Good Night, Sleep Tight...

Oh man, it's so hard to be motivated to do ANYTHING right now: the rainy weather, the fact that all the VIPs of my office are out as well as my fellow fremps, I'm a little hungover... But I'm going to muddle through, especially since I dropped the ball with posting last night. Plus I got the Hairball rockin in my ear on the radio, so let's do it.

The rash (and they mystery of its origins) continues, but I have a new theory. I did some research and I think I know what it is- bed bugs. Here's my case.

1. For one, as I was driving to work the other day I was listening to the radio as always, and that news fellow Josh Spiegel mentioned that there is an unusual amount of reports coming in of people with an infestation of bed bugs. He listed off a few cities in the area where people had complained and one of them was our old residence of Cockeysville. Also, he reported that the reason for this influx of bugs is due to the fact that the pesticide usually used to kill these things has been outlawed.

2. I originally thought the cause was fleas. It made sense; Georgia itches herself and we never really treated her for them. But when we looked her over thoroughly we didn't see anything. Not a single fleck or bloody spot. And online they said you'd see at least remnants of them if not the actual insect.

3. I compared the images of people affected from flea bites v. bed bugs. The flea bites were small and concentrated in red. Meanwhile, bed bugs leave big welt-like bites that are pink. They looked exactly like what I have.

4. According to one website, they claimed flea bites are found around ankles and legs, never above that, whereas bed bugs can be found all over (and found in other spots that a mosquito could never get to).

5. One of the biggest mysteries is why I'm itching myself bloody while Joe is completely unharmed. A website also claimed that either the bugs preferred my blood to his or he was being bitten too but just not getting any kind of reaction. This is necessarily proof for bed bugs, but just explains why only one of us is getting tortured.

I told Joe my findings the other day and he said he'd go look up some websites too. While I was making dinner he went up to the bed to check for bug waste, which the website said you'd find. He came back downstairs saying he still didn't see any conclusive evidence to support this theory of mine. I asked him about this speck or that, but he reminded me that there was no way a bug could produce waste that big. And since we do let Georgia up on the bed sometimes, there's no way to be sure what's from her and what's from these bugs.

I'm still leaning towards the bed bug idea, relieved to think we had finally figured this mystery out. Unfortunately I can't be 100% sure, and now I'm worried to see a dermatologist because I'm afraid they won't know what it is either. Sigh...so the mystery continues. I just hope we figure it out before I run out of (apparently) tasty blood.

Day at the Dentist

I'm gonna try my hardest to keep this sucker brief cuz my last few posts have been epics, and as my English teachers used to constantly warn me in red ink on my papers..."you're being too verbose". Basically a nice intellectual way of saying you are rambling and blathering on so long that people are getting bored. And I'd hate to do that, so I'll (try to) keep this under a couple hundred words.

Although that will be difficult with tonight's topic, which is all about my day at the dentist.

I was thrilled when my insurance finally kicked in, although I had to kick my butt to actually call and make an appointment with a dentist, one recommended by my fremp. As soon as I hung up the phone with the receptionist my stomach was engaged in a gastronomical tug-of-war. Part of me was really excited to finally talk to someone about the bar in my teeth, the possibility of getting my wisdom teeth pulled, but ESPECIALLY my extreme sensitivity. However, as estatic as I was for that I also got those ol' childish fears of getting in that dentist chair again.

I remember as a kid doing everything necessary to avoid that chair: stomach bug, a big test I couldn't miss, even the off chance my mom was too busy to take me. But eventually I always landed in the same spot, sitting in the stiff tall chair of Dr. Maquire's office, staring at plush clowns and Dr. Seuss books while a muffled woman tried to calm my lurching stomach and sensitive gag-reflex while she applied chalky paste that lingered well after the visit was over. The only consolation at the end was that Dr. Maguire gave out these little tokens which you then took over to a big carnival-like counter and traded them in for stickers, pencils, sugar-free candy (yuck), or my favorite, a spin on the prize wheel. What can I say? I guess I should've realized then that I'd have a thing for gambling when I got older.

