12/13/12 Post Concert Musings

I and I’m sure you watched the awesome 12/12/12 benefit concert on TV last night.  Yeah, I couldn’t get tickets either! Overall it was truly spectacular, and the lineup was unparalleled. However as much as enjoyed what I saw (I must confess, I nodded off during Sir Paul) there were a few thoughts crossing my mind.  Never one to keep my opinions to myself, I thought I would share them with you.

Bruce.  What can one say? A Jersey boy to the core, never forgetting his roots. But Bruce, and I say this with much love, its time to move into the “relaxed fit” in jeans. Yes, you are still a hunk, and have moves most 25 year olds covet, but it is time to move on.  That waist band must have been killing you, and the tightness in the thigh area reminded me of a pair of super strength spanx.  Trust me on this Bruce, I moved into the “relaxed fit” in clothing years ago, and have never looked back.  Leave the skinny jeans to those flash in the pan, Boy Bands.  I have heard rumors that Mayor Bloomberg may enact a new law, only ‘RELAXED FIT” on anyone over 55, to go along with his no “Big Gulp” law. Oh and by the way, you were awesome.

Another home grown boy, Jon Bon Jovi.  A native son, that does this state proud.  I have a question though.  According to the internet you are up in my “generation.”  How the hell can you look that good? Inquiring minds want to know.  I have a few theories; you are living off supplements of Botox, you have made a pact with the devil, or like Dorian Gray, you have a portrait in your attic that is getting very, very old. Please let me know Jon, because all I want for Christmas is my youth.

The Rolling Stones…enough said! I want to know what the band’s budget is for hair!  You cannot tell me that Mick, and Ron Wood have absolutely no gray hair.  I must commend their colorist though, as he/she knows enough to color the eyebrows as well.  I did notice that no shirts were removed, and bare chests revealed.  I am sure we would have spotted a gray hair or three. Sadly, I think Mick and Ron used up the entire hair color budget, case in point Keith Richards. The amount of hair is truly amazing as well.  Maybe taking massive amounts of illegal drugs, washed down with hard liquor, in your youth, is more effective than Rogaine…..who knew?  I hear the boys are clean these days, no drugs at all.  I guessed that by looking at them, no Botox users in that bunch. For your information, the “relaxed fit” does not apply to Mick Jagger.  He gets the “If you weigh less than a fifth grader” exemption.

Alicia, Alicia, Alicia.  Wouldn’t playing your song “NewYork” been more appropriate?  What was with “hold your cell phones up?”  Is this a throwback tribute to the days of people holding their lit lighters aloft?  If that was your intention, you picked the wrong song my dear.  That is only for “Sweet Caroline.” Whoa, whoa, whoa!  By the way if I had been there, I would not waste my phone battery like that.  I would be using it to send text, twitters and instagrams to everyone I knew, saying Nah, nah, nah, I’m here and you’re not!  I’m kind that way.

Every long concert needs an intermission, or as some people call it Kanye West.  At our age (the same age range as most of the performers I might add) a bathroom break is not a luxury, but a necessity. You are usually loathe to leave your seat, and possibly miss something! This is also the best time to refill your beer, buy a churro, or get up and stretch.  How did they know we would realize it was the break?  I guess they counted on us to figure out that age old question, “Which of these is not like the others?” and plan our bathroom/beer/burrito break accordingly.  I cannot let this go by without commenting on the wardrobe choices of Mr. West. Was he wearing a hefty garbage bag around his waist?  I hope he didn’t pay a lot for that kilt, as you can get a box of 28 for $13.62 at our local Sam’s club. Sorry Kenye, this was a rock and roll benefit, and who ever put you in the lineup, is probably seeking new employment as we speak.

Well that about wraps up my musings this morning. I also want to add a disclaimer.  I did not look at Facebook since the concert, so don’t blame me if you posted/tweeted the same thoughts.  It just means that there is a reason we are friends, very good friends!

COMMUNICATION BLACKOUT

I loaded another two boys off to High School this fall. The same curious phenomena I experienced with their older brother at this juncture, showed its disconcerting face. Namely the “communication black out.”  Suddenly, all queries must be submitted in advance, and certain areas of interest were considered off limits.

