A Browns Fan’s courageous breakup tale

 

Breakups are hard… Most of us will agree with that. I mean, you’d have to be some sort of robot devoid of human emotion to not feel SOMETHING, right? That’s exactly the case with my recent decision to discontinue my relationship with the Cleveland Browns at the beginning of the season. I’ve only given in and watched two games all season, and my life is noticeably less tragic as a result. All I needed after those two lapses in judgment was a friend to reassure me that I am, in fact, better off without them… And a couple shots of Tequila, using limes and the salt of my tears to choke them down.

 
Here’s the thing, It’s nearly impossible to avoid contact with an ex of this magnitude entirely. You’re constantly seeing them pop up on social media in the form of pathetic memes, Bleacher Report accounts of every god-damn failure and sad Browns fans moments set to an even sadder Adele soundtrack. How do you escape that? When I see it, I can’t help but feel a little tug at my heartstrings. It’s comparable to running into a pathetic ex at CVS while he’s shopping for toilet paper, wearing sweatpants and a mustard stained Guns N Roses tee. You can’t help but feel sorry for the poor bastard. You know he’s clearly not better off without you and still hanging on to hope for that GNR reunion tour. It’s fucking sad. The Browns are my pathetic, sweatpants wearing, slob of an ex-boyfriend. It’s entirely possible that they’ll one day get their shit together, but right now I’m not willing to put my life on hold until they figure it out.

 
I still have some unresolved feelings and question my choice at times, but some days are easier than others. Let’s use today as an example, shall we? Why, what happened today, you ask? Today, my hometown heroes and our 3rd string QB were absolutely murdered by “division rivals”, the Cincinnati Bengals by a score of 37-3. I realized just how bad things had gotten when it was no longer fun for my brother, who’s an avid Bengals fan to shit talk me before or after a Cleveland/Cincinnati matchup. At this point, that would just qualify as bullying. It is not even worth his time to taunt me. THAT’S how sad things have become. The Browns are the fat kid on the playground of the AFC North.

 
Some fans have taken exception and tried to protest the team’s unprecedented shittiness by wearing brown bags on their heads while at the games, kind of like the Unknown Comic from the gong show, which is wildly appropriate when you think about it. However, the glaring issue with this plan, aside from attempting to drink a $9.00 draft beer with a bag on your head… You’re STILL AT THE GAME. I envision a bunch of millionaires, sitting around lighting Cuban cigars with hundred dollar bills while laughing maniacally because they still got you there. You know what would be powerful? Stop fucking going to games. Feel free to continue wearing a brown bag on your head, if you’re so inclined, but do it while you’re NOT drinking $9.00 beers and NOT paying $30 to park. “Brown bag the Browns” at the zoo, at the movies, from your God-damned couch. That’s how you send a message. Have you ever gone out to dinner and had a terrible meal? Did you go back to that same restaurant the following week expecting a different result? “Hey, last time you guys really fucked up, but here’s some more of my money.” My guess is no. You probably left a bad Yelp review and moved on with your life. Stop accepting an Olive Garden quality organization at fine dining prices.

 
Since the breakup, my Sundays have been pretty amazing. I hardly ever cry anymore and I feel stronger every week I stay away. Don’t get me wrong, I still drive by the stadium on occasion to make sure they’re still there (that’s not a guarantee, as history has shown us) and gently stalk them on Facebook occasionally. When it’s all said and done, I’m not going to be sucked back in until they make some serious changes. On a side note, I’m free next Sunday.

Photo Credit- Jen Steer

O-H-I-O You An Explanation

For whatever reason, every time I visit my brother in Dayton I end up demanding a trip to the local Waffle House. There aren’t any in my neck of the woods. Although it cannot be considered top tier cuisine, I need to have my semi-annual dose of those hash browns with all the random crap on them. Without fail, it is always a painful experience. This time around, I had almost reached my breaking point. Our booth was in the middle of the restaurant right next where they prepare the bubbling pots of grits. The ‘chef’ was working diligently on my scattered, smothered, chunked and topped hash browns with intermittent spittoon breaks. I was growing more agitated by the second. I was immersed in adding my fourth sweet n low to my coffee in an attempt to mask the taste of Valvoline and Lucky Strikes…. when I caught something out of the corner of my eye.

