Tuesday, August 30, 2011


If you’ve ever had a roommate, then you know it can be tricky when one of you has a boyfriend or girlfriend.

The goal is to figure out how to share your space (and bed) with someone you like while trying to be as little of an inconvenience to your roommate as possible.

This includes not having him/her shower when your roommate is sweaty and waiting, not having him leave his (skidmarked) boxer briefs in the dryer, and not invite him to come over when you aren’t there.

My friend Natalie was paired up with a roommate in the college dorm whose boyfriend, Bryan, didn’t have that same set of etiquette rules.

It was one of those high school relationships that continued long-distance when they went to different colleges. They were both so in love that they needed to talk to each other all the time.

Natalie met Bryan almost immediately when she moved her extra long twin sheets and microwave into the tiny space. She waved at him through the computer screen.

Natalie observed that they would face chat night after night and she wondered how they didn’t get sick of one another.

A few months into the semester, Natalie brought her own boyfriend up to the dorm room at lunchtime for a quick…uh, nap (mom).

Natalie said it was exhilarating having to be in class in the next 30 minutes and to finally have the room to herself. It was fun.

Later that night, however, Natalie was scolded – SCOLDED—for her afternoon delight.

“Look,” her roommate said seriously, when Natalie came home and heaved her backpack onto her (still unmade) bed.

“Bryan called me to tell me that he saw you and Scott hooking up.”

Natalie almost fell off her rolling computer chair.


“He has me leave the webcam on all day long so he can see my room and stuff,” she said.

(REPEAT: he specifically requested that she leave the webcam on 24/7 so he could peek into her room whenever he wanted. She is also a toolbag for agreeing.)

“WHAT!! THE!!! F*CK!!!” Natalie yelled, thinking about all the times she was naked in the room getting dressed or having a phone conversation that may or may not have included how annoying Bryan was.

“You should have told me!!” Natalie yelled. “This is my bedroom too!!!”

Her roommate didn’t explain herself but said that if Natalie wanted to hook up in the room, she should just go over to the computer and exit out of the web camera program.

“I mean, Bryan was just really not happy with seeing that this afternoon,” she said, matter-of-factly.


“THIS ISN’T EVEN HIS ROOM!” Natalie yelled. “Why does he need to see ANYTHING when you’re not here?”

Natalie was furious and felt violated. And the web cam was probably still on at that moment.

“Bryan gets bored at work a lot and feels more ‘connected’ to me by being able to see my room whenever he wants,” she said.

Did he like seeing the arrangement of her pillows and Dave Matthews Band posters on the wall??

Or did he just want to keep tabs on his girlfriend 24/7 because he didn’t trust her??

“Who would even COME UP with the idea to keep the camera on all the time?” Natalie asked. “That’s sick.” It was like the creepiest 24-hour security ever.

WHERE DOES HE GET OFF (no pun intended) THINKING IT’S OK TO SPY ON HER and their room whenever he wanted, let alone CALL HER OUT on her lunchtime quickie???
Like she did something wrong!

THIS ISN’T YOUR ROOM! She repeated, at the camera.

I DIDN’T SIGN UP FOR THIS! she thought.

Natalie spent less and less time in her surveillanced dorm bedroom, even though she learned how to exit out of the webcam program.

It still didn’t make her feel comfortable, and she started throwing a T-shirt over the little camera just in case.

When Natalie moved off campus the following semester, she no longer kept in touch with her old roommate.

No word on whether Bryan used his skills to become a private investigator.
Or a porn producer.


p.s. Ben still wins the award as the worst boyfriend of a roommate. Ever.

Tuesday, August 23, 2011


Today is a Toolbag Tuesday first: We have a repeat offender.

Back in March, I wrote about Sam, a big liar I went on two dates with who talked in great detail about his four “roommates” (one of them a firefighter whose girlfriend is so annoying) when really, he lived with his parents.

Why did he have to tell such an elaborate lie? I wondered. Why couldn’t he have just said, “I live uptown. Period.”?

Was he crazy? Pathological?
Uhhh yes.
And yes.

Thank God I didn’t date him in high school.

Poor Rachel did. I met her the other day and when we found out we both knew Sam, we bonded over his shittiness.

“You know, he’s kind of a liar,” I told her.

“TELL ME ABOUT IT!” she said.

Rachel said that they dated for six years, throughout high school and beyond.

