HEY GUYS IT'S SEPTEMBER RIGHT.
In the midst of my brother's sudden illness, other downer news, and everyone's general bumminess about things, I'd almost forgotten about my newest obsession/hobby/major manifestation of stress and anxiety.
Fantasy Football.
OK. I know, I hate me too. Just hear me out.
I've been invited for years to join one of these fake sport leagues for people who are obsessed with a certain sport and just can't get enough of it and aren't good enough to play it professionally.
I love college football and getting drunk and tailgating and singing Carmen Ohio and crying over losing games, but I don't follow pro football at all and I really don't need something else that I'll ultimately and inevitably become emotionally invested in and lose my shit over.
So I always cheerfully say "No thanks!" and carry on with my life. Which is exactly what I did this year.
Until Manfriend joined a league with all of my college friends and former college roommates and they were going to be smack talking and discussing it like all the time and omg I don't want to be the left out loser in the corner who has no idea what they're talking about so I cope by eating my feelings and chewing on my hair.
At almost the very last second I gave in decided to join. NO big whoop, I wasn't going to get too involved, I just wanted to be kinda sorta in the loop.
So the night before the draft, I rested my head upon my pillow and drifted off to sleep without a care in the world. I probably dreamed about shoes and champagne, and canoeing on a river, and bubble gum. It was a solid sleep.
I got to work that morning and figured I'd do a tiny bit of research to see who I should select for my team- The Draft was at 7pm.
And I got to the first website and promptly freaked the fuck out.
Because this shit is seriously, seriously involved. One of the first tidbits of advice I came across was something like this: 'NEVER BE LATE FOR THE DRAFT. Would you show up late to a job interview? Of course not- and THE DRAFT is more important than any job interview, so be on time.'
Ever heard of a Sleeper?
Welp, I hadn't.
I felt lost and out of control and suddenly very at risk to become a loser, THE loser.
And so I did what came naturally to me, I became completely and totally obsessed.
I had approximately ten hours from the time I became fixated on fantasy football until the auction style draft. Ten hours to learn everything about players, team, and the rules. And I was starting with absolutely nothing, so I was essentially screwed.
Let me tell you, people are fucking unreal about this stuff. It means more to them than their real lives. THEY DON'T ACTUALLY HAVE REAL LIVES. I don't know how I'm going to manage this one team and we're talking MULTIPLE TEAMS for a lot of these guys.
When I left work at 5 pm the day of the draft, I was armed with a belly full of panic and a stack of post it notes with random names and tidbits of wisdom scrawled all over them. my plan was to rush home and make CHARTS and nonchalantly pump Manfriend for information.
Five minutes after arriving home, I'm certain that he wanted to kill me. I was already half a beer deep and I could not sit still. My eyes were darting around. Post its were everywhere. I'm surprised he didn't just strangle me there to put my out of my misery.
Manfriend tried to keep reminding me that it's "Just for fun!" to which I wailed "I WON'T HAVE FUN IF I'M A LOSER!!!!"
Which, is obviously true. I don't really partake in things I'm not good at. I know that sounds pretty pathetic, but I mean, why would I? I try everything and then continue doing the things I found myself to excel at because they're the most enjoyable for me. Hence, not playing video games.
About an hour before the draft I was left home alone so Manfriend cold procure another computer and a six pack. For me. To ease my nerves. And because he honestly couldn't stand to be around my ridiculous stress level anymore. Easy for him, he actually watches the games!
AMIRIGHT?!
Anyway, in case you were wondering, the draft went fine. I played it pretty conservative with the fake-money auction, which is in stark contrast to real life where I throw my money everywhere except in a savings account and spread it as thinly as possible to insure I get the most possible cheap thrills. I actually got pretty drunk and deeply regretted it the entire next day at work. I also got most of the players I had my heart set on and it was OBVIOUS that I'd done my homework more than anyone else.
To me, at least.
I will declare myself the FANTASY FOOTBALL QUEEN if all goes according to my master plan.
Stand by.
XO Sara
Over the weekend Manfriend and I attended an out-of-town wedding. Three down one two to go on the year.
Yes, we've added some nuptials. MY BABY SISTER IS GETTING MARRIED. In November. God help us all, the next two months are going to be stressful. Granted, I've known for a few weeks and she already has her wedding dress hanging in a safe place. BUT STILL. EVERYTHING HAS TO BE DONE IN LIKE TEN WEEKS.
