NFL Picks. Week 11.

Picks are bold.

BYES: None

MIA @ CAR
ATL @ NYG
NO @ TB
SF @ GB
SEA @ MINN
CLE @ DET
BUF @ JAC
WAS @ DAL
IND @ BAL
ARI @ STL
NYJ @ NE
CIN @ OAK
SD @ DEN
PHI @ CHI

MNF:
TEN @ HOU

BANG! You’re dead.

Sometimes I’ll have dreams that scare the living, loving piss out of me.  I’ll wake up in a dramatic fashion, breathing heavily and searching desperately for my cigarettes or the half full vodka bottle hidden under my bed.  I especially hate the ones where you’re running from something, but now matter how hard you pump your legs, you still run in slow motion.  Then you’re all “OH HOLY FUCKING SHIT, WHY DO MY LEGS SUCK ASS?”

Last night I had a dream that still has me feeling terrible and weird and every time I think about it, I need a cigarette.  I remember every detail of the dream too, and I think that’s half the reason why I feel weird about it.  Like it actually happened.

It started out with me in the parking lot of a huge court house smoking a joint.  I was very panicky and my heart was beating a mile a minute.  I knew, in my dream, that some one had hurt my son.  I don’t know if they had killed him, or if he was just hurt though.  I finish my joint and I started towards the court house. I blew past the security guards and busted into the court room.

I look around and see my family, crying on the benches, holding each other and staring at me.  They looked so frightened.  My ex father-in-law sat back, smiled and said “Passion, Georgette.” I walked towards this man with dark hair who was standing in front of the judge.  In my dream, I knew it was the man who hurt my son.  I pulled a pistol from the back of my pants and I shot him in the temple. 

That is when I woke up.  It was horrible, and unbelievably scary.  But at the same time, it’s something I would do.  I’ve always done my best to protect my son.  Lately, however, since the beginning of James and I splitting, I’ve had these feelings come to me more strongly.  I’ve been a super freak about things.  I make him 3 course meals with only fresh veggies and meat that has not been frozen, I get up in the middle of the night to go to his room and watch him sleep, I even carry him in the grocery store. (holy heavy kid, bat man!)

Maybe this is normal, maybe it isn’t.  But I am NOT liking these intense dreams.  Not at fucking all.

Just when I thought the list of things that never happen to anyone else but me had ended…

It struck down on me, rendering me numb to every feeling with the exception of embarrassment, anger, and the sensation to urinate.  This is, by a land slide, one of the worst things that could happen to me right now.  I would have rather shit on myself and have the photos splattered across New Orleans on the CBS billboards.

Okay, I lied.  That would be horrible.  But it may as well happen because HOLYFUCKINGSHIT.

Since I haven’t update my blog in a long while, I owe you some background information to accompany this little tale of horror.  How can I put this in order to not go into long, “Oh Jesus, we’ve heard this 8 or 9 times before Georgette”, detail?  In order for my marriage to work, both of us will have to be in life-long comas.  Which is funny, because that is exactly how I felt the whole time we were together.  BACK TO THE STORY.

Because I still don’t have a functioning set of wheels, I borrow my ex father-in-law’s car from time to time.  That’s weird, isn’t it?  Story of my life.  I borrowed it last night to drive out to a neighboring town to visit a friend.  Who happens to have a penis.  To make sure we are on the same page here, let’s do a mini recap.  Not with my husband anymore, still drive around his dad’s car, used it to go chill with another dude.  Okay, good.

I park, we chill, I get up to leave. We walk outside and decide to smoke a cigarette before I head out.  We’re talking, we’re laughing, we’re puffing and inhaling.  And then it happens, like something out of a movie that only features really sucky and unfortunate mishaps.  Out of nowhere (and by nowhere, I mean the tree right next to the car) a large limb explodes into a million wooden shards on the roof of my father-in-law’s Chrysler 300.  I froze.  I knew, judging from the explosive sound, that I had just got fucked in the ass by the devil with no lube.

We run to the car in a silent WHAT THE FUCK fashion.  I stare at the two large dents on the roof of the car for 3 minutes, and as I suck in a breath to probably curse, the windshield cracks.  And at that point, not only did the devil dry fuck me up the booty hole, he shot a load of liquidy fire into my colon.

So there I stand, with my soon to be ex-father-in-law’s royally fucked up ride and a friend.  Who happens to be a dude.  Good.  It’s one thing that a tree limb fucked me over, it’s another that I was at a man’s house while it happened.  Not that I feel guilty, but Im sure that makes me a whore in the traditional southern christian eyes of my father-in-law.

It’s okay to laugh.  I’m sure I’ll also laugh just as soon as my asshole heals.

Why?

