The Things We Do For Love. And Football.

College football season is nigh upon us. Lynda understands that no minute of Notre Dame football is to be missed, and even watches the games with me at the Notre Dame Alumni Club game watches. However, should I turn on another game at home, her reaction is comparably negative to that of which I would get if I had just tuned into Best Damn Hooter’s Bikini Contest. She will announce that “We’ve already watched football today!”, apparently overlooking 2 things:

1. She and I are not, in fact, the same person – ‘she’ may have had enough, but ‘I’ haven’t, and it is not necessary that ‘we’ do the same thing at all times.
2. Unlike the NFL, each college football regular season game is meaningful in the sense that one loss can knock a team out of national championship contention.
   

However, as self-evident as those two facts are, Lynda still does not seem to be able to grasp them. Therefore, I had to devise a system by which I could earn the time I wish to spend watching my favorite sport. Simply doing chores around the house won’t cut it, because she expects me to do these things. I have to go above and beyond to earn my time credits.

Hours That May Be Claimed Once Per Season

+4 Hours - I Don't Play Golf

As a general rule, I try to stay away from things I see other people get addicted to, and golf is like crack to men in their 40’s. They will play at least one round on the weekends (if not two), and possibly work one in during the week. They will spend hundreds of dollars to get the latest “Steel Pull-Face Fairway Wood”, sure to enable them to lower their score from 87 all the way down to 86. They will spend large portions of each vacation on the links. Worst of all, they will spend an additional few hours each week recounting every stroke on every hole to their spouse in greater detail than can be found in the US tax code (and about as interesting to listen to). So, honey, you owe me for all the additional time I could have spent ignoring you, like other terrible husbands do to their wives. Aren’t I awesome? And it could be worse, but....

+6 Hours - I Don't Play Poker, Either

At least when someone talks about their previous round of golf, you can understand what the hell they’re talking about. Poker has a veritable wealth of ‘lingo’, and guys that play poker LOOOOOOOOOVE to work in as much of it as they can into each and every sentence:

Well, I had a bad beat when I drew a pocket Broderick Crawford and the flop had a Cowboy and an Aggie Slick. Anyone with a pocket Bachelor’s Hand or even a Gorillas in the Mist I wouldn’t be able to crack, no matter what came in the turn or the river. I couldn’t even go for a Gun Shot and I didn’t want to be a Calling Station, so I mucked it…

-1 Hour - I Watched "The The Making of the Dallas Cowboys’ Cheerleaders” last season

EVEN THOUGH she watched every episode also AND EVEN THOUGH she actually got mad at me because I didn’t record the season finale last year, I lose an hour because, in watching this, I acknowledged that other women besides Lynda do, in fact, exist.


Hours That May Be Claimed Weekly

½ Hour - Every Hour We Watch “The Dog Whisperer”

Good Lord, how I hate watching this show. Let me count the ways:

1. The ‘Whisperer’, Cesar Millan, usually wears a pink polo shirt with the collar popped up. Hey, Dog Genius, turn off Queer Eye For The Straight Guy and change your shirt. When you buy a collared shirt, it comes with the collars folded over exactly how they should be. Leave them alone. You look ridiculous.
   