These were my sweet babies that used to regale me with blow by blow descriptions of each and every moment of their day.  I knew what everyone at their table had for lunch, who got a new haircut, the color of the teachers dress, and how they did on tests.  Believe me, their daily accounts were usually less then scintillating copy. Yet I persevered, listening to every word.  Ok, my mind would occasionally wander, but given the fact that they could transform a 300 word incident into a 3000 word filibuster, punctuated with the phrases “ummm, and then, “or “guess what happened next,” “and you know.” I thought I was holding up my end of the bargain pretty well. 

Now, when the information I want is so much more interesting, I have discovered that I have lost my security clearance. Every morsel of Intel is carefully screened and edited before it reaches me.  I have been put on a “need to know” basis only. Asking about a member of the opposite sex is like asking a post –menopausal woman her weight and age. Totally out of line!

It used to be, when they shied away from a question, I could use my infamous sucker punch line of inquiry, with amazing results.  To those of you not familiar with this trick, I shall share my method.  I would sit down with my child, and begin to ask a series of innocuous questions i.e.: did it rain at recess today? Did you have regular or chocolate milk at lunch?  Was it any of your classmate’s birthdays today?  Is anyone using drugs or alcohol?  Just when they are lulled into complacency, you strike with the question you really want answered. Unfortunately this verbal game of Simon Says is no longer effective, as even innocuous questions must be submitted well in advance.

Sometimes I could shake out some information, by putting them under the hot lights, but at this age my offspring would make stellar POWs.  No info is forthcoming.

What’s’ a concerned Mama bear to do? Why hop on board the Canary Express! This is a top secret group of mothers willing to share the valuable Intel, gained by driving carpools.  You see, teenagers are blind to adults in their midst.  Just like Jane Goodall, you must blend into the background, keeping quiet, and not startling your subjects.  Then you listen, and the canaries begin to sing.  It can be frustrating, as you really want to ask some in depth questions, as tales from teens emerge.  However, you must resist, or your name will be Mrs. Nosey Pants, and the word will go out among the herd. Your effectiveness on the Canary Express will have been fatally compromised. All driving Moms must be willing to share the valuable data, and not be held accountable for any mis-information, or propaganda the canaries have sung. Additionally you must not shoot the messenger, when you find out that it was your own little darling that started the lunch time food fight.

I have been told by Moms whose children are grown and out of the house, that the lines of communication re-open sometime after college. This is probably because the freedom of information act kicks in. In the meantime call me Ms. Goodall.

UNINVITED GUESTS

My eldest asked to borrow the car to do, what in my opinion was completely unfathomable.  He was going to one of those Vitamin /Health food emporiums to purchase high protein and carbohydrate shakes. The desired effect was to put on weight.  I know, completely insane!

For maybe the first time in my life I was rendered speechless. After I picked myself up off the floor, pinched myself, to make sure this was not a dream, I issued my heartfelt warnings.  Never, and I mean never, willingly invite pounds to come and live on your body!  Had he not noticed the genetic pool, from which he sprung?  The majority of his biological family wages the battle of the bulge daily.  Some have kept the pounds at bay, others are not as successful.  There are a few lucky ones, those who manage to stay thin without even trying, but we know they are mutants.

We must be ever vigilant, keeping our borders closed to pounds seeking a permanent home.  For once they are aboard they breed faster than the Octo-Mom.  They also invite friends.  Many friends.  Over the years we have issued eviction notices to these freeloaders, the writ being prepared by the firm of Atkins, J. Craig, & Weight Watchers, located in South Beach.  They may leave temporarily, but they always return, and never alone!

Usually they begin hopping on board with great stealth.  Your clothes still fit, although you may note that your favorite blue jeans are not quite as roomy after they go through the dryer cycle. You may also notice that manufacturers are making outfits in your size a tad smaller. Candid photos appear to follow a reverse side view mirror warning; things appear larger than they really are. Pictures of your face are blurry around the bottom of your chin. Then that fateful day arrives; the big wake up call.  You catch an accidental glimpse of yourself in a store window reflection.  D(iet) Day is upon you!

