Football.

I’ve been watching ESPN’s Sunday NFL Countdown for the last 2 hours.  The fact that it’s Sunday and there is something other than TLC’s Say Yes to the Dress Big Bliss on the screen tells you that I am clearly not in charge of the remote.  I wasn’t really paying attention at first, People.com was detailing how Justin Bieber rented out the Staples Center so he and Selena Gomez could watch Titanic, but then Mike Ditka compared the Eagles’ defense to the song, “Send in the Clowns,” and I perked up.  In the last 2 hours this is what I’ve learned about how to win a game of professional football: you need to score more points than the other team.  True, it was said in a multitude of different ways by a multitude of old white guys all wearing too much pancake make-up, but that was what it all boiled down to. Riveting.  I don’t know what was more unbelievable: that I spent 2 perfectly good Big Bliss hours watching this, or that these guys get paid. 

I tried explaining this to my boyfriend, but he said I was, “ruining his Sunday flow.”  If I’m being completely honest I don’t think it was so much my constant commentary as my need to explain in detail my love for both the song “Send in the Clowns,” and the musical it comes from, “A Little Night Music,” that ruined his flow.   It may also have had something to do with my impromptu performance of the song and its Reprise changing the tone of my voice to distinguish between Desiree and Fredrik (obviously).  I blame Mike Ditka. 

ESPN’s Sunday NFL Countdown taught me everything I need to know about winning a professional football game, and reinforced something I am constantly learning about men: they don’t like to talk.  Now, I’m not saying this applies to all men, but it is my experience, from my father, to my best male friend, to my boyfriend that when it comes to conversation they’d rather be doing just about anything else, and they employ a whole range of tactics to accomplish this goal. 

My dad employs the old bait and switch.   I’ll call home and for the first twenty seconds or so he listens and actively responds.   Then just as I’m about to tell him about my latest life plan to become the next millionaire matchmaker he hands me off to my mom, he even uses those words, “Well, let me hand you off to your mom,”  like talking to me is a relay and it is time for him to pass that baton.  My best male friend lives on the west coast and therefore has the luxury of talking to me mostly on gchat where he can, and does, use what I like to call the “OWR” or “one word response.”  Hey.  Fine.  Good.  No.  Really?  Uh-huh.  Uh-huh.  Wow.  Ok.  Later.  Sometimes he will type his response and forget to press send so minutes go by where I stare transfixed at the bottom right hand of my computer screen, the words, “Text has been entered” taunting me mercilessly while he grabs a beer and checks his fantasy football stats.  And my boyfriend just wears earplugs.  Seriously.  He’s wearing them now. 

I know they don’t mean any harm by it.  In my true hour of need they have all been there for me with insightful advice, shoulders to cry on, and handles of vodka (thanks dad).  And really if my boyfriend got drunk and sat me down at 2am to have a long, drawn out conversation about his life plan complete with emotional freak out about decisions he doesn’t have to even start thinking about making for another year I would have a few things to say.  The first being, “How dare you steal my signature move!” So I guess for now I'll just accept them all as the strong silent types, DVR Big Bliss, and call my girlfriends.