Sam was a year older and he went off to college an hour away while she finished up her senior year.
They decided to stay together, in the name of true love. She would go to the same college next year and they’d be together forever.

Sam, however, ended up failing out of college. But he didn’t tell anyone about it – not his parents, not Rachel. And he didn’t plan to.

But, how would he pull off the lie?

What exactly DO you do when you're pretending to still be in college when really you failed out?

Sam did what any (crazy) person would do:
He made up assignments from his "professors"…and then made Rachel do them.


For that entire semester, Rachel wrote countless term papers for him, assignments THAT WEREN'T REAL because he REALLY wasn’t enrolled anymore.

The topics of these term papers varied depending on the “course” Sam was taking.

For his fake history class, for example, he had Rachel write an 8-page paper about The French Revolution....zzz...in MLA format with all the sources cited. And a bibliography.

Rachel spent HOURS researching and pouring over the material so that Sam would get a good grade.

(FYI, asking your girlfriend to write all your term papers for you is douchey enough by itself, let alone MAKING UP ASSIGNMENTS.)

Oh but it gets worse.

In order to continue with the ruse that he was still in college, Sam realized that the papers would have to be graded.

So, naturally, he bought a red sharpie pen from the store and GRADED HER WORK PRETENDING TO BE THE PROFESSOR.

….And he gave her an A-


C’est des conneries!!!

Of course, at the time, Rachel was pleased that her work got an A on the college level (as she was simultaneously failing her own high school classes because she was spending all of her time citing his sources).

Little did she know that all the red circles and X’s and illegible scribblings on the page was really Sam's handiwork.

His massive lie was exposed when Rachel happened to be over at his parents' house during a holiday “break.”

Sam’s mom came storming into the living room after getting a call from the registrar asking why hadn’t been enrolled for the ENTIRE SEMESTER.

WHAT THE HELL!!??!! Both women screamed at him, as he broke down and admitted what he had done.

Rachel said Sam was SO UPSET when he explained that he had no choice but to keep up with the lies and it just snowballed out of control.


His mom grounded him and Rachel left the house immediately.

But because she was still in high school and in love with him, they continued to hang out.

“And he even told me doing all those term papers was good practice!” she recalled.

We both shook our heads.

F minus, Sam.
F EFFING minus.


That time I compared applying for jobs to dating

My twin sister, Joy, has this theory that everyone our age (20-30) is going to be diagnosed with severe anger issues because of today’s job market.

I think she has a point. Applying for jobs in 2011 is like being in a relationship with someone who continues to play the sh*t out of you.

I mean, I’m not looking for perfection here people!!!
I don’t expect to find the job equivalent of say, Matthew McConaughey. Or David Beckham.

All I want is something decent (with benefits)!!! And something that I’m not embarrassed to introduce to my parents.

Remember that guy who shot all these women in a gym in Pennsylvania because he was bitter none of them would give him the time of day??

Could that mentality also apply to the unemployment office?? (Just kidding big brother. Don’t put me on a watch list.)

The sad thing about job hunting in today’s economy is that the whole thing is a big tease.
All these attractive companies post these so-called “open positions” and make you spend an hour primping your resume and impressing them with your cover letter.

And so you throw yourself out there, get butterflies in your stomach when you hit “SEND” and wait impatiently, checking your phone and voicemail every hour to see if you’re going to get a face-to-face date.

It always starts out with so much hope and enthusiasm, resumes being sent with such confidence, visions of seeing yourself at a particular job dancing in your head.

But, like my last major relationship, applying for a job in today’s market usually ends up being a massive disappointment.
And a kick to the ego.

It’s because none of them ever bother to even call you back. Not even to tell you they’re not interested.

What am I? Cold potatoes?

Not good enough to work at your museum that’s only open three days a week? I HAVE JOURNALISM AWARDS FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!!!

Uh...for example.

It’s incredibly frustrating. Because didn’t it used to be that if you were a college graduate and had work experience (and, ahem, several journalism writing awards) then you’d at least have a chance at an interview?

After two weeks of not hearing from people you’re interested in, you start to get depressed and desperate.

You lose confidence in your skills and start applying for jobs halfheartedly, do dumb things like TURN YOUR RESUME INTO A PIE CHART SO PEOPLE WILL NOTICE YOU.

(By the way, still nothing. Not even a “nice pie chart” email.)