I shared these facts of life with my naïve offspring.  He scoffed at my advice, telling me he did not plan on getting fat. (Yeah, like that was my master plan!) He was planning on shaping these newly acquired pounds into finely tuned biceps, triceps, and delts.  I tried explaining that it wasn’t easy keeping those extra pounds corralled where he wanted them to live.  These interlopers like to move around. As he aged, they would act like snowbirds, and migrate to more southerly areas.

What’s a parent to do? I tried to lead that horse to the water of enlightenment, but he wanted to drink the carbo-shake instead. I can only pray he doesn’t get like that dunderhead on the Planet Fitness commercial, “I pick things up, and put them down.”  Although that saying might be the answer to my diet plan…….pick it up, and then PUT IT DOWN!

Praise the Lord, and Lose the Crutches

My husband and I had to fly to Florida this past week.  My father-in law passed away.  I should say his body passed away, as he suffered from Alzheimer’s, so he had left us many years ago. This was more like a reunion with the five other siblings, as the six of them had not been together in the same place since one of them married 7 years ago. That is an interesting story for another day….and it will be good!

Now I would guess that you are thinking this little essay is going to be about reconnecting with family and death opening the door to awareness……you would be wrong.  I want to talk about other miracles I witnessed.  Fasten your seatbelts.

I may have mentioned that my soul mate (husband, and he still is!) and I are both over the 6’ foot mark.  Usually when we fly, we assume the shape of a pretzel, and pray for aisle seats. This time, since it was only the two of us, we decided to spring for the extra leg room seats on Jet Blue. To the uninitiated, they were wonderful! I could actually sit, without someone’s head lying in my lap!  The flight down, was only half full, so after my obligatory 2 Xanax, and one strong bloody Mary, (I am a white knuckle flyer…better living through chemistry) I was able to doze off, mouth open, occasional drool, and slight snore (that might depend on who is telling the story) on the aisle, with NO seat mates. Besides the obvious benefits of space, these seats also afforded us priority boarding, and no charge on one bag of luggage.  Talk about living large.

We attended the funeral, and we have all been to enough of those things to know what goes on.  It went without a hitch.

Now it is time to fly home. My husband assured me we had the same wonderful seats for the flight back. We headed off to the airport, West Palm, Florida.  The TSA check point was painless, grabbed a little breakfast sandwich, and we were on our way! I should have been suspicious, nothing goes that smoothly.

Suddenly things became increasingly clear to us.  We were in the midst of the “Snowbird Migration.” All people originally from the northeast and who still own a home up “north” had spent the obligatory majority of time in the Sunshine State to qualify for the no income tax rule, and were now heading home to the tri-state area. They were on our flight, better known as the “Boca Boogie Boomarang.”

As I mentioned earlier, we had purchased priority boarding.  Now there are, as there should be, passengers boarding before us; the poor souls in wheelchairs, mothers carting baby seats, and any member of the armed forces.

They announced it was time to board those passengers that needed extra assistance.  I thought I was at the “Wheel Chairs on Parade,” special flight!  No less than 15 wheelchair passengers lined up, with spouses sporting either bad toupees, or questionable hair color (I’m sorry, but red hair the color of an M&M, is not looking natural) pushing them along. I didn’t bother to count the number of walkers, and canes also lining up. 

I am sure you are thinking (as I would) what a mean spirited old broad you are!  You however did not witness what happened when we landed!

Alleluia, praise the Lord! The lame were now able to walk! Once we landed in Newark, not only could these previously wheelchair bound chair passengers walk, they could elbow and push other passengers out of their way, while swatting them with their 5 pound bag of grapefruits and Publix bags. Not one, and let me repeat that, not one, was using a wheel chair when it came time to exit the aircraft!  In fact I believe they could have posed stiff competition for Nadia Comaneci! I swear I saw one old guy doing a balance beam over the top of the seats; my husband blamed that on the Xanax.

You don’t need to go to faith healers. Lourdes or Maggiore, people!  Jet Blue flies out of West Palm, Miami, Fort Lauderdale, and Daytona daily!  Seek and you shall be healed! You heard it here first!

Farewell Mr. Clark

Unless you are living under a rock, I am sure you are aware that Dick Clark passed away this week. Who can ever forget American Bandstand? The two were synonymous. Maybe this is the day the music died for the past few generations.  Every Saturday morning, if you weren’t sitting in front of the TV, it was playing in the background.