I am, by nature, a people watcher. I love creating back-stories for all of the characters I encounter in day to day life. A family of misfits walked in and squatted in the booth directly across from us. It wasn’t the fact that they were already sitting in the booth before the waitress had a chance to remove the last mutant patrons’ dirty plates that got my attention. It was the apparel. The dad was wearing a red Ohio State Hoody that was just short enough to allow an unobstructed view of his plumber’s crack. At first glance, I was pretty certain that the thing with him was a dude who had been cursed with an unfortunate set of man cans. It was wearing a Michigan sweatshirt. When the maize monster spoke, I was taken aback that it was in fact a ‘she’. So…now my wheels start turning and I’m trying to determine how this college sports rivalry played out in this household. Naturally, my first thought was the old Alma Mater tribute. That thought was quickly dismissed as the gang of geniuses passed around the maple syrup in a futile attempt to open it. It was as if it were the Rubik’s Cube of condiment dispensers. For the record, they never did solve the puzzle. Then Maizeilla removes all collegiate probability by uttering the sentence, “I seen Bobby at Wal-Mart”.

The next likely scenario is geography. Perhaps the maizeopotomus was actually from Michigan. It’s completely possible that there’s a double-wide outside of Ann Arbor that’s missing its matriarch. I’m not sure why that’s disturbing to me. I live in Ohio and will freely admit that I’ve had more than one drunken night singing “Hang On Sloopy” while decked out in an Ohio State shirt or lid. I draw the line at Buckeye necklaces, any type of dangling earrings, face tattoos or red and white socks with a giant ‘O’ on them. I didn’t graduate from Ohio State, nor do I really care all that much about the outcome of most games. I do have enough respect for those who do care NOT to wear a Michigan shirt. I also married someone who had the distinction of being Ohio State alum. I am a firm believer that if I had been a Michigan fan, that would have been a deal breaker. Those freaks are that serious about their team. Sitting across from him in public wearing Michigan colors would have been considered a sign of the Apocalypse. If I would have shown up to watch the Ohio State/Michigan game wearing anything even suggestive of allegiance to Michigan, I would have had a chalk outline around my lifeless corpse by Halftime. I was also privy to the surreal celebration following Ohio State’s National Championship. It was borderline homo-erotic. Grown men were hugging and crying a little as they professed their love for one another and the scarlet and gray. Ahh…Maurice Clarett, you did us proud! Well…you know what I mean. BEFORE the ATF had to intervene and confiscate the AK 47, miscellaneous other weapons, bullet proof vest and open bottle of Grey Goose. I hear he’s rapping on the prison circuit these days.

The only other rational explanation is that this was a Faux Rivalry just to create controversy. Maybe it’s ‘in’ these days to have the dueling team sweatshirts. Dental hygiene is also in, and they didn’t appear to be jumping on that band-wagon. I’m fairly certain that these two trailblazers are the reason behind the need for establishments to post signs on their doors reminding people to wear shoes and shirts. All I know is that the gene puddle I saw at that table actually made me dumber. I went home and did a crossword puzzle to try to recapture some of the brain cells that were left at the restaurant that day. It suddenly became clear to me why Kid Rock went Ape Shit crazy at a Waffle House. I wonder if he was wearing a Michigan shirt at the time…

