I missed a golden opportunity over the holidays to write about something very important to me. Something that is a special part of my life.  And by “special” I mean “sucky.”  I used to think women were exaggerating about being “football widows.” Now I think, “AMATEUR.” 


(This was my expression through much of the holiday.)

I’ve been married for ten years. Every year is the same, yet I seem to block out the pain in blissful forgetfulness until it happens again. Each year I look forward to the 2 weeks of vacation I’ve hoarded so I can spend time at home, relaxing and enjoying some well deserved time off. 

And then reality strikes.

This vacation time is not about me.

It’s not about this celebratory time of year, the birth of Christ, the First Noel, Away in a Manager, family, togetherness, or even food.   

It’s about College Bowl Games.

It’s about a living room that is rearranged to accommodate two televisions and three men. Instead of Christmas carols, the house echos with the hum of the DVR, chanting crowds and achingly repetitive marching band horn sections.

Do you know how many Bowl Games there are?

I do.


Thirty-five games between December 21st and January 6.

Thirty-five games that my college football addicted husband HAS to watch.

He’s in nirvana.

Seriously. Who needs to watch the Valero Bowl? Russell Athletic Bowl? Franklin American Mortgage Music City Bowl?  WHO? 

It’s times like this I decide I am either the most boring, unattractive woman on the planet, unworthy of time or attention… or I am married to a crazy person. (I lean toward crazy because he says things like, “We’d spend plenty of time together if you’d sit and watch the games with me.”)

Right. That’s happening.

He DID participate in the actual Christmas morning and Christmas eve traditions. But other than that I didn’t really get to enjoy the pleasure of his company until January 5th, when there was just ONE conveniently timed game.

Between you and me, by then, I wasn’t sure that I even wanted his company any more.

Lucky me! We actually made it to breakfast and American Hustle before the GoDaddy Bowl.

So this is my official notice. I am NOT taking 2 weeks off during the holidays next year. As Pete Townshend says, “I won’t be fooled again.”

No. Next year, after the last whistle of the LAST bowl game of the season, I will return to my home where I will re-introduce myself to my husband and pry the remote control from his death-grip.

And I will enjoy two weeks at home without football.

Just in time for the Super Bowl pre-pre-pre-game shows.

* Disclaimer: I DID watch the BCS National Championship and it WAS exciting. Maybe that’s because it was the last one of the season and I was drinking champagne.

Happy New Year, everyone!




Today’s LetsBlogOff asks, “What is home?”

Boy, has this changed for me.  “Home” has gone from “BEFORE” – an apartment with me and my dog (late, great, adorable beagle/basset Stella), to “AFTER” – a house with my husband and stepsons. (And the emergency replacement basset, Daisy.)

Home is where:

I could watch whatever I wanted on TV.

My husband could “accidentally” delete my DVR recordings to make room for every college football game anyone ever even thought about playing.

My kitchen sink was typically empty and dried with a paper towel to eliminate drips and spots. (Just the way mom used to do it.)

Every time I walk into the kitchen I find another glass, knife, fork, spoon and/or dish in the sink. And a sopping wet sponge. EVERY TIME.  I blame my mother- in-law.  (Sorry, Didi. Love you. But really??) For some reason the boys (and hubby) were never allowed to open the dishwasher and place items inside. When I was first married and tried to “take this hill,” they (the boys) insisted items in the sink made a house look “lived in.” Apparently that is supposed to be a good thing. Whereas my life was spent trying to make a house NOT look lived in, but to look photograph-ready.

I could feast on a dinner of appetizers every night. Cheese & crackers Monday.  Cold shrimp Tuesday, Taquito Wednesday…  I kept my weight in check and grocery bills down.

Dinner involves an entrée, 2 sides and often the appetizer that used to be my whole meal. Plus, for some reason, boys who ask “What are we having for dinner?” are not happy when the response is, “I’m having an apple and some cheese and crackers. I don’t know what YOU’RE having.”

On the flip side, more often than not, it is hubby who is cooking the too large and complex dinner. I’m just the idiot who eats it and then feels terrible because I just ate a steak and baked potato at 8:45 PM.

I could go on and on… but I won’t. Thank your lucky stars I am at the end of lunchtime again.

But in summary, my answer to the question: “What is home?” is apparently, “Where the boys are.”

Dramatic sigh.

Hogging the TV, making messes that amplify the “lived in” look we were SO not going for, and tempting me with too much food that I normally would not even consider purchasing, much less consuming. (Thank goodness most of the junk food gets eaten before I am even fully aware it’s available.)

It’s also where I am never allowed to take out the trash myself, where the yard work is “men’s business,” and I always have someone who knows the score of the game.  ANY game.  I can also occasionally get a neck rub, an awesome old-fashioned, and a really good steak (medium rare).

 For other takes on the What is home? topic, please click here.


I got into work today and opened my email to find a message from the North Texas Basset Hound Rescue.  I LOVE the NTBHR because they are the ones who helped bring Robert and me out of the depth of despair following the loss of our beagle/basset by introducing us to Daisy.

So, anyway, the message is titled Favorite breed alert.  I open it and find a link that takes me to this:

This, my friends, is Bacon.  Yes, Bacon.  Isn’t that fantastic!!  One, he’s adorable, and two, he’s named after one of my favorite foods.  So, of course, I’m excited and thinking this is FATE, and this is the doggy brother we are supposed to adopt for Daisy; the one who will keep her company while we’re away and such.  Side note:  My hubby has been against the two dog concept from the get-go, but I think having a buddy to hang out with will help relieve Daisy’s anxiety about being home alone.  (Not to mention  MY anxiety and guilt about leaving her home alone.)  Did I mention I never had children of my own? Yeah. This is the result.

Well, I quickly shoot off an email with that adorable picture to my hubby saying “Look!  Bacon!! He’s up for adoption!” Hubby quickly responded with a brisk and spirit crushing, “No boys.”

No boys??  No boys??! Uhm, excuse me, but where would we be if I had turned to him eight years ago when he introduced me to his TWO boys – aged 8 and 11 – and said, “Oh, sorry.  No boys.”


“Sorry, Mister, but I have a strict ‘no boy’ policy. Please step out of the dating pool.”

In hindsight, I may wonder sometimes why I didn’t consider a no boy policy, but the point is I DIDN’T.  And for a good while  – and still to this day – I can be really frustrated and confused and oftentimes aromatically assaulted as I adjust to the whole BOY thing.  So why does hubby get off scot-free?  Why is he so anti boy?  ANTI BACON, even?  

He says boys lift their legs on things.  That may be the only thing our boys haven’t done to our furniture.  (Just kidding.)  (Not really. I’m serious.) And besides that, house trained is house trained. Bacon would never think of doing such a thing.  I can tell.  He’d fit right in with our current level of male conscientiousness around the house. Plus, he won’t leave a refrigerator door hanging open or forget to rinse his dishes.

And his name is BACON.  AND he looks like this on a floaty in the pool:

I WANT him. Who could NOT want him?

Mmmmmm, Bacon. 

Click here for info on Bacon!