It went like this:
The Family not including me: “Coraline’s birthday is this week.”
Me: “K.”
The Family not including me: “What are we going to do?”
Me: <shrugs, narrows eyes, pauses, returns to whatever else I was doing.>
The Family not including me: “You’re so mean.”
Me: <shrugs, narrows eyes, pauses, returns back to whatever I was doing.>
This scene happens more than once. In fact . . . It’s quite a familiar scene, even in those moments when there’s not a cat birthday to celebrate.
It occurs before most weekends too.
It happens a lot around those holidays I don’t give much thought to. Halloween in particular cause that’s a dress up holiday and I don’t dress up.
Boo me.
Anyway, so for a joke, on October 21st, 2019, I went and made a cake for the cat’s birthday.
Not to sound coarse, I love my cat. She’d be the second thing I’d think to rescue if the house was on fire. (I’ll leave you to decide if my wife or my children would come first).
I love a reason to have cake and drink whiskey.
It turns out however, there was something unsettling about making a cake for a cat.
Which made the joke, much much, much funnier.
It was a double layered chocolate cake with cream cheese frosting.
Someone pointed out that I’d never actually made a cake for my wife or my children.
Which, again, made the joke much much, much funnier.
Anyway.
Joann took a picture of the cake and it went viral.
This year, to keep the joke running, I made another cake. Red velvet with cream cheese frosting. It was good. Life is good.
Joann gotta several pictures of me holding up the cat in front of the cake. Those too went viral. We’re living in the good times.
Two days earlier, October 21st 2020 had been a big day for me. I sold my second novel to a mom and pop publisher up in Eugene, Oregon, and signed a three book narration deal through my first Guild contract. I’m sure that means nothing to you, but in football speak, it’s like being drafted by the New York Jets. Not a major change from college ball, and you’re gonna get hit in the face a lot, but your salary just quintupled.
Gonna buy a lot of cake in 2021.
Anyway, on October 23rd, 2020 I was making cake and in the mood to really celebrate. It was Friday afternoon and I didn’t have a lot to do.
I probably should have sat my ass down and written last week’s post, but I’d decided early in the week to take a Bye.
I was a little overwhelmed.
Forgive me.
Anyway, I took the afternoon off and went to Trader Joe’s to get some wine and a nice bouquet of flowers for the wife for being such a tremendous support to me all these years, and plenty more in the future.
I saw lillies and couldn’t resist.
The football equivalent of Lillies would be like Jimmy Garapolo . . . They’re pretty, they smell nice, your wife seems to like them, and they’re only gonna last two quarters against Miami’s defense.
Now, again, it was October 23rd, 2020, there was a cake baking in the oven and I was returning home with a bag full of wine and flowers . . . And get this . . . My wife thought the flowers were for the cat.
Like I was really capable of pushing the joke that far.
Kudos to her . . . I am . . . But still.
The cat can’t have flowers. She eats them. Or pushes the vases off the counters and onto the floors. Cats can’t have flowers, which means, neither can we. For the most part.
However, there is one place we can have flowers where the cat seems uninterested in destroying them, and that’s our master bathroom.
However, it also turns out, my wife is slightly allergic to the potent fragrance of the beautiful lillies the way The New York Giants are allergic to offense. (I mean they can breathe and all, but it’s a struggle.)
She’s so stuffed up that she almost wouldn’t be able to play quarterback for the Cowboys. Almost.
The gal can take some serious helmet to helmet and still stay on her feet.
That last sentence is the dirtiest thing I’ve ever written.
There’s also a Red Rocket joke I considered, but again, this is a family show.
But she loves her lillies, and refuses to let me put them outside. So the sneezes and the coughs and ear-aches continue.
This might be her BYE week as last week was mine.
But as we swing on over to the fantasy football side of things, BYE weeks aren’t the nice quiet, streaming Netflix in between naps kinda situation.
No, BYE weeks seem to come out of nowhere and wreak havoc on the unaware and those, much like me, that play week to week because of injuries and bad decisions.
I’m playing a rookie running back on the Jets . . . And I’m glad to have him.
I’m playing a rookie running back on the Eagles . . . His name is Boston . . . I have a feeling he’s not going to end the game like last week with a surprise 18 yard touch down.
Well . . . It’s ‘More Than a feeling.”
That was a Boston joke.
The Band . . . Not the city.
I’ve got nothing against the city. Though my wife did ask the room last week if we can start rooting for the Patriots now that Tom Brady was no longer their quarterback.
The room answered "no."
Now we get to hate the Tampa Bay Buccaneers too.
Funny circle . . . The fictional character I’ll be voicing in this next set of novels was a star line-backer for the Tampa Bay Buccaneers five or so years ago.
Which would make me Lavonte David.