Comparatively, it’s like if you made a Match.com profile and find out that no one viewed it or even “winked” at you. After a whole month. (FML.)

And while you’re waiting for your dream man job to rescue you from your un-productive rut of sleeping till noon and eating string cheese on the couch in your underwear, you’re again teased with another relationship called the unemployment office.

Unemployment is more unreliable than your dumb ex-boyfriend.
They say they’ll love you pay you and they don’t.

You have to wait 40 minutes to talk to someone, and that person never says what the other person said two days before and they can’t seem to understand why you’re so frustrated.


After a few weeks of getting ignored, I broke down and asked for help.

I CAN’T DO THIS BY MYSELF, I declared. I’m picking the wrong men jobs! I’m choosing places that don’t appreciate me!
(This is why people sign up for EHarmony).

So I emailed my resume to a temp agency, along with friends, family, old co-workers.

“Please pass this along!” I said. “I need something to DO!” (that’s what she said).

But then, one day, as I sulked on the couch in my underwear eating string cheese, my mom called to say a colleague looked over my (non-pie-chart version) resume and wants to talk face-to face.


So that’s how after five weeks of sulking, I got a job doing marketing and scheduling for an adorable non-profit organization that puts artists in schools to help them better understand their subjects.

(I mean, if my school used pottery to help me learn math, maybe I’d know how to do fractions.)

I’m now in my second week of my new (work) relationship, and like any new relationship, I again need to figure out my job expectations, my co-workers…and find out what the dress code is for Saints games.

Sure I’m nervous, but as things get more comfortable on both ends (and a paycheck is deposited) I’m going to appreciate this new relationship more and more.

It’s not David Beckham perfect, but I can’t complain about having roped in a steady, reliable sensitive artist who likes kids.



P.S. I am also freelancing and….BIG NEWS…starting my own NEWS WEBSITE, which I will market and shove down your throats ad naseum when it’s ready. Entrepreneurs unite!!! It will also be the new home for Toolbag Tuesday.

Thursday, August 18, 2011

The name game

I’ve only used my real name at a job once, and it was by accident.

It was a job at my college and I had to put my “legal” name on the application so they could make sure I was indeed enrolled, “in good standing” and hadn’t gotten an underage drinking ticket or anything.

I fully planned to tell people when I showed up on the first day, “you can just call me Jenny,” until I looked up in horror to find my legal name – all nine letters – stapled to the “motivation” bulletin board.

And my real name was on my ENGRAVED nametag.

And it was my password on the computer.
And my user name.

I didn’t tell anyone that I really preferred Jenny because I was too shy and I didn’t want to inconvenience the boss by literally changing everything associated with me, so for that entire year I went by Genevieve.

It was odd introducing myself to people as Genevieve, like if someone suddenly had to go by their middle name.

I just didn’t have the same confidence with Genevieve. I hesitated. I stuttered.

“Hi, I’m…Gen..uhhhhh…veeve…”

Before that job, the only people who called me Genevieve were the credit card people, and that didn’t give me positive associations with the name.

“Hi, I’m looking for Genevieve.”

It turns out the name Genevieve worked out well for me at the college job.

It was a job at the calling center and alumni and parents all mentioned that they liked my name and I’m pretty sure they donated more than they planned to because of it.

Also, when I saw people out at bars and didn’t recognize them as my co-workers, all they had to do was call me Genevieve and I would say, “Ahhhhhhh. Yea, calling alumni SUCKS!!!”

In middle school, I asked my parents if I could legally change my name from Genevieve to Jenny.

I thought about this long and hard, after cruel middle schoolers tried to force rhyme Genevieve with germ-uh-vieve...again...and I was embarrassed.

I hated that on the first day of school every year, in every class, dumb teachers would call me “Gwen-uh-vere” or “Geneva” and other people would giggle and I’d have to say, "it’s Genevieve, but call me Jenny."

My twin sister, Joy, never had a problem with name pronunciation. It wasn't fair.

My music teacher in 6th grade, who was French, insisted on calling me the French pronunciation of Genevieve, which, phonetically is, “Jean (like Jean Claude Van Damme)---vee---ev” and no, that didn’t get me any cool points with anyone.

“So…can I change it to Jenny?” I asked my parents. I didn’t see why they wouldn’t agree. They’re the ones that gave me the nickname Jenny after all.

“ABSOLUTELY NOT!” my mom yelled.