I hadn't been to a dentist since those last adolescent years, except for getting my braces. But once college came and went I was forced to prioritize when it came to finances, which meant pushing that yearly check-up off to the side. Before I knew it, the years passed and my teeth took the punishment. But once this senstivity thing became too much to bear (I knew it was bad when I was eating a peach with a knife and fork and wincing whenever I took of sip of water that wasn't tepid), my priorities shifted again. And so there I was, back in a stiff chair, but there were no plush clowns or Dr. Seuss books.

I came in right on time, miraculously, filled out the little paperwork, and waited. It must have been either a slow day or they didn't get an unreasonable amount of clients, because I didn't see another soul come and go while I waited. I took the opportunity to look around to assess this office. Not surprising it was different that Dr. Maguire's, who specialized in kids and young adults. This place did have a few toys and magazine for the younger ages, but for the most part it was set up like a grown-up's living room, with current magazines and big comfy sofas.

The hygienist opened the door, introduced herself and ushered me in.

"So, how long has it been since your last dental visit?" she asked casually.

"Umm quite a while. Like..7 or 8 years..," I said sheepishly. She merely smiled and then asked what I had come in for. I told her I needed a cleaning desperately, but quickly added my issue with sensitivity, paranoid I'd leave the office without getting the problem addressed. She smiled again and led me to the X-ray machine. Afterwards she led me back to her small office and the tall chair.

As I sorta mentioned before, I have this metal bar thing that is stuck to the back of my bottom front teeth which I've had since I had braces. It was supposed to be removed years ago, but like I said, I never got around to it. She began working by picking at my teeth with the sharp hook thing. While she didn't seem to have much issue with the rest, I could feel her bracing herself as she hacked at the sludge clinging to the metal bar. At one point she had no choice but to rest the heel of her palm on my cheek, smushing my face as she pulled and pulled. I'm pretty sure my head even nearly lifted off the head rest.

At brief moments she paused (probably to catch her breath and give her hand a rest), she asked me what I do. Suddenly the spotlight was on me.

"I, uh, brush twice a day, and I used this mouthwash.." I said, trying to plead a case.

She smiled once again, and said, "No, I mean for a living."

"Oh", friggin idiot, "I'm a temp. For *&^%*. But actually I work for Roth Staffing."

"She gave me a perplexed face, "I don't really understand.." It's times like these I wish I had a simple job to explain. I'm a teacher. I'm a plumber. I'm a tight-rope walker. These are all titles that give people precies information about what you do and then move on. Instead in my case, I feel the need to go into detail so I just end up confusing people anyway. I guess it doesn't help that half the time I don't even know what it is I do exactly.

After I gave her the best explanation I could she simply nodded and went back to the Everglades that are my teeth. I embarrased myself only once more when she offered me to swish with water and I couldn't figure out how to work the faucet. She had to show me, which definitely made me feel like the word DUNCE was slowly emerging on my forehead. But the rest of the visit went on without another hitch. The dentist came in and applied some de-sensitizing paste on my teeth and they do feel a bit better.

Sorry for this rushed ending, but I can tell by the bar at the side of this text box that I am being "verbose" again, so I'll leave you all for tonite. See you tomorrow!

Losing My Direction

Don't mind me guys, I'm just gonna rip my flesh off my bones. I feel like a creature from X-Files, or maybe I've just been watching too much. And before you start to cry foul on me, I don't USUALLY watch X-Files and I've never seen the show before. And besides my skin feels like I actually have flesh-eating insects devouring me from the inside, so if I want to watch an episode of a show I've never seen, I will, and if you have a problem make like a bug and BITE ME.

But yeah, the rash is still goin' strong and spreading so I think I'm gonna have to see a dermatologist which, if all they say is to just keep putting cream on it, I really might start tearing at my skin with nails (and I don't even mean on my fingers). Ok, enough grossity...

The theme for tonight's post was going to be about moms (which I hung out with a-plenty this past weekend) but as I was writing I suddenly remembered this interesting misadventure that occurred last week and figured it might be a bit more amusing. So enjoy...