The ‘LeBomb James’ Experiment

Ok…so I’ve finally arrived at the point where I’m capable of discussing the fact that the Cleveland Cavaliers are not 2009 NBA Finals Champions. I’m ready to talk about the night our collective hopes and dreams were shattered (until next year, as all of us Cleveland sports fans have been conditioned to say for the past 45 years). Game 6 of the ECF against the Orlando Magic was a road game, so I found myself pre-gaming at the ‘Clevelander’ in downtown Cleveland before heading over to Quicken Loans Arena to watch the ass-whooping that I hadn’t really envisioned. It was an upbeat crowd that had gathered to toss a few back before tip-off. I was sitting on the patio with a few friends enjoying one of the dozen nice weather days we see per year, when something alarming happened. There were several obnoxious, Varejao wig wearing frat boys near us making a pretty compelling argument for revisiting prohibition. Just when I had figured out how to ignore them, this collection of tools (aka the Toolbox) feels the need to indulge in a prop related shot. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all about adding production value to my shooters…just as long as nobody gets hurt. On paper, this particular shot sounds like a brilliant idea. Logistically…not so much. It’s called a ‘LeBomb James’, and there are conflicting reports as to the ingredients. One recipe calls for Crown Royal in honor of LeBron’s ‘King’ moniker, grenadine for the wine, pineapple for the gold, and sprite because evidently LeBron is obligated by sponsorship law to be associated with Sprite. Oh, but the best part is the granulated sugar finale. The goal is to emulate LeBron’s pre-game chalk toss ritual by releasing it into the air as if you were freeing a dove. Why wouldn’t you want to toss a little Splenda into the air after a shot?

Here’s an excellent reason: Eyesight is awesome. There was no warning whistle from the Tool Box that this shot was to be anything other than one of a sugar-free variety. I am busy participating in what I can only assume was captivating conversation when the Sweet ‘n Low assault occurs. This gaggle of douchebags launches the grainy little weapons skyward while chanting MVP, directly into the wind. Needless to say, said granules find their way into my unsuspecting corneas. I can unequivocally say that it’s a fairly painful process. I couldn’t see the public bar high-fives through my stinging retinas, but I could hear them loud and clear. Once my Helen Keller impersonation ended, I became keenly aware of the fact that I was literally coated in sugar. It was in my hair, my nose and unfortunately, my bra. I now know exactly what Mel Gibson meant when he called that police woman ‘Sugar Tits’. Trust me, it’s not a compliment.

We all know how the story ends. Cleveland lost and our boys were making tee times while the Orlando Magic danced around wearing their ECF Champions shirts and hats. As I sat watching it unfold, a single teardrop trickled down my cheek. Strangely, the saccharin wedged into my iris made that tear taste a bit like lemonade. I had never really considered artificial sweeteners a weapon until that day. I stand corrected. I’ve now decided to retire my rape whistle and pepper spray for good. Who needs it? If I’m ever accosted in a dark Cleveland alley, I’ll just start yelling “Cleveland hasn’t won a Championship in over 45 years” and hurl a fistful of Equal into the perpetrator’s eyes.

The Broad’s Side of… Texting

Basically, a lot has changed since the last time I was single. One huge development is the introduction of texting to the dating repertoire. I like to think I’m adaptable, so I jumped right in a tried to be a trooper. My first bad experience happened when I attempted to reconnect with a dude that was clearly best left in my past. We went on a lunch date, which is obviously about as non-committal as a guy can get. He’s only locked into about an hour of time and $8-$12. The only thing worse (and cheaper) is meeting for coffee. In this particular instance, I’m pretty sure he was just scoping out whether I had gotten enormous or grown a moustache since the last time he saw me. If I turned out to be a monster, he could throw a quick burger down my throat and run for the nearest exit. As it turns out, he didn’t think I was a comparable to a creature straight from the murky waters of Loch Ness. We made a mutual decision to go out again and everything seemed to be relatively normal. The next day I received an unsolicited sexually explicit text message from this idiot. It’s bad enough to get one of those at 10am from a guy who apparently thinks upgrading to the bacon cheese fries entitles him to some action… The worst part is that he misspelled a fairly derogatory word describing the female anatomy. That’s right, He omitted an ‘S’ from the always popular ‘P’ word. My response read something like this… ‘Thanks for the burger. You’re gross. If u can’t spell it, u shouldn’t be allowed near one ever again’. I have very little tolerance for bad grammar and spelling errors, which is a huge issue. Previously, I had no clue what terrible spellers I dated. It’s not like I asked for writing samples. Texting brings that problem to the forefront. In my opinion, there’s definitely a time and a place for the racy Sext message, which leads me to my next example.