I loved American Bandstand, and I know I was not alone.  I remember watching it back in the early sixties with some of my older cousins.  They would be trying out the latest in dance steps, copying the moves of those lucky teens actually in the studio. I adored my cousins, and was as happy as a clam, just being allowed in the same room while these important lessons took place. As time moved on, I too tried copying the latest in preparation for the local CYO dances held on Friday nights. People were not born knowing how to do the “mashed potato” or the ‘swim,” we all learned by our intense study of Dick Clark’s show.  Some of us learned better than others, as I am sure the phrase “white men can’t dance” was coined by curious onlookers at a dance event attended by my extended family.

Not only did we learn how to dance, we learned how to dress. Here was a bunch of good looking teens on TV, and we wanted to look just like them! They were cool, they were hip, and they embodied all our hopes and desires.  They say Carnaby Street and Twiggy changed the face of fashion; I disagree, Bandstand set the style. They transitioned from boys in jacket and tie, through bell bottom jeans, to Disco suits.  The girls started out in bobby sox and twin sets, and rode the fashion wave of minis, maxis, and halter dresses. Let’s be honest, what gal didn’t crave an open weave crocheted sweater vest, to wear with her love beads, and go-go boots?

Hairdos were another aspect studied and copied from Bandstand. In the early sixties, the hair curled up in a flip, with either a matching or tortoise shell head band. Soon enough the girls were sporting “pixie” cuts, while the young men were letting their crew cuts grow out. We saw it all, the long straight hair, the Farrah Fawcett wings, the Dorothy Hamill, and the curly perms.  We watched as the boys moved on to afros, complete with hair picks in pants pocket to locks combed back ala Saturday Night fever. Looking at old pictures, it becomes clear that not all hairdos were meant for all people.  I have a number of “perm” pictures floating around out there, that I pray never show up on Facebook!

What person of our generation didn’t wonder if those kids didn’t know how to wash their faces correctly, thus ending up with the Stridex Medicated Pads revealing “Residue that plain old soap and water can never totally remove?” I know I badgered my mom into buying me some Stridex, so I could perform the experiment myself.  This is how I learned that all the claims made by advertisers may not be the whole truth!

How about “Rate the Record?” Or that tag line, “it’s got a good beat, and you can dance to it.”  Mr. Clark always appeared to be fascinated with the young reviewers.  He treated them with respect, and valued their opinion. Unlike our parents, who thought our choices in music were questionable at best!

Which brings me to the MUSIC!  Oh the music! The majority of the show was dancing to the top 40 hits. But at some point, usually right after a commercial, the special guest would perform. Dick Clark booked everyone from Tony Bennett, to Jim Morrison. Most of the musical giants of our generation appeared on the Bandstand stage at one time or another.  Sure they lip synced their latest hit, but it was thrilling none the less, so much better than just looking at pictures from our “Tiger Beat” magazine.

So thank you Dick Clark, thank you for letting us find our own way, thank you for changing the way we listened to the music.  May you rest in peace.  You will be missed, but rest assured, your memory will go on and on.

A Cranky Lady Goes on Vacation

I just returned from a lovely vacation during the Spring Break holidays.  I have come to the conclusion that my tolerance for the general public is on a rapid decline.  For some unknown reason people who stop dead in their tracks, or meander from side to side making it impossible to pass, are attracted to me. These people, hence forth known as “slow” walkers or “slokers” are always in my way.  Now I am not talking about the aged or infirm, I am talking about those physically fit people who believe the best time to check their travel documents are when they are in the midst of a large crowd of fast moving passengers.  Why there is not more serious injuries resulting from the domino effect as fellow travelers collide into these slokers is another great mystery of life. Once I broke free from their gravitational orbit, I proceeded to that cattle chute known as the TSA security check point.