In case I never said, Joe's car broke down completely a few weeks ago and we have been sharing my car while he's been shopping around for a new one. On Wednesday he called me to let me know that he found a used car lot that had the kind of car he was looking for and that I should meet him there with his pay stub. His parents were starting their drive down to Myrtle Beach that same day, as luck would have it, and were planning on meeting him there as well to help set him up. I told him no problem, I was just gonna stop home to let Georgia out and give her dinner, and then I'd be on my way.

As you all should very well know, I have probably the worst sense of direction. I get lost in a town I've lived in for years, so I don't really know why I should've been that surprised when I set out on a drive that takes a normal person 20 minutes and it ended up taking me 60.

I did as I said; stopped home to let the dog out, grabbed the pay stub and headed out the door with Joe's texted directions: Pikesville, about 6 lights past Target, on your left, 1700, Heritage. Should be easy enough...

I get off at the correct exit, and I follow his instructions explicitly. I see the sign for Pikesville, so I head towards Pikesville. I see a Target, and figure I'm going the correct way. Miles and miles pass, and I continue to glance up at the numbers (which was a challenge in and of itself- what the hell is it with NOT placing the freaking address numbers nice and clear???My damn old bespectacled eyes can barely see regular street signs and I'm playin chicken seeing how long I can squint at the buildings before slamming on my brakes to avoid the car in front of me) Finally, I start to see car dealerships, but the numbers are going in the correct direction. So I pull into a nice little frightening side street and turn around. Eventually, I get the call from Joe.

"Where are you?" I can tell by the sound in his voice he is using all his patience. I, on the other hand, refuse to give in to my frustration, and say calmly, "I'm on my way."

"Did you get lost?"

"Of course," I reply as calmly as a sociopathic serial killer who has the detective right where she wants him.

"But you've been down this way before..." I could sense the slightest edge to his voice.

"Yes, you said Pikesville, so I went towards Pikesville. You said to look for the Target, and I passed a Target. But it's still the wrong way," I say trying to keep my composure.

"Ok, well, are you ok now?"

"Yes, I'll be there as soon as I can." And I was...after I pulled into ANOTHER car dealership named Heritage Used Cars only to discover I was at the wrong one and had to get back on the road to continue towards the correct Heritage Used Cars.

Finally I arrived at the right dealership and join Joe and his parents as they sat talking to one of the salespeople. I give them both apologetic hugs, completely embarrassed that they are witnessing my total ineptitude at following directions. But they make me feel better immediately and we spend the next few hours (yes, hours) chatting about current events in all our lives.

At long last, with the deal nearly sealed (as well as the doors to the dealership) we head for home. I'm to lead the way home and his parents are going to follow me. Probably a mistake. As we head on down the highway we suddenly spot a massive back-up JUST before our exit. We decide instead to take the back roads way, and while trying to make sure Joe's parents see our change, we dart across two lanes and onto a different exit. We have them behind us pretty well until we reach the most convenient back road and find it under construction. I try to both pull back into the other lane while still trying to keep my eye on Joe's parents' car. I must've nearly lost them at least 5 times and as we finally pulled into our parking spots by the house, I apologized profusely.

The kind people that they are, they didn't make me feel like the idiot I was, but I guess it's fortunate most people don't have to drive with me...

Cap Scratch Fever

Holy hell, it's been awhile. Yeah I know I completely spaced, and I'm sure you all have missed my odd ramblings and rants. This week has been full of activity, none of which included writing, so to make up for it I'm posting on a Saturday, something I never like to do but stories are starting to back-up on me like bran in a muffin. Or does that make you go? Oh well, sorry to be gross, but then again, gross is the topic at hand.

WARNING- Do not read ahead if you have eaten, are eating, or about to eat OR are easily queasy.

As some of you may recall I've been dealing with a bothersome rash that appeared only on the right side of my body. Well, it's been spreading. I noticed a few more bumps around the original area, and now there are some on my ankles, on my leg, my back, even one on my cheek (and I don't mean on my face...). Luckily these are easily hidden-not some much the case for the three on my arm.

