Go Bucks.

During my childhood, there was exactly one framed picture of the children hanging on the walls of our house. There were two pictures of Woody Hayes. I’m not complaining, I’m just telling it like it is: I am a Buckeye by nature and by nurture. No autumn Saturday has passed in my lifetime that I haven’t either been watching the Buckeyes, listening on the radio, or on a quest to find out the score of the game. And I wouldn’t want it any other way. I can make myself cry just by thinking of Woody Hayes dotting the “i” in script Ohio in 1983. I will never forget when Keith Byars lost his shoe in 1984. Remember Art Schlichter before he ruined his life? I do. I was in an English class with Troy Smith as an undergrad and I told EVERYONE. And people cared, because I am surrounded by fellow Buckeyes. We get it.

But.

Here are a few requests, fellow Buckeyes:

1. Stop referring to the sports teams as “we”. As in “We just scored an amazing touchdown!” or “We need to do a better job on special teams.” First of all, there’s no “we” in team. Second of all, the collective “we” are a bunch of fatasses, who could not throw a football ten fucking yards, much less to someone else. WE have got to stop pretending that WE are on the team and WE have got to give credit to the athletes who are actually doing it. I swear to God, if I hear you say “we” in relation to people who you are watching on television, I will tackle you so hard you will wish you were wearing pads.

2. Stop acting like you work for ESPN and that anyone cares about your in-depth analysis of the game. Let’s suffice it to say that if you had any talent at this, you would be working in the sports field instead of…you know…at that building. Where you work. And, by the way, I understand that you dominate in NCAA Football 2004 – 2011. That does not actually give you know-how, either on the coaching end or the playing end. Stop playing video games and get some fresh air. It’s good for you.

3. Remember how young these football players actually are. Many of them are still teenagers. They are just barely adults, they are not professional athletes, and they have never signed a contract stating that they are personally responsible to YOU for your happiness. They have left their homes, and are now responsible for getting themselves up in the morning, going to class, managing their time, learning plays, doing their athletic training, studying, making friends, making sure they have clean underwear, growing up, meeting their coaches expectations, figuring out their way around campus, etc. etc. Please do not make their life harder by sending them death threats because they dropped a pass.

4. And do not pass judgment on them if they happen to speak differently from you. Not all people grew up in the suburbs, and just because they say “youknowwhatI’msaying” every other word does not mean that any of these kids are stupid. They have to learn their position, they have to learn their offense or defense, they have to watch hours of tape, and study other players, and then they have to assimilate all of this information together so that they can, in a matter of a few seconds, put it into action when the ball snaps. They are not stupid. And it’s offensive and condescending when you say that a black player is “articulate” just because he talks like a white guy.

5. Put your garbage in a trash can. I often go running across campus and down High Street early on Sunday mornings. The sea of garbage is amazing. People finish a drink, food, whatever, and - -Poof! - - drop the container on the ground, like we live in some sort of Harry Potter world where Professor Sprout will turn it into a topiary or something like that. No points for you, Gryffindor, that’s not what happens at all. The University and the city have to use resources to get your mess cleaned up, at the expense of students, ticketholders and taxpayers. I don’t think you’d like someone to come to a party at your house and then burn your couch at midnight, so you should do your bit and find a trash can. My God, it’s not like anyone’s asking you to re-sod the field.

6. Drink like a grown-up. Don’t elbow your way to where Kirk Herbstreit and Lee Corso are sitting just to yell “WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO” as loud as you can - think of something clever for the love of God. Do not hit on college girls – they’re not interested in you. Don’t be rude to the other team’s fans, unless they support Michigan. Assign a designated driver. Don’t you dare say a bad word about Maurice Clarett because that kid turned the 2002 National Championship game around for the Buckeyes. Be a fan, even if they lose a game…I am certain that the team actually feels worse about it than you.

Okay, I think I’ve said everything that needs to be said. It’s going to be a beautiful autumn, and this team is going to do us proud. Go Bucks.

Get in line, Delilah, you're next.