Do a large majority of the population not read, or listen to the very simple instructions?  As we shuffle through we are reminded to remove our shoes, coats, hats, and place our things into a plastic tray that goes through the scanner. Additionally we are reminded to have our boarding pass and passport in hand. I cannot tell you how many folks fail to have the requested documents ready, after they have been reminded repeatedly as we wended our way through the disneyesque line. Amid loud sighs and rolled eyes (mine), they fumble through their carry-ons, when they finally reach that point in the process. The real fun starts at the walk through metal detector.  I always seem to get behind the person that “forgot” to remove their foot wear.  In my case nine out of ten times the passenger in question will be shod in a pair of boots that take a good fifteen minutes and a specially designed button hook to shed.  They proceed to prance through, only to be sent back to remove their coats, and then again to remove their hat, and finally to lose the belt that is sending the metal detector into overdrive. These same geniuses will also have a liter size water bottle, nail clippers, and various big box store sized toiletries in their duffels. Usually some lively discussion follows the confiscation of said items, and the line comes to a complete halt. Then there is the Body Scan. Bottom line, I think everyone knows by looking at me fully clothed, they will see a multitude of “muffin” tops, bottoms, and industrial size underwear on my scan screen.  I honestly don’t believe that the scanner is looking for a cheap thrill at my expense! However many of my fellow travelers think differently.  Hence more discussions, and further holdups.

Finally after overcoming the TSA hurdle, deftly moving around some more slokers, we are at the gate! Now the boarding cheaters show their faces.  If you have flown lately, you may have noticed that they board the plane from the back rows to the front rows.  This makes great sense, as it should eliminate the problem of the “Aisle Blockers” at the front of the plane. When your boarding pass is issued, it usually designates what boarding zone you are in.  In theory you will be getting on after the people sitting further back in the plane have boarded.  We were to be seated in the middle of the plane, or zone two.  Zone one, the rows to the rear of the plane, were allowed to board first, our section was second, and the passengers in the front rows should board last.  HA!  We followed the rules, and guess what?  We were one of the last passengers to board! I remarked to my sons that they should check the people’s zone number when they board, and if you are “jumping” the zone you should be sent to the back of the boarding line. They just shrugged and asked what the big deal was?  The big deal is carry-on bags.  Since airlines now charge for luggage, everyone tries to cram as much into carry-on as they can, thereby allowing their clothes to fly free. As a result overhead storage fills up fast.  So fast that at the last minute your carry-on needs to be checked at the gate.  Usually in your carry-on are all of your expensive electronics, prescriptions, jewelry, and any other valuables that you wanted to have in your possession. We were flying the day after the story broke on the sizable amount of items gone “missing” from luggage at JFK.  One guess where we were flying from! Well we could only pray our bags didn’t become the piñatas of the baggage handlers.

Okay!  We are in our seats, securely buckled, with our seats and tray tables in their upright position. Let the screaming child two rows up begin her rousing serenade! I had to hand it to her; she had stamina, and was able to maintain earsplitting screams for the duration of the flight.  As soon as we were aloft, the tiny little grandmother directly in front of me, slammed her seat back to a full recline.  Mind you she was all of five feet nothing, and her feet barely touched the ground.  Meanwhile, me measuring in at a whopping six feet plus, had the extreme pleasure of flying with my knees jammed up by my ears. Then to add insult to injury, the guy catty corner to me, polished off a heaping helping of re-fried beans, and a burrito.  Needless to say, it was rapidly metabolized and expelled, if you get my drift.  I definitely got his.  Who ever thought putting a Mexican Restaurant near the gate was a good idea? That wunderkind should be forced to fly on a plane for a few hours breathing in recycled air, after someone enjoyed an entrée from their fine establishment.

Arrival!  Yippee!  And we were off!  We enjoyed a lovely cruise, on the SS Slocker.   If you think meandering through the terminal is slow going, you haven’t been on a buffet line with the “I must inspect every morsel of food, before it goes on my plate” crowd. Or the let me look through the Bingo cards, and get a “feeling before I purchase one” ladies.

We ended up having a great time, relaxing and having fun, in spite of my diminishing regard for people.  Now if the world is truly fair, someone is, at this very moment writing a blog about a curmudgeonly tall woman, who sighs and rolls her eyes!  (I think it might be written by my kids!)

Hope your Holidays were happy!

LEARNING TO NAVIGATE

At the risk of sounding like an old curmudgeon, who walked five miles to school, uphill both ways, I worry about our children; specifically their ability, or lack of, to navigate their way home. I know I am not alone when I admit to chauffeuring my precious offspring every time the intended destination is more than ½ a mile away. When I do allow them to get somewhere under their own steam, you can rest assured the swat team is following close behind.