I try like hell not to scratch, especially at work. I really would prefer to not have people walk by and see me scratch myself, wondering what the hell I have. So I slather on the Cortaid (thanks again, Mrs. G!), which does soothe it enough so I don't notice. But every once in a while, something will graze the surface of my skin (a desk, a door, my jeans) and suddenly the itch is ignited furiously. I feel like a torture victim, trying to will away the urge to grab a piece of paper, a pen cap, even the little "innovation" toy the company gave us (with the perfect little sharp edges) and scratch myself into oblivion. You ever see that episode of Friends when Pheobe and her boyfriend get chicken pox and she tries to scratch herself with the Monopoly pieces?...I understand her character's pain.

Instead I just try to pretend I'm crossing my leg over my lap or stretching so that I can satisfy the smallest amount of scratching relief. Even still, I worry my coworkers are going to glance over and catch on, so instead I just go into the bathroom and hide like someone sneaking a smoke, where I can scratch to my heart's content.

So on Tuesday I was coming right home, something I hadn't done for a few days since Joe's truck broke down and we had been sharing my car, but his friend/bandmate Dyl was picking him up from work. I was all set to make some dinner, go for a nice jog, come home, light some candles, put on some Barry White, and scratch myself to death. I never once suspected the horror I was about to be faced with.

Now, let me explain that Georgia has been doing better and better at being left home alone. She only whines and barks a little when we first leave, and she holds her little bladder until we get home. Only occasionally, when she just can't hold it anymore, does she have an accident. But nothing, NOTHING has come close to this...(also, Joe's parents were coming for an overnight visit, and being the spaz that I am I had wanted to clean the place top to bottom, even though they were only coming for the night. But really, the place wasn't in shambles, so I figured a good hour of cleaning should do it...)

I open to door and am met with the stench of death and misery. Georgia hops off the sofa and as I come in further is see the carnage. A cow-patty sized (and color) pile of vomit on the floor. Coming in closer I see another, this one more orange-reddish and on the rug. Then I see another brown pile. I face the sofa and on the small square rug I spot two fresh urine stains. I go carefully into the kitchen to see another brown pile of vomit, followed by a few chunks of poop by the door. I was flabbergasted.

I quickly ushered her outside and grabbed my phone to inform Joe. As I did that I noticed Georgia eating something else and realized it was the bits of old food that were coming through the hole in the garbage bag in the trash can. I shooed her away and let her drink water instead, waiting for Joe to pick up the phone. When he did, I could barely suppress my frustration.

"You know all those brownie points she got for not messing in the house?? She just cashed them in!", I said.

"Uh, oh, what did she do?" he said.

I startled prattling on about all her various excrement littering the house. He let me go on and then said finally, "Well, leave me something to clean up."

"No," I bit back, "there's no point, I'll just clean it all up, don't worry about it." He said he'd be home around 8 and that they'd probably end early. Still, I knew he would be exhausted by then, and besides I wanted it to be cleaned up right away anyway. Truthfully, it didn't take all that long, it was more just the drudgery of it.

When I had cleaned up all the piles of vomit and poop, I decided to still try and take the dog for a jog, hoping whatever was left in her system that was making her sick would be cleaned out thoroughly with a little exercise. Thinking back on it now, it probably was minor animal cruelty. Imagine you had been sick all day- would you want someone yanking you along for a freaking jog? Sure enough, as we made it to the top of a hill she began wheezing and then threw up whatever she had been eating from the garbage right onto the pavement.

I cut it short and instead we walked the rest of the way. Finally at home, she drank lots of water and played outside while I cleaned. Afterwards I let her back in and she seemed fine. At around 8 Joe and Dyl showed up and Georgia got up from the couch and puked again, right on the rug, right after I had JUST scrubbed the damn thing clean! They left again, and I still monitored her, to make sure she was ok and had lots of water. That night Joe and I were awoken numerous times by the sounds of the poor dog heaving. I had resolved that if she hadn't improved by the morning I would call the vet's office.

