yay area sports team!

I simply can't seem to wrap my head around football. That's American football for those of you playing along from anywhere else. I usually make a concerted effort to bend me some gender stereotypes - thanks, Sarah Lawrence! - and figure sports out, even if I don't play any of them. There was that memorable moment two summers ago during the England-Paraguay match when the classic Sweet'n'Low/Equal/ketchup bottle thing solved my offsides dilemmas once and for all, oh, that was a glorious moment. And even though I don't understand the scoring behind tennis, I love watching it.

But there's just something about football. I think it's maybe the fact that although I ostensibly understand the game, when it gets down to brass tacks I can't see the ball most of the time for the big pile of manly men on top of it. Maybe one of my needs for enjoyable sports-watching is actually being able to see the object of the game? Like, the ball? It seems like football is just one ten-guy pileup after another, how am I expected to know who's holding the ball? I don't know.

Or maybe it's all the stopping. I like momentum! This end! That end! Scuffly bits in the middle! That end again! But then with football it's more like pileup! Odd break for reasons I don't have the grasp of strategy to understand! People gesturing at each other emphatically! If you don't understand the game to start with this is going to alienate you. I like more running less talking, apparently, in my sports events.

The thing is, I was on drill team in Texas in high school (I KNOW LET'S NOT TALK ABOUT IT). I watched about two years' worth of games. Staring straight ahead. For two hours. You'd think I would have picked up some pointers. What was I doing all that time, counting spectators in the opposing bleachers? Cleaning out schmutz from my teeth? I don't know.

It was very humbling last night to be sitting in a room of my nearest and dearest during the last ten minutes of the superbowl and know that I should be yelling at the screen? Because, I mean, history-making insanity was happening? And I'm not made of dumb, I mean, I could see that the score had pulled quite a switcheroo and wow, the Giants were winning, but I genuinely couldn't see why or how. Or the ball.

My humble ignoramus pie was further compounded by the three texts I received from Stuart all within five minutes: "wow OMG" and "holy shit" and then "rather into this now". Even my English husband, who'd decided to stay home and chill out, was getting this game more than I do. For shame!

At least the turducken was good.

the saga of martha

I just got dumped. By a handbag.

Let me tell you a sob story. Months and months ago, a rather fashionable friend of mine showed up at a gathering with this bag. Nothing too fancy, just simple rich dark brown leather with a bright lined interior, but this bag and I, we had plans. We were going to pair ourselves with jeans and a black wool coat and a pashmina. We were going to sling ourselves over velvet blazers and lacy shirts. We were going to be unstoppable.

Stuart, stalwart and keen husband that he is, knew all about the bag and me. Oh yes. He counted his pennies and found the website and steepled his fingers towards my birthday. The bag, she was beautiful. She was made my a small designer down in Georgia and for real Italian leather, she was a steal. Let's say she was roughly, oh, right at the entrance of three figures and no more.

Did I mention we were in love?

So when you're in love, it's okay when you accidentally spoil your own surprise by finding the invoice in a pile of papers on the kitchen table. It's okay! You're in love! It's okay when the object of your affection doesn't arrive via post in time to get lovingly unwrapped on your birthday! You're in love! You can wait! You can wait cheerfully, all the while profusely thanking this wonderful husband who so thoughtfully united you with the cow-hide bag of your dreams.

You can see where this is going.

Today, after extensive phonewrangling to some very irresponsible website-running bag salesladies down in Georgia, it was made clear to Stalwart Stuart that they weren't going to ship him the bag. Ever. That they'd run out before he'd even placed his order and oh, they've discontinued MY DARLING BAG.

But! Yes, Stalwart Stuart is resourceful. He finds out a few stores in New York that carry Irresponsible Bag Maker's brand and he calls them! All for me! And finds one in SoHo that swears they have the Martha bag (for that was her name) in Paprika (for that was her shiny color).

And when he calls, this wonderful man of mine, he's delighted to tell me that not only will I have the apex of my desires, it's probably the last one in Manhattan. I start planning the whole next week's outfit, as a honeymoon with my bag.

Until he gets there. And what they think is the Martha in Paprika is some other tramp in some other color and my husband, he KNOWS, since he has spent the last two weeks trying to get me the Martha.

O, cruel. Cruel world. It was my birthday gift, my best bag, the bag all others would bow down to. And now, I don't know where to turn! I am perfect-bagless again. Is there an orphanage where I can adopt a previously-used Martha? Does anyone have another perfect leather handbag source that won't so colossally let us down?

Can I have a cookie please? *Sniff*.