Back when I grew up, this was completely unheard of. We walked to and from school, in all kinds of weather. That is what umbrellas, gloves and goulashes were for. After school, we immediately changed out of our “school” clothes, donned our “play” clothes and headed out until dinner time. We roamed the neighborhood for hours on bikes, or super skates, till dinner time or the street lights came on. Did our parents know where we were every moment?  Highly doubtful. They knew we were probably in the vicinity, and that was good enough for them.  The only cell phones available, if indeed there were any, belonged to James Bond. Back at our house we still had the party line! Yet, we survived. We learned how to navigate around the city, find short cuts, and could get to any friend’s house with our eyes closed. As we grew older, and by older I mean sixth grade, we started to use public transportation. Everyone knew where the bus stop was. We quickly became adept at schedules, which number bus went where, and how to transfer between different routes. By high school we thought nothing about catching a train into New York City, and taking a walk around that great metropolis. Yet, we survived.

People say, “Well, it was a different time.” I say perverts and pedophiles have been roaming around since the dawn of civilization. Our parents taught us not to talk to strangers, never get into anyone’s car, and always travel with a buddy. These rules still apply. I do believe that some terrible things happened to children when I was young.  I just don’t think we heard about it. Nowadays we have instant access through the internet.  While this is a good thing, the down side is that it has scared us half to death.  We shield our children to the point of incapacity.

When my eldest was learning to drive, I was horrified to discover that he didn’t know how to get anywhere.  If he was dropped a mile or two away, he would be completely stymied as to how to make his way home. It was my fault. I guess I thought he would absorb navigation skills from all the times he was driven places.  What I have discovered is that can’t happen if your nose is buried in a game boy, and your headphones are securely fastened to your ears!

How did we ever get from point “a” to point “b”? We knew where we were, and where we were going. We used maps, another outmoded form of information! I don’t think my children could use one in real life. My kids rely on the GPS to navigate for them.

I guess the point I am trying to make, is that by being so overly protective, I have robbed my children of that feeling of independence that comes from knowing where you are, and how to get to where you want to be. I am going to try and back off, let them out of the bubble, call off the swat team, and let them learn the best way; by doing.

Facebook Official

Well, my last son just went Facebook official.  For those of you not in the know, this means he is “In a Relationship.” I have been down this road before, and was not looking forward to my last baby taking this step.  What this means to him, is that he has a girlfriend, to me it means that the question and answer period has been officially shut down.  It seems that once a teenager enters into a “relationship” all information becomes top secret.  As a mother, I do not possess the security clearance necessary to be privy to any details.

Unfortunately for all three of my boys, I was friends with the mothers of their first “girlfriends.” We would share whatever meager tidbits of information we happened upon, and hoped that no one’s heart was crushed in the first foray into romance. Not that we would ever in a million years know the details!

It seems to have happened in a heartbeat.  One day we would be told long sagas of the day’s events.  The stories would take 30 minutes to relate, while the actual event being described took 30 seconds. They included all the details; weather conditions, wardrobe, and cast of characters. They painted vivid verbal pictures of the observations made.  Now we receive a grunt, a shrug, or rolled eye, when we ask the innocuous “how was your day?”

Currently, all questions need to be presented to their advance team, than we will be informed what topics are off limits. The only thing I can count on anymore is “how about this weather?” They forget that I have always asked questions about what was going on in their lives. Why now, is it viewed as such an unwanted intrusion?  It makes me wonder, what do they think I will do with this information?  Will I contact their girlfriend, and pass along sensitive Intel? I am your mother, and in case you haven’t noticed, I care more for you than everyone in the world. I always have, and always will have your best interest at heart.  I want to be able to guide you through this stage, as I guided you through walking and riding a bike. 

My boys are somehow under the mistaken impression, that I was hatched fully formed as their mother. They can’t fathom the idea, that I was once a young girl.  I know how girls think!  I have had 50+ years experience as a female, and my memory is long. I am sitting on a wealth of information, and eager to share.  I am not, as I think you believe, trying to run/destroy/live your life.