Thankfully, she woke up with an appetite and ate her food right after away (something she hasn't been doing at all lately). And I am happy to report that whatever her stomach ailment was has gone away. She's back to frolicking in the yard, chasing squirrels, and playing with her toys.

I, on the other hand, continue to look at sharp objects as possible scratching tools for these odd bumps. Oh, well. You can't win 'em all.

My Dewy Decimated System

Happy Monday fellow grumblers. Yeh, another weekend has gone by, and while I am always sad at the conclusion of a Sunday, I'm sure my liver is happy to have the week (for the most part) off.

But before I get into that, let me give a shout to my #1 fan, my big sis in the Big Apple, Hill (Brooklyn say WHUUUT!, ugh God, am I white...and square. Put me in a plastic sleeve and call me Saltine). Ok enough of the corny metaphors.

So when I last checked in, I was having a pretty miserable Friday. But Joe, being the good guy that he is, became determined to put a smile on my sullen face and insisted we go out to dinner. I really wasn't sure it was a good idea financially, but we agreed that since I spent some cash on beer and wine for the house, he was fine with getting dinner.

Oh, I should mention at this point that the biggest highlight of the weekend was the long-anticipated trip to the Maryland Wine Fest. I had purchased tickets a week ago, excited at the prospect of doing something big as both a farewell to summer and welcoming in fall. Plus my fremp Les told me she and her boyfriend had gone before and said it was excellent. Double bonus: the winery that both they and our friends, one of our go-to couples, proclaimed had some of the best wine they'd ever tasted was going to be there (a rare appearance). So I knew I was going to have to save up my drinking points over the course of the weekend in order to really indulge in the winefest.

Let's say the average person has about 100 points of drinking in them before they start to get into the negatives and feel like total garbage. Well, I've got a crap tolerance so let's cut that in half. I had 50 to last me all weekend. Let's see how I did.

Friday- I had one small glass of wine at the house and then we walked to the restaurant where we each sipped another bigger glass. I never finished it completely, so we'll say 15 points.

2 glasses of wine: 15 points.

Points remaining: 35 points.

Saturday- This was the day of my friend's surprise birthday party. I knew it was going to be tough to hang with this hard-drinking crowd, but I convinced myself I would take it easy. Suddenly, before I know it I am pulled towards the Flip-Cup table, do a kick-ass job (thank you very much, it WAS my game in college after all) and after sacrificing my seat am escorted to the ice luge. Now, this was an experience in college I never had, but after I took a shot of Peach Schnapps down the ice block, I didn't mind it. Probably because the schnapps tasted just like candy syrup. Of course, it wasn't as friendly. Soon I had drank another cup of beer and before I knew it I was in front of the luge again. No problem, I thought, just gimme another peach shot. I looked up at what they were about to pour down the ice slot.

"Hey, that's not schnapps!" I said, loudly.

"Sure it is," the pourer replied, "it's just in it's raw form."

Before I knew to turn my head and walk away I placed my lips at the base of the ice and a cold shot of Yagermeister and Peach Schnapps surged down my gullet. I coughed and wheezed, as easily 20 points of my drinking went right down my throat. For the sake of argument, we'll count all three beers as 10 points.

2-3 beers and small shot of Peach Schnapps: 10 points.

1 shot of Peach Schnapps/Yagermeister: 20 points

Points remaining: 5 points

Sunday- At last, Wine Fest day. And boy did I feel like crap. I barely managed to get myself up in the morning. When we finally did I was famished, having not eaten any dinner the night before. You know that kind of hunger where you just feel sick? That was me. And to top it off we had the idea of visiting the local Indian food buffet to fill up before the fest. Problem was they didn't open till 11 and Joe suggested we just wait it out. I mean, since it WAS already nearly 10 o'clock. So we walked around Towson, while I struggled to keep down the battery acid churning around in my stomach. At last we walked back, and still the Open sign remained unlit. I was getting extra ornery when Joe called and a woman answered, saying they'd open in 10 mins. At last I was able to eat, but because my stomach was so off I couldn't enjoy it completely.