Just to get us started: there are some words I can’t bring myself to say. I have always lived by the rule that if it doesn’t make sense to call Tom Cruise the name, then you probably shouldn’t say it out loud. Try it out. Would it make sense to call Tom Cruise a douchebag? Sure. So that’s okay to say. Does it make sense to call Tom Cruise a cu*t? No. So we won’t say that word. Fuckwad? Sure. He's a total fuckwad. The n-word? No. That doesn’t make sense at all. So that word's off-limits.

Here’s the problem, though. Even though I have clearly established that, using the Tom Cruise test, it is not okay to say the n-word, the use of that word is part of what I need to discuss. So, to make it easier, I will substitute another word that some people don’t think should be said, but I think is perfectly acceptable: Voldemort. Okay? To recap: every time I need to use the n-word in this post, I am going to substitute Voldemort. Now that we’ve gotten that straight…

Dr. Laura Schlessinger said Voldemort eleven times on her radio call-in show. And there was a big hubbub about that. Which I don’t quite understand. First of all, our Constitution guarantees us the right to free speech, as long as we’re not using that speech to incite people to immediate violence, and as long as it’s not slander or libel. As a result of this right to free speech I am free to say what I want in public. I can say good things, or I can say dickey things. I can have this blog. I can say that George Bush purposefully ran this country into the toilet or I can say that Barack Obama is purposefully running this country into the toilet. I can say things I mean, or things that I don’t mean. I can say Voldemort as many times as I want. You can’t stop me, and you shouldn’t try.

The whole idea around this first amendment thing was that we should have a “marketplace of ideas” where everyone’s stupid-ass opinion can be aired and heard, without censorship, and we should trust people to be able to decide what is right and makes sense, and what’s a screaming load of garbage. The framers of the first amendment had a lot more trust in Americans than we have in ourselves: they believed that, in hearing ridiculous notions, we would simply say, “I call bullshit” on those that were stupid, and that would be that. But nowadays, maybe we don’t trust ourselves to know the difference between a statement that’s borne of logic, and one that’s been contrived and manipulated. Maybe we can’t decide for ourselves that, when a person who makes her living giving advice to people she’s known for all of 25 seconds starts spewing Voldemort, Voldemort, Voldemort, this may not be an idea we are necessarily interested in buying in that marketplace of ideas.

I don’t believe that Laura Schlessinger uses the word Voldemort in her daily life. I doubt she even thinks it, and I am quite willing to bet that she finds the word as abhorrent as any of us. I think she got a little carried away with the demands of trying to be politically correct while still being as arrogant and self-satisfied as she is. She’s got a lot of balls in the air.

That’s not to say, however, that she’s not a gigantic asshole. Here’s why: instead of just saying, “Hey dudes, I said Voldemort, and I’ve said I’m sorry, but it’s not illegal to say Voldemort, even if I meant it, so if you don’t like it, don’t listen to my dumb show,” she ENDED her show (quitter!) and she said she wanted to “regain her first amendment rights.”

Here’s the thing: she never LOST her first amendment rights. Her first amendment rights are what gave her the right to say Voldemort eleven times!!!! Her first amendment rights are not at issue! Believe me, if the ACLU has to come to town to ensure that the fucking KKK has the right to march all over my statehouse with signs that say “Voldemort Go Home!” then Laura Schlessinger’s precious stupid rant is PROTECTED. In her quit speech she also said that she didn’t want to “live in fear”. What fear? She was allowed to say Voldemort eleven times, and she did! She said Voldemort Voldemort Voldemort Voldemort Voldemort Voldemort Voldemort Voldemort Voldemort Voldemort Voldemort!!!! Only one, maybe two of those could have been a mistake, so there was no fear when the word was coming out. Seems like she felt perfectly comfortable, as is her right as an American, to use whatever language she chose. So it sounds like what she really fears is consequences of her actions. Sounds like what she fears is having to listen to people who disagree with what she says.

It’s one thing to not want to listen to people who disagree with you. I totally understand that sometimes you just want to live your life the way you want to live it, and you don’t want people telling you that illegal immigrants are going to steal your babies and eat all the good jelly beans out of your Easter basket and take all the really awesome dishwashing jobs. If you are a person like that, you should get a job where human contact is controlled. But when you’ve made your living off of a radio call-in show, that, by its very nature, requires the intrusion of other humans with minds, and then you take the further step of SCREENING EACH CALLER SO YOU KNOW EXACTLY WHAT YOU ARE GETTING, it’s just a little hard to believe that, after decades of doing this, you are suddenly living in fear. Of what? A human audience?