“But why??!” I protested, frowning. “No one even calls me that! HOW COME JOY GETS THE NORMAL NAME???”

My mom’s problem with it was that I was named after her mom. (Grandmother Genevieve went by Gene, which I considered to be a boy’s name.)

My dad, always the diplomat, made a compromise.

“Look,” he said. “When your grandmother passes away, then we’ll talk about it. But as long as she’s alive, you will honor her by keeping her name.”

She was 89 at the time, and I was 13.

“FINE!” I said, and huffed away.

My dad was onto something there. When my grandmother passed away two years ago, at the age of 100, I no longer wished to legally change my name. I was 26 and people stopped making fun of me.

Still, no one calls me Genevieve, despite the fact that my name is listed as Genevieve on Facebook.

(This is because I joined the site so long ago that you needed to be enrolled in college and your name had to match your college email address. And I never changed it.)

But now, I find myself needing to use Genevieve again.

It just so happens that at my new job there is another Jenny, someone way more important than me who gets calls all day long.

When I pick up the phone and say, “This is Jenny” people are all like, “OH, HEY GIIIRL!” and start telling me things that are meant for the OTHER Jenny and I’m way awkward when I laugh politely and say, “No…er...I’m not THAT Jenny, let me get her for you…”

…and then they get confused and my face gets red and something’s gotta change.

So, today, I’m going to be answering the phone as Genevieve. And I’ll try not to hesitate or hiccup when I say it.
(Or ask them for money for new college programs and a new dorm.)

But, I’ve got another backup plan.
If it doesn't work out, I'll use the name Joy.


Tuesday, August 16, 2011


The only good thing about a long-distance relationship is that every time you see your boyfriend/girlfriend it’s a holiday or a wedding or Valentine’s Day or some other special occasion and no one gets bored.

Other than that, long-distance relationships are torturous. (Wait…aside from the fact that you only need to shave your legs every 28 days. FREEDOM!!!)

Um, moving on.

Anyway, that means these once-a-month get-togethers are a big effing deal...and can be devastating when things like airline connections or last minute work commitments get in the way of the two-day bliss.

Because, who’s going to be my date to that wedding????

And, waaaaah, I’ve been lonely for a whole month!!!

And why did I spend all this time shaving my legs??

Even more devastating? When your long-distance boyfriend/girlfriend decides not to come visit you from out of town and leaves you hanging…on purpose. In the eleventh hour.

And makes it obvious by being a terrible liar about it.

So was the case with my friend Brittany, who had a long-distance relationship with Alan, who lived five hours away in Atlanta.

They had dated in high school then reconnected after college and were half a year into a long-distance relationship. On their monthly meet-up on the July 4 weekend, Brittany bought them both tickets to see a Dave Matthews Band concert in her city.

“It'll be fun, there's going to be fireworks and everything!” she told him. Alan said that sounded great and he let her spend $55 on his ticket.

Brittany called him when she woke up the day of the concert.

“I can’t wait to see you!” she said. “How far are you?”

“Oh…I haven’t left,” Alan said. “I went to my car this morning and I have two flat tires.”

“What?!” Brittany asked. “TWO?”

She looked at the time. Alan had exactly ONE HOUR to leave Atlanta in order to get to her, and to Dave Matthews on time.

“Well, can’t you bring it in and get new tires?” she asked.

“No, the shops are all closed because it’s a holiday,” he said, and she believed him.

“Well, what about renting a car?” she asked, still hopeful that her date would come through. “You can still make it!”

“LOOK!” he said. “I can’t just very well leave my car here with three flat tires!” he said.

“THREE? You said TWO!” Brittany said.

“Well, I just looked again.”


Alan then told her that he wasn’t going to make it at all -- and wasn’t even going to try.

Not only was he "super upset” about his mysterious THREE flat tires, but he then added that he didn’t feel like boarding his dog and didn’t want to ask his roommate to feed him.

She was starting to think that he had decided way before that day that he wasn't coming to visit at all.

And that’s how Brittany ended up sad and alone on July 4, awkwardly trying to sell a Dave Matthews Band ticket outside the gate like some sort of drug dealer.
No one bought it.

Not surprisingly, Alan ended it a few days later, saying it was just “too hard” for him – AND HIS CAR - to justify the long-distance relationship.

Brittany was pissed and made him send her money for the concert ticket.

Because, damn, razors aren’t cheap.


