Sportishly Frustrated

Fall is here, and that means Football.
No, not the cool kind of football they play in EVERY OTHER COUNTRY with the little black and white ball, goalies and the like. That I could get into.
No, the American kind.

The kind we Americans, apparently, are supposed to bleed.
Fall is our favorite season, apparently, because strong, speedy men in tight pants and plastic body armor are going to chase an oblong ball made of pigskin.

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I like to tell my husband that, while I love my country, I'm not really an American . . . somehow . . . I prefer tea to coffee, dislike barbeque sauce and barbeque sauce-covered foods, and I like soccer . . . REAL football. No, I'm not as avid as follower as I should be, but soccer just makes sense.
You kick the ball between two goals, goalies try to keep you from doing just that, and each goal is worth one point. Simple, to the point, and let's be honest: soccer is awesome.
Can I just say I hate calling it soccer? I really, really do. It SHOULD be called "football" because that makes sense.
But not here, not in the US of A. -_-

American football . . . Well . . . Let me give you this conversation to demonstrate:

Chris and I are eating brunch at our favorite little breakfast spot in town, and he tosses a piece of paper into my empty tea cup. "Touchdown!" I exclaim. "Or . . . goal . . . Or something . . . How do you actually make a touchdown?"
Chris pauses and gives me that bright-eyed smirking look that tells me he is, momentarily, going to be tremendously entertained. "How do YOU think you make a touchdown?"

"Well . . . it's something about . . . Well, there's the end of the field . . . and the dude runs towards it with the ball, and then he throws it on the ground and jumps around all excited. Or, do they kick it sometimes? I feel like they kick it towards the fork sometimes--"
"THE FORK?!"
"I can't remember what it's called!"
"THE FORK?!?"
"I know that's not it's name--"
"Shhh! Stop talking. I don't like sports, and even I'm embarrassed for you right now. The fork . . . bahahahaha!"

And I know it's called the goalpost, people. I do. I just couldn't remember right then and I was holding a fork, okay?
Cool. We got that cleared up.

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Then there's the whole team rivalry thing.
Technically, Chris and I should be a house divided. No, really. His parents and sisters BLEED blue and orange (Florida Gators) while mine were pretty committed FSU fans. Rival schools.
I mean, really, it's the Montagues and Capulets, people.
Sometimes.
On occasion.
In some small extremist circles.
For Chris's father, it's pretty DANG serious so it could have been. We've just made a solemn vow NEVER to bring up football with both sets of parents in the room. Steve's opinion of my upbringing could be forever marred.
Maybe I'm being dramatic, but what else is new?

As it turns out, neither Chris nor I are into the sport . . . Sometimes, I try, but, yeah just not into it. Chris doesn't even care to try. He gave up on the enjoyment of athletics a loooong time ago. He doesn't even care for the Olympics, and that is one thing we will never agree upon. I love the Olympics. :] WHOO-HOO!!!

And yet, somehow, we managed to plan our wedding in a manner that hinted that we cared IMMENSELY about football and its fans.
Apparently, there was some HUGE Gator game going on either the weekend before or after our wedding, and his father and sister were singing our praises because, unlike Chris's other sister, we revered the game day and left it sacred, unmarred by nuptials. There was none of this sneaking text updates or streaming or radio listening during our wedding and reception. No suspense for game lovers. Because there was no game. There were several people who congratulated us not just on our blessed union but "Oh my gosh! Thank you SO MUCH for planning on a non-game day! THANK YOU!!! You're awesome!"
I'm not even kidding.

Honestly, my parents had a vacation planned the next weekend, and we were working around that so . . . Yeah, no one needs to REALLY know that, do they? I'll take being a family football hero just this once. Thank you.

Because, I'll be honest: I'm in it for the parties.
Football party food is AWESOME.
I don't care who plays in the Superbowl. I'll watch the game just for a few minutes just to LOOK like I belong, but, really, I'm in it for the chips and dip. I'm like an undercover cop or something, infiltrating the enemy to access the goods. "Oh, yeah, sure I'm cheering for ____! They're the best! Booo other team, you jerks! Now where are the chips? MISSION ACCOMPLISHED. Oh, thank God. SO GOOD."
They're totally worth being bored and confused for hours while the room around me rages with tension and testosterone. Yep, totally worth it.

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And we're not just talking chips and salsa people.
These are culinary creations that ONLY appear during football season. ONLY
It's like some rare migratory bird that takes your breath away the moment it soars overhead.
That is the glory of the football season chip dip.
SO GOOD.

I like big chips, and I cannot lie.

Though, I suppose, if I'm going to call soccer "football," I should call chips "crisps," right?
In that case: I like big crisps, and I cannot lie.
There, better.

Dear Facebook: Blogtember Prompt

Okay, so, you'll notice I'm not a faithful Blogtember follower.
Maybe I should have been, but at this point, we're just picking and choosing, peeps.
And this prompt, this "Write an antonymous letter to your FB pals," THIS I like.

Because, let's be honest, we all have a little Facebook angst now and again, am I right?
But, of course, we're such good facebookers, we're not honest about it . . . RIGHT? Or is that just me? Biting my tongue on the internet the same way I bite it in person because it's not any of my bloody business?

Maybe.