It is far too late for Dr. Laura to play victim. She is no dummy, and she did nothing that was illegal. It was offensive, certainly, but ultimately, it contributed to the marketplace of ideas, and gave people something to think about, to consider in light of their own experiences and understanding of the world, and something to react to. For her to blame people for reacting, and to proclaim that her rights were somehow lessened through her interaction with that (extremely patient and mild-tempered, might I add) caller is to deny the entire purpose of the Constitution. I call bullshit, madam.

No...I'm not talking about your blog...

I understand that I complain a lot. I have always held that complaining is my way of cleaning out my psyche. If I just let my complaints out into the air, then I don’t have to spend my days and nights holding on to them where they’ll fester and cause me to freak out on some poor, unsuspecting barista at Starbucks. And, to my credit, I think I’m a pretty good complainer. Instead of complaining about the usual, boring stuff (Monday, LeBron James, the weather, not sleeping, Twilight not being half the series that Harry Potter was), I dig a little deeper, and find the strength to complain about leprechauns, aggressive insects, Edward Scissorhands, and people who don’t let me swap out their baby for a cuter one I found on the internet.

But at least I complain. I recently learned that there are an alarming number of people who use their blogs to insist, to all of the poor souls who are reading, that their life is sheer and utter perfection. I have always suspected that blogs were used for this purpose, but I was unlucky enough to be sucked in by one the other day. It was a friend of a friend of a friend – I have no connection to this person – but the entries went something like this:

May 4: I am so lucky to have such balance in my life. I know, I know, it’s hard to do it all: my consulting business, keeping up the home, keeping the husband happy, caring for my precious (and precocious!) daughter and nurturing the one on the way, but I have always said that organization is the key…

June 12: I was reflecting on God’s plan for me today. I was reading my Bible, of course, and was particularly inspired by Genesis 25:30, making some homemade chili with free-range beef and tomatoes and peppers from the garden, and I felt so sad for the women of the world who feed their families from canned chili…

July 17: The hubby, daughter and daughter-to-be and I just got back from our beach vacation. No matter who you are, you should take time to be with your family and rejoice in your blessings. Work should take a backburner to your family. Even though the hubster provides a comfortable home for us, he realizes that this is what’s most important…

Here’s my question: why in the hell would you think anyone would want to read that? We have shown ourselves to be a nation devoted to watching train wrecks, like The Bachelor, and aspirational stories like The Biggest Loser and American Idol. We like the Jersey Shore and a flight attendant who cursed his jackass passengers and hippity-hopped off the plane with a couple of beers in his hands. We may be a nation that admires perfection in a way, but ultimately, Martha Stewart is a whole lot more likeable now that she’s done some time in the pokey than when she was folding her thousand-thread-count sheets with a ruler.

Models are airbrushed. Asian girls with big boobs are generally not that way by nature. Men with lots of flashy shit have small penises (fact). The world is a place where a lot of mistakes are made, and we just make things worse when we try to cover it up with our own insistence that we are the best of what’s around. I contend that we are not. There is always someone who is better than us, smarter than us, prettier than us, more coordinated, charming, friendly, taller, better-dressed, more capable, a better parent, a better human and a better Christian. Or Muslim. Even if you rule in one of these areas, you might be a crappy tipper or have eleven toes, or even fourteen toes, which would be really weird. We are all supremely imperfect, and it makes absolutely nothing better to put on these condescending, fake-as-hell facades that do little but further isolate us from one another.

So I’ll be the first to admit it in my blog: my life is anything but perfect. One of the fish in my fish tank hates me, I don’t like cooking, and become enraged when people take pictures of their food and post it on Facebook, I’m terrible about sharing my chocolate, and I sometimes wish that, instead of living next to an assisted living house for people with Down Syndrome, I lived next to a home full of Mensa members who are also part-time hip-hop firefighters. Hit the road, Down Syndrome people.

You would have laughed too, but that makes you a bad person.