Tuesday, August 9, 2011


I’ve heard of this thing guys do where instead of being normal and breaking up with someone they’re not into, they decide instead to deliberately be assholes so the girls will break up with them.

Whoever thought of this idea should be shot.

I don’t think it was Steve who thought of the idea, but he could very well be its poster child.

My friend Heather went on exactly four dates with Steve before he decided to be a world-class asshole out of nowhere, for no apparent reason.

He decided after four dates and a sleepover that he, uh, just wasn’t that into her. As she woke up in his bed.

But of course he didn’t tell her that. He didn’t tell her anything.

As in, he ignored her completely.

They had met in a very adorable way. They were both on vacation in Cabo, and found out they both lived in New York –COINCIDENCE!– and they could continue their flirtation when they got back to the East Coast.

They went on a handful of dates, complete with a hot and heavy sleepover. So when he asked her to come over and sleep at his house on a school night, she agreed.

Heather remembered that their, uh, chemistry was a bit off that night, which she didn’t know at the time was indicative of the future of their relationship.

She woke up the next morning and said "he pretty much hated me.”

Instead of being cute and saying good morning and caressing her face like guys do in the movies, Steve got out of bed without speaking and got in the shower.

“Can I take a shower?” Heather asked when he came out.

“I guess,” he said.

“Where are the towels?” she asked.

“In the closet,” Steve said, without specifying which closet and without getting her one.

When she got out of the shower, she found him eating breakfast by himself, not offering her any of his cereal. She stood there uncomfortably, hair wet.

“Do you have a brush?” she asked. In silence, he walked over to another closet and fetched a brush from the back of the shelf.

“Woah, back of the closet, so you never brush your hair?” Heather asked jokingly.

“No, I do. I use a different brush than that one,” he said snottily.

Heather was visibly offended. She wasn't worthy of using his brush?? Was he grossed out by her hair germs? This wasn’t a toothbrush after all.

And, uh, they had slept together the night before.

He really did hate her!

She decided she hated him, too, and was happy when they got into his car so he could drop her off at the train back into town.

“I’m getting coffee at Dunkin Donuts,” Steve said aloud in the car. “Do you want a cup?”

Finally! A thread of decency! Heather thought. (She still hadn’t eaten breakfast.)

“Sure, I’d love one!” she said as he pulled into the parking lot.

She’d order a donut, too, and maybe they could talk about all this weirdness, Heather thought.

“Look, I’ll even pay for it!” she said jokingly, as she held out a quarter, grinning. "This will cover it, right?" (haha?)

Without laughing, Steve said, “I’ll be right back,” and TOOK THE QUARTER, and slammed the door leaving Heather by herself.

So they weren’t going to have a nice conversation after all.
Or a donut.

Fuming, Heather didn’t say anything to Steve when he returned with the coffee. She stared out the window.

“Shit!” Steve said after five minutes of driving. “I missed the turn for the train station. Do you mind if I just drop you off a few blocks away?”

Heather did mind because it was cold out and her hair was wet, but she wanted to get out of his car as soon as possible.

He pulled up to the curb.

“Wait…which way is the train station from here?” she asked.

Steve didn’t look at her.

“Follow those people,” he said and Heather slammed the door.

Heather canceled their plans for later that week and Steve didn’t mind at all.

His plan worked, after all. No messy "I'm not that into you" talk!

If this was a test, Steve would have gotten a capital A.



My favorite comedian, George Carlin, once said that nothing is as boring as someone describing their dream.

Ha. I can see that.

I mean, dreams aren’t (insert dramatic voice) *real life,* so it sort of is a waste of time hearing about how someone almost drove their car off a cliff or that everyone they know had turned into zombies and were playing kickball half dead. (uhhh for example.)

I, for one, have ridiculously vivid dreams - to the point that sometimes when I wake up, I don’t know what's real and what was part of a dream.

And then I have to lay in bed and weigh what's realistic or not. Like, “No, Jenny, your car probably did NOT get set on fire last night. But you can look outside anyway, just to be sure.”

I’ve actually been legit depressed waking up from a good dream and mad at people for how they treated me in a bad dream (Man I’m so fun!!)

A former boyfriend said he could never remember his dreams, good or bad. I never understood that.

What does he do? Just CHECK OUT for 8 hours?

No thoughts running through his head? No recapping the day, translated into a bizarre twisted sub-world where your childhood friend you haven’t seen in 20 years makes an appearance?

