My Giants Shot Themselves in the [Foot]

We all (hopefully, by now) know what was on the line. The pundits would say that tonight was a “nothing” game for the Giants; they already have the NFC East and the battle for the first round bye and homefield advantage doesn’t begin until the game against the Panthers. But those professional sportswriters forget about the Dog – and the collar around Toby’s fuzzy, little neck. And my pride. And my joy.

It was all on the line in tonight's game against the Cowboys. And this season had been going swimmingly; I was basking in the glow of last year’s Cinderella story…the debutante was about to blossom into a prom queen. Then her prom date decided to kick-off the pre-prom party with a couple of roofies. To put this in layman’s terms: last week, Plaxico Burress (one of the best receivers in the NFL) shot himself in the leg while in one of those snooty-velvet-rope-you're-not-cool-enough-to-come-in-here clubs, because he was carrying a loaded handgun in his sweat pants. (Who in the world wears sweat pants to a swanky club? Throw on a pair of jeans; wear a holster; or better yet, as long as you have the money, hire a guy to carry the damn gun and wear a holster for you. But wearing sweatpants? Seriously, he might as well hop on eBay and find a pair of those mid-eighties-zebra-stripe pants. Or a pair of Z. Cavariccis.)

Anyway…the Giants (appropriately) took the high road and suspended Burress for the rest of the season. Mr. Burress walked into that stupid club with my season in his pocket; and he blew it. Before his "injury": teams had to double cover him, which gave us the best running game in the NFL. Now: we have Domenik -- drop-the-sure-touchdown-pass-against-the-Eagles -- Hixon. Who is going to double cover him? In fact, who is going to single cover him? So teams stack the box against us. Put 8 guys up there to stop the run. And then Brandon Jacobs goes down. Earth, wind, and fire? More like: who, what, and where. Back to the game. The Giants couldn’t run the ball in the first half; and barely improved on that in the second half. That, my loyal readers, was the difference. And we lost. The soap opera between TO and Romo was entertaining, but it wasn’t a difference maker. Our inability to move the football? Yeah. That mattered. And we lost. It’s as simple as that.

Now, back to the dog and the repercussions of the Giants losing. As you all know, the Wife is a Cowboys fan. Me? I’m sane (usually); I’m a Giant fan. Needless to say, this creates family conflicts. My favorite email of the week came to me from the Mother:

Go Giants!!!!
Love, Mom
P.S. -- Traci, if you're reading this --- GO Dallas!!!!!

Notice that the Wife got 5 exclamation points? Yep; I think the Mother likes the Wife more than she likes me; then again, who wouldn’t.

But the most important part of the game was the Bet. The Wife and I have always wagered on Giants/Cowboys games. We’ve now started a running bet for these games for all the public to see: the Dog’s collar. After several weeks of joy and happiness, the Dog is sad to be wearing his boring Cowboys collar. His Giants collar and my pride will go back into the jewelry drawer until the playoffs.

Dear Santa – All I want for Christmas is for the Cowboys to get knocked out of the playoffs in the wildcard round. Is that too much to ask?

Laughing at your wife is no laughing matter.

As many of my loyal readers have pointed out, this blog has a habit of giving the Wife a hard time. But it appears that I am not the only that has a laugh (and pays the price for it) at his wife's expense.

For example, my fish-loving friend Linzer is married with two dogs and two puffer fish. (There used to be more fish, but some of them developed a habit of trying to escape the tank. Their victories were pyrrhic.) Having had dinner with Linzer and Bev last night, and washing said dinner down with one too many glasses of wine, we were exchanging emails this morning about our respective visits from the hangover fairy. Bev's misery was initially compounded by the antics of the aforementioned puffers....and then her husband's own self-destructive conduct. As Linzer explains it:

bev was also grumpy this morning because one of the pufferfish managed to splash about a cup of water on her this morning. Then she got mad at me for NO REASON for laughing.

I was just as curious as you guys about exactly how this happened. Linzer's response:

The puffer decided to put his big fat tail-butt out of the water and then dart to the bottom. It was shamoo-esque.

Puffer: *Splash*

Bev: AAAAAAAH IT GOT IN MY MOUTH

Linzer: 10 minute long laughing fit

To be honest, I'm not sure which got Linzer in more trouble: laughing at his wife or sharing it with his friends. The moral of the story? Laugh at yourself and the whole world laughs with you; laugh at your wife and you laugh alone. 