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Dear old buddies, old pals of mine: 

• I LOVE it when you post pictures.
  I really do. I like seeing your lives and your joys and all of that. I like staying connected. Most of you are REALLY AWESOME photographers. You have adorable kids, cute animals, great fashion sense. Some of you are into fitness and post pictures of your progress and WOW! You're awesome. I love witnessing this from afar and cheering you on.
  But, let's face it, when you post a bazillion selfies, tagging things like #glutesalute. #sohot, and #ducklips, am I not supposed to be a little puzzled?
  What the crap is a glute salute anyways?

•  Be real.
  If you're having a rough day, let Facebook know. If you're going through something hard or you're sick or just really down in the dumps, tell us. We'll encourage you and pray for you and everything. Be real.  Still, there's this balance between posting perfection and nothing but complaints. No one likes a Debbie Downer or a Perfect,Perky  Petunia (is that a thing or did I just make that up? Can it be a thing?)

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• Be careful about your kids
  I love seeing pics of your kiddos. They're adorable, and it's fun.
  Sometimes, a picture of your bundles of joy every two hours is a little much, but, hey, I get it, they're adorable, and who wouldn't want to see all of that cuteness all over their wall?
  But please be careful.
  Those rampant complaints about your child? Not cool. Sure, EVERYONE has a bad day or even a really rough streak (Terribly Twos, anyone?), but, one day, your child may find that post. Okay, Maybe not your toddler, but your pubescent preteen might.Sure, we all have a right to complain now and again, but, if that person finds that post, how will you feel? Embarrassed? Justified? How? Always think twice before you post.
  I can preach this from experience: imagine eighteen-year-old me, leaving home for college, complaining about my parents, and then my mom finding those blog posts.
  Um, most awkward Thanksgiving EVER.
  Ever, people. EVER.
  

•  Teens, I'm sorry he doesn't love you, but you'll have a new crush next week.
  Seriously honeys, it's not the end of the world. Been there, done that, and in my old age all I can do is roll my eyes.
  You're twelve. Those butterflies and giggles you get when he walks in a room? Not soul-matching, universe-singing true love. That's crush, sweetheart, and sorry, but there will be lots of those over the next few years.
  And don't rush it.
  I reiterate: YOU'RE TWELVE. Okay, maybe some of you are sixteen. That's just more drama than you already have or need.
  Hormones. Gah. Boo. Yuck.
  

• Oh my gosh with the politics already! Or campaigns for organic or the evils of vaccinations or whatever platform you claim . . .
  I believe in being informed and having an opinion. I believe in doing research and finding a cause and a passion. I do. I have causes and beliefs and research I believe in--causes, opinions, and research I will, on occasion, share on my wall. I think it's awesome that we can do that and that it allows us to educate each other. It's fabulous.
  But there comes a line, people. A line where it suddenly becomes too much; where it goes from proclamation to screaming, from information to a sermon, and it doesn't soften my heart towards your position. It fact, it hardens it. I stop reading and thinking and instead just roll my eyes. Here they go again, for the twelfth time today, another post on ____. BLAH.
  Why? Because sometimes it's too much or it's too mean (has anyone else noticed how BRUTAL people become when you post politics??? Oh, laaaaawdy). 
  I love that social media like Facebook allows us to share things we find important, but doing the same, harsh, belittling, or fearful ranting over and over and over again only makes me more indifferent to your cause. Instead, post a few strong, well-presented articles or videos.  Having one wonderful post/link proclaiming your cause is better than beating my wall to death with dozens of lousy posts. 

Just a thought.

Do I sound like a dreadful person?

I probably do.
 
I'm very nice, usually, I promise . . .

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Pinnacles Round 2 (aka Photography Attempts Post Due to Brain Fart)

Good grief . . . It's been almost a week since I posted. AND visited your lovely blogs!
GASP!!!
Shame on me.
Seriously.

Sometimes, time just runs away from you. Honestly, I can't remember what I did this week. I really can't.
I was sick, and then . . . then what? I have no idea. Does that make me sound like I was black-out drunk or lost time in an opium den? Because, I swear to you on my honor and Pipkin's dinner that was so NOT the case. Nope. Not even a little.
I'm not nearly that exhilaratingly scandalous.
Seriously, for me, scandalous is wearing high heels and sneaking my dog bits of corn chips.
We're not high on excitement over here . . .
Though it is Brewfest on World of Warcraft--that's exciting, right? RIGHT?!?!
Oh, god, I need a life.


In other news, because I'd like to . . . Here are some pictures from our most recent Pinnacles hike (yeah, it's going to totally become a thing--we just love it).

Now, I'm going to enjoy the first batch of rain I've seen here since April. I'm not used to not having rain . . . or not having rain that's attached to a mighty thunderstorm. This could take some getting used to . . .

See that cliff? That sheer drop off in three directions?
Chris tried to get me to climb out there. I got about ten feet form the edge, and went NO. Hell could freeze over faster than I would scuttle out there with certain death on either side.
To my left: a slanted rise, no real grips. To my right: rounded stone, very smooth. CERTAIN DEATH, PEOPLE.
So he walked me back to solid ground and then hiked out to the edge alone per my mother's request for a cool picture.
He later admitted it was a bad idea because the openness, the "If I tilt to far to the left/right/forward, lose my footing even a little, I WILL fall" made him dizzy.
So there will be no more of that, please and thank you.

 

So, yeah, you should totally visit Pinnacles.
I can't wait until it's springtime and things start blooming. It will be GORGEOUS.

Have an awesome weekend, loves!