We’re six days into 2019, but damnit Darling Ones, it’s been a motherfucker so far. Let me count the ways:

• I’m still sick
• Today my furnace decided to be a total sporadically working and not working for random reasons dick
• A client’s website is down and I can’t fix it and that is driving me nutty
• I made waffles for breakfast and it made me so sick in a different way than the sick mentioned at #1 that I had to take a two hour nap after breakfast
• I can’t taste chocolate or anything
• Last night I was reading The Bluest Eye and got to the part about autumn and thinking of somebody with hands who does not want me to die and I cried/coughed so much I literally barfed in my mouth

I’m down deep in the woe-is-me if I have not made that clear. I’m in the “I took my health for granted” portion of this cold. So dramatic.

But now the Golden Globes are on. So far they are awkward and weird, which makes them fun to watch, but more importantly, watching them reminds me of that guy who dumped me because I called football frivolous.

Remember? Hilarious. Still.

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Last night, I sat under a blanket watching the Golden Globes (ASIDE: It appears I cannot type blanket without typing blankey first, which is really weird because I never really utter the word blankey, not ever) and thinking about Patrick.

It’s been over a year since I heard from Patrick, a dashing dark-haired, blue-eyed thirty-something I had a sort of dalliance with last year. Or rather mostly in 2015. Time has ceased to have any meaning to me.

I know it’s been a year since I heard from Patrick because we had what I can only guess was a falling out regarding the Golden Globes. Or really, I think we had a falling out because men are dumb and think they are vastly superior in all ways.

See, it went down something like this. The afternoon of last year’s Golden Globes Patrick sent me a text: “I’m so depressed.”
“Why?” I texted back.
“The Vikings lost.”
“Oh.”
“I should come over so you can comfort me,” he texted. (Texted feels like weird attribution, can I just use said? Is that allowed or is that a lie?)
“Well, I’ve got plans to watch The Golden Globes with Twitter,” I texted.
“That’s pretty frivolous,” he texted.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “But so is football.”
“Football is not frivolous.”
“It is so.”
“No way.”
“Besides,” I said. “I will spend one night watching an awards show and it will have zero impact on me emotionally. Whereas you invest how much time watching football? And now you’re depressed because a team you root for lost? Tell me again about frivolous.”

And Patrick was never heard from again. The end.

(Like for real, how can any person who does not make an actual living on some sporting nonsense claim that it is not frivolous? Aren’t professional sports the very definition of frivolous? Just because you like it doesn’t make it serious or purposeful or you know anything but mindless entertainment to distract you from the absurdity of reality.)

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This should come as a surprise to exactly no one that football is not my thing. In fact, sports in general are not my thing, except the occasional Olympics (and more the Winter ones than the Summer ones because I like my sports with the looming specter of icy death).

Even growing up football was a thing for my family. We were hockey people. We went to North Star games at the Met Center and watched them on TV. As a child I knew more about icing than touchdowns.

The first Superbowl I remember even being on my radar was the one where the Chicago Bears sang the “Superbowl Shuffle.”

The next Superbowl I remember might have been shortly post-college when the Packers won. I only know this because my Wisconsin born-and-raised brother-in-law is a diehard Cheesehead. He wears the green and gold with great pride in good seasons and in bad.

Mostly, though, I remember the half-time shows or who I spent the Superbowl with.

I remember the year Prince played the half-time. Jaycie, Max, and I spent most of the evening watching the Puppybowl and eating pizza. When the half-time show started I changed the channel and turned it up entirely too loud for their tastes.

If memory serves me I spent the Janet Jackson nipple fiasco bowl at the Town Hall Brewery with the TTHM. I also spent the Tom Petty Superbowl with the TTHM at the Town Hall Brewery. I remember that because he said thirtysomething women had a weird relationship with the song “American Girl.” He was right.

The Bosscocked Bowl was my favorite of all the Superbowls. I think the TTHM might have been here at Supergenius HQ for that one. I don’t quite remember. What I do know is that I spent the entire next day at work watching the Bosscocked video. For real, I watched it about a thousand times that Monday and giggled like a fool. My friend Malmsy is still scarred from the incessant giggling. He told me.

Then there was the awful Black-eyed Peas & The Who years. And I know Madonna was in there. Now Beyonce, who really is stunning though I know none of her music outside of “Single Ladies.”

And those are the Superbowl’s I have known. Also, aside from a few Packers’ victories I have never chosen the winning team ever. So if the Ravens lose tonight, it’s totally my fault.

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It’s the state of constant peril that appeals to me. The summer Olympics just don’t have the same level of danger, or at least it doesn’t appear that way to me. In the summer Olympics it seems the worst that can happen is a runner tripping and skinning her knee. Plus, I could never get behind the idea that giant, hairy men were teaching tiny, barely-pubescent young girls how to fling their bodies into the air. Gymnastics gives me the heebie jeebies.

However, tiny twentysomething women strapping boards to the bottom of their feet and flinging their bodies down a bumpy mountain? That is some kind of awesome, sign me up!

The winter Olympics are roughly 87% better than the summer games because if you trip, you are going to be tumbling down a mountain. Or falling on some ice with blades strapped to your body. That air of danger is riveting. And, as was so sadly demonstrated by the death of the Georgian Luger, very real. I can’t take my eyes off the winter games. I wait with bated breath for someone to fall and then wince as they go skidding down a mountain. That’s entertainment my friends!

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Since I know absolutely nothing about baseball and even less about the people who play baseball, I asked a lot of questions. Like:
“Who’s the that cute guy?” (Johann Santana)
“Do all those Oakland guys have to wear beads?” (Apparently not and I just happened to be paying attention both times the bead-wearer was on the screen)
“Do you think Dudley Wonderchop is dating Sven?” (Again with the apparently not, because all the Twins are manly men who don’t date diminutive weatherguys)

At that point I got really bored and made Seamus trade “Back to the Future” quotes with me. It’s surprising how many of them I remember.

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