[Weekend] Warriors....Come out to play-e-ay

This past Saturday, on the somewhat slippery tundra of the Swedish Cottage field, was the third annual Turkey Bowl. The game started out as an offensive shootout, with the teams exchanging touchdowns to bring the score to 2-2. But then Gilman showed up and, for once, things took a turn in a less offensive direction.

It was an interesting matchup, pitting the reigning MVP (Greg "Happy Feet" Goett) against this year's MVP: Timmy "Happy [?]" Gilman. Happy Feet had his hands full, but it was on defense that Gilman did most of his damage, picking off several passes and breaking up numerous others.

Despite his repeated claims that, "Summa's covering me; I can burn him all day," Linzer was unable to catch any of the easy passes thrown to him....preferring only to make shoestring and fingertip grabs.

Last, but not least, credit must go to our faithful fans: Tiffany and Cheryl. It was cold, but they kept that blanket warm and rosy.

The Mendez brothers proved excellent additions to the game, providing one of the teams with a significant advantage at the quarterback position. But it was their brother-in-law that was the most reminiscent of Sweetness. On a short pass to the left flat, Pat stretched out for a one-handed stab at mid-field. He pulled a spin move on Adam and practically danced into the endzone. Poetry.

Traci and Bev had their usual war of attrition (with Jenn taking countless snaps when various injuries reared their heads and required medication); happily, most of Traci's in game injuries affected only her liver. Credit must be given to the Wife, however, for the best pass rush of the day. Late in the game, her team was clinging to a narrow lead and reeling yet another one of Big Poppa's shiv-like kick off returns. On the next play from scrimmage, Traci drops back into coverage against Bev; nobody was rushing the quarterback, so Traci passes her coverage off to the safety and comes free on the corner blitz. This took everybody (and I mean everybody) by surprise, including the quarterback who, rather than avoiding the blitzing defender, lofted a pass into the middle of the coverage. The pass was picked off; but, rather than taking it to the house, the overzealous safety ran to hug the Wife and tell her how proud he was of her. Needless to say, although his flag was still in his pocket, a foul was called and he was ruled down (and ridiculed) at the spot of the interception.

At the end of four quarters, it was good guys 13 and bad guys 10 (ish). And another Turkey Bowl was in the books. Much to Donovan McNabb's surprise (or perhaps as he may have expected), the players decided to play a fifth quarter...at the usual watering hole, Firehouse. Speaking of quarters...nevermind.

"Pain heals. Chicks dig scars. Glory... lasts forever." - Shane Falco

The pursuit of perfection...

How far does one go in the quest for greatness? Magellan sailed around the world.  Michael Phelps swam every single day for four years.  Keanu Reeves attained greatness in Bill & Ted….and then spent years trying to re-attain that pinnacle of excellence.  Me?  I prefer to hop in the car, drive to Westchester, and find greatness in deep-fried poultry appendages covered with buffalo sauce.  

On Sunday morning, Traci and I hopped in the car and drove up to the Candlelight Inn and met Brian, Sara, & Lee for wings.  I mean, it’s only a half hour drive each way.  And, in my humble opinion, these are the best wings in the state [ed. note -- Brendan has never had wings anywhere north of I-287, so his myopic view of the "state" should be ignored].  Better than Down the Hatch; better than Blondie’s; better than Firehouse; better than the Town Tavern; and better than insert-place-that-you-incorrectly-think-has-wings-better-than-candlelight.  Never mind, my opinion is not humble; it’s right; and those of you that try to disagree with it simply have incorrect opinions.  These wings have crispy skin and tender, juicy meat on the inside.  I think one of their “secrets” is that they don’t separate the thigh from the wing, which probably locks in more flavor.  And the sauce; the sauce is critical.  The wings aren’t soaked in buffalo sauce; they’re lightly tossed.  The sauce is spicy, yet creamy.  I could go on all day, but then you’d get bored.

Some fans wear their love of the New York Footbal Giants on their sleeves....my dog wears it around his neck.

I like to gamble. No question. Placing a wager makes everything more interesting. My buddies and I bet on the coin flip for the Super Bowl (and, sadly, the over/under on how long the national anthem lasts --- never take the under with Aaron Neville at the mic). It's not the money that matters; most of the time, the wagers aren't for cash.

That's boring. A good wager should make the game more interesting. For example, one of the many times when Linzer and I beat Traci and Bev in spades, the winners got to choose shirts for the losers to wear by the pool (in addition to the losers having to provide the winners with two hours of pool-side beverage service). Four words can describe the treasures I found for them at Walmart: Hannah Montana, pink, ruffles. You get the point.