Imagine me . . . Lavonte David . . . ‘cept you know . . . Short, white, and now a winery owner in the northern part of Georgia in the foothills of the Blue Mountain Range, who left football after a devastating head injury, and is just not ready to fall in love with a food blogger from South Carolina who hates his guts because he was rude to her once.
I get to spend the next 72 hours in the studio speaking in a southern drawl.
Which I guess is a lot like being in the concussion protocol.
Beats last week, when I was an Australian Fire Demon with a penchant for onesies.
The Niners could really use that guy at running back.
Anyway, short story long, these last few BYE weeks are gonna be tough.
Not “rooting for the Cowboys” tough, or playing a running back on the Jets tough, or realizing that your wife thinks you bought flowers for the cat tough, but, you know, tough.
WHAT TO WATCH
So last time around, with everyone safe and sound, the thing to watch for was the big shift, the moment when we start to consider if our teams have a good chance, or if they don’t have a good chance.
In twelve team leagues it’s like the top four, the middle four, and the bottom four.
The top four sits pretty, licking chops, or whatever it is you people lick, and picking up a few lottery tickets getting ready for the playoffs.
The middle four start to sweat, cross their fingers that their guys come back from injury, that their quarterbacks do something special, that their kickers have monster weeks.
The bottom four, well, panic people. Start throwing lawn darts at your neighbors’ kids. Anything to liven up that score.
I, as just about every year, am in the middle four. Just good enough to hope, just bad enough to realize that I can’t quit my day job and write this column for the general public, because no one would take me seriously.
And they’d be right.
This week let us watch for the feel good stories.
Let us watch for the glimmers of hope that become full blown dawns.
This is week eight in the fantasy football schedule, and by the end of week nine we will be in the beginning days of a different world era.
If you think I’m being hyperbolic . . . Don’t pick up a newspaper . . . Just continue to live the life you’ve been living up until now . . . Frankly I’m a little bit jealous . . . If not totally mortified.
So let us NeverNeverLand the hell out of this next week.
Let’s give Adam Gase and the Jets a win. Let’s give the Cowboys a surprise foundational quarterback. Let’s put on our Boston albums and “Don’t Look Back.”
FANTASYLAND:
The Commish 3-4 (8th place)
Karen’s Handful 4-3 (6th place)
Let us just say, that I am not projected to win at all this week.
Like the Algorithm looked at my teams and went “Nahhhhh.”
Though I will say this, since it is silver lining week here in Fantasyland, there is every chance in a crazy universe that Coleman comes back from Injured Reserve and gives me a reasonable stat line, or that Derek Carr really does have the juice that my lost and forgotten Cam Newton just didn’t seem to have.
If you’ll remember I was begging Mr. Steve to trade Cam Newton to me a few weeks back, but unlike George in “Of Mice and Men” he just couldn’t pull the trigger.
I even told him about the bunny rabbits.
Still, no go, my luck.
Cam hasn’t been good. But I did have him in my other league to take over for my Watson, specifically for this week, but I chickened out on the possible miracle that is Belechick when the cards are bad, and dropped Cam for Carr.
Whoever you are that picks up Cam and has a monster week, you’re welcome. That type of luck is not meant for me. I don’t know why.
So it’s lookin bad this week.
Going up against teams that are either at the top of the leader board, or sitting in fifth place with the highest point total in the league.
Either way . . . We’re debuting our signature IPA on Sunday . . . And my bathroom smells like lillies.
Short Scene before Thursday Night Kickoff:
"I'm not sure." she said.
"About what?" I say.
"I can't decide between cutie patootie <Justin Herbert> or my money guy <Lamar Jackson>"
"Well Lamar's going up against Pittsburgh."
"And that's bad?"
"That's bad."
"But he's slated for more points."
"Yes he is."
"What do I do?"
"Honestly . . . your guess is as good as mine."
"Don't you want me to win?"
"No . . . no I don't."
"Don't you want me to kick your brother's ass?"
"Text your sister."
CRAZY STUPID PREDICTIONS LAST BLOG
Tubba Thor (my wife) wins. (Sorta, she lost, she won, she’s 7th place to my 8th)
Dad sticks with Ertz and regrets it. (He did, he doesn’t)
Adam gets his win (Awe yeah, he gets two, 6th place with a bullet)
Buccaneers and Packers game is a draw. (Awe no, Brady gets the GOAT, Rodgers has to spend the next 72 hours speaking in a southern drawl even though he’s from Chico, CA., maybe it’s the concussion.)
CRAZY STUPID PREDICTIONS FOR NEXT BLOG
It’s a Kickers Week: Crosby, Koo, and Nash win me some games
Lavonte David has a great game, but it doesn’t help Will at all.
Allen Robinson gets out of concussion protocol and begins speaking with an Australian accent.
I bring home onion dip and the wife thinks it’s for the cat.
Our new IPA is delicious, and we polish off the keg before checking the news.
Well that’ll wrap it up. Good luck everyone. Eat some cake.
No comments:
Post a Comment