2. The show could conceivably work as a drinking game: just down a shot every time Cesar says the word “energy”. I say ‘conceivably’, because unless you have a few guys with cast-iron stomachs, everyone would be passed out drunk in under 15 minutes. He absolutely loves that word.
3. He’s ALWAYS successful in turning whatever nutcase of a dog he’s been consulted to help with into a suburban Lassie. Just once I’d like to see “Well, I hoped he would change his energy by reacting to my positive energy, but he used some negative energy to gnaw off three inches of my butt…”
4. Despite the three or four “Do not try these techniques at home.” warnings, nothing seems to be able to stop folks who watch this show (ahem, Lynda) from feeling that they have been handed some kind of Rosetta Stone for understanding each and every action their dog undertakes and how to correctly respond. Lynda now isuues out commands to the dog, who stares at her quizzically for awhile as Lynda repeatedly barks out the same word over and over, then eventually figures out whatever it is Lynda is trying to tell her to do, and then does it, less out of a response to proper training than the desire to get Mrs. Bossy Britches to finally shut up.
5. Lynda considers every word that comes out of Cesar’s pie hole to have come from Christ Himself, no matter how many times I’ve told her the same thing. Example: When I take a nap (the best way to spend a non-football Saturday afternoon), Tipper will lie on the bed with me the whole time with her butt up against me, and facing toward the door. I have told Lynda about Tipper doing this many times, saying that the dog is “guarding me”. Then a few weeks ago, Lynda walked in to the bedroom, saw Tipper laying down with her butt up against me lying on the bed, and announced “Cesar Millan said last night that when Tipper does that, she’s guarding you.” You don’t say! Wow, I would have never deduced that on my own! What a font of knowledge he is! Quick, run outside and tell me what color Cesar Millan says the sky is!!!

I only get a half hour because I, as is my God-given right as a male, control the remote.

+1 Hour - Going To Oliver’s With Her

Oliver’s is neighborhood eatery here in north Dallas that Lynda absolutely loves, to the point that she would eat every meal there if she could. It’s a chick place, meaning the food they serve is either chick stuff like salad and “guilt free” pasta - whatever that is - or stuff that would be guy food if the folks who run the restuarant could stop themselves from gussying it up so much that no self-respecting man would touch it. Cheeseburger? Sounds great. What’s that? It’s spiced with oregano and cumin, and served with goat cheese over a rice pilaf? Pass.

-1 Hour - Every Hour I Spend Watching The Cubs In The Playoffs

The fact that a) the Cubs have sucked for most of my lifetime, b) they have a realistic shot this year at going deep into the playoffs, c) former Notre Dame football wide receiver Jeff Samardzija pitches for the Cubs, d) it has been 63 years since they last went to the World Series, e) this is the 100 year mark since they last won a World Series, and f) should the Cubs fail to win the World Series, they will lose in the most excruciating way possible, which will give us Cub fans more bad memories to wallow in, which we love since that’s all we really have besides a nice ballpark to watch the Cubs in – all of this means nothing to Lynda. An hour watching one non-Notre Dame sport counts just as much another.

+1 Hour - Buying Gossip/Celebrity Magazines

Lynda has far too much dignity and intelligence to buy these rags herself, but if I were to, oh, say, buy 3 or 4 of these at Walgreens, she will read every one I buy cover-to-cover. Finding the little lady something to read has the added benefit of the fact that while she’s catching up on how Jake and Reese are doing, I can watch whatever I want.

+ ½ Hour - Every 2 Hours We Watch “Deal Or No Deal” Together

Deal Or No Deal is a game show for people who think Candyland is a game of strategy. There has not been a single contestant who has not failed to grasp the simple math it takes to make at least a somewhat intelligent decision whether to take the ‘deal’ or keep going:

1. Look at the amount being offered.
2. Count the number of amounts still left in the cases that are less than the amount of the deal. We’ll call this number A.
3. Count the number of amounts still left in the cases that are more than the amount of the deal. We’ll call this number B.
4. If the ratio of A to B is greater than 3 to 2, keep going. If not, take the deal.

Instead, the contestants jump around a lot, wave their arms, pull out divining rods and/or chicken bones, consult with their ‘advisors’, none of whom apparently understand math any better than they do, and then go by ‘gut feeling’. I truly wonder at times how these folks get through life operating anything more complicated than a toaster. But I only get a half hour for every 2 hours of 'Deal' because there are hot chicks holding the cases, and I can get away with ogling them by saying things like “She looks just like you, honey” and “No, I don't think her boobs look natural at all!”. Ogling aside, I have to pretend that I really hate the show, so that it appears I’m sacrificing my precious time to watch it with her. Oh yes, I’m just that evil.

I'm ready for some football!!!! Honey, bring me a Diet Coke! Honey?

Honey?