Finally, it came time to get to the festival. I tried to power nap for a half hour before rising and forcing myself to shine. We stopped at the gas station, where a hot coffee (that magical elixir) managed to quell my stomach a bit more. We arrived at our friend's apartment complex, loaded their cooler and things into my car and set off.

When we arrived my strategy was simple- water. Water, water, food, water, water. I must've sucked back a couple gallons of water. I also sucked down a few glasses of wine as well. Though I have to admit we were smart about it. While we sampled a few new places, there were only a few as good as the winery we specifically came to taste. I stayed smart by remembering that I like sweet, and not dry, wines, so after trying a few I stuck with what I liked.

You will also recall I had only about 5 points remaining before I was all-out sick. Thankfully I balanced that line like a tight-rope walker, taking a sip from my wine glass and then a big chug from my water bottle.

And today? Well, let's just say today at work there was a spread for lunch that consisted of crab cakes, tortellini and chicken, and crab dip, and while I enjoyed it, my stomach was still punishing me for those last remaining bitter points.

Oh well, I have another whole week to build my points up. How did your weekend stack up?

T.G.I.A.T.E.O.F.

First off, let me start this (rare) Friday post with a big Wittie Cooper welcome to Cousin Kristen, who has just become lucky follower #7! Psyched whenever I know somebody not only gives a crap about this little ranting station, but actually gives a crap routinely, so thank you Kristen, feel free to comment on anything, and please pass the word along.

Ok, enough of the love-in, onto why I am freaking ready to take a hammer to a wall. By the way, if you are wondering, the acronym stands for "Thank-God-It's-Almost-The-End-Of-Friday", which is not only upsetting cuz today sucked a bit, but because I usually love Fridays and it's always a bad sign to start the weekend on a rough foot.





As many of you know we've had a little bad automotive luck. Well, not me, so much, but Joe. A few weeks ago he called me while I was up in Jersey describing how his truck was making odd sounds. He texted me a few minutes later with the bad news.





"'Truck is no more. Waiting for AAA'". My heart sank for him but we decided to just carpool, with me taking him to work, until a more permanent solution could be found. Honestly, I don't mind. It's nice to have company in the car and spend some extra quality time together. Plus, because we have to make up for it by getting up earlier, I actually end up getting to work on time. Usually, that is.





On this particular morning, as we travelled down 83, one of the biggest main drags into the city from the county, we noticed the bumper to bumper traffic began practically from our exit. As we muddled through we eventually came across the cause of the back-up--a head-on collision with the median. While the accident wasn't especially dramatic, it didn't stop the hundreds of commuters on our side to take their time and get a glance. We finally hit a semi-clear patch and as we approached Joe's exit I noticed the awful back-up on the other side. "I'm going to have to sit in that," I said disappointed.





I dropped Joe off with him still trying to explain to me some alternative routes. Fortunately, one of them was fairly simple and straightforward, although definitely a long way. After stopping to refuel I finally made it to work, albeit an hour late.





As I walked into the office I was relieved to find out that my boss had NOT yet strolled in. So far, a break-even.


Then I wanted to check my bank statement to ensure that the rest of my paycheck had been deposited. I had had a small panic attack yesterday when I looked and saw the direct deposit was over a $100 less than what I had been expecting. I was nearly ready to lose it when my fremps reminded me that they always stagger the holiday pay (this pay period including Labor Day) until the next business day. I opened my account online and once again, my heart went into my stomach. The money had not appeared.





I called the temp agency, and after a few rounds of phone tag my "boss" finally returned my call, and explained that, because I was short a few hours this cycle I was not eligible for the holiday pay. I grumbled to myself, and when I said I understood, my mood took an even more definite dip. I hung up, and resolved I would just go and get some lunch from the new coffee kiosk downstairs in the lobby and try to make up for this day.





As I walked up, the girl behind the counter asked what I was looking for.





"Yes, I'm curious to try that turkey with brie?"





"Oh, I'm sorry, we sold out."





"Oh," I said. Figures. "Um, what's on that London Broil sandwich?