No re-occurring location that you’ve never actually seen in real life???

Geez. What’s HIS problem?

I read a disappointingly UN-informative magazine article about dreams the last time I was at the dentist.

The only things I learned were that 1.) women are more likely to remember their dreams than men because we’re more sensitive and creative, DUH, and 2.) if you actually die in a dream, that means you’re really screwed up in the head.

(I should probably buy a dream book, but I never remember the two times a year I go to Barnes and Noble.)

There’s no doubt that my dreams are a straight reflection of what was going on in my life that day.

On Saturday, for example, I told a story that involved a friend I no longer speak with, and sure enough, she was in my dream that night. With half a face.

Or, when I was on a beach vacation last month, I dreamt that I was….wait for it…AT THE BEACH.

But then again, us sensitive and creative vivid dreamers also have the complete WTF dreams that make no sense, and honestly scare me a little. (WHAT'S GOING ON, BRAIN??? WHAT DO YOU KNOW??)

Like last night, when I dreamt about a “STORM PATROL” parachute troupe that planned to drop their members onto Mardi Gras floats next year.


I’d tell you more about it, but…nothing would be more boring.


Tuesday, August 2, 2011


Maybe it’s my fault.
Maybe I shouldn’t live with such attractive roommates.

Maybe if I lived with ugly people then a guy I was interested in wouldn’t come over and think he’s a kid at a freaking candy store, acting like can choose or something.

HELLO! This isn’t an eenie-meeny-miney-moe situation.

What kills me the most about guys hitting on the roommate of the girl they’re supposed to be interested in is that she’s DEFINITELY telling her roommate about you, dumbass.

It’s not like you’re some sexy stranger who happens to be sitting at the same table at a bar. She’s already heard about you, knows your name and probably knows what you look like naked.


Even if it’s not a serious relationship, it’s not very nice to hit on someone you’re “into”’s roommate, especially if you have spent the night at the apartment already. A week before.

So was the case with me and Sam, and it wasn’t even THAT serious.

He and I did hang out very late one night and had been texting about doing it again.

He was cute, good on paper, and (like most toolbags) seemed very sweet.

We both planned to be at a bar for someone’s birthday and I invited my roommate. I casually pointed him out to her when she got there, SEEING AS I TOLD HER ABOUT HIM, and we both agreed that he was cute but we played it cool and mingled with everyone in attendance.

I then made the grave mistake of walking a separate friend back to her apartment a few blocks away and told Sam to “talk to my roommate” while I was gone.
It would be no more than 15 minutes, I promised.

When I came back, my roommate pulled me aside.

“Let’s go to the bathroom together,” she said, looking serious.

Once we got away from the crowd, she broke the news.

“OK, Sam is an asshole,” she said.


“He just asked me if I wanted to MAKE OUT WITH HIM, and asked me to go to another bar with him, just the two of us.”


“WHAT!?” I immediately said to Sam when we got out of the bathroom. “You just hit on my roommate?” (She ran to the other side of the bar.)

“No way,” Sam said. “I just said that it was really crowded and maybe we could all go somewhere else.”

I was drunk at that point, (uh maybe my fault) and Sam was so convincing that it was all a “misunderstanding,” that I sort of forgave him.

We were all drinking, who knows what kinds of things could have been taken out of context?

(By the way, I really need to stop giving guys the benefit of the doubt.)

The next day, Sam tried to turn the tables.

“Man, you were so mad at me last night!” he said.

“Yea, well, you hit on my roommate,” I said, which is as specific as I could remember.

“Look, all I said was that maybe we should go somewhere more quiet. I mean, you were talking to all these other people and leaving the bar to walk your friend home and I just wanted to go somewhere where it wasn’t so crowded.”

“Well, that’s not what she told me in the bathroom,” is all I could say, noting that his tone made it sound as if I had done something wrong, like neglected him or something.

Later that day, I consulted my roommate about what happened. While sober.

“OH MY GOD HE SAID HE WANTED TO MAKE OUT,” she said, as the words from the bathroom the night before suddenly came flooding back to me. “HOW IS THAT A MISUNDERSTANDING?” she asked.

We agreed. It wasn’t.

“TOOLBAG!!!” we declared, and I cut off contact with Sam completely.

The next time I saw him, about a week later, he asked me if I was mad at him.