Why do the kids that live in my apartment complex have to run around outside and scream like they are getting murdered?  From the time they get home from school until 12:30-1:00 am (because hey, who cares that my kid is outside running amuck, at least I know he’s here!  I can tell by his screech.) they yell and scream and litter the entire premises with their nasty selves.  These screams, these high-pitched, throat ripping screams make me want to go out to my balcony and scream back at them.  Id scream something like “SHUT THE FUCK UP OR I’LL SLAP THE SHIT OUT OF EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU LITTLE BASTARDS.”

These are the same kids who swim around in the pool with cheetos and candy bars in hand.  The same kids who bring out their baby sibling to the pool and let them sit on the pool steps UNATTENDED with their swimmiesDIAPERS on.  The same kids who run through the hallways and knock on everyone’s door as if they were the police coming to inform us all that the aliens have landed and are here to ass rape us and steal our wallets.  The same kids who spit loogys on the steps. 

WHHHHYYYYY do these people I live next to suck so bad?  WHY!?

Aunt Flo arrived in a dramitcally late fashion, and I don’t think I’ve ever bought a box of tampons with such excitement before.  Don’t get me wrong, more kids are in the future, Id just like to “enjoy” repairing my marriage first.  Or whatever.

And honestly? I’m enjoying the little ball of handsome I like to call Big Pimpin’.

Holy crap.

You know what’s not cool?  Indecisiveness.  You know whose indecisive?  Me.

I don’t know what it is, but I can never make a decision and stick with it.  NEVER.  NEVER EVER.  And it’s not like I am talking about which outfit I am going to wear to work today, I am talking about my marriage.  Yup, my marriage.  The one that has been on the fritz for two years.  I’m starting to think that maybe it was once on the fritz, but it no longer is and it’s all just made up in my head.  Id like to answer my own questions, because I do seem to always have the answer… but I’m pretty sure the lack of a college degree disqualifies me from solving my problems myself.

I love him.  Always have and always will.  I think my problem is, is that sometimes I don’t want to.  Honestly?  I wouldn’t even be worrying about this shit, but I am.  Why? 

My period is late.

Why you should not drink with me.

There are certain levels of drunk.  Usually, there are three; tipsy, drunk, and fucked up.  Some may argue that the last one,  fucked up, is the worst. I happen to disagree.  See, when you get so drunk that you lose sight of everything and eventually pass out, you have an excuse to all of the ridiculous things that may have happened that night… You were just 3 sheets to the wind.  You reached the point of no return, and when you hit that milestone, the only way you are able to stop is when you have passed out with or without your clothes on.

The second level, just plain drunk, is the worst. That’s where you are drunk enough to do incredibly ridiculous things, but you still slightly know what you are doing and you remember most all of it the next day.  There is no excuse.  Just because you thought it was a good idea at the time isn’t an excuse.  It seems every time I’m drunk, there is always a point in the night when I think to myself  “I know I shouldn’t be doing this shit.  But I am.  I am going to be pretty embarrassed tomorrow. And I’m okay with that.”  AND THAT’S WHERE WE FUCK UP.  That last sentence.  “And I’m okay with that.”  And this is what happened on last Friday night for my 21st birthday. 

I went to Bourbon street with my dad and my husband.  Probably the worst two people you could go out with.  My dad doesn’t drink and he’s just an all around awkward person.  James, he’s an awful drunk, sad and pitiful and often angry.  And then there is me.  I’m a happy drunk, down for anything, but also very loyal to the sober ones who will be taking care of me… in this case, my dad.

Funny enough, we ended up in the Funky 544, which I so proudly chose to showcase in my header when I started this blog.  So that I do not go into detail(just because it was that horrible.), I will just make a list of events that happened. 

• James and I order handgrenades.  They used to put a dent in me, but now that I am a seasoned liquor consumer, they really just taste like an extremely fruity juice.
• I drink a Jack and Coke in less than 6 minutes.  James drinks 4 beers in less than 3 minutes.
• I take two shots of tequila.  James takes two also.  My dad orders himself a coca-cola.
• We’re chilling listening to a jazzy-frazzy band.  James drops beer bottle. It shatters.  James runs away.
• I take a shot out of a very busty womans cleavage.  In front of my dad.
• Same woman forces a shot tube into my dads britches and takes the shot.  My dad still had to pay for it.  I watch in horror.
• I get over previous bullet.
• Police call my dad with James’ cell.  He’s sleeping in the road. I die laughing.  Dad gets nervous.
• Some guy who looks like he just got out of chemistry for geniuses orders me a gin and juice.
• After ordering, I mention that I’m married.
• I still drink the gin and juice.
• My dad pulls me out the bar because we had to go find James EVEN THOUGH I WAS GETTING FREE DRINKS FROM MATH NERDS.
• I see a man sleeping on the sidewalk with no shoes and suggest to my dad that he give him his shoes.
• Dad rejects suggestion.
• I apologize to the sleeping man.
• We walk past the church in Jackson Square. 
• I kiss the church and praise Jesus.
• I perform a sobriety test for my dad after I beg him to pretend to be a cop.
• We can’t find James.
• I wake up in my bed at 9:30 the next morning to my son asking me for spaghetti.