My head is spinning around and around practically.
She's trying to kill my mother and I, I swear.
Just kidding, but this is going to be whirlwind. The end result being the acquisition of a new brother for me and unlimited access to his ice-sculpting skillz. Maybe. Hopefully. And my sister will gain a lifelong companion and endless source of love and foot rubs. WINNERS ALL AROUND.
This past weekend's wedding featured my uncle J and his new wife and both of their families coming together, and I must say, it was pretty perfect. The other two weddings we've attended this summer were members of Manfriend's family, and though beautiful and heartfelt, lacked one component I'm accustomed to when it comes to weddings.
The after party.
My family throws an after party after any event that allows more than fifteen of us to come together in one place for a night. Graduations, funerals, christenings, you name it, we're getting drunk after it. This one was long overdue, I haven't seen a lot of my extended family for almost two years. So although Manfriend had met much of my family already- he's known my grandparents for years and met many of my uncles and aunts numerous times- he was finally introduced to the mayhem involved in an extended family get-together for the first time on Saturday.
Which always involves shots of a little thing called Schlocks. Which is a secret family recipe, but involves a mix of straight liquor- One of them being Scotch. Nasty.
Copious amounts of shots. And a certain expectation to keep up when it comes to the men. My poor, poor Manfriend.
About thirty of us were crammed into my parent's suite at the Homewood and the booze was flowing freely. So, while one of my cousins and I snuck off to a quiet corner of the hotel to avoid more shots and to catch each other up on some gossip, I received a text message from my uncharacteristically tipsy plus one that said:
'Sara I'm at a fucking Donato's."
Which, for whatever reason I thought was the funniest thing in the world... when I got the message an hour later. Apparently he set off (On foot, thank G.) with another of the first time initiates to get a gas-station hot dog and ended up in a Toy's R Us parking lot, multiple hot dog-less gas stations, and finally a Donato's at 12:30 in the morning. Although drunk, Manfriend was wise enough to bring back a pizza to share with the family, a very, very wise move.
All in all, overwhelming success if I've ever known it. And we get to do it all again in a couple of months. But I'm not planning on drinking more than A solitary beer every once in a while until then, because yesterday?
Yesterday was rough.
Xo Sara
I survived the happy, heart-filled Monday holiday. In case anyone wondered.
I'll spare you all the happy, heart-filled details, but other than a fake-eyelash catastrophe, the evening actually was really fun and rather perfect, like a great snapshot from college where everyone is laughing and unposed amidst a sea of pictures with girls lined up to go out, eye makeup perfect, blinding smiles, an army of sameness. I got a beam-heavy pre-dinner drink, some red meat, and shrimp cocktail out of the deal. Not to mention the love and devotion of a stellar manfriend and of course, some chocolate... and..........................porn.
Holy Sweet Moly I hope my parents haven't discovered this little venture of mine.
But yeah, Manfriend really went all-out with this one. In fact, in addition to wooing me with pornographic material and various other undisclosed items, MY OWN MANFRIEND ORDERED A GLASS OF RED WINE FOR HIMSELF AT DINNER. What are we, cosmopolitan now? I didn't even think he knew the difference between Pinot Grigio and Cabernet. Oh, how wrong I was.
My, my , my. Times, they are a changin'.
So, despite my mind being blown to smitherines at being wined and dined and another thing that rhymes with that and describes a sexual position that I have never personally tried, Mom and Dad, I'm going to talk about something slightly more serious. Yep, you guessed it, it's the adult, or maybe just MY, affinity for driving miniature vehicles. Specifically, the golf cart.
By the way, I'm now so paranoid about my parents finding out my sexual exploits at age 24, by stumbing across my anonymous interwebz blog that I'm addressing them in my posts. Fuck, I need an anti-anxiety prescription of some kind.
BUT, the show must go on! And so I give you, my personal thoughts and musings on the awe-inspiring cart of golf!
There she is, in all her glory. No doors, all windows. Topping off at approximately 27 miles per hour, she sits in wait for the warm summer days when children and adults alike will abuse her wiles for anything but golfing.