“I’m not mad,” I said with a sour tone. It wasn’t like we had been anything other than glorified makeout buddies.
“I just don’t like to be embarrassed like that,” I said.

“This was all just a big misunderstanding,” he said.

“Sam, you asked her to MAKE OUT with you!” I said, more sternly.

“OK, look,” he said angrily. “I just have a lot going on in my life right now, and I just…”

(Um, was he “breaking up” with me??)

“Whatever,” I said and began to walk away.

“Wait!” he pleaded. “I don’t want you to think I’m that kind of guy!”

I didn't turn around.

Uhhhh of course he’s that kind of guy. Which is why neither me nor my rooomate will be speaking to him ever again.



Monday, August 1, 2011

Everything I know about football has nothing to do with the game

Am I the only one who never, ever, not even for a second, believed that they wouldn’t have an NFL season this year?

You think Budweiser would let that happen???

And, really, have you seen the job market lately? I can’t even get part-time jobs to acknowledge they received my resume.

What would Michael Vick do without the NFL? Work at the SPCA?? (zing!!)

Born and raised in New Orleans, I’m a Saints fan, but I’m one of those annoying Johnny-come-lately fans who only started paying attention once Reggie Bush started running zig-zags and making touchdowns and winning the Superbowl.

It’s not that I’m a fair-weather fan or anything. I just never got into football.
Maybe it’s because I never went to a school that had a football team (Catholic girls start much too late).

There was some hope when I enrolled in a Sports Writing class in college. Incidentally, the greatest lesson of that course was that I figured out I most certainly did NOT want to be a sports reporter.

I did learn one thing: linebackers* are meant to be big and fat.

See, for the class I had to do an assignment on a “social issue” in sports, like taking steroids or college football players getting perks and money on the side (apparently, that’s illegal) and I chose to write about how gymnasts aren’t allowed to eat anything.

I did gymnastics growing up and actually had a friend (with more dedication to the sport than me) who was on the roster for the LSU gymnastics team.

“Why don’t you contrast a gymnast’s diet with one of a football player?” the professor asked.

I frowned. What football player? Our college had no team.

It turned out another friend of mine attended a small college in South Carolina with a football team and one of the players was in her history class. She got his number for me.

I began the interviews.

My gymnast friend told me the coach weighed them every day before practice and if someone gained even a pound, they had to do extra laps.
Didn’t want to break a wrist or ankle by being "overweight," she said.

“Besides, we have to look good; we’re in leotards,” she added.

When I asked what the gymnastics team ate during out-of-state meets, she said the coach would always book them at a hotel with a restaurant and they’d have pre-portioned, pre-ordered 8 ounces of chicken or fish, a small side and vegetables.
Water and iced tea only.

In contrast, the football player I interviewed, who happened to be a linebacker, said his job on the team, AND I QUOTE, was “to be as big as possible but still be able to run.”

This was so he could essentially be a truck and block people from getting through the line to the quarterback.

I nodded, pretending like I understood what that meant.

“So, when the team travels to a game, what do you eat for dinner?” I asked.

“I dunno, two, three hamburgers, a couple slices of pizza, maybe some fried chicken.”

That’s more like it!!

And…that’s how I ended up getting a B+ in sports writing without ever actually understanding a single play.

Case in point: Last October, when I was lucky enough to watch a game from THE DOME, BABY, I looked at Saints quarterback Drew Brees with binoculars and saw something.

It was a secret that just me and Drew knew about.

I squinted and looked through the binoculars again, just to make sure I really saw it, and I did. I almost clapped with excitement.

“OH MY GOD!” I said to my then-boyfriend (and ticket holder), still looking through the binoculars.


He didn’t say anything at first, because he was shaking his head pitifully.

“DO YOU THINK THE OTHER TEAM KNOWS ABOUT THAT?!?” I whispered, still peering through the binoculars.

I felt so smart.

“Um, yea, when he backs up it’s called a ‘shotgun’ and everyone knows about it,” he replied.

I frowned.



“Well, not everyone knows about it,” I said, feeling foolish.

Haha I wouldn’t repeat that to anyone dawlin!” the person with a thick New Orleans accent sitting on my other side said, laughing, eavesdropping. "People will think you crazy."

From then on, I kept my mouth shut about strategy and resorted to checking out how fat the linebackers were.

I wonder how many hamburgers they ate that day.


*Someone told me I meant to write lineman instead of linebacker, which further proves my incompetence.

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