A good friend of mine also found herself back in the trenches after 15 dateless years. She was introduced to a guy that seemed harmless enough. They had many e-mail and text exchanges and he demonstrated a fair amount of intelligence and a decent sense of humor. Then, he made this poorly thought out decision. He sent a picture of his junk with the caption ‘who wants to take a ride?’ to her blackberry. Unfortunately for him, this happened in the presence of several women. I could tell by the way the color drained out of my friend’s face that something frightening had just occurred. She passed me the phone and we all stared at the unit in disbelief. My friend decided that it looked pretty impressive, but camera angle can be a tricky thing, as we soon realized. This jackass wasn’t sharp enough to remove his thumb from the frame. I replied on her behalf, “Next time keep your thumb out of the pic. Scale is everything”. Unless you are prepared to have that picture shown to the bartender, and essentially everyone else within a 3 mile radius…don’t do it. I suggested uploading it to Facebook and tagging him so that it would be prominently displayed for his 300+ friends to see. This act of utter stupidity earned this guy the nickname ‘Thumbelina’. Your first exposure to a potential suitor’s manhood should not be via picture message. I can’t believe that needs clarification, but I feel that it’s a public service to put that out there. Pass it on.

My last example involves some serious savvy on my part. I’m really trying to step outside of my comfort zone and prove that I have the potential to be sexy and spontaneous. I had been dating someone for a pretty solid stretch and was out enjoying some libations with some friends. I decided that it would be an amazing idea to take a cleavage shot and send it off with some really inappropriate comments, such as ‘here’s a little something to get you started’. Imagine my horror when I received a response that said ‘WTF is wrong with u???’ Huh? Are you kidding me? My cans are fantastic, and to add insult to injury I got the triple question mark! My ego took a serious hit and I sat there pondering when men stopped being boob fans. Just then, I received a follow up text instructing me to open the attachment I sent. Apparently, Miller lt forced me to inadvertently send image .023 instead of .032. It was an adorable picture of my three year old in her bathing suit at the water park. I guess I should be grateful that I didn’t get a response that affirmed how sexy the picture was. “Thanks, that was a real nut buster”, or something to that effect. I’m actually kind of relieved that I didn’t fall on the opposite end of the spectrum. I just as easily could have sent a picture message of my rack to my grandmother with the caption “Aww… How cute!” The basic message here is to be careful. Your phone can turn into a weapon of mass destruction with little or no notice. Be responsible and try to refrain from texting while drinking…someone could get hurt or your member could end up in a Craig’s list ad for penile enhancement.

The Broad’s Side of…Beer

Let me start out by saying, that I’m definitely a beer girl. Sometimes I fake classy and try the whole wine thing, but the truth of the matter is that I don’t know the difference between high quality vino and the box ‘o wine you can get on the end cap at your local Target. To be honest, throw a corkscrew into the mix and that’s a complication I’d prefer not to deal with. With that being said, I came across something disturbing last night in a friend’s refrigerator. It’s evidently been available for sale for several months, and I just had not been hip to it. Quite frankly, that happens to me a lot. It’s apparently some type of strange morphing of a can and a bottle, with a picture of a draft beer on the side just to cover all of the bases. How many times have you been faced with this particular dilemma… You’re at a Barbecue and find yourself really wishing that your awkward can of beer was shaped like a bottle, but still had that savory aluminum can taste? Well, my friends, Miller Lt has listened to these desperate pleas and designed the can/bottle you’ve been dreaming of. WTF? Are you kidding me? THAT is what the marketing geniuses at the beer brainstorming session came up with?