In my household, Sunday mass was not an option. Through high school, whether or not we had something better to do, we were at St. Catherine’s for the 12 o’clock mass, sitting in the section facing the altar, on the left hand side, usually in the middle pews. And about every two months or so, my family would be tapped to take up the offertory.

The offertory is the bread, wine, water and a chalice (I think) that is to be consecrated by the priest and made into communion. Members of the church take the gifts to the altar, while everyone else passes the basket for the collection. Expert church goers know that this means that you are two kneels, a sign of peace, an Our Father, communion and the last hymnal from freedom. Or at least doughnuts.

I was fourteen when The Incident occurred. I had just gotten home from a post-Christmas trip to New York with my sister Carroll, and was wearing some of my Christmas finery – specifically a black jersey jumper from the Limited, a white turtleneck and some costume pearls. I hadn’t gotten new shoes, however, so I was wearing ancient black hand-me downs from my sister Susi, whose heels had been ground down into nubs (the shoes heels had been ground into nubs - not Susi's heels. Her heels were fine). This, as it turns out, was going to be a problem.

The nice old man who drove the yellow convertible and wore the plaid sports jacket for his ushering duties asked me, my sister Carroll, and Susi if we’d be willing to take up the offering at that mass. Willing wasn’t exactly the word to describe how I felt about it, but my mother did not give us a choice, so we agreed. Also: I was wearing my totally hot black jumper, so I was pretty much okay with being the center of attention.

At the time that the baskets were being passed, Carroll, Susi and I made our way to the back of the church, where Carroll was given the hosts to carry, Susi got the wine and chalice, and I got the water. Getting the water is like getting second runner-up in the Miss America pageant – a meaningless and totally unglamorous job. But, I grinned and beared it, in beatific (dare I say holy?) silence, and started my march up the polished stone aisle of the church, to the altar where Father Borelli and two of his altar boy minions stood, awaiting the gifts.

A quarter of the way up, we were doing well. Maybe marching a little fast, but we were totally on pace to make it there before the baskets were all collected. I could see Father Borelli, his balding, ancient, Italian head shining in the distance, waiting for us to get there. I always did a quick check at the beginning of mass to see what guys I knew were in attendance, so I knew that the Larrimer boys were over on the right hand side of the church, and Mike Moriarty was on the left. And there was Matt Davis, who I had an unrequited crush on, and his brother and father, sitting one row behind my mom, who had somehow gotten out of having to join us. Hi Mom!!!

The halfway point was when things went all wrong. My demolished heel didn’t get purchase on the slick floor, and I could feel my right foot start sliding, and my body follow. I struggled to regain footing, but the slide was starting to get out of control. I started to veer into Carroll, who was on my right, and overcorrected a bit, jostling her and the hosts. Do not let the gifts fall! I screamed in my head. Letting the gifts fall on the ground, I imagine is something like letting the flag fall on the ground – it’s not good, and People Don’t Like It At All. Carroll started to lose balance and jostled Susi, who was on her right. It looked like the whole thing was going to go to Hell in a hand basket, which was never a good thing to happen in a church.

“Oh, Shit!” I yelled, because everyone knows that screaming obscenities is a totally valid tactic.

The second it happened, my mouth went into a surprised “O”, and I awaited the thunderbolt from God, but actually, it seemed to do the trick. I regained my footing, Carroll and Susi righted themselves, and we made it up to the altar. Perfect, except that I had screamed a curse word in the middle of a church. During mass. (It’s totally okay to do when the church is empty.)

Father Borelli was not amused. “I see that you were having some fun on the way here,” he said, looking at me like he would send me to hell immediately if he had the power. At least I think he said that. He had a very strong Italian accent, and I had a lot of adrenaline going through me. He might have actually said, “I see you got stuck with water duty. That sucks, doesn’t it?” But I think he said the first thing. In any event, he didn’t know the battle between good and evil that had been going on in the very aisleway that stood behind me. He should have been thankful that the water made it there safely. I don’t even know what they do with that fucking water.

