the internet for earthquake warnings and told us all about fault lines nearby.  Finally, I asked her to knock it off.  She sighed, said, "Okay," and promptly googled "serial killers coachella valley."  See, insanity is genetic!

One night, we went out and watched the Bears game at a sports bar nearby.  It was in the glory days when we thought the Bears might actually make something of this season, and they miraculously squeezed out a win.  We went back to the hotel and went swimming.  Missy challenged me to a handstand contest, and I admit that she won but only because she purposely made splashing noises under the water, making me think she had surfaced.  It seems borderline cheaty to me, but I don't make the Official Rules of Handstand Contests.  I did beat her in walking on my hands across the bottom of the pool, and the five inches I have on her helped me beat her in a swimming race, but it's safe to say the competition was fierce.

She proposed we have a Dead Man's Float contest and that our friend Brie would judge who did the best job.  It seemed a little boring to me but I am not one to back off from a challenge.  I immediately began floating on my back, drifting into the deep end and marveling at the stars above me.  A minute later I heard splashing sounds and saw Missy trying to catch her breath.

"What?  Why are you on your back?  That's not the Dead Man's Float!"

Apparently, I was supposed to be floating face down, and the contest was more about holding your breath than floating with style.  You learn something new every day, truly.