Personally, I like the beer can format if I’m engaging in such activities as tailgating or cook-outs because it’s more convenient. I have a ‘beer purse’ which holds 18 cans perfectly. Bottles wouldn’t work so well for this particular scenario. When you’re tailgating, the can crushing is a really annoying, douchy thing that all the tough guys start doing to impress the ladies… but I have to admit that it’s a space saver. Try that trick with the new fangled can/bottle. It’s not gonna fly. I’m also not impressed with the selling point that this new invention allows you to put the cap back on after every sip. As part of the new innovation in drinking beer at home, Miller Coors is also debuting a draught beer system for your personal at-home consumption. Now you can have flat, crappy beer in the comfort of your own living room or backyard. Thank the Lord for this new cutting edge development.

I find that we generally have some sort of beer loyalty when it comes to brands. I am a Miller lt fan and have been for a solid stretch. I don’t mind Coors lt, but I had a horrifying encounter with a toothless man wearing a shirt that said “To hell with your Mountains…show me your Busch”. I haven’t been able to look at Coors or Busch quite the same since. I supposed the ‘technology’ that allows the outside of my beer to tell me whether it’s cold or not by displaying blue mountains is pretty revolutionary in some circles, but I find that the old touch test works just the same if not better. I do want to extend a heartfelt thank you to Miller Coors for the giant can ‘o beer. I love grabbing a duo of cold beers from the cooler at a BBQ and saying, “Hey everyone, Look at my huge cans!” Brings the house down every time.

New Can/Bottle

Dating Non-Negotiables

 

As a service, I have created a list of things that should be considered non-negotiable in the world of dating in your thirties… really any adult should have these basic things mastered. If you are a woman, please read this and follow it religiously. If you are a man and any of these bullet points apply to you, please use this to your advantage and get your shit together for the love of God! If you are married, file it in the back of your mind for future use. Let’s face it…divorce rates are sky-rocketing, my friends. Also, you might be able to help out some poor clueless bastard along the way.

• Must live independently of your wife and/or mother. Mother-in-law suites on property owned by a parent or grandparent are not exempt. Refurbished garage living space is also unacceptable unless it is equipped with indoor plumbing and adequate insulation to sustain cold Cleveland winters.
• Must be able to present a valid Ohio driver’s license, proof of insurance and motor vehicle registration (preferably, said motor vehicle would be restricted to the car and/or truck variety). Mopeds, Vespas, or anything with a sidecar will be vetoed. Grandma’s Hoveround or any other motorized device manufactured by Home Medic also does not qualify. Vans of all varieties are generally discouraged Mini-Vans are typically reserved for soccer moms. Non-descript, white pedophile/rape vans are a no-go for obvious reasons. No party plates.
• Must be able to provide proof of Medical and Dental insurance. There is never an excuse for missing teeth that remain in that condition in excess of 48 hours. I reserve the right to revoke the 48 hr grace period if the missing teeth are the result of a bar fight at an establishment that doesn’t take credit cards and only serves beer. No voluntary gold and/or ‘bling’ of any kind will be tolerated.
• Must be able to provide W2s or comparable documentation from the IRS that proves that you are a contributing member of society. If you are currently unemployed, please retain copies of your unemployment records for my review. You must apply for a minimum of three legitimate jobs each week. Access to your password on http://www.simplyhired.com would be sufficient verification.
• You are subject to review on search engines such as Google and Yahoo. Your name will also be cross-referenced with pedophile websites such as http://www.familywatchdog.com and the past three seasons of Dateline’s ‘To Catch A Predator’ on DVD.
• Board of Corrections websites will also be investigated. Crimes not related to traffic infractions are most likely unacceptable.
• Basic home furnishings are a requirement. No milk crate coffee tables, cinder blocks as a bed frame or mini frat boy fridges are to be tolerated. Must have fully operational heat and electricity. Space heaters or bon-fires as your primary source of warmth are not acceptable. As romantic as candles may be, wired electricity is a rigid requirement. No interruption in service will be tolerated unless it is the result of severe weather advisories or other forms of natural disasters. Choosing to live like a ‘Survivor’ contestant without the possibility of a million dollar pay-out is frowned upon in most circles.
• Please print this form and sign it in triplicate in the presence of a notary for consideration as a candidate.