I curtseyed as always, which isn’t traditional in the church, but I think adds some flair, and we made it back to our seats, where my mother was trying very hard to look pious and appropriate, while suppressing the laughter from the scene she’d just witnessed. Matt Davis and his brother were not trying to suppress anything, until their father sternly whispered, “Cut that out,” while I sat there, mortified, until the service ended and we could go in peace.

After that day, I learned to stay away from what I termed the “Offertory Zone” – that area of the church that the ushers tended to troll to find offertory victims, and I also learned to wear hiking boots to church. And to carry a knife, so if an usher asks me to take up the offering, I could stab him really quick in the kidneys.

If You Really Knew Me...

The other night I stumbled upon a fascinating, depressing train wreck of a show on MTV called If You Really Knew Me. I have to admit, I couldn’t bear to watch the whole thing, but I’m pretty sure the premise was this: high school kids are all herded into a gymnasium to get into groups of seven or eight kids from different social strata to tell each other how it really is. So, a group of kids might include a jock, a student counsel kid, a stoner, a nerd, a Goth and a kind of slutty girl. They go around the circle, and each start a sentence, “If you really knew me…,” and then reveal something about themselves.

In and of itself, I find the premise of this show disastrous. When I was in high school, there was no one I wanted to know less of how I really felt than other high school kids. And the kids on this MTV show, regardless of their social position, ALL say the SAME thing: “I feel so terrible about myself, my life, and my fucked-up family that I have either tried to kill myself or think about it on a regular basis.”

Oh my God, MTV, these kids don’t need a day spent in the gym with a camera crew, they need help! They need counseling and social services and caring adults who will actually help them to feel safe and secure. But MTV packages this as being somehow redemptive because in the end, the jocks and the sluts and the druggies and the poor kids all hug it out and claim that things will be different and that they’ve gained a new appreciation of each other. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but I will tell you this, if the crew of If You Really Knew Me set up shop in my neighborhood and started filming, I’d do exactly what I do in real life: keep the real stuff buried deep inside where it belongs and blurt out some random things that, while true, are not so damaging that I couldn’t bear for people to know. Here are a few of the things I’d say:

If You Really Knew Me, you’d know that one of my greatest fears is that, one day, I will fall while on a run, land on my face, and chip my front teeth into fangs. Of course, I will have somewhere important I have to be, or my dentist won’t be available for a couple of days, so I will be forced to wear pencil-top erasers on my fangs until I can get teeth replacements. People will call me Eraser Girl for years to follow, and say things like, “Hey, can I borrow an eraser?” and other lame stuff long after I have gotten attractive porcelain fronts.

If You Really Knew Me, you would have already heard about the three killers that I am certain are living in my house at all times. There’s one in the basement, one hiding in my bedroom closet, and one at large killer who might be anywhere at any time. To keep the killers from slicing my throat open, I employ the common strategy of whipping open doors as quickly as possible and yelling, “Ha!” while waving a hanger in front of my body as a defense. Everyone knows that when killers are confronted with a hanger and a shout, they are generally known to say, “Okay, you got me,” shrug, and exit the house.

If You Really Knew Me, you’d know that my dream first date is where the guy comes over to my house and just fixes stuff. Like, the screen on my back door and the light above my sink that doesn’t work and the front doorknob that maybe needs to be oiled or something? I don’t know. I’m not good at figuring out what’s gone wrong in my house, and sometimes I don’t even know the first step in getting it taken care of. And I will tell you this right now, a guy who comes over to my house and fixes stuff? That is a guy who I’d totally sleep with on the first date. A guy who knows how to put an extra electrical outlet in my bedroom is sexy as hell. A man who subscribes to Angie’s List? Give me a fucking break. You’re a goddamn man.

If You Really Knew Me, you would know that I am afraid of the following things: dying in a plane crash, killers living in my home, driving a car, being a passenger in a car, leaky pens, insects of every stripe, rotten food, raw eggs, weird smells, death of any kind, crowds, the kind of fungus that lives in the locker room at the gym, getting cornered by a squirrel, Indian accents, Chucky, deep venous thrombosis, running out of toilet paper, not fully erasing things that are meant to be erased, and not being able to find a place to park. And if you are my friend, which I think you are, you wouldn’t make fun of me for the things I fear, but instead, marvel in the fact that I manage to get through the day at all.