So, what is this all building up to? Good question. You see, the wife is a cowboys fan. Yep; it's true. If you didn't already have serious doubts about her judgment when she accepted my (marriage) proposal, you've now read the clinching fact. So, bleeding Giant blue, and being the person I am, Traci and I placed a friendly wager on the Giants- Cowboys game. The stakes? The collar that Toby would have to wear until the next Giants-Cowboys game. Giants win and Toby wears a Giants collar. Cowboys win? Same deal. To paraphrase the immortal Mike McDermott:  With Romo out, it wasn't even like gambling.

The game wasn't even close. Giants win 35-14. Toby? His new collar was installed minutes after we got home. He's happy as a clam. The wife?  "Listen, here's the thing. If you can't spot the sucker in the first half hour at the table, then you ARE the sucker."

The wife burns everything she cooks, even the cat.

My beautiful wife has many skills and talents. Cooking, however, has never been one of them. Don't get me wrong -- she makes a mean buffalo chicken dip and some tasty, tasty chocolate covered peanut butter balls. But dinner? Still a work in progress.  And I tease her relentlessly about it.  And she beats me for it. Lather, rinse, repeat.  I never really know when to keep my mouth shut. 

 

So...it's a Wednesday night and I'm going to be home at a reasonable hour (by "reasonable" I mean before the little hand makes it to the double digits). Traci offers to cook dinner for us, which I happily accept and deem to be part of my birthday present. She decides to make rigatoni with chicken in a tomato based sauce. Sounds good. I settle in at the computer to generate some profits for the QE partnership until dinner is ready. 

 

The next thing I know, Traci comes into the office and she starts explaining that Ivy has proved herself dumber than Lucas. (As you may read in later posts, Lucas has traditionally been known as the 'dumb' cat in the family.) Something's wrong though....Traci is clearly in "spin mode" here.  According to the wife's version of events, Ivy (of her own volition) stood on the gas stove near the pot of boiling water and singed her fur on the burner.  The apartment has the strong odor of burned hair, so there's no question that there was cat-to-fire contact. But how? 

 

Now ask yourself which of the following two scenarios is more likely to have occurred: 1) that an animal with highly developed senses and survival instincts would get so close to an open flame that it would burn itself? Or 2) that my wife (who once managed to burn chocolate in the microwave -- I mean smoking-hissing-and-need-to-run-water-over-it-to-avoid-setting-off-the-smoke-detectors-burning) somehow managed to burn the cat in the course of cooking dinner? 

 

Be careful, my mind locked up on that one, too.  Lather, rinse, repeat.   

Can't know the players without a scorecard....

So. You're new to this blog. (Well, given that this is the first post I'm writing, I'd be very worried if you had been here before.) What's it going to be about? Nothing. It's going to be the Seinfeld of blogs. Except not as funny.  Just another mindless drone putting his thoughts onto the interweb. Then again, perhaps it will be funny -- I have a sense of humor. "Of course you have a sense of humor. Everyone thinks they do, even people who don't." -- Barney Coopersmith.

Anyway, on with the show.  In case the title of the blog wasn't enough to give you a sense of those living in the apartment...let me give you a quick cast of some of the characters that will run through future postings.  I will go in reverse order of the blog's name, because if I put the wife after the animals, I am quite sure that it will have an adverse effect on my quality of life.   

Traci - The wife.  We just got married in September (2008), so I'm once again adjusting to the change in nomenclature.  The good news is that wife sounds much cooler than "fiance" -- which makes me feel like I'm going to puke in my mouth.  

Toby - The fat dog. Seriously. He's 80 pounds of dog, capable of eat a hamburger in one a single bite.  He thinks he's the alpha dog. He and I have fights about this.  Then again, Traci thinks she's the alpha dog. She and I have fights about this. I don't win a lot of fights.

Bo - The alpha cat.  The black and white cat. Brother of Luke. 

Luke - The beta cat.  (I've never actually heard the term "beta" anything used this way -- but it sounds right.)  The grey and white cat. Brother of Bo. 

Mona - The third cat.  My buddy Summa (he and the other humans that we're friends with will likely be introduced in a subsequent post) says that she kinda looks like Jimmy Durante because she has this brown spot on her nose that makes her look kinda like she climbed the ugly tree one too many times as a kitten.

Ivy - The fourth cat.  Her real name is IV, as in the fourth roman number.  Because she's the fourth cat.   Traci wanted to name her El Quatro, so that we could call her Ellie.  I told her that she'd have to wait until we could do Dodgeball true justice and legitimately name a cat El Ocho.  Traci made clear that we'll never have a cat named Ellie.