Never. Again.

Happy.

I think if I knew what it was like to be genuinely happy at least 65 percent of the time, I wouldn’t try so hard to find it.  The moments where I am truly happy are moments that I savor like a piece of chocolate I have been saving.  I let it sink in and I purposely ignore everyone around me so that they can’t ruin it.  Sort of as if I were stoned.

Today I had a happy moment, and it was silly, but I loved it and I knew I had to write it down.  It was during a football game.  Adrian Peterson ran 65 yards to the endzone pushing people out of his way like they were air-filled dummies.  I mean he literally turned around while running and pushed this guys face away from him and at that moment my heart skipped a beat and I think I had a lady boner.  Such an accomplished football player who stars in ridiculous commercials that showcase his amazing pectoral muscles and furious agility.   I stood with my right fist raised, and a surprisingly painful handslap to my dad with my left. The smile on his face let me know that he liked watching the game with me.  My son was sound asleep in his bed, safe and warm and probably dreaming about eating spaghetti. I fell into my couch and clapped. My dad yelled “AP ALL DAY!”.  I laughed.  That play and the few seconds following it made me happy.

I know, it’s kind of stupid.  But at this point, if it’s a play in a football game that makes me happy, then so be it.  I’ll take it any way it comes.

The birthday to end all birthdays.

Turning 21 entitles you to a couple of different things, none of which entails responsibly responsible responsibilities.  Since laws vary from state to state, I’m going to say now that in Louisiana (the state that is lucky enough to have me as a resident) and Mississippi, you must be 21 to gamble and watch women with either ridiculously perky boobs or ridiculously saggy boobs strip.

I turn 21 on the 9th.  I remember being in high school and dying to be 21.  Why, though?  I guess turning 21 is like becoming an adult here in America.  The government gives us a present when we turn 21.  “Here you go, congratulations for living for 21 years, you may now go get shitty drunk, gamble 3 quarters of your bank account away and then use the last of your money on a stripper who looks surprisingly like your third cousin.”

New York, where I grew up, has it set to where you can gamble and hit up titty bars when you turn 18.  But I moved here.  AND GOD WHAT A LONG 3 YEARS IT HAS BEEN.  I HAVEN’T SEEN THE INSIDE OF THE PURRING KITTEN IN FOREVER.  And honestly, I really miss pissing my cigarette money down the drain on a 5 pick in hopes to win 128 mil.  Id always say “DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY CARTONS OF MARLBORO LIGHTS I COULD GET WITH THAT KIND OF CHEESE?”  Well now I can gamble my money away, and with my winnings I can furnish my liquor cabinet for 40 years.  Because that is what has become of my life.  Gambling, chain smoking, liquor and naked women.  Just add a fucking semi automatic and you might as well call me Tony Montana.

Basically what I am saying is, is that on Wednesday, I will attend my first Smokers, Gamblers, Alcoholics Annonymous meeting.  I would have added something about strippers in there, but I’m not quite sure what the name is for that type of group AND THEY PROBABLY DON’T EVEN HAVE COMPLIMENTARY DONUTS.

The bicycle guy.

I was outside of the office building smoking a cigarette like I normally do.  I stand there, puffing away at my cool-girl stick watching cars zoom along the boulevard.  A man comes up on his mountain bike, a bandanna was tied around his head Tupac style, and he has on biker gloves.  You know, the ones with no fingers.  On each handlebar a Dollar General bag was tied, each full of cans I assume he got from other people’s garbage cans.

The man: “Another day in paradise, eh?”
Me: “Yeap.”
“So hows the insurance business treating you?”
“Good.”
“Say, where’d you get that bruise?” as he points to the ginormous teeth marks my son gave me.
“Oh, my son has a biting problem.”
“Let me tell you something … What’s your name?  No, I don’t even want to know your name.  Boy, watch them as they get older, they only have one thing on their minds.  I would know.”
Then he takes off on his 10 speed mountain bike down the road, barely escaping death as he cut off a PT Cruiser going 45 mph.

I finish my cigarette and walk back inside.  10 minutes later the door opens, lo and behold, it was the bicycle man.  I hid behind my computer screen.  My father-in-law gets up.

“Can I help you?”
“This a family run business?”
“Yeah man, can I help you?”
“There was a girl outside in a polka dotted dress, I wanted to talk to her.”
“Yeah, she’s my daughter-in-law.”
“Oh, she’s married?  She told me she wanted my number.  Guess I just have that effect on women.”
He then leaves.

At about this time, I died.  I literally laid under my desk and threw up, and then died.  I have never been so close to death in my life.  I would rather swallow miniature knives and shit them out whole then even think about asking that man for his phone number.

This happened 3 weeks ago.  I still haven’t heard the end of it.  The worst part?  My FIL actually thought I wanted his number. 

 Fuck. That.