"London broil, onions, and....horseradish sauce," she said.





Figures again. "How about one of those brisket knishes?" I said, though I could already sense the answer.





"Sorry, you girls got the last two yesterday," the other girl said, who had waited on us the day before.





I was almost unable to bear my frustration. I smiled politely and said thank you, though I'm not sure for what, and made my way back upstairs and ready to kick or punch or cry, much like a petulant child.


I finally just accepted the fact that today was a bad day, and from then until now I've been almost purposely searching for things to piss me off more. The traffic being horrible on the way back to the city. Joe taking longer than he said to come out (though really, it was only by a couple of minutes), and finally coming home to see that the dog had taken a nice long pee by the door and (kicker..) we have no more Swiffer mopping pads!!! AHHH!


Joe just asked me if I feel better. I think I do. But I think a nice glass of wine (and maybe a night out at the Melting Pot...?) will have enough strength to turn this night around. We shall see...anyway. Have a wonderful weekend kiddies. I should have plenty to discuss with a party to go to on Saturday and the Maryland Wine Festival on Sunday.


Somebody get me a spare liver PRONTO!

Ravin' Fans

My fellow temps and I decided to take a lunch out the other day and as we walked into the Panera, we ordered and picked up our lunches and we sought a place to sit. We chatted lightly and as I looked around I was amazed at all the purple surrounding us. Everywhere I looked men, women, even kids, were sporting Ravens jerseys. And if anyone didn't have a jersey, they were at least wearing a dark shade of purple. One man, who was getting up from his table remarked jovially to us, saying "Can't believe they let her in here without purple on!" (indicating one of the girls). That set us on the conversation about the game, which they both partook of, while I sipped my broccoli cheddar soup and thought about my relationship with football.

As I'm pretty sure I've made abundantly clear, I'm not much of a football fanatic. I was forced to play flag football as a kid in gym class, and when it comes to watching games, I usually preferred something--ANYTHING--instead. And while I always thought I wasn't alone on this, especially with the female population, as I went to college I really began to notice that everyone, girls included, would clamor in front of the television to watch a football game. It started with the Towson Tigers, then the craze among my friends became all about the Ravens.

In the beginning I found the whole game amazingly frustrating. My friends talked me into going with them to a Towson Tigers game, and in between their excited hoots and hollers they tried painstakingly to explain the game to me. Still, I found with every answer at least five more questions to ask. And if it wasn't frustrating, it was boring. Way too often the game would just stop, right when I was finally getting excited about some action. I ended up tuning out before the dance team and school band took the field. I chalked it up to just "not being my thing."

I also never felt the pressure to invest much interest because my high school boyfriend wasn't much of a fan either. Though I often wished he had been, I also enjoyed the fact that he never insisted on canceling plans to watch or force me to join him. Years later, when I took up with Joe, things changed. Not only was he a fan, he used to play in high school. Suddenly the fall meant apple picking, scary movies, and football-watching.

Joe tried to get me into the games, but for the most part my eyes glazed over or I'd sneak away to watch something else. Then, when the Giants were in the Superbowl he INSISTED I go with him to watch at the local sports bar. I'd agreed, trying to be a good sport, and much to my surprise I actually had a good time. I found myself cheering along or ooh-ing whenever a player got "sacked" (i think that's the term).

And last year, when our office had a Superbowl pool going I actually won $100! I thought, if this is football, I can get in on this. Still, though I doubt I'll ever be a true fan of the game, I do like what football does for the town, especially with the Ravens.

There's something comforting in the unity it brings to the citizens of Baltimore. You get a certain pride when you drive into the city and see the skyscrapers with big beams of purple light extending up their length. I like the camaraderie that comes with watching the games together, how the tailgating is an event of its own, with all the food and drinks and talking. I even like when I open a local supermarket circular and I see something called the "Flacco Italian Submarine".

Baltimore gets alot of crap for it's drug and violence-related reputation. But for a little while the city turns into a small town, with everyone rooting for the same thing, high-fiving strangers and sharing their own knowledge of the game. And it lasts...well, at least until November.