In what is already a rather lengthy list of pastimes shared between Mags and I, this past Saturday night we found ourselves nestled in our respective seats on the couch observing what I guess I'll call Woulda-Coulda Date Night.
(That title totally blows, but whatever. This isn't going to be my Pulitzer Prize-winning entry.)
For whatever reason, Mags has decided to patrol the cable channels looking for a suitable mate ... for me.
Lately she's made comments like, "Oh. I saw so-and-so in ____ magazine or on ____ channel and he would be nice for you."
She makes these comments as if it's actually likely that I could, say, call said person up and just start going out. Oh, how easy it is to weave in and out of fantasyland.
Essence Magazine recently had a list of eligible bachelors. Mags gets dibs on the magazines since she doesn't like to read them after I'm done with them -- this is because I abuse the pages, roll it up and stuff it in my bag to read at work ... So she's already flipped through this and sort of made her own judgments.
She waits until I start flipping through and then decides to say something along the lines of, "There's a lawyer in there who would be good for you. He's older, but then, you need someone older. I've always said that."
"Which one?" I ask suspiciously, knowing she's picked some dude that is not even cute. It's like she thinks I'm ugly or something.
"That one. Let me see the book." And she'll point at some guy who's obviously a bachelor as there's no other earthly explanation for why he thought that tie went with that outfit ... or, he's posing like, yeah, the ladies will love this one.
She never likes the ones I pick. She reserves her one-word slingers for them, too.
"Dog."
"Sneaky."
"Slick."
"Snake."
"Womanizer."
"Wifebeater."
(Are you now able to see clearly how in the world I could possibly be so cynical?!)
At least she's not like my dad who gives me the, "Woochie. You have to be honest with yourself when looking at men. You have to look at you and then you have to look at them. Your perception is off," he will blah blah on to me like I'm mildly retarded but learning to cook for myself (or something).
(And no. I'm not fishing for compliments because I know I'm not ugly. I also know that they're more so trying to prepare themselves for the fear-that-must-not-be-uttered -- that their baby girl may blossom into a full-on spinster.)
Anyway, Saturday night Mags stops on HBO's Inside the NFL. I love football, so it's not unusual for me to catch this show. I learn new things and my knowledge of the game expands. The guys are also pretty funny. I also cannot get over the fact that Chris Collingsworth may have the longest head and neck combo I've seen this side of, like, Africa.
So we're watching it and they're showing highlights from the previous week. Mags leans forward to get a good look at some of the guys. If they have facial hair - the jihadist variety, as we call it - she'll give me the corner-of-the-eye-look that says, "No. Don't even think about it."
She's really, hilariously prejudiced. Ebenezer Ekuban comes on and I say, "He's a nice guy. I've seen a profile on him."
"Eka-what? Ebenezer? What was his mama thinkin'? No."
"Mama stop. He's nice."
If any wild lookin' hair (a la Troy Palamalu) blooms out of someone's helmet, she can't even summon the words. You just get a hand toss-up that says everything, but mostly, "Hell naw."
If they're too pretty, choose any word you like from the list above. And Tony Gonzalez is too pretty, but I love him anyway.
I love me some football players, though, because, well, for purely physical reasons. Specimens. Fine, fine specimens.
Tiki Barber comes on and Mags gets some kind of excited.
"No wedding band," she says smilingly, not unlike one of those mothers from The Joy Luck Club.
"Mama. He's so married. Everyone doesn't wear wedding bands these days."
"Do you know for sure?"
"No, but I feel fairly pretty certain he is not single. Nothing about him says single to me."
"Well. I betcha he ain't."
"I betcha he has kids."
Cue the play time with the kiddies followed by a quick shot of the wife.
"Damn," says Mags. "Well I just don't know what we're gonna be able to do for you." She's all kinds of dejected, like Tiki was the last one on Earth.
They mention his twin brother. Her eyes light up again. I tell her to forget it. I'm not moving to Tampa. Too much lightning for my tastes.
"Oh Tampa Florida? Nevermind. Hurricanes."
And this leads Mags to muse about all the places she could see me living.
"Pittsburgh? No. It's bad enough that you live here. What kind of handsome men are playing for Carolina? This way we could both move home."
She's a schemer.
We criss-cross the nation, determining that the following are No 'Nita Zones:
+ Kansas City, MO (Sorry, Tony. I know. Huge loss for you.)
+ St. Louis, MO (Too ... too many ... she can't put her finger on it exactly, but she's not feeling very good about that area.)
+ Arizona (Too bloody hot and I'd get too black too quickly. She might not recognize me de-boarding the plane for all the crispiness.)
+ San Francisco (My favorite player is still Steve Young. My mother thinks he's the biggest dorkster ever, and so she does not want me anywhere in the vicinity where I could possibly call and be like, guess who I just tackled ... er, saw? Plus. Earthquakes.)
+ San Diego (Too far away says she.)
+ New England (It is too cold up there and you still haven't tried any of that chowder that you probably won't like. But it's Boston, I protest. You can have a tea party anywhere, she snaps back. She is hilarious. Love her.)
+ Buffalo (She shakes her head and says, "You can be stupid if you want to." Ouch.)
+ Seattle (Too far away and doesn't it rain there all the time? Yes, I say, but they have great coffee. You can have a tea party anywhere. You like tea now, remember? Which leads me at this time to express my weekly, I want to move to London, desire. She just says she wishes I'd go already and shut up about it all. So supportive.)
+ Green Bay (You don't need to eat all that cheese. You're healthy enough now.)
+ Texas (She went ahead and crossed off the entire state, lol. Even though she holds hope for T.O. and she thinks that I could help him. She quickly retracts this when she realizes that he might be a lot like one of my uncles who never shuts the kcuf up.)
+ Indianapolis ("You really could benefit from hanging out with more black people. And idn't that Reggie Miller there? I can't stand that Reggie Miller." "Ma. Wrong sport." "I don't care.")
+ Baltimore (She watches The Wire. She's like, "Nuh-unh. Too violent." "But I do love me some Ray Lewis." "Nuh-unh. What about the Redskins? They're close by and you do like D.C." We compromise.)
It was another Saturday night and though I didn't have a special somebody in the sense that you'd rather have a special Saturday night someBOY ... well not just SOME boy as in any ol' boy, but you know what I'm sayin' ... I at least had a special homegirl to share it with. My favorite homegirl.
Yes Hank Williams, Jr., yes! I am ready for some football!
Touch down Saturday
night's alright for man sightings.
One day I will score.
(Okay. That was poor ... and dirty-minded. Sad. But I'm at work and I just wanted to finish this so I could go home. Don't you like how I do this like it might be my job?)