What is it about dicking around aimlessly on slow-moving golf carts that makes them so appealing? Perhaps the universal key that allows all golf carts to be clicked to the 'on' position almost effortlessly? Or perhaps the fact that standard traffic rules don't seem to apply when putzing around in one of these vehicles? Maybe it's the complete lack of seat-belts, doors, and wind shield that gives the golf cart its sense of danger? There's really so many wonderful things about golf carts, despite the fact that they don't really have the speed OR safety factor going for them. It's an open invitation for as many people as can manage to pile on to find a firm grip and get ready for the ride of their lives. Or something.
As a child, who didn't fight with their siblings/the other ragamuffins running around with them over who got to drive the golden golf cart whenever one managed to make an appearance? Who didn't start driving one of these little death traps around, unsupervised for the most part, before reaching double digits in age?
I know I did, and just look how I turned out.
IT"S LIKE DANGER ISN"T EVEN REAL IN THESE THINGS.
Our grandparents, for part of my childhood, had a house in Florida in a golf course community. That shit was REAL. I swear, golf cart was the primary mode of transportation. FOR GRANDCHILDREN. Come spring break a bunch of us hoodlums would meet up at the shuffle-board courts after dark to 'hang out.' Aka stand awkwardly in the shadows and glance surreptitiously at one another while only actually speaking to our own siblings.
And you know how all the cool kids got to the shuffle board courts? THEIR GRANDPARENTS' GOLF CARTS. Talk about a status symbol. Old people apparently have a lot of time on their hands to do things like trick out their slow-moving wheels, because shit, you wouldn't believe the chrome they can manage to trick out on these things. It's like middle-class street cred.
Or just sad.
I obviously prefer to look at it as CRED, WHAT?!
Oh also, when I was living/bartending/making a drunken whore fool of myself on 'The Island' in Lake Erie for two summers during college, golf carts were a quintessential part of island culture as a whole, adding emmensely to its reputation as "The Redneck Riviera." Although cars were welcomed and accepted, and semi-easy to get onto the island via the ferry, most tourists chose to leave their grown-up wheels at home and rent a golf cart to get them around the island for the duration of their trip. Because the only reason most people go to that island is to get drunk; it's a tiny strip of land covered in bars and bad hotels and dirty swim-up pool bars. And guess what? Apparently, drinking and driving is welcomed and encouraged in golf carts.
And people whipping around The Island were drunk on booze and DRUNK ON POWER. Or entitlement. Because of the golf cart and it not actually being a car, so therefore completely drivable despite those four Miami Vices the driver just slammed at the pool bar. Shit was seriouly unsafe on those mean streets after about noon on a Saturday when everyone started getting sufficiently liquored up and slurry. Plus, hitching a ride was a SNAP. If you needed to get from one end of the island to another, basically you just had to get someone to slow down enough to hop on a lap or hold on to the frame tight enough not to topple into the street.
I've actually seen the following conversation go down between a BRAH holding a coors light while driving, with a neck tattoo and VISOR and an actual law-enfrocement officer:
Johnny Law: "Ummmm, you're drinking a beer while operator a moving vehicle? And you just BLEW through that stop sign. Do you have your license on you somewhere?"
BRAH: "Oh, that stop sign back there? No, no, no, I think you're confused, this is actually a golf cart...sooo, yeah, I think this conversation is over...."
Johnny Law: "I need to see your license right now please, and if you could just step out of the vehicle and sit on the curb there, that'd be great."
BRAH: "I only have that cart rented until five pm... so let's make this quick." (give's lisence)
Johnny Law: "This is wet? Why is this wet? Sir. You can't operate a vehicle by driving, it's illegal in all 50 states."
BRAH: "DUDE, IT'S A GOLF CART."
Etc, etc, etc, and then I walked away because I was bored and/or getting dumber watching this guy make a fool of himself.
But really, he was just under the golf cart's spell. Can we really blame him? I mean, yeah, obviously for the neck tattoo and visor... but other than that? It's hard to say.
It's really amazing there aren't more fatalties there.
Ah, but this isn't about The Island, this is about the GREATNESS that is feeling invincible when driving a vehicle that ISN'T a car, and therefore doesn't have to be treated with any semblance of concern for personal well-being or rules.
And I HATE RULES.
I'm thinking about trading in my Jeep because, come summer, I'm going to be in needed of a little recklessness, and a little chaos. And I feel like I'm kind of over the hump on my carefree, experiment-with-drugs phase, so to get my fix of the wild life, I plan on investing in a golf cart. See you on the other side.
XO Sare