As much as things change, they remain the same.  There will be girlfriends, there will be breakups, there will be broken hearts, and there will be brand new relationships.  I guess I have to learn from my sons, that this is the stage in my life, where I learn to zip my lip, and just trust that the lessons I tried to impart, have taken root. I’m trying, but it’s not easy. Then again what new stage is ever easy?

We're Going to the Super Bowl!!!!!!!

Many, many moons ago when I first met my husband I quickly discovered he was a fanatical Giants football fan. At the risk of revealing how long in the tooth I really am, I will divulge that Phil Simms was the quarterback. Our Sundays were spent in front of the TV as the season unfurled.  In the beginning of our relationship, when our true colors were still under wraps, my husband sat on the couch, and made polite comments, like nice play, or good pass.  That was in year one.  By the time the second season started his true fanaticism was starting to bleed through.  Instead of sitting calmly on the couch, he would pace to and fro, picking up tempo as the score got closer. When season 3 finally rolled around, all pretense of civil behavior went out the window and he turned rabid. Many a Sunday afternoon I witnessed him charging the TV, screaming at the top of his lungs “Phil Simms, You s*ck! Luckily nothing was ever broken, except for a remote which flew out of his hand during a particularly exciting play, and occasionally his heart.

Through it all he remained “TRUE BLUE.” About 5 or 6 years ago, a friend offered to sell him 2 season tickets.  This buddy had four tickets, one each for himself, wife and two children. His wife was not, in his opinion showing the proper enthusiasm expected, when given the opportunity to sit in the frigid cold, and watch grown men toss a ball around, while simultaneously knocking each other to the ground. His children were still on the young side, and their favorite refrain at the games to date had been “Is this almost over?””When can we leave?” and “Dad, its’ too cold here!” My husband leaped on the opportunity. Oh he loved it!  From the tailgating in the parking lot with hundreds of close friends (because if you are a Giant fan, you are a friend of mine), to the hooting and hollering up in the stands with like (or right) minded individuals. On days his beloved “Gints” played away, he could be found pacing in front of our home TV, yelling instructions to the quarterback.  (I know, I told him they can’t hear him, but all I got for imparting this piece of timely information was a dirty look.)

As you all probably know, the new stadium went up in 2010.  Finally a chance to have his own season tickets, a lifelong dream comes true. He purchased three tickets.  We have three sons, but one is away at college, and the other two will (hopefully, God willing) be away at school when the eldest returns. Now that he is plugged into the Giants network, in a pinch, he can always rustle up an extra ticket.  Usually he knows of some poor buddy that is being forced to attend a wedding or christening on game day. (Not that he understands this.)

Yes the licensing fees were steep, but if you consider, as I was, that this represented every Christmas/Birthday/Anniversary present he would ever receive, not to mention a season ticket inheritance for each son, when Dad departs for the big goalpost in the sky, it could be justified. I cannot tell you the joy he derives from his Sunday afternoons at the games. Decked out in his Giant regalia, he makes the trek up to the Meadowlands faithfully.  He has also been successful in his quest to indoctrinate our offspring to the ‘Giant” way. They too can now intelligently spout plays, yards, bad calls, and all other football trivia with the best of them.  They have made their father proud.

His beloved Giants are going to the Super Bowl this year, and so is he! I was made aware of his plans at the last televised playoff game, when he and a few friends were jumping up and down screaming “We’re going to Indianapolis.” I mistakenly thought he was using the Royal ‘We” as in our Giants are going to the super bowl. I was wrong.

So his bags are packed, and he is ready to go!  He is driving in my minivan (the seats recline, so you can catch a nap he explained) with three other diehard fans.  He has packed a cooler with drinks, yodels, Hostess fruit pies, and a couple of packs of red twizzlers.(Provisions for the twelve hour jaunt) Tickets, check….hotel reservations, check….Giant jerseys, check….Giant hat, check……enthusiasm, check, check and triple check!

Meanwhile back at home base, I will be attending a Super Bowl party.  I will spend my time checking out the latest in delicious “Game Day” appetizers, and dips.  I will also watch with much interest the commercials and half time show. But most importantly I will be hoping his team wins, so he will have a weekend to remember forever!

GO BIG BLUE!!!!